All language subtitles for The.Wicker.Man.1973.DC.2160p.UHD.Blu-ray.Remux.DV.HDR.HEVC.FLAC.2.0-CiNEPHiLES

Good evening, Sergeant.

Evening.

Get your hair cut, McTaggart.

Ah, now, there's a message, Sergeant.
A message for us all.

However, there is
a time and place for everything.

Get it removed.

Any serious problems
while I've been away?

No, Sergeant, nothing serious,
just the usual.

Rape, sodomy, sacrilege...
you know.

I have received of the Lord

that which also I delivered onto you.

The Lord Jesus, the same night
in which he was betrayed, took bread,

and when he had given thanks,

he broke it and said, "Take.

"Eat.

"This is my body,

"which is broken for you,

"this do in remembrance of me."

And after the same manner
he also took the cup

when he had eaten, saying,

"This cup is the new covenant
in my blood.

"This oft as you drink it
in remembrance of me,

"for as often as you eat this bread

"and drink this wine,

"you do shew the Lord's death

"till he comes again."

It's for his nibs.

Postmarked "Summerisle".

- He's got a bit of skirt over there maybe.
- What, him?

The only woman he's interested in
is the Virgin Mary.

Oh? I thought he was going steady
with Mary Bannock.

Steady's the word. In two years
he has nae so much as tickled her fancy.

He's keeping himself pure
for the wedding day.

Ah, poor old Mary.

I don't know what she sees in him.

Hey. When those two are married

she will spend more time on her knees
in church than on her back in bed.

Morning all.

- Morning, Hugh.
- Good morning, Sergeant.

Erm... there's an anonymous letter
for you, Sergeant.

Read it!

"Dear Sergeant Howie,

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

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

"She couldn't have left the island
by herself, she's too young.

"Her mother won't say anything about it.

"Just to mind my own business.

"Well, I reckon it's all our business
when a kid disappears,

"that's why I'm writing you this letter.

"Child lover. Summerisle.

"P.S. - I enclose a picture
of Rowan Morrison."

- You'll go, Sergeant?
- Aye, aye, of course.

- Have you ever been there?
- Er... no.

I've tasted the famous apples,
of course, but er...

It's odd, isn't it?
I mean, all that fruit.

Well, the whole place apparently is odd.

To start with
they have no licensing laws.

Singing and dancing on a Sunday.

Oh, aye, doubtless that would appeal to
a heathen group like yourself, McTaggart.

However, this is still in theory
a law-abiding, Christian country,

however unfashionable that may seem.

Well, I'll call there on this patrol.

Will you call in at Mary's house.
Tell her I'll be away overnight.

J Oh, I am come

& Ochon, ochon, ochrie!

I Without a penny

& Ochon, ochon, ochrie!

&' Skipping o'er yon narrow creek

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!

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?

- We need to tell his lordship.
- Aye.

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.

The photo was in this letter,
posted here on Summerisle.

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?

The letter is anonymous.

It was addressed to me personally
on the mainland.

No, cannae say I know her.

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

That's right. She's not from here.

You get Morrisons on Lewis
and a few on Mull. I would try there.

Thanks.

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

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

Her 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?

- 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. Erm...

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 grey.

Oh, sorry.

Thank you, Myrtle.

Myrtle, do you, erm...
do you know Rowan?

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.
- Not at all.

It must be thirsty work,
asking all those questions, eh?

Aye.

- Hello.
- Evening.

Evening.

- Hello.
- Evening.

- 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?

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

Och, you don't want to let them
WOITY 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've not seen her.
Have you tried the mainland?

No, I've not see her.
I've not seen her at all.

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

Thank you. Are these
harvest festival photographs?

Aye, we have one taken
at the end of every summer.

- What happened to last year's?
- 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 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?

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

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

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

- 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.

- & I put my hand on her breast
- Willow MacGreagor!

Willow MacGreagor, I have the honour
to present to you Ash Buchanan.

Come up, Ash Buchanan.

Another sacrifice for Aphrodite, Willow.

You flatter me, your lordship.

Surely you mean to Aphrodite?

I make no such distinction.

You are the Goddess of Love
in human form

and I am merely your humble acolyte.

