Wicker opens in a timeless hamlet where every resident is identified by trade, a device that lets the story speak about class and gender without a specific era anchoring it. The narrator, voiced by Peter Dinkdale, likens a fish that sees its own reflection to the fisherwoman’s fear of self-knowledge. Olivia Colman’s character, known only as the Fisherwoman, spends her days hauling the day’s catch, sleeping by a fire and fielding scorn from townsfolk who greet her with jokes about her smell. This relentless routine sets the stage for a desperate desire that will drive the entire narrative.
A twisted fairy-tale of yearning
When the Fisherwoman asks the Basketmaker (Dinkdale) to fashion a husband, the film shifts from bleak routine to a whimsical investigation of desire. The basket-maker treats the commission as an act of redemption, promising that the created being will possess a “character of its own.” This premise allows the film to explore how longing can reshape identity and community. The villagers’ reaction—ranging from bewildered curiosity to outright jealousy—underscores how a single act of love can destabilise entrenched power structures. The script never spells out its moral; instead it lets the audience watch as a wooden man, later named Alexander Skarsgård’s Wicker Husband, becomes the village’s unexpected moral compass.
Performances that give flesh to twig
Olivia Colman delivers a performance that balances brash sarcasm with quiet vulnerability. Her retorts—most memorably “Lick my worm”—turn the Fisherwoman’s isolation into a weapon, while moments of private tenderness reveal a woman yearning for connection. Alexander Skarsgård, encased in a meticulously crafted wicker suit, moves with a deliberately restrained grace. His lines are delivered in a low, breathy tone that feels both alien and intimate, especially when he declares, “I was made to be with you.” The chemistry between the two creates a sensual rhythm that feels genuine despite the fantastical premise. Supporting players—Elizabeth Debicki as the scheming Tailor’s Wife and Ella Bruccoleri as the under-sexed Bakerwoman—populate the world with enough spite and longing to make the Fisherwoman’s triumph feel earned.
Stylistic choices and thematic resonance
The visual palette leans toward earthen tones, evoking a rustic, almost mythic atmosphere. Cinematographer Lol Crawley frames each scene with a composition that highlights the contrast between the organic wooden figure and the earthy environment. The score, a lively ensemble of strings, punctuates the film’s comedic beats while underscoring its quieter moments. Special effects work shines in the subtle creaking of Skarsgård’s wooden frame, especially during intimate scenes, turning what could be a gimmick into a tactile metaphor for the friction between desire and form. The film’s underlying commentary on gender roles—how women are forced into domesticity and judged for their independence—remains clear without ever lecturing the viewer. By naming characters after their occupations, the directors emphasize how identity can be reduced to function, a notion the Fisherwoman ultimately rejects.
Although Wicker excels when it dwells in romance and the surreal, it occasionally sidetracks into subplots that dilute the emotional core. The rivalry between the Tailor’s Wife and the Fisherwoman, while adding tension, sometimes feels like a distraction from the central love story. Nevertheless, the film’s strongest moments—especially the chapel scene where the wicker husband waits like a statue-come-alive—reaffirm that love, however unconventional, can illuminate the darkest corners of a rigid community.
