'Fatherland': a study in disconnection

 Fatherland isn’t like other movies — at least not like most of the movies we see these days. Polish director Pawel Pawlikowski (Ida and Cold War) hovers somewhere between realism and carefully honed style. He seldom squeezes his characters into suffocating close-ups.

  But Pawlikowski, who isn't afraid to film in black and white, shouldn't be considered a pure stylist; his movies are rooted in substance. In Fatherland, Pawlikowski follows a 1949 journey famed author Thomas Mann made to Germany, returning to a country he had left in 1933, escaping Hitler's rise. 

  Every image in Fatherland seems to have been calculated to create an atmosphere that reflects the disorientation Mann (Hanns Zischler) and his daughter (Sandra Huller) experience in a country they no longer consider home. 

  But Mann was at home in the German language, and he tries to use his stature to advance an optimistically lofty view of the possibilities for a new Germany, one steeped in cultural achievement. 

   Mann arrives in Germany to receive two Goethe awards, one in West Germany’s Frankfurt, the other in East Germany’s Weimar. For him, Geothe stands as a writer of lasting influence, a high point of German culture.

   As portrayed by Zischler, Mann becomes an art narcissist, an author who believes he can climb a cultural  mountain that’s high enough to see a transformed Germany as an exemplar for the world. 

  That’s a big and perhaps naive ambition for Germany in 1949 when, as the movie acknowledges, many former Nazis were trying to establish themselves in West Germany, and much of the country was in ruins.

  Mann's imposing presence aside, the movie’s soul belongs to two of Mann’s children. Nervously smoking and ill at ease, Huller’s Erika is tightly wound enough to slap her ex-husband at a reception for the author. A well-known actor, the former spouse remained in Germany and courted Nazi favor.

  Mann’s son, Klaus (a briefly seen August Diehl) opens the movie in what amounts to a prologue. Naked on the floor of his room, Klaus barely acknowledges the lover who's on the verge of exiting. 

   In a phone call with his sister, Klaus poses the choice facing the West as one of conflicting polarities, the crass commercialism of a Mickey Mouse culture or the murderous calculations of Stalin's communism. Disgusted by both options, Klaus commits suicide, something we learn about later in the movie.

    The suicide underscores Mann's aloofness. He insists on continuing his trip, delivering a speech that outlines his vision for a new world to a stoic audience in East Germany. The audience looks as if the life had been drained from it.

   In some ways, Mann is a pawn. The Soviets want to use him to prove that a great artist supports the world-improving goals of Communism; the Americans hope he doesn’t go too far in that direction. By the time the movie opens, Mann was an American citizen living in California, a sun-splashed state that couldn't feel further from a decimated Germany.

    With Mann nearing the end of his days, the movie functions as a dirge for the author and for something larger, a cultural moment when grand, elevating visions seemed possible. 

   Pawlikowski’s approach may strike some as airless. That’s not entirely wrong, but Pawlikowski has made a clear choice. At times, the movie feels like a low-grade nightmare. A sense of disconnection seems to preclude the possibility of a life in which it’s possible to feel at home, as reflected in the German word “heimat,’’ i.e., the place one belongs.

    Weariness and resignation penetrate  Zischler's performance, as if Mann knows that his day is done. 

   It’s worth noting that Pawlikowski doesn’t adhere to historical fact. Mann made the trip with his wife, not his daughter. His son committed suicide after the trip, not during it.

    Presumably, Pawlikowski wanted to bring the sharply edged Erika into play. Klaus’s death emphasizes Mann’s haughtiness and self-absorption and supports Pawlikowski's depiction of the irreparable alienation that defines a challenging and deeply fraught world where many of the old guideposts have crumbled.

Rockwell/Malkovich play great duet

  If you see the trailer for Wild Horse Nine, the new movie teaming John Malkovich and Sam Rockwell, you may think that you’re in for another comedy about a couple of wise-ass characters.

