Wicked is very popular but it hasn't enchanted everyone
She's twenty-four years old and she
weighs a hundred pounds. She's pretty but conventionally so. Plainly human, like
the rest of us, she will eventually wither and die. But right now she's
twenty-four and a bare-backed gown of hip-hugging satin and ostrich feathers
billows about her.
She resists his seduction. He sings to
her – "Cheek to Cheek." They dance beside a pool of
water. He is charming and she is charmed. The music, and the scene, begin as conventional
patter and rise to passionate intensity. Her dance expresses that which
elevates the human above the animal; her movements defy that which reduces
mortals to dirt. She, freed of human limitation, wafts like the wind; she flows
like water. She has joined the eternal elements; she is black and white, the
elemental colors of clouds and constellations.
Near the conclusion, though, three
times, he lifts her, spins her, and she spreads her legs. He then dips her
almost to a full recline, almost to the ground, and her body goes limp. The
feathers cover her face modestly like a fan – her hidden expression no doubt communicates
feelings too intimate to share. The music quiets. He, a satisfied smile on his
face, tenderly guides her to a stone wall, where she leans back, open-mouthed. We
recognize that this old movie is telling us, in old movie language, that she has
just had that precious human experience that one can have only in a human body,
a climax.
Audiences who went to see the 1935 Fred
Astaire and Ginger Rogers film Top Hat might have, earlier that same
day, been on a bread line. That year my parents were foraging for food in the
forest. That feather dress transported audiences away from the Great Depression
and into pure beauty.
Ninety years later, when I am crushed by
the burdens of this world, I sometimes rewatch that dance. Its escape from,
return to, and celebration of the human condition gives me what I need to go
on.
Music analyst Robert Kapilow salutes the scene's "meticulous
craft." "Cheek to Cheek" sounds familiar, simple, even corny.
But it demonstrates the talent that Irving Berlin exercised in writing 1,500
songs in a sixty-year career. Berlin also wrote "God Bless America;" his
"White Christmas" is said to be the best-selling single of all time. One-hundred-thirty-six
years after Berlin's birth, during the month of December, one can hear
"White Christmas" on any radio station or in any shopping mall.
"Cheek to Cheek" is "mock-mundane." Any amateur might hear the song and think, "Hey, I could have written that." Berlin's sophistication is disguised. "Every note in the vocal line" Kapilow points out, is on the beat, but with the lyrics, "When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek," "Every single note is off the beat … it's so subtle, you almost don't even notice it." Kapilow says that Berlin "brilliantly elides the" song's sudden, intense passion "in a minor key" and resolves that operatic intensity by concluding with a return to the casual flirtatiousness of the song's opening. "These are not just tunes … These songs are three-act dramas in two minutes."
We are, next, in nineteenth-century, czarist-era
Ukraine. In a smoky tavern, Jewish men with beards and tzitzits celebrate a
betrothal between a pretty girl and a wealthy old widower. "L'Chaim,"
"to life," they sing. Overtaken with joy, they dance as the music spirals
sinuously; it sounds more and more reminiscent of their ancient homeland in
Israel. Suddenly, initially melding with the Jews' exotic crescendo but
breaking into its own melodic territory, rises the tenor of a czarist soldier,
singing in Russian, accompanied by that very Russian instrument, a balalaika,
as well as by soldiers clapping to a different, aggressive cadence. "To
your health," the soldier sings. "May we live together in
peace."
This rendezvous of two cultures happens
during a time of pogroms that killed tens of thousands of Jews. Czarist troops
participated in those killings. But such bad times alternated with good times,
in the macro and microcosm. This moment in a shtetl tavern is one of the good
times. The Slavs dance the Cossack Hopak; they descend to a squat and kick from
their knees. It's all beautiful, and terrifying. It's a thrilling scene that
progresses from coexistence to premonitions of slaughter in just a few notes. "Life
has a way of confusing us, blessing and bruising us, drink l'chaim, to
life!" Indeed.
Compare it to a similar scene of beauty
and gut-wrenching terror, "Tomorrow
Belongs to Me" from Cabaret. A beautiful blonde youth opens,
"The branch of the linden is leafy and green / the Rhine gives its gold to
the sea" and ends up chanting with the thud of marching boots, "The
morning will come when the world is mine / tomorrow belongs to me."
