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This week marks the 50th anniversary of A Chorus Line, one of the most influential musicals ever staged. It was an unlikely success story that defied the expectations of Broadway in 1975 and went on to become a global phenomenon, winning awards, breaking records, and reshaping the way musicals could tell stories.
Why it was an unlikely success Broadway audiences in the 1970s were used to lavish sets, big romantic plots, and star-driven vehicles. A Chorus Line had none of these. There was no conventional storyline—just dancers auditioning for a show, each telling their own story through monologues and songs. There were no famous leads to draw crowds. The staging was almost minimalist: a bare stage, a line of tape, and a mirror. Even the orchestration broke tradition. Unlike most big Broadway musicals, there were no lush string sections. Instead, A Chorus Line relied on brass, woodwinds, percussion, and keyboards, creating a sharp, modern sound that matched its stripped-back aesthetic. Its origins made it even more unconventional. Director-choreographer Michael Bennett developed the show from taped workshop sessions where real dancers talked about their childhoods, insecurities, sexuality, and dreams. At the time, such honesty was rarely explored on Broadway, and producers worried audiences wouldn’t pay Broadway prices to watch dancers talk about their lives. Why it became a phenomenon Despite these risks, A Chorus Line became a sensation. Its emotional authenticity resonated with audiences; the dancers’ stories felt universal—anyone who had ever struggled, sacrificed, or reached for a dream could relate. Marvin Hamlisch’s score helped. While What I Did for Love became the breakout hit, the score is full of wonderfully melodic, character-driven songs: Nothing, I Really Need This Job, Dance: Ten, Looks: Three (Tits and Arse), and the poignant At the Ballet. The finale, One, became a classic showstopper. I once taught One to a group of teenage boys at a high school—rugby players and self-described “sporty thugs”—and they went crazy for it. That’s the power of this music: it connects far beyond the expected theatre audience.
Accolades and reach
The awards quickly followed. A Chorus Line won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama (a rarity for musicals), nine Tony Awards including Best Musical, Best Score, and Best Choreography, and the Laurence Olivier Award for Best New Musical in London. In 1984, it received a Special Tony Award for becoming Broadway’s longest-running show, holding that record until Cats surpassed it in 1997. The original Broadway production ran for 6,137 performances from 1975 to 1990, and it played long runs in London, Sydney, Tokyo, Toronto, and many other cities, along with a successful 2006 Broadway revival. For a show that some feared would never find an audience, it became one of the most financially and culturally successful musicals in history. Its legacy A Chorus Line changed the way musicals are written and staged. It proved that audiences would embrace character-driven shows without big plots or lavish scenery if the emotional truth was strong enough. It gave ensemble dancers—the “gypsies” of Broadway—a voice and dignity they’d never had on stage before. Its influence is still felt today in shows like Come From Away and Dear Evan Hansen, which focus on real people and real issues rather than fairy tales or fantasy. And while the orchestration and staging seemed unconventional at the time, they inspired a generation of theatre-makers to take creative risks. Why it still mattersFifty years on, A Chorus Line still speaks to anyone who has ever stood in a queue—literal or metaphorical—hoping for a chance, fearing rejection, and longing to be seen. It shows that a musical doesn’t need a glittering set or a famous star to move audiences; sometimes, honesty and a yellow line of tape on the stage are enough.
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I just finished my first ever young adult fiction novel, David Arnold’s I Loved You in Another Life. I’m still figuring out what to make of it. I certainly enjoyed the reading experience: warm, sentimental, at times moving, and certainly instructive about a slice of American teenage life.
