Among silver-screen romances, the Blake Lively-led odyssey across time, “The Age of Adaline,” isn’t exactly the most revered. Really, it’s barely even acknowledged, much to my campaign’s chagrin. The film is, however, one of my genre favorites for several reasons. First, it’s an old-fashioned love story with a fantastical twist: Lively’s character dies in a car crash but is revived when she’s struck by lightning, only to stop aging forever. Second, it marks a solid finale for a genre largely relegated to streaming, because for some odd reason, film executives don’t understand how powerful a collective romantic experience outside your living room can be. The guys making mid-to-high six-figure salaries aren’t connected with the average lovelorn, longing moviegoer — go figure!
But what I really love about “The Age of Adaline” is that it understands the heart. It’s a film that knows yearning doesn’t cease no matter how long we live, and that it’s all too easy to let fear complicate what should be easy. All this is wrapped up in one great line: “It’s not the same without growing old together. Without that, love is just heartbreak.” After it’s all said and done, isn’t this what guides our desires, the hope that we can find someone whose very presence can turn the innate tragedy of losing one another in death into something beautiful?
“Wicker” weaves a tale as sensual and honest as any classic love story, with such grace that it’s easy to forget the supernatural elements are there at all. The man might be made of wicker from head to head — if you catch my drift — but his love is intrinsically human.
Married writer-directors Alex Huston Fischer and Eleanor Wilson have achieved something just as tender in their lovely new film, “Wicker,” a welcome return to the theatrical romance that, unlike many of its contemporaries, uses its gimmick to delightful effect. Based on Ursula Wills’ unpublished short story, “The Wicker Husband,” the film follows the headstrong but lonely Fisherwoman (Olivia Colman), an angler who catches and sells fish at her provincial town’s market, as she pushes against increasingly matrimonial norms. Everyone in town seems to be getting married off, with the women resigning themselves to the conventional duties of a loveless union. Tired of their cries of “spinster!” as she traipses through town with her catches, Fisherwoman asks the Basket Weaver (Peter Dinklage) to make her a spouse. She fancies it a joke to get the townspeople off her back, rubbing their traditions back in their faces. But part of her longs for a companion without fins and scales.
(Black Bear Pictures) Olivia Colman and Alexander Skarsgård in “Wicker”
Other organic materials should have to suffice. In a month, the Basket Weaver returns with a Wicker Husband (Alexander Skarsgård), a man whose large, seductive frame and sinewy muscles are made entirely of, well, wicker. What’s more, the Wicker Husband is alive, something the Fisherwoman and townspeople all find strange, but not inherently terrifying. What really sparks curiosity is his natural, undemanding kindness, and the bond forming between him and his new bride — a far cry from the strained marriages that make up the quaint but judgmental village.
Naturally, such an effortless romantic connection begets hard, wall-pounding, bed-destroying sex. In the grand tradition of supermarket romantasy novels, Fischer and Wilson are unafraid to go full-tilt erotic. They understand that part of the Harlequin romance genre’s appeal is its unabashed depiction of older women’s sexual desire. Those stories may occasionally adopt the fantastical and beastly into their narratives, but at their core, they focus on love in its most fundamental, gratifying forms. “Wicker” is no different, weaving a tale as sensual and honest as any classic love story, with such grace that it’s easy to forget the supernatural elements are there at all. The man might be made of wicker from head to head — if you catch my drift — but his love is intrinsically human.
Though, one would be forgiven for getting stuck on the question of sex. Wouldn’t it hurt? How is it possible? Can he . . . break? Fischer and Wilson do well to avoid getting trapped in the logistics. That’s the best part of the film’s fantasy aspects: Realism gives way to idealism, letting the story concentrate on its heart rather than its loins. Though the loins are admittedly impressive, too, marvelously detailed to make the design look disconcerting yet still quite sexy. But the film sneakily tucks its questions about romance between the gaps in Skarsgård’s impressive makeup and practical effects. Think of it like a cornucopia: all the rich, colorful stuff is hidden beneath the wicker.
As the relationship between the Wicker Husband and the Fisherwoman blossoms, so does the townspeople’s fervent envy, especially the Tailor’s Wife (Elizabeth Debicki), the Fisherwoman’s longtime acquaintance. Like the rest of the villagers, her jealousy stems from a seemingly harmonious yet ultimately unfulfilling relationship, providing just enough humor and stakes for “Wicker” to glide amiably. Occasionally, the film veers a bit too far off course in pursuit of laughs that are realistically only good for chuckles, leaving me to wonder how much more affecting the already moving story would be if it operated entirely with a straight face.
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Loneliness and jealousy have an ironic way of coming up when relationships are at their best. How defeating it can be to feel these things in the midst of true tenderness, especially in one’s first love. As the Fisherwoman admits after a transgression that threatens this happiness, “It’s easier to believe the bad than the good.”
There’s an understandable temptation to let the fantasy buoy the film. But “Wicker” works best when it strips back, letting Colman and Skarsgård connect. Despite the latter’s ornate makeup, the pair’s chemistry is palpable and sincere. Skarsgård particularly makes a memorable impression in relatively few soft-spoken lines. Between this film and last year’s wonderful “Pillion,” he’s proven himself a daring performer, willing to approach love from its strangest, most complicated and genuine sides. While the material is lighter here, his work is no less touching, posing questions about differences within a relationship that go beyond the obvious, surface-level titular joke.
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In its most poignant moments, Wilson and Fischer use the film’s unconventional setup to approach old questions with new flair. As the Fisherwoman and her Wicker Husband grow even closer, developing their own rhythm and a true, deep love, the possibility that something might affect their kinship becomes dreadful to imagine. Seeing someone pulled out of their shell by another person’s love is one of life’s most worthwhile joys, and also one of its most crushing sources of spite. And it’s not only the townspeople who bear this malice. Loneliness and jealousy have an ironic way of coming up when relationships are at their best. How defeating it can be to feel these things in the midst of true tenderness, especially in one’s first love, or when it’s been some time since they’ve been loved back. As the Fisherwoman admits after a transgression that threatens this happiness, “It’s easier to believe the bad than the good.”
“Wicker” might not spend all its time in those complex feelings, but it lingers within them long enough to cast a spell. And when it moves toward that big, life-defining, “Age of Adaline” quote moment, the film strikes resonance that lets it linger far longer than any movie whose central question is “what happens with the wicker penis?” should. “Wicker” wisely uses its silly conceit to its advantage, rather than letting it dominate the film’s central conversations. Here, love, sex and romance are woven into one sturdy new creation that reminds us fantasy can look exactly like reality, so long as we don’t overthink it.
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