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The Post-Christian Morality of ‘Wicked’
One of the most noteworthy theological trends in 21st-century pop culture has been the rehabilitation of the “villain.” From Cruella to Maleficent to the Joker and more, iconic villains are now routinely given spinoff movies and sympathetic backstories that complicate our categories of good and evil. This has dovetailed with the rise of the “trauma plot” and a narrative fixation on how destructive choices (let’s just call it “sin”) can be explained by past trauma.
Part of why Hollywood has gravitated toward this narrative is simply that it makes good (and financially lucrative) drama. Giving villains origin stories is intriguing. But I think this trend’s rise is also connected to the post-Christian culture’s confusion about sin and evil, morality and justice. In this world, the theological word “sin” has been replaced by the psychological word “brokenness,” and transcendent concepts of justice have been replaced by oppressor-oppressed power dynamics.
All this is on full display in Wicked (out today in theaters), the Jon M. Chu–directed movie about the Wicked Witch of the West’s origin story. The Wicked franchise (first a book, then a popular Stephen Schwartz Broadway musical, and now a two-part cinematic saga) is perhaps the clearest example yet that contemporary pop culture struggles with the category of evil. The title alone playfully probes the concept, redefining it as a word of empowerment (think “Wicked awesome!” as Bostonians might say).
Rather than being the iconically despicable, nightmare-inducing character immortalized by Margaret Hamilton in 1939’s The Wizard of Oz, the Wicked Witch of the West is reconsidered in Wicked as a good-natured, well-intentioned outcast named Elphaba who has been seriously misunderstood.
‘Why Does Wickedness Happen?’
Why does wickedness happen? This question opens the film, posed by a munchkin in Munchkinland to Glinda the Good Witch (Ariana Grande) following news that ends the original Oz film: the Wicked Witch of the West is dead. Glinda answers the question by narrating the life of her frenemy, Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo), from her birth in a broken home to a childhood marked by bullying to adult years when she and Glinda attended Shiz University—an institution reminiscent of Hogwarts for would-be witches to learn magic.
Much of Wicked (part 1, with part 2 set to release a year from now) follows the relational development between Glinda and Elphaba as roommate rivals-turned-friends at Shiz U. Their odd-couple dynamic is fun to watch; much of Wicked’s pleasures come from the way Elphaba and Glinda complement and learn from each other. There are genuinely moving scenes of them caring for one another against all odds (the Ozdust Ballroom scene stands out).
Wicked is perhaps the clearest example yet that contemporary pop culture struggles with the category of evil.
Grande is perfectly cast as Glinda, who reminds me a lot of Reese Witherspoon’s iconic character in Election, Tracy Flick: a popular, ambitious, but slightly annoying queen bee. “I’ve decided to make you my project,” Glinda informs Elphaba, exuding the sort of condescending liberal guilt of a privileged “do-gooder” whose altruism is largely about virtue signaling. She represents privilege, power, and Karen-esque entitlement; even her gestures of allyship and solidarity feel opportunistic.
Meanwhile, Elphaba is a marginalized icon of intersectionality: born with green skin, the daughter of an unknown father, ostracized in childhood, prone to quirky dance moves. It’s no doubt intentional that Elphaba is played in the film by a queer black woman (Erivo). Her character doesn’t neatly fit mainstream society’s binaries and norms. And as the story progresses, she becomes a freedom fighter for the oppressed, a “villain” only insofar as those in power mischaracterize her cause.
Wickedness in ‘Wicked’: Oppressive Power Structures
If Wicked finds wickedness anywhere, it’s not in Elphaba. Rather, it’s in Oz’s privileged power structures—namely the Wizard of Oz (Jeff Goldblum), Madame Morrible (Michelle Yeoh), and others who gain power by using and abusing the less fortunate. It’s interesting that the Wizard is a God-proxy in the film’s world (characters exclaim things like “Thank Oz!” and “What in the name of Oz?”). This “deity” turns out to be a manipulative, self-serving, untrustworthy villain; religious mythology is exposed as a convenient means of perpetuating human power.
One subplot basically equates Oz’s elites with Nazi fascists. The talking animals—previously valued members of society—are now an oppressed group “othered” in ugly ways, blamed for everything (“scapegoat,” literally), silenced, and even locked up. “Animals should be seen and not heard” is the mantra of the fascist regime.
Elphaba emerges as the voice of resistance to this oppressive prejudice. “No one should be scorned or laughed at or looked down upon, or told to keep quiet,” she says, animated by her painful childhood trauma (we see a scene of her being bullied by a gang of white kids). But she’s also motivated by real compassion for others who are marginalized—chiefly her paraplegic sister (Marissa Bode) and the goat professor, Doctor Dillamond (Peter Dinklage).