American teen culture on display One thing I came away with was how much teenage life in this novel revolves around pizza and Hollywood blockbusters. They seem to form a kind of shared cultural shorthand, the only unifying touchstones that all characters recognise and accept. To be fair, there are moments of cultural depth too: references to Emily Dickinson, music (especially Shosh’s connection to performance), and the occasional philosophical thought. But the overall vibe? A social world stitched together more by shared fast food and big commercial movies than by art or literature. Alcohol, distance, and anchors Alcohol quietly threads through the background. It’s present but not glamorised, a social lubricant for some characters and an emotional crutch for others. Who drinks, why, and how much feels telling: teens experimenting, adults numbing their own grief. The emotional lives of parents are equally complex. A result of the sister of one the main character's death, her parents retreat into their own worlds, creating a distance that hollows out family life. The result is a teenager unmoored. At least an old teacher steps in as a steady, affirming adult presence. That teacher’s quiet anchoring force becomes one of the most hopeful aspects of the novel. It’s a reminder that small moments of affirmation can outweigh monumental family failures. Wealth and surfaces This is also an affluent world: houses with pools, multiple cars, takeaway pizzas, and financial security for most. It isn’t played as satire; rather, it’s just background noise — the accepted norm. But it colours the emotional stakes: grief and alienation are framed by comfort, and running away doesn’t mean running into poverty, just a different kind of privilege elsewhere. Getting accepted into uni or college runs through much of the novel. Structure: Islands connected by ferries, not bridges The novel’s structure surprised me. Many short chapters are titled with people’s names, but it wasn’t always clear if these were about those people or told from their point of view. For much of the novel, I felt adrift among vignettes, waiting for the centre to hold. It eventually does — around Evan and Shosh — but the journey there feels like travelling between islands linked by ferry services rather than crossing bridges. The passage of time is marked subtly by weather and clothing rather than explicit chapter headings. Themes and takeaways Teen friendships, grief, romantic longing, illness, and even a puppy-as-saviour (which reminded me, oddly enough, of Shakespeare’s Fortinbras, but probably no one else) all get their moment. And the ending, set many years later in another country, implies that happiness might require getting away from America — though I’m not sure if that was intentional or just how it felt to me as a reader. Final thought Did I love it? Yes, in parts. Did it change me? Maybe not, but it certainly reminded me that YA fiction is as much about emotional tone as narrative clarity. It’s a book of moods, connections, and moments rather than a single, linear journey. And maybe that’s why I’m still thinking about it days later. In a world increasingly shaped by automation, a natural question arises: whose work is safe? As artificial intelligence spreads into domains once thought untouchable—law, journalism, design—the anxiety isn’t just economic. It’s existential. What remains uniquely human? Jobs That Resist Redundancy While AI dazzles with data and automates the predictable, many roles remain future-proofed—not because they resist technology, but because they require what machines cannot replicate. 1. Embodied skill in unpredictable environments Electricians, plumbers, dressmakers, bakers, tailors, and mechanics work with real-world materials in messy, irregular settings. They rely on physical dexterity, local judgement, and years of hands-on intuition. 2. Relationship-based work Nurses, therapists, teachers, early-years carers—these roles are built on trust, emotional nuance, and the ability to read what isn’t said. 3. Ethical and civic judgement Judges, social workers, mediators—these jobs involve balancing values, not just applying rules. AI can advise, but not carry moral weight. 4. Creative and meaning-making professions Writers, musicians, visual artists—AI can generate, but not intend. Its work is clever, but hollow. Meaning still comes from lived experience. The through-line? These jobs are grounded in bodies, relationships, judgement, and meaning. They don’t scale easily—and they don’t obey algorithms. So What About Education? If some professions remain human because they rely on depth and presence, what of learning itself? Students can now ask AI to explain calculus, summarise a novel, or simulate a debate. The traditional gatekeeping of knowledge has shifted. But learning is not just about accessing information—it’s about internalising, connecting, and transforming it. Where AI Excels
For self-directed learners, this is transformative. AI becomes a patient tutor, ready on demand. But most students are not self-directed--not yet. They need structure, encouragement, modelling, and trust. They need to develop confidence and identity. AI cannot do this alone. Yet AI can support the teachers who do. In most systems, teachers are overworked, underpaid, and stretched thin across administrative, pastoral, and instructional demands. Here, AI isn’t a threat—it’s a tool.