Enjoy yourself... and him.

Only, make sure you are ready
for tomorrow's tomorrow.

The day of death and rebirth.

Yes.

And of a somewhat more
serious offering than tonight.

I think I could turn
and live with animals.

They are so placid and self-contained.

They do not lie awake in the dark
and weep for their sins.

They do not make me sick,
discussing their duty to God.

Not one of them kneels to another,

or to his own kind
that lived thousands of years ago.

Not one of them is ‘respectable'...

or 'unhappy'...

all over the Earth.

Morning, Sergeant.

- Morning.
- Isn't it glorious?

Aye, aye, it's very nice.

I expect you'll be going home tonight?

Well, that depends.

Where's the school, please?

On the far side of the green.

Thank you.

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!
- I know!

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

The phallic symbol.
That is correct.

It is the image of the penis,

which is venerated in religions
such as ours

as symbolising
the generative force in nature.

Oh, can I help you?

C-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 recognise
either the name or the photograph?

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

If she existed, we would know her.

- 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 itis.
- 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"!

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.

Anyone'd 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.
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.

Doctor... Tell me, did you sign
Rowan Morrison's death certificate?

Rowan Morrison?
Yes, I did. Why?

Could I see it, please?

You of all people should know

that death certificates are kept
in the public records office.

- Now, if you will excuse me?
- Doctor...

Tell me,
how did Rowan Morrison die?

She was burnt to death.

As my lunch will be,
if I continue here talking to you.

Good day.

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...

"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 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.

What happened
to last year's photograph?

Isn't it there with the others?

No, no, it's not. 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.

- 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 murder
and conspiracy to murder.

In that case, you must go ahead.

Your lordship seems
strangely unconcerned.

I'm confident your suspicions
are wrong, Sergeant.

We don't commit murder 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 t-they are... are naked.

Naturally. It's much too dangerous

to jump through the fire
with your clothes on.

Wh-what religion c-c-can
they possibly be learning,

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, y-y-you've got
f-f-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 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.

And 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 neighbours 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're very cynical, my lord.

What attracted my grandfather
to the island,

apart from the profuse source
of wiry labour 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 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 the 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.

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 then find that there is, in fact,
but that she has been killed.

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've happened?

I think Rowan Morrison
was murdered

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.
- Goodbye.

There's hardly any produce.

Well, that's it, the crops failed.

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

Now...

what does the old religion say
about crop failure?

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

To love nature and to fear it.

To rely on it and to appease it
when necessary.

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.

What if she's not dead?

What if Rowan's not dead?

Sergeant?

We carry death out of the village!

We carry death out of the village!

We carry death out of the village!

We carry death out of the village!

We carry death...

"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 climax 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."

"In some cultures
it would be the king himself,

"and in others,
their most beloved virgin.

"And very often he or she
would be kept hidden for months

"preceding this ceremony -

"just as the sun is hidden
from the Earth in winter."

Rowan's not dead!

“Methods of sacrifice differed.

"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've seen them.

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.

My friends, enough now.

We shall all reassemble outside
the town hall at three o'clock 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?

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

- But, 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 murder.

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.

I Baa-baa black sheep,
have you any wool?

[-I'm sorry.

- Oh, God!

- 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 whisky, please.

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

- Just give me a glass of whisky!
- 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'll 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?

Goodbye.

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 chopper
to chop off your head.

Chop! Chop! Chop!

Chop! Chop! Chop! Chop!

Everyone must go through, MacGreagor.

It's a game of chance, remember.

Chop! Chop! Chop!

It's Holly. Well done!

It's wee Holly.

Now, my friends, to the beach.

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

for 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.
You know what they're going to do?

I know what they're going to do.
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's 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 kill me now,

it is I who will live again,
not your damned apples.

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 murder.

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 killing 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 kill 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! 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!

- ...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.

Howl ye husbandmen because
the harvest of your fields is perished.

And the vine is dried up

and the apple tree languisheth,

even all the trees of the field
are withered...

Because the truth is withered away
from the sons of men!

Desire shall fail!

And ye shall all die...

accursed!

Oh, God!

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.

which knows no ending.

our lord.

Jesus!

Jesus!

Jesus!