march

April 01, 2025

Things I enjoyed in the month of March:

 Arden Powell's, The Faerie Hounds of York:

"Are you a religious man, Mr. Thorncress?"
"I am. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say that I was. We were raised Catholic, but I've not set foot in a church for service for many years, now. And yourself?"
"I believe in God," Loxley said simply. "Though, I suppose it's telling that when I look at the sky, I'm searching not for heaven but for Faerie."


It's been a while since I've read something so deeply rooted and intricately bound in Romanticism, that treads with earthy intent whilst sedately revelling in the inherent arcane of the British countryside.
It's been so long since the jagged, written winds of winter have rushed searchingly through my coat sleeves, nipping and ushering as they bitingly traverse.
It's been forever since love has been penned so unhurriedly, so idyllically, without surrendering to the demands of the happy ever after, but instead the bucolic sighs of now, here, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.
I'd forgotten how peaceful this style of writing could be, how wandering the unforgiving but painterly landscape of England could feel almost supernatural in its escapism, how you needn't leave its sylvan-framed horizons to touch upon something so untouchable as Faerie.

You can feel that otherworld in the Brontë sisters' bleak moors, Austen's sun-blushed dales, and Keats' halcyon hollows. And whilst these author's never breach the barrier separating the two worlds from another, it's an inarguable presence that lingers with differing intent upon their scenery.


"Where are the Fair Folk, if they have been present in England all this time?"
[Thorncress] shrugged. "I did not say faeries themselves were common, only that their magic has never left the land. I'm no scholar; I can only tell you what I've seen. And I've seen magic. It lingers in the tree roots and the season's first frost. It's deep in the earth—though not so far out of reach as you may think." He bared his teeth in a smile. "This is the north. The land is still half wild up here. It remembers how things used to be."
"You speak of the north as if it were a separate country," Loxley whispered. "We are still in England, are we not?"


A presence Arden Powell has no fear of embracing fully in their tale of an adolescent fairy bargain demanding payment, and the lengths two men will go to break it. From the opening page of The Faerie Hounds of York, we're thrust into the world of the fae, entered through fairy rings, impossible hounds, and trees of arcane power. It's unapologetic and wonderful and ethereal, but not bombastic in the way Faerie is so often depicted these days. It's more akin to the old tales, the ones whispered around fires and passed on through generations before ultimately committed to paper.
It's Tam Lin, it's Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, it's The Mabinogion, it's Tir na nÓg.
Frightening, eldritch, seductive, and shudderingly deep-rooted in our collective psyches.
From every corner of the country there are tales we hear from infancy: a woman's keening ghost here, a nightly Redcap offering there, a brook to hold your breath across lest Nannie Dee catch you. Stories and warnings and lurings we've been taught to carry with us on the off chance a Kelpie cross our path and we know innately to run. Run fast. Never look back.
The Faerie Hounds of York possesses this same timelessness, agelessness, that makes it read as though I've always known Loxley and Thorncress' plight, that I've traversed the rolling hills of York with them time and time before, and will again with pleasure. Because it's not simply the beauty of the hunting of these two men by a silken, beetle-backed, sawtoothed fae across the heather sewn moors of Yorkshire, but the love discovered in the course of it.


Loxley had not fully relaxed in his presence, but they had come to an unspoken understanding as bedmates. Loxley was always careful to fall asleep on his side, his face turned to the door and with a respectable amount of distance between them—or, as respectable as could be had in so small a bed. But if they woke much closer—if they woke with limbs entangled, or with Loxley's hand upon Thorncress' chest, or with Thorncress' arm draped carelessly over Loxley's waist—neither of them mentioned it, disengaging and parting ways as if nothing had happened at all.
Loxley cherished those tender, waking moments as much as he despaired of them.



