The 2024 film adaptation of Wicked arrives as more than mere entertainment—it emerges as a powerful commentary on our contemporary societal fractures. With Cynthia Erivo's groundbreaking portrayal of Elphaba, the film more effectively conveys its central plot line about identity and marginalization, speaking directly to viewers' personal experiences of exclusion, self-affirmation, and activism.
At its core, Wicked offers an artful critique of how society constructs and maintains differences. Elphaba's green skin is an unmistakable metaphor for visible racial, physical, or ability-based differences. The casting of Erivo, a Black actress, in this role interestingly drives home the racism allegories, transforming what could have been abstract commentary into immediate, resonant social criticism. The film's treatment of ability and difference extends beyond mere skin color. Also, the character of Nessarose, Elphaba's wheelchair-using sister, presents a complex examination of ableism and the intersection of physical difference with power. Wicked challenges moviegoers to confront their preconceptions about ability, worth, and the right to occupy societal space.
The stark contrast between Glinda's privileged background and Elphaba's outsider status illuminates the deep-seated class divisions that plague Oz and our society. Wicked's opening scenes explore central themes related to gender and race, establishing how social hierarchies are maintained through overt and subtle forms of discrimination. Perhaps most pertinent to our current political climate is the film's examination of how othering is systemically curated. The Wizard's strategy of uniting society through a common enemy proves eerily relevant, mirroring contemporary political tactics. The film’s depiction of how truth becomes distorted through propaganda is an enlightening aspect of our 'fake news' climate. Additionally, the manipulation of public perception and the exploitation of prejudices are central themes, demonstrating how those in power can shape narratives to maintain their authority.
Wicked recognition that various forms of discrimination don't exist in isolation is compelling. The film portrays how different types of marginalization—whether based on appearance, ability, class, or beliefs—often intersect and reinforce each other. This intersectional approach helps audiences understand how systems of oppression work together to maintain social hierarchies. This is coupled with the themes of resistance and solidarity. Such heavy thematics in the story speak of the hope inherent in resistance and alliance-building. For example, the unlikely burgeoning friendship of Elphaba and Glinda demonstrates the power of crossing social boundaries and challenging ingrained prejudices. Their relationship suggests that meaningful social change requires individual transformation and collective action.
Wicked is a story whose themes of scapegoating minorities, manipulating public opinion, and resistance against authoritarian power structures feel less like fantasy and more like a mirror held up to our nation's current events. It succeeds as entertainment and a powerful lens through which to examine our social divisions and prejudices. It reminds us that the process of othering—whether through ableism, racism, or classism—serves political ends and that resistance begins with recognizing our shared humanity. Its message is and resonates more powerfully than ever.
Johnson is a United Methodist pastor, the author of "Holding Up Your Corner: Talking About Race in Your Community" and program director for the Bridge Alliance, which houses The Fulcrum.
Demonstrators rally outside the U.S. Supreme Court as justices hear oral arguments on whether President Donald Trump can deny citizenship to children born to parents who are in the United States illegally or temporarily, on Capitol Hill, in Washington, Wednesday, April 1, 2026. (AP Photo/Mariam Zuhaib)
Luz Angela Nuñez with her daughter Aisha Quershi Nuñez at their home in College Point, Queens. Photo: Mia Anzalone for Documented.
Kimberly Alvarez, 25, with her daughter Evangeline and her husband John Alvarez in Medellin, Colombia. Photo courtesy of Kimberly Alvarez.Alvarez arrived in New York City in February 2024 with her husband John Alvarez as asylum seekers from Venezuela. In April 2025, Alvarez found out she was pregnant with her first child, a baby girl. Her first reaction, she said, was fear.“How am I going to keep her alive?” she said. “That’s what I was thinking. ‘How am I going to be able to take care of her?’”At the beginning of Alvarez’s pregnancy, she said she was aware of the immigration enforcement occurring around the country, but vowed not to let it deter her from showing up to her doctor’s appointments.“When you went out, you were always on alert because you didn’t know if [ICE] might be around. I never saw anything suspicious,” Alvarez said. “But of course, you feel scared.”In October, when Alvarez was six months pregnant, her husband was detained by ICE agents at 26 Federal Plaza. When the immediate shock wore off, she obsessively checked the Online Detainee Locator System to find out where her husband went. A day later, she discovered that he was being kept at Delaney Hall detention center in New Jersey. Alvarez quickly set up an account to pay for phone calls, and every two days, she would pay about $10 for a one-hour call, updating her husband about the baby, her appointments and how she was doing.“Crying was the only way for me to release the tension,” said Alvarez, who worried that her lack of sleep and bad diet were impacting her baby. “Crying was the only way for me to release the tension.”—Kimberly AlvarezThat tension built up day by day, week by week following her husband’s arrest. Alvarez had stopped her work as a cleaner in the neighborhood’s synagogues two weeks before her husband’s detention because of her pregnancy. The plan, she said, was to rely solely on his income as a maintenance worker for “the food, the rent, everything.” Left with few choices, Kimberley had to rely on her mother’s income as a cleaner. The older woman had moved to New York from North Carolina to assist with Alvarez’s pregnancy. “I feel like I’m supposed to help my mom, not the other way around,” Alvarez said. “I felt powerless because I couldn’t do anything.”On Dec. 9, Alvarez gave birth to a daughter, Evangeline. While her baby was healthy, Alvarez’s anxieties did not go away. While she returned to cleaning synagogues a few months after Evangeline’s birth to help make ends meet, Alvarez and her daughter rarely left home. Alvarez said she felt paralyzed, getting frequent alerts from a neighborhood WhatsApp group when ICE was spotted nearby. One day, she said, ICE arrested her friend’s husband in Sunset Park, in an area where she would sometimes take Evangeline for walks.“I’m so afraid that I’ll go out and run into one of them and that they’ll take her away from me,” Alvarez said. “That’s my biggest fear, that someone will take her away from me and I won’t know where my daughter is.”In March, her husband decided to voluntarily remove himself from the United States and move back to Colombia, where he is originally from. It was a family decision, but it was not a happy one — hiring immigration lawyers was too expensive, Alvarez said, adding that staying in the U.S. felt too uncertain. 
