Wicker Man, The (1973)

[bunniefuu]

Will you send a dinghy, please?

Did you hear me? I'd like
a dinghy, if you please.

Hello, sir! Have you lost your bearings?

No, sir, I don't think so.

- This is Summerisle, is it not?
- It is, sir!

Well, I'm right then. Now,
would you send a dinghy, please?

I'm afraid it can't be done,
sir! This is private property!

You can't land here
without written permission!

I, as you can see, am a police officer.

A complaint has been
registered by a resident

of this island about a missing child.

Now, that makes it a police
matter, private property or not.

Now, will you send a dinghy, please?

Corn rigs and barley rigs

And corn rigs are bonnie

I'll not forget that happy night

Among the rigs with Annie

Good day to you, sir.
I'm the harbour master.

Sergeant Howie, West Highland police.

A missing child is always trouble.

Aye, aye, aye, for everybody.

Perhaps you would be good enough
to explain matters to his lordship.

He's most particular who lands here.

All in good time. We, too,
have our own particularities.

You know her? Her
name is Rowan Morrison.

No, no, never seen her before.

I don't know the face either.
Do you know her, Kenny?

She doesn't belong to this island.

No, I never saw her before.

No, she doesn't belong
here at all. Johnnie?

No, can't say I know her.

Now, now, what are you saying? You're
saying that she is not from the island.

Aye, that's right. She's not from here.

Oh, you get Morrisons on Lewis and
a few on Mull. I would try there.

Thanks.

"None of us have seen May Morrison's
daughter Rowan since last year.

She's only 12, and she's been missing
from her home for many months. "

The mother's name is May Morrison.

Oh, May! She quite slipped my memory.

Of course we've got May. She keeps
the post office in the high street.

- May Morrison? You're quite sure?
- Quite sure.

Well, thank you for your help.

That's not May's daughter, though!

No, she's not May's.

Then who is she?

The sky was blue the wind was still

The moon was shining clearly

I set her down with right good will

Among the rigs of barley

I kenned her heart with all my own

I loved her most sincerely

I kissed her o'er and o'er again

Among the rigs of barley

- Good afternoon!
- I like your rabbits.

Those are hares, not silly old
rabbits. Lovely march hares.

Can I help you?

- Mrs. Morrison- mrs.
May Morrison? - Yes.

- Sergeant Howie, West Highland police.
- Oh, my!

Did you come over in that
aeroplane that I saw flying round?

- Aye, that's right.
- What, just to see me?

Well, no, not exactly.

I'm making inquiries
about your daughter.

- We understand that she's missing.
- Missing? My daughter?

- Aye. You do have a daughter.
- Yes.

- And that's her?
- Oh, never.

I tell you no.

I think you'd better come with me.

This is our Myrtle.

She was nine last thursday.

She's not a bit like the
girl in your photograph.

She must be at least 13 or 14, surely.

Myrtle, say hello.

This is Sergeant-
oh! - Howie.

- Oh.
- Hello, Myrtle.

How do you do? Look, mummy,
I'm drawing a hare. - Ah.

Excuse me, Sergeant.

Hello.

- Here you are. You can fill
in the ears in gray. Oh, sorry.

Thank you, Myrtle.

Myrtle, do you
- do you know Rowan?

Of course I do.

- You do?
- 'Course I do, silly.

- Uh, do you know where she is now?
- In the fields.

She runs and plays there all day.

Does she? Do you think
she'll be coming back for tea?

Tea? Hares don't have tea, silly.

- Hares?
- She's a hare.

Rowan's a hare. She has a lovely time.

- Well, tell me- -
Well, now, Sergeant.

You will stay and have
a cup of tea, won't you?

- Oh, well, yes, yes, please.
- Good.

- That's very kind of you.
- Um, not at all.

It must be thirsty work, asking all those questions, eh?
- Ah, aye.

- Hello.
- Good evening. Good evening.

- Good evening.
- Good evening.

Hello again.

- Are you the landlord here?
- Aye.

