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I was willing to write it off as coincidence until Madame Morrible said “mutilation.”

It comes near the end of Wicked – Part One, an indulgent and winning studio silver lining at 2024’s zero hour. Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) has renounced the grifter Wizard’s (Jeff Goldblum) help upon learning that his road to connect Oz will displace animals and destroy their ways of life.

In turn, former mentor Morrible (Michelle Yeoh) sics the Oz police state on her student – and in kind, swears fealty to Glinda (Ariana Grande.) The film ends in flux – Elphaba on the run, Glinda between two worlds, and Oz in upheaval.

Those who have seen the monolithic musical will recognize this as the precise intermission point of the show.

In a way, this choice encapsulates 2024. On a very surface level, it evokes the post-Reloaded trend of splitting films in two to maximize profit and alleviate production woes. Yet it also fits as an appropriate cap to the year itself, which will wrap up in a divisive and uncertain place. Even after taking office, the incoming cabinet of winged monkeys already eats its own alive with stuffing and cranberry sauce. Liberals meanwhile lick their flesh wounds in public with the weepy, undignified grace of cowardly lions. All the while, the intersections of working class Americans, immigrants, and queer folks wait with anxious, baited breath as the rest of the world begs them, “jump in over here! the economy’s great.”

Why do we bear straight on this Yellow Brick Interstate?

If we’re to look for answers, a Broadway tourist attraction is as good a place as any. In a way, there’s no language that Americans respond to more. We are, after all, a country built upon glitz and spectacle. So much sacred space has been carved up to make way for our frippery and amusement. This is why picture like The Wizard of Oz was able to take hold of the public consciousness. Despite thematic and narrative shortcomings absent in L. Frank Baum’s 1900 classics, it’s bright, catchy, and colorful enough to endure through the decades. There’s a universality there – a collective acknowledgment of not only Oz as cultural myth, but Victor Fleming’s adaptation as the “canon” version of it.

So – what’s all this about “mutilation,” then?

Before the film’s climax, Elphaba is introduced to a member of the Oz Guard – a solemn, sullen monkey in armor. Elphaba is told by the Wizard that the primate looks up at the birds each day, longingly, wistfully. In kind, Elphaba cracks open an ancient, heretofore indecipherable tome and begins to read a dead language with alarming fluency. The pages glow. The paper curls. Winds of unknown origin swirl and howl as Morrible and the Wizard stare at Elphaba in terror and astonishment.

At first – silence. Then, the guard begins to shriek.

The monkey writhes on the ground, clutching at his back. Elphaba, Morrible, and the Wizard gawp in panic, unsure of what will happen next.

“It’s just the transition, dearie,” Elphaba assures Glinda.

“It’s just the transition,” Glinda repeats, obedient.

Flesh warps. Bones crack. Bumps form on the creature’s back, then – an eruption. Black and purple feathers swirl in the air as appendages burst forth. Next to the spine – perhaps attached – wings begin to take form.

“It’s hurting him!” Elphaba protests.

But the Wizard lets the brutal transmogrification take flight. The shadow of Chistery’s wingspan falls upon the Wizard’s portrait. Yet as the ape takes flight, he has no guidance, no clarity on how he might exist as a free creature. He smacks into the ceiling and begins to thrash about, angrily.

It is all according to plan, Elphaba discovers. She’s created the Emerald City’s new winged guards – spies, meant to infiltrate and report back on what the Wizard calls “seditious animal activity.”

To liberate others how she thought they needed to be, before they were unified or assembled, Elphaba played into the hands of the police state.

This is about as simple a metaphor as it gets – a similar ingenious simplicity as the dual casting of Lehr, Bolger, and Haley. The flying monkeys are a childhood specter to entire generations of American. They are known – stereotyped – as the most frightful part of the original film. Wicked releases at a time when I can’t be sure about going into Target in jeans, a tank top, and a jacket without a child giving me confused looks. Right now, children are being taught to fear and ridicule trans people by key authority figures across the political spectrum. The parallels are not accidental, nor is any of the phrasing in this sequence. It is an audacious and unambiguous parallel that is encouraging to see in a studio film.

