More fragments of Drosselmeyer’s half-finished tale arrive as we begin Princess Tutu’s third episode. We learn that along with his heart, the prince had both his kindness and his memories stolen. We also learn that the shards of his heart found their way to people with voids in their own heart – a classic conceit of the magical girl genre, here applied to a tighter narrative frame where that choice directly ties into the story’s overarching themes. Princess Tutu is well aware of the power stories have to shape our own feelings, and even direct our own lives. As our narrator warns, among those who were possessed by the shards, many found their own tales twisting awry.

After an episode largely consumed by silly gags and exploration of Ahiru’s daily life, this episode focuses much more tightly on Tutu’s conflicted feelings about the power of storytelling. We’re given just one Doremi-style slice of life scene, at the beginning, as Ahiru’s friends attempt to help her rise out of the probationary class. Sato’s expression work and ear for comedic timing shine through here; even in an ostensibly light scene, tricks like Ahiru’s friends moving into and out of the frame add some ostentatious visual complexity to goofy arguments between friends. But this light material soon fades, as Ahiru reflects on her journey so far.

Again and again throughout this episode, characters contextualize the stories of their lives in terms of other stories, and reflect on the mutable relationship between the two. That reframing begins with Ahiru’s thoughts, as she mentions a “dream” to her friends that includes the entire story of the prince and the raven. This is an important reveal from our perspective – it means that, instead of Ahiru being an unknowing player in a story that a more omniscient narrator is relating to us, Ahiru herself knows all the same expository information we do. In turn, that means that our information is the same information Ahiru was given by Drosselmeyer, who is clearly not a reliable source. The overall effect means this offhand reveal casually undercuts our trust in the show’s opening narration, since everything we know is what Drosselmeyer wants us to know.

Complicating things even more, we then learn that Drosselmeyer’s story is an actual physical book that itself exists in Ahiru’s world. The story of the prince and the crow thus exists in three realities – in the overarching framing device as presented to us, in the substance of Ahiru’s own story, and as a physical object in Ahiru’s world. There are no clear beginnings and ends to these alternate levels of existence; they inform each other, reflecting the impossibility of divorcing our lives from the stories that inform our views of reality.

Incidentally, since I haven’t mentioned it yet, I should also acknowledge that Drosselmeyer is pretty much the perfect name for this series’ unreliable mastermind. In The Nutcracker, Drosselmeyer is the mysterious noble who actually gives the heroine the nutcracker himself as a gift. Drosselmeyer’s role in that story is thus as ambiguous as it is here; were his actions merely an ignorant step leading into the drama itself, or was he the direct provoker of the story itself? And if so, were his intentions noble or malicious? Either way, it is clear already that the telling of stories is not a morally neutral action; stories are incredibly powerful, and regardless of his intentions, Drosselmeyer’s delight in inflicting drama on these characters makes it hard to see him in a positive light.

In addition to complicating our understanding of the in-show storytelling, this segment also brings Ahiru totally up to speed with our own understanding, as she learns both that Drosselmeyer is actually dead and that Mytho is a prince out of a story. I appreciate Princess Tutu’s choices when it comes to where to hide its mysteries – the show has a very smart grasp of what it should reveal immediately (like this story’s overarching fairy tale framework) versus what it should slowly portion out (like our understanding of characters like Rue and Fakir’s motivation). Having the whole story be predicated on dramatic irony regarding Ahiru’s ignorance of the story she’s in would be deeply unsatisfying, whereas hiding these characters’ feelings both gives us reasonable mysteries to explore while further tethering us into Ahiru’s headspace. As our understanding of Drosselmeyer’s nature grows and the focus on characters like Fakir and Rue continues, I find myself wondering if these two somehow collectively represent the story’s raven, a character framed as an antagonist, but ultimately just as captive to the capricious whims of the storyteller.

This scene also demonstrates more of Princess Tutu’s compelling visual storytelling. Beyond expressive character movements and great faces, this sequence continues Sato’s favoring of isolating distant shots. While these shots did a great job of illustrating Ahiru’s campus in earlier episodes, here they’re applied to an almost background-bereft setting, simply emphasizing the alienation of this place. And both Fakir and Ahiru find themselves consistently restrained behind bars and window panes, the camera creating a natural birdcage that entraps them both.

Following that encounter, Ahiru finds herself on the periphery of a very strange picnic date between Mytho and Rue. In spite of the idyllic framing of the scene, Ahiru comments that they “didn’t look like they were having much fun.” And it’s true – the two of them look like bad actors playing out a script they feel nothing towards, with Rue’s only satisfaction seeming to come from demanding Mytho carry out her requests. And for his part, Mytho actually seems to appreciate this direction – having lost all his own feelings, he’s content to have someone else tell him what to do.

Eventually, Mytho and Ahiru find themselves arriving at the cozy wooded Ebine, a restaurant helmed by Ebine herself. In spite of the food looking delicious, everything Ahiru eats is cold and flavorless, but Ebine continues to demand they stuff themselves. The sequence is a clear riff on Hansel and Gretel, but just like with the Prince and the Raven, that story actually exists in Ahiru’s world, and is used as a weapon in its own right by Ahiru, as she attempts to scare Mytho into leaving. The power of stories to be used as weapons is clearly going to recur throughout Princess Tutu, but at least this time, her gambit fails – the story “goes awry,” its interlocking gears become visible once again, and Princess Tutu is called forth. Of course, with the information we have, even Ahiru’s glorious transformation is given a menacing undertone; after all, if Drosselmeyer is both the one who wrote this story and the one who called Princess Tutu here, then he is ultimately responsible for both Ahiru’s sadness and her triumph, and is simply manipulating her narrative for his own amusement.

But regardless of how her lurking master might be manipulating her actions, Ahiru’s own motives and methods are as pure as snow. Requesting Ebine dance with her, she wonders to herself “what feeling is that shard?” The focus, once again, is not on “defeating” your opponent in any sort of martial contest, but on understanding them, and sympathizing with the hurt that led them to this unhappy moment. Everyone is the hero of their own story, and Ahiru wants to connect with those stories, and love even the characters whose narratives have gone terribly wrong. Accompanying her entreaties with ballet movements that literally turn her feelings into her favored form of storytelling and self-expression, Ahiru represents the beauty of storytelling as a source of personal connection, demonstrating how creation need not be a selfish act.

Of course, our own purity of intent rarely has much bearing on the stories we are forced to endure. Rescuing Ebine from her overpowering feelings of loneliness, Ahiru is greeted in her own world with an unhappy new revelation – that Princess Tutu herself is a character from a story, and Tutu’s story is not a happy one. Drosselmeyer’s introduction painted the influence of the prince’s shards as a disruptive and negative one, claiming their presence makes the stories of those they touch “go awry.” But if Drosselmeyer is the one deciding how stories should be told, I can only hope that Ahiru escapes his certainty, and rewrites her story into a happier one.

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