I'm Alder Macgreagor. And you must
be the policeman from the mainland.

Aye, that's right. Sergeant
Howie, West Highland constabulary.

I'm quite obviously not going to
get back to the mainland tonight

so I wondered if you had a room
and a bite of supper I could have.

- Could you manage that?
- Aye, I think that can be arranged.

My daughter Willow will show
you to your room. Willow!

Father?

This is Sergeant Howie, a
policeman from the mainland,

who will be spending the night with us.

- This is my daughter, Willow.
- Good evening.

Show the Sergeant to
his room, would you?

Much has been said of
the strumpets of yore

Of wenches and bawdy
house queens by the score

But I sing of a baggage
that we all adore

The landlord's daughter

You'll never love another

Although she's not the kind of girl

To take home to your mother

Her ale, it is lively
and strong to the taste

It is brewed with
discretion never with haste

You can have all you like
if you swear not to waste

The landlord's daughter

And when her name is mentioned

The parts of every gentleman do stand up

At attention

Oh, nothing can delight so

- As does the part that lies between
- Her left toe

And her right toe

- I'd like my supper now, please.
- It won't be long, Sergeant.

Oh, you don't want to let them worry
you. Why don't you have a wee drink?

No, thank you, not just now.

I think you all ought to know that
I am here on official business.

I am here to investigate the
disappearance of a young girl,

as doubtless, the harbour master
has already told you by now.

There's the girl. Her
name is Rowan Morrison.

Would you pass that among
your customers, please?

Now, if any of you can give me
any idea as to her whereabouts,

I'd be most grateful
if you'd let me know.

No, I'm afraid nobody's
seen her, Sergeant.

Thank you. These Harvest
Festival photographs?

Aye. We have one taken at
the end of every summer.

- What happened to last year's?
- Mm, it got broke.

Your supper's ready, Sergeant.

Willow, show the Sergeant
to the dining room.

Thank you.

It's disgusting.

- Thank you.
- What's the matter, aren't you hungry?

Aye, it's just that most
of the food I've had-

the farmhouse soup, the potatoes, broad beans
- all come out of a can.

Broad beans, in their natural
state, aren't usually turquoise,

are they?
- Hmm.

Some things in their natural
state have the most vivid colors.

I just wanted to know why, that's all.

Now, I wonder what you'll
be wanting for afters?

- Hmm, I'll have an apple.
- No apples.

No apples? On Summerisle?

I expect they've all been exported.

You can have peaches
and cream, if you like.

Aye, from a can, I suppose.

All right.

Cheer up. Food isn't
everything in life, you know.

Up, up, up, up!

Up, up, up, up, up, up!

- Where? You'll find it at the
top of the stair on your right.

In the woods there grew a tree

And a fine, fine tree was he

And on that tree there was a limb

And on that limb there was a branch

And on that branch there was a nest

And in that nest there was an egg

And in that egg there was a bird

And from that bird a feather came

And of that feather was

A bed

And on that bed there was a girl

And on that girl there was a man

And from that man there was a seed

And from that seed there was a boy

And from that boy there was a man

And for that man there was a grave

And from that grave there grew

A tree

And on that bed there was a girl

And on that girl there was a man

And from that man there was a seed,
and from that seed there was a boy

And from that boy there was a man

And for that man there was a grave

And from that grave there grew

A tree

And on that tree there
was a limb and on that limb

There was a branch and on
that branch there was a nest

And in that nest there was an egg

And in that egg there was a bird,
and from that bird, a feather came

And of that feather was

A bed

Very well, girls. That's enough.
Now it's time to pay attention to me.

Now, uh, Daisy,

will you tell us what it is,
please, that the maypole represents?

Really, Daisy.

- You've been told often enough.
- Miss Rose, I know!

- All right, then, anybody.
- Phallic symbol.

The phallic symbol. That is correct.

It is the image of the p*nis,

which is venerated in
religions such as ours,

as simbolising the
generative force in nature.