Is it insulting to have trans people (sorry, sorry – the “trans ideology”) compared to flying monkeys? If I was in the business of policing how straight, cis people rationalize our existences – maybe. But it works for me because, frankly, this is what Oz has always been. Metaphor and analog; thinly veiled, but veiled nonetheless. General Jinjur and the Wizard himself – fictive reconstructions of real-world phenomena around Baum. Sometimes, the creator landed in a place that gave away some of his own genocidal beliefs towards indigenous people. (The Wizard acts as a sort-of parody of that mentality, in what feels like the first genuine reckoning with it in a major Oz adaptation.) But in general, he attempted to color perspectives and beliefs with shades of earnest complexity that elevated those analogs above caricature. The Scarecrow is a literal strawman, for instance, yet even his utility shifts via the mechanics of the text itself as he ascends to kinghood, belittles suffragette rebellion, and lets his kingdom fall until a trans princess bails him out.

Of course this is a messy metaphor. Like Oz itself, Wicked is a messy metaphor for a lot of things. It gives credence to ideas make me – a pious little trans leftie – uncomfortable. Yet is this not what art is meant to do? Not to ‘both sides’ a given conflict, but to rationalize and litigate it through overt parallel? The idea that Elphaba gave the monkeys wings before they knew what to do with them is akin to handing a kid hormones and telling them, “alright buddy gal, figure it out.” For the transition to be constructive, meaningful, a family must come together and acknowledge that wanting to fly isn’t that out of the ordinary. In order for American families – across the political spectrum – to see this as just something some people are, responsible demystification en masse is vital.

Elphaba is not flawed because she wants the monkeys to fly. Her desire to help them leads her to force something powerful upon them as an antidote without actually understanding their specific plight.

She projects her own desires onto them, and the consequence is an easily mobilized, angry squad whose confusion is quickly capitalized on by Morrible. The monkeys turn on Elphaba, as she steals the tome and fleas with Glinda in pursuit. At threat of harm to their families, the primates give chase at the behest of Morrible. On public broadcast, the sorceress decries Elphaba as a monster, equating her green skin to spiritual rot. She further charges the witch with “mutilation of these poor, innocent monkeys” – language that evokes the gender critical movement’s accusations towards trans existence.

But if this itself is not convincing enough, let’s return to the source material – the first page of the prologue Gregory Maguire’s 1995 novel:

“Of course, to hear them tell it, it is the surviving sister who is the crazy one,” said the Lion. “What a Witch. Psychologically warped; possessed by demons. Insane. Not a pretty picture.”

“She was castrated at birth,” replied the Tin Woodsman calmly. “She was born hermaphroditic. Or maybe entirely male.”

That’s only the first page!

When Elphaba is born, her parents nor her nurse can properly gender her at first sight. Her genitalia is an ambiguous sticking point through the text, and she is regularly described using masculine language. Misgendering is a frequent occurrence in the text. It is consequently impossible to read this story in a contemporary setting and not think of it in a trans context – especially at this cultural moment.

In-text, society’s refusal to accept Elphaba as any gender lies at the root of her grief as much as being green and in love with Glinda does.

A revisit of Maguire’s text reveals much left on the green room floor by Stephen Schwartz. Overt same-sex intimacy between Elphaba and Glinda is axed; Fiyero’s darker skin and death at the hands of the Oz police state are whitewashed; Nessarose’s transformation into the Wicked Witch of the East is erased outright; the euphemism of the green elixir the Wizard spikes Elphaba’s mother with as roofies is made much more innocent.

This is only scratching the surface.

Trans analog that remains in the film, then, is not just happenstance or coincidence – it is an echo of themes that have been present since the beginning. Further, though Cynthia Erivo is a cis woman, the utility of Elphaba is used throughout the film to evoke very gendered feelings of othering – though it’s important to not ignore the racial metaphor here, as well. Elphaba is explicitly an analog for a queer of color – rejected for her identity on several verticals. It’s a weight that Erivo can bring to the role as a black bi woman, perhaps more than any major turn prior.

That said – I am more equipped to address to queer themes of the film than racial ones.

“Defying Gravity” is an extremely trans-coded scene if we equate “growing wings” with “transition-based surgery.” Elphaba casts the same spell she did to the monkeys on herself. It doesn’t work.

“Where are your wings?” pries Glinda.