 But if you notice that the movie has been directed by Martin McDonagh (The Banshees of Inisherin, In Bruges, and Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri), you’ll put yourself in the right frame of mind for an unlikely but engaging mixture of dark comedy, political cynicism, and sentiment focused on a couple of CIA assassins.

   Perfectly paired, Rockwell and Malkovich play a finely calibrated duet. Malkovich portrays Chris Carlisle, a veteran CIA agent who has taken part in many operations, including the Congo, Indonesia, and the Bay of Pigs. 

   Chris is a mysterious figure who can be both off-putting and sympathetic; he’s marked by sadness and a disease-induced loss of memory, and Malkovich delivers what qualifies as one his best big-screen performance. Fresh and funny, Malkovich gives life to one his memorable characters. 

   Younger and less experienced, Rockwell’s Lee Chesterfield tries to curb Chris’ uncontrolled instincts. Chesterfield? Sounds like a character from a Masterpiece Theatre series or maybe he was named for a once-popular brand of American cigarettes. He's an avid eater.

    Lee takes the terminally ill Chris on a final trip to Easter Island. Chris has always wanted to see the island's giant heads, but from the outset, it's clear these guys aren't tourists. Political issues color McDonagh’s unconventional character study, threatening to emerge like a bitter aftertaste.

   Both men work for MJ (Steve Buscemi in another rich role), the head of CIA operations in Latin America. The movie takes place in 1973, just before the overthrow of Allende’s leftist government in Chile. Chris and Lee have been working to destabilize the country, tilling the soil for an emerging right-wing Pinochet government.

   An airport encounter with two women (Mariana di Girolama and Ailin Salas) establishes Chris as a sarcastic flirt who talks too much. The two women will reappear on Easter Island, where we learn that Chris might be working on a memoir that could embarrass the CIA with a bombshell disclosure.

   When things get hairy on Easter Island, McDonagh introduces Lee’s stateside wife Marge, a terrifically perturbed Parker Posey, who, in a phone call with Lee, puts an indelible stamp on the role of a woman who gives as good as she gets.

   Tom Waits makes an impressive brief appearance as Chris’s estranged brother, a hermit songwriter who lives in a cabin from which he can view Monument Valley. 

    You'll also see the Rapa Nui coastline with the giant heads, which become a source of mystery and comedy, aided by another strong Carter Burwell score.

   McDonagh’s script finds ways to make fun of wokeness and inefficient spying. He even includes a monologue in which Chris tells Lee which countries should be regarded as gay (England, France, Holland, and Switzerland). Gay countries, he insists, are known for fine cheeses, an absurd correlation that puts Malkovich and Rockwell on the edge of a silly comic routine.

    But McDonagh’s dialogue also can be deadly serious. At one point, Chris says that protest marches are fine but history moves through murder, the elimination of those who oppose one's interests, a chilling assertion if you think about it. And you should. 

   True to his tendency to shift tones, McDonagh takes a lyrical approach to the wild horses of Easter Island, using one in particular to connect with Chris. Could this friendly horse and Lee be part of a vanishing breed, something like the cowboys of the Old West — or of Old Westerns?

  All of this is leavened by Chris’s keen awareness of his mortality, which becomes the movie’s awareness, as well. A Catholic by faith, he seems to be serious when he wonders whether his chances of getting into heaven as a CIA assassin might be better than those of a loathsome Nazi who had nonetheless performed one worthy act.  

   McDonagh manages the movie’s tonal variations without much strain and pushes the plot in unexpected directions, fulfilling genre obligations while also cleverly playing with them. Not an easy task.

    Fair to call Wild Horse Nine a dark comedy about characters who might be more than a few ticks beyond redemption but get to us anyway. They may be hitmen, but they're a couple of classics.

'Fjord' challenges audiences to react

 Fjord, a provocative drama from Romanian director Cristian Mungiu, tackles the difficult subject of child abuse, turning it into a springboard for examining cultural conflict and rigid institutional power. 