Loving couples can conjure beauty and
terror in living and bedrooms. Nancy is a young redhead. She loves Bill so ardently
she can't see what's right in front of her. She sings, "As
Long As He Needs Me." I was ten years old, sitting in the
Colonial Theater in Pompton Lakes, NJ, and that song taught me the better part
of what I know about how selfless love can mutate into suicide. Bill Sikes will
beat Nancy to death. Onscreen. In the family-friendly musical, Oliver. Bill
will die hanging from a rope. We kids got to watch that, too.
Even that "innocuous" musical,
Mary Poppins, includes songs that reduced this little kid to tears and
deeply religious contemplation. "Feed
the Birds" is a heart-wrenching evocation of poverty and a
demand for charity. "Fidelity Fiduciary Bank," sung
slapstick style by Dick Van Dyke, forced my little kid mind to think about
wealth, poverty, and capitalism.
In 1957, The Little Rock Nine required a
U.S. Army escort to enter Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas. In
1958, South Pacific premiered. In addition to fun songs like "There
is Nothing Like a Dame" and "I'm Gonna Wash that Man Right Outta My
Hair," the film included, "You've
Got to Be Taught," a catchy and deceptively simple denunciation
of how racism is passed on to children by their elders.
If this is all too serious, relax with
"You Wonderful You" from Summer
Stock. Joe Ross (Gene Kelly) is involved with a pretty young girl, but he
meets that girl's older sister (Judy Garland), a rather difficult woman. Kelly
suddenly realizes he wants the older sister. Trying to figure out what to do,
he dances; his dance partners are a squeaky floorboard and a page from a
newspaper. A man dancing with a piece of paper – it's too fabulous for words.
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers' "Barn Dance" number rearranged
my relationship to my own body. Cyd Charisse "Dancing in the Dark."
Richard Burton "How to Handle a Woman." Sweet Charity "Hey
Big Spender." Bob Fosse "From This Moment On." Danny Kaye and
Vera Ellen "The Best Things." Donald O'Connor "Moses
Supposes." George Chakiris, Paul Robeson, Anthony Newley, Yul Brynner,
Zero Mostel, Pearl Bailey, Gwen Verdon, Barbra Streisand, Bill
"Bojangles" Robinson.
America, during the countercultural
sixties, decided it wanted "authenticity." We no longer wanted
stratospherically talented singers and dancers. We no longer wanted lyrics as
clever as chemical equations and as universally applicable as those equations.
We no longer wanted "When love congeals it soon reveals the faint aroma of
performing seals." We no longer wanted lyrics that rhymed, lyrics we could
all feel were written about us, lyrics we could sing and sing together. We
wanted singer-songwriters with less spectacular voices, from Bob Dylan to
Taylor Swift, singing their own creations about their own lives. It was part of
a movement from "us" to "me."
The emphasis on "me" inspired
an emphasis on personal eccentricity that set one apart. One was to criticize,
rather than learn to live with, conventional society. Conventional society –
the kind of folks who work hard, play by the rules, pay taxes, and invest in
the future – is the antagonist. As Dylan put it, "I try my best / To be
just like I am / But everybody wants you / To be just like them." My heart
bleeds for the poor millionaire, narcissist, and Nobel laureate.
Americans' craving for exceptional
voices and sing-along lyrics that reflect our own experiences – or the
experiences we wish we shared – arises every December. Suddenly radio stations
that normally broadcast … stuff I can't identify ... resurrect the dead. Bing
Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Nat and Natalie Cole, Dean Martin, the Andrews Sisters,
Andy Williams, Burl Ives, Gene Autry, Peggy Lee, Dinah Shore, sing
comprehensible lyrics about "the most wonderful time of the year." We
sing along, until December 26.
Look, I am familiar with the "Old
Fart" argument. I'm old; these movies are old; I'm one of those people who
thinks that everything was better when I was younger. Nope. A lot is better
today. I'll take a computer over a library card catalogue any day. Thanks to
technological advances and the proliferation of equipment, the amateur bird
photography streaming through my Facebook page every day is magnitudes superior
to the professional bird photography of my childhood. A lot was horrible in the
past. Studio head Louis B. Mayer drugged child performer Judy Garland, he
shamed and bullied her, he exploited her, and he molested her. Blacks and other
minorities were underrepresented onscreen.
But you know what? Some things really
were better back in the day.
