Be an Elphaba, Not a Barbie: A Review of Wicked

By Corinne Shearer

Photo by Universal Pictures – © Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.

***Wicked and Barbie spoilers below! You have been warned…

Wicked (the Broadway musical) rose to peak popularity at just the right time to become a formative part of my pre-teendom. I had been somewhat indifferent about the Wizard of Oz (mea culpa, Judy), but I was transfixed by Wicked. The best frenemyship of Elphaba and Glinda and the female anti-hero perspective felt so exciting compared to annoyingly prescriptive, Manichean Disney princess stories, and beltable hits like “Defying Gravity” fit right into my steady diet of 90s/00s girl-power pop (anything Spice Girls, Kelly Clarkson’s “Miss Independent,” you get it). Obviously, when the first-ever film version of Wicked directed by Jon M. Chu and starring Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande hit the theatres, I was there on opening weekend. Other than my relief at the film’s largely faithful reproduction of the Broadway musical, and my general glee at the marriage of silver screen technology with good old-fashioned theatre magic, I was struck by an aspect of the story that I had almost totally forgotten: Elphaba’s activism.

Underlying a story about female friendship and the dubiousness of popularity is the persecution of Oz’s population of talking animals, especially its intelligentsia, such as the Shiz University history professor (and goat) Doctor Dillamond. The stakes in Wicked go beyond those posed by the interpersonal plotlines– though yes, there is the tease of an explosive love triangle between Elphaba, Fiyero, and Glinda being withheld for a part two to be released in 2025. Watching the Erivo’s “Defying Gravity” scene in particular, I was reminded that the impact of this moment is not simply in Elphaba’s badassery (though that cape swirl, c’mon), it’s about her sense of purpose: her whole-hearted belief in something greater than herself and her willingness to sacrifice her particular dreams for it. While Elphaba clearly feels a kind of outcast-kinship with the animals, their suppression really doesn’t need to be her problem. She may be green, but she’s still human. How resonant this felt to me today: the luxury of choosing whether or not to involve oneself in causes which, for others, very literally mean life or death, freedom or subjugation. So, in spite of my editor’s vehement disagreement, let me tell you why this makes Wicked, not Barbie, the true feminist flick of 2024.

Was Barbie a lot of fun? Absolutely. Did I relish watching the all-Barbie Supreme Court swat away the Kens’ appeal for representation? I’ll admit it. Did I appreciate the film’s insistent and lucid jabs at patriarchal systems of oppression and its resistance to traditional narrative pressures like romantic love that constantly yoke female protagonists? Of course. Barbie was cathartic in many ways, but like most utopian visions, it could not hold up under the weight of its own aspirations. One of the biggest problems with the Barbie movie, and the thing that made it such easy fodder for the conservative rage machine, is the flatness of its fantasy. Similar to the failings of previous feminist movements – the second wave’s homogenization of the female experience, the third wave’s scattershot plurality, or the fourth wave’s relativism – the coalition of Barbies don’t give us much that we can actually take outside of Barbieland and leaves itself exposed to the most superficial and clumsy critiques of feminism. Worse than ‘navel-gazing,’ the film retreats into itself – quite literally –  in its infamous final image, a shock-scene of Barbie visiting a gynecologist.

Many women saw Barbie, looked around themselves, and thought: things really aren’t all that bad for me; I don’t hate men. Both sentiments are utterly beside the point and distracting. While the privileges we have been afforded by our feminist foremothers are undeniable, problems still abound. Violence against women is as pressing an issue as ever– is even on the rise as recent UN reports show in dizzying and disturbing figures. When our attention is the most sought-after commodity on the market, the act of remembering becomes difficult and critical work. Many Americans this November 5th, for example, thought back on their lives four years ago and said ‘well, it really wasn’t all that bad.’ But women especially cannot afford to delude themselves, we must refuse to let our memories gloss each and every story of sexual violence and gender-based injustice.

Elphaba’s feminism should be a model for us not because of what she is able to achieve for herself, but because of what she does with her power for others. Solidarity is a core value of a worthwhile feminism, and solidarity requires self-sacrifice. What feminists, we so-called nasty women and wicked witches, really ought to see is this: our efforts cannot be about perfecting our own pink bubble, our work needs to also be for the sake of the wider world– which means we need to do more than scrap for equal treatment and representation. Even at this particularly dark moment, when women’s ability to make choices about their own bodies has been again thrust into precarity, when the most vile, misogynistic corners of the internet are celebrating this recent swing of the political pendulum in their favor, we must – I’m sorry to say – continue to do it all: fight for ourselves and also for a truly diverse body of others. It is, for example, not just women’s healthcare that will be threatened by the incoming administration. Anyone who benefits from the Affordable Care Act (Obamacare), should be deeply worried. One of the Suffragettes’ arguments in the 19th century for why women should be given the right to vote was that they would be able to ‘mother’ the country in a way that men could never. While binary notions about femininity and masculinity are best left in the past, there is something useful for the modern feminist there, a reminder of the potential scope of our efforts. When women are empowered, everyone benefits.

As in Elphaba’s Oz, state-funded violence, ideological suppression, and identitarian politics demand our attention and action. Nostalgia for better times and good vibes are not enough– and neither is defeatedness. It’s nice to visit Barbieland, but we have things to do in the real world. This is just the sort of thing that Glinda struggles with– she is not powerful enough to matter, she has the privilege of being fairly normal, and so it is her choice whether or until when to stand by Elphaba. Her conflicting final gestures show her indecision, she tearfully wraps a cloak around the trembling Elphaba before her fateful flight, but we also see Glinda accept a hug from the (surprise!) rather devious Madame Morrible– and who could blame her, we all want to be safe, and liked, and free to pursue our dreams. It is for this reason that I teared up during the opening scene of celebration, “No One Mourns The Wicked” (which you may recognize as the resolution of the Wizard of Oz). As the munchkins rejoice over the death of Elphaba, their “Wicked Witch of the West,” Glinda floats down benevolent and sparkly in her bubble, beloved. But towards the song’s close, as Glinda dutifully lights the effigy of Elphaba, her voice diverges from the chorus, revealing her mixed regret, grief, and guilt. Complacency is a kind of credit, eventually it will have to be paid.

Feminist movements have never just been about getting a vote or getting a job. They were about ensuring the ability of all people to pursue their own sense of purpose, and indeed, their own happiness as is promised by one of the foundational documents of this country. In a precious IYKYK moment between Erivo and Grande and the roles’ originators, Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth, the torch of Wicked stardom is passed. I felt the weight of that moment in more ways than one. It made me think about the torches we hold as inheritors of the efforts of so many audacious women who labored, in big ways and small, for fair treatment with (as far as we know) the help of no magic at all. The way forward is rarely obvious, even when the road is, say, made of bright yellow bricks. What I do know is that equality ain’t a destination at the end of that road, it’s the thing we must constantly refashion and negotiate in order to travel it.

Corinne Shearer is OyeDrum’s Book Review Editor and an interdisciplinary artist currently based in Baltimore, MD. Having received a BFA in Dance Performance with a concentration in Dance Composition from SUNY Purchase, she has worked as a performer, choreographer, and teaching artist in New York City and the surrounding area since 2016. Shearer holds an MA in English Literature from The City College of New York where she also taught English Composition and technical writing as an adjunct lecturer. At present, she is a PhD student in the English department at Johns Hopkins University. Her research interests include 20th and 21st-century American literature, poetry and poetics, women’s studies, and performance studies.

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