Die Csárdásfürstin is set at the beginning of World War I, a time of uncertainty and fear, but also one where the ruling classes of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy were partying like there was no tomorrow. A contemporary staging might translate this general mood to the present where the Western world is still suffering from the fallout of the financial crisis, but the Volksoper’s production (Roman Herzl) is in its 31st year now. And there are a number of reasons, why opting for a freshly rehearsed revival in 2011 was an artistically sound decision, aside from both budget matters and its great success (during the 1980s this production also travelled to New York, Washington, Moscow and Japan).
As for the visuals, the lush set created by Pantelis Dessyllas displays a lot of ruffled curtains in burgundy and pink that sets off the rest of the set, in gold and a typically Viennese, Otto Wagner-style reseda green. And with art deco tendrils and garlands twining everywhere, the very 1980s opulence of it all still works as a nostalgic overstatement of the silver operetta era of which this, Emmerich Kálmán’s most popular work, is representative. Naturally, the set provides a magnificent backdrop for ballroom dances on the metaphorical brink of the abyss, while stressing the clash of classes where a prince cannot tolerate a marriage between his son and a czardas princess (a cabaret artiste), although he finally has to give in as he sees his family tree split into planks (so the libretto goes) because he is unknowingly married to a provincial prima donna himself.
Disrespectful, even humiliating treatment of lower-class women by carefree noblemen is denounced and the director’s view on the subject is to be applauded: it is easily forgotten, due to the powerful image of the Viennese fin-de-siècle as a golden age for the arts, that the less fortunate didn’t have it so good (an excellent programme note reminds us that they returned after twelve hours of work to tenements that provided only one toilet for dozens of inhabitants). The programme also features a facsimile of the première review of Die Csárdásfürstin in Der Adelscourier (“The Nobility Courier”), which styled itself as “the intelligent paper for the educated classes”, and naturally dismissed the work under the headline “This Goes Too Far”, which in its arrogance and defence of birthrights reflected what was shown on stage.
Musically, things didn’t get off to the most secure of starts, as house favourite Annely Peebo, singing the title role, didn’t sound like she was able to go on a US tour any time soon (as her character Sylva Varescu supposedly does), and indeed it was announced after the intermission that a virus had struck and that Martina Dorak had rushed in to save the performance. I have admired Dorak’s capabilities as a substitute before, in Wiener Blut, but this time she really outdid herself. She not only sang beautifully, but seemingly remembered the demanding choreography (Matyás Jurkovics) as well. Dancing in this piece is crucial and was generally delivered with excellence, ranging from dashing ensemble numbers to a steamy tango for the opening of Act III, where two soloists (not named in the programme) belied expectations that ballet dancers need not necessarily be great ballroom dancers.