In Die Fledermaus, the champagne bubbles usually carry a hint of irony, but in Stefan Herheim’s new production at Theater an der Wien, they sizzle with charming menace. Herheim – never one to leave well enough alone – plunges Johann Strauss II’s operetta into a kaleidoscopic mirror of Vienna’s cultural and political neuroses, past and present. The result is an audacious, frequently hilarious, and often provocative evening that proves that Fledermaus still has fangs.
The gauntlet is thrown down from the start: Strauss’ famous overture is nowhere to be heard. Instead, we open with Beethoven – whole scenes from Fidelio, no less – then a teasing wink to the musical Elisabeth, as well as an extensive, self-ironic dialogue from no less than Kaiser Franz Joseph himself (Alexander Strobele, the evening’s Frosch) before Strauss finally makes his belated entrance. This recomposition and layering of eras and idioms may well feel self-indulgent in lesser hands, but Herheim uses it skillfully to trace Vienna’s shifting masks: idealism, decadence, denial. Musical interjections and textual interjections become part of the drama, creating a sound world that is as fractured as the identities on stage.
The director’s signature style is everywhere. Before the interval the dance troupe brilliantly morphs from “Schani” Strausses – waltzing effigies of Vienna’s favorite son – into bats, before finally ripping off each others sideburns, wigs and tails to reveal dancing Führers in bondage gear, complete with SS armbands — but with bat insignia in lieu of swastikas. This transformation from frivolity to fascism could easily feel heavy-handed, but Herheim keeps the tone buoyant throughout. Even Eisenstein reimagined as Jewish – a bold touch that reframes his relationship with Falke in a new light – the production rarely turns didactic. Instead, it embraces the contradictions: a collision of farcical commentary and exuberant spectacle.
For all its conceptual daring, what makes the evening work is its theatrical energy and humor. Every character is drawn to caricature – gleefully so – and the entire ensemble works together with razor-sharp timing and physical comedy. The designs are sumptuous: rich costumes (Esther Bialas) that wink at Viennese nostalgia while skewering it mercilessly, while in the stage design a prison effortlessly spins into a theatre, and then back again, as if to show that the shift from harmless to fascist can happen quite quickly, seemingly in the blink of an eye.
One of the most surprising joys came from David Fischer in the usually thankless role of Alfred, who in this production becomes both lover and Kabarettist. Not only does Herheim have him tossing off arias by Beethoven, Verdi and more on top of his Straussian fare but, in response to a technical mishap this particular evening which kept the curtain down after Orlofsky’s aria (delivered brilliantly, from the rim of the director’s loge, by Jana Kurucová), he delivered spontaneous magic: rallying the Wiener Symphoniker and reprising his aria until a solution was found.
Yet the evening ultimately belonged to its women. Hulkar Sabirova navigated Rosalinde's journey with vocal power and sharp comic timing. She barreled and soared through Strauss’ fireworks and beyond, as she likewise fearlessly tackled interpolations from the broader operatic canon and even showed her keyboard chops into the mix. Alina Wunderlin’s Adele was also a standout: radiant, impassioned and irresistibly human (while deplorably antisemitic). Together they anchored the production amid the carnival of madness, graciously underpinned by Thomas Blondelle’s convincing Eisenstein. Rounding out the cast, Leon Košavić was a terrifyingly fascist Falke, Alexander Kaimbacher a charmingly incompetent Dr Blind, and Krešimir Stražanac the sonorously befuddled prison director, Frank.
From the pit, the Wiener Symphoniker under Petr Popelka delivered a muscular, at times swaggering, account of the score. Popelka was unafraid to push tempos and bring out the dramatic edges of Strauss’ music, sometimes to great effect, sometimes perhaps a hair too aggressive for Viennese lightness. The orchestra responded with flair, whether underpinning the pastiche interpolations or injecting drive into the waltzes and ensembles. The Arnold Schoenberg Chor never felt merely decorative; shifting from social guests to complicit bystanders, they were integral to the dramaturgy and their disciplined presence added real musical and theatrical gravitas to a production full of fireworks.
Herheim’s Fledermaus is a risky experiment that, miraculously, works — at least in a city that knows it so intimately. It’s a political provocation that still bubbles with genuine charm. By reimagining Vienna’s beloved operetta as a mirror for its own myths and contradictions, Herheim reminds us that the waltz and impending disaster have long danced, Hand in Hand.
