Defying Gravity: Wicked and the Weight of Social Justice

A spoiler-free reflection on Wicked, fascism, Black womanhood, and white feminism.

There are moments in history when a story, simply told, becomes more than a story. It becomes a mirror, a revolt, a balm for wounds unseen. In such moments, the storyteller holds not just a pen but a scalpel, cutting away the lies we wrap ourselves in, exposing the arteries and bone of our collective truths. Wicked: Part One (yes, the story is split in two movies), in all its shimmer and spectacle, does precisely this. Beneath the glittering spires of the Emerald City, it lays bare the machinery of oppression—fascism cloaked in song, complicity hidden beneath smiles, and the quiet devastation wrought by those who believe their hands are clean.

This is the power of storytelling: to take what we know but often dare not name and place it before us, unflinching, uncompromising.

I came into Wicked with expectations that felt insurmountable, expectations forged over years of devotion to theater. This wasn’t just another movie for me. For starters, I had seen the original Broadway cast in all their glory, and carried the memory of those performances like an heirloom. Then there was Cynthia Erivo, a force of nature I first witnessed nearly a decade ago in The Color Purple on Broadway, and have been a huge fan of since. To watch her was to see something eternal. And Ariana Grande—her sound had always been an echo of something both old and new, is someone I greatly enjoy. Her collaborations with Babyface on her debut album let me know that she wasn’t just a pop star but an artist capable of something profound.

All of this was with me when I sat down to watch Wicked. The weight of nostalgia, the bar set impossibly high by the musical’s legacy, and the sheer brilliance of these two performers—these were the stakes. And yet, even under the crushing pressure of all that expectation, this film didn’t just succeed; it transcended.

This essay will remain free of spoilers, but I’ll begin with an obvious truth: the first and most audacious stroke of brilliance in this film was the casting of a Black woman—Cynthia Erivo—to embody Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West. This choice, deliberate and defiant, does not merely alter the surface of the story; it transforms its marrow, deepens its resonance, and shifts the axis upon which its narrative spins. It is a casting decision that echoes through every corner of the film, setting a tone that is at once urgent and profoundly necessary.

Cynthia Erivo as Elphaba.

Elphaba has always been a metaphor for the misunderstood, the maligned, and the oppressed, but here—played by a Black woman—the metaphor becomes flesh. It becomes history, becomes America, becomes now.

This casting decision does not simply nod at inclusion; it reconstructs the architecture of the story. Elphaba is not just fighting for herself; she is fighting against systems that have long been structured to devour Black women. Her defiance, her refusal to capitulate to the myths others impose upon her, carries with it the weight of centuries of struggle. And it is precisely because Cynthia Erivo stands in this role, with her voice—raw, mighty, and unrelenting—that the story becomes not just a fairy tale, but a reckoning.

By casting Cynthia Erivo, Wicked becomes more than the sum of its parts. It becomes an allegory for the intersections of race, sex, and power. It asks us not just to feel, but to think, to reflect on the many ways we participate—knowingly or not—in the stories that exile others to the margins. The magic of this choice is not only in what it adds to the story, but in what it reveals about the world that made this story necessary in the first place.

The center of Wicked is, unmistakably, fascism. It is the spine upon which the narrative stretches itself—wrapped in the illusion of order, cloaked in the green shimmer of progress, but at its core, there is only power and its ruthless preservation. Fascism, in this tale, is not a distant specter. It is intimate, close, woven into the fabric of a society that sings and dances while the oppression grinds on. Alongside it stands an allegory for genocide and internment, chilling in its clarity. It is a reminder, not of what was, but of what is and what will be, if we remain silent.

And yet, in this world pillared by its sins, there is one voice, one figure, who refuses to falter, refuses to bend. Elphaba, green-skinned and resolute, is the sole voice of dissent (at least, of those who are not being captured), the singular heart that beats against the tide of fear and conformity.

Erivo’s Elphaba is not merely a character; she is a metaphor that reverberates through time. Her steadfast refusal to yield is a reflection of the role Black women—and Black people, broadly—have so often been forced to play in the world’s most critical battles. In moments of moral crisis, when silence becomes complicity and action becomes hazard, it is Black voices that have so often rung out, clear and uncompromising, against injustice. From the abolitionists to the civil rights activists, from Ida B. Wells to Fannie Lou Hamer, from the streets of Selma to the streets of Ferguson, Black women have stood where others would not, shouldered burdens too heavy for one heart to carry, and spoken truths others refused to utter. Elphaba’s portrayal by a Black woman feels like an homage to these truths.

In Wicked, the world of Oz mirrors our own, where complicity is easy and resistance is perilous. It is a world where silence is rewarded, where power thrives on the apathy and fear of those it governs. The citizens of Oz do not need to be overtly cruel or violent to sustain the Wizard’s regime; they simply need to sing the songs, perform the rituals, and avert their gaze from hardships others face. In their willful ignorance, they create a system that feels insurmountable to those who dare to resist.

Complicity, in Oz, is the path of least resistance. It is a comfortable existence, one where the illusion of goodness can be maintained so long as no one looks too closely. It is the ease of doing nothing while injustice festers. And this ease is precisely what makes complicity so dangerous. It is not the fire of hatred but the quiet acceptance of its warmth, the belief that so long as one’s hands remain clean, they bear no responsibility for the inferno.

Resistance, on the other hand, demands sacrifice. It demands that one step out of the shadows and into the harsh light of scrutiny. It is to live with the knowledge that the cost of defiance is often isolation, condemnation, and potentially death. Elphaba knows this intimately. Her resistance is not born of choice but of necessity, and yet, the cost of her defiance is immeasurable.

