The night begins, perhaps appropriately so, with drama. I inform my wife I shall be seeing Wicked, and that, as a newly minted gonzo journalist, I shall be attending stag. Unbeknownst to me, and I suspect to her, she has been longing to see it for the longest time, and so, with veiled consternation, I remind her that I am now operating in the great tradition of Hunter S. Thompson and good ol’ DFW, and that her accompaniment would be, simply put, beyond the pale. In anger, she retorts that only high school/college girls and homosexuals would watch Wicked, and as she is certain I am not the latter, who is the barely legal teen that I will be cavorting with to “watch” “WICKED”. I am aghast at this accusation, but with the wondering and credulous mind of an author, I take this as flattery before pondering whether barely legal teens do continue ye olde tradition of “making-out” at the movies anymore.
The slight stamp of her foot returns me to my present predicament. I reply that while I am driven toward the unknown by artistic ambitions and can thereby endure any martyrdom or temptation, she too is no longer of undergraduate age and so her presence might also be the subject of derision amongst these caustic youths. And she has conveniently neglected to mentions the co-eds mothers. This does not go over well, but my rule as patriarch, though briefly assaulted, remains intact, and I withdraw to prepare for my departure, leaving her pouting on the couch, contemplating the cruelty of youth ethereal, that for women can so readily become tragedy.
Once left in the welcome solitude of thought, I realize how deeply I will be going into unfamiliar territory. Though I did briefly contemplate going to the local art house for the feature, my ever-present suspicion of The Gays in large numbers would not allow it. I shudder, even now, recalling my adolescent trauma of being tricked(!) into attending the frivolities of ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’. One sodomite may be observed as an amusing, albeit flaming, anomaly but, within reach of a gaggle, one can hardly relax as one fears they will break into impromptu, highly choreographed song and, no doubt, a leaping rendition thereof. Recall that I suffer this film for you, Dear Reader, only for you.
And so to alleviate these anxieties, I resolve to sojourn to the suburbs and their movie palaces, all of which are now conspicuously attached to a bowling alley and arcade, and, for a enterprising, young cinephile like myself, offer the constant anxiety that this cacophony might be heard through the walls of the theater, interrupting both focus and immersion.
In my preparation, I run into yet another obstacle. I am a remarkably heterosexual-looking man, not in the sense of stereotypical beers & wings frumpiness, but in the sense that if anyone in the room is going to be receiving fellatio from a woman, it is most certainly me; therefore, those kind of suburbanites who would watch Wicked are deeply suspicious of my aura as it awakens their primal lust, my presence a tickling breeze on the kindling of passion that remains near extinguished beneath the anxieties of their HOA meetings and Xanax & wine-allayed angst. Nevertheless, the show must go on, as they say.
For this reason, I have chosen all black. In both the minds of the laymen and the upper-echelons, the black ensemble is a sign of a serious individual, one whose inner world is, without question, painted over by a tapestry of colorful machinations, but whose somber shell notates a serious and critical eye worthy of its sagacity for they have chosen to contain this rich interior rather than share it with the rest of us. No. This man is not a bohemian, far from it. This man is one with the soul of a wanderer, but, under the weight of his discerning eye, has successfully grappled with these urges, wrestling them under the control of that most renowned judge, jury and executioner of culture: the intellect. I am sure to choose rimless spectacles to ensure my gaze is piercing and fierce.
I hop in my Ford Fiesta and make the short trip down the parkway to the movie house, and, though the wind howls alongside my body at my locomotion’s absence of a heated interior, I am far away, stuck in the limbo between expectation and reality.
I am briefly alight with satisfaction as I find the majority of parking spaces occupied by squadrons of Land Rovers, Yukons, and Teslas with a sprinkling of mini-vans. Alas, my elation is brought low when I come upon several black and chrome Nissan Maxima and Chevrolet Malibus littering the spaces closest to the building.
Walking in, I find the cinema of my youth to be on hospice. This agony is driven home when I see that there is a blind woman at the movies, and then some Autistics with earmuffs larger than their heads, as if by some inversion of the counter-weights built into our physiology where one sense or part might carry a heavier burden for another, to relieve their now purposefully dampened aural sensitivities, their oculars--that biological breach into the soul and mind--overcompensates, demanding more stimulation, more input, and now, having but one channel of structuring the chaos of life, must be pushed to the absolute brink. Truly, we live in a fallen world that will be renowned for its cruelty.
I become temporarily occupied with my own terror at the concepts of blindness and deafness. Staring at the galaxy embedded into the carpet, now covered in the dust of years, I am once again reminded of The Fall, alongside this formidably, desecrated palace, but no. Oh jaded heart, none of it was ever designed to last forever, and there is celebration in that.