Oh, can I help you?

C- could-could I have a
word with you, please, miss?

Certainly. Girls, open your desks
and take out your exercise books.

Miss, you can be quite sure that I shall
report this to the proper authorities.

Everywhere I go on this island,
it seems to me I find degeneracy.

and there is brawling in bars,
there is indecency in public places,

and there is corruption of the young,
and now I see it all stems from here-

it stems from the filth taught
here in this very schoolroom.

I was unaware that the police had
any authority in matters of education.

Aye, aye, well, we'll see about that.

Girls, could I have
your attention, please?

Now, I am a police officer.

Well, as you can see.

I have come here from the mainland...

to investigate the
disappearance of a young girl.

I have a photograph
here- excuse me-

which I would like you to
pass around amongst yourselves.

Meanwhile, I'll write her name
over there on the blackboard.

Rowan Morrison.

That's her name.

Now, do any of you recognize
either the name or the photograph?

- No.
- There's your answer, Sergeant.

If she existed, we would know.

- Whose desk is that?
- No one's.

Thank you.

The little old beetle goes round and
round, always the same way, you see,

till he ends up right up tight
to the nail, poor old thing.

"Poor old thing"?

Then why in God's name
do you do it, girl?

I'd like to see the
school register, please.

I'm afraid you'll have to have
Lord Summerisle's authority.

This is a police matter.

I'm afraid you'll have to have
a search warrant or permission

from Lord Summerisle himself.

I'm afraid you'll just have
to bear with me, won't you?

You're liars. You are
despicable little liars.

Rowan Morrison is a
schoolmate of yours, isn't she?

And that is her desk, isn't it?

- Well, isn't it? - I
think you ought to know-

And you are the biggest liar of all.

I warn you, one more lie out of you,

and I will charge you with obstruction,

and, believe me, Miss
Rose, that is a promise.

Now, for the last time,

where is Rowan Morrison?

I would like to speak
to you outside, Sergeant.

Girls, get on with your reading.

It's the Rites and Rituals of May
Day, chapter five. I won't be long.

Well?

You don't understand, Sergeant.
Nobody was lying. I told you plainly.

If Rowan Morrison existed,
we would know of her.

You mean, she doesn't exist?

She's dead?

You would say so. Oh, come on, come on.

She's either dead, or she's not dead.

Here, we do not use the word-

We believe...

that when the human life is over,

the soul returns to trees, to air,

to fire, to water, to animals,

so that Rowan Morrison
has simply returned...

to the life forces in another form.

Do you mean to say you teach
the children this stuff?

Yes. I told you, it is what we believe.

They never learn
anything of christianity?

Only as a comparative religion.

The children find it
far easier to picture...

reincarnation than resurrection.

Those rotting bodies are a great stumbling
block for the childish imagination.

Why, of course. And may I ask,

where is the rotting
body of Rowan Morrison?

Right where you'd expect it to be
- in the earth.

You mean, in the churchyard?

- In a manner of speaking.
- No.

In plain speaking.

The building attached to the
ground in which the body lies...

is no longer used for christian worship,

so whether it is still a
churchyard is debatable.

But forgive me. I must get back
to my girls. Good morning to you.

"Here lieth Beech Buchanan,

protected by the
ejaculation of serpents. "

- Morning.
- Morning.

I see you plant trees on
most of the graves here.

- Aye, that's right.
- What tree is that?

That's a rowan.

- And who lies there?
- Rowan Morrison.

- How long has she been dead?
- Oh, six or seven months.

They're just a wee bit
late with the headstone.

What on earth's that? It
looks like a piece of skin.

- Why, so it is.
- Well, what is it?

The poor wee lassie's
navel string, of course.

Where else should it be but
hung on her own little tree?

Where does your minister live?

Minister?

Minister.

Oh, what a silly girl you
are to make all this fuss.

It's just a little frog.

It'll do that poor sore throat good.

Now, anyone would think you
didn't want to get better.

Now, in he goes.

