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The Bartered Groom München
Staatstheater am Gärtnerplatz
03/10/2026 - & March 27, 29, April 1, 4, 5, 11, 18, June 28, *30, July 2, 2026, January 6, 9, 10, 15, 17, 2027
Franz Lehár : Der Graf von Luxemburg
Daniel Prohaska (René Graf von Luxemburg), Andrea Zidaric (Angèle Didier), Erwin Windegger (Fürst Basil Basilowitch), Dagmar Hellberg (Gräfin Mathilde von Luxemburg), Peter Neustifter (Armand Brissard), Sophia Keiler (Juliette Vermont), Jeremy Boulton*/Juho Stén (Sergej Mentschikoff), Gregor Reinhold (Pawel von Pawlowitch), Alexander Franzen (Pélégrin, Standesbeamter), Peter Leutgöb (Manager des Grand Hotel)
Chor des Staatstheaters am Gärtnerplatz, Dovilė Siupėnytė (chorus master), Orchester des Staatstheaters am Gärtnerplatz, Michael Brandstätter (conductor)
Peter Lund (stage director), Jürgen Franz Kirner (sets), Daria Kornysheva (costumes), Michael Heidinger (lights), Alex Frei (choreography), Christoph Wagner-Trenkwitz (dramaturgy)
(© Anna Schnauss)
Staatstheater am Gärtnerplatz, Munich’s other opera house, does not try to rival the city’s primary opera house, the internationally acclaimed Bayerisches Staatsoper. Instead, it specializes in operettas, musicals and modern operas. More specifically, it presented Franz Lehár’s operetta Der Graf von Luxemburg (1909) in a delightfully updated version that makes more sense for today’s audiences.
In German director Peter Lund’s rewrite, during a train ride to Paris, Count René of Luxemburg meets and is smitten with Angèle, a provincial girl who is intent on becoming a star. However, Lund’s Count of Luxemburg is no real Count but a pretender, an East European migrant to Paris. He is the valet (kept lover) of the aging Mathilde, Countess of Luxemburg, who passes him as her nephew. Angèle is no opera star, as in the original operetta, but a singer at the famous cabaret Le Chat Noir, affording glamorous sets from Années Folles Paris. Hence two poor provincials with upwardly mobile ambitions are the protagonists of the operetta. Russian Prince Basil Basilowitsch is madly in love with Angèle but cannot marry her as she is a commoner. In return for half a million francs, he arranges a sham marriage between the penniless “Count of Luxemburg” and Angèle on condition they never meet and that he divorces her after three months, after which Basil may marry the newly anointed Countess.
On the eve of her divorce from “the Count”, Angèle meets René and falls in love with the man she had unknowingly married. Whereas in the original libretto, Prince Basil is ordered by the Czar to marry his Russian fiancée and hence has to renounce Angèle, in Lund’s rewrite, the Prince finds his first love at the Grand Hotel’s lobby; she is none other than the aging Countess of Luxemburg (making a scene with her unfaithful gigolo/valet). His love is rekindled and he spurns gold digger Angèle who threw herself at him after discovering that the Count with whom she has just fallen in love is neither rich nor Count. Countess Mathilde is another invention of Lund’s; she replaces Prince Basil’s actual fiancée, Countess Stasa Kokozow. This bittersweet finale is more convincing for today’s audiences, for Angèle is no idealized saintly Madonna but a flesh and bones modern day Manon Lescaut with all her foibles: greed, disloyalty and easy morals. Fortunately, Angèle and René reconcile, and the end is nowhere as tragic as Manon’s.
The great achievement here is to make Der Graf von Luxemburg into an intelligent adaptation that is likely to feel relevant to a contemporary audience. Lund’s production manages to revitalise the libretto without compromising Lehár’s musical identity.
Premiered only four years after Die lustige Witwe, it has long lived in the shadow of its celebrated predecessor despite containing some of the composer’s freshest inspiration. Lehár himself reportedly dismissed the score as a quickly assembled trifle, yet history has delivered a more discerning verdict. The work combines the irresistible sweep of the early Viennese waltz operetta with harmonic sophistication that anticipates the more emotionally ambitious Lehár of Das Land des Lächelns. If the libretto – built upon sham marriages, aristocratic imposture and social climbing – has often seemed an artifact of Edwardian convention, its music has never ceased to sparkle.
One element that the production team of this production fully embraces is glamour. Jürgen Franz Kirner’s sets evoke the grand Paris of the Belle Epoque, while Daria Kornysheva’s costumes revel in period elegance with Angèle’s dresses evoking the statuettes of Franco-Russian visual artist Ertè (1892‑1990). The choice of Le Chat Noir cabaret instead of the Paris Opéra allows for grand spectacle that captures the frenzied spirit of the period.
In the pit, Michael Brandstätter conducts the orchestra with Viennese flexibility while preserving remarkable transparency. His interpretation has precisely the qualities Lehár requires: elegance without sentimentality and momentum without haste.
Daniel Prohaska proves an ideal René. His tenor possesses exactly the conversational ease operetta demands, eschewing operatic heroics in favour of elegance, charm and impeccable textual delivery. René is essentially a confidence trickster who accidentally discovers sincerity, and Prohaska charts that emotional progression with understated intelligence. His vocal production never strains for effect; instead it invites the audience into the role’s mixture of irony and genuine romantic awakening. Other than an attractive voice, Prohaska possesses the most essential quality for the role: charm.
As Angèle, Andreja Zidaric offers a delightful combination of vocal freshness and theatrical assurance. From her first appearance, this is no operetta ingénue but an unmistakably ambitious, independent and quick-witted woman. Her lyric soprano carries an attractive luminosity, floating Lehár’s lyrical lines with ease while always showing self‑assurance. Moreover, Zidaric and Prohaska had the requisite chemistry upon which the operetta ultimately depends: their duets grow organically from flirtation into authentic emotional commitment. Thanks to both singers’ immense charisma, the public identifies with two flawed characters, which is no minor feat.
The supporting cast contributes immeasurably to the evening’s success. The secondary amorous couple Armand-Juliette, who are a tenor and a soprano, like the leading protagonists René-Angèle, parallel Pedrillo-Blonde and Belmonte-Konstanze in Mozart’s Die Entführung aus dem Serail. Sophia Keiler and Peter Neustifter transform Juliette and Armand into far more than operettas’ conventional supporting couple whose main function is to offer comic relief. The pair embody bohemian idealism with infectious vitality. Neustifter’s light tenor is sweet and contrasts perfectly with Prohaska’s heftier tenor. Keiler’s light soprano is attractive but quite distinct from Zidaric’s.
Dagmar Hellberg, who was an imposing Mrs Pearce in Staatstheater am Gärtnerplatz’s last season’s production of My Fair Lady, brought worldly sophistication and comic authority to the Countess of Luxembourg, while Erwin Windegger, who was Colonel Pickering in that same production of My Fair Lady, avoided caricature as Prince Basil, creating instead a genuinely amusing character study grounded in personality rather than buffoonery. Both delighted in their duet towards the end of the opera. They both managed the difficult task of showing the touching humanity of two self‑absorbed characters, spoilt by privilege.
This Graf von Luxemburg reminds us that operetta, at its best, is neither lightweight opera nor sentimental diversion. It is a uniquely Central European art form whose elegance masks considerable dramatic intelligence. Munich’s Gärtnerplatztheater has produced not merely an entertaining revival but a persuasive argument for the work’s place in the living repertoire. One leaves convinced that Lehár’s supposedly minor masterpiece has found an interpretation worthy of its inexhaustible charm.
Ossama el Naggar
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