‘Where the hell is my wicker husband?’: Our thoughts on Wicker

Four perspectives on the movie of the moment.

Long before Wicker was released in cinemas, people couldn’t stop talking about the wood. The film’s first trailer went viral, viewers around the world steamed up at the prospect of a horny wicker romance, and Ikea advertised its wicker furniture as “husband material”. When the film began screening, audiences screamed in delight and basket-weavers tied themselves in knots, and it was left to New Zealand’s own Wētā Workshop to reveal exactly how they brought the sexy basket man to life.

Based on a short story by Ursula Wills-Jones, Wicker stars Olivia Colman, Alexander Skarsgård, Peter Dinklage and Elizabeth Debicki. It’s a comedy-drama-fantasy-romance about an outcast fisherwoman (Colman) who marries a man made of wicker (Skarsgård), and their unconventional romance causes chaos among the conservative villagers. Well-woven men are clearly having a moment, but with so much pre-release build up, what did four keen Spinoff moviegoers make of Wicker? 

Tara Ward: I thought about a lot of things while I watched Wicker. Whatever happened to that nice pair of wicker sandals I had when I was 13? Why was my grandparents' old rattan furniture so uncomfortable to sit on? Does Mr Wicker have internal wicker organs as well as external ones, and would I too fall in love with a muscly basket if it appeared before me with its neatly woven wicker nipples and long willowy lashes?

Colman is typically brilliant as the lonely fisherwoman who, sick of being publicly shamed for being unmarried, commissions the local basketmaker to weave her a husband. Who can't relate to a woman who spends her days stinking out the village with her cod and her nights staring exhaustedly into the fire, a ye olde version of doom-scrolling? No wonder she's so chuffed when her wicker fella treats her with respect and kindness – he's a hornbag who catches fish, does the washing and satisfies her in the bedroom, probably all at once if he could. It's a shame he can't sit too close to the fire, but if this is what it takes in 2026 to get a love story filled with positive masculinity, then fine, let's all get our twigs out and start twisting.

Mostly, I left Wicker thinking there was much more to it than just the creak in a wicker wanger. It’s a pastoral fairytale with parallels to our current-day society, but it’s also odd and funny and dark and surprising, and Colman wears every one of these emotions so naturally that her weird basket love story becomes entirely plausible. Wicker is a hazy dream that threatens to turn into a nightmare, but you’ll laugh and cry and wonder what the hell is happening, probably all at the same time.

Emma Gleason: Wicker turns the born-sexy-yesterday trope into a fresh, funny pantomime with phenomenal production values and top-tier practical effects. As someone who loves baskets and ahistorical fairy tales, I’m probably the target market for this one. I attended a sold-out screening at the British and Irish Film Festival. As polite moviegoers filed in clutching their ice creams, I wondered whether they knew what they were in for. Surely? The basket bonking had gone viral and payoff came quickly (sorry). The reveal of Wicker Husband’s tightly woven physique elicited the expected gasps, as did the first sex scenes. However people anticipating anything graphic may be disappointed; Wicker is more of a moralistic comedy than subversive erotica, filled with creaking limbs and male buffoonery. It pokes fun at the class and dynamics of the village – matrimonial collars are handed down from mother to daughter – as its inhabitants go through the usual rituals, traditions and daily life required of a “quaint cesspit”. The filmmakers' messages are clear, if not always resolved.

Olivia Colman puts in a brilliant performance as always but, like most of the characters (and the body of her Wicker Husband) it felt slightly hollow – though perhaps that’s the point too, everyone’s a caricature given the name of their profession or spouse. Wicker Husband is devoted and loves Fisherwoman unwaveringly, but when questioned, the Basket Weaver (played by a monologue-heavy Peter Dinklage) assures her that Wicker Husband does so by his own free will – something else that rang a little hollow for me by the last act. Does he actually have agency and freedom? Is he a sex slave? Who has the power here? All questions I had upon leaving. The happily married couple did too, leave the village that is, along with something that, though I won’t spoil for you, made me question the feminist overtures of the film. But maybe that was a message too.

Lyric Waiwiri-Smith: I would like to share with the class the limerick I wrote in preparation for my Wicker watch:

A wicker dick I yearn to see

The man-made man made of basket is he

Who would say no

When Olivia Colman asks you to put on a show

That splintered shaft fills them all with glee.

And how right I was. I only have one question after witnessing this cinematic feat and it is this: where the hell is my wicker husband with his beautiful woven skin and creaky joints? I think not thinking too hard about this movie is the key to happiness. At its core, it’s a romantic comedy about a quirked up village and a fisherwoman whose worldview is expanded tenfold when love comes into it. Call me a soft bitch but a true, pure of heart romance is the one thing we need in this hellhole world.

And what a guy that wicker husband is. Obedient. Caring. Hands-on (around the house and the soul). A positive vocaliser of his love for his soft-bodied wife. LOYAL. They really don’t make men like that anymore! Or maybe they do – let me call Peter Dinklage ASAP.

Chris Schulz: I have questions. About sturdiness and stability. About structural integrity and splinters. I’ve watched enough Survivor to know what happens when wood gets twisted into dry tinder, and there’s enough friction in Wicker that the whole thing feels like it could go up in flames at any moment. This is a movie about a sexy washing basket, so a major suspension of disbelief is required. Yet around the theatre I heard frequent oohs and ahhs of delight. Likewise, when something bad happens to the Wicker man, there were audible gasps. 

Judging by that, and the unspeakable things being done to the cardboard character set up for photos outside the theatre, I am quite clearly nowhere near the correct target market for Wicker.

It doesn’t matter, because I had a blast. Perhaps that’s because my last two movie experiences were Lance Oppenheim’s Primetime and Oppenheim and Nathan Fielder’s You Can See Everything, both energy-draining exercises in intensity. This feels delightfully low stakes and is full of laughs. Olivia Coleman is terrific. Peter Dinklage is fantastic. Ben Ashenden is a deadpan delight. Then there’s Alexander Skarsgård, who is blank, mute, wooden, quite clearly intent on delivering the year’s stiffest performance. Job done, then.

Wicker screens in cinemas nationwide from today.