Elphaba finds power not in growing wings, but in a nearby broom. When forced off a skyscraper balcony, she stares down her reflection. In the glass, she sees a younger version of herself – a child falling to their death. To save the child within herself, Elphaba finds the desire to live as herself – unashamed and “wicked.” It’s only then that the broomstick flies to her and whisks her up far above Oz with the freshly liberated monkeys in tow. With the Wizard’s grimoire and wings taking on a more yonic shape, the broomstick then reads as something of a phallic image – a proclamation and ownership of othering. She will fly by her own means, in her own way, if she can’t simply grow wings. By whatever means necessary, she will defy gravity. As a non-op transfemme, this scene hits a major note.

The Ozdust Ball also hits trans analog checkboxes with not only its aesthetic language, but in its central dance between Erivo and Grande. It opens with Elphaba coming down a central staircase in her pointed hat and black-on-black dress. Her conical hat was a “gift” from Glinda, who gave it to her in hopes of public humiliation. She arrives to put the kibosh on the trecly and unsatisfying “Dancing Through Life” – an ensemble number that squanders a series of gorgeous sets and great dancing on an inessential track buoyed by a funny Jonathan Bailey and gifted Marissa Bode.

As she walks down the stairs, the crowd parts. All eyes are on her – disgusted and confused. This sequence stings for any trans person who’s been scoffed at for wearing clothing that doesn’t conform to the birth gender. There’s a specific type of spiteful amusement and disgust reserved for being clocked in a dress – even supportive folks view it as a spectacle, even if it’s one they’re positive towards.

But Elphaba walks right up to Glinda – her roommate, and the most popular girl at Shiz U – and stares her down. Then she places the hat on the floor and begins to dance, quiet, awkward. To a rhythm only she hears. While the party stares in disbelief, snickering, Glinda is taken by her roommate’s defiant display. Slow, cautious, she walks to the center of the circle and stares Elphaba head-on. Then – after the pair touch the backs of their hands in a subtle, intimate gesture – the Good Witch joins the Wicked. The pair dance in quiet, steps locked. Done in pure silence, the sequence can be seen as analog for interpretive art being perceived by well-meaning establishment figures – happy to participate and engage while remaining ignorant to the true unspoken intent.

On that note, Ariana Grande gives a showstopping, scene-stealing turn akin to Barbara Streisand’s take on Dolly Levy. Her take on “Popular” is over-the-top, insistent and infectious while elucidating to the character. Like Streisand, Grande relies on musical training as comedy – stretching out or heightening notes for added comedic effect. It’s a take on the character that differentiates her turn from Kristen Chenoweth as did Streisand’s from Channing. Fortunate, really, for performers to have two such distinct canonical depictions to draw, delineate, and differentiate from.

But Erivo remains the narrative’s central focus, and a tremendous one at that. Her casual flows and smoked notes give a more approachable, less above-it-all take on the character than Menzel. She’s cool, confident in her abilities – fed up with the way she’s treated, but grounded in an understanding why she is. “The Wizard and I” feels much more earnest and human than it ever has, and “Not That Girl” – a mixed bag of a track – is given new life by the ache in Erivo’s performance.

Together, she and Grande make for a central dynamic that exhilarates as it amuses. “Defying Gravity” – the “Memory” or “I Dreamed A Dream” of the production – is as grand a climax as it should be, but it’s not the impressive setwork or imaginative computer visuals that make it. It’s Erivo and Grande that seal the deal – an arresting display of showmanship, chemistry, and raw ability that brings the film’s central themes to a rousing crescendo point. The longing in both women’s touches and stares are obvious, as they come to the conclusion that it is here – at the zero hour – their paths must diverge. For the light to exist, it must have a shadow.

This the fate of the two witches. Torn asunder by a state built around a Nebraska con man.

Wicked is the very sort of expensive, brand-reliant, CG-laden picture I’ve undressed since 2020. Yet Chu and co. show how films at this budget range, at this level of familiarity, can still be vital and relevant across socioeconomic strata. By drawing from a familiar, agnostic cultural myth, there’s immense freedom in what an artist can engage with so long as they’re careful.

But where 1939’s The Wizard of Oz lands in a place that says dark things about the state of America – especially in its didactic morality – 2024’s Wicked proffers genuine insight. The film suggests that bloviated figureheads inciting violence against protected groups, and futurists who pave over habitats in nebulous pursuits, aren’t that different from the insufferably polite rich socialites. It weaves a thread between the neo-liberal and the neo-conservative to illustrate the very real way working classes are taken advantage of.

