The Sly Genius of the Wizard’s Makeshift Awards Ceremony
Long before Wicked, "Oz" was already plenty wonderful
Shalom, Broadway lovers!
In today’s MARQUEE: The Broadway Maven’s Weekly Blast: A) an essay about a key three-minute scene in the 1939 film musical of The Wizard of Oz; B) a Broadway Maven YouTube GEM about the “I Want” songs in West Side Story; C) a review about the current Broadway production of Gypsy starring Audra McDonald; D) a Broadway Blast about Cabaret; E) a survey about revivals of formerly long-running mega-musicals; and F) a Last Blast about Assassins.
ESSAY: In this Wicked-obsessed Broadway moment, it's easy to disdain the original Wizard of Oz film as a charming and tuneful but relatively slight contributor to the American musical theater tradition.
That would be a mistake.
The original film is a multilayered, nuanced, and carefully ironic exploration of fantasy, reality, and wish fulfillment. This essay will focus on precisely three minutes of screen time — the set piece where the Wizard fulfills the desires of Dorothy's friends with symbolic objects — to illuminate the film's brilliance.
The first part of the Wizard's ersatz awards ceremony relates to satisfying Scarecrow's yen to be smart. The famous flimflam fraudster gives Dorothy's supposedly brainless buddy a diploma. Ironically, the certificate itself is a "straw man" because it's not real, as shown by Scarecrow's immediate reaction to it: he confidently declaims one of the most famous formulas in all of mathematics, and screws it up — twice.
The Scarecrow touches his forehead and proudly recites the Pythagorean Theorem, declaring that “the sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side.” But that’s a complete misunderstanding of the Pythagorean Theorem. The theorem only applies to right triangles and states that the sum of the squares (not square roots) of the two shorter sides equals the square of the longest side. The Scarecrow’s blunder is a sly jab at credentialism—he gets a diploma and immediately rattles off something impressive-sounding but completely wrong, performing intelligence with confidence but no true comprehension.
There are two other delicious angles in the scene's "diploma moment." The Wizard tells the gang that every "pusillanimous creature" has a brain. And — get this — no figure in Western literature better fits that description than the Cowardly Lion, who's standing right there. Further, in rattling off some fancy phraseology, the Wizard throws in some Latin — the quintessentially American slogan "E Pluribus Unum," which means, of course, "Out of many, one." Those three high-falutin' words slip by quickly, but they evoke one of the key themes of the show, the success of very different creatures to join together in their mutual ambitions and love for Dorothy to deliver Oz from tyrannical wickedness.
Of course, the real irony is that the Scarecrow has been the smartest one in the group all along — thinking on his feet, solving problems, and guiding Dorothy through every challenge. His intelligence lies not in formulas, but in quick thinking and problem-solving, proving that wisdom isn’t granted by a degree but demonstrated through action.
Next, the Wizard grants the Lion a medal, an apt but unnecessary award for a beast whose castle-battle bravery manifested courage that was earned, not bestowed. But note the shape of the award: a triple cross, evoking the unity (and sacrifice?) of Dorothy's three companions.
Finally, the Tin Man receives a "testimonial" in the form of a heart-shaped ticking clock, but only after being addressed as "my galvanized friend." Galvanization is a process that protects metal from decay, just as the Tin Man’s mechanical body shields him from the vulnerabilities of human emotion. But in receiving a clock instead of a real heart, he proves that love isn’t about biology—it’s about human connection. His heart doesn’t need to beat; it only needs to be expressed.
One more aspect of the Tin Man's part of the makeshift ceremony: the Wizard returns to his humbug when he refers to "men who do nothing all day but good deeds. They are called — er, er — good-deed doers." An articulate award-giver would say something like "altruists," but part of the fun is that the Wizard is not actually articulate — he just presents himself that way. And the very point of the scene is that confidence is what's necessary to evince positive qualities like intelligence, bravery, and emotion. Well, confidence is something the Wizard has in spades.
Now, remember, for more than an hour the friends have been singing a near-religious chant that the Wizard as achieved that status "because of the wonderful things he does." As anyone watching this 180-second ceremony can see, the Wizard is doing nothing wonderful beyond psychological manipulation, a flaw that stands in stark contrast to Dorothy’s simple, genuine desire to return home.
