Wicker (2026) promises an unconventional love story. But can a romance survive attempted murder when the film never convinced us of the love in the first place?
Spoiler warning: This review discusses the ending of Wicker, including major plot developments.
I walked away from Wicker thinking I’d seen more convincing romances in James Bond movies. And I know how ridiculous that sounds. But hear me out.
I wanted to love this movie. Olivia Colman and Alexander Skarsgård starring in a dark, fantastical romance? A middle-aged woman who gets to be sexual, independent, difficult, and desired? A gorgeous fairy-tale setting populated by deeply flawed people? Sign me the hell up.
I’m a romance writer. I love unconventional love stories, complicated characters, morally questionable decisions, and relationships that challenge our expectations. I don’t need my fictional couples to be perfect. In fact, I’d generally prefer they weren’t. And there is plenty to admire about Wicker. The performances are wonderful, the production design is imaginative, and the film has a wicked sense of humor. Its examination of envy, social cruelty, and the hypocrisy of supposedly respectable people is often fascinating.
But by the end, I was angry. Not because the story was dark, its heroine was flawed, or the film dared to explore an unconventional relationship. I was angry because this woman deliberately sets her husband on fire, and the movie still expects me to celebrate their happily ever after.
And the worst part? It never really convinced me they were in love in the first place.
A Woman Who Refuses to Settle
One of the things I genuinely appreciate about Wicker is its heroine. The Fisherwoman, played by Olivia Colman, is not interested in becoming the kind of wife her village expects. She has a profession, earns her own living, and has no intention of surrendering her independence to make some man comfortable. Good for her.
The villagers mock her for her smell, her shabby clothing, and her refusal to conform. But she isn’t the grotesquely ugly woman described in Ursula Wills-Jones’s original short story. Colman is beautiful, and I appreciate that the film doesn’t require her to undergo some miraculous physical transformation before she becomes worthy of love. She’s middle-aged, has natural teeth, an imperfect appearance, and a demanding occupation. None of those things should disqualify her from being desirable.
The men available to her, however, come with expectations she has no desire to fulfill. She would rather remain alone than marry someone who expects her to abandon the life she’s built. I love that about her.
Then she learns that a Basketmaker can create a husband specifically for her, and suddenly the prospect of marriage becomes much more appealing.
I understand the fantasy. Who wouldn’t occasionally like to order a romantic partner who arrives handsome, attentive, sexually enthusiastic, and perfectly happy to do the housework? Especially when that partner looks like Alexander Skarsgård.
But there’s an enormous difference between finding someone who accepts you exactly as you are and having someone manufactured to meet your specifications. And Wicker never adequately confronts that difference.
They Gave Us a Marriage. Where Was the Love Story?
The Fisherwoman commissions her Wicker Husband, and he arrives ready to fulfill his purpose. They marry, have sex, and establish a household. He repairs the house, tends to domestic responsibilities, and seems perfectly content with their arrangement. She continues going fishing, comes home, and shares a bed with him. Somehow, we’re supposed to understand that a profound romance has developed.
But when?
Physical attraction isn’t the same thing as love. Sexual compatibility isn’t the same thing as emotional intimacy. And sharing a house doesn’t necessarily mean sharing a life. There is nothing inherently wrong with a marriage in which one partner works outside the home while the other manages the household. Nor does a married couple need to spend every waking moment together. But a film asking us to invest in a love story needs to show us why these particular people matter to one another.
What do they discover about each other? What do they admire beyond the obvious? How do they challenge each other? How do they change? What does the Fisherwoman give her husband emotionally that he couldn’t find anywhere else? And what does he give her beyond sex, companionship, and an extremely convenient division of domestic labor?
We see their relationship through routines and montages, but rarely witness the kind of meaningful interaction that transforms attraction into love.
One detail particularly struck me: the Fisherwoman continues sitting alone in front of the fire, enjoying something her husband cannot safely approach. Their different natures create a genuine obstacle to intimacy, and the film could have used that obstacle to demonstrate how relationships require compromise.
Imagine something as simple as the Fisherwoman turning her chair around. She could still enjoy the warmth of the fire, but now she would be facing her husband on the bed, able to talk to him and include him in her evening. She wouldn’t have to give up something she loved. She would simply make room for someone else.
