What Is Operetta?

What comes to mind when people think of operetta? Many faithful fans would reply that it is an entertaining type of music theater that features lighter music than opera and lots of dancing. Others might mention its sentimental tone, found especially in the Austro-Hungarian repertoire, less so in the flippant French style. Some would emphasize its satirical nature, found for example in the mockery of British institutions by Gilbert and Sullivan: Iolanthe took aim at Parliament, H.M.S. Pinafore at the military, Trial by Jury at the courts, and so on. All these elements are certainly part of the tradition. At the same time, an important characteristic of operetta is that it caters to the tastes and interests of different groups in the audience. Micaela K. Baranello, focusing on Viennese operetta, writes as follows about the genre’s hybridity:

Like other genres of music theater, operetta is a multimedia experience that includes text, music, and dance and often features lavish sets and costumes. On top of that, it somehow managed, as Baranello says, to combine modernity and sentiment, two qualities that often seem quite opposed. It is not surprising then, that the experience of a particular theatergoer will depend on that person’s background and interests. Operetta appeals to many audiences, and individuals may notice only the elements that they prefer. Many delight in the music, dancing, and luxurious stage sets; others are drawn into the romantic stories; and some appreciate the political and social satire that may range from subtle to glaring. Director Barrie Kosky, whose Offenbach production is discussed in Section 2, recognizes and appreciates this mixed audience. In a 2019 interview, he stated that

In 2017, when I gave a public lecture in Vienna on operetta as political critique, some attendees indignantly objected, stating that operetta is fun and entertaining, but not political. The strong presence of political references in many operettas makes this outlook seem incomplete – yet it did express the valid experience of those particular spectators. Even so, as Jean-Claude Yon aptly puts it, “the first characteristic of operetta at its origins is the taunting [raillerie] of everything that is official, whether it be power or the dominant artistic forms (notably grand opéra).” (Yon, Reference Yon2007, p. 127. All translations are my own unless otherwise stated.)

Operetta Adaptation and Regietheater

Many modern spectators may not realize that operettas are immensely malleable and that most works have undergone numerous alterations, revisions, and reconceptualizations – not only in recent revivals, but also from their very origin. Operetta scholars are well aware of this, though, and many studies give examples of how quickly new works were adapted and revised as they traveled to other cities and countries. This happened for many reasons. A show might be presented in a smaller or larger theater, leading to new orchestral arrangements or staging decisions. The involvement of particular singer–actors might suggest changing a work to highlight their strengths. Translations into different languages led to inevitable changes in emphasis. If a work included local references, it was logical to adjust those as it moved to different cities. Since operetta was highly commercialized, the idea of Werktreue (faithfulness to the original) was less important than popular appeal. Most composers, librettists, and companies were open to making changes, hoping to sell more tickets by matching the taste of a particular community. Theaters presenting operettas generally did not receive the government support that opera theaters did, which increased the incentive to revise.

Even in the classical opera world of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, some changes were viewed as acceptable, such as substitute arias, the ballet Wagner added to Tannhäuser for its Paris version, and the significant alteration of the finale of Mozart’s Don Giovanni when it moved from Prague to Vienna. Operetta lives on the border between classical and popular music and is more governed by the marketplace than opera. Therefore, it is not surprising that during the heyday of the genre, adaptation of operettas to heighten their appeal to a particular community was a completely normal practice.

Regietheater (director’s theater) is a term applied to twentieth-century theater and opera productions. It also involves altering the text, music, and/or staging of an original work, but the purpose of those changes is quite different from that just described. In extreme cases, a work can become almost unrecognizable. Ulrich Müller attributes some extreme productions, particularly in Germany, to the existence of government subsidies for the arts: “[a]s a result, the impresarios of these theaters have been only partly dependent on immediate box office success, and have had to struggle increasingly for public attention; in general, it has been worse to be considered old-fashioned than to sell few tickets” (Müller, Reference Müller and Greenwald2014, p. 588). The resulting productions frequently dismay audiences rather than drawing them to the theaters.

Müller presents Jürgen Kühnel’s typology of Regietheater. The types include relatively minor changes, such as staging the work in a time period later than stated in the libretto; symbolic interpretations such as those of Wieland Wagner, who presented his grandfather’s music dramas through universalized stage designs emphasizing geometric shapes and light effects; and drastic revisions based on “the staging, not of the story, but of the mental reflexes and reactions of the director” (Müller, Reference Müller and Greenwald2014, p. 590). In extreme cases, the outcome of the story may be altered. Regietheater productions frequently politicize works from the past by connecting them to more recent historical events, often making references to Fascism and Nazism. Many onlookers are outraged by productions that seem to violate the intentions of a work’s original creators.

By contrast, operetta adaptations were often sanctioned and even facilitated by their creators – for example, when Offenbach wrote new material for performances of his works in Berlin. Changes to operettas were normally designed for audience appeal, while Regietheater productions often repel and anger the public – but nevertheless, the degree of change in operetta performances could be quite extreme at times. The following quotations illustrate the procedures and some examples.

Writing about Viennese operettas of the twentieth century, Baranello describes the production materials that were sent to new theaters after a work’s premiere:

This normal practice of adapting operetta productions was changed in later Broadway shows, as explained by Anastasia Belina and Derek B. Scott:

While Belina and Scott mention Phantom of the Opera, even as early as the 1940s, Rodgers and Hammerstein “insisted on replica productions of their works when they were revived.”Footnote ¹ It can be fruitful to compare performance practices for operetta and musical, particularly as some theaters alternate productions of the two. As one example, the leadership of Marcel Prawy led the Vienna Volksoper to include musicals in its repertoire, beginning with Kiss Me, Kate in 1956 (Wagner-Trenkwitz, Reference Wagner-Trenkwitz2022).