  Fjord may be an anomaly. Mungiu’s movie asks liberal-leaning audiences to accept the idea that a Pentecostal Christian family can become victims of severely applied state policies about child abuse and the separation of church and state.

   That's a big script to flip, but Mungiu does it without apology, presumably to show that unquestioned dogma, whatever its origins, can be unfair and harmful.

   Sebastian Stan portrays Mihai, a Romanian father who moves to Norway with his Norwegian wife (Renate Reinsve) and their five children. An aeronautical engineer by trade, Mihai has taken a low-level IT job. Reinsve’s Lisbet works at a local senior center, where she often comforts those who lose loved ones.

    Well known to festival audiences, Mungiu (4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days) has written a screenplay that quickly plunges Mihai into a crisis. School authorities accuse him of child abuse. 

     The case begins when a teacher notices that Elia (one of Mihai’s daughters) has a bruised cheek. Mihai and his wife are then pitted against child protection authorities who see only one side of the story. They refuse to acknowledge that Romanian standards of parental control may differ from Norway's. 

     For his part, Mihai admits that in rare instances, he slaps his kids on the butt. In Norway, spanking is banned by law. 

     During the ensuing investigation, Mihai and Lisbet's five children, including an infant, are removed from their home and placed in foster care.

   The school’s headmaster (Markus Scarth Tonseth) seems like an even-handed fellow. As one of Mihai and Lisbet’s neighbors, he warmly welcomes them to the small town but finds himself pushed by the school's child protection officer to allow the case to proceed.

    Sincere in his religious beliefs, Mihai articulates his positions clearly and without compromise, but he’s never wild-eyed about them. He believes he's inculcating moral values in his kids that will serve them well throughout their lives. He's staunch in his beliefs, but Stans wisely keeps him from becoming an ogre.

     As the story develops, the initially welcoming townsfolk begin to stand against the family. After firing an insensitive lawyer, Mihai and Lisbet turn to one of their neighbors, a lawyer (Lisa Carlehed) who handles the civil case against them. She happens to be married to the school's head master.

    Carlehed's character acknowledges that outsiders can never be sure what happens in families, but questions the case against Mihai. The bruises on his daughter’s face could have resulted from a wrestling session at school, for example. 

      Elia (Vanessa Ceban), the daughter in question, befriends Noora (Henrikke Lund-Olsen), the lawyer's daughter, a teenager who tries to coax Elia into activities that cut against the grain of the family's religious beliefs, which the kids take seriously.

       Mungiu may be more interested in challenging dogmatic approaches than in getting to the bottom of Mihai's story, which was inspired by a real case. Mungiu seems to be saying that once a value-laden issue becomes entangled in a rule-oriented system, possibilities for a truly human solutions diminish. 

      Put another way, the film allows for some ambiguity, but becomes a cautionary tale about the dangers of believing in the absolute rightness of one's position. 

    Does the film show what can happen when religious and cultural beliefs are challenged by members of civil society? Yes. Is the case Mungiu has chosen an instructive but isolated example or does it reveal something more general about those who administer Norwegian child protection policies? I'm not sure.

      For me, not being able to answer the latter questions weakens an otherwise complex and involving drama that Mungiu directs with assurance, restraint, and sobering austerity.  

Turturro at his best in ‘Pickpocket’

    Melancholic and keenly attuned to the world of low-level New York City crime, The Only Living Pickpocket in New York provides an old-school helping of urban life that revolves around John Turturro’s performance as Harry, a pickpocket nearing the end of his hustle. 

   Times have changed. Credit cards have put a crimp on light-fingered activities. The bricks that held up the old street order are crumbling. The movie can be taken as an ode to New York City as a haven for layers of hidden subcultures and the characters who occupy them.

     Steve Buscemi — a master of making big impressions in small roles — plays Ben, a pawnshop owner who has known Harry for years. The two men understand each other, although both recognize the transactional imperatives of their relationship. Harry's a seller,  Ben, a buyer.

