Oz: the Great and Powerful

The Wizard of Oz meets Xena: Warrior Princess?

That's an A+ in my books.

The old school Wizard of Oz film with which I'm familiar was a lighthearted tale, adored by generations of fantasy loving children, devoted and unassuming, blindly caught up in its melodramatic charm, dreaming sweet dreams filled with hope and sincerity later that night, never failing, to wake up anew.

There's no doubt that there's some of this in Sam Raimi's envisioning of the land of Oz, wherein we find the Wizard learning to become the factor everyone believes him to be at first sight, but while we don't discover that there's something not quite right about him until Toto's astute perception in the Judy Garland film, it's obvious from the get-go that in Oz: the Great and Powerful Oz (James Franco) is a sleazy unscrupulous cad, successfully (and spontaneously) brandishing his smoke and mirrors, yet hopelessly lacking what one might refer to as conscientious considerations, apart from their individualized financial formalities.

The title itself offers further insight into these competing fantastic motivations.

Oz: the Great and Powerful sounds like the sort of ridiculous phrase you'd expect someone cravenly searching for riches, even if the search only takes place within their own head, to use to describe themselves, while also seeming like an exaggerated mesmerizing monicker carefully chosen to inspire charismatic imaginations, when its historical spectacle is taken into consideration.

I didn't know Sam Raimi had directed before entering the theatre, and his presence added a latent sense of potentially ingratiating cheesy carnivalesque conviviality to these contemplations, wherein bold mischievous alternative emoticons masquerade on a traditional family friendly frequency, seeking to covertly manifest their raunch(iness).

The opening credits themselves kaleidoscopically illuminate this multiplicity, ebulliently engineering a phantasmagorical dissimulation, for whatever audience, startlingly straightforward, arguably the film's best feature.

But after the Wizard lands in Oz and meets Theodora (Mila Kunis) the film is far too startlingly straightforward for the next hour at least. The lines are terrible. Kunis struggles to deliver them. But they're so bad that you start to think that this could be one of those great films which subtly satirizes its generic counterparts while trying to remain appealing to the young at heart in order to conjure a laconic lackadaisical laxative before suddenly introducing moments of kitschy consubstantiations which attempt to transform the preceding mockery into a campy enduring endearing romp, just as the Wizard casts off his mortal shell and takes on his ethereal form, while coming to believe that yes, he can.

When the brutal lines are isolated, with no community within which to blossom and grow, they're tough to take, but when the time comes for Glinda (Michelle Williams) and the Wizard to unite their citizens to fight Evanora's (Rachel Weisz) minions group dynamics socially network their way into a publicly pertinent pyrotechnic plurality, as the Wizard uses his artifice in a startlingly straightforward phantasmagorical dissimulation, lighthearted, melodramatic, and ridiculous yet conscientious and ingratiating, fighting the good fight against overwhelming odds, to save both his community's, and his own, imagination.

And the film too.

I'd like to read a study which places both films within their social historical contexts in order to elucidate which possesses a more substantial degree of traditional alternative reflexivity, thirty years from now.

Classic Sam Raimi.