Wicked opened in the US on November 22, 2024. Wicked
the movie is based on Wicked the Broadway musical, which, in turn,
is based on Wicked, a 1995 novel by Gregory Maguire. Maguire's novel is a
response to the 1939 movie The Wizard of Oz and also the 1900 children's
book by L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
Wicked was a very successful Broadway musical. The
film Wicked's production budget was $150 million and it has already made
almost $600 million. At Rottentomatoes, Wicked enjoys an 88% score from
professional critics and a 95% score from fans. "Defying gravity,"
the critical consensus reads, "Wicked's sheer bravura and charm
make for an irresistible invitation to Oz." The Wall Street Journal, for
heaven's sake, resorts to baby talk. "I pronouncify it magnifical,"
writes Kyle Smith, who otherwise appears to be an adult male. Salon is
on-board. Wicked "is a blockbuster for our times, one that doesn't
shy away from contending with the darkness of contemporary politics and
society." Wicked isn't just phenomenally popular. It tells deep
truths about "contemporary politics and society." The Globe and
Mail is a tad more serious. "Wicked
isn't really the vehicle to ponder deeper existential questions about the
true nature of evil."
Wicked opens with Munchkins celebrating the
death of the Wicked Witch. Glinda (Ariana Grande) asks, "Why does
wickedness happen? Are people born wicked or do they have wickedness thrust
upon them?" Flashbacks answer these questions. We see the extramarital sex
act that results in the birth of the future Wicked Witch, aka Elphaba (Cynthia
Erivo). Her biological father, as will be revealed in Wicked part two,
is in fact the Wizard (Jeff Goldblum).
Elphaba was born with green skin, and
though Oz is a multiracial world, green skin is not acceptable. Elphaba is
teased and the man who thinks he is her father does not love her. He has a
younger daughter, Nessarose (Marissa Bode). Nessarose is wheelchair-bound. Her
mother, while pregnant, imbibed poisonous "milk flowers" to ensure
she'd give birth to a white child, not another green one. The milk flowers
crippled the beloved daughter. Unloved Elphaba, now an adult, must accompany her
loved little sister Nessarose to university in order to protect her. Is that a
heavy-handed enough lecture about race for you? If not, hang tight. More
heavy-handed lectures to come.
A teacher, Madam Morrible (Michelle
Yeoh) recognizes that Elphaba has magical power and takes her on as a student.
Morrible promises Elphaba that she can meet the Wizard some day. Elphaba is
happy that this "weird quirk" she tried to suppress, that is, her
magical power, will do some good. She hopes to meet the Wizard, who will turn
her skin white. Galinda, a popular, pretty blonde, is jealous of Elphaba's
magical power.
Elphaba attends at a student dance. She
dances in an unusual way. The other students stare and mock Elphaba. Galinda,
regretting that she has been unkind to Elphaba, dances with her. They bond.
In Oz, animals talk and are teachers,
doctors, and nannies. The Wizard decides to scapegoat animals and blame them
for Oz's problems. Animals are placed in a new invention, a cage, and lose the
ability to speak. Elphaba, alone of the students, is outraged and determined to
help. She rescues a caged lion cub. Prince Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey), a hot guy
who has been flirting with Galinda, helps Elphaba. Galinda, in solidarity with
the oppressed animals, changes her name to Glinda, because a goat professor had
trouble pronouncing her original name.
The Wizard and Morrible invite Elphaba
to join them in taking power in Oz. Elphaba, upon witnessing that the Wizard is
a power-hungry phony who wants to exploit her magical power, declines. Recognizing
that the Wizard is a bad guy who will not turn her white, she suddenly realizes
that she should have cherished the parts of herself that everyone had teased
her for. She should have valued her green skin and magical power. She no longer
wants to be white. She sings, "Something has changed within me. Something
is not the same. I'm through with playing by the rules of someone else's game …
It's time to trust my instincts … You can't pull me down … I'm through
accepting limits cause someone says they're so … If I'm flying solo at least
I'm flying free." She might as well sing "I try my best / To be just
like I am / But everybody wants you / To be just like them." Elphaba
escapes on a flying broomstick. It's not clear where she is going. The end.
Again, everybody loves Wicked.
Me? While watching Wicked I felt
something like what I feel when trying to make my way through a shopping mall at
Christmastime. There's a lot of noise, color, and costumes. People and canned
voices are coming at me with a variety of messages, some of which cohere into a
larger narrative; other messages just slide past each other into jumbled
confusion. Wicked is the kind of loud, busy, shallow, trying-too-hard
Hollywood product best watched on a hot summer day when what you really want is
bubblegum entertainment and air conditioning. An hour after I'd watched Wicked,
I suddenly realized I had forgotten watching it; my focus had turned to
other, more interesting things.
