WICKED FOR GOOD WAS WICKEDLY BORING
Wicked For Good: A Glinda-Sized Letdown That Fizzles Before It Pops
In the glittering aftermath of 2024's *Wicked*, which dazzled with its emerald-hued spectacle and powerhouse vocals, I approached *Wicked For Good*—the second installment in Jon M. Chu's adaptation of Stephen Schwartz and Winnie Holzman's Broadway behemoth—with cautious optimism. After all, how could they possibly botch the back half of this Ozian epic? The answer, it turns out, is by stretching a wafer-thin final act into a bloated, two-and-a-half-hour endurance test that feels less like a triumphant encore and more like a community theater filler episode. Premiering to mixed buzz on November 20, 2025, this sequel doesn't just miss the mark; it trips over its own flying monkeys and face-plants into a puddle of self-indulgent whimsy. It's a film that had me yawning through the arias, and honestly? A profound disappointment in a year already short on magic.
From the opening overture, I couldn't shake the nagging question: How on earth were they going to inflate Shelley's—er, Baum's—already skeletal third act into a feature-length frolic? Now we know: They really couldn't. Director Chu, who conjured such visual poetry in the first film, seems adrift here, padding the runtime with interminable subplots and sight gags that scream "filler" louder than a Winkie whistle. The production quality remains gorgeous—those sweeping Emerald City vistas, rendered in hyper-saturated greens and golds, are a feast for the eyes, and the cinematography by Alice Brooks captures Oz's opulence with the same lavish sweep. But oh, the plodding! Scenes drag like a malfunctioning hot air balloon, with montages of frivolous fundraisers and contrived coven meetings that serve no purpose beyond killing time. It's as if the script committee decided "more is more" without realizing that less would have been merciful.
Credit where it's due: The musical talents of Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande are undeniable and, frankly, astounding. Erivo's Elphaba belts with a raw, witchy ferocity that could shatter glass ceilings (and broomsticks), her voice a verdant storm that briefly jolts the proceedings to life. Grande, as the effervescent Glinda, sparkles with that signature soprano trill, turning even middling numbers into moments of pure, fizzy delight. Their duets—when they happen—are the film's lone lifelines, crackling with the kind of harmonic sorcery that made the stage show immortal. But here's the rub: The chemistry between the cast members? It's as absent as a heart in the Tin Man. Jonathan Bailey's Fiyero, all brooding charm and acrobatic flair, shares zero spark with Erivo's Elphaba—their "romantic" tension feels as forced as a spell gone awry, more sibling squabble than smoldering passion. And Erivo with anyone other than Grande? Devoid of it altogether. The ensemble—solid turns from Jeff Goldblum as a hammy Wizard and Bowen Yang as a wisecracking Pterodactyl—orbits in isolation, their interactions flat and forgettable. It's like watching fireworks fizzle in the rain.
Worse still, I must admit that the unusual behavior of the leading ladies during the press tours for both films lingered like a bad hex in the back of my mind, making it extremely difficult to compartmentalize while watching. Those viral meltdowns, the cryptic TikToks, the endless "sisterhood" soundbites that rang hollow amid the tabloid frenzy—it all cast a shadow over the screen, turning what should have been escapist fun into an uncomfortable reminder of off-stage drama. Try as I might to focus on the flying sequences, my thoughts kept drifting to those awkward red-carpet clips, poisoning the well of goodwill the first film had built.
And don't get me started on the storytelling sins. Certain aspects of the tale that could have injected real depth—emotional gut-punches exploring themes of power, betrayal, and redemption—are glossed over or outright ignored, which is genuinely confusing. They had all this runtime to flesh out a brief third act, yet they squander it on fluff? Why devote a measly 15 seconds to that crucial, heart-wrenching reveal with The Wizard— the linchpin of moral ambiguity that could have elevated the whole saga—only to burn five interminable minutes on a bubble gag? It's a baffling misallocation, like handing a wand to a toddler and wondering why the castle's on fire. The script, by the original team with a glossy polish from Emily Gardner Cahill, prioritizes spectacle over substance, leaving Elphaba's arc feeling truncated and Glinda's "goodness" as superficial as her crown.
All in all, Wicked For Good left me bored to tears—or at least to tempted snoozes. My mind wandered relentlessly, drifting to grocery lists, unanswered texts, and the siren call of doom-scrolling on my phone. I kept checking the time, willing the credits to hurry up and how much longer this enchanted slog could possibly last. In a franchise built on defiance and dreams, this sequel settles for safe, sparkly mediocrity. Skip the theater; stream something with actual bite. One star—for the songs, because even a dud has its defenders. Oz deserves better.
Wicked For Good In Theaters Everywhere
