Jareth arrives differently. He is not a narrator confessing his nature but a figure in a visual narrative, and he is presented not through the apparatus of an estranging frame but through the direct address of magic and presence. When he watches Sarah in her bedroom, when he sends her the glass orbs, when he steps into her dreams wearing David Bowie’s cheekbones and a codpiece, he is not rationalising his desire; he is incarnating it. The magic is real.