The next quotations describe specific productions, starting with cases where changes were governed by audience preferences and moving into others that suggest Regietheater. Veerle Driessen explains how one aria in Offenbach’s Orpheus in der Unterwelt was altered for an 1867 performance in Amsterdam. In the original, the deceased Hans Styx, wooing Eurydice, sings about his former life on earth as a king. By contrast, in the Amsterdam version

Laurence Senelick’s book on Offenbach productions all over the world overflows with descriptions of how the works were altered. As one example among many, Senelick discusses Offenbach performances in Japan by touring French and English companies in the late nineteenth century. La Grande-Duchesse de Gérolstein, renamed General Boum, was a favorite. He writes that “[t]he operas were played for low comedy and cheap melodrama, interspersed with specialty acts and assimilated to Japanese habits whenever possible” (Senelick, Reference Senelick2017, p. 197).

Fall’s operetta Die Dollarprinzessin had its premiere in Vienna in 1907. Stefan Frey describes its arrival in New York two years later:

It was quite normal for new songs to be added in this way when a production traveled to another country – yet how interesting to see the name of such a renowned American composer at the early stages of his career, and eighteen years before Show Boat!

In a notable article on operetta performance practice, Kevin Clarke describes jazz versions of Franz Lehár’s Die lustige Witwe, Kálmán’s Csárdásfürstin, and other twentieth-century works. For example, “Millöcker’s Dubarry was arranged by Theo Mackeben (the director of the premiere of the Dreigroschenoper) and transformed into a sensational modern success” (Clarke, Reference Clarke2006, p. 43).

Some changes to operetta, such as jazz versions of older works, were designed to attract audiences by keeping up with changing musical taste. From the 1930s onward, though, there were also ideological reasons, since Nazi, Fascist, and Communist governments often required productions and newly written works to conform with their political goals and ideals. This could lead to drastic changes in plot and music. Péter Bozó describes a rewriting of Offenbach’s Grande-Duchesse de Gérolstein for a performance in Budapest in 1950 in which the plot was redesigned to criticize the Marshall Plan. Even after making these major changes, the theater director, Margit Gáspár, wrote a self-abasing letter to Mátyás Rákosi, the head of state at that time, describing her “serious inner crisis,” asking whether the adapted version was “a Communist work or a counter-revolutionary activity,” and volunteering that she should be dismissed from her position if she had erred (Bozó, Reference Bozó2022, pp. 49–67; quote from p. 64).

A related example from the Nazi era was the regime’s attempts in 1943–44 to rewrite Lehár’s 1902 operetta Der Rastelbinder, whose original main character was Jewish. In his archival study of letters among government officials, publishers, Lehár, and the adapter Rudolf Weys – whose wife, like Lehár’s, was Jewish – Wolfgang Dosch demonstrates that some elements of the original content were preserved despite the political pressures of the situation, and that Lehár saw this project as an opportunity to protect the Weys family (Dosch, Reference Dosch, Stockinger and Garrels2020).

Political circumstances like these led to very different results than earlier adaptations designed simply to appeal to local audiences. Yet even when a regime had taken one official position – for example, the Nazi aversion to jazz influence on European music – exceptions could be made. For example, as Matthias Kauffmann describes, Fritz Fischer (1898–1985), director of the Gärtnerplatz Theater in Munich from 1938 to 1945, made alterations that incorporated jazz in very pleasurable and often erotic reworkings of older operettas.

As a final set of examples outside of totalitarian political regimes, performances of the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas range from very traditional to extremely innovative. Performance style for the “Savoy operas” by this famous duo was dominated for decades by the tradition-bound D’Oyly Carte Company, which held the copyright until it expired in 1961. Even so, as Ian Bradley observes, “there was a cross-dressed Pinafore as early as 1888, and in 1939 New Yorkers had a choice of ‘Swing’, ‘Hot’, or ‘Red’ versions of the Mikado” (Bradley, Reference Bradley2005, p. 168). There was also a notable increase in adapted versions, first after the copyright for the shows expired and again when the D’Oyly Carte Company ceased its operations in 1982. (A new version of that company then came into existence in 1988 and continued till 2003; see Bradley Reference Bradley2005 for more details.)

Even secondary schools sometimes make startling changes when performing Gilbert and Sullivan, as shown by this brief characterization of several productions at St. Mary’s Catholic High School near Manchester:

These St. Mary’s productions clearly qualify as Regietheater, since they changed the times and settings and in the case of The Mikado, also made the connection of the original Japanese location to a very up-to-date social concern about Japanese business in the United Kingdom. As Regietheater, they exemplify a trend that we will see reflected in several of the productions discussed in the two case studies following this section.

The two types of adaptation described belong essentially to different eras of operetta. Adjusting a work to suit particular circumstances (the theater space, the locale, and the audience) was most natural at the time that operetta was a current genre, with new works continually being composed and circulated. The interpretation-heavy Regietheater approach, while not completely absent in earlier times, was applied to operettas as this form of light opera was becoming a historical genre. Similar reinterpretations of musicals have also begun in recent years: examples include director Daniel Fish’s revival of Oklahoma! and the very new David Herskovits adaptation of Show Boat (Preston, Reference Preston2021; Green, Reference Green2025). But when and why did operetta’s shift from a current to a historical genre take place?

