Wicked: Part I (2024)
Directed by Jon M. Chu
Jon M. Chu’s Wicked: Part I is a visual and musical banquet that demands to be seen as a major cinematic event. Based on the hit Broadway musical and the novel by Gregory Maguire, the film takes on the considerable challenge of adapting an already mythic story—Oz, its witches, and its eternal showdown between good and evil—while simultaneously trying to humanize and complicate its characters. What Chu delivers is part spectacle, part earnest melodrama, and part perplexing revisionist storytelling. For all its charms, it’s as much a demonstration of Hollywood’s tendency to smother a project in excess as it is a celebration of theatrical imagination.
From its opening moments, Wicked proclaims its scale and ambition. Chu saturates the screen with color and movement: Glinda (Ariana Grande), atop her bubble, sweeps into a jubilant village to announce the death of the Wicked Witch of the West. The opening scenes are as lush as they are loud, a collision of CGI-enhanced landscapes and garish costumes. Yet, even at its most stunning, there’s a nagging question of what, exactly, we’re being invited to feel. Awe at the production values? Nostalgia for Oz? Or are we meant to marvel at the revisionist twist—seeing the story anew from the perspective of the “wicked” witch? The movie seems unsure, trying to juggle all three, with varying degrees of success.
Cynthia Erivo takes on the role of Elphaba, the green-skinned outcast who will become the infamous Wicked Witch. Erivo is remarkable, almost too remarkable—her voice, a powerhouse of clarity and emotion, seems to belong to a greater production than the one she’s in. She throws herself into the role with an earnestness that is, at times, almost overwhelming. The script burdens her with more moral complexity than any character could reasonably embody: Elphaba is simultaneously a political activist, a misunderstood genius, and a tragic romantic. The result is a character whose motivations feel muddled. Her advocacy for animal rights—an invention largely absent from the Wizard of Oz mythology—feels less like a natural character trait and more like an obligatory 21st-century update, awkwardly grafted onto her personality.
Ariana Grande, as Glinda, exists in sharp contrast. She is all effervescence and charm, a Barbie doll with a Broadway-trained voice. Grande’s performance is self-consciously shallow, a deliberate choice meant to reflect Glinda’s initial superficiality. Yet, there’s a flatness to her portrayal that keeps her from feeling real, even as her character undergoes development. Her big moments—a bubbly rendition of “Popular,” for instance—are entertaining enough, but they lack the sharpness and self-awareness that made Kristin Chenoweth’s Glinda so delightful on stage. The two leads have chemistry, but their dynamic lacks tension. When their friendship strains and breaks, it doesn’t carry the emotional weight the story demands.
Jeff Goldblum’s Wizard of Oz is a perplexing piece of casting. Goldblum leans into his trademark blend of whimsy and menace, but the role itself is underwritten, a sketch of a character who never comes into focus. The film flirts with deeper critiques of the Wizard’s manipulations—his exploitation of fear and propaganda to maintain power—but never follows through. The result is a Wizard who feels more like a quirky sideshow act than the shadowy tyrant of the original tale.
Michelle Yeoh, cast as Madame Morrible, is similarly underutilized. Yeoh is an actress of incredible range, capable of delivering both icy villainy and heartfelt warmth. Here, she’s given little to do but sneer and scheme, a one-dimensional antagonist who feels like an afterthought in a film already crowded with characters and subplots. The potential for Morrible to be a true foil to Elphaba—a manipulator of power and perception—is left frustratingly untapped.
Visually, Wicked: Part I is a marvel. Chu and his production team clearly spared no expense in recreating the fantastical world of Oz. The film’s sets, costumes, and visual effects are dazzling, a kaleidoscope of color and texture that brings the story’s magical realm to life. Shiz University, where much of the first act takes place, is a particularly striking creation, a gothic wonderland that feels part Hogwarts, part Ivy League fantasy.
Yet, for all its visual splendor, the film often feels overproduced. The reliance on CGI gives the world a plastic, weightless quality, undermining the emotional resonance of key moments. The musical numbers, while choreographed with precision, sometimes feel more like music videos than scenes from a coherent narrative. The film’s maximalist aesthetic—its insistence on filling every frame with movement and detail—can be exhausting, leaving little room for quieter, more intimate moments.
At its core, Wicked is an attempt to reframe one of cinema’s greatest villains, transforming her into a misunderstood hero. This is not a new idea—Disney’s Maleficent took a similar approach to the Sleeping Beauty villain, with mixed results. The problem with these revisionist retellings is that they often feel at odds with the original stories they’re based on. In the Wizard of Oz, the Wicked Witch’s defining moment is her threat to Dorothy: “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too!” It’s a line so iconic, so steeped in villainy, that it’s difficult to reconcile with Wicked’s portrayal of Elphaba as a misunderstood activist. The film tries to have it both ways, painting Elphaba as a victim of circumstance while preserving her eventual transformation into the Wicked Witch. The result is a narrative that feels disjointed, unsure of its own moral framework.
The music of Wicked—composed by Stephen Schwartz—is one of its greatest strengths. Songs like “Defying Gravity” and “For Good” are modern classics, their melodies soaring and their lyrics deeply resonant. In the film, these numbers are given the full cinematic treatment, with sweeping camera movements and elaborate visual effects. Yet, there’s a curious lack of intimacy in their execution. On stage, these songs are moments of profound emotional connection, where the characters’ inner lives are laid bare. In the film, they often feel like set pieces, more concerned with spectacle than substance. One of the film’s most successful musical moments is “The Wizard and I,” performed by Erivo with a blend of hope and determination that captures Elphaba’s longing for acceptance. Grande’s “Popular” is another highlight, a sugary delight that showcases her comedic timing. Yet, other numbers—such as “What Is This Feeling?”—feel rushed, their emotional beats lost in the whirlwind of the film’s pacing.
Perhaps the most controversial aspect of Wicked: Part I is its decision to split the story into two films. While this approach allows for a more detailed exploration of the characters and their world, it also leaves the first installment feeling incomplete. The film ends on a cliffhanger, with Elphaba’s transformation into the Wicked Witch still unresolved. This lack of resolution may frustrate audiences expecting a self-contained story. At the same time, the decision to serialize the narrative allows for moments of depth that might otherwise have been sacrificed. The film takes its time establishing Elphaba’s relationships with her sister Nessarose (a hauntingly vulnerable Marissa Bode) and her eventual love interest, Fiyero (a charming yet underutilized Jonathan Bailey). These relationships add layers to Elphaba’s character, making her journey more compelling.
It’s clear that Wicked: Part I is designed as the opening chapter of a larger franchise. The film is packed with Easter eggs and callbacks to the Wizard of Oz, from the yellow brick road to the ruby slippers. These moments are sure to delight fans, but they also highlight the film’s dependence on its source material. While Wicked attempts to stand on its own, it often feels like a companion piece to The Wizard of Oz, unable to fully escape its shadow.
The decision to release the film in two parts also raises questions about the future of the franchise. Will Part II deliver the emotional payoff that Part I promises? Or will it succumb to the same pitfalls—overproduction, thematic inconsistency, and a reliance on nostalgia?
