Why I won’t see “Wicked”

Made me wicked uncomfortable on Broadway

Jeffrey Denny

I’m dazzled by the lavish previews and reviews, Glicked social media hype, corporate marketing collabs like Crocs Wicked Collection selling Elphaba Classic Clogs and enlightened messages I need to hear and heed.

But for me, “Wicked” remains a must not-see.

It’s not because it’s “the over-the-top distraction America needs now,” per MSNBC, as I need to stay focused on saving democracy per MSNBC.

It’s not because as a liberal elite with highly refined anti-real American cultural tastes, I prefer disturbing subtitled foreign films over multiplex blockbusters that pander to the hoi polloi.

And it’s not because I’m such a cheap date I won’t spend $500 to cover the pre-theater sushi, movie tickets, taxes and fees, Ubers, and $20 bottles of Dasani water to slake the XXL tub of popped oilcorn with even more salt.

I’m also not necessarily avoiding “Wicked” because my mind, body and soul tend to suffer reflex retching when force-fed a $14.99 Shoney’s unlimited buffet of powerfully obvious life lessons.

Such as HuffPo’s “5 Crucial Lessons From ‘Wicked’ So Your Kids Don’t Become Mean Girls”: 1. Don’t Judge a Person by Their Appearance; 2. Stand by Your Friends; 3. It’s OK to be Witchy; 4. Carve Your Own Path; 5. Being Popular is Stupid. (Lessons that can also help boys avoid becoming mean girls.) (A movie idea I’m pitching to Timothée Chalamet’s people, working-titled “Boyz II Grrls.”)

Or life learnings from other top influencers. Such as embroidered throw pillows or Gen Z life coaches who teach timeless insights with irritating vocal fry and up-speaking. Like it actually is like you know like literally OK to be different.

Also, build meaningful connections. Let go of preconceived notions. See the world in different way. Stand up for what you believe in, even if you’re a Trumper. Privilege calls for compassion and responsibility. And everyone deserves a chance to fly.

Delivering so many complex messages, no wonder “Wicked” Part 1 at 2:40 hours seems longer than a dog day DMV afternoon and needs a Part 2 with more transformative insights we all need.

And no, I’m not avoiding “Wicked” because I’m a Trumper who’s uncomfortable with liberal propaganda about respect for others.

Or hate a strong, self-confident woman of color having a biracial friendship, fighting for civil rights and standing up against abusers who smear her as a wicked witch.

In fact, I’m completely comfortable with “Grandmaster” Jeff Goldblum satirizing a power-hungry, manipulative, exploitative “self-glorifying nincompoop” who abuses power and authority like someone returning to the White House for more of the same.

I’m waiting for the white Christian Nationalist Moms for Liberty to denounce Goldblum, a true grand master of his acting domain, for his thinly veiled nasty liberal (i.e., Jewish) attack on the greatest president in American history. And demand banning “Wicked” to protect children from liberal indoctrination about democracy so they fail to heil our Dear Leader.

I also take naughty pleasure in how the flying monkeys trigger and traumatize MAGAs who get they’re being spoofed. In pop psychology, a “flying monkey” is someone who enables an abusive or narcissistic person to the point of spying on and reporting them. Like Nazi informants, NextDoor ninnies or Texans who narc on neighbors going to their ob/gyns.

What’s the real reason I won’t see “Wicked”?

[Deep breath, giving brave like Glad II Lucius]:

Soon after “Wicked” premiered 20 years ago on Broadway at the famed Gershwin Theater, my gal then invited me to join her and her tween son to enjoy the instantly popular musical.

Who could demur? Great seats, hard to get. I’m sure they cost a fortune.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Lincoln, the play seemed tragically long and winding like the Yellow Brick Road itself. And disjointed, hard to follow, stitched together on the fly like amateur improv.

I wish that was the worst of it.

Pre-theater, we dined at an amazing 4–5 star restaurant that took months to get a reservation.

What made it really like actually amazing? It was among the first all-vegan fine-dining restaurants in Manhattan or anywhere on Earth.

My gal and her son were both sworn vegans and I was game to try it. (By “game” I mean/don’t mean deer in the headlights.)

The kitchen artfully processed and prepared every dish to seem meat-like, whether made from veggies, grains, beans, legumes, nuts, seeds, tofu or lentils. Nothing made from anything that had eyes, parents, children or animal proteins that poor countries we care deeply about die for. Yet everything looked, smelled, tasted and chewed like the real thing. I had the lasagna.

Dinner was delish, including the non-dairy hot fudge sundae.

But halfway through “Wicked,” I learned the hard way like I do every life lesson to never consume that much concentrated fiber before joining the public at close confined quarters such as theater seats.

You know those giant Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons like Snoopy, SpongeBob SquarePants and Minnie Mouse? That was me in the best seats on Broadway struggling not to deflate and cause 1,990 other tourists plus the actors and production company to flee.

In “Wicked” the movie, Elphaba says, “I don’t cause commotions, I am one.” I didn’t want to either cause or be a commotion. So “Wicked” did teach me a timeless lesson: Know and enforce your alimentary boundaries.

Jeffrey Denny is a Washington writer.