From Critique to Nostalgia: World Wars Bring Changes to Operetta

This shift during the first half of the twentieth century is closely correlated with the two world wars and the realignments of European lives, politics, and governmental systems that came with them. Before World War I, many new operettas were still being composed and adapted to suit various theaters and audiences in Central Europe and North America. By the 1950s, the focus of musical theater had shifted away from operetta to the musical. Operetta was viewed as an older art form and its best-known works were canonized, much as the classical music world went through the process of reifying music by Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven. Popular music always moves in new directions as fashions change, but operetta was especially susceptible to this alteration because its ironic outlook depended on the social circumstances of its origins.

In the final chapter of his remarkable study of Viennese operetta, cultural historian Moritz Csáky explains that the dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian Empire after World War I undermined the function and relevance of the old type of Viennese operetta.

While the Viennese tradition was particularly affected by the Empire’s dissolution in 1918, it is evident that similar situations obtained for operetta in other countries, as the genre was usually designed to satirize the present-day situation of its own time. Offenbach’s ironic take on Second Empire French society and Gilbert and Sullivan’s satire of Victorian England also became outdated under the new circumstances of the early twentieth century, which had its own situations and problems to address. World War I began a process of change in the fundamental structures of European life that accelerated between the wars, and World War II intensified the damage. Both physically and metaphorically, it was necessary to rebuild, and many older traditions were lost in that process.

Despite the turmoil, new operettas continued to be created and produced in Central Europe well into the 1930s, with some notable changes in style. Jazz music and dance were emphasized, and many new works were revue operettas, more focused on presenting interesting and varied music and dance numbers than on coherent plot development. In the Soviet orbit, new operettas that furthered Communist and Socialist ideas – including actual tractor romances, as in Soviet film – were composed well into the 1960s (Belina, Reference Belina, Belina and Scott2020b).

Some of the new operettas moved the genre into the present, addressing contemporary issues such as factory work, team sports, and the film industry. This began even before World War I: Fall’s 1907 Die Dollarprinzessin includes a female chorus of typists, including the sound of their typewriters as part of the music, and the heroine of Lehár’s 1911 operetta Eva works in a glass factory (Baranello, Reference Baranello2021, pp. 64–72). In a different direction, Paul Abraham’s Die Blume von Hawaii (The Flower of Hawaii, 1931) addressed American colonialism while also capitalizing on an attractive exotic locale; his Roxy und ihr Wunderteam (Roxy and her Magical Team, 1937), first performed in Budapest, is about men’s and women’s sports. In Ralph Benatzky’s Axel an der Himmelstür (Axel at the Gates of Heaven, 1936) a young Austrian reporter in Hollywood becomes romantically involved with a Greta-Garbo-like star.Footnote ³

Another creative response was to write new works that capitalized on nostalgia. This can be found in pieces such as Fall’s Die Kaiserin (The Empress, 1916), a romanticized account of the young Empress Maria Theresia of Austria, and Madame Pompadour (1922), a sassy and erotic portrayal of the famous mistress of Louis XV – each designed to showcase the star Fritzi Massary as its title character. Kálmán also emphasized past glories in Gräfin Mariza (Countess Maritza, 1924), which is set in prewar Hungary but captured postwar regret.

Nazi cultural policies had a strong effect on operetta, not only before and during World War II but also on the later public image of the genre. Scholars have gathered various types of evidence to document this influence. By examining the gaps in Nazi operetta guides, Volker Klotz demonstrates how the Nazi leaders “cleansed” the repertoire by eliminating works created by Jewish composers and librettists (a very large number) and those that emphasized jazz. They also Germanized the genre by minimizing the importance of its French origins and ignoring works from outside Germany and Austria; commissioned substitute works suspiciously close in plot to some of those they had removed; and privileged works that glorified authority and power rather than undermining them through mockery (Klotz, Reference Klotz2014, pp. 85–97).

Based on a close study of the Third Reich’s policies and documents compared to the operettas that were actually produced, Matthias Kauffmann argues that the effects of the policies were inconsistent. He describes a “system of pragmatism and double moral standards” that did not live up to its own rhetoric. For example, Goebbels decided to suppress the information that Johann Strauss had one-eighth Jewish heritage, because he felt Strauss’s operettas were too important to eliminate (Kauffmann, Reference Kauffmann, Belina and Scott2020, pp. 262–3). Despite the regime’s supposed rejection of jazz and revue-operetta, in reality both were permitted, as in the Fischer Fledermaus production described under Operetta Adaptation and Regietheater, which included “nude stars climb[ing] out of giant champagne glasses” (Kauffmann, Reference Kauffmann, Belina and Scott2020, p. 267). Kauffmann describes the mix of earnest works displaying Aryan nationalism with more frivolous productions that appealed to typical audiences, and he concludes that “the Nazis actually did not have the power to kill the genre, but they let it die” (Kauffmann, Reference Kauffmann, Belina and Scott2020, p. 270).

