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At Orlofsky’s, Respectability Comes in Drag! Vienna
Volksoper
06/09/2026 - & June 21, 24*, 30, 2026, May 20, June 3, 2027
Johann Strauss, Jr.: Die Fledermaus
Daniel Schmutzhard (Gabriel von Eisenstein), Johanna Arrouas (Rosalinde), Thomas Oliemans(Dr. Falke), Martin Winkler (Frank), Jaye Simmons (Adele), Katia Ledoux (Orlofsky), Timothy Fallon (Alfred), Stanislaw Napierala (Dr. Blind), Tom Neuwirth (Frosch), Ryta Tale (Ida), Gabor Oberegger (Ivan), Eric Machanic (Ein Pianist)
Chor der Volksoper Wien, Roger Díaz-Cajamarca (chorus master), Orchester der Volksoper Wien, Tobias Wögerer (conductor)
Robert Herzl (stage director), Florian Hurler (updated staging, choreography), Pantelis Dessyllas (sets), Matthias Dielacher, Doris Engl (costumes), Lili Clemente (choreography), Jürgen Bauer (dramaturgy)
(© Barbara Palffy/Volksoper Wien)
Hardly any operatic work is as closely associated with Vienna as Die Fledermaus. In the distant early and mid‑nineteenth century, Vienna was the most diverse city in Europe, and its population represented by the diverse peoples of the multilingual, multi-confessional Habsburg Empire. Rivalled only by Paris, nineteenth century Vienna was the epitome of modernity, as exemplified by such luminaries as philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein; Sigmund Freud, the founder of psychology; and Arnold Schoenberg, Alban Berg and Anton Webern, whose Second Viennese School transformed Western music. In the fine arts, Vienna boasted the likes of Gustav Klimt, Egon Schiele and Oscar Kokoschka, who revolutionized Western painting; satirist Karl Kraus, whose wit had no rival; poet Hugo von Hofmannsthal, whose opera libretti were unparalleled; and writers Stefan Zweig and Arthur Schnitzler, who exemplified the human condition in an age of uncertainty. Such an incredibly fecund city also had an established aristocracy and bourgeoisie who were compelled to deal with the radical changes that came with their city’s modernism. White lies and intricate mannerisms were a necessity, not an affectation.
Over twenty-five years ago, I saw this same Volksoper production of Die Fledermaus with my friend, Greek‑Canadian soprano Althea‑Maria Papoulias as the most exuberant Rosalinda ever. Die Fledermaus is one of the most magnificent musical works for the stage. The challenge is that humour is much harder to succeed than tragedy, and the humour in this late nineteenth century operetta is very much linked to Vienna. Rarely have I seen a production outside of Austria that captured its humour. So it was with some trepidation that I attended this performance, as it was presented as the “Gay Pride Edition.”
Prince Orlovsky’s travestimento is the obvious link. The pink washing of Johann Strauss Jr’s operetta was intelligently handled, though some characters proved to be of dubious morality, perhaps a necessity as the opera’s setting and epoch remained unchanged. Upper class bourgeois Gabriel Eisenstein is married to upwardly mobile Rosalinde, previously an opera singer of a modest background. The premise of this “gay” staging is that Eisenstein is a closeted homosexual who married Rosalinda to protect an increasingly tarnished reputation. Indeed, his upcoming prison sentence is due to cruising a policeman agent provocateur in a public bathroom. As for Dr. Falke’s revenge, it’s a complicated matter, as he and Eisenstein were lovers in younger years and the humiliation of Dr. Falke, disguised as a bat, has more to it than in the original story. The two lovers were returning from a louche masked ball when pursued by the police; Eisenstein pushed Falke into the road to be arrested, while he escaped.
Volksoper’s Die Fledermaus has always been family silver. In this Pride Edition, it becomes something else: a high‑camp mirror reflecting on Viennese respectability. Robert Herzl’s production, refreshed under Florian Hurler, keeps Pantelis Dessyllas’s fin‑de‑siècle sets and Doris Engl’s sumptuous costumes, but Act II unfolds in a queer ballroom, where gender, rank and desire are deliciously unstable. In this operetta, everyone is in disguise, and nobody pretends otherwise.
The visual world is the first thing to seduce. Act I takes place in the Eisensteins’ plush bourgeois salon, all polished wood, gilt ornamentation and family portraits. It’s a room built for lies, flirtation and marital boredom. Act II belongs to Orlofsky: palms, mirrors, peacock feathers and a chandelier that seems to drip decadence rather than light.
The costumes were emblematic of how the production sharpened its claws. Doris Engl mixed 19th‑century opulence with a contemporary sense of fluidity: tailcoats, corsets, military jackets, feathers and leather circulated freely. Ivan appears in a black leather harness and thigh‑high boots, all insolent flesh and camp menace. Ida made her entrance in a white Sisi fantasy of crinoline and diamonds, as if imperial nostalgia had been filtered through drag. The production knew exactly what it was doing, and did it with intelligence and style.
Johanna Arrouas, an Austrian soprano of Franco-Moroccan descent, was a magnificent Rosalinde – glamorous, but most of all cool. In Act I, she was the perfect bourgeois wife, all gracious smiles and controlled irritation. By Act II, she reappeared in a tailcoat and top hat, and suddenly the evening belonged to her. Rosalinde is the only character in Die Fledermaus who never truly loses control. Arrouas understood this perfectly.
While her voice conveyed a silvery authority, it was her intelligence that defined her commanding performance. She watched rather than reacted. She listened, calculated, and waited. Rosalinde does not simply trap Eisenstein; she lets him trap himself. Arrouas made the role less of a wronged wife than a woman who’d seen enough of men to know precisely how ridiculous they are. However, playing a masked Hungarian prince in a queer party does not allow for the usual exuberance of the masked Hungarian Countess. Her Act II aria, “Klänge der Heimat” (Czardas), despite her dazzling high notes, was somewhat low‑octane due to a restrained temperament. While her put on Hungarian accent was almost too mild, her flirtation with Gabriel, her own husband, was simply delicious.
