DC Studios biopic Clayface is the story of Oscar-nominated actor Matt Hagen, who suffers extensive facial injuries, undergoes an experimental nanite treatment, and morphs into a shape-shifting, near-indestructible, loose-cannon creature called Clayface—who happens to be looking for love. The movie took the top spot at the box office in its opening weekend. Reached for comment, Hagen (who played himself … or his selves) had little to say about the film’s financial success. Instead, he had an axe to grind, possibly literally, regarding branch-based sex symbol Wicker Husband from Wicker, a romantasy movie that debuted the same day. (Not to be confused with The Wicker Man, a movie that featured a wicker man who didn’t hang dong.) Here are Hagen’s thoughts on being portrayed as a monster—but sadly, not the sexy kind—as told to The Ringer’s Ben Lindbergh.
Yeah, my movie won the weekend. Whoopee. I guess I’m supposed to celebrate that hundreds of thousands of people all over the world decided to see how “gory” and “grotesque” and “disturbing” it was. No. How gory and grotesque and disturbing I was. That’s what they wanted, and I guess that’s what they got. Gruesome, hideous Hagen.
So sure, my movie made money. People paid to see the freak show. They lined up to get grossed out.
Meanwhile, all anyone wants to talk about is how hot Wicker Husband from Wicker is.
Have you heard of this guy? Of course you have. A fisherwoman in some small-time town gets tired of being dismissed as a smelly spinster. As a prank, she commissions a man made of wicker from a magical Basket Weaver. And wouldn’t you know it, the walking, talking tree branch turns out to be such a stud that pretty soon the whole village is horny for him.
No, make that the whole real world. The fisherwoman worries that her hubby has seduced the local wives. Well, babe, bad news: The whole internet wants Wicker Husband. Even brands are down bad for this dude. The thirst has been building for months. And no wonder: Look at the marketing. My movie-poster tagline says, “Look fear in the face.” His says, “Marriage material.” I’m body horror. He’s a heartthrob. I’m “Hello, human resources?!” He’s “Awww, you’re sweet.”
And why? What does Wicker Husband have that I don’t have?
On paper, we’re pretty much the same. We’re both big, brown, strong, and sensitive. We’re both products of the wishes of a woman who had reached the end of her rope. We’re both in touch with our feelings. Arguably a little too in touch, in my case, but I’m working on that.
And devotion—you want devotion? Compare our proclamations of love. Him: “I was made to be with you.” Me: “I’ll be anyone for you.” Him: “You are the reason I live and breathe.” Me: “All you’ve done is make me better.” And, later: “You’re the only one who can save me.”
When Wicker Husband whispered sweet nothings to his fisherwoman wife, panties dropped like popcorn pieces across America’s multiplexes. When I told Dr. Caitlyn Corr I loved her, dead silence. Seems like a double standard, doesn’t it? And the script was stacked against me too. I’m not going to give away details, but let’s just say Wicker Husband’s romance has a happier ending than mine.
Wicker finished fifth at the box office, but its audience was 79 percent female. The other 21 percent was probably dates those women brought in hopes that they’d pick up pointers from Wicker Husband, and gay men who might beat their tree-t to Wicker Husband too. (Howdy, fellas: In the comics, Clayface swung that way.) Everyone wants a wick pic from him. Where are the “Hear me out” posts about Clayface?
Let me remind you that before our mutual transformations, I was a Hollywood hunk whose abs were all over Coast City and Gotham’s glossy magazines and whose jawline was sharper than the knife that sliced my face off. I was willing to OD on an experimental, highly dangerous serum just to restore my former face card. That’s how hot I was. And sometimes still am.
Wicker Husband, by contrast, was a bundle of plant fibers.
This rustling, creaking, straw-haired stiff is what you’re into? You honestly have the hots for someone, or something, so flammable? People are actually lusting for a lover who has to apply vinegar to his surface so it doesn’t grow mold? Gee, what a turn-on. And talk about a wooden performance. Wake me when my man emotes for the first time. Hard to watch.