If Elphaba has a flaw in Wicked, it’s that she cares too much. Unlike many in the film who live decadent, thoughtless lives (“dancing through life” rather than “studying strife”), Elphaba can’t turn a blind eye to injustice. Her “wickedness” emerges out of an earnest passion that begins to consume her. Her character is emblematic of the hyperserious, humorless stereotype of the “woke.” How can one smile and make jokes when the world is so cruel and unjust?
Indeed, vice in the world of Wicked isn’t just embodied by powerful people who actively oppress; it’s also evident in those who don’t care enough that this is happening—the privileged who can eat, drink, and merrily dance while nefarious forces ruin the world. Silence is violence. In Wicked’s view of sin and culpability, some individuals are actually heinous and Hitler-esque; but entire classes of people are culpable for their willful ignorance; guilty on account of their naive, comfort-prioritizing “complicity” in an evil system.
‘Defying Gravity’: Anthem of Moral Autonomy
Elphaba’s framing as Wicked’s heroic protagonist has a lot to do with her advocacy for others. But it also has to do with her resolute belief in herself and a bold rejection of imposed expectations and limits. This too reflects our post-Christian culture’s reframing of virtue and vice. To be radically autonomous, fiercely whoever you want to be: this is a high virtue. To conform to external norms and submit to authority outside yourself: this is the “vice” of weakness and uncritical complicity.
Wicked ends where act 1 of the musical ends, with Elphaba picking up her iconic broomstick, learning to fly, and fleeing Oz as an exiled villain. She and Glinda sing “Defying Gravity,” Wicked’s trademark empowerment anthem. It’s a thesis statement of sorts for the film’s remaking of Elphaba as a post-Christian messianic hero more than a depraved villain.
‘Defying Gravity’ is a thesis statement of sorts for the film’s remaking of Elphaba as a post-Christian messianic hero more than a depraved villain.
Elphaba defies gravity literally but also philosophically, rejecting higher authorities and moral norms: I’m through with playing by the rules of someone else’s game . . . / I’m through accepting limits / ’Cause someone says they’re so. She asserts her “woken up” virtue (Too late to go back to sleep), moral autonomy (It’s time to trust my instincts) and “born this way” self-acceptance (Some things I cannot change).
It’s not surprising “Defying Gravity” has become a favorite anthem of the LGBT+ community, often performed at Pride events. The song (and Wicked generally) has a campy ambiance of naughtiness and shameless transgression. But it also narrates the choice many LGBT+ people make to sever relationships and separate from “nonaffirming” communities (including families) so they can live in freedom, on their own terms: As someone told me lately / “Everyone deserves the chance to fly” / And if I’m flying solo / At least I’m flying free.
There’s a sadness to Elphaba’s choice to “fly solo” and embrace her exile, justified by her “no one can bring me down” freedom: To those who’d ground me / Take a message back from me / Tell them how I am defying gravity.
Glinda recognizes the sadness of it but doesn’t necessarily think Elphaba is making the wrong choice. She sings, I hope you’re happy / Now that you’re choosing this / I hope it brings you bliss. Glinda’s way of loving Elphaba is, in the end, to affirm her choice—however destructive it may be for her and others. Indeed, “I hope it makes you happy” has become the grid of moral evaluation in a post-Christian world. You do you. Be yourself. Follow your heart. As long as you’re happy.
Gravity Can’t Be Defied Without Consequences
But gravity is an inescapable law of the universe. It can’t be defied without consequences. Universal laws and limits exist, no matter how forcefully we sing, “Unlimited!” God’s creation has a “grain,” and going against the grain always leaves you with splinters.
‘I hope it makes you happy’ has become the grid of moral evaluation in a post-Christian world.
This is the real tragedy of Wicked. It’s a well-intentioned story driven by an earnest exploration of right and wrong. The residue of Christianity informs its moral intuitions (e.g., the inherent dignity of all people, advocacy for the weak), and we can celebrate that Wicked wants us to think and talk about morality rather than simply “dancing through life.”
But even if the story helpfully praises the costly pursuit of justice and fighting for the marginalized, in the end its rejection of moral absolutes leaves audiences without real hope or clarity. In a “trust my instincts” world where subjective authority reigns, questions of what’s just and unjust, good and evil, are ultimately unanswerable. Heroes and villains are constructs; “wicked” is merely an arbitrary label imposed by one group over another as propaganda to consolidate power.
We can praise elements of Wicked as a well-told story and creatively rendered world. The songs and costumes are fun. The vibes are pleasant. But the moral ideas—however well intentioned—are ultimately incoherent and unhelpful.
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