      Turturro’s performance has a sad-sack quality that’s enhanced by the roomy gray overcoat he wears, a necessity of his trade as well as a cloak of anonymity, something to disappear inside. 

     The story hinges on a stroke of epic bad luck. Harry picks the wrong target. He steals from a 1969 Trans Am belonging to a Gen Z hotshot (Will Price). Harry's haul includes a bag containing a gun and, more importantly, a USB chip holder Harry considers baffling and worthless. It’s the young man’s key to his  brand of larceny. He wants it back, and can call on mob connections for help.

      Harry’s life is weighted with woe. His wife (Karina Arroyave)  is bed-ridden, immobile, and unable to communicate. Harry cares for her with extraordinary tenderness, treating her as if she were an active participant in the conversations he pretends to have with her in their Bronx apartment.

      Harry’s chance subway encounter with a long-time adversary (Giancarlo Esposito), a detective who’s also aging out of his job, captures a spirit of shared obsolescence. The two former adversaries know their worlds are vanishing, even if they haven’t totally given up the fight.

      Turturro's performance has plenty of nuance. A scene in which he visits his long-estranged daughter (Tatiana Maslany) proves quietly touching. A single tear rolls down Harry’s cheek. He recognizes the righteousness of his daughter’s anger about a father who was never available to her.

        Director Noah Segan adds caper-like flavor to the final going, which includes a masterful cameo  from Jamie Lee Curtis. But the movie's unforced delight stems from the director’s obvious fondness for Harry and the city that bred him.

       In his apartment, Harry dances alone to Odyssey's Native New Yorker, a 1977 disco hit. Full of grace and control, the moment feels free and beautiful, a recollection of long ago nights out.  It's a small moment with big-deal vibes. Segan and Turturro find a rare expression of Harry at his best, a complete melding of the man and his environment. 

       Native New Yorker indeed.

A deeply absorbing 'Possible Love'

    Korean director Lee Chang-dong isn’t in a hurry nor is he eager to clobber an audience with heavy-handed plot points. Instead, Lee (Burning) unwinds a story slowly, all the while deepening our understanding of his characters. In Lee's hands, the ordinary can become revealing. 

   In Possible Love, Lee introduces us to two couples -- one, working class, the other, affluent. He brings them together with a provocative twist: Ye-ji (Cho Yeo-jeong) wants to make a documentary that focuses on working-class life, a group to which she no longer belongs thanks to her marriage to a successful financier (Zo In-sung).

   Yi-ji focuses on Mi-ok (a terrific Jeon Do-yeon) and her husband (Sul Kyung-gu), a couple deeply impacted by the strike that cost the husband his job and put the family under terrible economic duress.

    Possible Love deals with class and the decline of the industrial economy. But Lee is too smart and nuanced to make a political screed or to turn his characters into working-class heroes. He skillfully explores the ways different lives are impacted by an economy marked by uncertainty in the lower rungs and profits in the upper levels. 

   His movie hinges on tensions created by the interaction of individuals and their economic conditions, and, to a lesser extent, of an evolving relationship between a filmmaker and her subjects, but none of the characters are caricatured or locked into stereotypical prisons.

    The working-class couple also has a young son (Jeong Seop) who doesn’t fit in with his schoolmates; it’s as if he — like his parents — has been displaced from his social milieu. He hardly talks. He seems to stand watch over the proceedings like a silent conscience.

    Lee's characters aren’t meant to illustrate sociological observations; they’re living breathing people who are defined not only by class but by the depth with which Lee understands their humanity.

    At two hours and 44 minutes, Possible Love may sound long, but it's absorbing in ways that most movies aren't, unfolding in novelistic fashion without being literary or pretentious.

