Does Wicker, the new comedic drama about a disgruntled woman who has a basketmaker weave her a wicker husband, thrust enough? The answer may depend on your gender.
I’m a feminist, but I’m also a dude, and as I watched Wicker alone in the confines of my home (my girlfriend, who wants to watch the film, so selfishly had to go on a business trip), I couldn’t help but think that this movie would be best enjoyed by a group of women after a wine tasting or two.
Wicker is an amusing little film in which Olivia Colman gets absolutely ravaged by a man literally made of wood (Alexander Skarsgård). He also happens to be an amazing husband who forces the other men in the village to stop taking their wives for granted (and for the women to stop settling for second-rate D). But “amusing” is the right word–it’s nothing more, nothing less.
Like sex without emotion, Wicker provides some level of pleasure–but it’s fleeting. And yet I imagine that co-writers/directors Alex Huston Fischer and Eleanor Wilson are quite content with what they birthed here, an examination of romance, relationships, and toxic masculinity that pounds its point home. Its themes are sure to resonate with a certain chromosome.
As for me? I appreciate what Wicker has to say, but as a superficial form of entertainment it doesn’t fully capitalize on its ridiculous concept. Sure, seeing a wicker Skarsgård bang Olivia Colman until the bed breaks counts for something, but that alone can’t carry a movie. It has its funny moments, but Wicker isn’t funny. It isn’t particularly romantic, or dark, or even weird (at least until the ending).
Wicker is clever, but this movie left me sprawled on the bed unsatisfied. In other words, it doesn’t thrust nearly hard enough.
Review by Erik Samdahl. Erik is a marketing and technology executive by day, avid movie lover by night. He is a member of the Seattle Film Critics Society.
