A Bewitching Re-evaluation: Thirty Years of ‘Hocus Pocus’ and its Enduring Cultural Significance

The 90s weren’t just about scrunchies and grunge. They were weird and alive, a time when TV and film started whispering things they used to shout down. Hocus Pocus landed in the middle of that noise. It arrived cheeky and chaotic, yet quietly radical. Think Sabrina the Teenage Witch, but louder. Think Angela Carter’s twisted fairy tales. These witches weren’t evil crones. They were women with stakes, emotions, and memories. Shakespeare would’ve watched with interest. His Macbeth witches walked so the Sanderson sisters could strut.

What’s striking on rewatch is how much space Winifred and her sisters are given to be. They’re not just foils for the good kids. They’re needy, proud, funny, tragic. They’ve got heart. It’s the kind of writing Sylvia Plath would respect, female characters who aren’t idealised or demonised, just messy. Which is to say, human.

That’s the real power of Hocus Pocus. It’s not just a seasonal gag. It’s a time capsule of a moment when mainstream media was still figuring out how to show women who were complicated. Still witches all the same. The film mirrors the cultural tension of the 90s. Campy and commercial on the outside, but scratching at deeper questions underneath. Like The Nightmare Before Christmas, it mashed up holiday cheer with dark magic and came out with something unforgettable.

The genre-blending isn’t just a gimmick either. Films like Death Becomes Her from 1992 walk the same line. Both it and Hocus Pocus take on eternal youth, beauty, feminine power, and the weight of societal expectations. Meryl Streep’s Madeline Ashton and Bette Midler’s Winifred Sanderson aren’t villains or heroes. They’re women clawing at something just out of reach. These films weren’t just clever. They were gutsy.

And then there’s The Craft, which hit cinemas a few years later. That film didn’t sugar-coat its witches. These were teenage girls with real scars, from racism and poverty to isolation and trauma. It dug deeper into the darkness. But like Hocus Pocus, it used witchcraft to explore what it feels like to be on the margins. The magic wasn’t the point. The point was what you’d do with it if the world kept pushing you out.

Of course, for all its progressiveness, Hocus Pocus was still a product of its time. There’s barely any queer presence. The cast is overwhelmingly white. And that’s not just hindsight talking. It’s a reminder of who got to be seen back then and who didn’t. Watching it today can feel a little hollow in that sense. Like it had the tools to say more but didn’t quite know how.

That’s why the sequel matters. It does what the original couldn’t. The cast is more diverse. The themes lean harder into belonging, power, and solidarity. Becca, Izzy, and Cassie aren’t background noise. They’re the new centre, and they carry it well. It’s not perfect, but it’s aware. Winifred’s defiance against Salem’s patriarchs hits harder when you see it in a broader feminist light. Her rage, her ambition, her refusal to shrink, it resonates.

Even the ethical tug-of-war around the Magicae Maxima spell feels weightier. It’s not just about power. It’s about what you’re willing to trade to get it. That kind of moral tension has echoed through literature for centuries. From Faust to Gatsby, the warning is the same. Be careful what you wish for.

So no, Hocus Pocus isn’t just a bit of spooky fluff. It holds a mirror to the 90s and to us now. It shows how far we’ve come and where we still falter. It’s funny, ridiculous, a little unhinged, but there’s substance beneath the glitter. These witches have something to teach us if we’re willing to listen.