Witchy woman

Wicked: The Life And Times Of The Wicked Witch Of The West

By Gregory Maguire

Regan Books, 406 pages

The much-awaited showdown between the Wicked Witch of the West and the Wizard of Oz in Gregory Maguire’s revisionist fantasy novel Wicked is not as exciting as, say, the climax of the latest Harry Potter movie. But it does show us how power tends to rest in one’s ability to bluff. Here Elphaba, the green-skinned woman who gradually grows up to be the "Wicked Witch of the West," faces the mysterious little man who runs Emerald City:

"Sir," she said. "I think you are a very bad wizard."

"And you," he answered, stung, "are only a caricature of a witch."

And with that, the pillars of power – both in this intricate fantasy world, and in our own real world – are revealed to be somewhat less than what they seem.

In Wicked, we are invited to learn all about the "back story" of Elphaba – how the green-faced gal who shrieked the memorable lines, "I’ll get you, Dorothy, and your little dog Toto, too!" came to become such an angry old cuss.

The iconic image of witchdom – played to perfection in the 1939 movie classic The Wizard of Oz by Margaret Rutherford – deserves a revisionist history and Maguire, who seems to have imbibed a lot of Cambridge, Massachusetts while writing his first novel (since so many scenes are set near what sounds a lot like Harvard Square and the banks of the Charles River), is up to the task, writing a philosophical and political allegory based on Frank L. Baum’s children’s book – which itself was a philosophical and political allegory.

Pity Elphaba, who is born a Munchkinlander to Frex, a not-too-successful traveling preacher, and Melena, a pedigreed but housebound woman who has a bad habit of sharing her bed with passing strangers – be they human, elf or animal.

Elphaba has a difficult childhood, developing sharp teeth and a tendency to bite other children early on. Her green skin marks her as a freak, but it’s her keen mind that gets her into the most trouble – as a schoolgirl at the Shiz Academy (which offers courses on sorcery and witchcraft as well as biology and agriculture), she is consumed with the question of evil.

"But maybe there’s something to what you say," said Elphaba. "I mean, evil and boredom. Evil and ennui. Evil and the lack of stimulation. Evil and sluggish blood."

"You’re writing a poem, it sounds like. Why ever would a girl be interested in evil?"
"I’m not interested in it. It’s just what the early sermons are all on about. So I’m thinking about what they’re thinking, that’s all. Sometimes they talk about diet and not eating Animals, and then I think of that. I just like to think about what I’m reading. Don’t you?"

"I don’t read very well. So I don’t think I think very well either." Galinda smiled. "But I dress to kill, though."

Galinda is Elphaba’s college roommate and, as destiny would have it, she becomes the more fashionable and popular "Good Witch" Glinda who eventually steers Dorothy down the Yellow Brick Road to see the Wizard. But not before giving Dorothy – whose tornado-borne home has just crash-landed on Elphaba’s sister Nessarose’s head – the deceased sibling’s glittering shoes. As it turns out, Elphaba considered those shoes to be her own inheritance. No wonder she’s so mad at Dorothy and her sidekicks.

What surprises in Wicked – besides the enchanting language and a richly imagined fantasy world that never bows to the level of kiddy gratification – is the imperfections of Elphaba. She’s not a very accomplished witch, it turns out. Her only "tricks" seem to be the ability to fly on a broom and graft wings onto her pet monkeys. Mostly, she stumbles through life trying to figure out why she was born the way she was, wondering if her parents loved her, and debating the existence of her own soul. The weighty philosophical matters – echoed in the battle between different species, including "soulless" animals versus walking, talking Animals – lends the book a richer allegorical dimension. But, true to life, there are no easy answers for Elphaba. As we know, the Wizard of Oz was mostly smoke and mirrors. His power rested in sleight of hand. Mostly Elphaba strives to figure out what life is all about on her own. And this makes her a very human character.

If we were to apply Wicked’s allegory to Philippine politics, who would be the Wizard and who would be the Witch? Dwarf-like proportions aside, it’s hard to say with allegories – they’re slippery little devils. Certainly Maguire’s book reminds us that power is never really absolute, resting as it does on so many human (or inhuman) frailties.

Wicked has since become a popular Tony-winning Broadway musical and has spawned a less-successful book, Son of a Witch. Is it churlish to point out that Maguire’s original novel arrived two full years before J.K. Rowling’s first Harry Potter installment hit the presses? Maybe so. Sure, Maguire’s tale of kids learning about life in a school of sorcery and liberal arts does predate Hogwarts. But Rowling has been careful to lay down her own hagiography concerning the genesis of Potter: she claims she wrote the first batch of Harry Potter stories during long train rides as early as 1992. Anyway, tales that offer lessons in sorcery are not exactly patent pending. Shakespeare got there first with Macbeth.