The Wicker Man (1973) Review

By Jim McFadden

For everyone who thought a thriller based on the pagan rituals practiced on remote Scottish islands would be interesting, The Wicker Man is an 88 minute rebuttal. Or, if you managed to get your hands on the “essential” UK Director’s cut, a 100 minute rebuttal. Either way, I think when the film’s over, you’ll be a believer.

Although this movie was remade starring Nicholas Cage, I decided to review the original because, well, it doesn’t star Nicholas Cage.

The Wicker Man begins as Sgt. Howie, a devoutly catholic detective from “the mainland” (this may well be the only time ever that Scotland is referred to by anyone as “the mainland”) travels to Summerisle to look into the disappearance of a missing girl named Rowan Morrison.

After a fruitless attempt to gather information at his hotel, Sgt. Howie walks out the back door to discover one of the most terrifying scenes ever committed to celluloid…thirty middle-aged Scots having sex in a field. If you’re planning to watch this movie, be prepared - this in an image that has taken hours of therapy, $1,400 dollars worth of internet porn, and twelve gallons of Jameson to purge from my memory.

After stumbling onto the unibrow orgy, Sgt. Howie then resists the seductive siren song of Willow, the innkeeper’s daughter. This bawdy tune inevitably climaxes with Willow gyrating and slapping her own naked ass. Here, I’d like to take a moment to offer a piece of advice to any aspiring young actress out there-If you have to smack your own bare rump in a film, at least make sure that it’s done only in the name of high art. Otherwise, you really run the risk of objectifying yourself.

After miraculously resisting Willow’s tremendous dance and lip- synching skills, Sgt. Howie continues his investigation to learn the following:

The people of Summerisle have a penchant for ridiculous song and dance numbers, the crops of the island failed last year, so the people believe that a human sacrifice to the gods of piss-poor choreography is needed to set things right, the islands of Scotland are inexplicably populated with buxom Swedish blondes, and finally, the hierarchy of the island was obviously determined by who has the biggest, puffiest hair. Namely, the foppish Lord Summerisle himself.

As the sergeant discovers that Rowan is being hidden by the cagey local Scots and is soon to be sacrificed, a harrowing rescue and chase takes place that proves the time old adage that, in the best chase scenes, the hero always wears a clown suit.

Now, the movie ends with a twist, and, provided you make it that far, I’d hate to spoil it for you. So, feel free to rent The Wickerman. I’m pretty sure you can write it off on your taxes as a donation to charity.

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