And out he comes. There. Now,
that didn't hurt much, did it?

- It tasted horrid.
- Never mind, darling. It's all over now.

Here's your sweet for being a brave
girl. Come on. Which one would you like?

There. He's got your horrid old sore
throat now, hasn't he, poor creature?

Can't you hear him croaking?

Can I do anything for you, Sergeant?

I doubt it, seeing
you're all raving mad.

- I'd like to see your index of deaths, please.
- Do you have authority?

- No, I meant from his lordship.
- I don't need it.

I'm afraid you have to get
permission from Lord Summerisle.

Miss, if you don't cooperate
with me here and now,

you may well find yourself inside a
police cell on the mainland tonight.

Have I made myself quite clear?

Please.

Thank you.

"M." "m," "m," "m," "m. "

"Benjamin and Rachel Morrison. "

- Rachel and Benjamin-
names from the Bible. - Yes.

They were very old.

But, there's no record
of Rowan Morrison's death,

which means, of course,
there is no death certificate.

- Did you know her?
- Yes, of course.

- Is that her?
- Yes, that's her.

How did she die?

- I don't know.
- I don't know anything about her. Nothing.

Thank you.

Are you mr. Lennox, the photographer?

Oh, I'm firstly a chemist,
secondly a photographer.

I understand that you take the harvest
festival photographs every year-

the ones I saw in The Green Man.

Yes, it's rather
humdrum work, I'm afraid.

Do you know what happened
to last year's photograph?

Isn't it with the others?

No, no, it's not. No, apparently it's
been broken or damaged in some way.

- Oh, what a pity.
- Would you have a copy of it?

Oh, no, I don't keep copies.

Mr. Lennox, you were among the
people to whom I showed the photograph

in the Green Man.

Is that the girl?

- It's difficult to say.
- Oh, come on, man!

It was only eight months ago. Surely
you remember if it was that girl or not.

Thank you.

Corn rigs and barley rigs

And corn rigs are bonnie

I'll not forget that happy night

Among the rigs with Annie

Take the flame inside
you burn and burn below

Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby grow

Take the flame inside you

Burn and burn belay

Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby stay

Take the flame inside
you burn and burn belong

Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby strong

Take the flame inside
you burn and burn belie

Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby cry

Take the flame inside
you burn and burn begin

Fire seed and fire feed
and make the baby king

- His lordship is expecting you, sir.
- Expecting me?

That's what his lordship told me,
sir. Would you please come this way?

In there, sir.

Good afternoon, Sergeant Howie.

I trust the sight of the
young people refreshes you.

No, sir, it does not refresh me.

Oh, I'm sorry.

One should always be open to
the regenerative influences.

- I understand you're looking for a missing girl.
- I've found her.

- Splendid.
- In her grave.

Your lordship is a justice of the peace.

I need your permission to exhume
her body, have it transported

to the mainland for a
pathologist's report.

You suspect... foul play?

I suspect m*rder and
conspiracy to m*rder.

In that case, you must go ahead.

Your lordship seems
strangely unconcerned.

I'm confident your suspicions
are wrong, Sergeant.

We don't commit m*rder up here.
We're a deeply religious people.

Religious!

With ruined churches, no
ministers, no priests...

and children dancing naked.

They do love their divinity lessons.

But they-they
are-are naked.

Naturally. It's much too dangerous

to jump through the fire
with your clothes on.

What-what religion can-can-can
they possibly be learning...

j
- jumping over bonfires?

Parthenogenesis.

What?

Literally, as Miss Rose would
doubtless say in her assiduous way,

reproduction without sexual union.

Oh, what is all this?

I mean, you-you-you've got
fake-fake-fake biology, fake religion.

Sir, have these children
never heard of Jesus?

Himself the son of a virgin,
impregnated, I believe, by a ghost.

Do sit down, Sergeant.

Shocks are so much better
absorbed with the knees bent.

Please.

Now, those children out there,

they're jumping through the flames

in the hope that the god of
fire will make them fruitful.

