Tutu’s ninth episode opens with another fresh fairy tale, following up on last episode’s Fakir focus by humanizing yet another key member of Tutu’s cast. As we pan away from an image of a scale in the background, our narrator tells us that “once upon a time there was a girl who loved to dance very much. The girl made the mistake of putting on a pair of red shoes that would force her to dance for eternity once they were on. The girl continued to dance day and night. Oh my! This is a different story. But perhaps it is not so different after all…”
Given the feather on the scale’s shadow and the menacing red-eyed crows in the background, it’s clear enough that this fairy tale is reflecting the story of Rue. In dramatic investment terms, that’s a very welcome choice. Stories can mine great value out of keeping information away from audiences, but when that hidden information is a key character’s base motivation, that choice can result in an inability to connect with the character and their story. Rue has been an intriguing figure in Princess Tutu, but not necessarily a sympathetic one, and the show seems to fully understand that it’s at last become time for us to understand her feelings.
Of course, since this is Princess Tutu we’re talking about, the show’s choice to withhold Rue’s motivation up until now seems actively purposeful as well. Princess Tutu is a story about stories, and one of its principle points of fascination is interrogating the ways an obvious narrative can blind us to other truths. The show began with Ahiru possessing an unimpeachable motivation and a clear goal, signaling her righteousness with every tool available – but as episodes have added up, we’ve learned that other characters, even characters who directly stand in Ahiru’s way, all also possess their own heroic narratives, their own sympathetic reasons for their actions. Each new framing fairy tale thus drives another crack into our own certainty of righteousness; everyone wants to be the hero of their own story, and though many causes are truly, fundamentally unjust, our reasons for pursuing them can still stem from a clear heroic narrative.
Beyond its significance for Rue, the visual storytelling of this first segment applies perfectly to both her and Ahiru. That first shot of the scale feels like the entirety of Princess Tutu in miniature. We open with a balanced and seemingly empty scale, but as the image pans back, that scale’s shadow is revealed to be imbalanced by a single feather. This visual metaphor not only describes Rue’s tragic fate, it also echoes Ahiru’s original bargain – one she thought was a fair exchange, but lacked the perspective to see as a con. And again, this scale echoes the overarching preeminence of point of view, and how information or personal motives can transform without truly changing once we gain a greater perspective.
Episode nine works hard to impart us with that greater perspective, as we linger on Rue’s perspective for the very first time. The world itself feels different through Rue’s eyes; even in scenes from Ahiru’s perspective, this episode is draped in menacing perspective shots and unsettling angles. Though Rue has been always visually tied to the crows, it’s clear now that she doesn’t have any actual control over them. They linger over everything in this episode, casting a dark pall on the town, reflecting the fact that Rue is one more prisoner of her own destiny. This episode offers a first extended glimpse into Rue’s mind, and Rue’s mind is not a happy place.
After an opening segment that essentially acts as a denouement to the previous episode, and reiterates Ahiru’s current principle anxiety, we’re introduced to Rue’s headspace with a panicked internal litany, as she repeats to herself “I am Rue. I am not anyone else. That’s who I’ve always been. It’s who I’ll always be.” While Ahiru at least possesses the certainty of knowing she’s a duck, Rue seems to lack even that; her desire to maintain a sturdy selfhood is undercut by both her own panic and those looming crows, forever drawing her towards a role she seems desperate not to play.
Mytho’s growing selfhood is no comfort to Rue. Where he once unquestioningly repeated Rue’s declarations of love back at her, he now possesses enough emotional substance to question what his “love” for Rue really means. Mytho has known “Mytho loves Rue” in a mechanical sense, but he has attached no feelings to those words – it’s been a truth as banal as “I am me” or “the sky exists.” But now that he actually does possess feelings, he questions why the feelings he feels for Rue signify “love,” and why those feelings are different from the way he feels towards Tutu.
In the face of this evolving Mytho, Rue can only respond in the way Fakir once did, with a desperate “you don’t need to know any of that!” While the students watching interpret all of this as a dramatic lover’s quarrel, to Rue, this is something far more terrible. Trapped even more securely in her narrative role than Mytho or Ahiru, Rue has actually found comfort in this role, and now finds herself asking “why do you desire to change, when I don’t want to?” It’s one thing to have actively chosen this narrative as the best path, knowing like Fakir that Mytho might ultimately come to hate you for it. It is something far more alienating to actually enjoy your path, and then see the one who makes that path meaningful seek to leave you behind.
Having lost the certainty of Mytho’s love, Rue finds comfort in an unlikely place: her growing friendship with Ahiru. Ahiru has no understanding of Rue’s worries, and in fact is anxious in her own way about how Rue and Mytho are “perfect for each other” (one more gesture towards how our limited understanding of other’s narratives often dictates our understanding of their character). But in one of the show’s most charmingly immediate and lived-in conversations, she still manages to comfort Rue, simply by being there and listening to Rue’s story. Though Rue can’t really appreciate it yet, it feels like Ahiru’s presence is essentially the antidote to Rue’s anxieties. While Rue’s original role in the story might be fading, the fact that she can now enjoy idle conversations with new friends demonstrates she is greater than that role, that her personhood cannot be contained by Drosselmeyer’s clumsy hands.
But as Rue’s friendship with Ahiru develops, those menacing crows encroach closer and closer. As the episode draws to a climax, the absurd background narrative of Cat-sensei being pursued by a goat finally tips its hand, revealing itself as one more reflection of the fact that like Rue’s feelings towards Mytho, we cannot force others to follow the roles we’ve written for them. And while both Fakir and Rue seek to return to their old certainty, that wish can ultimately only be granted to Malen, a young girl harboring one more heart shard. It’s a cruel, cruel irony that Malen can only despair at exactly the feeling Rue wished Mytho would possess: a devotion to her, a true longing, beyond narrative roles and words spoken without feeling.
Rue’s humanity is clear even as she assumes the mantle of Princess Kraehe, consumed once more by the crows and the thorns. She can barely keep up the act this time, and once Mytho arrives, it shatters entirely. Rue is now too human to fall into old patterns, and as she starts to come to terms with her greatest fear, Ahiru’s honest compassion begins to reach her. But then Fakir crashes through the window, the gallant hero of his own story, determined to save his precious friend. And in the shattering of that window pane, Rue sees her own uncertain reflection, and is gone. To those without certainty of self, even assuming the role of the villain is better than being no one at all.
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