Where the Nuance Lies AI can ask how a student is feeling. But it cannot care. It can mimic empathy, but not hold someone’s silence or worry about their wellbeing. That said, not all humans care either. Teachers and therapists are often trained to express concern professionally, even formulaically. But here’s the difference: a human can surprise you. They can falter, hesitate, or reveal real concern. AI cannot mean it. That’s the gap. The Human Thread If AI is used wisely, it can elevate education—not replace it. It can support the cognitive load while protecting what matters most: the fragile, powerful space where a student begins to believe they can learn, and that it matters. Because education is not just about filling a mind. It’s about shaping a person. And that still takes a human hand—and a human heart. Boys’ Love: Not My Cup of Milk Tea
The Reel That Rolled In It wasn’t a moment of discovery so much as a genre on loop. On Facebook, a Reel rolled past: two sculpted young men in matching school uniforms. One pins the other against a wall. They lock eyes. Cut to the pair drinking milk tea with the label clearly visible, gazing meaningfully into the middle distance. I wasn’t sure if it was an advert, a music video, or some kind of drama parody. Then I caught a segment on the BBC’s Arts Hour introducing a term I hadn’t heard before: Thai BL dramas. What Is BL? "BL" stands for Boys’ Love, a genre of television dramas featuring romantic relationships between two young men, typically set in high schools or universities. Originating from Japanese manga and anime fandom, the genre has been embraced — and monetised — by Thailand in particular. These dramas are:
Who Watches It? Here’s where things get interesting. These shows are not aimed at queer men. The core fanbase consists of:
What’s Missing? Real Queer Life Despite the optics, this is not LGBTQ+ storytelling. There are almost no serious coming-outs, no references to queer history or rights, no political content, and certainly no systemic reflection on what it means to live as a gay person in Thailand or anywhere else. Even family rejection or emotional trauma — common in queer lives — are rare, sanitised, or prettily aestheticised. Three-Dimensional Characters Most characters seem to exist only within the love story. They are not musicians, artists, gamers, or readers. We don’t see them creating, exploring, protesting, or struggling — just pining, staring, and sipping branded beverages. There are few subplots beyond the central couple. No rich social lives, no hobbies, no world beyond the coupledom. As a result, the characters feel like props for the romance, not people in their own right. Sexual Intimacy The genre also avoids explicit or realistic portrayals of sex, even when it’s clear the characters are in bed together. Most series offer:
Product Placement Over Protest Thai BL has become a money machine.
So Why Does It Matter? Because millions are watching. Because even shallow visibility can shift norms. Because the BL industry has global cultural reach and functions as a kind of soft power export for Thailand (source). But what I’ve learned doesn’t entice me to watch — and that’s fine. These shows aren’t made for me. But in recognising their reach, it’s worth asking: what else could they be doing? Final Thought BL is visibility without struggle, intimacy without sexuality, romance without reality. What began as curiosity — sparked by a looping Reel and a BBC segment — became a long and informative conversation with ChatGPT. I asked dozens of questions, both factual and loaded, about the genre’s history, audience, themes, limits, and potential. What you’re reading now is the result of that exchange — an AI-assisted summary of a conversation I’m glad to have had, so I don’t have to watch the shows themselves. What I’ve learned doesn’t entice me to watch — and that’s fine. These dramas aren’t made for me. But understanding what they are — and what they aren't — is enough. ChatGPT Read My BookAfter several years of toying with the idea of writing a book of dialogues to teach phrasal verbs, Discovering Phrasal Verbs: The Dialogues, is now under revision, and I’m piloting some of the dialogues along with their accompanying creative and critical thinking tasks with my students. The dialogues are structured to showcase the natural, often slippery uses of phrasal verbs in context. They are often elliptical, emotionally coloured, and sometimes complex. There are no mechanical drills, rote learning, matching tests or gapfills. Recently, I needed to find a dialogue that already contained three uses of the simple past:
I asked ChatGPT how it managed to read the whole book and select that one dialogue so quickly. It gave a wonderfully articulate answer:
The follow-up discussion with ChatGPT included some howlers. It misidentified functions, confused categories, and offered some confidently wrong grammar. It took a bit of steering to get it back on track. But that we did and it was thoroughly worthwhile. I like using ChatGPT as a collaborator and especially as a sounding board when bouncing ideas around. Members of my mailing list can download the PDF of the Tomatoes chapter.
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