Wicked: Son of a Witch boldly steps into darker territory, expanding the mythology of Oz in a way that feels both intimate and epic. Rather than retelling familiar legends, the film explores what happens after myths are written—when heroes become ghosts, symbols replace truth, and the next generation must carry the weight of unfinished revolutions. This is not a fairy tale sequel; it’s a political fantasy drama steeped in grief, legacy, and consequence.
Ariana Grande delivers a surprisingly restrained and emotionally layered performance as Glinda. No longer the glittering embodiment of goodness, she is a ruler boxed in by her own image, adored by the people yet powerless to escape the expectations they project onto her. Grande plays Glinda with quiet exhaustion—every smile feels practiced, every speech tinged with regret—making her internal conflict one of the film’s strongest emotional anchors.
The introduction of Liir, portrayed with earnest vulnerability by Tom Holland, reshapes the narrative entirely. As the rumored son of Elphaba and Fiyero, Liir is less a chosen hero and more a reluctant inheritor of chaos. Holland resists the temptation to play him as a swashbuckling lead, instead presenting a young man haunted by an identity he never asked for. His uncertainty mirrors Oz itself—fractured, fearful, and unsure whether magic is salvation or sin.
Cynthia Erivo’s return as Elphaba is haunting in the truest sense of the word. Appearing in spectral visions and fragmented memories, she is less a character and more a force—an idea that refuses to die. Erivo’s presence is restrained but devastating, reminding the audience that rebellion doesn’t vanish simply because history declares it over. Every appearance feels like a reckoning.
Jonathan Bailey, as Fiyero, adds emotional gravity through absence as much as presence. His legacy looms large, shaping Liir’s fate and Glinda’s guilt. The film wisely avoids romantic nostalgia, instead framing past love as something unfinished and unresolved—another thread in Oz’s tapestry of consequences.
One of the film’s most compelling elements is its antagonist: a fanatical religious order determined to eradicate magic. Rather than cartoon villains, they are frighteningly plausible, weaponizing fear, drought, and scarcity to justify control. Their rise transforms Oz from a whimsical kingdom into a society on the brink, grounding the fantasy in real-world anxieties about power, belief, and manipulation.
Visually, Son of a Witch is stunning but intentionally muted. Emerald City gleams less brightly, skies are dust-choked, and magic manifests in sharp, unstable bursts rather than spectacle. This aesthetic choice reinforces the film’s themes—Oz is still beautiful, but it is wounded, cracked, and fragile.
The screenplay excels when it allows silence to speak. Long pauses, lingering looks, and unfinished conversations carry as much weight as the dialogue. The film trusts its audience, refusing to explain every myth or moral, and instead invites viewers to sit with ambiguity—particularly in its treatment of Elphaba’s fate.
Emotionally, the story is about inheritance: what children owe their parents, what nations owe their martyrs, and what leaders owe the truth. Glinda’s arc is especially powerful as she confronts the cost of choosing safety over defiance. Her journey is not toward redemption, but toward honesty—and that distinction gives the film its emotional bite.
⭐ Final Verdict: Wicked: Son of a Witch (2026) is a mature, haunting continuation that deepens the world of Oz rather than repeating it. With powerful performances, thoughtful political themes, and a tone unafraid of darkness, the film proves that Wicked was never just a story about good versus evil—it was always about who gets to decide the story at all.