Ariana Grande's comic turn as the
sweetly narcissistic Glinda is cute. Cynthia Erivo is very skilled at looking
wounded, superior, noble, and defiant. Her earnest stridence as a pure, heroic
outcast suggests to me that she might do well under the discipline of a good
director in a good movie with a good script. I liked Jonathan Bailey as
naughty, sexy Prince Fiyero. I wish he had taken off his shirt. That would have
been worth one more star for the movie overall, raising it from a five-out-of-ten
to a six-out-of-ten stars.
Ever since he said, "I
forgot my mantra," in 1977's Annie Hall, Jeff Goldblum
has been a charismatic star. Even just Goldblum doing nothing but
walking, in 1996's Independence Day, is meme-worthy; see one of many
YouTube captures here. Goldblum is supposed to be the bad
guy here; good luck with that.
The message of this blockbuster behemoth
is thunderingly obvious: the good guys are all really bad guys and the bad guys
are all really good guys. The road to Nirvana, the one sacred act, is to love
those parts of yourself that others hate. Conventional people are bigoted,
judgmental, and controlled by manipulative political and religious masters.
These powers encourage us to hate a minority in order to enhance the power of
the manipulators. The really noble people are misunderstood outcasts. Virtue
requires rejecting mainstream society and striking out on one's own. Given that
Cynthia Erivo is the child of Nigerian parents and in the film she has magical
power, she is literally that trusty pop culture trope, the Magical Negro.
Yes, as those paying attention have
already guessed, self-assessed deep thinkers are using Wicked to explain
Trump. Maybe the Wizard is Trump; maybe Glinda is Trump; maybe the movie is
secretly and "nefariously" pro-Trump. Joy Behar, on The
View, compares herself to Elphaba, because she, Behar,
tried to warn people about Trump. (In fact Elphaba does not warn anyone about
anything.)
In addition to promoting a message of
"learning to love yourself," Wicked's cast emphasizes setting
oneself apart from the mainstream. Cynthia Erivo shaved her head. She wears a
prominent nose ring, about fourteen earrings, and two-inch-long, claw-like
fingernails. Various articles provide the following reasons for Erivo's head
shaving. "She said she felt like an 'odd man out' in the industry and that
true beauty isn't reflected in one's hair;" It's "a statement about
identity, empowerment, and belonging;" "she refuses to edit her
appearance to make it more palatable to other people;" "authenticity
is her calling card … she's not spending time pretending to be anything other
than herself."
In May, 2024, at the Los Angeles LGBT
Center Gala, Erivo announced, "I stand here in front of you … bald-headed,
pierced, and queer, I can say I know a thing or two about being the other …
Elphaba’s story is … about how a colorful, powerful, magical woman — despite
being disparaged, demonized, and discriminated against — becomes a hero … Wicked
is a reclamation and a reimagining of the labels used against her. It is the
proclamation of her right to exist in all her power."
Erivo, of course, has chosen to be bald,
pierced, and with claw-like hands. She has chosen outsiderhood. Who's rejecting
whom? Erivo is miming a rejection of the mainstream, a mainstream that has embraced
her with love and pelted her with praise. She's received an Emmy, a Grammy, a
Tony, Academy Award nominations, and several other prestigious awards. Further,
it's unclear how Elphaba, by escaping Oz on her flying broomstick,
"becomes a hero."
Media coverage emphasizes and indeed
lauds Wicked's celebrities as apart from the film's nemesis, ordinary
people in mainstream society. Gregory Maguire is married to another man.
Jonathan Bailey is gay. Marissa Bode, who plays Nessarose, identifies as
"biracial and queer" and also disabled.
Ariana Grande is a white heterosexual
who was born into generational wealth; her net worth is estimated at $240
million. Even so, she has adopted countercultural poses. Grande has been
videoed saying, "I hate Americans. I hate America." She said this
after breaking conventional rules of conventional society – she licked donuts
she didn't, later, buy. Grande has also been accused of
"blackfishing," that is, appearing to be black in an effort to cash
in on affection for black people and rejection of white women. Grande has
appeared in public with artificially darkened skin. One of her songs appeared
on a Spotify "Black Lives Matter" playlist.