For, far before its multinational corporate ravaging, the powers of movies was such that they were designed as a house of welcome and art, and so they still are if one should overlook the cobwebs and the rote performance of hospitality. Galleries of art, both high and low, where the masses, even the children, could gather and be taken away by art. Imagine the inspiration! No, do not imagine. You have felt it too! Decelerate one’s cynicism and one realizes that these are the very descendants of the salons and art galleries of the Old World, so revered in their amber casings. Remodeled but remaining an offering to be moved by the apertures of a life apart; moments and narratives captured and, against the natural progression, able to be returned to, savored, mulled over, contended with. Books. Paintings. Films. The richest distillations of life that civilization can offer, held aloft by belief born solely out of love. I envision a young man in the future sitting in the skeleton of a corpse of a theater. So remote and small that HQ has forgotten to close its doors, and so it limps along due to some irony of bureaucratic neglect, and curated by a lone manager who, like the hermits of the woods, has drawn away from society and into his expertise, and the manager dreams too often of what was, but the power of cinema remains adorned in his and the boy’s hearts, and so the boy and, on welcome occasion, the hermit cannot help themselves but wonder what might also be.
Under the guise of committed participation, I purchase an ICEE, cherry and blue raspberry mix (I find it to be the most aesthetic), and am immediately filled with rapturous delight as I discover the wholly synthetic flavor of the blue raspberry to be one of mankind’s most inspired culinary creations. Like words, it is inspired by our experiences with reality, yet it is wrought by the hands of man. Its origins lost but its presence lingering and clung to, beloved by all who have a soul tied to the Earth. One imagines happening upon blue raspberries in nature and gorging oneself as if they are the elixir of eternal life. I conclude that blue raspberry must be the true flavor of ambrosia, yet The God(s), jealous as t(he)y are, have removed this delectable delight from our mortal coil, leaving us with a hint of what once was. No doubt, it was a man who, half-god and under the direction of blood memory, created this concoction remembering it as if mother’s milk. I mourn this loss, but, as I sip my beverage, I am reminded that, like a life that must end, this too will suffice.
On my way to “theater 1, the first theater on your left”, I spy a provocative Wicked poster, a shameless imitation of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam. , the Good Witch, taking the place of Adam, reaching upward attempting to touch the finger of the Wicked Witch of the West with the caption “Everyone deserves a chance to fly”. Never one to be moved to anger by blasphemy or sacrilege, I briefly study, hand-on-chin, its sensibility. It is an inarguable product of our time, towing a line so definitive that one sees the absurdity usually attributed to religious beliefs, tailored to provoke the knee-jerk reactions of likes and dislikes of social media. One must choose quickly when faced with the choice of acceptance or damnation. But considered beyond reaction, and even further into its context of story, it appears lazy and nonsensical, but then something changes. The most obvious and generous reading would be the promotion of the disenfranchised to the point of Deity, but, besides making one no longer disenfranchised, the Deity is offering a helping hand to her supposed oppressor but necessary ally. Ah, but there it is. My mistake is to focus on the Witch as a newly established Deity, neglecting that the Witch’s ascendance is also entirely man-made, and, helped along by her green exterior, is actually a 21st century transposition of Frankenstein’s monster. The creator of whom now waits with bated breath, and in true female fashion, wishes to join her creation, now far beyond her own abilities, rather than destroy or defend against it. The creator, in this case our Galinda the Good, is driven by jealousy at the monster’s rise in popularity and power, and under the auspices of love is begging to be “taken with”.
I ascribe no logic to these impaired beliefs, nor do I demand it, Minds of this type have given themselves over to the rule of psychoanalysis and other institutional replacements, and so are without individual bearing or articulation. Nevertheless, one is forced to marvel at the irony of being so self-conscious while lacking any sense of actual self. I continue to my seat.
I choose a seat at-center of the screen, and am thrilled to learn that occupants of the aforementioned Maxima-Malibu brigade have not attended the showing of Wicked, but Moana 2. It would appear the lead’s features, hidden beneath that grinchy green, have proved enough of a distortion to preclude racial solidarity, perhaps not accounting for the more discerning afrophiliac. Therefore, the audience itself is most obsequious in its cues of laughter and emotion, and, beyond the carefully timed ‘baa-baa’ of these sheep, the feature proceeds without interruption.
As the trailers begin, I conspicuously adjust my rimless spectacles to be higher on my nose’s bridge as a careful affirmation to my neighbors and surroundings, a subtle permission that they are witnessing art, because I appear to be.
