thinkinginlayers

What surprised me wasn’t the contacts themselves.

The interviewer asked about the blue eyes, and I expected Jonathan to talk about appearance — how he looked, how different he felt, whether he liked the result.

Instead, he immediately started talking about vision.

He said the lenses restricted his sight. He compared it to looking at Jeff Goldblum through a greenhouse window.

In other words, he wasn’t talking about how he looked.

He was talking about how the world looked to him.

That immediately reminded me of a line from For Good:

“You’ve got me seeing through different eyes.”

At first I thought this was simply a clever reference to Fiyero’s blue eyes.

Now I’m not so sure.

Because Fiyero’s story isn’t really about changing his appearance.

It’s about changing the way he sees the world.

At the beginning of the story, Fiyero chooses comfort, pleasure, and distraction. He dances through life. He avoids difficult questions.

Then he meets Elphaba.

And suddenly he starts noticing things he never paid attention to before: injustice, power, conformity, the cost of choosing a side.

His world becomes larger.

So I found myself thinking about an interesting contradiction.

Jonathan’s vision became more restricted while wearing the lenses.

Fiyero’s vision became broader because of Elphaba.

Physically, one sees less.

Emotionally and intellectually, the other sees more.

And then I thought about the ending.

When Fiyero becomes the Scarecrow, he loses almost everything.

His position.

His identity.

Even his human body.

Yet one thing remains.

The perspective he gained through Elphaba.

That’s why the blue eyes suddenly feel different to me.

They’re not just a visual design choice.

They’re a symbol of transformation.

Not “how he looks.”

But “how he sees.”

And maybe that’s why Jonathan Bailey feels so perfect for the role.

In interviews, he often talks about perception, perspective, and meaning rather than appearance or results.

Even when asked about contact lenses, he somehow ends up talking about ways of seeing.

So I started this clip thinking about blue eyes.

I ended it thinking about perspective.

Which, honestly, feels very Wicked.

After watching Wicked: For Good, I realized the story was never really about good and evil.

By the end, I realized it was about something else entirely.

It was about position.

Not whether you are right.

Not whether you are popular.

But where you choose to stand when those two things stop being the same.

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At first glance, Elphaba and Glinda seem like opposites.

Elphaba follows her convictions, even when it costs her everything.

Glinda adapts. She understands how the system works and learns how to survive within it.

The audience is often encouraged to pick a side.

But I don’t think the film is asking us to do that.

I think it is asking us to understand the cost of both.

Elphaba pays the price of conviction.

Glinda pays the price of belonging.

Neither choice is free.

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What fascinated me most was Fiyero.

At the beginning of the story, he appears to value pleasure over meaning.

He dances through life.

He avoids seriousness.

He treats everything as temporary.

And yet, he is ultimately drawn toward Elphaba.

Not because she is beautiful.

Not because she is powerful.

But because she is willing to stand somewhere and remain there.

Even when the entire world moves against her.

⸻

There is a moment where Fiyero asks himself:

“Am I stupid, or deeply wise?”

That line stayed with me.

Because it isn’t really about intelligence.

It’s about choosing what kind of life you want to live.

A life that feels comfortable.

Or a life that feels true.

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One thing I love about Wicked is that it refuses to simplify people.

The citizens of Oz want a villain.

Not because they want understanding.

Because they want certainty.

Certainty is easier.

A villain gives shape to confusion.

A villain turns complexity into a story.

A villain allows people to stop thinking.

Elphaba understands this.

And yet she accepts the role anyway.

Not because she believes she is evil.

But because she refuses to abandon herself in order to be loved.

⸻

Watching the film, I realized something uncomfortable about myself.

I naturally sympathize with Elphaba.

I struggle when people ignore what seems obviously true.

I struggle when appearance becomes more important than substance.

I struggle when systems reward conformity over honesty.

But the older I get, the more I appreciate Glinda too.

Because conviction without adaptation can become isolation.

And adaptation without conviction can become emptiness.

⸻

I don’t think the lesson of Wicked is to become Elphaba.

And I don’t think the lesson is to become Glinda.

I think the lesson is to understand why both exist.

To understand what each woman sacrifices.

And to ask yourself:

When the world demands a simpler version of you,

what are you willing to keep?

And what are you willing to lose?

⸻

The older I get, the less interested I become in asking:

“Who is right?”

And the more interested I become in asking:

“What does it cost to stand there?”

I originally thought I was analyzing Luke Thompson’s acting.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I was actually analyzing my own way of seeing the world.

After watching Bridgerton Season 4, I went back to Season 1.

What should have been a casual rewatch turned into frame-by-frame observation. I found myself pausing constantly whenever Benedict Bridgerton appeared on screen.

Not because of the plot.

Not even because of Benedict himself.

Because of what seemed to happen in the space between stimulus and response.

There is a moment in Season 1 when Colin asks Benedict a simple question.

Before answering, Benedict pauses for less than a second.

His eyebrows shift slightly.

The corners of his mouth drop.

Then he speaks.

It lasts perhaps 0.3 seconds.

Most viewers would never notice it.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

To me, it felt like I was watching a thought happen.

Not an emotion.

Not a performance designed to communicate information.

A thought.

That moment became the key to understanding why Luke Thompson’s acting affects me so deeply.

I have always been fascinated by people who process the world internally before reacting to it.

My own way of moving through life looks something like this:

External stimulus → internal processing → meaning-making → expression

I rarely react immediately.

I observe.

I structure.

I think.

Only then do I put something into words.

When I watch Luke Thompson, I often feel as though I can see that same process taking place.

His expressions do not seem designed to explain emotions.

Instead, they feel like traces left behind by an internal process that has already begun.

The reaction arrives only after something has been examined, digested, and understood.

The more interviews I watched, the stronger this impression became.

In one interview, Luke described acting as something he simply enjoys doing.

Something natural.

Something stress-free.

Many actors speak about ambition, goals, dreams, or achievement.

Luke seemed to be describing something else entirely.

Not pursuit.

Not striving.

Simply responding to what feels meaningful.

That struck me deeply.

Because I realized I wasn’t drawn to his acting alone.

I was drawn to a way of thinking.

A way of perceiving.

A way of existing in the world.

At some point, I stopped asking:

“Why do I like Luke Thompson?”

and started asking:

“What part of myself do I recognize in him?”

Perhaps that is why Benedict suddenly became impossible for me to ignore.

Not because I missed him the first time.

But because I wasn’t yet looking for the things that now matter most to me.

So here I am.

Rewatching Season 1.

Pausing every few seconds.

Studying expressions that last less than half a second.

And somehow enjoying Bridgerton more than ever.

I’ll be seeing Luke Thompson on stage in London this winter.

Until then, I suspect I’ll keep rewatching.

And thinking.

And probably overanalyzing everything.

But honestly?