I was pipped to the post by a couple of previous reviewers in recognising that Powell's story is the printed mate to a Hozier song - I'm not bitter, only comforted by the kinship. Whilst reading TFHoY, I had the lamenting intonations of Like Real People Do sighing alongside every word; with each swell in story, so followed Hozier's beseeching chords that mirrored the almost worship and supplication of Loxley and Thorncress' surrender. This isn't the heated love of the romance genre (a genre I fiercely adore), it isn't a headlong plummet into sex and miscommunication with a third act break-up (genuinely waiting for those last two to die a trope-y death), this is the flexing of a hand, this is male comfort in spite of history's limitations, this is longing looks that turn into reverent touches and end in something more than baser desire. Thorncress and Loxley's love exists somehow outside the prejudices of late Georgian England, as though they endure within its hateful grip but simply have no need of it, nor fear of it in the now, the here, and the tomorrow. What's society's noose when Faerie is nipping at your heels, baying for blood?
What's a mortal death sentence for indulging your truest desires when the fae hold your fate in their much more capricious hands?


"Promised," [the creature] insisted, and then drew closer. Loxley took a step back, but the creature didn't open the window, It merely pressed one long-fingered hand to the glass, its head tilted inquisitively. "Why do you keep yourself away? Charms and curses. Promised mine, from your golden youth till the end of time. Trying to cut me out, sweet prince? Burn me away?" It smiled. Its teeth were long, and very sharp, gleaming like moonstone. "Cannot escape the promise made. Open the window, little woodland prince. Autumn child. Open the window, open the door."


Trivial.
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
And that's how these two men acknowledge it as they burn with slow, languorous affection; which truly unravelled me in some ways. Perhaps, in all ways.
How often do you find yourself thrust into a grand, epic kind of love that whispers itself as you follow its narrative path, instead of the barking out of clearly signposted directions? How often do you feel the sleepiness of friendship turned to love, to forever, and truly wish for nothing more?
It happens, of course it does, but in the way the Romantics delivered it? In this age of writing? There's a word for this, a simple one but no less potent: rare. Arden Powell's prose is a precious rarity in an endless downpour of Romantasy and the like (I love Romantasy, don't come at me!), it's a deep and nourishing inhale on the first day of a new season, it's a known but achingly longed for reminder of the true meaning of fairy tales and how wicked, and close to home they will always be.
Especially if you're lucky enough to call good old Albion your homeland, and have tread its folkloric lands from your first breath.
I'm one of the happy few.

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Dove:

Looking at these feels like intruding on a moment.
Not spied on, but accidentally stumbled upon, with absolutely no hope of looking away even if you wanted to.
Which you don't.
Look at them.

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Slow Horses seasons 1-4:

