A cross to bear … Edward Woodward in The Wicker Man. Photograph: Kobal
Christopher Lee and Britt Ekland had the splashier roles in The Wicker Man, the 1973 occult horror set in a fictional Hebridian isle demented by paganism, but it was the achievement of Edward Woodward, who died today, that made that pellicle so haunting. Woodward was cast in the role of devout Christian police sergeant Neil Howie, dispatched from the mainland to investigate the disappearance of a young girl, after actors including Michael York and David Hemmings turned it on the ground.
- The Wicker Man
- Production year: 1973
- Country: UK
- Cert (UK): 18
- Runtime: 103 mins
- Directors: Robin Hardy
- Cast: Britt Ekland, Christopher Lee, Edward Woodward
It’s hard to imagine how slick, pin-up performers as these would obtain brought the same emotional punch to that terrible, awe-inspiring climax, in which Howie hollers to God and sings The Lord Is My Shepherd as he is immolated. It’s one of the greatest part truly appalling sequences in cinema.
But much of the scene’s power is every part of about the actor: after spending the whole of the film in such upstanding, even self-righteous bafflement, his clear-eyed terror make this a deeply persuading conclusion – unusual for a horror that had more than a touch of the Hammer to it.
Woodward specialised in righteous enforcers: men of honour, grappling with decoy; men to trust and respect, and not to get on the wrong side of. He shares more with the likes of The Conversation-era Gene Hackman than, judge, the stars of The Sweeney. A lot of these clips bear a saxophone-friendly langour to them; they also show Woodward alone, through his thoughts – hither was a man who didn’t need a lot of back-up to make a scene compelling.
When The Wicker Man was released, Woodward was already well-known in the UK as rebellious TV spook Callan, a role he played from 1967 to 1972. Here he is strengthening his fists as long as resisting the bottle.
And here he is, failing to withstand during the time that he rails against the death of a collaborator.
There’s a wonderful moment well-nigh sum of two units minutes in, when Callan, stumbling with grief and booze, says: “If one of us cracks, we entirely could. Because there is an ugly black streak, bloody deep, and it’s welling up in the likes of us, and holding it down is what makes us weal at our jobs. That’sitting all.” It could be a statement of end for all of his characters.
The Wicker Man had not, at the time, reached cult classic status – it was the 1980 Australian film Breaker Morant, in which Woodward played the title role as the drover, horseman, poet and soldier sentenced to death concerning his part in the summary execution of several Boer prisoners and a German missionary, what one. first brought him to international attention.
But it was Woodward’s role in 1980s CBS series The Equalizer that cemented his glory. Then in his 50s, the actor played a former secret agent who strives to atone during the term of past sins through the gratis offering of services as a troubleshooter, protector and inquirer. New York was a world away from the homespun locations and wobbly production values of his previous cop roles, but Woodward brought with him the same mingle of earnestness, cynicism and deep meditation.
The show paced itself around its star, finding focus in his stillness. Here was a soul who didn’t need his fire-arm to make a lively turn of thought; who wasn’t afraid to sing, alone, at night, nursing a scotch.
Woodward was, in fact, a prolific singer, recording 12 albums of songs, as easily as three of poetry. Here he is, consummately balancing the emotion and enunciation on this They Didn’t Believe Me.
You can feel his training here – he became Rada’s youngest ever student when he was admitted aged 16. After graduating, he became a respected stage actor, through seasons in the West End, at Stratford, on Broadway and at the National under Laurence Olivier.
But it wasn’t all education. To all Woodward’s performances, there’s a fundamental truthfulness that shines through. When he was five, he won a talent contest in Wallington, for which he was awarded a penknife. But it wasn’t long before the silver coating began to decorticate, revealing some far more mundane metal beneath. “You start doing deals with Americans,” he one time said, “particularly the self-sufficient Hollywood ones, and you’ll appreciate the story about the silver penknife.”
Despite a triple heart bypass in 1996, and a prostate cancer diagnosis in 2003, Woodward was still working until very recently.
In 2007 he had a funny cameo in Simon Pegg’s comedy Hot Fuzz, a mildly Wicker Man-inspired comedy about the sleepiest town in the country, plagued with one alarmingly disproportionate accident rate.
Then there was an episode of The Bill from 2008, possibly any inspiration for Michael Caine’s elderly vigilante play Harry Brown.
And, from March this year, he spent a couple of months on EastEnders, playing Tommy Clifford, not the same old soul atoning toward past sins (in this case the accidental killing of Patrick Trueman’s fiancee).
In an interview in March this year, Woodward revealed that on his first day steady the wager of EastEnders he embarrassed himself (in his words) by throwing his arms not directly Pam St Clement and asking her how she was. “As I walked away, I realised I’circuitous route never met her before in my life. Because I watch EastEnders I, like any other viewer, think I know these people.”
That seems to sum up the humility of the man; a humility (and a humour) much in evidence in this clip of his opening a village fete in Cornwall, gently awarding some pint-size carnival queens their trophies.
