It’s really, really cool to be a horndog right now. Women and their implicit desires have informed culture for decades, but the powers that be have only just woken up to the fact that catering to those desires can inspire lucrative results. Racy fan fiction is getting reworked into original romance; more are adapted into major motion pictures by the day. Thirsty video edits, modeled off K-pop fancams, have become a pillar of HBO’s new marketing scheme. Bridgerton and BookTok have made parallels to harlequin novels all the rage. It’s a validating trend for those nourished by the female gaze. It’s also, mostly, a marketing ploy. And it’s been a blessing and blindspot for something like Wicker.
The film, based on a short story by Ursula Wills-Jones, was born for the post-modern romantasy boom. Olivia Colman stars as a lonely fisherwoman who, after enduring endless ridicule about her stench and spinsterhood, asks her town’s basketweaver (Peter Dinklage) to fashion her a husband. As said husband is portrayed with a tender, quiet stoicism by Alexander Skarsgård — whose status as a Freaky Little Dude has been well established — Wicker very quickly found a niche as the year’s strangest, horniest movie, riding the wave that Frankenstein and Nosferatu kicked up in 2025. Its first trailer led with all the lovemaking our Fisherwoman and her Wicker Husband got up to; 4DX screenings promised a more-or-less immersive experience with a smirk and a wink. There’s a new poster inspired by classic romance novels. A particularly withering review called Wicker “the Kama Sutra with a sentient basket” — a statement that was probably designed to wound, but ultimately rang out as a glowing endorsement. (At least, for those on the right wavelength.)
