'Wicked: For Good': A Spell That Lingers After The Curtains Fall
- Naema
- 6 days ago
- 3 min read
Some films end. Some films stay with you. Naema’s hopeful review of Wicked: For Good shows how this sequel enchanted her in surprising ways.
Some films end.
Some films echo.
Wicked: For Good is the latter; the kind of experience that stays suspended in your chest, replaying itself long after the theatre empties.
It lingers in the spaces between the notes, in the silence after a line is spoken, in the shadows of a scene you didn't expect to hit so hard. It whispers at you, asking you to notice the small, careful choices that make the story both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Watching it, you feel both a gentle nostalgia for what you remembered on the stage and a quiet awe for what you never imagined.
Jon M. Chu, the man that you are. This Oz doesn't feel like a recreation; it feels lived-in, like stepping into a memory you once had but forgot how it felt. The colours are lush but never gaudy, and the shadows? They fall with purpose, hinting at stories behind stories you didn't even realise were happening. The streets shimmer with colour that feels plucked from a dream, and the shadows curl just right to hint at secrets you didn’t even know were there. It’s the kind of world you want to step into and never leave. Honestly, its world felt familiar but new, cosy but slightly eerie.
Then there’s Dorothy, haunting the edges of the story like a ghost you can't stop noticing. Faceless, yet somehow fully present, a reminder that this world is bigger than any one character, that memory can hold weight even without a face to fix it in your mind. It's mysterious. It's beautiful. It's unsettling. And I loved every second.
The cast? Just phenomenal. Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) is simply captivating. Every note, every expression, every pause feels like she's living and breathing the character right in front of you. No Good Deed? Goosebumps all over and swiftly becoming my favourite song out of all. Glinda (Ariana Grande), luminous and quietly tragic, carries the tension of public perfection while silently bearing private grief.
And honestly, these two steal the show like it’s personal. Elphaba makes you feel every ounce of heartbreak and defiance, while Glinda quietly reminds you that sparkle can hurt just as much as it shines. Watching them together is like watching chaos and calm have an elegant, slightly dramatic conversation that you absolutely did not want to miss.
Some moments don't just land; they shift the air. The quiet devastation of the final scene left me speechless to my core. The emotion, the longing, the yearning of the story, all hitting without a word needing to be said. The story’s weight comes from its quiet things: the sacrifices, the choices, the soft ache of friendship and love. Nothing is shouted. It lives in the pauses and silences, in the music that lingers just long enough to find you. Even small moments: a glance, a gesture, a pause in a song, it stays with you. They follow you home, softly, insistently, like a spell.
Together, the world, the characters, the music, and the moments don't just perform. They stay with you, and sear onto your chest long after they come back on. Where Wicked: Part One was carried by discovery and wonder, Wicked: For Good is shaped by consequence — dreams already made, choices already taken, and characters left to live inside them. The magic turns quieter here, heavier, more introspective, content to sit in moral grey rather than rush toward spectacle.
At times, it feels less like a sequel and more like a continuation that simply refused to be cut short. There were moments where I wondered if this story could have existed as one long, uninterrupted film, but perhaps that lingering is intentional. The film takes its time, occasionally indulgently so, trusting pauses and silences to do emotional work. Even when the pacing stretches, it feels less like hesitation and more like an invitation to sit, reflect, and feel.
Maybe I’m biased, but I didn't mind staying in Oz a little longer.
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