Kevin Clarke uses historical recordings to trace shifts in operetta performance style, stating that the influence of Nazi preferences led to “a performance practice that has created for the genre, since the Second World War, the worst image one could imagine.” He argues that the shift from singer–actors who performed in cabaret style to operatic voices brought excessive sentimentality that snuffed out the campiness, ironic humor, and overt eroticism of the original works (Clarke, Reference Clarke2006, p. 24). At the end of this article, Clarke expresses his scornful appraisal of the outdoor summer performances in Mörbisch, Austria: “Little can be found in Mörbisch of the original Maritza’s glamorous 20s flair, since this Burgenland festival presents Kálmán and all operetta as extremely stale [altbacken], folkloric, and of yesterday – for an elderly public that wants to see a live Heimatfilm”Footnote ⁴ (Clarke, Reference Clarke2006, p. 63).

With this term, Clarke is referring to a type of nostalgic film that was popular in Germany and Austria after World War II; a subset of these movies were operetta adaptations or newly composed operettas for film. They frequently (though not always) presented a more buttoned-up and less risqué version of the genre that matched operetta’s role as an expression of nostalgia. Derek B. Scott discusses Heimat films, which “had a nostalgic appeal in their emphasis on wholesome and supposedly traditional values lived by honest folk overcoming adversity in idyllic rural locations.” As a related example, he discusses the 1952 and 1960 film versions of Benatzky’s 1930 operetta Im weißen Rössl, pointing out that irony was gradually eliminated, so that “in the 1960 film directed by Werner Jacobs, all traces of the frivolity, mischief, camp and caricature of [director Erik] Charell’s original revue operetta – the features that lent it a tone of social critique – had vanished” (Scott, Reference Scott, Belina and Scott2020, pp. 281–2).

Operetta’s original role as a critique and send-up of social norms and institutions was largely lost, and there was much less of a reason to compose new works in the genre. Instead, since 1945 the theatrical world of Western Europe and North America has come to treat operetta as a known quantity and an opportunity for revivals. As with opera, there is a standard repertoire of favorites that are produced over and over, while lesser-known operettas are occasionally brought out of the shadows and into the spotlight. The works discussed in the next two sections of this Element include one of each.

Csáky mentions a “rediscovery or revaluation” of operetta beginning in the 1980s and suggests that the Viennese repertoire of the genre might “reach [den Bogen spannen] into the present and perhaps facilitate our understanding … of our own multipolar identity” (Csáky, Reference Csáky1998, p. 300). My broad question in the two case studies that follow is whether recent revivals and new productions of older operettas continue to function as a venue for sentimentalism and nostalgia, or whether eroticism, campiness, and social-political critique are returning to the operetta stage. In the past, these vital characteristics of the genre were expressed through the creation of new works. Is it possible that these thrilling qualities are now found instead in creative revivals?

Synopsis of La belle Hélène

The story, set at the Spartan court, represents the events leading up to the Trojan War. (I use the English character names rather than the French.) Helen, the queen, is shown to be a dissatisfied wife who has had many affairs that she attributes to Fate (“la fatalité!”), seeing them as inevitable since she herself is the offspring of Leda’s adulterous union with Jupiter when he took the shape of a swan. Her husband is portrayed as a weak and unattractive figure; his entrance lines are “I am the husband of the queen, King Menelaus.” This is mythologically accurate, as Helen was a Spartan princess, so the kingship came with marriage to her – but this self-deprecating phrase also expresses her dominance in their marriage. Their nephew Orestes, played as a pants role, is a frivolous young man who greatly enjoys nightlife, using tax money to pursue his pleasures. Another significant character is Calchas, priest of Jupiter, who laments the decline of religion in public life.

In Act I, Paris of Troy arrives dressed as a shepherd, not long after his fateful encounter with the three goddesses. Calchas, who has already heard about this, asks him to describe the beauties of Venus, which he does in a lascivious suggestive way. After receiving a letter purportedly from Venus herself, Calchas becomes Paris’s ally in his quest to seduce Helen. Next comes a festival of religious sacrifice, attended by several other Greek kings. They take part in a kind of intellectual triathlon that includes a game of charades, whose solution is the word “locomotive” (a perfect example of the anachronisms at the center of this drama) – and the unknown young shepherd wins, surprising everyone with his brilliance. He then reveals that he is not just a shepherd, but Paris, Prince of Troy, which leads to a delightful ensemble in which he is greeted as “the man with the apple” which charmingly rhymes in French: “l’homme à la pomme.” As Hans-Jörg Neuschäfer points out, a key element in this work is that the characters have some foreknowledge of the mythical events; thus, everyone has already heard about the “Judgement of Paris” (Neuschäfer, Reference Neuschäfer, Kirsch and Dietrich1985, p. 124). Menelaus invites Paris to join the court for dinner that evening, but Calchas contrives a prophecy commanding Menelaus to spend a month in the mountains of Crete, and he departs immediately, shooed away by a cheerful chorus despite the general awareness that this journey threatens his marriage.

Helen is attracted to Paris but strives to protect her virtue. At the same time, she is keenly aware that she truly has no choice, as Venus has promised her to Paris (that foreknowledge again). Act II shows her preparing for dinner about a month later, rejecting her attendants’ suggestion that she wear a low-cut dress. She sings an aria, reproaching Venus for putting both her and her mother in situations where they must betray their marriage vows. The kings, still visiting Sparta, play a gambling game called “the game of the goose” that Calchas wins by cheating. Eventually, Helen decides not to attend the dinner. Wishing to keep Paris in the realm of fantasy, she asks Calchas to send her a dream about him. Paris enters her room disguised as a slave. Emboldened by the belief that she is dreaming, Helen asks him to compare her beauty with that of Venus; he uses this as an opportunity to encourage her to uncover her body, and they become physically intimate. Helen continues to believe (or persuade herself) that the encounter is a dream – until Menelaus suddenly enters, having left Crete early. He indignantly awakens the court, calling the other kings to witness his wife’s infidelity. Helen declares, to general agreement, that a husband should never return from a journey without informing his wife. If she knows in advance, she can perform the necessary cover-up to protect everyone’s honor and reputation. In this act, it is Paris who is shooed away, this time by an indignant chorus.

