It seemed appropriate to watch “The Wicker Man” over bonfire weekend.
Penned by the scouser Anthony Schaffer, the writer behind “Sleuth”, it has everything you need to fully embrace a cult horror classic:
It was made in the seventies.
Edward Woodward, an actor whose name Noel Coward suggested sounded a like a fart in the bath, was pissed on by a goat during filming.
Britt Ekland, widely credited with inventing striptease in “The Night They Raided Minsky’s”, and allegedly responsible for giving hubby Peter Sellars a wedding night heart attack, used a body double.
The director, Robin Hardy, quit filmmaking in a huff for ten years after perceived studio meddling.
And just when you think your mouth can’t open any further, a thoroughly entertained Christopher Lee looms on the screen, says “shocks are so much better absorbed with the knees bent” and then reappears in a mustard checked kilt.
The whole shebang was obviously conceived with copious amounts of bong water.
The missing child plot begins with PC Woodward’s seaplane landing on a remote Scottish island, only to be told “this is private land” by the kind of local who does not have luminous skin.
Unsettled by the Arran polo necks he turns a corner, discovers a horse ambling down the street and is later served a plate of turquoise broad beans. He, and the viewer, begins to feel particularly buttoned up.
His unease grows. By the time Britt Ekland appears as the landlord’s daughter and exposes her body double, he can hear the locals sing “She’s the baggage we all adore”. With these words he is forced to retire to his pillow-less bed, his body clock far from adjusted to Pagan Standard Time, desperately trying to conjure visions of John Mc Cririck performing tic tac.
The next day, it transpires the community is making its preparations for the imminent May Day festival in a way that revels in environmental pleasures, but not of the kind endorsed by “The Good Life”. It is hard to imagine Richard Briers chuckling as he watches children dance naked or storing pre-owned foreskins in a jar that should be holding chocolate bon-bons.
Sometimes it just has to be Christopher Lee.
Trying to remain undaunted, Eddie is tricked at every turn as he continues his investigation. A combination of well judged pacing and a script that delights in unsettling moment means that Ed’s fear gradually becomes our fear.
The conclusion, whilst predictable, is still stunning, not least because it is preceded by a a highly surreal third act chase sequence – imagine “Don’t look Now” visualised by Beatrix Potter. The singing, animal-headed people celebrating the crowning of the Queen of May is a truly frightening indelible image. It projects an X-Factor audition for the kind of person desperate to wear the twat suit on Rainbow.
As the fate of our hero becomes apparent, there is a highly disturbing display of hand-holding-community-cohesion that is akin to watching the encore of a Val Doonican musical. At this point, no wonder Eddie looks like he has just heard the words “low count” from the attractive nurse at the fertility clinic.
And then it gets worse.
I urge you to watch The Wicker Man.
It’s short, it’s original and it reminds you rituals can be frightening even without morris dancing.
Penned by the scouser Anthony Schaffer, the writer behind “Sleuth”, it has everything you need to fully embrace a cult horror classic:
It was made in the seventies.
Edward Woodward, an actor whose name Noel Coward suggested sounded a like a fart in the bath, was pissed on by a goat during filming.
Britt Ekland, widely credited with inventing striptease in “The Night They Raided Minsky’s”, and allegedly responsible for giving hubby Peter Sellars a wedding night heart attack, used a body double.
The director, Robin Hardy, quit filmmaking in a huff for ten years after perceived studio meddling.
And just when you think your mouth can’t open any further, a thoroughly entertained Christopher Lee looms on the screen, says “shocks are so much better absorbed with the knees bent” and then reappears in a mustard checked kilt.
The whole shebang was obviously conceived with copious amounts of bong water.
The missing child plot begins with PC Woodward’s seaplane landing on a remote Scottish island, only to be told “this is private land” by the kind of local who does not have luminous skin.
Unsettled by the Arran polo necks he turns a corner, discovers a horse ambling down the street and is later served a plate of turquoise broad beans. He, and the viewer, begins to feel particularly buttoned up.
His unease grows. By the time Britt Ekland appears as the landlord’s daughter and exposes her body double, he can hear the locals sing “She’s the baggage we all adore”. With these words he is forced to retire to his pillow-less bed, his body clock far from adjusted to Pagan Standard Time, desperately trying to conjure visions of John Mc Cririck performing tic tac.
The next day, it transpires the community is making its preparations for the imminent May Day festival in a way that revels in environmental pleasures, but not of the kind endorsed by “The Good Life”. It is hard to imagine Richard Briers chuckling as he watches children dance naked or storing pre-owned foreskins in a jar that should be holding chocolate bon-bons.
Sometimes it just has to be Christopher Lee.
Trying to remain undaunted, Eddie is tricked at every turn as he continues his investigation. A combination of well judged pacing and a script that delights in unsettling moment means that Ed’s fear gradually becomes our fear.
The conclusion, whilst predictable, is still stunning, not least because it is preceded by a a highly surreal third act chase sequence – imagine “Don’t look Now” visualised by Beatrix Potter. The singing, animal-headed people celebrating the crowning of the Queen of May is a truly frightening indelible image. It projects an X-Factor audition for the kind of person desperate to wear the twat suit on Rainbow.
As the fate of our hero becomes apparent, there is a highly disturbing display of hand-holding-community-cohesion that is akin to watching the encore of a Val Doonican musical. At this point, no wonder Eddie looks like he has just heard the words “low count” from the attractive nurse at the fertility clinic.
And then it gets worse.
I urge you to watch The Wicker Man.
It’s short, it’s original and it reminds you rituals can be frightening even without morris dancing.
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