Why I love Edward Woodward’s per­for­mance in The Wick­er Man

Robin Hardy’s 1973 folk hor­ror flick The Wick­er Man has become leg­endary for many things: its unbear­able build­ing of ten­sion, fear­less­ly strange con­tent, eerie sound­track, and pet­ri­fy­ing con­clu­sion. It also chal­lenged a pre­con­ceived notion that true hor­ror only exists in the dark of night – prac­ti­cal­ly every­thing hap­pens under bright, unwa­ver­ing sun­light. Day­light hor­ror has lived on ever since, from 28 Days Lat­er to new­er addi­tions to the hor­ror canon like Mid­som­mar. While there are many rea­sons The Wick­er Man has endured for the last 50 years, the extra­or­di­nary per­for­mance of Edward Wood­ward as Sergeant Neil Howie stands above the rest.

We first see Howie in a sea­plane, on his way from the main­land to the remote Scot­tish island of Sum­merisle. This jour­ney over the pic­turesque island would be an oppor­tu­ni­ty to relax for most, but Howie’s eyes are point­ed straight ahead, with the stern gaze of a man on a mis­sion. That’s true in a lit­er­al sense – Howie is com­ing to Sum­merisle to fol­low up on reports of a miss­ing child – but from the jump, it’s clear this is a man stead­fast in his pro­fes­sion. This trip to Sum­merisle is no vaca­tion; Howie intends to get in, find the girl, and get out.

In the­o­ry, Sergeant Howie’s mis­sion shouldn’t be too chal­leng­ing. Places like Sum­merisle are tight-knit com­mu­ni­ties – the kind where every­body not only knows each oth­er, but knows what every­one is up to. Yet nobody recog­nis­es the pho­to of young Rowan Mor­ri­son (Geral­dine Cow­per). Even so, Howie is a man with no time for non­sense, and his rigid pos­ture, which always remains per­fect­ly straight, marks him as a man of con­sid­er­able inten­si­ty. He exudes pow­er in his com­mit­ted strides as he makes his way through an island that does not want him there.

The Wick­er Man is the ulti­mate test of belief for Howie. Every­thing in Sum­merisle feels pur­pose-built to get a rise out of the Sergeant and tor­ment his deeply Chris­t­ian sen­si­bil­i­ties. From teach­ing chil­dren about sex, to active­ly encour­ag­ing sex­u­al impro­pri­ety, every­thing done in Sum­merisle runs counter to Howie’s beliefs. He lives a devout Chris­t­ian life, deter­mined to fight every urge and impulse. To see every­thing he puts at bay fla­grant­ly out in the open forces Howie to grap­ple with the faith that dri­ves him.

Belief is para­mount to Sergeant Howie, and his walk through Summerisle’s Pagan ceme­tery brings out the majesty of Woodward’s phys­i­cal sub­tleties. This is a man so devot­ed to Christ that he sim­ply can­not walk through the ceme­tery with­out doing some­thing, any­thing, to bring in his Lord’s pres­ence. Find­ing a pile of sticks, he rests his hat gen­tly on the tomb, before aggres­sive­ly reshap­ing the sticks into a cross. Tak­ing a step back, he absorbs the now Christly image in, look­ing solemn, offer­ing the only resis­tance he can muster. It’s his one chance to bring any sem­blance of hope and faith to this cursed island, and he takes it.

Woodward’s roots were in the the­atre, a medi­um where sub­tle facial expres­sions aren’t seen by the major­i­ty of the audi­ence, and one’s voice must car­ry most of the emo­tions. But Wood­ward wise­ly makes the most of Hardy’s fre­quent close-ups, high­light­ing Howie’s increas­ing fears, not through screech­es and howls but through a fur­row­ing of the brow or a glint of ter­ror in his eyes. He tells Rowan’s moth­er that every­one on the island is ​“rav­ing mad”, not with a sense of fury, but a pithy resignation.

