Pynchon

A while ago, after watching "Goldfinger" as part of the Summer Of British Films festival, my friend Graham asked me if I wanted to see "The Wicker Man".

The blood drained out of my face. I felt sick and dizzy. I started to shake. I stuttered... "No... The Bees... The Bees..."

I broke away from him. I ran into the road. A truck bore down on me...

Graham grabbed my arm and pulled me to safety.

"No, you silly sod", he said. "Not that piece of shit Nicolas Cage was in. The proper version."

Phew! That was OK then.

And so it was that on Tuesday night Graham and I went to see "The Wicker Man" (the proper version.)



Masterpiece is not a word that I throw around a lot with regard to films. (I don't see how any film can be considered a masterpiece until several years have gone by.) I will make an exception for "The Wicker Man", because it is a little, British masterpiece. Edited and unappreciated on it's original release, but discovered and turned into a cult by a generation of late night television viewers, I think that it is one of the best British films, never mind horror films, of all time.

It must be said, except for the final traumatic scenes of the great Edward Woodward screaming for help from a God that cannot help him, "The Wicker Man" is hardly a horror film at all. It is incredibly funny (watching it with an audience really brings that home), very thoughtful, sensual and strange. Rough around the edges it certainly is, but it contains should-have-been award worthy performances by Edward Woodward (from arrogance to disquiet to true panic and horror - the best thing he has ever done) and a cheerfully, sinister Christopher Lee (who says that it is the best thing he has ever done - he might well be right.)

It's a masterpiece. Trust me. 'Tis true.

Labels: Movies