Jaye Simmons, seen days earlier as a mild‑mannered Stasi in Kálmán’s Die Csárdásfürstin at the Volksoper, stole the show as Adele. This was not merely a chambermaid with theatrical aspirations. This was a young woman with a plan. Simmons was electric: bright, quick, funny, and always calculating. Her eyes were constantly working and her body seemed unable to stay still. Every line landed with the impatience of someone who knew she was not born to spend her life fastening another woman’s dress.
When she sang “Mein Herr Marquis”, she was not playing at being an actress; she already was one. Simmons fully captured Adele’s class ambition, the sense that wit and charm might yet become a ladder. By the end of the evening, her triumph felt less like comic relief than social revenge. Her dress at Orlovsky’s party, pilfered from her mistress’s wardrobe, was splendidly elegant, suited only for someone with her figure. Her Act III “Spiel ich die Unschuld vom Lande” aria, also known as the audition aria, was utterly charming and funny. In this aria, Adele is trying to impress the prison warden Frank, who had fallen for her at Orlovsky’s party. Here, the plot no longer works as Frank is a closeted homosexual.
French mezzo Katia Ledoux, an impressive Nicklausse/The Muse in Les Contes d’Hoffmann two days earlier, was a splendid Orlofsky. The role can easily become inert, a bored trouser‑role aristocrat deposited in the middle of the operetta to sing one aria and look eccentric, but Ledoux gave Orlofsky real presence. She entered in black velvet, lined in peacock blue, with a perfectly groomed moustache and the languid assurance of someone for whom all this chaos is merely entertainment. Her Prince Orlofsky was completely convincing; haughty and supercilious, blasé and hard to please. Moreover, she acted as a dominatrix with a pretty boy, Ivan, as her/his personal leather‑clad slave. There was no exaggerated Russian accent, which was a pity as it gave charm to the performance. Her Act II “Ich lade gern mir Gäste ein... Chacun à son goût” had panache. It became not a party piece but a manifesto of sensual freedom, delivered with creamy tone and devastating nonchalance. Ledoux made Orlofsky the gravitational centre of the evening.
A versatile singing actor, baritone Daniel Schmutzhard morphed from lovelorn aristocratic Edwin in the aforementioned production of Die Csárdásfürstin into the despotic Emperor in Ullmann’s Der Kaiser von Atlantis and finally into the closeted and deliciously ridiculous Eisenstein. He puffs himself up, struts, flirts and lies with the confidence of a man who hasn’t been told no often enough. Schmutzhard never made Eisenstein nasty, only absurd. Indeed, Eisenstein should not be a villain but rather a bourgeois fool, one who thinks himself irresistible but is repeatedly proven wrong. His pursuit of the disguised Rosalinde is not seduction so much as entitlement in evening dress. Schmutzhard played him with enough swagger to be funny and enough vanity to make his humiliation richly deserved. The operetta depends on Eisenstein being ridiculous without becoming unpleasant, and Schmutzhard judged the line well.
Thomas Oliemans gave Falke unexpected depth. Falke has a tendency to vanish into the mechanics of the plot, becoming merely the man who engineered the revenge, but Oliemans made him much more than that. Polished, precise, and with a smile that never quite reached his eyes, his Falke seemed to have a real history with Eisenstein. In the context of this “Pride” edition, that history acquired a different charge. The toast “Glücklich ist, wer vergisst” no longer sounded merely convivial. It landed like the closing of a trap, but also like the confession of a wound. Oliemans gave Falke the air of someone who’s turned humiliation into theatre, and old hurt into choreography. Yet, there is no real resolution; Falke and Eisenstein kissed as if their old passion had been rekindled. The presumptuous Eisenstein stays married to Rosalinde, knowing her husband’s proclivities. So, does he end up with the wife and his old flame?
American lyric tenor Timothy Fallon’s Alfred was ardent and vain in exactly the right proportions, his ridiculousness softened by genuine vocal allure. Martin Winkler’s Frank was a perfect comic bureaucrat, pompous until alcohol and prison walls stripped him of dignity. Stanislaw Napierala’s Dr. Blind, all oily legalistic fuss, was sharply drawn. Ryta Tale’s Ida was a delight, especially in her absurdly glamorous Sisi entrance, all white crinoline and diamonds. Austria’s Tom Neuwirth, also known as Conchita Wurst, winner of the 2014 Eurovision Song Contest, was a superlative Frosch. Neuwirth brought Act III fully into the present, turning the prison into a place of gossip, scandal and contemporary irreverence. Gabor Oberegger’s leather‑clad Ivan, Orlovsky’s slave, largely silent, nevertheless left one of the evening’s strongest visual impressions.
Thankfully, Tobias Wögerer conducted with lightness and bite. Die Fledermaus dies if it’s not buoyant, but it also falls flat if treated as mere fluff. Wögerer kept the score magical without letting it dissolve into background sparkle. The orchestra played with knowing wit, the waltzes had lift, and the spoken dialogue, often the dead weight of operetta, kept its rhythm.
This production understands that Die Fledermaus is not mere harmless froth. Beneath the champagne bubbles lies a nasty operetta about class ambition, erotic opportunism, marital infidelity and the pleasures of humiliation. The Pride Edition sharpens this, rather than softening it. It turns Orlofsky’s party into a space where everyone’s desires become briefly visible, in a place where bourgeois respectability is exposed as just another costume.
Ossama el Naggar
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