Howie is used to being feared, but nobody in Sum­merisle seems to do so much as blink when he tries to impose his will on them. This comes to a head when he final­ly meets Lord Sum­merisle (an unfor­get­table Christo­pher Lee), the community’s land­hold­er and ruler. He isn’t remote­ly phased by Howie’s attempts at aggres­sion, much less his vir­u­lent attack on Summerisle’s Pagan faith. Voice crack­ing, Howie pleads with Sum­merisle: ​“Sir, have these chil­dren nev­er heard of Jesus?” The line is loaded with gen­uine dis­tress; a man who can­not under­stand any way of life that isn’t his own. It’s a scene that could ren­der Howie unsym­pa­thet­ic and igno­rant, but Wood­ward per­forms with such raw con­cern that it’s easy to imag­ine your­self in his shoes, and how fright­en­ing it would feel if every­one was unit­ed against your beliefs. When he sits, as ordered by Sum­merisle, it’s the first time Howie looks pow­er­less, com­plete­ly dwarfed by Summerisle’s tow­er­ing pres­ence. For the first time it’s clear Howie is com­plete­ly overwhelmed.

As May Day arrives on the island, Howie has become des­per­ate to find Rowan. To blend in, he wears a Punch cos­tume for much of the fes­ti­val. The cos­tume does away with Howie’s per­fect pos­ture, and in don­ning a ridicu­lous out­fit with a bul­bous hump on the back, he’s lit­er­al­ly become the fool the islanders have des­tined him to be. Soon the truth is revealed: Rowan was nev­er in dan­ger. She was mere­ly a means to lure Howie to Sum­merisle of his own free will, so he could be the one sac­ri­ficed to ensure a boun­ti­ful har­vest. Howie is dev­as­tat­ed, and the look in his eyes when he glances up to see the entire island’s pop­u­lace star­ing down at him, weapons in hand, is the look of a tru­ly lost man: one who knows he’s about to die. His bright blue eyes, once hope­ful, are now awash in anguish.

Yet even faced with the inevitabil­i­ty of being set ablaze in the giant Wick­er Man, Howie’s faith does not waver. ​“It is I who will live again”, Howie yells, deliv­ered with an impos­ing force: he absolute­ly believes this. As the women pre­pare him for sac­ri­fice, Howie first looks dis­gust­ed. But when they rub their hair over his face, he appears orgas­mic, savour­ing any chance of sen­su­al­i­ty he can get before he per­ish­es as a vir­gin. He savours the women’s touch as much as he despis­es it, as if plead­ing with him­self to main­tain his faith at the most try­ing time.

Woodward’s voice final­ly crum­bles as Howie begs for his life, yet his body remains rigid and upright, even when faced with no hope of sur­vival. As the res­i­dents of Sum­merisle sing joy­ous­ly around the burn­ing fig­ure, Howie retains his god­ly com­po­sure, singing Psalm 23 as he burns. It’s a ter­ri­fy­ing moment rife with pathos: through­out The Wick­er Man, Woodward’s per­for­mance has allowed us to con­nect deeply with Howie’s impos­si­ble cir­cum­stances, and his defeat feels overwhelming.

This remark­able work is Woodward’s finest on-screen per­for­mance: employ­ing phys­i­cal­i­ty and vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty, Sergeant Howie is ele­vat­ed from what could have been a one-note police­man to a com­pelling man fight­ing for jus­tice in a place that oppos­es the very fibre of his being. Wood­ward brings a pow­er­house, almost Shake­speare­an ele­ment to Howie, chan­nelling deep-seat­ed emo­tion­al and reli­gious moral quan­daries that give his char­ac­ter a clear through­line. His per­for­mance acts as a sur­ro­gate for the audi­ence, which makes The Wick­er Man all the more hor­ri­fy­ing – despite des­per­ate­ly try­ing to do the right thing, his task ends in fiery failure.

The Wick­er Man returns to UK cin­e­mas for spe­cial 50^th anniver­sary screen­ings on June 21 2023.