This dichotomy between complicity and resistance is not confined to the realm of Oz. It is the heartbeat of our own societies, where the structures of power persist because complicity is easier than action. We see it in the silent nods, the unspoken agreements, the social gatherings with family and friends who would see people on the margins buried, the collective shrug of those who benefit from systems of oppression but refuse to challenge them. And we see it in the relentless, often thankless work of those who resist, who refuse to accept the status quo, who dare to imagine a world that is not built on the backs of the marginalized.

It is in this reflection that Ariana Grande’s Glinda becomes more than just a character; she becomes the ultimate manifestation of complicity in Wicked. She is the good witch, the beloved figure who represents all that is bright and beautiful in Oz. Yet her goodness is not the kind that disrupts or challenges. It is the kind that upholds, the kind that smooths over cracks rather than acknowledging the foundation is rotten. Her performance is a masterwork, an incisive portrayal of the layers of complicity, danger, and the intricate dynamics within white feminism.

Said danger is not because they are always overtly malicious, but because they are so often ignorant to their own role in the oppression of others because of their belief in their inherent goodness and purity. All of which is rooted in white supremacy.

Grande, in her shimmering gowns and practiced smiles, embodies this with devastating precision.

Ariana Grande as Glinda.

Glinda is not, in actuality, good; she is simply what everyone is comfortable with. This, of course, has always been the case, even in the original musical. Her charm, her dazzling smile, her effortless way of disarming criticism with a whoosh of her hair or a melodic laugh—these are not markers of goodness but of palatability. Glinda does not defy gravity, she succumbs to it, coasting along the currents of societal approval. And yet, with Elphaba now embodied by a Black woman, this narrative of palatability is reframed, deepened, sharpened. What was once a clever critique of performative virtue is now an extraordinary metaphor for the systemic disparities that privilege creates and perpetuates.

Glinda’s actions, seen through the lens of what they mean for a Black woman like Elphaba, are no longer merely selfish—they are devastating. Her refusal to take stock of the privilege that allows her to ascend, unchallenged, to the heights of Oz’s society is not simply a personal flaw; it is an indictment. She leverages her charm, her whiteness, her beauty to sustain a narrative that keeps her comfortable and unaccountable, all while Elphaba bears the brunt of the world’s fear and scorn. The gap between them is not one of talent but of morality and privilege—a privilege that Glinda wields masterfully and refuses to interrogate.

The brilliance of this adaptation lies in how it forces us to confront the ways in which Glinda’s privilege is not only her own but is upheld by everyone around her. The characters in the film flock to her, not because she challenges the status quo, but because she reinforces it. She is a symbol of order, of beauty, of goodness, not because she is these things, but because she has been allowed to inhabit them without contest. Even the marginalized characters, eager to find a space in the tightly guarded hierarchy of power, align themselves with Glinda, their complicity as much about survival as it is about ambition.

And then there is Elphaba’s sister, Nessarose—a woman of mixed race, whose own marginalization does not prevent her from aligning with the structures that oppress Elphaba. Here is a tragic but painfully familiar dynamic: the proximity to privilege that makes one feel as though they can belong, even at the expense of someone they claim to love. Nessarose’s betrayal, subtle yet piercing, echoes the ways in which marginalized communities are often divided, turned against one another by the systems that oppress them both.

This is not simply a story about two women in conflict; it is a masterful dissection of how privilege operates, how it seduces, and how it destroys. Glinda’s complicity is not accidental; it is strategic, even if she cannot see it for what it is. Her actions are the quiet, insidious violence of not just right-wing white women, but of liberal ones as well. Those who believe themselves to be allies but whose allyship dissolves the moment it requires sacrifice. Glinda does not stand with Elphaba; she stands atop her, even as she sings of love and light. She takes the power she wields and uses it to uphold the very systems that marginalize Elphaba—and, by extension, every other person who does not fit into their world’s narrow definition of acceptable.

The metaphor is strikingly clear: Glinda is the liberal white woman who promises solidarity but ultimately chooses comfort. She is the coworker who nods along during the diversity seminar but stays silent when the Black woman in the office is spoken over. She is the friend who decries racism in theory but calls the police on a “suspicious” Black man in her neighborhood. She is the woman who marches for women’s rights while ignoring the plight of women who don’t look like her in her own city, or in places such as Gaza, Sudan, or The Congo.

But what makes this portrayal extraordinary is its refusal to let Glinda off the hook. The film does not ask us to hate Glinda, but to see her for what she is: a manifestation of power wielded masterfully, yet destructively. It asks us to interrogate the systems that create Glinda, that reward her, that elevate her, even as they push Elphaba into the shadows. And it asks us to consider the ways in which we, too, might be complicit.

There is something urgent and undeniable about Wicked in this moment. It is not just a film—it is a mirror held up to a world fractured with inequities. To watch it is to reckon with the rise of fascism, the quiet insidiousness of white feminism, the unyielding strength of Black womanhood, and the complicity that allows white supremacy, patriarchy, genocide, and all forms of bigotry to persist. It is not merely entertainment but an invitation—no, a demand—for reflection. Who are we, truly, when confronted with the systems that bind us all, some in chains and others in comfort?

This is the movie the world needs right now. In its spectacle and song, it asks us to look past the glittering surface and into what is beneath—to see the forces of power and privilege that shape our lives and the lives of those around us. It asks us to see not only Elphaba and Glinda but the choices we make every day: to resist or to comply, to speak out or to remain silent, to challenge the structures that harm or to benefit quietly.

Wicked reminds us that the stories we tell shape the futures we build. And perhaps, in telling this story now, we might find the strength to build something new.

I can’t wait for part two of the film.

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