"I'm different; I'm an outsider;
I'm down with the struggle," insist thin, beautiful superstars living
lives we can only imagine. "My outsiderhood is what makes me and my art
worthy; that makes me authentic and authoritative." It's the entertainment
version of identity politics.
Gregory Maguire, who wrote the
bestselling Wicked novels, says he was inspired by the particularly
grisly 1993 murder of two-year-old James Bulger. Maguire wanted to explore the
problem of evil. His novel is very different from the film, with a lot more
disturbing sex and violence, and more overtly political and religious
commentary. His books, he says, are "commentaries on
contemporary society -- and indeed politics." He seems to be saying that society
creates evil because people are mean to those who don't fit in. Consider, he
says, "the weight of being called evil. If everyone was always calling you
a bad name, how much of that would you internalize? How much of that would you
say, all right, go ahead, I'll be everything that you call me because I have no
capacity to change your minds anyway so why bother. By whose standards should I
live? … Can I find my own standards?" His books are about "taking
control of the destiny of your own character."
While I was watching Wicked, I
noted everything I have in common with Elphaba. I was the fat girl, the poor
girl, the "retarded" (dyslexic) girl, the girl with the
"weird" name. Yes, even a two-syllable Polish surname is
"weird" to New Jersey Italians with ten-syllable names. Putting my
woes, my difference, my outsiderhood up on a screen would not make for an
interesting movie. What might?
This might make for an interesting
movie: the day I figured out that I was as guilty as my tormenters – I teased
and bullied other kids. Original sin taints us all – victims included. We victims
aren't pure and noble like Elphaba. The day that I figured out that my
tormenters also have hidden pain and vulnerability. The day that I figured out
that as much as I felt like an outsider, my tormenters also felt different and
alone. The fat girl feels alone. The pimply boy feels alone. The pretty girl
insecure about her intelligence feels alone. The day that I figured out that I
could be the best version of myself in spite of others' bullying. And that best
version of myself could serve my community. I became a teacher, and my history
of being teased and having learning disabilities enhanced my teaching.
Elphaba, in Wicked, doesn't go
through any of these changes. Wicked satisfies itself with its
rudimentary message: society is bad; the one person everyone else picks on is
good. She has to learn to love herself, and to leave.
And then I realized, there is a terrific
musical that tells the story of exclusion, compassion and reintegration into
society that Wicked doesn't tell: 1964's Rudolph the Red-Nosed
Reindeer. Sure, it's a kids' production starring stop-motion puppets, but
it moves me to tears. "Why am I such a misfit?," a heartbroken
Rudolph sings. "We're on the Island of Misfit Toys," sing a doll and
a Jack-in-the-box. But then the very thing bullies tease Rudolph for – his red
nose – saves everybody.
In addition to being an anti-bigotry
movie and a learning-to-love-yourself movie, Wicked is marketed as a
female empowerment, feminist film. The 1939 film, The Wizard of Oz, is the
real female-empowerment, feminist artwork. Dorothy, a shy, dreamy girl, drives
the plot. Dorothy is the one essential character – no Dorothy, no movie. The film's
entire point is Dorothy learning to stand up for herself against small-town
meanies like Almira Gulch and cold foster parent Aunt Em. Trembling and
intimidated Dorothy inadvertently kills the Wicked Witch of the West as part of
an effort to protect her friend, the Scarecrow. Dorothy kills to save, not to
destroy.
The Wicked Witch of the West is the only
purely bad character. Almira Gulch is not unmotivated – Toto bit her. Professor
Marvel is a charlatan, but he does the right thing and convinces Dorothy to
return home after running away. Dorothy's Aunt Em is not as loving as she could
be, but she does express concern. The Scarecrow can't think, the Tinman can't
feel, and the Cowardly Lion can't get his act together. And yet, in the end,
they all acquit themselves as best they can. They are inspired to do so because
they are committed to each other – they have formed a community, one with
Dorothy, a teenage girl, at the center. The Wizard of Oz eloquently describes
himself, "I'm a good man, but a very bad wizard." That one line says
so much about the human condition we all share. We aren't what we wish we could
be; we fail to live up to what we pretend to be. When we stop trying to be
superheroes, and exercise our best human qualities, we shine. And we do that
best in service to each other.
The Wizard of Oz creates female characters with
extraordinary powers. Dorothy's ally is another female, Glinda, a kind but
remote figure – not a little like how many of us understand God. Glinda floats
down from the sky in an iridescent bubble. Glinda is pink – the color of
healthy "rosy cheeks." Glinda offers solutions but her benevolence
often arrives after Dorothy – enjoying free will – has figured things out for
herself.
