“Dear God in heaven, even these people can’t be that mad!”

Of all the films on this website, The Wicker Man is the most difficult. It feels almost bulletproof. Impervious to sarcasm, because it knows its own limitations. Not really so-bad-it’s-good, because even at its worst, it is still brilliant. Unlaughable-at, because on occasions it is funny, but it is only funny because it decides it is.

Which makes giving it the old British horror films going-over a tad hard. And is why I’ve never really bothered. It was a shoe-in for inclusion from the moment this site was set up back in 2000, and my first thought was to be remarkably harsh on the thing (I still wince at the half-remembered phrase “corn rigs and barley rigs my arse”). I tidied up that frankly ill-informed review when the site got its big refresh in 2022. But that just made the essay even more of a let-down. And when we’re talking about THIS film, the “Citizen Kane of horror films” and possibly THE film non-fans think of when someone mentions British horror films, that really just won’t do.

So I had to do it. I had to sit there and create a written review befitting of what is, undoubtedly, one of the best films ever made. But without going against this website’s core ethos. Which is, let us not forget, half love, half clever-dick piss-takery, half knowing wink to other fans. And some bad maths.

These reviews usually come pretty easy. I just find a loose comic theme about a film that makes me chuckle, and riff on that for a couple of thousand words. Job done, and on with the next one. But finding that theme with The Wicker Man? Tricky. Could it be the music? Too easy, if I’m honest. And if I’m even honest-er, I really like the music, unsubtle as it surely is. The familiar 1970s character actors? Not enough of ‘em. Ingrid Pitt in the bath? Come on, it’s 2025 and we’re better than that, surely? Calling Edward Woodward E-war-woo-war? Well yes, I probably WILL do that, but I can’t hang an entire review around it, can I? Or can I… No, Chris, you can’t.

(By the way, is anyone actually getting my constant references to how when someone shouts “you can’t!” in these films it sounds like Danny Dyer using his favourite word? Perhaps it doesn’t work written down. Anyway, that’s what I’m doing every time I suggest people are being over-harsh in their language in those quaint, language-free films from the 1950s and 60s. So now you know).

We’ll probably never know what the actual film was supposed to look like, and to be honest I’ve lost track of what constitutes the best version. Once upon a time there were grainy extra scenes filmed on the mainland, but they seem to have been quietly removed again for recent re-releases.

So we usually kick off proceedings with someone playing the bagpipes whilst piloting a small plane through the Scottish isles.

(Is that the line we’re taking, then? Seems a bit… obvious?)

Of course they’re not – in the plane is a distinctly bagpipe-free police officer named Sergeant Howie (Edward Woodward). If he’d actually brought a musical instrument with which to break the ice with the locals, he may have had more luck. But as it is he gets a distinctly frosty reception. Despite (English) Woodward’s impeccable Scots accent, as well!

He’s looking for a girl, Rowan Morrison. Rowan is supposedly the reported-missing daughter of the local postmistress, but no-one (including said postmistress) seems to recognise the name.

And that’s your story, right there. We’re with the redoubtable Sergeant, as he attempts to figure out just WTF is going on (without actually swearing, obvs. The man’s a devout Christian. You might want to make a note of that for later).

Howie’s is not an easy quest. He first has to negotiate the traditional British horror film staple of the unwelcoming pub. Tis then time for the unpalatable grub. After that he’s required to deliver a naked-woman-snub. And we’re still nowhere near Ingrid-in-the-tub.

Sorry, not sure what happened there.

As Howie continues his fateful search the British horror cliches come thick and fast, but each time are somewhat subverted. Yes there are shady shenanigans in the local graveyard, but not of the type we’re used to seeing. Here’s Christopher Lee, but without fangs and sporting a fetching mustard roll-neck. And by the time we get to the obligatory unplanned exhumation, we’re pretty sure that we’re going to be treated to neither dusty cadaver or pop-up undead Rowan. And we aren’t.

For such a camp spectacle full of burned-into-our-subconsciousnesses set-piece scenes (naked Britt Ekland banging on the wall, Maypole sing-longs, frog-in-your-cakehole medicine etc) it’s also full of subtlety. We are perhaps 10 seconds ahead of the protagonist throughout, and multiple viewings and a half-a-century later, it’s pretty clear that those barnstorming moments are there to hide the islanders’ real aims. Howie is being tested, throughout. And failing at every turn. If he’d only given in to sweaty temptation, ripped off his jim-jams and taken up Willow’s saucy invitation on the first night, he’d have been useless to them. He’d have been back on the mainland a changed person, instead of… well, you’ll find out.

He's the tethered beetle, going round and round, shouting at horrible kids ("You're liars - you are despicable little liars!") and all the time wading deeper into a mire of his own making.

It’s him who insists on meeting up with the man who has decreed his fate, the Lord Summerisle (Christopher Lee), choosing to simply shout at him, too – so sure of his own righteousness that he just assumes everyone else is mad. But it’s the “heathens” who take their clothes off before jumping over a fire, because, yes, it would be more dangerous to do it fully clothed.

And it is him who performs the film’s only real act of on-screen violence, potentially killing someone just so he can steal their fancy-dress outfit.

Yup, I was right. The Wicker Man is comedy review-proof, and the above attempt kind-of proves it. But I don’t care. Because this film is majestic, perfect in any of its many forms, and gets better with every viewing. There are very few films which can lay claim to that kind of legacy. What are you waiting for? It’s time for you to keep your appointment…