The trailers are a smorgasbord of emotional appeals. A Snow White remake is aimed at one’s nostalgia, but ironically causes one to miss animation. A small Christian film reminds me that God loves us all, but his greatest love is saved for those most precious souls, the retarded and autistic; their arrested development taking the form of eternal innocence, and that, in this jaded, cynical world, inspiration is possible if we can but return to those states of mind so near God’s right hand. The cotton-candy of nostalgia is then, inexplicably, interrupted by a film showcasing deep-sea welders put into circumstances of incredible peril and all under the crushing tik-tok of time. Oh Death, you encroach upon our every second. I see you, you unfeeling, industrious bastard. There at the end of the road, I see you, but only know God knows long and far the road will go.
The film begins.
I immediately learn that there is a reason gonzo journalism has never dared venture toward film reviews. Sitting in rapt attention is far from reporting LIVE from the dens of unrefined subcultures and the balconies of black-tie affairs, and so, it is I who must forge a new path for this most singular form.
Bear with me but a moment or two. The film begins where The Wizard of Oz ends, with a closeup on the witch’s hat before the camera is shot into the sky, following a troop of flying monkeys outside and going back over a rainbow and on into a little town in Oz, where a large representation of the Witch, splayed out and broom in hand, made of sticks--reminiscent of Burning Man, or, the more appropriate comparison, Wicker Man--is wheeled out for celebratory conflagration as “hey-ho, the Witch is dead.” And here begins the film’s most dominant peculiarity. Oz, and everyone in it, is a DEI admin’s nocturnal emission. The cast is a palette of skin tones, wheelchairs, never-passing transsexuals, confuddled spectrums, though with a conspicuous absence of wolfkin, and defiant chubbiness. And, though I am certain this is partially done to comply with the Oscars (lol, lmao) new requirements for award consideration, the irony is lost upon them all. It has been stated, inaccurately, that the land of Oz, even in L. Frank Baum’s books, is obviously “queer”. This is akin to believing Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is about the sexual spectrum of fetish. It is malevolent in its a lack of innocence and understanding the fantastical minds of children. And but so, the filmmakers have made the decision to “queer” the land of Oz, while simultaneously include the lynch pin of their ideology—what the Resurrection is to the followers of Christ—the narrative of the oppressed. The contradictions in this are astounding, and not in the usual impotent attempts at subversion as mentioned above.
This is made more obvious as Glenda the Good Witch graces the town with her presence to confirm the Witch’s demise, but then, after the burning of the visage, is forced in true struggle session form to answer accusations in the guise of rumor, whether or not she was friends with the Wicked Witch of the West, and so the remainder of the film is her uninterrupted reminiscence on the past, introduced with the spoken caveat of “No one starts out as Wicked. She was a child once.” Her childhood, we immediately learn is, from her expulsion from the womb, one filled with rejection, in no short part due to her mother’s adultery with a green potion swilling wizard, her father’s cuckoldry and her skin tone; as well as, her penchant for defending her wheelchair bound, five-headed sister with her super powers, given her without explanation, akin to the most of reviled of Mary Sue, Star Wars’ Rei.
I provide this scene in such excruciating detail, not only because the dramatic irony introduced here, which knowing the ending offers the endpoint of nihilism to some and martyrdom to others, but subverts the entire film’s attempts at inspiration and empowerment to comical effect, and illustrates that even when the good citizen’s of Oz are in their utopia where all is as queer and diverse as it could possibly be, there is no other story to tell other than that of oppression!
As I realize the hilarity of what I am watching, my facade as a man of critical stance and artistic discernment occasionally drops alongside my jaw as I witness the return of early 00’s krumping, gay and fat sidekicks, women in wheelchairs pretending to dance (I wink knowingly at my neighbors every time a wheelchair rolls on screen), a Gaston-type character moving the entire school and women’s loins to action and rebellion in the form of partying, an old goat advocate for the memory of oppression before being wrestled away by mustachioed white men, a Jewish man and Chinese women revealed as the master architects of patriarchy and oppression, and the curiously titled girl-power closing anthem, Defying Gravity.
Through it all, Dear Reader, I am amused, but find that this is not a film one can have any strong feelings about. Necessary derision and mockery, yes. An appreciation for Arian Grande’s performance, whose vulnerability is so complete and whose, though at times obviously racist treatment, comedic delivery is legitimately hilarious throughout, yes. A deep distaste for choreographed prancing, yes. An acknowledgment of the power of the note E5 and its usage (I have a theory that this note is most reminiscent of the vocalizations involving the female orgasm), yes. And yet the movie’s ideological entrenchment is so complete, so arrested, that it cannot even rise to the singular force of propaganda. This is a woke-world normalized, and it has nothing to say about itself, beyond its existence.