As Act III begins, we learn that Venus, enraged that her plans are being thwarted, has made all the people of Greece sex-crazy, leading to complete turmoil as wives and husbands abandon one another. Menelaus is still angry at Helen and demands that she explain her comment that what happened between her and Paris was only a dream; she responds petulantly to his pestering. Agamemnon and Calchas try to persuade Menelaus to sacrifice his personal happiness for the welfare of his subjects by appeasing Venus’s anger, and he replies that he has already invited her high priest to come and resolve the situation. The impending arrival of a competing high priest arouses the professional jealousy of Calchas. When this priest (actually Paris) arrives on a special boat, he first admonishes the Spartans to stop their mournful singing and be happy; this is the well-known Tyrolienne, complete with flashy yodeling for Paris. He proclaims that to satisfy Venus, Helen must accompany him on a brief penitential journey to the island of Cythera, which is sacred to Venus. Helen resists until the priest quietly reveals his identity. The two of them sail away as the “high priest” mocks Menelaus, revealing that he is Paris and Helen will not be returning. The final chorus is set to the same music as the end of Act I. Just as the ensemble had sent Menelaus off to Crete, they now shoo Helen and Paris off to Cythera. The libretto includes an additional verse in which they express anger and predict the war to come, but this part of the text is frequently omitted, so that the ending becomes a celebration of love and infidelity.

Social Critique, Anachronism, Intertextuality, and Musical Reference in the Original Work

As we know, operetta was a satirical genre, usually including parody of musical traditions, references to other musical and literary works, and mockery of social norms and institutions. La belle Hélène is a textbook example of these tendencies. Beyond the expected use of parody, a work set in classical antiquity offers many opportunities for anachronistic references to much later times in both text and music, and the librettists and composer of La belle Hélène took full advantage of this source of humor. These elements – social critique, intertextual reference, musical parody, and anachronism – are closely intertwined, so it is logical to discuss them together rather than tease them apart.

The work’s portrayal of mythological Greek kings and heroes as self-aggrandizing, silly, and hedonistic takes some of the larger themes of the Iliad to extremes and was perceived by contemporary audience members as shocking and even blasphemous. Prince Richard von Metternich, the Austrian Ambassador to France, attended the premiere with his wife and remarked afterward that they would be mentioned in the newspapers, and that it was not agreeable for a lady to be associated with such a scandalous work (Fraison, 1989, p. 16). Helen is depicted as driven by circumstances beyond her control, which she frequently apostrophizes as “la fatalité,” yet she also takes advantage of this circumstance, which provides an excuse for her to enjoy the developing affair with Paris and her eventual abduction. As mentioned earlier, Neuschäfer observes that the operetta alters the presentation of the story in an important way.

Textual anachronism is most notable in the Act I game of charades, which Paris wins with the correct answer “locomotive.” There is a later reference to a train departing in Act III. When a dove arrives bringing the letter from Venus, Calchas carefully removes the stamp for the collection of Princess Hermione. Musical anachronism is omnipresent, as the music is of its own time, not at all related to anything ancient Greek. Naturally, the operetta audience would not expect ancient music, but nevertheless, the presence of familiar nineteenth-century genres of entertainment music such as polka, waltz, and Tyrolienne adds absurd humor, supporting the anachronisms in the text.

Other scholars have noted that Offenbach uses direct and implied quotations from other operas. Many details can be found in David Rissin’s commentary on the libretto. For example, he points out a resemblance between a phrase of Helen’s opening air sung to Venus and Susanna’s recitative at the end of Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro; both passages involve a woman expressing her need for or anticipation of love. The most notable case of direct quotation is heard in the Act III trio, whose first line exactly quotes the music of a trio in Act II of Rossini’s Guillaume Tell. This is an apt reference, as the situations are quite parallel. In the Rossini example, two friends attempt to persuade Arnold to renounce his romantic involvement with the Habsburg princess Mathilde and join the Swiss rebellion. In the Offenbach example, two friends advise Menelaus to set aside his personal wishes regarding his marriage to do what is necessary for the country (Rissin, Reference Rissin and Pazdro1989, pp. 29, 77–79).

Along with quotations from specific works, grand opera is satirized through stylistic allusions, some written by Offenbach and some added by performers. A strong example from Offenbach’s score is the elaborate florid writing on the words “Ô ciel! L’homme à la pomme!” (O heavens! The man with the apple!) in the Act I Finale, sung first by Helen and then passed around the ensemble. By contrast, Helen’s exclamation at the end of Act III, “C’est encore la fatalité!” (It is fate once again!) is written simply in the score, with a fermata over her high F on the syllable “ta” – but at least in modern performances, it is expected that the singer will add extensive ornaments here. The most extreme example I encountered was in the Hamburg production; Jennifer Larmore’s version of this phrase is explained in the description of that production.

