I am not the sort of person who suddenly bursts into song — or would wish for anyone else to (too startling) — but I have been feeling musical after experiencing the movie, “Wicked,” during Thanksgiving break.

I was not there under duress; as a leading Upper Valley local print columnist it’s my duty to keep abreast of hot trends, including those that are passing me by. I was also earning credit, I hope, with my wife and daughter.

We watched it out of town at a giant movie theater the size of Enfield where the seats reclined and motorized leg rests provided a comfy situation. Normally I might fall asleep in the dark, but here is the thing about “Wicked”: The actors sing up a storm. You would have to be a determined dozer to slumber during this coming-of-witch story.

The speakers were loud, something close to all guns a-blazing on the Battleship Missouri. The rattling shook my internal organs, but no damage was done — though my digestive cycle was off for a day or two.

The movie had me worried through the first half, since it seemed closer to a teen drama than the Oz story I grew up with. I thought this one might resemble “High School Musical,” although since I never saw that classic I couldn’t be sure.

But then they made it to the Emerald City and a parley with the Great and All-Powerful Wizard. From there it was onward and upward and the sky was the limit. Or maybe no limit at all. You’ll have to see for yourself.

The film, part 1 of this saga, ended with a crescendo of action and song that you don’t often get in more-familiar-to-me Westerns or War War II flicks. But the idea of John Wayne singing his heart out … it’s something to ponder, pardner.

I am not the target demographic for “Wicked,” of course. I’m still awfully fond of Judy Garland and the lovely “Over the Rainbow.” Her rendition made me sad and nostalgic even when I was a peppy 10-year-old. The ending knocked me out:

If happy little bluebirds fly

Beyond the rainbow

Why oh why can’t I?

I’m still not sure why we humans are so earth-bound.

Dorothy got back to Kansas, which looked homey, but I bet in a few years she was aching to move to New York or Los Angeles, or maybe even Las Vegas with those flashy ruby slippers. I guess we’ll never know.

Also over the break, I saw “Gladiator II,” an anti-musical. But the influence of “Wicked” was so powerful that my brain started thinking about whether it would have benefitted from a few music breaks. “All Roads Lead to Rome” could be a hot little dance number, and “Here Come the Visigoths!” might work. Under the influence of that old standard “Call Me Irresponsible” this little ditty came to me:

Call me a barbian,

I admit, I’m contrarian,

It’s undeniably true,

We’re here, dear Romans,

to utterly ransack you.

It’s a little rough, but think of Sinatra singing it and you’ll see the potential.

Somehow this led to me pondering an Upper Valley musical. The working title could be “Wicked Smart,” about an Upper Valley girl who dreams of making it into Dartmouth College some day.

She works at a local sandwich shop, where she sings to the tune of “Edelweiss,” from “The Sound of Music.”

Jersey Mike’s, Jersey Mike’s

Perfect bread and such fillings …

(And so on and so forth, until the tender finish.)

Jersey Mikes, Jersey Mikes

Yes to Cheesesteak forever!

There are more possibilities. “Lake Mascoma” to the tune of “Oklahoma.” Or even a reworking of “Over the Rainbow,” this time featuring the Connecticut River.

Somewhere over the river

Lies Vermont.

There’s a land that I dreamed of

Flannel, baked beans and my aunt …

(Perhaps that last line needs work.)

An Upper Valley winter musical would be titled “Wicked Cold,” of course. And for the kids: “Frozen, Really Frozen.”

For Upper Valley liberals, the next four long years could resemble “Les Miserables.” A “Gaetz of Hell” tune might get it off to a rousing start.

But I don’t know. Since I’m neither a composer nor a lyricist, these will likely stay on the drawing board. Like my father before me, at home I sing only snippets, over and over, until my resident music critic advises me to move on to something else.

My father, when he sang, which was rare, adapted “The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond.” He crooned (sort of), “You take the low road and I’ll take the high road and I’ll get there before ye.” Again and again. He didn’t go any further, and I never knew where he was off to.

Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.