FILM REVIEW: Wicked (PG-13)
(Spoiler alert: I didn’t like it)
Once upon a time, in a city far, far away, I sat through a contentious staff meeting during which I’d had several tense conversations with my agency’s director. He often thought much more of himself than most people did, and this meeting was certainly no exception. In fact, the guy’s staff routinely laughed at him and dogged him out when he wasn’t around.
In my youthful hubris, I tended to call him out to his face. I recall having to tell him during that particular meeting that he was crazy, probably coming closer to losing my job than I realized at the time.
After that meeting, a colleague told me that I was like the kid in the classic children’s book “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” If you have not read it, spoiler alert: a rich, powerful emperor, who’s used to his townspeople lavishing complements on him about his gorgeous, luxurious suit, encounters a small boy on the sidelines of a parade through town. The little boy accurately tells the emperor that instead of showing off a beautiful, bejeweled suit, that he he was actually stark naked.
Even when I was a kid, I saw “The Emperor’s New Clothes” as a metaphor, so I took my colleague’s statement as a huge compliment. Our ED often exhibited signs of narcissistic insanity (I don’t think that’s in the DSM-V, but it ought to be). While my colleagues often kowtowed to our ED, I decidedly did not.
Why the history lesson, and peak inside of the psyche of this little ol’ writer? Because after decades of speaking truth to power, including a few dustups with the Beyhive over the years (I don’t think she has the greatest of singing voices), I’m almost afraid to tell you what I really think of Wicked, the feature adaptation of the beloved stage play. The whole world seems to love the film.
I didn’t. At the risk of losing my LGBTQ+ card, the new theatrical adaptation of Wicked was…OK.
If you’re still with me, you’re a Wicked fan, and you’re not plotting my murder, let me tell you what I liked about new feature, directed by Jon M. Chu. It’s beautifully shot, and provides a showcase for vocal phenom Arianna Grande’s comedic acting chops.
But (another spoiler alert!), Grande is not the film’s star, contrary to what audiences are led to believe in looking at trailers or ads for the movie. Wicked shines a spotlight on Cynthia Erivo. Her physical beauty is impossible to miss, even in this film when her face is slathered by layers of heavy green makeup. You can’t miss that gorgeous face, and thankfully the lady can sing and act.
Wicked offers Erivo and her cast mates a few songs to sing, so we should be good, right?
Well, sadly, those songs are spaced far too far apart in this first chapter of the feature version of Wicked. As an audience member, you realize that you’re kinda strolling through a haunted forest while fighting off a nap, waiting for Erivo or Grande to show up and sing again.
Which walks me up to my second issue with Wicked. Call me old school, but I’ve always thought that it was very important in a musical — crucial, in fact — whether it’s at your local elementary school, on Broadway, or at your local cineplex, that all of the actors portraying characters with singing parts can actually, well, sing. You kinda need that, actually, if the show’s songs are well crafted. For the most part, Wicked’s are.
But to make it to Wicked’s marginally exciting final act, when Erivo really gets to stretch out vocally and let the world know that singers like Aretha Franklin and Whitney Houston have someone to whom to pass the torch, you have to make it through two songs sung by brilliant actors who just. Can’t. Sing.
And I’m not even talking about Neil Diamond level talking-through-a-song, let alone latter day Franklin or Houston, the latter of which could have warbled from her final bathtub and sung rings around Academy Award winner Michelle Yeoh and veteran actor Jeff Goldblum. While Yeoh’s singing was painful to endure, I’ve had root canals that were more enjoyable that sitting through Goldblum’s “song.”
Even aside from that, Wicked is at least 45 minutes too long. I could have had a V-8. Undoubtedly, I’ll wait for what used to be called “home video” to see the second part of Wicked, which is due in theaters next fall.
Sometime between now and then, I’ll lean into digital versions of either Hollywood’s classic 1939 The Wizard Of Oz or 1978’s epic The Wiz to recall the glories of Oz paired with actors who can actually sing.
Yes.
God, yes.
So there you have it. My reputation as the kid who called out a naked emperor is intact. If you decide to take in Wicked, don’t say that this kid didn’t warn you.
Connect with freelance writer Michael P Coleman at MichaelPColeman.com.
