In 1870, Paris could feel its claim to be the dance capital of Europe slipping away. Ticket sales were declining and war seemed inevitable. During this same year, on 25 May, Coppélia premiered at the Paris Opéra. Coppélia has come to symbolise the end of Romantic ballet; the end of an era in part defined by enchanted forests, ethereal creatures, and other supernatural elements presented on stage. Ballerinas were often not playing humans at all, but sylphs, ghosts, witches, and wilis – and enslaving mortal men with their magical powers.

Created in the wake of these Romantic traditions, Coppélia illustrated a distinct shift from these enchanted worlds. Its magic isn’t the kind that belongs in a glade or a graveyard, but in a cluttered workshop. The strange alchemy that Dr Coppelius wields to animate his living dolls is an example of new anxieties, slowly boiling up over decades previous, brought on by the rush of modernity. After all, Coppélia’s comedy has a strangely grim inspiration: the gothic horror story The Sandman by E.T.A. Hoffmann. In his story, Dr Coppelius is not a bumbling inventor; he’s a repulsive monster, terrifying children with his alchemical experiments. “… the most hideous form,” says the narrator, “could not have inspired me with deeper horror than this very Coppelius.”

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“Just as Giselle is ballet’s great tragedy,” wrote legendary choreographer George Balanchine, “so Coppélia is its great comedy.” The massive success of Arthur Saint-Léon’s 1870 production about young lovers, a mad scientist, and his automated ‘Girl with the Enamel Eyes’ ensured it remained a staple of ballet repertory for years to follow.

But it had another side-effect, too: popularising the use of dancers as mechanical dolls on the ballet stage. The Nutcracker famously brought three toys to life in 1892: a spring-activated trio consisting of Harlequin, Columbine, and a Toy Soldier. In 1919, The Magic Toy Store – or, more snappily, Boutique Fantasque – featured a love story between a ballerina doll and a toy soldier who refuse to be sold to separate customers.

Perhaps the most interesting response to Coppélia’s success came in 1911, when a Russian puppet made from straw and sawdust was brought to life by the Ballets Russes. Petrouchka is a colourful and lively ballet but a tragic one, too. Its living puppet is enslaved by a wizard, unloved by a puppet ballerina, and finally meets his doom at sword-point.

The creators of Petrouchka were certainly aware of Coppélia – in fact, the set designer Alexandre Benois said that his entire artistic development was “immensely influenced” by the earlier work. And if Coppélia turned E. T. A. Hoffmann’s grim original tale into a joyful comedy, then Petrouchka took hold of the same material and dragged its puppets back toward darkness again.

Why is it so appealing to turn dancers into living puppets, toys, or other automatons? One Shakespeare critic, Phyllis Rackin, suggests it might be the same reason that the Bard’s so-called ‘crossdressing comedies’ are so tempting for actors: it clearly demonstrates the incredible skill of the performers who are suddenly transformed.

The Australian Ballet performs Coppélia in Sydney and Melbourne

Marc Cassidy in Petrouchka. Photography Tim Richardson