It’s akin to a cuddly, family-friendly Stone & Parker argument – both extremes aren’t that removed from each other, and most of us are all just trying to exist without centralized government breathing down our neck.

The efficacy of this outside of confirmation bias is debatable. Yet I’m a believer in meeting people on their own terms. If artists can make compelling cases for unmaking strawmen in the name of a larger unified ideal, those strawmen won’t be as useful to idealogues anymore.

Late French philosopher Rene Girard argued that most human myth can be traced back to a surrogate victim mechanism – that is to say, most stories, theologies, and myths are built around garnered sympathy for a martyred group. Through Girard’s purview, socially perceived guilt of certain figures or groups has proven vital for unification throughout human history. Scapegoats are a useful tool to unify people behind, as fear can overwhelm logical senses and be used to stoke narratives that are otherwise absurd.

The trans panic is a great example. Of course, every trans person isn’t looking to attack women in bathrooms and whisk children away to back alley surgeries. If you really sit with it for a second, there’s an absurdity to the suggestion. But that doesn’t matter. The usefulness of that narrative at this moment in time is what matters, and what persists for now.

Right now, transgender people represent a useful intersection between left and right wing biases that can be easily capitalized on by bad faith actors like Matt Walsh and JK Rowling alike – right-wing and left-wing, respectively. (Don’t argue semantics with me, thanks.) “This person with these genitals says they want to be treated like they have your genitals. Doesn’t that scare you?” It’s a simple issue to misrepresent – in fact, many trans people are lucky if those they even love get it right or understand at first.

Being trans is truly nothing new, and examples of trans existence date back thousands of the year – kathoey and hijra in Thailand, for example, or the agender Public Universal Friend at the dawn of America in 1776. Only the terminology we use is culturally recent – “transgender” didn’t come into use until the 1950s – and that sticking point is often what gets used against us.

It’s not that transphobic people don’t understand us, because the concept isn’t a difficult one to grasp. In fact, they understand us loud and clear. But the terms we express ourselves with are unacceptable to them, and there are voices whispering in their ear that if we’re here, their way of life disappears.

If gay people can be married, then straight marriage will disappear.

If people can identify and present differently than assumed at birth, then gender will disappear.

But you can’t just logic away the stupidity. Wicked, then, asserts itself as pro-witch during a 21st hysteria. Simply, this many queer people have not led a blockbuster that has done this well in American history. Further, trans extras and masc extras in femme clothing blur gender boundaries consistently throughout. Then there’s the overt nature of the in-text themes themselves – and post-production interviews where Grande jokes that Glinda is “a little in the closet.”

For all the jovial fraternity proclamations of “go woke, go broke,” Wicked may yet prove that issues with financial flops like Eternals or The Marvels are not rooted in collective cultural rejection of diversity, but rather, brand fatigue and cynicism towards inauthentic marketing puff. Over $370m global (as of this writing) speaks a lot louder than YouTube commentary.

Our cultural rifts will not be sutured by popular film. Yet popular film gives root to narratives that endure through the decades. The ubiquity of The Wizard of Oz itself is a testament to that idea. It gave Americans something to demonize, ideas to rally behind at first blush. But in the interceding years, the film took on new meaning as a cultural myth – literature and film, Chicago and Hollywood, a genuine American fairy tale.

“There’s no place like home” holds a heavier cultural weight than the Kansas farmhouse Dorothy flies off in. “Somewhere Over The Rainbow,” too, is a much different place from the Emerald City to several generations of gay man. The Oz mythos is something shared by straight, cis society and queer culture in this country. It is one that is etched into the collective memory of the colonizing body. Dorothy is a friend to us all, yet only some of us are “friends of Dorothy.” Can that connective tissue be enough to keep us alive together?

By speaking the effects-laden language of a post-MCU filmgoing audience, but not sacrificing the grandiose mise en scene of MGM’s Technicolor marvel, Wicked – Part One asks that question on the largest possible scale. The film manages to strike a chord that resonates across tastes, styles, and generations. It’s a monumental picture – one which has taken up water cooler chatter and overheard murmurings at local haunts. A film that champions the Other of Oz, at a very unpopular time to be the “other” in its dark mirror.

Whether or not that mirror cracks – shatters – depends on us.