    Lee includes flashbacks about how Mi-ok and her husband met and about Mi-ok’s childhood. His depiction of the police breaking up the strike that's central to the movie can be brutal to watch. But everything we see in Possible Love feels like it's happening in the present, illuminating something Lee wants us to consider.

    During a therapy session for laid-off workers, one woman offers a poignant account of the joy she felt at being part of the pre-strike community of workers, a sense of belonging she had never experienced and  never expect to feel again.

    Jeon gives the key performance as a woman who, at least initially, thinks the documentary maker might become a friend. When she and Ye-ji interact, they can be like any two women, teasing each other or sharing intimacies, calling each other "sister." But we know that that the relationship between a director and her subjects inevitably harbors hints of exploitation.

    When the two couples vacation together at the wealthy husband’s estate, Lee’s direction becomes increasingly subtle and his characters are more exposed.  Sui's character's impacted anger begins to clarify, as does the businessman-husband's casually expressed sense of entitlement. Mi-ok undergoes a powerful awakening.

     Possible Love demands patience and close observation, but Lee more than rewards us off with a character-based movie that is psychologically astute, aware of the world its characters occupy, and deeply attuned to its characters'  limitations and possibilities.

A comic-book movie tries body horror

 If you have an aversion to gook and gore, you'd do well to skip Clayface, the latest big-screen addition to the DC Comics universe. 

  It may help to think of the movie as a specialty item, an under-hyped comic book offering that mixes body horror and low-grade sci-fi as it streams bloody set pieces through a revenge-oriented tale. 

  Tom Rhys Harries plays Matt Hagen, a handsome actor whose career is about to take a forward leap after  he receives an Oscar nomination. 

  Humbled by recognition but also exhilarated by the possibilities that are about to open for him, Hagen makes a major mistake. He sleeps with the sexy moll (Joana Ribeiro) of a major Gotham mob boss (David Dencik). 

    In an act of brutal revenge, Dencik's Szabo carves up Hagen's face, putting an end to a blossoming career and sending the dejected actor back to the poor Gotham neighborhood where he grew up. Cue the urban decay.

     But wait. There's hope. 

    A research scientist (an appealing Naomi Ackie) has developed a technique to restore damaged flesh. Ackie's Caitlyn warily agrees to help the desperate actor. Of course, Caitlyn's serum -- brace for facial injections -- works. 

    His face restored, Hagen's en route to a career reboot, but results of the procedure prove short-lived. In an effort to sustain his looks, Hagen overdoses on the "miracle" drug, again recovering his looks -- albeit with harrowing side effects. 

    The rest of the movie involves set pieces built around these side effects, which are tied to Hagen's emotions. Let's just say, it's a short leap from anger to lethal revenge. Hagen also can change his appearance at will. When he experiences desire, he seems to become the object of his longing. 

    I didn't say any of this makes sense, but it isn't dull.

    The supporting cast includes Eddie Marsan as Hagen's crooked manager, and Max Minghella as a detective who's engaged to Ackie's character and who complicates Hagen's growing love for the woman he regards as his savior. 

    I wouldn't dig for deeper meaning here. Director James Watkins (Speak No Evil) sticks to the movie's dark surface, unapologetically embracing what feels like a B-movie ethos and gruesome R-rated violence. He may be operating in a narrow niche, but he knows how to fill it. 

   It's worth pointing out that Clayface is destined to become one of Batman's villains, but this Clayface origins story leaves Batman for another day.

   Finally, to provide an example of the movie's squirm-inducing sights, I'll point out that during one of his transitions from man to monster, Hagen's eyelids melt together. He uses a small pair of scissors to cut them apart.  Don't say I didn't warn you.

A mushy 'Klara and The Sun'

   A few minutes into Klara and the Sun, director Taika Waititi’s schmaltzy adaptation of Kazuo Ishiguro’s popular novel, it struck me that Waititi might be aiming for an idiosyncratic classic about the relationship between a friendly robot and a teenage girl.

