Marissa Bode and Cynthia Erivo play siblings in “Wicked.” (Giles Keyte / Universal Pictures)

The blockbuster film adaptation of “Wicked” does more than dazzle with its emerald hues and soaring musical numbers – it holds up a funhouse mirror to society that reflects back our discomfort with difference. Through its playfully subversive take on the villain origin story, the film exposes how quick society can be to label, exclude, and turn outsiders into monsters.

This narrative resonates deeply with Disability Communities, who have long watched their stories reduced to monochrome extremes on screen: either as objects of inspiration porn or as cautionary tales. While Hollywood’s recent diversity initiatives have cracked open a few doors, imaginative, nuanced portrayals of disability remain rare. When disabled characters do appear, they’re often reduced to plot devices – either saints deserving of pity or villains whose physical differences telegraph moral corruption. Worse yet, even today these roles typically go to non-disabled actors, continuing the entertainment industry’s pattern of excluding the very people whose stories they claim to tell from careers, creativity, and the larger community. 

Thankfully, Jon Chu’s adaptation of “Wicked” breaks this pattern. Chu’s first fresh choice is giving the “wicked” witch a name and a backstory. Elphaba’s journey from misunderstood outcast to society’s scapegoat feels painfully familiar to those who live outside rigid mainstream margins. While residents of Oz see her green skin as suspicious, by contrast the audience witnesses events through her eyes. By the story’s midpoint, we don’t just empathize with the supposed villain – we identify with, and are rooting for her.

The story of “Wicked,” like its inspiration “The Wizard of Oz,” has always been infused with social commentary. L. Frank Baum’s original 1900 book critiqued American capitalism through its characters – the Scarecrow representing farmers, the Tin Man the steel industry, and the Wizard embodying corrupt government leadership. The stage musical, with a book by Winnie Holtzman, amplified these existing themes, particularly in its portrayal of political corruption and the manipulation of power.

The Broadway production made bold visual statements, dressing Oz’s guards in Nazi-inspired uniforms and following Dr. Dillamond’s story – a goat professor stripped of his voice and position – in ways that echo the rise of fascism in 1930s Europe. These parallels remind us that the Nazi regime targeted not only Jewish people but also sought to eliminate disabled individuals through eugenics programs.

Chu’s film adaptation takes these social-political statements to new heights, starting with groundbreaking casting choices. Casting Cynthia Erivo, a woman of color, as Elphaba transforms the metaphor of green skin into a powerful commentary on racial discrimination. The subplot about “degreenifying” takes on new meaning in 2024, highlighting the absurdity of viewing skin color as a “problem” to be fixed – a parallel to how disability is often treated as something that needs “curing” rather than embracing.

Perhaps most significantly, Chu cast Marissa Bode, an actual wheelchair user, as Nessarose – a first for the franchise. While the stage version has had wheelchair-using Nessarose as a character, the role had never been played by a disabled performer, with producers {spoiler alert} citing technical challenges in the second act when the character stands. As disability advocate Anita Hollander, chair of SAG-AFTRA’s People With Disabilities committee, has argued: if special effects can make an ambulatory actor appear disabled, why can’t they also be used to make a wheelchair-user walk? 

This advance seems to have already influenced Broadway itself – wheelchair user Jenna Bainbridge will take on the role of Nessarose this March, following her historic achievement as the first legit wheelchair user to originate a Broadway role in “Suffs the Musical.” 

This suggests that the problem was never technology, and that maybe it was more a lack of imagination and will all along. 

Back to the film, Chu’s version extends beyond individual casting choices to reimagine entire communities within Oz. Rather than depicting Munchkinland as a land of little people, he reconceived it as a diverse culture beyond an obvious physical characteristic. While the 1939 film expanded opportunities for little people as actors (at least for one film), it did so in ways that often seem patronizing, especially in the benefit of hindsight. By contrast, Chu’s Oz integrates performers of various sizes throughout the general population, including casting Peter Dinklage as the voice of Doctor Dillamond, a talking goat and history professor at Shiz University. Though it isn’t the role with the most lines or screen time, Professor Dillamond plays a pivotal part in the narrative, highlighting the societal discrimination against sentient animals as subtle signs of facism increasingly become more overt in Oz.  

The film’s commitment to inclusion extends to its physical world-building and to what disability advocates and architects have long called Universal Design. Chu’s Oz seamlessly features integrated ramps and accessibility features throughout its elaborate sets. Even the grand Ozdust Ballroom, with its sweeping staircase, includes a ramped tunnel for easy access. Small but meaningful details appear throughout, like Dr. Dillamond’s foot-operated classroom equipment, subtly showcasing a gender-fluid aesthetic as well, with characters wearing outfit combinations like half-pants, half-skirts that feel perfectly at home in this updated lollipop world.

This vision of accessibility extends offscreen, with Chu ensuring the production itself was accessible to all cast and crew members. The result is a truly magical place that serves as an achievable model of inclusion – one that could foreshadow similar changes in our own world if we allow it. .

The film’s progressive approach hasn’t gone unnoticed by critics and awards committees. With ten Academy Award nominations, including Best Picture and acting nods for both Erivo and Ariana Grande, plus eleven Critics Choice Award nominations across categories including visual effects, cinematography, and directing, “Wicked” proves that, if fully embraced, inclusive storytelling and commercial success can support, perhaps even fuel, each other. 

Ultimately, “Wicked” is a powerful reminder that perspective shapes perception. Just as the story reframes who we consider “wicked,” it also upends common assumptions about disability, difference, and representation. By baking in meaningful disability representation both on screen and behind the scenes, Chu’s Oz sets a new bar for cinematic inclusion, demonstrating  that creating truly accessible, more representative spaces isn’t just possible – it’s an essential, overdue upgrade that benefits everyone. 

In the end, “Wicked” offers a blueprint for how the entertainment industry can better reflect, represent, and ultimately serve artists and audiences alike. The yellow road to inclusion may be long, but there’s no doubt that the film showcases several encouraging signs of progress, hopefully bringing some of the best parts of Oz closer to our side of the rainbow.

 

By Isaac Zablocki and Lawrence Carter-Long, ReelAbilities