The Intersectional Politics of Wicked: More Relevant and Powerful Than Ever

Reflecting on Jon M. Chu’s cinematic adaptation of *Wicked*, I realized that prior to attending multiple screenings, the musical had scarcely crossed my mind for nearly two decades. While I cherished it during its cultural zenith, where I proudly owned the soundtrack—just like many others—my adult recollection was mostly confined to the basic premise: “Oh, it’s the musical about the Wicked Witch of the West, featuring that catchy song ‘Popular.’”

However, witnessing *Wicked* freshly as an adult was an entirely different experience. To my astonishment, I discovered I still retained every single song in my memory. Adult viewership often uncovers themes and details unnoticed during youth, and I found myself freshly aware of *Wicked*’s poignant discussions surrounding animal rights in the Land of Oz—a facet I had completely overlooked.

This realization deepened my appreciation for the sophistication of the film, the musical, and the original novel. The narrative strikes a timely chord that resonates profoundly in today’s context, addressing how the treatment of animals in Oz extends beyond mere subplot—it’s a crucial driver of Elphaba’s character development. The story boldly tackles the concepts of otherness, the suppression of knowledge by authorities, and even elements of fascist governance.

The Concept of “Otherness”in Oz

For those who haven’t revisited *Wicked* in some time, here’s a brief overview: Elphaba and Glinda attend Shiz University, where Doctor Dillamond, the last remaining animal professor, becomes a vital figure in their education. During a lecture, Dillamond deviates from the lesson plan to enlighten his students about the existence of talking animals in Oz—a stark contrast to the present ostracization they now face. Following a drought, these animals morph from beloved companions to scapegoats for Oz’s misfortunes.

Amid the lesson, students relentlessly mock Dillamond for his accent. A shocking moment occurs when he confronts the chalkboard, revealing a chilling decree: “Animals should be seen and not heard.” This moment underlines the disturbing reality that across Oz, animals are systematically losing their ability to speak—a suppression driven by fear.

This narrative lays the groundwork for a compelling metaphor illustrating how marginalized groups, when demonized and excluded by those in power, find their voices suppressed within societal and historical narratives. Control of the narrative ultimately resides with the powerful.

The plight of the othered, exemplified by Dillamond, relegates them to pleas for empathy that often fall upon deaf ears within the larger community. Remarkably, *Wicked* reveals that the very student body shows little concern, choosing instead to maintain their social standing and join in the mocking laughter—a reflection of the often uncomfortable truth that humans can prioritize group acceptance over moral action.

In *Wicked*, only Elphaba, due to her own experiences with discrimination owing to her green skin, exhibits genuine concern for Doctor Dillamond.

Parallels Between Wicked, America, and the Other

Caution: Spoilers Ahead for *Wicked*

As the story unfolds, it becomes clear that the othering of animals isn’t merely an unfortunate outcome of adversity; it is revealed as a calculated strategy employed by the Wizard of Oz to strengthen his dominion. He cynically declares, “Where I’m from, everyone knows the best way to bring folks together is to give them a real good enemy.”

The Wizard’s origins are explicitly linked to the USA, underscoring the frightening parallels between the narrative of *Wicked* and actual historical events in American society. The film premiered in 2003, coinciding with extensive military actions in Iraq and prevailing xenophobia in the wake of 9/11, echoing sentiments raised during the Wizard’s era marked by World War II. Concurrently, recent socio-political trends highlight the continued emergence of scapegoating in political discourse.

The film’s release is particularly salient as it follows a certain political figure’s re-election campaign, which capitalized on blaming societal issues on marginalized groups, including undocumented immigrants.

The Dangers of Knowledge Suppression

Flash forward to another pivotal moment: when we next see Doctor Dillamond, he is in a frantic rush—”Today is my last day at Shiz,” he announces. In a shocking twist, animals are suddenly banned from teaching. Security guards forcibly remove Dillamond, an act that highlights the oppressive measures being taken against those who seek truth.

“You’re not being told the whole story!” Dillamond exclaims as he’s dragged away, setting the stage for a revealing moment when Elphaba’s outburst shatters the school’s emblem, exposing a past where animals held teaching positions.

The new history teacher unveils a grotesque representation of power: a cage housing an innocent baby lion, meant to instill fear—an abhorrence that serves to prevent the lion from ever finding its voice. This plot point exemplifies the manipulation of entire groups through generational trauma and psychological domination.

Despite the shocking displays of cruelty, the student body largely remains passive, their compliance driven by social norms and fears of standing out. Challenging authority can lead to ostracization, a risk most prefer to avoid.

This control mechanism—instilling fear, regulating knowledge, and determining who shapes the narrative—is indicative of fascist ideologies. Gregory Maguire’s *Wicked* novel does not shy away from portraying the Wizard as an emblem of totalitarian rule.

While one might wish to dismiss such comparisons as fictional exaggerations, it is difficult to overlook current trends in the U.S., including distressing instances of book bans targeting marginalized communities, particularly LGBTQ+ literature.

*Wicked* is undeniably a grand spectacle that offers escapism; however, it also delivers a cutting commentary on pertinent societal issues. As we navigate today’s complex landscape, the question remains: will we defer to the prevailing narrative, or rise to challenge it actively?

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