Mockery of French social norms is evident in the representation of marriage customs, upper-class society, religion, and government spending. The libretto makes it completely clear that marriage is neither viewed as sacred nor based on love. Helen states that she cannot love her husband and is trying to be virtuous purely to meet social expectations; almost everyone around her takes her infidelities with Paris and her previous history with other men in a light and humorous spirit. Commentators on this operetta agree that this reflects the behavior of French high society in the Second Empire. The elite class is portrayed as extremely silly, with the kings and high priests partaking in party games and frolicking on the beach. Calchas, the symbol of organized religion, cheats at cards and has a machine that produces fake thunder, which he uses whenever he needs to announce a message “from Jupiter,” though he actually contrives these messages himself. Finally, the libretto emphasizes the royals’ use of public money to finance their personal expenses. Orestes mentions in his opening aria that Agamemnon does not mind funding his son’s hedonistic pleasures because Greece will pay. Upon being told that Venus requires the sacrifice of one hundred white cows, Menelaus similarly states that his people will pay the costs. This clearly satirizes taxation policy and social inequality in nineteenth-century Europe rather than the governmental structure of ancient Greece.

Four Productions

Table 1 lists the four productions discussed here and their directing teams.

As we examine these versions, some questions arise that would present themselves to any creative team deciding how to approach this work.

• In what time period(s) is the production set?

• What visual style(s) and references are included?

• How much anachronism is used, and in what forms?

• How to represent the most beautiful woman in the world – should this be done straight or ironically?

• How far to go in the bedroom scene?

• Is the purpose of this production to reproduce the original show as faithfully as possible, or to add new interpretations and references?

Each production resolves these questions differently. Broadly speaking, the Paris and Hamburg productions are the most similar, yet each has its own individuality. I do not discuss the details of how the spoken dialogue is altered; the original libretto has a great deal of it, and each production makes some cuts and adaptations. To go beyond that generalization would shift the goal of this section, which is to capture the essential qualities of the productions through descriptive writing, not to catalogue every deviation from the original. I address the productions in chronological order.

Zurich 1994

The Zurich production hews most closely to the original, though it certainly adds idiosyncratic whimsy and charm. A major contributor to that spirit is conductor Nikolaus Harnoncourt, who had worked closely with the Zurich Opera since 1975. His first projects there were cycles of Monteverdi and Mozart collaborating with stage director Jean-Pierre Ponnelle. His first venture into operetta in Zurich was Strauss’s Der Zigeunerbaron in 1990; La belle Hélène followed in 1994, and the video was released in 1997 (Gutknecht, Reference 54Gutknecht and Grätzer2009). Renowned as a champion of historically informed performance, Harnoncourt helped to move this approach from its original territory of music of the Baroque and Classical eras into the nineteenth century. His delight in performing operetta is evident, and the light, quick touch that he brings to the orchestral tone is effective. The DVD shows him occasionally singing along in the pit, and there are charming moments when Helen interacts directly with him, once addressing him as “Maestro.”

The set is modeled on the Roman Pantheon, depicting the inside of the famous dome rising high at the back of the stage, as though the performers are all inside the building. This set is present throughout, even for Act III, which takes place at the beach. Many of the costumes also reference older styles, but in an eclectic mix that ranges from tunics and togas for male characters to more recent dress styles for Helen. The costumes were designed by Jean-Charles de Castelbajac, who works primarily in the world of fashion – he is currently the artistic director of the Benetton Group and has dressed pop stars including Madonna, Lady Gaga, Beyoncé, and Drake (Stephinson, Reference Stephinson2023). Costume designer Cat O’Callaghan describes his overall approach in La belle Hélène as “a stylized fusion of modern and historical fashion.”Footnote ⁵

Notably, many costumes have words written on them in French, Latin, or English. On Helen’s hoop-skirted ballgown in Act I, the word “L’AMOUR” is inscribed in red letters, probably made of dyed feathers stitched onto the skirt. (Film director Baz Luhrmann is known for his insertion of a neon “L’Amour” sign, for example, in Romeo and Juliet (1996) and Moulin Rouge! (2001) – which may be linked to the whole set of Hélène productions, as Luhrmann and Barrie Kosky of the Berlin production were both young Australians directing operas in the 1980s and 1990s.) Figure 1 shows this costume.

Figure 1 Vesselina Kasarova in her grand “L’AMOUR” dress.

Photo reproduced with the permission of the Opernhaus Zürich and Peter Schlegel.

When Paris makes his first appearance, his tunic contains the text of a mock classified ad in French: “I seek the most beautiful woman in the world … ” and includes his phone number, extending the anachronisms of the nineteenth-century original work. The chorus members wear similar outfits that O’Callaghan describes as a style influenced by ancient Greek and Roman tunics. These are also inscribed with schematic drawings and words in various languages: for example, one depicts a large human hand with the words “la main de la fatalité” (the hand of fate), while others have depictions of a spiral maze, a head wearing a crown, and a fish standing on its tail below a crown. Others feature words such as “lux,” “pax,” “U. F. O.,” “cloud,” “angel,” and “dream.” As performers move around the stage, these texts are not fully seen or easily read, making them all the more enticing to spectators. These inscribed costumes both evoke and mock the deeper levels of the myth while highlighting connections of the ancient Greek legend with archetypes and symbols of other civilizations, such as ancient Egypt and biblical Christianity. Figure 2 shows some of these inscribed costumes and also gives a good sense of the Pantheon set.

Figure 2 Helen with chorus members, showing Pantheon set and inscribed costumes.