    Set in the near future, Waititi's instructional fable focuses on Klara (Jenna Ortega), a slightly dated android who longs to be adopted lest she be cannibalized for spare parts. Klara languishes in The Friend Store, where she and her cohorts are ignored by a public that's more attracted to later models.

     Because her inventory is dated, The Friend Store manager (Natasha Lyonne) constantly finds herself bested by a spiffy store across the street, a comment on the rapid obsolescence generated by evolving technologies.

    All is not lost, though. One day, the teenage Josie (Mia Tharia) looks into the store window and makes a strong connection with Klara. She begs her reluctant mother (Amy Adams) to buy this artificial soul mate. 

   Mom would prefer a later model, but soon surrenders to her daughter's request. Klara is boxed and sent to Josie's rural home,  an estate surrounded by wheat fields that could have been selected by a color coordinator with a taste for Oz-like yellow.

   Adams’ Chrissy doesn’t welcome Klara. Neither does the family's housekeeper (Rachel House), but we suspect they're being set up for late-picture changes of heart.

  A screenplay by Waititi and Dahvi Waller poses the expected questions: What does it mean to be human? How does one deal with grief? And how are we meant to live with the inevitable brokenness of being alive in a world where love and pain are inextricably linked?

   For all its thematic ambition and splashes of visual cleverness, Klara smears a layer of sentimental mush over a story that doesn't generate the deep emotions that Michael Giacchino’s syrupy score tries to evoke.

   Waititi relies on Ortega to create an endearing character who mixes naïveté and intelligence. A sun worshiper of sorts, Karla talks to the sun, praising its warmth and asking for help when problems arise. More in tune with nature than her human counterparts, Klara must teach them a lesson in humanity.

    The film tries to ride the emotional wave created by Ortega and Tharia, both convincing, as is Josie’s young boyfriend (Aran Murphy). There’s even an android scarecrow (Jesse Griffin) who provides comic relief and invites a Wizard of Oz comparison. 

   As the movie imagines life after World War III (never shown), it introduces a gene-altering procedure called Lifting aimed at parents who can afford to put their kids on the road to high achievement. Chrissy has had Josie lifted — but the procedure generated a life-threatening side effect.

     Topical in these AI-obsessed days, some of the issues raised by Klara and the Sun are subjected to heavy-handed satire. When Josie meets with other “lifted” teens, we glimpse the class distinctions that have gripped this depleted world. Josie's fellow "Liftees" (my word) couldn’t be more obnoxious. 

     Steve Buscemi makes a brief appearance as a man who aspires creates artificial replacements for departed loved ones, a process that appeals to Chrissy, who already has lost a husband and a daughter, Josie’s older sister.

     I thought Waititi’s widely praised JoJo Rabbit, about a Jewish teen hidden during the Holocaust, soothed its audience by confirming what it already knew. The same could be said about Klara and the Sun. Love can hurt. Humanity can't be replicated. The sun supports life. Death sucks.

    Don’t worry, you won’t miss these points. Waititi makes sure they’re delivered out loud.

     

    

     

The tricky business of riffing on Ripley

   Patricia Highsmith secured her reputation as a brilliant writer of crime fiction with The Talented Mr. Ripley (1955), a mystery followed by four more Ripley novels, the last appearing in 1991. Not that Highsmith was unknown before Ripley. Her first novel, Strangers on a Train, appeared in 1950 and was adapted for the screen by Alfred Hitchcock in 1951. 

  A lesbian with a fondness for pet snails, Highsmith was quick to display her racism and anti-Semitism, as well as her contempt for those she considered to be less acute in their observations. American born, Highsmith lived most of her adult life as an expatriate. 

   Directed by Anton Corbijn (The American and Control), A Talent for Murder attempts to out-trick the tricky Highsmith, setting a high bar the movie can't quite jump over. Still, Joanna Murray-Smith expands her stage play to create a Ripley-like mystery that plumbs Highsmith levels of amorality.

