I was born in 1974, and one of my favorite movies as a kid was Xanadu. If I’m being truthful, I didn’t really understand the movie. I was captivated by the music, the roller skating, the choreography, and the dreamy glow that seemed to surround every scene. Olivia Newton-John felt almost otherworldly, Gene Kelly represented a generation my parents understood, and the soundtrack became woven into the fabric of my childhood. Like many children, I wasn’t watching for the story; I was watching because it made me feel something.
More than forty years later, I found Xanadu on Prime and decided it was finally time to revisit it. Watching it as an adult was an entirely different experience. This time, I found myself paying attention to the characters instead of the spectacle. I had forgotten how Sonny Malone first crossed paths with the muses and that Kira was Zeus’s daughter. Most surprisingly, I had forgotten that the heart of the movie wasn’t really about singing and dancing at all.
It was about two men from completely different generations learning that neither possessed the whole answer.
Danny McGuire was still living in the glory days of the 1940s. In his mind, that era represented the best life had to offer, and he couldn’t imagine anything surpassing it. Sonny, meanwhile, embodied the energy of a younger generation eager to embrace rock music, new ideas, and a rapidly changing culture. Their conversations could easily have turned into arguments about which generation was better. Instead, thanks to Kira’s influence, they became conversations about what each generation could contribute.
That distinction feels remarkably relevant today.
Kira’s role as a muse wasn’t simply to inspire creativity. She inspired collaboration. She helped Danny rediscover his willingness to dream and reminded Sonny that experience has value. Neither man abandoned his perspective. Instead, they combined them, transforming an abandoned auditorium into Xanadu, a place where big bands, disco, rock, dance, and people from every walk of life could gather under one roof.
Growing up in the 1980s, I don’t remember clinging to cynicism. I remember clinging to hope. Our movies imagined brighter futures. Our music crossed genres. Artists collaborated because creating something memorable mattered more than protecting a label or staying inside a lane. There was an optimism that, while imperfect, encouraged us to believe tomorrow could be better than today.
Looking around in the 2020s, that optimism feels more fragile.
The internet has connected us in ways previous generations could never have imagined, yet it has also led many of us to believe that success is a solitary pursuit. Algorithms reward competition. Social media encourages comparison. Small business owners often feel pressured to guard every idea as though the entrepreneur across town were the enemy rather than a potential partner.
I wonder what would happen if we borrowed a page from Xanadu instead.
What if the goal wasn’t to outshine one another but to create something neither business could accomplish alone?
A candle maker doesn’t need to become a soap maker, and a soap maker doesn’t need to learn candle making. Together, however, they can create beautifully curated gift baskets that tell a more complete story. A loyalty program could extend beyond a single storefront. Purchase six bars of handcrafted soap and receive a coupon for ten percent off your next candle. Buy three candles and receive a discount from the soap company. Customers discover new artisans, each business reaches a wider audience, and both makers benefit from shared trust rather than competing for the same dollars.
The same principle extends far beyond candles and soap. A local coffee roaster could partner with a bakery to create seasonal bundles. A florist could collaborate with a photographer for Mother’s Day or wedding promotions. A boutique owner could feature handcrafted jewelry from another maker instead of filling every shelf alone. These partnerships don’t dilute a brand; they strengthen it because each business contributes its own expertise.
Music has always understood this principle.
One of the reasons artists continue to resonate across generations is because they give people language for experiences they struggle to express. Today, millions of listeners connect with Taylor Swift because she writes about heartbreak, growth, friendship, and resilience in ways that feel deeply personal. Whether someone is sixteen or sixty, authenticity has a remarkable ability to cross generational lines.
That is what Xanadu reminded me of after all these years.
The movie wasn’t asking audiences to choose between the past and the future. It was suggesting that progress often happens when both are invited into the same room. Danny’s wisdom mattered. Sonny’s vision mattered. Kira simply helped each of them recognize the value in the other.
Perhaps that is the role every creative person is called to play.
We may never have a mythical muse appear to point us toward our next great idea, but we can become that source of encouragement for someone else. We can introduce two makers who would complement each other beautifully. We can recommend another small business even when there is nothing immediately to gain. We can celebrate collaboration instead of viewing every creator through the lens of competition.
In a difficult economy, that mindset may become one of the greatest competitive advantages a small business can possess.
The future doesn’t belong solely to the fastest innovator or the loudest voice. More often than not, it belongs to those willing to build relationships, combine their strengths, and create something that leaves people feeling exactly as Xanadu did all those years ago: inspired, hopeful, and convinced that beautiful things are still possible when we create
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