The term "motley crew" has never been more applicable.
Honestly, I wasn't super interested in watching this, as I'm not usually very drawn to the spy genre - it's cool, it just doesn't ring my bell all that often - but the life-giver, the matriarch, my stellar taste in stuff and things mum could not stop talking about how good it was (nerding out over things is clearly inherent *points unhingedly at the contents of this blog), and would one of her offspring please watch it so she could nerd out over it with us.
Hi, I'm offspring, and I volunteered as tribute.
...
Eventually.
We don't always agree on the quality of things, I've never met anyone harder to impress with the Sci-fi genre, to the point that I'm genuinely shocked when something gets her nod of approval (see: Dune - and even that had caveats; mostly Chalamet based), but if she says its worth a watch, I'll happily give it a go.
And she was right this time, so fucking right.
Slow Horses is one of those shows that's kind of hard to describe. It's not Bond, and it's not Tinker, Tailor, or Jack Reacher, and certainly not Spooks ... but somehow all of those things, and with this irreverent mundanity to it. It's not laugh out loud funny, but it tickles me continuously. It's not mired in solemnity, but it bears a serious weight. It's not high octane, but when it gets going it's really fucking exciting. It doesn't take itself entirely seriously, but it's in no way lighthearted or lacking in depth.
It's just... Slow Horses.
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Like I said, hard to describe.
And though I love the storytelling, and could totally believe this is the unhinged shit the British government is getting up to behind our backs, it's the characters that are the real draw for this series.
Gary Oldman is, of course, as always, a sardonic powerhouse, and is in particularly fetid form as the surly boss man to the Slough House rabble.
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I feel like I've been watching this man all my life, from Rosencrantz & Guildenstern, to Leon, to The Fifth Element, he's always been around, scaring the shit of me and making it look effortless. And it's no different with Jackson Lamb, who may not be someone you want a pep talk and cuddle from, but you most certainly want him in your corner.
Especially if you're River Cartwright, the poorest little miaow miaow spy I've ever witnessed in my entire fucking life.
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Jack Lowden's a fairly new actor to me; I've someone managed to miss his big hitter movies (Dunkirk, Mary Queen of Scots, '71), skipped entirely over War & Peace (I've yet to find a mood this appeals to me to tackle), and I've basically blacked out all of Wolf Hall because DEAR GOD, so fucking boring. And I was so done with season two of Rings of Power that his moment as a young Sauron went entirely over my head (RoP sucks so bad it hurts my soul. Thank fuck Tolkien isn't here to see the bastardisation of his genre defining work). But I'm glad his role as River is my first true exposure to him because he's such a fucking mess. River Cartwright is a grumpy, sullen, cocksure brat of a man who never fucking listens, runs headfirst into trouble and subsequently gets smacked in the face for it - without fail (the man's always covered in blood), and I adore him. Why? I don't know! He's just kind of lovely? And actually a really talented agent, who might be emotionally constipated but has this bloody massive heart pumping away in his chest, and Lowden is so good at conveying that.
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...
Plus, I really like watching him smack people around and go toe to toe with Lamb.
It's not exactly easy squaring off against a seasoned thesp like Oldman, but the chemistry between these two is bombarded with fatherly acrimony and genuine but reluctantly shown affection. It's beyond compelling to watch.
And honestly, this is true for all the cast, who are, btw, such gremlins it's not even funny, except it is, it really is.
There's a reason for each of these characters ending up in Slough House doing Jackson Lamb's not exactly lawful bidding, some known, others yet to be revealed, but all guaranteed to not be something you'd put on your résumé.
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They're the rejects, the barrel rats, the losers, and together they act like disobedient toddlers that a cranky, pointedly flatulent, so smart it's genuinely terrifying, even bigger toddler (Lamb) has to corral when they go off to save the villagers from the monster of the season in the stupidest bloody ways and try not to fucking die.
#slow horses from The Road To Wigan Pie

...
AND IT'S SO DAMN GOOD!
Because they're better than everyone else at their job; the Park (MI5) can suck it, for what use they are - Kristen Scott Thomas is a glorious bitch as its head, however; my crush on her knows no limits, they may as well take an eternal timeout because my Slough House gremlins? They'll get that shit done.
It might not be pretty, and it will most likely end up with one of them dead (this is your official PSA not to get attached to anyone on this show. We'll be lucky if anyone's alive by the end), but Boss Level? Consider it completed.
Seriously though, do not get attached to any of these idiots if you decide to give the show a watch because I've had my heart broken three or four times at this point, and we haven't even reached season five.
A season, my mum and I, are absolutely feral in need of.
A season that probably isn't going to arrive until the latter half of this year.
...
Fuck.

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marebearpress

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Loren Kramer covering Lana Del Rey's, hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have - but I have it:

This is already in the March Monthlies Playlist but I had to highlight it because MY GOD this is the unholy union I've been dying for.
I'm on the floor, genuflecting, and I. CAN'T. GET. UP.
a cartoon character is laying on the floor with the words leave me alone to die

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oidingus and Jayvik:

Have you ever heard the expression... "cute aggression"?
Because this is the definition.
Victor's little gremlin face is obliterating me.
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Not watched Arcane, yet?
Sucks To Be You - GIPHY Clips

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The Newsreader seasons 1-2:

It's no secret that I'm fairly infatuated with Sam Reid as an actor.
As my dad so aptly put it, he's my latest "pash".
And it's true, he is, I am; and so I'm doing as I always do when an actor sits their fine arse down upon my grey matter pedestal: following their career around like a devoted stalker who must see all the things.
I'd seen a few Sam Reid movies before - The Riot Club, Belle, Anonymous, The Limehouse Golem - and thought he was alright, not enough to really hold my attention, but a pretty actor with nice hair colour (strawberry blonde, my most coveted). But then. Ohhhhh, then, Lestat de Lioncourt louchely strutted into my eye line and nothing has been the same since. From the first look of mischief, I was a goner, and I'm fairly certain season three of Interview, Lestat's season, will in fact be the very end of me.
But that won't happen until at least the end of the year, probably into the next because, tv-wise, being British SUCKS, and I'll have to wait a bit for the iPlayer to acquire it. Which doesn't make me twitch at all. Not even a little bit.
お聞かせ願いたく候

And so, until then, I'll be doing my very best to watch his entire oeuvre. Or, at least, what I can get hold of - the things I'd barter to see even one episode of Lambs of God, which is impossible to stream, unlike The Newsreader, which had the good grace to be lying expectantly on the iPlayer for me.
Minus one season.
Which if we don't get, I might have a meltdown?
Because it's really good, so very insanely good, and I need to know what happens in the final season?
Because everything went to absolute shit in the season two finale and I can't be held responsible for the epic tantrum I'll have if that's all I'll ever see?
You get the gist.
I'm a brat who needs her stories, but goddamn, what an epically good story.
Set in 1980s Australia, it's focused around the social/political/gendered/personal battles within the confines of a commercial TV news office, weaving it's narrative around actual real life events such as the AIDS crisis, Lindy Chamberlain, and Chernobyl.

Personally, I really love this kind of storytelling, where fiction embroils itself with reality and gives us, the audience, some insight into how people at the time might've dealt with these historic events. Like Mad Men did with the advertising business (anyone else ever get over Don Draper selling the shit out of the Kodak Carousel? No? Me neither), it's an endlessly compelling glimpse behind the curtain, which is only spurred on by equally compelling characters, something The Newsreader is stocked full of.
Anna Torv and my guy, Sam Reid sit front and centre of the story, dealing with misogyny, mental health, bi-awakenings, and delivering the news every evening to the Aussie masses without losing what's left of their minds, and they are really astonishing to watch.

Naturally, I was more invested in Reid's character because he's the definition of a poor little miaow miaow turned server of c*nt, and it's so fascinating to watch gradually unfold. You think he's this soft little kitten man, when really he's the vicious snap of teeth you didn't see coming.
Dale Jennings is a character of great complexity and terrible hair, and I love him.
But Torv's character, Helen Norville? She's a hurricane in a power suit, she's a radioactive blast, she's the softest woman in the world but do. not. fuck. with. her.
I'll admit, I've never been the greatest Anna Torv fan, mostly because I fond her so damn insufferable in Fringe (although, let's be honest, everyone was insufferable in Fringe) that I've avoided watching her mostly, but that might have been a mistake because she's incredible in this. There are moments when she's fraying completely at the edges during newscasting breaks, and the way she bounces between your classic news anchor to a woman desperately in need of a Xanax and a full body hug is fucking mesmerising, and really incredibly stressful.
But the stress is worth it for her performance; she devastated me in ways I didn't know she could, and Sam Reid did just the same but in a far more reserved manner than I'm used to - Lestat is my benchmark for his acting and my vampire brat is unhinged.
And together they make this show shine so insanely bright.

Not to mention the rest of the cast who support these two fragile creatures with humour and depth and just everything you'd want in an ensemble cast.
It's brilliant, and I really truly think you need to watch it so you can be in as much pain as I am waiting for the final season to drop.
If I have to suffer, all should suffer!

...
Does anyone else hear Prince Escalus in their head whenever they need to scold?