Really, you can hardly blame them.

After all, what girl would
not prefer the child of a god

to that of some acne-scarred artisan?

- And you, you encourage them in this?
- Actively.

It's most important that each
new generation born on Summerisle

be made aware that here
the old gods aren't dead.

But what of the true god...

to whose glory churches and
monasteries have been built

on these islands for generations past?

Now sir, what of him?

He's dead. He can't complain.

He had his chance, and in the
modern parlance, he blew it.

- What?
- It's very simple.

Let me show you.

In the last century, the
islanders were starving.

Like our neighbors today, they were
scratching a bare subsistence from sheep

and sea.

Then in 1868, my grandfather
bought this barren island

and began to change things.

A distinguished victorian
scientist, agronomist, free thinker.

How formidably benevolent he seems.

Essentially the face of a man
incredulous of all human good.

You are very cynical, my lord.

What attracted my
grandfather to the island,

apart from the profuse source
of wiry labor that it promised,

was the unique combination
of volcanic soil

and the warm gulf stream
that surrounded it.

You see, his experiments
had led him to believe

that it was possible to induce
here the successful growth

of certain new strains of
fruit that he had developed.

So, with typical mid-victorian
zeal, he set to work.

The best way of accomplishing
this, so it seemed to him,

was to rouse the people
from their apathy...

by giving them back
their joyous old gods,

and as a result of this worship,

the barren island would burgeon and
bring forth fruit in great abundance.

What he did, of course, was to
develop new cultivars of hardy fruits

suited to local conditions.

But, of course, to begin with,

they worked for him because
he fed them and clothed them,

but then later when the
trees starting fruiting,

it became a very different matter,

and the ministers fled the
island, never to return.

What my grandfather had
started out of expediency,

My father continued out of... Love.

He brought me up the same way -

to reverence the music and the
drama and rituals of the old gods.

To love nature and to fear it,

and to rely on it and to
appease it where necessary.

- He brought me up - - He
brought you up to be a pagan!

A heathen, conceivably, but not,
I hope, an unenlightened one.

Lord Summerisle, I am
interested in one thing: the law.

But I must remind you, sir, that
despite everything you've said,

you are the subject
of a christian country.

Now, sir, if I may have your permission
to exhume the body of Rowan Morrison.

I was under the impression
I'd already given it to you.

Ah, there's your transport.

It's been a great pleasure
meeting a christian copper.

A maiden did this tinker meet

And to him boldly say: "Oh, sure

My kettle hath much need

If you will pass my way. "

She took the tinker by the hand

And led him to her door.

Says she "My kettle I will show,

And you can clout it sure.

For patching and plugging is his delight

I found that in Rowan Morrison's grave.

- Little Rowan loved the march hares.
- Hmm.

It's sacrilege.

Only if the ground is consecrated
to the christian belief.

Personally, I think it makes
a very lovely transmutation.

I'm sure Rowan is most happy with it.
Do you not think so, Lord Summerisle?

Miss, I hope you don't think that I
can be made a fool of indefinitely.

Where is Rowan Morrison?

Why, here she is
- what remains of her physically.

Her soul, of course, may even now -

Lord Summerisle, where
is Rowan Morrison?

Sergeant Howie, I think that...

you are supposed to
be the detective here.

A child is reported
missing on your island.

At first I'm told
there is no such child.

I- I then - I then find that there is,
in fact, but that she has been k*lled.

I subsequently discover that
there is no death certificate.

and now I find that there is a grave.

There's no body.

Very perplexing for you.

What do you think could have happened?

I think Rowan Morrison was m*rder*d...

under circumstances of pagan barbarity,

which I can scarcely
bring myself to believe...

as taking place in the 20th century.

Now, it is my intention tomorrow
to return to the mainland...

and report my suspicions
to the Chief Constable

of the West Highland Constabulary.

And I will demand a
full inquiry takes place

into the affairs of this heathen island.

You must, of course, do
as you see fit, Sergeant.

