Gregory Maguire wrote Wicked in 1998. His shtick, at the time, was writing spin-offs of fairy tales from the point of view of the villain, such as Confessions of An Ugly Stepsister, which was adapted into a made-for-television film.
Wicked the novel is a darker and much different animal than Wicked the musical, as Steven Schwartz and Winnie Holzmann’s stage adaptation made many meaningful creative choices, including much less stilted dialogue and significant plot changes.
The film adaptation mostly adheres to the latter, besides some character twists and developments which enhance its moments, and others which puzzle.
Wicked opens at the scene of the anti-heroine’s alleged death, with the steaming, hissing sound of wet embers, torches extinguished by water, originally held by witch hunters.
This place is vaguely considered to be the witch’s castle in the original Wizard of Oz film, and book readers and fans of the stage play know it as Kiamo Ko in Winkie Country, and know what is about to happen a few hours after the bucket moment in the second act.
What follows is an eastward sweep over Oz’s landscape, past the poppies, the monkeys, Gillikin, where Shiz is located, and all the way to Munchkinland.
In addition to the opening number, a few notes of Ding Dong the Witch is Dead weave their way into the soundscape, in addition to a faraway shot of Dorothy and friends.
Director Jon M Chu wisely opts to omit the chiming and fire-breathing of the Time Dragon Clock, used just once in the stage show, yet immerses the audience in this cotton-candy acid-trip world over the rainbow.
The sound design, as mentioned, is incredible. Ariana Grande’s Let Us Be Glad sounds vaguely echoey and yet muffled, as if she literally sings it from her bubble, but the singer dispels any doubt surrounding her casting as Glinda with the acting choices she makes in this moment.
Grande’s vocals are ethereal and floaty, and it’s a delightful surprise to hear her singing with the correct placement for an operatic style.
In the opening number, her pain is so palpable through her plastered-on smile, in nuances that would simply not be visible from the distances of a theatrical stage.
In one particularly heart-wrenching moment, she lights a giant pyre of sticks in the shape of her former friend, with a ‘Kill the Witch’ sign angled towards the camera.
As the pyre goes up in flames, so too does a demonic-looking propaganda poster depicting Elphaba with wild red and gleaming eyes, which falls to the burning ground as if melting. As Grande lights it, she lets out a deep exhale, as if attempting to finally let go.
Yet Chu is more blunt with foreshadowing as well, not to mention removing the ambiguity from the stage production around Glinda and Elphaba’s former friendship, with Grande wholeheartedly stating she was her friend to a munchkin following a flashback sequence.
There are other additions to this montage which add depth. While the image of Young Elphaba is perhaps too blunt of a device, the addition of the anthropomorphic bear nanny Dolci-Bear introduces an Animal parental figure that foreshadows Elphaba’s affinity for them later on.
The camera takes us on a journey underwater, beneath the canal surrounding Shiz University, in a visual which illustrates the passage of time.
The university itself, especially in the case of Galinda’s pink gondola, looks, essentially, like a flamboyant iteration of Hogwarts.
Indeed, between the mostly LGBTQ+ cast and Bowen Yang’s Pfannee shamelessly swooning over Fiyero, this adaptation is dripping with gay representation.
Elphaba’s entrance hits with impact, as do Paul Tazewell’s costumes.
Her microbraids effectively function the same way as Kate Sharma’s hair in the second series of Bridgerton, because as Elphaba lets her guard down, the braids unravel.
Unlike Simone Ashley’s Kate, however, Cynthia Erivo’s Elphaba, in a brilliant touch, begins the piece not just in a braid, but literal braids inside of a braid, which all come down and make the metaphor even stronger.
Erivo’s Elphaba does not have the dry humour of Idina Menzel’s, with a couple of the best exchanges in the stage adaptation cut from the film, which seems a wasted opportunity as Erivo’s interpretation navigates the world with much more confidence than Menzel’s.
For example, she rolls her eyes at Fiyero, she doesn’t begin The Wizard and I with any sense of surprise or shock, and she seems much more annoyed with people’s reaction to her skin than her skin itself.
However, one piece of character development from added dialogue which does work, and Erivo leans into very well, is Elphaba repeatedly correcting Glinda’s grammar. It is brilliant, hilarious, and totally in line with where Elphaba is at this point of the piece.
From a vocal standpoint, Erivo’s constant flourishes and embellishments to a degree never allowed in stage productions usually work, with the exception of those in I’m Not That Girl, in which they distract from, rather than enhance, the action of the scene.
Hair metaphors are not the only parallel with the second season of Bridgerton as the horse used by Jonathan Bailey’s Fiyero is the same.
But in this film, the horse is a Horse which talks, which means Fiyero has an Animal companion who plays the role of a reliable friend.
Like the addition of Dolci-Bear, this choice gives Fiyero further common ground with Elphaba and begs the question: will the Horse cease to speak as times get darker in the second film?
Yet there are details which do not work, specifically in the Emerald City.
For example, the whole point is that metaphoric and literal cages are evil in the way they silence, and one of the most striking visuals in the stage production is the reveal of many flying monkeys trapped in a giant cage in the wizard’s palace, underscored by a nefarious musical theme also used in the overture.
In the film, the monkeys are not caged, which reduces the impact of their pain and changes their allegiance.
Part of the reason Elphaba allegedly feels at home in the Emerald City is that the residents in the stage play wear green sunglasses and no one can tell she’s green, a detail also omitted from the film.
The cameo of Kristen Chenoweth and Idina Menzel as elders, likely Queen Ozma and Fairy Queen Lurline from the book, works, as does the hilarious detail of the Wizard repeating the name of his Nebraska hometown and the consequences of that, but Idina’s war cry is unneeded.
Michelle Yeoh as Madame Morrible is much more nuanced and stoic, which makes her betrayal hit harder, but her announcement of “This! Wicked! Witch!” simply does not punch with the needed impact.
Over the past couple of decades, Hollywood studios have done an arguably sub-par job with taking stage musicals to the big screen, with more infamous examples including Tom Hooper’s Cats and Netflix’s Thirteen.
So it was understandable that many who had grown to love Wicked were concerned about it being turned film.
In the professional musical theatre industry around the world, Wicked is one of the few musicals beloved by snobs and pre-teen theatre kids alike.
For those who pursue musical theatre as a career, it is the Mount Everest of productions, with Elphaba and Glinda being, respectively, the Mount Everests of roles.
For many, this is the musical which encapsulates the fantasy of every single person who has ever been an outcast, an other, a person who cares too much, indeed just someone who’s different.
It’s a story for those who turn hardship into empowerment and, although this part is really something the second half of the musical delves into, fundamentally a story which really questions the nature of who society considers good versus evil.
It’s a plea against black and white thinking, and a message which resonates across the political spectrum.
In the words of Wicked‘s author Maguire: “People who claim that they’re evil are usually no worse than the rest of us.
“It’s people who claim that they’re good, or anyway better than the rest of us, that you have to be wary of.”
Picture credit: Free to use via Creative Commons licence
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