Wicked’s timely politics are more powerful and intersectional than ever

Before going to see Jon M. Chu’s film adaptation of Wicked (several times), I had barely seen or thought about Wicked in nearly two decades. I loved it back at the time of its cultural height. I had the soundtrack. Everyone did! But what my adult brain remembered from the experiences of my early teen self was basically just, “Oh yeah, the musical about the Wicked Witch of the West with that song ‘Popular.’ “

Of course, Chu’s film brought it all back in the grandest form possible. To watch the 2024 Wicked for the first time was to realize that I still knew every. single. song. But when you watch something as an adult for the first time, you also tend to pick up things that went right over your head when you ever younger. As for me, I’d forgotten about Wicked‘s discussion about animal’s rights in Oz completely.

Which made it altogether more shocking how sophisticated a statement the film (and musical, and novel) is making, and how timely that statement is. You can’t even really call the treatment of animals in Oz as a subplot, because it’s the major motivator in Elphaba’s character arc. It covers the weaponization of the “Other,” the banning of knowledge by the state, and even the fascist rule itself.

Animals as Other

If you, like me, haven’t seen Wicked in a while, here’s a refresher. Shiz, the elite university Elphaba and Glinda attend, has one remaining animal professor left, Doctor Dillamond. One day during class, Doctor Dillamond goes off of the approved syllabus to try to inform his students that, until recently, there were talking animals not only all around the university, but all over Oz. But there was a drought, and animals were suddenly not friends, but someone to blame for Oz’s woes—and, one assumes, food.

During the lesson, students continually mock Dillamond for his accent. Eventually, he turns over the chalkboard and finds a grim message: “Animals should be seen and not heard.” Soon thereafter, this is tied into the fact that animals are literally losing their ability to speak all throughout Oz. We’re lead to believe that the reason for the silencing is purely fear.

Already, you can see a pretty strong-handed metaphor arising: when a marginalized population is targeted, vilified, and “othered” by those in power, their voices become obscured in both the popular and historical narrative. Those in power control the narrative.

Those othered—in this case Dillamond—are left to make their appeals to basic humanity. But one of the most chilling, understated ways Wicked depicts this scenario is how thoroughly the student body does not care. After all, it’s easier to follow the status quo. It’s easier to be in the “in crowd.” If you make a joke about the othered party, it’s an easy way to get laughs. People want to be accepted by their peers, after all.

In Wicked, the only person who initially shows concern for Doctor Dillamond is Elphaba—because, given her unusual skin color, she knows exactly what it’s like to be othered.

Wicked, the US, and the Other

Major spoilers ahead for Wicked

Later in the film, we learn that the othering of animals isn’t just an unfortunate symptom of a natural disaster. Instead, it was a ploy by the Wizard of Oz himself to solidify his power. He explains his rationale: “Where I’m from, everyone knows the best way to bring folks together is to give them a real good enemy.”

It’s no small coincidence that where the Wizard’s from is, in fact, the USA. There’s plenty of real-world examples from American history which illustrate exactly what the Wizard’s talking about. The Wizard of Oz came out in 1939, the exact same year as World War II began. The internment of Japanese Americans would begin three years later. Wicked premiered in 2003, the same year the George W. Bush administration invaded Iraq as the whole country was delirious with post-9/11 Islamophobia.

And of course, the film adaptation of Wicked is releasing one month after Donald Trump won a second term as president, thanks in part to a platform which conveniently pins the blame for Americans’ woes on “illegal aliens.”

Knowledge as a threat

To rewind a bit: the next time we see Doctor Dillamond, the goat professor, he’s in a hurry. “Today is my last day at Shiz,” he says. Turns out, in a sudden, hairpin turn, animals are no longer allowed to teach. Security guards forcefully drag Dillamond away by the horns.

“You’re not being told the whole story!” he cries as he’s dragged away. In fact, in one of the first moments of Wicked, Shiz’s emblem comes crashing down from Elphaba’s big outburst. Behind it is an entirely different design: instead of human professors, the old emblem exclusively depicts animals.

But history is dictated by the winners. The new history teacher brings in a cage with a horrified baby lion cub inside. He explains the idea of the cage is essentially to traumatize the lion cub so thoroughly from such a young age, he never learns to speak. In other words, Oz is trying to forcefully engineer the subjugation of an entire population via generational and childhood trauma.

Again, the vast majority of students do nothing. They’re surprised, but they do as they’re told. Actively fighting back—challenging authority, saying something isn’t right to an authority figure insisting that nothing’s out of the ordinary—makes you stick out. That, too, is scary.

Controlling populations through fear, controlling what knowledge people can or cannot have access to, and controlling who can relate the narrative in the first place are all signs of fascism. George Maguire’s Wicked novel in particular does not shy away from depicting the Wizard as a fascist dictator.

It would be nice to think, “America doesn’t do that, at least.” But it’s hard to watch the regulation of knowledge on screen and not think of the huge wave of book bans sweeping across the country, largely targeting LGBTQ+ books.

Wicked is a spectacle, yes. It’s a welcome escape. But it’s also a timely as hell. Because we might sometime soon have to decide whether we’ll cruise along with the popular narrative, or whether we’ll stand up and actively challenge it.