Perhaps it's just as well that
you won't be here tomorrow,

to be offended by the sight of
our May Day celebrations here.

Broome, would you kindly
show the Sergeant out?

- This way,
sir. - Good-bye.

Fair maid, says he,
your kettle's cracked

the cause is plainly told

There hath so many nails been drove

mine own could not take hold...

There's hardly any produce.

Well, that's it
- the crops failed.

And it's Rowan! Rowan
and the crops failed!

Sacrifice.

Perhaps it's just as well
that you won't be here...

to be offended by the sight of
our May Day celebrations tomorrow.

We carry death out of the village!

We carry death out of the village!

"May Day festivals.

"Primitive man lived
and died by his harvest.

"The purpose of his spring ceremonies
was to ensure a plentiful autumn.

"Relics of these fertility dramas
are to be found all over Europe.

"In Great Britain, for
example, one can still see...

"harmless versions of them danced
in obscure villages on May Day.

"Their cast includes
many alarming characters:

"A man-animal, or hobbyhorse,

"who canters at the head of the
procession charging at the girls;

"A man-woman, the sinister teaser,

"played by the community
leader or priest;

"And a man-fool, Punch,

"most complex of all
the symbolic figures -

"the privileged simpleton
and king for a day.

"Six swordsmen follow these figures...

"and at the cl*max of the ceremony
lock their swords together...

"In a clear symbol of the Sun.

"In pagan times, however, these dances
were not simply picturesque jigs.

"They were frenzied rites
ending in a sacrifice

"by which the dancers hoped desperately
to win over the goddess of the fields.

"In good times, they offered produce
to the gods and slaughtered animals,

"but in bad years, when
the harvest had been poor,

"the sacrifice was a human being.

Rowan's not dead!

"Sometimes the victim would
be drowned in the sea...

"or burnt to death in a
huge sacrificial bonfire.

Sometimes the six swordsmen
ritually beheaded the virgin. "

Dear God in Heaven, even
these people can't be that mad.

"The chief priest
then skinned the child,

"and wearing the still-warmed
skin like a mantle,

"led the rejoicing crowds
through the streets.

"The priest thus represented
the goddess reborn

and guaranteed another
successful harvest next year. "

Good morning, Sergeant!

I need to get to my plane.

Oh, well, on May Day,

I'd better take you out myself.

That's it.

Here, right.

I shall be back shortly with
some more police officers.

Have a good flight then!

Hey, you come back here!

I said, come back here!

What's the matter? Won't she go?

No. Has anyone been here?

Not to my knowledge, Sergeant.

If any of the children had been interfering
with it, I'm sure I would have seen-

I warn you: you're
obstructing a police officer.

I am not obstructing you, Sergeant.

You could maybe get old Sam
there to row you to the mainland.

You'd be back in a week.

Well, I'll just have to
find Rowan Morrison myself.

- Everything under control, Oak?
- Aye, my lord.

Mr. Macgreagor, I
trust we aren't going to

have to let out your
costume again this year.

I think I'll manage, my lord, but it
does seem to shrink a little each year.

I know.

My friends, enough now.

We shall all reassemble outside
the town hall at 3:00 sharp...

and then process through the
village and the countryside,

down to the beach below the stones,

by the route which has
become sacred to our rite.

This year at the procession's end,
as has already been proclaimed,

a holy sacrifice will be
offered up jointly to Nuada,

our most sacred god of the Sun,

and to Avellenau, the beloved
goddess of our orchards,

in order that we may furnish
them with renewed power...

to quicken the growth of our crops.

- Hail the Queen of the May!
- Hail the Queen of the May!

Hail the Queen of the May!

Why, Sergeant, I
thought you'd gone back.

Mrs. Morrison, I don't
know if you know it or not,

But Rowan is not dead.

- They've got her hidden somewhere.
- They?

Now, if you know where she is, I beg
you to tell me now before it's too late.

- Sergeant, I've already told
you - - In the name of God, woman,

what kind of mother are you,

that can stand by and see
your own child slaughtered?