Or maybe hard while watching, judging by a bunch of the fan art I’ve seen. Now, I know Wicker Husband’s performance in the bedroom is the one that seized some of your imaginations. He’s confident, forceful, and liable to break the bed during Fifty Shades of Hay lumber-laying liaisons. He’s not lacking in size, stamina, or (obviously) stiffness. I’ll grant that the guy’s got good wood, but you can’t tell me that penetrative sex (seemingly sans lube) with an arboreal being would feel good down there. Consider the splinter threat alone!
Now, maybe his treenis is smooth; moviegoers merely get a glimpse of the wicker dicker from far away. And admittedly, contact with Clayface carries risks of its own. “Is someone being murdered?” one of the neighboring wives wonders aloud as the fisherwoman’s shrieks of ecstasy reach the rest of the settlement. When that question is asked around me, the answer is usually yes. I can see how uncontrolled killing could give some potential partners the ick.
Both of these movies are rated R, but for different reasons. We covered why Wicker is restricted to 17-and-up. My movie has a hint of nudity and a touch of autoeroticism, but that rating is more about, say, the scene where I slice open my eyelids on a turbulent plane. But free your mind and imagine what prurient desires Clayface could cater to. Remember, I can mimic any shape, person, or material. In Wicker, the baker and his beloved revitalize their sex life when the baker pretends to be Wicker Husband, much to his wife’s delight. I’m a master of role-play. You want wicker? I can become wicker. For a while.
Don’t worry about what will happen after that. Dad bods may be in, but my mad bod isn’t for everyone. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. You can quote me on that.
In the comics, Clayface hookups are largely left to other incarnations of the character: namely, Preston Payne and Sondra Fuller (a.k.a. Lady Clay), whose coupling produced a son, Cassius Payne. Even the denizens of the DCU subreddit, who are normally eager to cite obscure lure, don’t care to contemplate the possibility of intercourse with Clayface. “Some questions are not meant to be answered and thats most certainly one of them please never type any of your thoughts out into the world again now I have to picture it and id like to die,” one commenter wrote. OK, kink shamer—seems like a you problem. Others questioned whether even Rule 34 would cover Clayface. Well, I looked, in incognito mode, and I’m here to tell you that it does. It most definitely does. My thanks go out to a few faithful fans. You know who you are. (You should use VPNs, probably.)
What bothers me most about these snubs is that this seems to be the golden age of steamy “monsters” and bangable baddies; nonhuman sex appeal isn’t solely the province of vampires anymore. There are groupies for the Ghoul from Fallout. Venom. Frankenstein’s monster. Rotta the Hutt. Link’s greenish nemesis, Ganon. The guy inside the Wicker Husband costume says the Grinch can get it, and his costar has a friend who wants to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang the Child Catcher. Some people are apparently down to clown with Pennywise from It. Come December, werewolves are getting a glow-up. Dammit, DC’s definitely going to make Swamp Thing hot, right?
There seems to be someone out there for everyone. Yet even in this sex-positive climate for creatures once shunned by society, Clayface can’t get any online love that isn’t buried on the dark web. I’m seriously losing it. This is my supervillain origin story. I mean, my movie was, too. But also this.
The more I think about all this, the more it makes me want to murder. Maybe the murdering is my problem, relationship-wise? Something to consider for a possible sequel, I suppose. By the way, becoming Clayface cost me one Oscar already. If Wicker Husband’s hog horns in on the Best Makeup and Hairstyling award I deserve to win, watch out.
They say some men in Gotham just want to watch the world burn. I just want to watch Wicker Husband burn. Yet everybody but me burns for Wicker Husband. This is the curse of Clayface. I’ll close with one plea. Either get your minds out of the gutter when watching Wicker. Or get down inside the sewer with me.
Clayface’s commentary has been edited for brevity, clarity, and incriminating information. Wicker Husband couldn’t be contacted, because he doesn’t have a phone.
