For all the mockery it received in the lead-up to, and even after release, Wicked remains. Such is the case for the unstoppable force of theatre kids and the immovable object of terminally online Ariana Grande fans joining forces. Guantanamo Bay levels of sonic torture are coming across Wicked fans. Though the reaction may be feverish, the result does not need the acclaim it received from those still riding the high of Eternal Sunshine. Pop sensation Grande is as big a facet for watching this for so many people as the source material. The Wizard of Oz has been bastardised for a century now, and it shall continue. With a sequel set to extend the story even longer, the Academy Award-nominated Wicked is as washed as the startlingly amateurish colour palette. It’s a film made for theatre kids and Grande fans, which means liberties can be taken with the set design.
Not too much, though. Wicked takes it too far with a cross between cardboard cutouts from school productions of Little Red Riding Hood and leftovers from the Sam and Cat stage. The Wizard of Oz as a concept works well because the imagination can run wild, filling in the blanks of this character or that area. But a mass desire to have all the facts present, this lack of fulfilment through open-ended spectacles, has been crushed by Wicked. Lacking nostalgia for the original film and the adaptations across mediums to come after gives a neutrality which remains across the nearly three hours of Wicked. Plenty of time to fit nothing at all in, with the film failing to establish anything unique, a single moment which can define it as more than a shoddy extension of the much-loved classic. Those technical merits, which are meant to thrill on the big screen, are absent here.
Emerald City looks more like a green blob slopped into a field, while the village where much of the early action takes place feels more like a vague blueprint of what a fairy tale scenario should be. They may note Ding Dong the Witch is Dead (1925 – 2013), but the constant musical stop-offs are underwhelming. Wicked may be an adaptation of the stage play, but Jon. M Chu offers a very limited showcase of how theatrics can be drafted onto the big screen. That childish whimsy which the very best of family-friendly films can offer is absent here, because the pace is in service solely of songs, irrespective of the link. For those who are unmoved by the theatre, those who find it obnoxious to hear every other note elongated for, like radio, silence is taboo, this will be an excruciating watch.
But even for those who loved the stage show and wanted to see how Grande would tackle Glinda, Wicked is a very hollow piece of work. Cynthia Erivo and Michelle Yeoh are as forgettable as Grande, not because their performances are poor but because the clunkiness of the adaptation is tough to stand. Its major shortcoming is with the source material, though. This style of moviemaking, where the studios are filling in the blanks instead of the audience, where every character needs a flashy and detailed background, is slowly but surely killing the imagination of an entire generation. Wicked is not the problem; it is merely a symptom. Detail after detail piled into a film where the whimsy and magic came from what we did not see, just as much as what we did. A mesmerising waste of time because, fundamentally, the backstory of a minor villain from a moment on screen does not need hours dedicated to it.