Dorothy's nemesis is the Wicked Witch of
the West, number four on the America Film Institute's list of the four greatest
cinematic villains, only after the all male crew, Hannibal Lecter, Norman
Bates, and Darth Vader. Those of us really in the know recognize that TWWW
could vaporize all three of those boys.
Margaret Hamilton is superbly,
lusciously, enthusiastically evil. In contrast to Glinda's divine benevolence,
TWWW is Satanic. Unlike in Wicked, her skin color is not a comment on white
supremacy. She's green for the same reason that the horse representing death in
the Biblical book of the Apocalypse is "pale green." The King James
translation of verse 6:8 reads, "Behold a pale horse: and his name that
sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him." "Pale,"
though, in the original Greek, is "chloros," as in the English word
for the green plant pigment "chlorophyl." The New American Bible
translation is "I looked, and there was a pale green horse. Its rider was
named Death, and Hades accompanied him." Pale green is the color of
necrotic flesh.
TWWW arrives by rising up from within the
earth; we traditionally associate Hell with the grave and with "down below."
TWWW is surrounded by flames, the painful destroyer and punisher wielded by
Satan. After she dies, the Munchkins sing, "She's gone where the goblins
go, below, below, below." Wicked trades a powerful allusion to the
fate that awaits us all, to the source of all of our fears, death, for a trite
lecture on race relations.
TWWW dresses all in black. The night sky
is black and night washes out color – we see in black-and-white at night, if we
see at all. Humans are diurnal creatures and night scares us because it makes
us vulnerable to gravity and to predators. In the terms of physics, black
negates color. "Black is the absence of light," explain color theorists. The
Judeo-Christian tradition associates light with God eg, Psalm 27:1 and 1 John
1:5. TWWW's very clothing choices express her Satanic nature. And Dorothy kills
TWWW by dumping water on her – baptism saves the good but destroys the purely
evil.
So, yeah, TWWW in 1939's The Wizard
of Oz is very, very bad. But she's fun bad, in a way that little kids can
handle. And when Dorothy finally gathers up the outrage that fuels her courage
and kills TWWW, every kid in the audience can cheer along with the Munchkins. "Ding
dong the witch is dead." That song is so firmly planted in my cultural
arsenal that I sang it as the Berlin Wall came down and my relatives in Eastern
Europe were freed from the prison within which I'd feared they'd forever live
and die.
There's another, less obvious feminist
feature to The Wizard of Oz, one reversed by a misogynist feature in Wicked.
Judy Garland was sixteen when she was cast as Dorothy. In the film, Garland
has the body of a normal sixteen-year-old American girl. When I was a fat kid,
Garland's robust body-size in Oz comforted me. A girl who wasn't
ultra-thin could play a heroine and be a star. Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo
are both gaunt, so much so that the web is full of commentary on their
unnatural, but ultra-chic, boniness. There is a fat woman in Wicked.
She's a bad character. Just as the Wicked's celebrities playact at being
outsiders down with the struggle, the film itself playacts at feminism while
casting nearly anorexic female leads and making a fat female character an
antagonist.
Wicked may have been inspired by Maguire's
effort to understand a grisly child murder, but the movie based on his book is
as simplistic as a sixty-second toilet paper commercial. A befuddled white man
in a supermarket can't decide which bathroom tissue to purchase. A sassy black
chick, a "Magical Negro," solves the problem for him – of course it's
Charmin! In Wicked, The long-suffering black chick is good. The white
man who is in charge, Jeff Goldblum, is bad. Wicked tells us that
conventional people are lowlifes, and those society condemns are the only noble
ones. Those noble ones must escape the crummy society they cannot help because
that society is worthless. The Wizard of Oz recognizes that we all have
our lowlife qualities, but, as humans, we have to live together because we need
each other and we live our fullest lives only in community. We can overcome the
worst parts of ourselves. We can serve each other, not just our solipsistic
urge to, as Maguire puts it, "take control of the destiny of your own
character." At the end of Wicked, Elphaba flees on a magical
broomstick; where she ends up, we don't know. Dorothy begins by running away.
At the end of the film, as we all know, she discovers that as imperfect as it
is, "There's no place like home."
Danusha V. Goska is the author of God through Binoculars: A Hitchhiker at a Monastery.
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