Sergeant, if I were you, I
would go back to the mainland.

Stop interfering in things
that are no concern of yours.

I am going to search every house in
this place during the next few hours.

and if anybody, including
you, stands in my way,

they'll be arrested as
accomplices to m*rder.

You'll simply never understand
the true nature of sacrifice.

Heathens! Bloody heathens!

Yes?

- Take those masks off.
- No.

Take them off!

- What do you think you're doing?
- Searching every house...

for a missing child.

Baa baa black sheep, Have you any wool

Yes, sir, yes, sir, Three bags full

I
- I'm sorry.

- What's that?
- The life of the fields.

John Barleycorn.

What's in here?

- What's that? - That's my
costume - the salmon of knowledge.

Hello. You're back early.

Where are the other coppers?

There aren't any. The
plane wouldn't start.

Give me a glass of whiskey, please.

So he spent his time instead turning
the whole village upside down.

- Just give me a glass of whiskey.
- No wonder he's worn out.

Did you find the girl?

No, well, I can't say
I'm very surprised.

I'm going to rest in
my bed for half an hour.

I do not wish to be disturbed.

I'd stay there until
tonight, if I was you.

We don't much relish
strangers around today.

He's asleep.

I don't like to use it on him, really.

The laird said we're to
take no chances, didn't he?

I know, but with the Hand of Glory
there's no telling when you wake.

He might sleep for days.
- All the better.

- Shh!
- We don't want him butting in. Go on, light it up.

That will make you
sleep, my pretty Sergeant.

I'm away to change. We
can't do without Punch.

You best get on ahead.

They've given you girls five
minutes start, haven't they?

Good-bye.

What's the matter with you,
Macgreagor? Do you call that dancing?

Cut some capers, man. Use your bladder.

Play the fool. That's
what you're here for.

I suppose you've been
getting drunk at your own bar.

That's more like it!

Good, good!

Here comes the job, that
you chop off your head!

Chop, chop, chop, chop.

Chop, chop, chop, chop.

Everyone must go through, Macgreagor.
It's a game of chance, remember.

It's Holly. Well done.

Now, my friends, to the beach.

O god of the sea,

I offer you this ale as a libation,

that you may bestow upon
us in the year to come

the rich and diverse
fruits of your kingdom.

Hail, god of the seas!

Accept our offering!

And now, for our more
dreadful sacrifice...

yo those who command
the fruit of the Earth.

It's Rowan.

What's the matter, Mr. Macgreagor?

Now, don't be frightened.
I'm a police officer.

- I've got to try and get you away.
- Hurry, mister, please.

- I don't like it here. They're coming.
Do you know what they're gonna do?

- They're going to - - Come
on, come on. Hurry, hurry!

We can escape through
the cave. I know the way.

Quickly.

That's the way out up there.

Come on. It's through a big tunnel.

We seem to have lost our
torch-bearing friends.

I'm sorry. It was worse
than I remembered it.

- Did I do it right?
- You did it beautifully.

Dear little Rowan.

Rowan, darling. Come on, now.

Welcome, fool.

You have come of your own free
will to the appointed place.

The game is over.

Game? What game?

The game of the hunted
leading the hunter.

You came here to find Rowan Morrison,

but it is we who have found
you and brought you here

and controlled your every thought
and action since you arrived.

Principally, we persuaded you to think

that Rowan Morrison was
being held as a sacrifice

because our crops failed last year.

I know your crops failed. I
saw the harvest photograph.

Oh, yes. They failed, all
right, disastrously so...

for the first time since
my grandfather came here.

The blossom came but the fruit
withered and died on the bough.

That must not happen again this year.

It is our most earnest belief that
the best way of preventing this

is to offer to our god of the Sun
and to the goddess of our orchards

the most acceptable sacrifice
that lies in our power.

Animals are fine, but their
acceptability is limited.

A little child is even better,
but not nearly as effective

as the right kind of adult.