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Luz Tapia's Bejewelled Knight:

I have the perfect casting for her:

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Rewatching the unfairly axed:
Santa Clarita Diet

Y'know what doesn't get talked about enough, aside from how fucking rude it was to cancel this show?
The special effects.
SCD is a comedy horror, so its SFX do lie more on the hokey side rather than the oh my god, I'm gonna throw up side, but UGH, they're so bloody good (pun very much intended).
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 My Lady Jane

Well, I made a discovery during my eight rewatch.
...
I totally fancy this idiot:

Don't ask me to explain it, because I honestly cannot, but this tow-headed moron is totally doing something to my neurons.
And I like it.
Also, he really fits the vibe (eventually, it takes a few episodes) for my liking of soft boys in romance who aren't afraid to wear their heart on their sleeve, over broody and verbally/emotionally constipated man-babies who need an annotated roadmap to love.
They're just better.
Even when they're idiots like that twat up there.


Daybreak

FML this show was brilliant. Funny, fucked up, angsty, and didn't take itself seriously even one tiny molecule of a bit.
It's basically becoming my death rattle, but why are streaming services making such good shit - specifically SFF - and ruthlessly axing it?
Why bother in the first place? Why get my SFF-loving heart all aflutter with hope of a new show to invest my entire personality in, and snatch it away like I did something naughty?
I'm pure as the driven snow, goddammit, and I deserve nice things!
Daybreak Are You Not Entertained GIF | GIFDB.com


And some other cool shit:
Jerry Maguire

What's there to say?
Cruise is a weirdo but goddamn, he's made some really good shit and this is one of his best.
"You complete me" and "You had me at hello" will forever go down in history as two of the best call and answer lines between MCs in the entire Romcom genre.
It simply cannot be denied.
Also, there's this short king:
jerry maguire gifs | WiffleGif


The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

Lucy Gray Baird deserves her own story, not Coriolanus "genocidal crybaby rose-sniffer" Snow.

I will die on this hill.
Probably whist reading Haymitch's story.
And despairing over Mike Faist's casting (who I kinda like after Challengers) as my blonde brat king.
It just doesn't feel right!
...
But not entirely wrong...
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Mystic Pizza

This movie will always make me want pizza and Tim Travers, the nanny banger.
A fact that has not changed in a couple decades and probably never will.
Trash wants what trash wants!

Ps. I didn't know they'd made this into a musical, and now I'm Waitress-level obsessed with seeing it.


The Diary of a Teenage Girl

This... is still great, and Bel Powley's still compelling as all hell, but watching it back felt waaaay more uncomfortable than the first few times.
I mean, it should be because the plot is deeply icky, but yeah... might avoid this for a decade and try again another time.


Josie and the Pussycats

Iconic.
A masterpiece.
The noughties at its filmic finest.
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Also, I'd forgotten just how much the music slaps in this, but it's Kay Hanley (Letters to Cleo), so, duh, of course it slaps.



She's All That

If you're gonna watch J&tP, you gotta complete the journey with SAT.
It's the law.
And while it may not be the superior adaptation of The Taming of the Shrew (10 Things I Hate About You, obviously - these came out in the same year. Wild), it is still charming as fuck in a horribly acted but oozing late 90s charm kinda way.
But I still firmly believe Laney Boggs could do miles better than Geppetto's real boy puppet, Zack Siler.
It's been twenty years and I still can't watch his hacky sack scene without cringing behind my hands.
When she's so skeptical with those falafels wobbling on her head.

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Adam Ellis and The Legend of Zelda:

This is me and my sister, Emily.
Last year she started playing Breath of the Wild, and I "helped" by making the appropriate yelping noises when a Bokoblin/Octorok/Lizalfos/etc. appeared, screaming "jelly!" ever time a Chuchu tried to slime her, reminding her to feed Link the Twink, and generally providing moral support/occasional shrine puzzle solving assistance whilst oohing and ahhing over how goddamn pretty Hyrule is.
It was fun!
I'm a much better squire to gaming than an actual player, of which I am laughably bad, and watching Em go 'sploring and finally release Clammy Ganon from his supersized testicle (you're just gonna have to trust me on that description) to kick his ass in record time (which she did. So fast! I hid behind my hands a lot) was a total blast.
I would totally recommend if you're a non-player like me and feel like you're missing out, to piggyback on someone else's game and enjoy the spoils.
...
And try not to lose your mind every time you have to sit through Zelda princess-splaining the Blood Moon for the eight hundred and eighty eighth time.
We get it, Zelda, Hyrule's on its period, we don't need reminded every twenty minutes!
a screenshot of a video game with the words witness the blood moon 's rise