One small gesture could have demonstrated more emotional growth than another montage of domestic bliss. Instead, she continues her familiar routine, and the film largely leaves their emotional distance unexplored.
This is particularly frustrating because stories have demonstrated how quickly profound love can be established on screen. Consider the opening montage of Pixar’s Up. In just a few minutes, we understand Carl and Ellie’s marriage. We see their shared dreams, disappointments, sacrifices, and enduring affection. Their love becomes believable because we witness a life built together.
Wicker has nearly two hours, and somehow it struggles to accomplish the same thing.
The film gives us the wedding, the sex, and the happily ever after. What it forgets to give us is the love story.
The Romance That Could Have Been
There is one scene that hints at the relationship I desperately wanted this film to develop.
The Fisherwoman and her husband are discussing fishing equipment when she begins talking about her parents and the painful circumstances of her childhood. Her father died, her mother took her own life, and the village offered little of the compassion or support a grieving child might have needed. The Wicker Husband responds by recognizing that her parents taught her to care.
It’s a quiet moment, but it moved me. He doesn’t dismiss her experiences or demand that she reinterpret them. He recognizes something valuable in her history, even though that history is filled with pain. For a moment, he seems to understand her in a way nobody else does.
And I thought: There it is. That’s the love story.
Here is a woman who was born human but grew up without the emotional support that might have taught her how to receive love. And here is a man who was manufactured from wicker but is learning what it means to be human. They could teach each other.
She could discover that loving someone doesn’t require surrendering her independence. He could discover that being created for someone doesn’t mean his entire identity must revolve around that person. Their differences could become the foundation of a genuinely moving romance.
Instead, the film offers us this glimpse of emotional possibility and then largely returns to domestic routines and declarations of devotion. And that becomes a serious problem when we begin asking whether the Wicker Husband is actually free to choose his relationship.
She Bought a Husband. Does That Mean She Owns Him?
The Basketmaker insists that his creations possess free will. That’s an important claim. If the Wicker Husband is genuinely capable of independent thought and desire, then he isn’t simply an elaborate household appliance. He’s a person, and his consent matters.
But the film’s portrayal of his marriage repeatedly undermines the idea that he has meaningful autonomy. He marries the Fisherwoman because he was made for her. He has sex with her almost immediately, fulfills her domestic expectations, and repeatedly assures her of his devotion. Even when their relationship reaches its most devastating crisis, he continues behaving much as he always has.
He never convincingly demonstrates that he could choose not to love her.
This becomes even more troubling when we consider the Butcher. The film presents his desire to purchase a Wicker Woman as grotesque. He wants a beautiful woman manufactured to satisfy his desires, and the story invites us to question the possessiveness and entitlement behind that fantasy.
But isn’t that essentially what the Fisherwoman has done? She refuses to marry a man who expects her to change her life for him, so she purchases a husband who has been created to accommodate the life she already wants.
I’m not suggesting the Fisherwoman and the Butcher are identical characters. Their circumstances, personalities, and eventual actions are different. But the underlying premise deserves scrutiny. Why is one person’s desire for a manufactured romantic partner presented as empowering while another’s is treated as exploitative?
Is it because she’s a woman? Because she’s sympathetic? Because her husband seems happy? Or because the film wants us to celebrate her independence without seriously examining what that independence costs the person who has been created to serve her?
There’s nothing wrong with wanting a partner who respects your autonomy. But respecting your autonomy is not the same thing as surrendering his own.
And the Fisherwoman’s apparent acceptance of her husband’s free will is tested the moment she suspects he might have exercised it in a way she doesn’t like. She believes he has been unfaithful, and she sets him on fire.
Even if he had actually been unfaithful, he would still have had the right to leave the relationship without being subjected to violence.
But before we examine that betrayal, there’s another relationship worth considering. Because the most convincing expression of love in this film might not be between the husband and wife at all.
The Wicker Baby: Love Without Obligation
The Wicker Baby occupies a relatively small part of the story, but its significance is enormous. The baby was created for someone else, and the Wicker Husband has no obligation to become its father. Yet when he encounters this vulnerable little creature, he responds with immediate tenderness.
His affection is neither commissioned nor expected. In fact, his attachment to the baby becomes entangled in the deception that leads his wife to believe he has betrayed her, placing him in genuine danger.
