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.
A golden tray sits on the Resolute Desk as President Donald Trump speaks during an announcement on American nuclear innovation in the Oval Office at the White House on July 24, 2026, in Washington, D.C. Trump is signing multiple executive orders targeting the nuclear energy sector and easing rules for new reactors and nuclear fuel supply chains.
Trump’s hubris rivals the fallen heroes of ancient Greek mythology
In January, the New York Times asked President Donald Trump if there were any limits on his global powers.
“Yeah,” the president responded, “there is one thing. My own morality. My own mind. It’s the only thing that can stop me.”
That was eight months ago, but fortunately Christopher Nolan’s blockbuster adaptation of “The Odyssey” has made ancient Greek literature newly relevant. Before that window closes, I’d like to talk about hubris.
Today, the term mostly means excessive pride or arrogance. That’s part of what the Greeks meant by it too, but the meaning was a bit richer and more specific. Hubris was an insolent or outrageous act that offended the gods, often because the transgressor was claiming abilities or authorities that solely belonged to supreme beings.
Nolan renamed and slightly modified the concept of xenia for the film, calling it “Zeus’ law.” In the director’s telling, mortals should follow the rules laid out by the gods, specifically the requirement to treat strangers with respect lest they be gods in disguise.
In a sense, hubris is the opposite, or at least the rejection, of xenia. The hubris of the suitors, and at times Odysseus himself, invites punishment by the gods and their mortal instruments.
Which brings me back to Donald Trump. His claim that there are no constraints on his personal power to dictate events on the global stage was one of the greatest expressions of hubris ever uttered by a political leader.
Trump’s claim was obviously false when he made it.
He vowed that he could end the Russia-Ukraine war in 24 hours. He’s proved powerless to make that happen. If he had divine powers to work his will, why would he have balked at implementing his tariffs so often that Wall Street adopted the “TACO trade” term for his deals? “TACO” stands for “Trump always chickens out.”
And why would Trump have made so many embarrassing concessions to China — from rescinding tariffs on Chinese goods to allowing them to buy crucial and incredibly valuable computer chips?
But Trump saw his success at capturing Venezuelan strongman Nicolas Maduro as proof of his ability to launch missiles to the same effect as Zeus’ lightning bolts. Trump believed he was the most powerful man who ever lived.
This is no exaggeration. In March, when the Iran invasion seemed successful, Trump gave a document penned by“Presidential Historian David King” to New York Times reporters Maggie Haberman and Jonathan Swan purporting to prove that Trump was “the most powerful person to have EVER walked this planet.” King was, in fact, a businessman and occasional caddy for legendary golfer Gary Player.
King compared Trump favorably to many of history’s most powerful, and often heinous, figures: Alexander the Great, Attila the Hun, William the Conqueror, Napoleon Bonaparte, Joseph Stalin, Genghis Khan, Mao Tse Tung, Adolf Hitler and Vladimir Lenin. Many of these men thought they were the most powerful person in the world, too. And many were defeated precisely because they believed it.
At least Napoleon and Hitler had a string of truly impressive victories before they learned the folly of hubris. The limits on Trump’s power have been exposed by far less august forces than the combined might of the allies in World War II or the fearsome Russian winter.
Iran is a comparatively middling power. But the regime’s ability to absorb punishment while imposing its will on the Strait of Hormuz has proved to be a greater constraint on Trump’s power than his morality or mind. We should note that, at least rhetorically, his morality has not proved much of a constraint. He has repeatedly promised to destroy Iranian “civilization” if the regime refuses to capitulate.
But they haven’t — and won’t anytime soon — because the regime’s tolerance for pain far outstrips Trump’s. The combined fear of skyrocketing oil prices, outrage of Gulf state potentates, diminishing weapon supplies and domestic unpopularity is doing the work that international law, congressional oversight and the collective opinion of foreign policy experts can’t or won’t do.
If I considered Trump more heroic than reason and facts could allow, I would say his Sisyphean predicament has the whiff of Greek tragedy to it. Trump is vexed by the fact that the Iranians won’t honor deals or ratify his countless premature claims of victory — giving new meaning to his vow that his presidency would make people tired of winning. It’s almost like they’re out-Trumping Trump.
Things might have gone better if he’d heeded that great Greek tragedian Sophocles: “For Zeus utterly abhors the boasts of a proud tongue.”
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Jonah Goldberg is editor-in-chief of The Dispatch and the host of The Remnant podcast. His Twitter handle is @JonahDispatch.