Photo reproduced with the permission of the Opernhaus Zürich and Peter Schlegel.

The performer playing Helen is Bulgarian mezzo-soprano Vesselina Kasarova, who was about twenty-nine at the time of the production. Her costumes and makeup accentuate her youth and traditional beauty, making her believable as the legendary Helen. I mention this not to rank her appearance against that of other performers, but to point out that this casting choice seems to be a conscious strategy of the directing team, quite different from the choices made in some other productions.

Another point of comparison among the productions is how they represent the events taking place during the love duet (perhaps better labeled as the adultery duet), Act II, Scene X. In this number, Helen persuades herself that the presence of Paris in her room at night is a dream, and he goes along with her belief, taking his opportunity to become intimate with her. She asks him to compare her beauty with that of Venus; he persuades her to be more open by hinting that beauty is as beauty does and encouraging her to emulate Venus by showing her body and kissing him. In the Zurich production (whose Paris was Deon van der Walt), the two performers are relatively restrained in their behavior. They remain fully clothed throughout the scene after each removes an outer garment, and Helen appears more dreamy than aroused. Whereas some other productions show the couple ducking beneath the covers at the end and imply a frantic climax, in the Zurich version they remain fully visible in the final embrace.

One particularly effective scene in the Zurich production is Act I, Scene VI, when Orestes enters with two Corinthian hetairas to sing the couplets “Au cabaret du Labyrinthe” and the three interact with Calchas. Orestes is played sassily by the young Romanian mezzo Liliana Nikiteanu. The two hetairas Parthenis and Laeana, played by Lisa Larsson and Ulrika Precht, wear skimpy clothing and extravagantly colorful curly wigs. As indicated by the refrain vocables “Tsing la la” that swoop down by a ninth, this scene is designed to be ridiculous – in a charming coincidence, the woman who created the role of Orestes was named Léa Silly – and this cast accentuates its charm and silliness. At the same time, Orestes’ commentary – his cynicism about his aunt’s constant appeal to Fate and his confidence that his papa will pay for his entertainment with tax money – brings out the social critique that is central to the genre. The young women flirt shamelessly with Calchas, pointing out that they too have been affected by Fate – how else did one of them get the opportunity to join the ballet? – and the priest charmingly confesses in a final monologue that he is strongly tempted to partake in their hedonistic lifestyle.

Comparative Reflections

These four productions display a wide range of creative expression, using various tools that add layers of meaning to the original show. All use stage sets and particularly costumes as a strong interpretive element. The Paris and Hamburg productions frame the plot with stories of frustrated twentieth-century women. The Berlin production utilizes numerous external musical references, creating intertextuality as the outside music comments on characters and events.

All the productions encounter the question of how to represent Helen, supposedly the most beautiful woman in the world. Should this be taken literally or made part of the satire? Their choices of performer and performing style are quite varied. There were two older and two younger performers in this role, and two who were skinny, and two more voluptuous. The women’s attitudes toward sex and eroticism varied from Lott’s childlike delight to Chevalier’s cynical alienation.

There were also different approaches to the political and social critique that characterized the original show. The symbolic visual and verbal references on the Zurich costumes made this version perhaps the most abstract and timeless, though it did emphasize the libretto’s references to taxation that benefits the rich at the expense of ordinary people. (One further example from that production is discussed in Section 4.) The Hamburg and Paris productions satirized the times and settings that they created: 1960s pop culture and the commodification of ancient Greece, respectively. The Berlin production shunned specific political references, substituting a joyfully campy challenge to norms of gender and respectability. All in all, the variety found in these four versions affirms the presence of Regietheater and the wide range of interpretations that characterizes operetta performance in recent decades.

Die Herzogin von Chicago – Background

This work has some interesting background in real life. The main female character, Miss Mary Lloyd, is very similar to Chicago heiress Ginevra King Pirie (1898–1980). Like Mary, Ginevra King was an arrogant young woman strongly associated with a group of similar young ladies, and she hailed from the northern Chicago suburb of Lake Forest, Illinois.

In her late teens, Ginevra King was passionately involved with F. Scott Fitzgerald, then a student at Princeton, for about two years, and she was his model for the character Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby. As in the novel, she married a much wealthier man rather than Fitzgerald. Following her second marriage to the owner of a major Chicago department store, she remained part of Chicago’s elite society for her whole life. Her fellow “Big Four” friend Edith Cummings, who became a famous golfer, was probably the model for Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby. These arrogant young women, accustomed to being admired and feted for their beauty and wealth, resemble Miss Mary Lloyd and her friends. Even the notion that they represented a kind of American aristocracy is found in a quote from a biography of Fitzgerald’s wife Zelda: “[h]e met and fell in love with Ginevra King, a rich and wildly popular visitor from Chicago, who at sixteen had the social ease of a young duchess” (Milford, Reference Milford1970, p. 28).

This group of young women resembles the “Ladies’ Eccentric Club” of the operetta. While it is hard to ascertain whether anyone in Europe would have heard of them, Ginevra King was sufficiently prominent in the United States to be featured on the cover of Town and Country magazine in July 1918, and The Great Gatsby was published in 1925, three years before the operetta.