The Wicker Husband wasn’t made for that baby. He didn’t have to love it. And loving it put him in danger. But he loved it anyway.
That, to me, is a more convincing demonstration of love than anything the film establishes through his marriage. His relationship with the baby suggests that he possesses the capacity to love beyond the purpose for which he was created. Love becomes a choice expressed through action, even when that choice involves sacrifice or risk.
The film shows us that he can love freely. It just doesn’t convincingly show us that he freely chooses to love his wife.
She Sets Him on Fire. And Then What?
The Fisherwoman believes her husband has betrayed her, and in response, she deliberately sets him on fire.
This isn’t an argument that gets out of hand or a moment of hurt feelings followed by an impulsive insult. She uses fire against a man made of wicker. Fire is perhaps the most obvious and terrifying threat to his existence. She knows what he is and what fire can do to him. She uses it anyway.
He survives, but his body must be repaired. And then the film expects us to accept their reconciliation as a romantic triumph.
Why?
The Fisherwoman feels remorse. She apologizes. She recognizes, at least verbally, that she treated him as something she possessed rather than someone entitled to his own choices. That’s a beginning, but it isn’t enough.
People who commit terrible acts of violence can feel genuine remorse. They can cry, apologize, and sincerely wish they hadn’t done what they did. None of that erases the harm or automatically establishes that the relationship is safe, that trust has been restored, or that the person who was harmed should return.
Yet the Wicker Husband seems remarkably unchanged by his experience. He doesn’t meaningfully confront his wife about what she did. We don’t see him struggling with fear, anger, betrayal, or uncertainty. We don’t see him wrestling with the possibility that the person he loves might hurt him again. Instead, he continues expressing his devotion.
At one point, he tells her, “It always troubles me that you won’t last forever.” His concern remains focused on the possibility of losing her, rather than the fact that she nearly destroyed him.
And when she offers a promise, he responds, “My love doesn’t require a promise.”
I understand what the film seems to want that line to mean. His love is unconditional. It transcends human limitations and doesn’t depend on guarantees. It’s supposed to be beautiful.
But in the context of attempted murder, I find it deeply troubling. A promise not to harm your partner again isn’t an unreasonable demand. It’s a pretty fundamental expectation. And unconditional love shouldn’t mean unconditional access to someone you’ve harmed.
The film mistakes unconditional love for the absence of emotional consequences.
Forgiveness Is Not Reconciliation
This is where my frustration extends beyond the mechanics of the screenplay, because the way we frame intimate-partner violence in fiction matters.
Imagine reversing the genders. Imagine a husband who suspects his wife of infidelity and deliberately sets her on fire. She survives, he apologizes, and she responds by assuring him that her love requires no promises. Would we celebrate their reunion as a beautiful example of unconditional devotion? Or would we be horrified that this woman was returning to someone who nearly killed her?
I suspect many viewers would interpret that ending very differently, and that’s worth examining. Violence against an intimate partner is not less serious because the perpetrator is a woman. Nor does the victim’s willingness to forgive somehow make the original violence less consequential.
The Wicker Husband has every right to forgive his wife. He even has the right to choose reconciliation. But those are two different things.
Forgiveness is something a person may offer to someone who has harmed them. Reconciliation requires rebuilding a relationship, and that means confronting what happened, accepting accountability, and establishing whether trust can exist again. Importantly, the person who was harmed also has the right to decide that reconciliation is impossible.
The film doesn’t need to turn into a domestic-violence counseling session. It doesn’t need to punish the Fisherwoman forever, and it doesn’t even need to separate them permanently. But if it wants us to celebrate their reunion, it needs to do the dramatic work of earning that ending.
Show us that she has changed. Show us that he has been affected by what happened. Show us that he understands he can leave. And then show us why he chooses to stay.
Instead, the film offers an apology, a declaration of unconditional love, and the restoration of a relationship that never felt particularly developed in the first place.
Forgiveness is not reconciliation. And forgiveness certainly doesn’t obligate someone to return to the person who tried to kill them.
Fire Is Supposed to Change Things
As a writer and English professor, I can’t overlook the symbolism of fire here. Fire is one of literature’s most enduring images of transformation. It destroys, purifies, and consumes what existed before. Sometimes, it creates the possibility of something new emerging from the ashes.