I stay seated throughout the credits, though ignoring them, pondering what insight such a film could possibly offer, when I am struck with vision. The ‘politics of grievance’ has never before manifested so purely on screen. Allow me a quick tracing of the story:
The child is rejected by the authority of the household, never receiving unconditional love. They are given value through their defense of others, in this case her sister, and find that this power does not have to be earned. Unbeknownst to her, removing any value of self outside this “sacrifice”. Though insecure, deeply unpopular and constantly defensive, in high school (the most appealing stories will always be those based on the dynamics of high school. One, because they are pure. Two, because they are those that people will grapple with for the rest of their lives.), she finds herself subject to the desires of social participation and friendship, and, when rejected, finds validation through a teacher’s approval and what she perceives to be her own precociousness taking form in the correction of word usage, grammar and general bookishness (to be sure, Wicked was not written for the Galinda’s of the world, that title will forever be held by 2004’s Mean Girls). After completing her aided delusion of self-actualization via recognition by the system as a high performer, she enters the gaze and presence of her superiors, only to find them to be out-of-touch, utilitarian and undeserving of their position and reverence. She is then forced to reconcile that the institutions so long worshiped are built on perceptions and that her complete and now life-long subservience to them is all for not, and in the face of this reality, she finds she is “no longer asleep” (an actual lyrics from the penultimate song) and must exist outside of the system; however, she has no identity/will/ outside of the rules that the system has taught her, and so it is she who must REVOLT, meaning to become the faithful hall monitors of the system for the system is love as is revolution.
This description may be obfuscated without the specific details of the film, but read through again, replacing the above “she” and “her” with “they” and “them” and you will see the development of the, for lack of a better term, archetype of our age. Not capable of composing an archetype in the mythical requirements of the absolute, they become something akin to avatars. Recall now, my earlier reference to Frankenstein’s monster. So while, the monster’s formation mirrors exactly that of a cog in the machine, there is yet an impulse to be free of it. Tragically, as the creators know themselves to also be a cog, their expectation of their monster is to break the system and to pull them up into the Heaven of transcendence outside. Have you ever witnessed such a double bind!
I shout ‘eureka!’ as twist myself violently around in my chair, hoping to share these corollaries with anyone who might lend an ear. Alas, there is but an aging millennial sweeping popcorn and sticky things into a dustpan, and his glazed look of annoyance informs me that such a person was not meant to bear that great brunt of truth, only the burden of slavery. Shame, that.
I walk into the lobby, refilled ICEE in hand, and return to the frigid cold.
In the parking lot, a group of women stand outside a Maxima and sing, though incredibly off-key, musical numbers from Moana 2. In the distance, bespectacled and scarved, a troop of women glance over briefly, wishing to share their own renditions of Wicked’s musical numbers, but then wrap their arms around themselves and, heads lowered, hurry to their already warming cars.
I enter the fortress of solitude that is the Fiesta, and with the white noise of the winter winds careening through its exterior, I realize that what I perceived to be something even lower than propaganda, and indeed it was, offers a fully detailed portrait of the mind and industry that was necessary to create it. I am shocked to discover that I have just witnessed the source code for the modern (wo)man. This is the true MATRIX film. Upon the Wachowski’s release, Baudrillard chastised the film saying that is was exactly the type of film that the “Matrix” would create as it offers the illusion of escape. Not so, with Wicked. I referenced earlier the normalization of it all. In its way, though twisted and deformed, this film is pure. It is a narrative perfected, and thusly reveals itself as the culmination of the global programming of the past 100 years. It is without self awareness, without thought, without individuation. It is the script that runs our lives, and to which you must believe, lest you no longer believe in reality.
I am shaken to my core and find myself awash in the saline of realization. I am not sure more need or can be said about such a thing but am filled with a profound sadness at having glimpsed these inner workings. My love for my fellow man is vast, and, having seen the luminous grandeur given to the dissolution of their person hood, my heart is deeply pained as it is forced to shrink when placed inside necessary parameters. Removing all politics aside (impossible as the film insists upon them), this is a narrative of deep betrayal and hurt, no doubt shared by all who encounter the disappointments of decadence. Alas, “No one is born wicked” and “everyone deserves to fly” remain Gospel and, if one believes themselves to be included in such generalities, there is no hope for escape from accusations so encompassing.
I make it home safely and share my ICEE with my wife, before switching to whiskey straight, and reporting back to you now and thusly.
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Sometimes a man leaves his wife at home, pilots the Fiesta over to the local AMC, watches Wicked, shadows the gays. If he returns home, remembers to bring her some ICEE on the return, you will know that our hero held fast to virtue amid the maelstrom of vice.
My attire shall be black from now on and I thank ye for gifting us these lines which I enjoyed immensely:
For this reason, I have chosen all black. In both the minds of the laymen and the upper-echelons, the black ensemble is a sign of a serious individual, one whose inner world is, without question, painted over by a tapestry of colorful machinations, but whose somber shell notates a serious and critical eye worthy of its sagacity for they have chosen to contain this rich interior rather than share it with the rest of us.