Alex Huston Fischer and Eleanor Wilson’s *Wicker* welcomes us with a mischievous grin, gently upends a sacred cow, steals a kiss, and raises a tankard before revealing a tender, deeply romantic belief in human dignity. Bawdy, boisterous, and witty, yet unexpectedly wise, this adaptation of Ursula Wills’s *The Wicker Husband* transforms folk-fable eccentricity into a joyful celebration of desire and agency, with compassion for those whose lives are disrupted when they refuse to remain in the place society has assigned them.
At its center is Olivia Colman, giving one of her most strikingly unvarnished performances. Her Fisherwoman is raw, ragged, and stubborn, enduring mockery for her limp, her monobrow, her habits, her solitude, and even the smell associated with her trade. She eats with her mouth open and keeps a pot under her bed, using it when needed. The villagers sneer, but the film meets her without judgment, never suggesting she must become prettier, softer, or more acceptable to deserve kindness. That compassion is one of Wicker’s greatest strengths. Colman portrays a woman with agency over her own destiny, pushed beyond humiliation and toward action. There is real pleasure in watching her decide that if the village insists on treating her as a joke, she will turn the joke around by finding herself a husband.
The lovely twist is that the prank ultimately comes back to its creator. What begins as an act of defiance gently opens the door to genuine love. The screenplay recognizes that irony and emotion can coexist. Fischer and Wilson find warmth and laughter in the situation while allowing sincere feelings to emerge beneath the jokes, making the romance especially moving—more so than many prestige dramas that treat love with far greater solemnity.
Alexander Skarsgård deserves immense credit for understanding the assignment. The Wicker Husband could easily have been reduced to a punchline or a fantasy figure, but Skarsgård brings him to life with a disarming sincerity. The character’s gentleness and purity feel almost radical in a cultural landscape crowded with antiheroes and cynics. His unabashed romanticism gives the film much of its emotional force. He wants his partner to flourish and be happy, and he expresses his affection without embarrassment or reservation. Even among the village men, he resists the rituals of masculine resentment. His devotion highlights the smallness of the behavior around him and makes ordinary kindness feel like a quiet act of rebellion.
That rebellion gives the film some of its richest comic moments. The villagers are more than colorful background figures; they, too, are caught up in a wave of social unease. The arrival of a husband who truly loves his wife gently exposes the unmet needs, buried frustrations, and unspoken desires many have carried for years. What follows is a ripple of envy, confusion, longing, aspiration, and outrage. Fischer and Wilson show a keen sensitivity to how fragile social arrangements can be when someone begins to question why things must stay as they are.
The directors’ satire is sharp yet remarkably assured. Wicker examines marriage, sex, gender expectations, and domestic power with wit and sensitivity, never slipping into a lecture. A wife is physically collared by her husband; men are made wary of tenderness; women are left longing for affection. The film gently unsettles these conventions, revealing the hurt beneath them. Beneath the ribald humor lies a thoughtful critique of ownership disguised as love, yet the film never loses its warmth or appetite for fun.
And joy is at the heart of it. The picture brims with exuberant feeling, its characters swept up in passions that sometimes spill into the world around them. Attraction unsettles the village, while long-suppressed desires finally find expression in public. Each romantic gesture gently challenges the village’s established order. What might have been a restrained folk tale instead unfolds with warmth, playfulness, and a generous understanding of human longing.
Peter Dinklage brings an added sense of wonder to the Basket Weaver, a gentle, elusive figure who seems to move between craftsman, trickster, matchmaker, and prophet. His presence preserves the film’s fairy-tale magic while grounding it in the tenderness of human longing. The supporting cast, especially Elizabeth Debicki as the calculating Tailor’s Wife, brings to life a gallery of flawed characters whose missteps invite both laughter and understanding, while still carrying real consequences.
Perhaps Wicker’s most moving achievement is the way it lets its comedy coexist with its compassion. The film gently affirms that everyone, even those others mock, deserves love. It reminds us that desire belongs to all of us—not only the beautiful, fashionable, or socially accepted. That belief gives the film its warm, beating heart.
Funny, unsettling, romantic, and gleefully indecent, Wicker tenderly recognizes how difficult it can be to claim what one wants in a rigid society—and how quietly powerful that choice can be. Fischer and Wilson surround the idea with laughter, lust, folklore, and warmth. Olivia Colman brings it all to life with magnificent grace.
By the time the film reaches its final movements, Wicker has grown from a sly joke into a tender celebration of misfits, romantics, and all those who find the courage to imagine a different life.
Grade: B+.
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