A Spoonful of Sequins
Let’s talk about theatre—the world’s sassiest, most charming con artist. Because here’s what it does: while you’re sitting there laughing, crying, or trying to discreetly open your Twizzlers during a dramatic pause, theatre is over here teaching you things. Deep, heavy, complex things. And it’s doing it in a ball gown. With jazz hands.
Theatre doesn’t kick down the door yelling “TIME TO LEARN!” It floats in with a feather boa and a fog machine, and by the time you realize what’s happening, you’re halfway through a life-altering reflection on grief, identity, gentrification, or the psychological cost of ambition.
That’s what I like to call a spoonful of sequins: entertainment so dazzling you don’t even notice the life lessons until they’ve snuck past your defenses and settled deep in your soul.
Let’s look at In the Heights. On the surface, it’s a big, vibrant block party of a musical—filled with hip-hop, salsa, and rooftop dreams. But underneath all that rhythm and charm is a story about generational sacrifice, cultural identity, immigration, and what it really means to call a place “home.” You come for the choreography, but you leave wondering about your own legacy and the price of upward mobility.
Then there’s Jekyll and Hyde, which is basically the musical theatre equivalent of, “What if science, but make it messy?” It’s a gothic thrill ride about duality and unchecked ambition, and while you’re busy vibing to “This Is the Moment,” it’s gently whispering to your subconscious about repression, morality, and the little monsters we all keep under our hats.
Now flip the script entirely and bring on The Play That Goes Wrong. You’d think it’s just slapstick chaos and collapsing scenery (and it is—delightfully). But beneath the pratfalls and shenanigans, it’s a sharp, joyful celebration of the magic of live theatre and the beauty of total disaster. It teaches us that failure can be funny, vulnerability is brave, and sometimes the show must go on… even if “this set is a deathtrap!”
A Chorus Line is another sneaky genius. At first, it’s just dancers in leotards auditioning for a Broadway show. But then BAM—suddenly you’re knee-deep in existential questions about self-worth, rejection, dreams deferred, and what it means to dedicate your life to an art form that doesn’t always love you back. “What I Did for Love” hits different when you’ve ever risked something big for something beautiful.
And Sweeney Todd—oof. A blood-soaked cautionary tale about vengeance, industrialism, and despair… but with pie jokes! You get swept up in the dark humor and killer ballads (pun aggressively intended), but what you’re really watching is how unchecked rage devours everything in its path. It’s Shakespeare with sharper cutlery and better vocal arrangements.
Then there's Into the Woods, which might start off like a whimsical fairytale mashup, but honey—by Act II, you’re getting a masterclass in consequence, grief, parenting, and the murky moral territory of adulthood. It’s like Sondheim said, “What if we wreck your childhood stories in the name of truth and healing?” And then did it with a killer score.
All this to say: theatre doesn’t separate fun from meaning. It is fun because it means something. It’s not either-or—it’s glitter and grit, camp and catharsis. It’s Legally Blonde preaching empowerment in pink heels. It’s Sweeney singing murder lullabies. It’s A Chorus Line making you cry in a unitard.
So no, fun is not frivolous. Fun is the glitter glue that makes the lesson stick. Sequins are the bait. The wisdom is the hook. And before you know it, you’ve been emotionally rearranged by a singing baker, a murderous barber, or a malfunctioning set piece.
Theatre is the ultimate shapeshifter. To paraphrase Mary Poppins: “A spoonful of sequins to help the medicine go down.” Sparkly. Sneaky. Spectacular. And honestly? If math class had more tap breaks and fewer Scantron sheets, I’d have passed Statistics the first time.
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