Ogres and onions and parfait, oh my!

I saw the musical Wicked for the first time on Saturday night. The cast were fine — Elphaba had a powerful voice, everything seemed either a bit rote or a little overdone — and part of me was swept up in the magic, even as my more analytical side tracked character arcs, structural and theoretical aspects of the music, and whether the performances were convincing. I was also thinking about the musical, with its many, many casts since Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel first brought the roles to life, in terms of the discussion one of my grad classes had had on Wednesday about authenticity.

Then, on Sunday, I began reading the novel Wicked, upon which the show is based. Almost immediately I found that they are two entirely different stories, bound together by shared names and a somewhat similar plot. One of the most egregious alterations in the show, in my opinion, is that Fiyero is no longer sweet and shy but is instead a shallow caricature with (of course!) hidden depths that only Elphaba sees, and that Elphaba and G(a)linda fall out with each other because they are both in love with him — but how typical of a hit musical, to paint over and blur and conflate until the characters are no longer who they once were.

I’ve written about page-to-performance adaptions a little, I think, but can’t find receipts. Characters are cut or merged all the time; plots are simplified and cut. I’ve always thought it’s a little odd to call two different stories by the same name, but then I suppose it’s no more odd than telling your child what colours they like based on whether they have innie or outie genitals.

So, then, authenticity. We use this word as a stand-in for sincerity. We want to have our cake and eat it too; we want to describe art as authentic or inauthentic, which is clearly a subjective concept, and then we want to be able to say definitively that This Artist Is Authentic. They Make Authentic Art, Authentically. We set up a binary of authentic versus commercial, and we ignore the fact that for someone whose brand, whose self is making art that is seen as more commercial, the art they are making is authentic to them. But that’s too much nuance for us to handle.

There’s a visceral reaction when we perceive something as inauthentic. I experienced this, looking back on the musical as I read the novel, and I want to lean into it. They are two different stories, and they deserve equal treatment as art. My own subjective feelings don’t get to decide how valid a piece of art is; art belongs to the collective, to the audience — except I am the audience, but then I’m not good at being the audience because I am the artist so often. I am frightened of having opinions because I know that there will always be someone who thinks I am wrong.

What is my opinion? I liked the show better. It feels a little more in keeping with the canon of the original Wizard of Oz. I haven’t been able to finish the book; it’s nuanced and complex and I love the stories it tells, but I wish it told them in language that thrilled me. Should I even be making this comparison? It’s inevitable, and why shouldn’t I? One story came from the other.

As usual, I don’t have any answers, only questions.