“Once upon a time, there was a maiden with wings of freedom. The man who loved this maiden thought, ‘if I could just bind those wings, we would never be apart, even for a moment.’ But when the man wrapped the maiden’s wings in a magical shawl, the wings fell off immediately, and the woman died.”
Episode eleven’s opening narration cannot be trusted. These narrations can’t ever be trusted, really – they present themselves as amoral fables that emerge from nowhere, but every one of these stories was written with bias, with intent. No story is merely “a progression of events which happen” – even if you strip them down to their barest narrative bones, they convey perspective, morality, blame. As presented, this story clearly implies that the maiden’s lover is a guilty party – he is not directly condemned, but “wings of freedom” are presented as the maiden’s defining feature, and him destroying them seems to imply it was his covetous nature that led to her ruin. But was that really what happened?
The original ballet our narrator is summarizing is “La Sylphide,” which also serves as this episode’s title and narrative inspiration. In the original story, the man truly does love the titular sylph, an elusive wind spirit, and it is a cruel witch that curses his well-meant gift of a scarf with the power to destroy her. But then again, that witch is only acting so spitefully in payment for being struck by the man, and the man in turn is pursuing this sylph by abandoning his prior betrothed. It is the fullness of the aperture that defines the morality of a narrative; hone in closely and one moral lesson seems clear, but expand your perspective and a thousand contradictory motives unfold.
La Sylphide’s narrative contains fragments of Tutu’s already, in the ways all stories call out to each other. Fakir’s desperation to protect Mytho is echoed in the man’s thought that if he could only contain his love, they would be happy forever. The sylph’s fragility reflects Ahiru’s transformation, and her untimely end the way Tutu’s own powers are her “source of life.” And Kraehe lurks in the scene’s imagery, the treachery of mirrors and red eyes of the raven implying her malevolent presence. Content with this display, Drosselmeyer opens our tale with a laugh, cackling that at last, “all the characters needed for the story are assembled.”
The episode proper opens with Edel, Drosselmeyer’s ambiguous puppet. As she dangles from his strings in darkness, Drosselmeyer mutters “this time, why don’t you become interested in people’s emotions?” Edel has been no more than a vehicle for Drosselmeyer’s will so far, but Drosselmeyer has proven himself a somewhat inconsistent mastermind, and giving Edel a genuine interest in emotions seems like precisely the sort of thing that might lead her astray. Edel’s journey will have to wait for now, though – at this point, her only role is to take a gem called “Love” from a furry, hooded stranger, cueing a brilliant shift from dramatic background music to in-universe diegetic music, as the rousing strings that accompanies her meeting carry through a scene transition to accompany Fakir’s dance. As always, Fakir’s dance reflects his aggressive feelings, but they seem less certain than before – having accepted the inevitability of the Prince and the Raven’s retelling, he is just as committed to Mytho as ever, but now willing to allow Tutu her own path.
Ahiru is now just as sympathetic to Fakir’s position, but her friends have other priorities. Excitedly encouraging Ahiru to give a present to her love, they are overheard by Mytho, who parses this as “if you give someone a present, you’ll learn how they feel about you.” The scene comes across very naturally, and through doing so demonstrates the useful mechanical role Ahiru’s friends often play in this show. Portrayed mostly as farcical counterpoints to the main narrative, they are free to inject seemingly flippant ideas regarding Ahiru’s courtship of Mytho that always end up bringing the rest of the cast back into conflict. Without them, Ahiru and Mytho’s run-ins would rely almost entirely on contrived, random meetings – but they are able to act with the presumptuousness Ahiru herself lacks, allowing her to stay deeply insecure about her feelings towards Mytho while simultaneously engaging in schemes to draw his attention all the time.
Fakir and Ahiru at last reunite in the following scene, where a deliberately symmetrical composition transitions into a composition that perfectly reflects their relationship. Fakir stands highlighted in sunlight, convinced he has nothing to hide, casting an imposing shadow while dominating the actual dance floor. Ahiru lingers in shadow, obscuring her identity, unsure she belongs on the stage. And yet, in spite of their differences, they ultimately come to a sort of agreement. Fakir won’t help Tutu because he doesn’t trust her, but he also will no longer obstruct her work. It’s progress, of a sort.
Unfortunately, Rue is less able to make a positive compromise between her personal desires and narrative destiny. While Fakir and Ahiru are each honored in their own way to play the roles of knight and princess, Rue has been assigned “villain,” and she hates herself for it. Walking beside Mytho, she regretfully acknowledges that “if you regain any more of your heart, you’ll surely grow distant from me. For I am the crow, your enemy. Even though I love you so much.” Rue wishes she could maintain Mytho’s blissful ignorance for herself, as well – but when Mytho takes Edel’s new gem and claims he’s giving it to Tutu, her path is set. Barred from loving Mytho naturally or assuming any heroic roles, Rue takes the one role remaining from La Sylphide – that of the bitter witch, who curses the lover’s gift with a spell of destruction. Though our heroes have largely come to respect each other, Rue’s role as villain keeps her distant and unhappy, ensuring she carries out Drosselmeyer’s wishes.
Rue isn’t the only one chained by her destiny, though, and each of our heroes struggle with their paths in their own ways. Fakir’s resolutions are as straightforward as his general demeanor: abandoning his battle with Tutu, he instead recommits to his fundamental ideals, trusting he can at least still protect Mytho. Rue also finds at least some solace in her identity as Kraehe; she might not be able to make Mytho love her, but she can at least possess Mytho, and defeat her hated rivals. And Ahiru, ever ashamed of her own nature, continuously demures, and protests that Mytho couldn’t possibly love her. But when the dramatic finale arrives, there stands Mytho on stage – reaching out his hand for her and her alone, asking to know Princess Tutu’s true feelings.
That finale concludes on a grim union of La Sylphide and Tutu’s usual episodic endings. When a new heart shard emerges, Kraehe’s treachery springs into action, and Mytho’s gift ends up binding Tutu’s “wings.” Kraehe steals the shard and Mytho as well, while Fakir is paralyzed by his old memories and Ahiru stands helplessly aside. All the while, Drosselmeyer gleefully mocks our heroes, chastising them that “it’s dangerous when you don’t know your place in the world” while knowing full well that he himself has robbed them of their identities. Tutu’s heroes and villains are fighting with all their hearts to find love and selfhood in this picture book world. But as long as Drosselmeyer still holds the strings, the frame of their narrative will remain fitted to his design, trapped play-acting old tragedies for a heartless king.
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