We've still got nearly a year until we learn how the cinematic version of Wicked ends. In the meantime, though, far beyond these three minutes, a fresh look at the film that started it all can help illuminate the themes of wisdom and ignorance; love and hollowness; and courage and fear that are essential to understanding the meaning of wickedness. Now: go watch 1939's greatest artistic achievement with fresh eyes.
BROADWAY MAVEN YouTube GEM: Most modern Broadway shows have an "I Want Song" where we learn about the protagonist's motivation, but West Side Story has two of them. Why? In this Piano Talk, Broadway Maven co-host Mateo Chavez Lewis explains two contrasting songs that reveal Tony’s evolving desires ("Something's Coming" and "Maria") and the ways they play parallel but distinct roles in the unfolding of the show's narrative.
REVIEW: Here she is, world! The current production of Gypsy starring Audra McDonald is an arresting, moving, and ultimately satisfying rendition of a true Broadway legend. From the first notes of Jule Styne's overture (Broadway's greatest) to "Sing out, Louise, sing out!" — the first iconic line of Arthur Laurents's book/script (Broadway's greatest) — this Gypsy does not disappoint, and with a generational standout of a musical theater performer in the starring role, the show is almost guaranteed to please. And it does.
Stephen Sondheim's lyrics, of course, soar in this mother of a Broadway show about Broadway's ur-matron, Madame Rose: "Goodbye to blueberry pie"; "any IOU I owe, you owe"; "sunshine and Santa Claus."
The ensemble's acting was strong: Though Joy Woods's loud Louise seemed to mistake enthusiasm for energy, the performers playing Tulsa (Kevin Csolak) and Tessie Tura (Lesli Margherita) created vivid, memorable characters that helped redefine two classic supporting roles in an enduring show.
When the topic of Gypsy comes up in The Broadway Maven classes, students are quick to brag about which versions they've seen, from Patti LuPone to Bernadette Peters, with an occasional Ethel Merman or Angela Lansbury thrown in. It's that kind of show. Well, I have no doubt a quarter-century hence, I'll be telling people I saw Audra McDonald in the role. She was by turns passionate, obsessive, angry, doting, manipulative, and mean. So yeah, you could say it made my day.
BROADWAY BLAST: The Kit Kat Klub in Cabaret isn’t just a nightclub—it’s a descent into the underworld, both literally and symbolically. From the moment you step inside, the imagery evokes hell: the red and black color scheme, the oppressive heat, and the Emcee, a devilish figure wielding a pitchfork-like cane as he orchestrates the chaos. Even the act of entering requires descending stairs, reinforcing the idea of leaving the surface world behind. But the most telling detail? The Emcee’s so-called “Cabaret Girl,” who is paraded as proof of the performers’ innocence, is named Helga. The name isn’t just coincidental; it’s a sly linguistic nod to “hell,” underscoring the Kit Kat Klub’s role as a place of temptation, moral corruption, and moral ambiguity. In Cabaret, even innocence is steeped in sin, making Helga the perfect emblem for the show’s unsettling fusion of glitz and depravity.
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LAST BLAST: Why does Assassins leave Lee Harvey Oswald without a "Ballad" when Booth, Guiteau, and Czolgosz all receive one? The "Ballads" in the musical serve as a narrative device, romanticizing their subjects and embedding their stories in America’s cultural folklore. But Oswald’s exclusion suggests a different purpose: his story refuses to conform to the patterns of myth. Unlike his predecessors, Oswald’s assassination of JFK remains a scar on the American psyche—more an open wound than a piece of history to be reimagined. By denying him a ballad, Assassins leaves Oswald’s legacy unresolved, forcing the audience to confront his alienation and the devastating impact of his act in a way that feels raw and unfiltered.
The Broadway Maven is a vibrant educational community that helps its members think more deeply about musical theater. Every month, members may attend 5-15 expert-led classes and innovative Broadway experiences, all for just $18. We also foster enthusiasm for Broadway through the FREE weekly substack newsletter MARQUEE and host an expansive YouTube channel. It's your home for Broadway appreciation. Contact The Broadway Maven at DavidBenkof@gmail.com.
David- This is so insightful. I, too, have wondered why on earth wicked became the slighted middle child of Broadway history when clearly its impact is vast.