The story has changed. No longer does Princess Tutu open with the tale of the prince and the raven, the tragic and unfinished final story by Drosselmeyer. Princess Tutu’s fourth episode instead introduces us to a “sad love that would never be requited.” But, the narrator tells us, “that alone does not make a story. The man with the task of spinning this tale of love was no longer of this world. The story lives on with its love forever sorrowful. Having lost its storyteller, the story is now wandering in search of its conclusion.”
Though “a sad love that will never be requited” will ultimately reflect on this episode’s new conflict, the emphasis on a “lost storyteller” also implies this is the story of Ahiru herself. Drosselmeyer has been framed as a powerful, mysterious, and nearly omniscient figure up until now, but this introduction explicitly frames him as the actual god of Ahiru’s world. That implication colors our understanding of everything else, as well – if Drosselmeyer is truly the god of this world, then all of these stories are his, and we are potentially trapped within the recesses of his own mind, or captured in the unfinished pages of his manuscript. And if Drosselmeyer is the true creator of this world, how can Ahiru hope to escape an unhappy conclusion? Can you truly eclipse your own creator? What world remains if you kill God?
Anyway, here’s a penguin playing the piano.
As usual, the heady philosophical ambiguity of Tutu’s opening monologue jumps directly into a goofy daily life sequence, this time following Ahiru and her friends as they watch Rue practice. Also as usual, this segment offers a variety of neat demonstrations of Tutu’s visual strengths. First off, it’s become abundantly clear that Tutu’s highly Doremi-indebted, noodle-limbed character designs are simply perfect for ballet. The looseness of these characters’ limbs allows them to naturally contort into the shapes of ballet movements, with bodies essentially already reduced to the thin reeds of human movement that ballet seems to assume. And given the limitations of the medium, the simplicity of these designs is another great boon; more detailed designs would be difficult to consistently portray dancing, but designs like these are as animation-friendly as they come.
This sequence also serves as a fine example of Tutu’s comedic strengths, which I suppose deserve some explication as well. Tutu is unabashedly a children’s show, and children haven’t historically had the most refined taste in comedy, but certain types of humor can cross pretty much any age/cultural boundary. Comic repetition, visual absurdity, and jokes based purely in timing can all fall into this space, depending on their execution, and Sato is a terrifically gifted visual comedian. Simple gags like Ahiru and her friends mimicking Rue’s movements work because of their snappy timing and charming visual payoff, coming off as, if not hilarious, at least quick, sturdily conceived, and gracefully executed. And because these gags directly reflect the feelings of the central characters, even if you’re not laughing, these comedy sequences are still working to better align the audience with Ahiru’s headspace.
Of course, Ahiru has to go and complicate things again by reflecting on Rue’s words about the story of Princess Tutu. Envying Rue for her talent, Ahiru considers that “when I’m Princess Tutu, I can dance any dance I want. But is that really me, or is it someone else?” Ahiru’s question is a sharp and natural one that once again finds unhappy ambiguity in the nature of stories. If Ahiru is really just playing a part called “Princess Tutu” that was written by someone else, is she really expressing her own strength, living her own dream? How much agency do any of the characters in this storybook world truly possess? And if they fulfill the demands of the stories they’ve been assigned, will that actually make them happy? After all, we’ve already learned the story of Princess Tutu as known in this world isn’t a happy one.
The nature of Princess Tutu is made even more ambiguous by the following scene, where Fakir interrogates Mytho about his newfound feelings. After Mytho explains his new feelings of loneliness, Fakir grows angry with him, saying “you have no need of a heart. You have no need! If you were to regain such a thing…” Fakir’s actions seem antagonistic, but that dangling ellipsis raises clear doubts as to whether Ahiru should be listening to Drosselmeyer’s words at all, and whether, Ahiru’s agency aside, Princess Tutu is a character who is helping this world. Like Madoka Magica, Princess Tutu is mining compelling drama out of our base assumption that becoming a magical girl and completing your function as one is an inherent, assumed good. “The magical girl recovers the heart shards and saves the day” is a story we’ve come to assume is natural, but in Princess Tutu, we have to look back and wonder exactly who is telling this familiar tale, and towards what end.
The episode’s second half returns us to the heart shard formula, and finally puts Ahiru and Rue together for some actual extended conversation. Based on the ballet Giselle, about a woman who dies of a broken heart and is revived by avenging spirits, it’s essentially condensed into a classic ghost story, accompanied by terrific visual embellishment. From the moment Ahiru notices Mytho outside her dormitory onward, the town is awash in grey fog and reddish evening colors, with dramatic layouts lending a sense of majesty and danger to her ornate little town. Princess Tutu’s setting essentially feels like the more embellished elements of Ojamajo Doremi reimagined as an entire world, making for a simultaneously beautiful and chilling background for Ahiru’s spooky tale.
Our time with Rue doesn’t really tell us much we didn’t already know – Rue is prideful, temperamental, and possessive, at least when it comes to Mytho. Rue tries extremely hard not to become friends with Ahiru, but Ahiru makes that very difficult, and the two develop a reasonable initial rapport across their search for Mytho. Still, for most of this episode Rue simply comes across as an imperial brat, and it’s only when she’s forced to duel a ghost in order to save Mytho’s live that she truly demonstrates any positive qualities. In spite of mocking Ahiru’s dancing and generally being a pill, Rue pushes herself to exhaustion for Mytho’s sake; and when she fails, her lament is not that things are hopeless or she was robbed, but that her own lack of practice made her fail. Rue may be proud and difficult, but she clearly cares about Mytho, is willing to sacrifice for him, and immediately admits to her own shortcomings.
Fortunately for both Rue and Mytho, Ahiru is ready to help. With the tragic role she’s meant to play still fresh on her mind, Ahiru immediately connects with this ghost, stating that “like you, I’m fated to never be with the one I love.” Once again, Tutu’s great strength proves to be not dancing prowess or magical strength, but the ability to connect and sympathize with the hurt of others. Taking this tragic ghost in her arms, she says “I cannot know how much you have suffered, but I do know you have grieved enough.” And once again, Tutu’s kindness carries the day.
Unfortunately, there are no simple happy endings in Princess Tutu. With the first three recovered emotions being jealousy, loneliness, and suffering, my initial thought was that this too is an important moral lesson – that our negative emotions are a valid part of us, and that we shouldn’t seek to reject them. But just as Tutu exits the stage, Drosselmeyer makes one final appearance, mocking her efforts and wondering if “these feelings no one wants will bring happiness to the prince.” Drosselmeyer is a mean old man, and I can’t respect his cavalier attitude towards his own creations. Princess Tutu herself preaches empathy, but it seems her puppet master refuses to learn from his puppet’s example.
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