I might hate Zelda.
She talks too much.
Thats Sexist GIFs - Find & Share on GIPHY


Bonus fanart:
Jenny Clements

Frong

James Chapman

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March Mezzos:

A pause of respect for Chappell Roan blessing us with a country song about eating you out better than your bogan boyfriend.
We truly do not deserve her.
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Krystal Bick bringing the right energy to the coven:

It's giving One Dark Window.

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Alix E. Harrow's, The Knight and the Butcherbird:

At six, I'd thought love was a full belly; at sixteen, I'd thought it was wildflowers and gooseberries and Mayapple's mouth on mine.
At seventeen, I knew better: love is whatever you're willing to kill for.


Dare I use Emily Dickinson's words to encapsulate the feelings evoked whilst reading Alix E. Harrow's diminutive tale of love lost, found, and reformed in the eerie, verdant apocalypse?
I dare.
I do.
I have to.


"Hope" is the thing with feathers - 
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -


Because I've never felt this way reading her works before, felt this ineffable hope, that if gazed too long upon might disappear as soon as it arrived. Might skitter back under its twisted greenery and leave nothing but the fading imprint of ephemeral phosphenes under eyes' canopy, when all I want is for it to stay. As long as it wishes. Forever, if desire commands it.
A forever beget from forty pages at the end of the world, rendered by Harrow with such rich clarity it felt tangible, fizzing on the tongue from the first tasted word, and lingering comfortingly in the tastebuds to be remembered with each swallow.
It's becoming a truer and truer reality that I'll drink down any world Alix E. Harrow dreams up without asking its ingredients first. Sip on her shell-bent characters with increasing reverence, and champion whichever fresh hell she's made them run the gauntlet in. And thank her for it. Beg for more of it.
This story, this tiny thing, that exists as a comment on love, transformation, dogmatism, global warming, and so much more unseen, is beyond the scope of its word count. It's a microcosm in paper. It's heartbreaking and heartmending all at once, and you have to read it.
If for nothing else than the feathered hope it offers, in the form of the eponymous Knight and his Butcherbird, fighting for love at the end of the world and the beginning of a new one.

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Where I finally watch a bunch of movies I've been meaning to watch and try to review them succinctly - emphasis on the "try":
Challengers

Oh.
This movie fucks.
Zendaya is immaculate.
Sweaty rat boys are the new black?
And that "climax"? *wheezing*
Hot.
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⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Fanart:
Marion Bordeyne


Don't Worry Darling

Pleasantville meets The Matrix meets 1950s red flag brotopia.
...
I liked it.
Cool concept.
Pretty execution.
Involving acting.
But did it add anything new to the SFF genre? Mmmmmnope.
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Fair dues, though, it did manage to relate the claustrophobia of abused women gaslit into behaving like Stepford Wives when really they're screaming inside, holding in a strangled and unanswered gasp for freedom.
That this got absolutely right.

⭐️⭐️⭐️½


Unwelcome

"No hitting!"

That'll only make sense if you watch this nonsense, but it made me belly laugh, and if you can get through an hour of truly wooden storytelling/acting - wtf, Douglas Booth, I know you can do better than this - the last half hour is a fae-led, b-movie bloodbath that culminates in a truly bonkers finale.
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#Unwelcome from MOVIE SLUDGE
#Unwelcome from MOVIE SLUDGE

Plus, the Redcaps are a mixture of puppets, actors, and digital effects, and they are absolute perfection. The movie might be pretty shoddy but those feral little fuckers? Ten out of ten, practical effects 'til the end of time.

