I had never previously seen The Wicker Man. Even if I feel as though I have seen it a thousand times. At some point in the past decade it began to insert itself into the zeitgeist, the id, the greater consciousness. The film’s title would appear in every meeting, every discussion, every set of notes. The Wicker Man became the ur Wicker Man, the ideal film that lurks at the edge of British filmmaking, a mix of folk, horror and Carry On. Not that the last reference is frequently cited, but Britt Ekland and the horny islanders inhabit a very Carry On dimension, one which is skilfully wedded to notions of fertility and the Gulf Stream. There is artistry at work in The Wicker Man, in amongst the camp. The writers knew what they were putting on the plate. The imagery of the film is part of the reason for the renaissance of the British folk movement and the notion of indigenous rites that have lain dormant through the great upheavals of the industrial revolution and globalisation. It’s not hard to imagine the PhD one would want to write about this film, an idea pays tribute to its calculated pretentiousness and glorious finale.