What do you mean,

"right kind of adult"?

You, Sergeant, are the
right kind of adult,

as our painstaking
researches have revealed.

You, uniquely, were the one we needed.

A man who would come
here of his own free will.

A man who has come here with the power
of a king by representing the law.

A man who would come here as a virgin.

A man who has come here as a fool.

Get out of my way.

You are the fool, Mr. Howie -

Punch, one of the great
fool-victims of history,

for you have accepted the
role of king for a day,

and who but a fool would do that?

But you will be revered
and anointed as a king.

You will undergo death and rebirth -

resurrection, if you like.

The rebirth, sadly, will not be yours,

but that of our crops.

I am a christian,

and as a christian, I
hope for resurrection.

And even if you k*ll me now,

it is I who will live again,

not your damned apples.

Sleep

Close and fast

No matter what you do,

you can't change the fact

that I believe in the life eternal,

as promised to us by
our lord, Jesus Christ.

I believe in the life eternal

as promised to us by
our lord, Jesus Christ.

That is good.

For believing what you do,

we confer upon you a
rare gift these days -

a martyr's death.

You will not only have life eternal,

but you will sit with the
saints among the elect.

Come.

It is time to keep your
appointment with The Wicker Man.

Now, wait!

Now, all of you, just
wait and listen to me.

And you can wrap it up any way you like.

You are about to commit m*rder.

Can you not see? There is no Sun god.

There is no goddess of the fields.

Your crops failed because
your strains failed.

Fruit is not meant to be grown on
these islands. It's against nature.

Don't you see that k*lling me is
not going to bring back your apples?

Summerisle, you know it won't. Go on,
man. Tell them. Tell them it won't.

I know it will.

Well, don't you understand that
if your crops fail this year,

next year you're going to have
to have another blood sacrifice?

And next year, no one less than the
king of Summerisle himself will do.

If the crops fail, Summerisle,

next year your people
will k*ll you on May Day.

They will not fail.

The sacrifice of the willing king,

like virgin fool, will be accepted.

But don't you see I'll be missed?

- They'll come looking for me.
- There will be no traces. Bring him up, Oak.

- Go on.
- No!

Think! Just think what you're doing!

Think what you're doing! Think!

In the name of God,
think what you're doing!

Oh, God! Oh, Jesus Christ!

Oh, my God! Christ!

No, no, dear God! No, Christ!

No, no!

Mighty god of the Sun, bountiful
goddess of our orchards,

accept our sacrifice and
make our blossoms fruit.

Mighty god of the Sun,

bountiful goddess of our orchards...
- Hear ye the words of the lord!

...accept our sacrifice
and make our blossoms fruit.

Awake, ye heathens, and hold!

It is the Lord who hath
laid waste your orchards!

It is he who hath made them bare!
- Reverence the sacrifice.

because the truth is withered away

from the sons of men.

Desire shall fail

and ye shall all die

accursed!

Summer is a-comin' in

Loudly sing cuckoo

Grows the seed and blows the mead

And springs the wood anew

Sing cuckoo

Ewe bleats harshly after lamb

Cows after calves make moo

The lord's my shepherd

I'll not want

He takes me down

to lie

in pastures -

Oh, God.

Grows the seed and blows the mead

And springs the wood anew

- Sing cuckoo
- Oh, God.

I humbly entreat you for the soul
of this, thy servant, Neil Howie...

who will today depart from this world.

Do not deliver me into
the enemy's hands...

or put me out of mind forever.

Let me not undergo the real pains of
hell, dear God, because I die unshriven

- Cuckoo, cuckoo
- and establish me

in that bliss

which knows no ending,

- Cuckoo
- through Christ,

our lord.

Grows the seed and blows the mead

Failure! Failure! Failure!

Sing cuckoo

Ewe bleats harshly after lamb

Cows after calves make moo

Bullock stamps and deer champs

Now shrilly sing cuckoo

Cuckoo, cuckoo

Wild bird are you

Be never still, cuckoo