Back from the celluloid grave, and no doubt inspired by the failure of last year’s flaccid remake, is the 1973 Wicker Man. Devised by its star Christopher Lee, director Robin Hardy and writer Anthony Shaffer as a meditation on the rise of New Age spiritualism, the movie is now, of course, gleefully camp and a tad reactionary.

The set-up was always going to be a stretch. Here the 40-year-old virgin and super-Christian copper Sergeant Howie (a fantastically uptight Edward Woodward) is sent to investigate the disappearance of a child on an island off the west coast of Scotland. Poor Howie has barely unpacked his babe-proof jammies before the locals start to reveal their lascivious pagan pleasures – most famously, a wall-bashing seduction song from Britt Ekland that’s powerful enough to transform Howie into a writhing mess of sweaty guilt.

Naturally, Howie soon discovers that the disappearance is deeply implicated in the island’s pagan practices, most of which are orchestrated from afar by the mysterious Lord Summerisle (Lee). And, with the community’s climactic May Day festivities fast approaching, Howie becomes convinced that a human sacrifice is on the menu. The identity of the victim is what gives the film its piquant thrill, and is undoubtedly what has ensured its longevity. For The Wicker Man’s fear of moral breakdown is stifling. Its insight into spiritualism is corny. And, most importantly, its panic-stricken depiction of sex as a mysterious and unspeakable destabilising force is strangely archaic and ultimately very, well, Lady Chatterley.

Certificate 18, 84 mins

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