    A Talent for Murder brings the fictional character of Edward Ridgeway (Alden Ehrenreich) into the story. A Highsmith devotee who's looking to build his a career, Ridgeway has been sent by Highsmith’s publisher to visit her secluded Swiss home. He's supposed to persuade her to write another lucrative Ripley novel. 

   On the train to Zurich, Ridgeway meets Clementine (Olivia Cooke), an appealing American who's on her way to visit a rich aunt. She's also about to become an heiress. 

     The stage is set for Helen Mirren to enter as the thoroughly unpleasant Highsmith. In an unattractive wig and minimal makeup, Mirren brings plenty of bite to an author whose walls include a collection of antique guns. To ingratiate himself with the reclusive Highsmith, Ridgeway brings her a knife she has been coveting along with cans of Campbell's soup she requested.

   On stage, A Talent for Murder was a two-hander in which Ridgeway and Highsmith sparred and jostled. On film, Ridgeway’s relationship with Clementine unfolds in ways that bring him into contact with an upper-class crowd.

   Initially, Highsmith outpoints Ridgeway, but Ehrenreich gives a cagey performance as an editor Highsmith constantly tests, often in humiliating fashion. The ultimate challenge for Ridgeway: Devise a way to get rid of a character in the Ripley mystery Highsmith considers writing. Is he clever enough to concoct a murder that will convince her to trust him?

   Miren bites into Highsmith’s sarcasm and superiority without seeking audience sympathy. Cooke adds spark as a young woman eager to take her own bite out of life, and  Ehrenreich’s performance boasts increasing complexity.

  The attempt to blend Highsmith’s story with Ridgeway’s may not fascinate in full Ripley fashion, but it plays well enough to keep us involved with these devious, calculating characters.

'Wicker' weaves a touching tale

 Described in simple terms, Wicker sounds preposterous. A fisherwoman in a Medieval village falls in love with a man made of wicker created by the village basket weaver. Though made of wicker, this lover has a human-like physical presence. He’s even able to make bed-breaking love — vigorous enough to raise village eyebrows.

  Yes, it’s silly, but Olivia Colman, as the Fisher Woman who’s a bit of a village pariah, and Alexander Skarsgard, in an impressive wicker costume, make the situation real enough to carry a movie that easily could have gone badly wrong.

  Based on Ursula Wills-Jones's short story, Wicker also features fine performances from Peter Dinklage as the Basket Weaver, another village outsider, and from Elizabeth Debicki as The Tailor’s Wife, a conniving woman who envies the Fisher Woman’s independence — particularly in a patriarchal village. 

   How patriarchal? Villagers place a collar around the bride’s neck, an obvious symbol of male possession.

   Another village ritual puts the Fisher Woman in an awkward spot. By chance, she’s tagged as the next village bride. Knowing that her prospects for romance are limited, she asks the Basket Weaver to make her a husband.

  The movie doesn’t deal with how the wicker groom comes to life. He just does, which allows writer/directors Eleanor Wilson and Alex Huston Fischer freedom to explore the relationship without having to drift into quasi-supernatural  terrain.

   Skarsgard creates a caring character who becomes a paragon of devotion, helping with chores and tending to Fisher Woman’s emotional and physical needs. Skarsgard works in a low-key fashion that brings credibility to his character’s innocent ways. His character may be simple, but by no means is he stupid.

  If one wanted to be cynical, one might say that Skarsgard's character had to be made of straw because no such man exists in real life, but Wicker isn't about promoting cynicism.

  Never shy about total commitment to a character, Colman plunges into the role with the gusto of a hungry woman presented with a heaping plate of food.

  The directors add humor, and the screenplay contrives to create the conflict that precedes a finale that caps an often offbeat critique of a society in which women's needs are neglected as a matter of course.

  The village environment has been ably created, and Wicker, which has enough harsh moments to avoid cloying sweetness, evolves into a generally pleasing fable about the comforts of equality in love.