A Waste Of Good Wicker
Why was I hoping that The Wicker Man would be any good? I ask myself that question every time I walk past a wicker basket–which happens far too much–see Nicholas’s Cage’s mug on TV–ditto–or hear the hallowed name Alan Whicker. I suspect the ending was only part of it; more than anything—even more than the bit at the very end where the terrible thing happens which should not happen to anyone, however naive—I was looking forward to seeing how the concept had dated, and if a modern twist could inject some kind of spice into the concept which might make the young ones of today like the old film as much as I had when I first saw it.
My hoping, as it turns out, was for nothing and I very much doubt that anyone who watched this film and hadn’t seen the original went rushing out to buy a vintage copy. Turns out the famous British broadcaster and journalist may have been better in the leading role of what should have been more than decent remake.
This time around, as aforementioned, Nicholas Cage steps into the role of the determined yet all too unseeing police-man—American, this time, would you believe?—searching for a missing girl; like in the original film, it’s extremely clear from the off-set that the villagers of the remote island would rather stick large pins in their eyes than aid the police-man in his quest. Once again he goes from banging his head against one brick wall to another slightly harder one, until time runs out.
Add some odd language, lots of women who frown a lot, a decent helping of ritualistic strangeness and an attempt at being deathly serious which implodes from the get go and there you have it; a tortured remake of a classic film with far too little to offer.
So, as you all should know, it is my birthday soon and in case you are wondering what to buy me (that means you Ruth) I have been looking at that dvd set for Murder She Wrote, just in case you couldn’t think of anything…