⭐️⭐️½


Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris

Classic Britain, waltzing into different countries and scolding the locals on how to do it the "proper way".
...
But with charm, of course.
In all seriousness, though, this is a really sweet movie with beautiful visuals that doesn't ask you anything other than to sit back and enjoy. Which I did. Very much so. But it's hard not to when Lesley Manville's leading the charge.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

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Felt Mistress', Heavenly Trooper from Laputa: Castle in the Sky:

...
#doctor who from Doctor Who Gifs

I need it.
...
And Barnabas:

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Wicked:

When I stop crying tears of musical joy, I'll let you know.
It's like the fucking great flood in here, and I'm refusing to get a mop because OH, FUCK ME, THIS WAS AMAZING!
a silhouette of a woman in a witch hat looking out a window

It feels like my sister and I have been talking about Wicked in some way or another since she saw the stage production (unfortunately not with Chenoweth and Menzel) in London on a university trip and basically lost her mind over it, and proceeded to infect my brain with the need to see it.
Which, unfortunately, I never have, but the excitement I felt over hearing it was going to be adapted to the screen was no less enthusiastic.
Did I panic when Ariana was cast? Uh, bet your ass I did.
Was I sus as fuck over what would essentially be a blockbuster trying to do this majestic theatre production justice? Oh yeah, big time.
And did I simply have very little faith in all my needs for the adaptation coming to fruition? Absofuckinglutely.
But I needn't have worried, because... I'm gonna say it: it's perfect.
The way it looks, the blend of practical effects and digital (the train is real. REAL), the casting, the narrative pacing, the chemistry between pretty much all the actors, and the songs.
Holy shit, I know they're not new, have been sung thousands of times on stage and will be sung a thousand more, but my fucking lord, Cynthia Erevo's voice.
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I have absolutely no shame in admitting that her first song made me cry, and her last made me sob. She's so bloody talented and just... Elphaba, through and through, and I think her and Ariana made this something really special.
You don't have to like them, you don't have to agree with how they behave outside the movie, but it's undeniable how much chemistry there is between them in this, how their voices don't exactly mesh but slide against each other in a glancing way. Sharp against rich, classic broadway against contemporary pop.
a woman in a hat stands in front of a crowd with the words " you 're green " below her

The same goes for their acting styles: where Elphaba's a strait-laced swot with a hard won sense of humour, Galinda's a snobby ball of energy with mean girl energy wrapped in pink taffeta. They clash in the most glorious way, until they don't and it's a gorgeous mesh of two messy and strong women.
Erevo and Ariana nail that energy.
a woman in a white dress is standing next to a woman in a black top hat

I think it's Ariana that surprised me the most, though. Glinda's probably the harder character to perform, because she has to have that balance of someone who's obviously been brainwashed her whole life and believes she has to act a certain way to maintain her standing in the Oz hierarchy - a bitch with a smile, basically. But also show vulnerability underneath, make you believe that "something changes within her". I know that's Elphaba's line, and it's so true in her case as well, but Glinda's entire world view changes in this story, and that's not easy to convey.
But somehow Ariana managed it, and made me fall in love with her in process.
...
Also, the fact that she makes R2D2 screaming noises throughout the entire movie, which you will not be able to un-hear once you notice the comparison. Or, in my case, your sister points it out and you spend two hours thirty laughing your asses off every time it happens.
She's just such a gremlin in this, down to the way she moves, which is seriously unhinged but works so well for her character.

Ariana freaking Grande is a gloriously bizarre Glinda and she... yeah, she is, she's my favourite part of the whole movie.
Even over Jonathan Bailey giving his best bisexual king performance as Fiyero, doing his level best to make everyone fall in love with him - like it's hard. 
Even over him.
#wicked from you will stay for a dance

Fuck, I loved this, and waiting for Part Two to be released is going to be interminable.
Thank the gods the two were filmed back to back, because I simply don't think I could wait another three years to see it.
Nuh uh, I'd've have gone batshit crazy... er by then.
Not Glinda crazy, but pretty close.
image


Fanart:
Rizal Badar

Maureen Narro

Gerard Quizon

María Dresden

Denver Balbaboco

APOLAR

Shelby Walters

abl
Paola Batalla

Doki Rosi

Vicky Chen

tancha

And possibly the most important one of them all:
Ina Saboteur

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