And Wicker has an extraordinary opportunity to use that symbolism. The Wicker Husband is literally destroyed and reconstructed. He survives an act of violence committed by the person who supposedly loves him most. His body changes, but emotionally, he seems almost exactly the same. And so does the relationship.
Imagine what the film could have explored. What if the fire forced him to question whether being made for someone meant belonging to them forever? What if he discovered that he could love the Fisherwoman and still refuse to return to her? What if she had to confront the possibility that the husband she commissioned might choose a life without her?
And what if, after that genuine struggle, they found a way back to each other?
That could have been a powerful love story. Not because violence somehow makes love stronger, but because both characters would have been forced to confront who they were, what they wanted, and whether their relationship could survive the truth.
Instead, the Wicker Husband burns, gets rebuilt, and goes right back to being the same man who was made to love her.
The fire changes his body. It changes almost nothing about their relationship.
The Original Story Doesn’t Excuse the Film
Wicker is adapted from Ursula Wills-Jones’s short story The Wicker Husband, a grotesque literary fairy tale about envy, social cruelty, hypocrisy, and the destructive behavior of supposedly respectable people. The original is strange, darkly funny, and often unsettling, but it isn’t an especially developed romance.
The Fisherwoman commissions her husband. The villagers grow jealous and engineer a deception that causes her to believe he has been unfaithful. She sets him on fire. Eventually, the truth is revealed, and the couple is reunited.
When she returns, the Wicker Husband tells her, “I was made for you alone … But you threw me away.”
It’s a striking line, but what does he feel? Is he angry? Devastated? Resigned? Does he resent her? Does he want her back? The story doesn’t give us much insight into his emotional response.
Because it’s a short, allegorical fairy tale, that absence is at least partly understandable. Its characters function as figures within a larger moral and social satire. But the film changes the scale of the story. It has nearly two hours to develop these people and their relationship, and it demonstrates considerable skill in expanding other aspects of the original.
The Tailor’s Wife becomes a more psychologically complicated antagonist. The village’s cruelty receives greater attention, the social dynamics become more elaborate, and the final unraveling of the villagers’ lives is imaginative and satisfying.
The filmmakers clearly understood that adaptation involves more than reproducing the source material. They knew how to expand the story. They just didn’t sufficiently expand the love.
The original story’s underdeveloped romance might be explained by its brevity and allegorical purpose. The film has no such excuse. It found time to complicate the villain, develop the village, and create an elaborate revenge plot.
But somehow, it still forgot to make me believe these two people were in love.
I Didn’t Need a Perfect Romance. I Needed a Believable One.
I don’t want to leave the impression that I hated everything about Wicker. I didn’t. There is a great deal to admire here.
I love that Olivia Colman gets to play a middle-aged woman who is desirable without apologizing for her age, her body, or her independence. I love that the story challenges traditional expectations about marriage and femininity. I appreciate its dark humor, its visual imagination, and its willingness to portray a community whose cruelty eventually consumes it.
And I genuinely wanted to love the Wicker Husband.
But a beautiful premise is not the same thing as a convincing romance. The film repeatedly tells us that the Wicker Husband loves his wife. It shows us that he is devoted, attentive, sexually available, and willing to forgive almost anything. But it rarely convinces me that he has chosen this relationship freely.
The one relationship in which his love feels most clearly independent—his tenderness toward the Wicker Baby—is barely explored. And when his wife commits an act of violence that should fundamentally alter their relationship, the film treats his forgiveness as sufficient to restore everything.
It isn’t.
I don’t need my fictional relationships to be healthy. I don’t need my characters to be morally upright. I don’t even need my romances to end happily. But if you’re going to ask me to celebrate a love story, you have to make me believe in that love.
And if you’re going to ask me to celebrate a woman reuniting with the man she tried to murder, you had better have one hell of a compelling reason.
Wicker never gave me one.
The problem isn’t that Wicker tells a disturbing love story. It’s that the film treats an act of horrifying violence as though an apology and a declaration of love are enough to resolve it.
What did you think? Did you see the Wicker Husband’s forgiveness as a beautiful expression of unconditional love? Or did you find yourself questioning whether he was ever truly free to stop loving the woman who hurt him?
I’d love to hear how you interpreted the ending.
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