I’ll tell you what’s Wicked…
Adapting a musical out of a book and completely changing it. [Brief disclaimer – I’ve not actually seen the full piece, but I’ve recently acquired the soundtrack – my father just turned up with a burned copy, which he got… where? BUT! The exposition in the songs is enough to ensure me that] Serious craptacular stuff has been done to the narrative. Apparently Elphie is hated because she’s ugly, not because she’s a freedom fighter against the wizard. Turtle Moon, the Quadling, isn’t the cool glassblower from the book, he’s a sleezo singing a campy, minstrely song encouraging Elphie’s mom to drink a green [surprised?] potion before they fuck. It appears that Glinda marries Fieryo (not so sure about that, but she marries someone that loves Elphie instead). It’s all very poorly conceived. And finally Elphie decides that she’ll never do a good thing again because Fieryo died.
And then there’s the music. Someone was once talking to me about this play and how they thought it was crap because it reminded them of RENT. One’s opinion of RENT aside, these plays have nothing in common – except Idina Menzel, whom every musical should be blessed with. RENT broke form and didn’t have a traditional overture, gave their chorus interesting things to do instead of the big group sing, and broke down the musical sound that had been a staple of Broadway for ages. Wicked? It totally follows form and spends most of its time sounding like something the 70s shat out [At one point, it switched to the early 90s, so I kind of thought they were trying to show that Elphie had grown up, like Earth music-time had gone by, but then right back]. In his defense, many of the harmonies are interesting, and he gives Idina and Kristen some fun things to do that showcases their voices well. I’m not quite sure how they fit all that lung inside Kristen Chenoweth.
I shouldn’t really be getting mad about this, but way to take a subtle, nuanced book and splatter its brains all over the wall and then get the biggest brush possible to paint a picture of it. [I know that’s a mixed and rather disgusting metaphor – what I was going for was that it lacked both the intelligence and definition of the novel.] I’m sure Geoffrey Macquire is scowling all the way to the bank. [I also know I’ve bitched about this before, but it’s annoying. And now I have more ammo.
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