It is a face of absolute, unadulterated terror. You know the one. As the flames lick the base of that massive timber effigy on the cliffs of Summerisle, Sergeant Neil Howie—played with a stiff-backed, righteous fury by Edward Woodward—realizes that his faith isn't going to save him. He screams for Christ. He prays. He weeps. It is arguably the most harrowing ending in the history of British cinema. Honestly, if you haven't seen it, you're missing out on the definitive performance of Woodward’s long career.
Edward Woodward and The Wicker Man are inseparable in the cultural lexicon of folk horror, yet the path to getting that film made was a total disaster from start to finish. It’s kinda a miracle it exists at all. Released in 1973, the movie didn't just appear; it was shoved out into theaters as a B-picture accompaniment to Don't Look Now. But the reason it survived, despite the studio's best efforts to bury it, is Woodward. He wasn't just an actor playing a cop; he was a man embodying the collision between the old world and the new, between rigid Christian morality and the wild, terrifying rebirth of paganism.
The Casting of Sergeant Howie: Why Woodward Was the Only Choice
Anthony Shaffer, the screenwriter, and director Robin Hardy didn’t want a typical leading man. They needed someone who felt like the establishment. They needed a man who could be deeply unlikeable, a bit of a prig, and yet someone the audience would desperately want to see survive. Edward Woodward was already a household name in the UK because of Callan, where he played a moody, reluctant assassin. He had this incredible ability to look like he was carrying the weight of the entire British Empire on his shoulders.
Interestingly, Woodward wasn't the first name on the list for every producer involved. There were whispers of other actors, but Shaffer knew that Woodward’s theatrical background—his time with the Royal Shakespeare Company—was essential. The dialogue in the film is dense. It’s intellectual. Howie has to debate theology while he's being mocked by a giant man in a dress. Woodward brought a certain gravity that made the "clash of ideologies" feel like a real fight, not just a script-reading exercise.
He was basically the straight man in a world gone mad. Think about the scene where he first arrives on the island. He’s indignant. He’s offended by the lack of "proper" British procedure. Woodward plays this with such a lack of irony that it’s almost funny, right up until the moment it becomes terrifying. He’s the personification of the law, and watching the islanders peel that away layer by layer is the core of the movie's tension.
The Brutality of the Shoot
Filming in Scotland during the late autumn of 1972 was, by all accounts, a miserable experience. The production was pretending it was spring. They had to glue fake blossoms onto trees. The weather was freezing, and Woodward, poor guy, spent a significant portion of the climax inside a giant wooden structure that was actually on fire.
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There’s a famous bit of trivia—it's actually true, not just movie myth—that the goat and other animals inside the Wicker Man with him were genuinely terrified. Woodward later talked about how the heat was intense and the smell was worse. He wasn't just acting "scared." He was physically trapped in a massive, burning prop on a windy Scottish cliffside.
- The production ran out of money constantly.
- Woodward often had to act against Christopher Lee, who was doing the film for free just because he believed in the script so much.
- The famous "willow tree" dance by Britt Ekland? Woodward had to keep a straight face while his character's morality was being pushed to the breaking point.
The contrast between Christopher Lee’s Lord Summerisle—bohemian, charismatic, and utterly insane—and Woodward’s Sergeant Howie is the heartbeat of the film. Lee is all flowing robes and grand gestures. Woodward is buttoned-up wool and repressed anger. You’ve got these two titans of British acting going toe-to-toe, and Woodward never flinches, even when the script calls for him to be the "fool" of the sacrifice.
The Lost Footage and the Survival of a Cult Classic
What really cements the legacy of Edward Woodward and The Wicker Man is the saga of the film's "missing" version. After the shoot, the studio (British Lion) was taken over by EMI, and the new management hated the movie. They thought it was too weird. They cut it down to a 87-minute version that made almost no sense.
Legend has it—and this was backed up by Robin Hardy—that the original master negatives were actually used as landfill for a highway construction project (the M3 motorway). It sounds like a tall tale, doesn't it? But it's part of the reason the film became a cult phenomenon. Fans spent decades hunting for the "Long Version." Woodward himself was always vocal about his frustration with the edits. He knew they had made something special, a "thinking man's horror movie," and he hated seeing it butchered.
Eventually, thanks to some detective work and the discovery of a 1-inch master tape in the US, we got the "Final Cut." Watching Woodward in the extended scenes—particularly the ones exploring his character's life on the mainland before he gets to the island—adds so much depth. You see that Howie isn't just a jerk; he's a man of genuine, if narrow, conviction.
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Why We Still Care About a 1973 Horror Movie
Folk horror is having a massive moment right now. You see it in Midsommar, in The Witch, in The Ritual. But none of those movies happen without the blueprint laid down by Woodward and Lee.
The brilliance of Woodward’s performance is that he represents the audience’s logic. We want to believe that the law matters. We want to believe that if we explain things rationally, the "crazy" people will stop being crazy. The horror isn't just the fire; it's the realization that Howie’s logic is useless in a place where the rules have changed. Woodward’s transition from authority figure to victim is so seamless that you don't even realize it's happening until he's being led up that hill in the costume of a jester.
He was a phenomenal singer, too. Most people forget that. In the film, his voice is used to ground the reality of the hymns. When he sings "The Lord's My Shepherd" against the islanders’ pagan folk songs, it’s a literal battle of soundtracks.
Key Elements of Woodward's Performance:
- The Physicality: Look at his posture. It stays rigid until the very last moment when he collapses.
- The Voice: Woodward used his stage-trained projection to make Howie sound like a man used to being obeyed.
- The Empathy: Despite being a "square," you feel for him. You feel the injustice.
It's honestly a masterclass. Most horror protagonists are just there to scream. Woodward was there to represent a dying world.
A Legacy Beyond the Effigy
Edward Woodward went on to do The Equalizer in the 1980s, becoming a massive star in America. He played Robert McCall with a similar sense of righteous indignation, but with a lot more guns. Yet, when he passed away in 2009, every single obituary led with The Wicker Man.
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He knew it was his best work. He often spoke about how rare it was to find a script that challenged the audience's religious and social biases so directly. He didn't play Howie as a hero. He played him as a man. A flawed, stubborn, brave, and ultimately doomed man.
If you're looking to dive deeper into this specific era of British cinema, you have to look at the "Unholy Trinity" of folk horror: The Wicker Man, Witchfinder General, and The Blood on Satan’s Claw. But The Wicker Man is the crown jewel, mostly because it doesn't rely on jump scares. It relies on the dread that Woodward conveys through his eyes.
Next Steps for the Folk Horror Enthusiast
To truly appreciate what Woodward achieved, you shouldn't just watch the movie; you need to see the context. Start by tracking down the "Final Cut" of the film released by StudioCanal—it’s the most complete version Woodward ever endorsed. After that, look for the documentary The Wicker Man Enigma, which features interviews with Woodward where he breaks down the filming of the final scene. Finally, if you want to see the "other side" of his range, watch an episode of the original Callan series. You'll see the same simmering intensity he brought to the island of Summerisle, but applied to the gritty world of Cold War espionage. Seeing those two performances back-to-back is the best way to understand why Edward Woodward remains one of the most underrated actors of his generation.