Here is some disturbing news via the Guardian about a planned mistreatment of that most wonderful of British horror films, The Wicker Man:

I can’t think of many films apparently concerning an unsolved child murder that could also serve as the basis for a jaunty singalong. But there is The Wicker Man. Because in the 37 years that director Robin Hardy’s delirious tale of pagan jiggery pokery in the Hebrides has been accumulating fans (among which I happily count myself), chief among the attractions has been its various musical numbers: toe-tappers like the cheerfully frenzied Maypole and folky mating call Willow’s Song.
And now cinema-goers in south London have the chance to join in, as Brixton’s Ritzy becomes the latest venue to host an evening of Summer Isle madness titled “Sing-along-a-Wicker-Man” (there have been and will be other dates around the country). There, fans will be given lyric sheets to relevant tunes, and (featuring, you assume, a significant number of homemade robes) a screening of the film will be transformed into a roaring knees-up.

Like Danny Leigh, the author of this fine piece (do read the whole thing), I have grave doubts about this project. As Mr. Leigh writes, he would “fully endorse audience participation for Neil LaBute’s remake, principally flinging bags of excrement at the screen.” And so would I. But the original Wicker Man is a different proposition altogether.

And somehow I don’t think that that great Tory, Sir Christopher Lee (Lord Summerisle), can relish the thought of this mistreatment of what he considers to be his finest film.

We live in disgraceful times.