Directors: Eleanor Wilson, Alex Huston Fischer
Stars: Olivia Colman, Peter Dinklage, Alexander Skarsgård
In the rural, miscellaneous-olden-times village in which Eleanor Wilson and Alex Huston Fischer’s Wicker takes place, essentialism rules supreme. Everyone is known and identified by the role that they play, and their position in the pecking order of the patriarchy. When a couple get married, for instance, the woman takes on her new husband’s job moniker, not to mention a none-too-subtle metal collar, afixed around her neck for the purposes of ceremony. The order and hierarchy of this is informally overseen by the Tailor’s Wife (Elizabeth Debicki), who struts and clucks and judges the poor but merry populous. But when the orphaned Fisherwoman (Olivia Colman) – the subject of easy ridicule for her smell and spinsterdom – upsets the applecart of order, the Tailor’s Wife becomes fixated by this newly perceived problem.
Undesired by the mostly hapless menfolk who are either married off or dire in prospect, the Fisherwoman commissions the Basket Weaver (Peter Dinklage) to construct for her a husband. A month later, turning up at the chapel, she is confronted by the magically sentient form of the Wicker Husband (Alexander Skarsgård), a being woven for her and her alone. Through soliloquies that bring David Milch’s Deadwood to mind, the Basket Weaver informs us that though he can give this being life, the type of person he becomes will be his own choosing. And the Wicker Husband chooses to be a devout and dutiful husband, to fulfill the essentialism of his name, even as the new couple throw tradition to the wind, inciting consternation and avarice in the Tailor’s Wife.
Adapted from ‘The Wicker Husband’ by Ursula Willis by the Australian directing duo, Wicker presents as a bawdy British romp, saucy and expletive and with no qualms about mining its mockery of a busybody community for the broadest humour possible. Bums are funny. Boobs are funny. Cocks are funny. Every conversation is ripe with innuendo and the exchange of insults rendered strangely affectionate; a conduit through which the temperature of each relationship can be taken. Boasting a rich cast of character actors and beloved comedians, it’s a breezy masterclass of comic timing, both in performance and via Sofi Marshall’s savvy edit, perfectly attuned to the desired tempo. Speaking of tempo, Wicker is overscored by Anna Meredith, who plays up the twee aspects of this folktale to often overpowering effect (this is the kind of film that will unabashedly utilise a slide-whistle – you have been warned).
It is perhaps this last element which places the film on a bit of a knife-edge, forever at risk of sliding over into the insufferably cute and quaint. Fortunately, there are elements which just about counteract and distract from this, not least the impeccable craft from Wētā Workshop in bringing the Basket Weaver’s creations to life. Skarsgård’s costume is magnificent, bolstered by a sound design that accentuates his every creak and rustle. The actor is all but reduced to eye and voice work, but still manages to exude a steadfast earnestness that’ll make many weak at the knees. Wicker gleefully mocks useless men, and sees the desire and romanticism in dedication and, in a sense, subjugation. Immediately the post powerful seeming person in the village, the Wicker Husband’s tenderness and willingness to do as commanded by his beloved puts most of the other husbands to shame.
While Colman and Skarsgård’s names sit atop the masthead (Colman also produces) this is really an ensemble piece in which nearly all players get time to shine and screen time is parcelled out equitably. As such standouts are hard to pick. Debicki gives some sterling side-eye, Dinklage owns his monologues, and there are notably funny turns from the likes of Ella Bruccoleri and Kiell Smith-Bynoe. Even Richard E. Grant struts memorably through one scene as the village’s notoriously terrible Doctor (“Always easier to get the blood out than to put it back in”). Everyone’s turned up to play.
After such a jolly good time in the opening hour, Wicker does tilt a touch through it’s backend (oo er). The more maudlin and sinister edge in the last half hour doesn’t immediately feel well-suited, and comes about rather abruptly. The effort to fix this via the Basket Weaver’s final revenge on the townspeople redresses the tonal balance and plays more comfortably in the role of a funny old fable, but it also takes the agency away from the Fisherwoman who is the wronged party throughout (it is worth noting, however, that the Fisherwoman’s character is granted more shade and nuance than was afforded in the source material). The result is a fun but uneven experience. While Wilson and Fischer put a wise premium on making their movie as enjoyable as possible, nudging progressive lessons about reform and inclusivity, the end feels naggingly short of rounded resolution and more like a shaggy dog tale that’s now shambled off into the picturesque sunset.
Still, in the main it’s a gleefully good time likely to tickle the funny bones of many, even if it does so with an almost wearyingly relentless wink.