Moving in another direction, the name “Mary Lloyd” has two possible connections. One is an English music hall singer whose stage name was Marie Lloyd (1870–1922). The other is a Welsh wassailing tradition called “Mari Lwyd,” in which revelers carry a horse’s skull from house to house, requesting to be let in. After “an improvised battle of rhyme and verse” they enter the home, where “they are given cakes and ales, the Mari Lwyd causes some mischief and everyone moves on to the next house” (Brett, Reference Brett2022). Another description states that “[t]he Mari Lwyd would try and gain entry to houses via song. The merrymen would explain why they needed to enter and the occupant of the house would sing why they can’t be let in. This would go back and forth until the occupant didn’t have any more reasons to not let them in” (Rhinwedd, Reference Rhinwedd2024).

As with the Big Four, it is unclear how and whether the librettists would have had any knowledge of these similar names and their associations, one with the musical theater stage and the other with the idea of an ongoing debate (such as the jazz-csárdás conflict) that leads to one person creating mischief in someone else’s home (such as Mary Lloyd’s renovations of the Sylvarian palace).

Die Herzogin von Chicago – Plot

This synopsis is based on the Regiebuch. It should be noted that the show was very long on the first night and remained so even after having been cut. As Kevin Clarke explains, “On the basis of the premiere, the reaction of the public in the weeks after the premiere, and the reviews, Kálmán, Brammer and Grünwald begin reworking and cutting the piece the day after the premiere. For, according to Marischka, Die Herzogin is one hour and twenty minutes too long” (Clarke, Reference Clarke2007, p. 201). Both the productions we will discuss had to shorten it considerably.

The Vorspiel (Prologue) takes place in a Budapest bar-restaurant called the Grille américaine, whose manager and Gypsy bandleader are discussing an ongoing shift in social prestige. Instead of royal and aristocratic patrons, the bar now prefers business owners, particularly those with American connections. American jazz dances such as the foxtrot and Charleston have also come into fashion.

Sandor Boris, Crown Prince of Sylvaria, enters the venue, but whimsically exchanges places with one of his attendants. The bandleader instantly recognizes Sandor Boris, an old acquaintance, who is outraged to see this wonderful fiddler expected to play the saxophone. The band plays a “Beethoven foxtrot” – a new arrangement of the opening of the Fifth Symphony – and the prince breaks in, demanding waltz and csárdás instead; he is also horrified to see one of the Hungarian musicians wearing blackface.

The American heiress Miss Mary Lloyd now enters, accompanied by her attendant, the Jewish-American Johnny James Bondy, whose family roots are in Sylvaria. Her father, a Chicago billionaire, has just purchased oil rights in Sylvaria. Mary has come to Europe to participate in a contest among members of the “Ladies’ Eccentric Club” in New York; the winner will be the lady who purchases whatever in Europe is most difficult to buy. Learning that the Crown Prince is there, she whimsically demands to dance a Charleston with him. Bondy approaches the royal party and presents this request to the actual Prince (posing as his attendant), who refuses, but informs the Americans that the Prince would gladly dance a waltz or Hungarian csárdás with Miss Lloyd.

The exciting finale that follows alternates between Mary’s musical sections featuring jazz and the Prince’s sections featuring European sentimental and dance music. She glorifies the American dollar, while he expresses his appreciation for the old ways and the privileges of his upper-class heritage. The Prince embraces the Gypsy primás, demonstrating their shared musical taste. This relationship recalls stories of historical figures such as King Ludwig II of Bavaria and Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria, whose closest confidants were their coachmen and valets rather than their aristocratic companions.

Ultimately, the csárdás triumphs to conclude the prologue, which has set up the broad conflict of this work. The brash American sphere of money, business, and opportunity are pitted against the traditional European emphasis on hierarchy and tradition. Each culture has its symbolic musical style: American jazz dances, modern but also linked to “primitive” African traditions, are contrasted with the European sentiment and sophistication expressed in Wienerlieder, waltz, and fiery csárdás. The sizzling anger between Miss Lloyd and Prince Sandor Boris as they defend their musical cultures clearly has the potential for transformation into sexual attraction.

Act I takes place in the ancestral castle of Sylvaria, opening with a ceremonial song in honor of the prince’s birthday. His chief ministers tell him that Mary Lloyd is in town with her entourage of a full jazz band and dancing girls. The Prince welcomes a chorus of young princes from the kingdom of Morenia, all in military uniform, who bring birthday greetings and a present of a doll representing Sandor Boris. They sing a charming march about a military parade.

Bondy arrives, requests an audience, and announces that Mary wants to buy the castle. He and the ministers quickly negotiate, agreeing to a price of six million dollars. Mary enters and immediately starts planning her renovations, including making the throne room into a dance floor. Next, Princess Rosemarie of Morenia arrives; she has a lisp, and the ministers advise her to avoid words including the letter “S” when she meets the Prince, as they are hoping for a betrothal. He enters and is charmed by the princess along with her lisp – but the two agree that neither one of them wants to marry another prince or princess. They sing a duet about the imagined pleasures of ordinary people.

The Prince and Mary have a tête-à-tête in which she tells him how sorry she is for princes; in the duet “Armer Prinz,” she explains that she once had a doll just like the plaything brought by the Morenian children, but when she cut it open, she realized that it was stuffed with ordinary straw. Still deceived by his previous playful role exchange, she does not know that she is speaking with the Prince himself. Rosemarie and Bondy are also drawn together, especially as they realize that each has a disability: her lisp and his Jewish heritage. (He calls himself an “Israelittle.”) They also discover that each is supposed to marry for the sake of “the firm.” All these interactions signal that the two couples planned by their families will soon be switching partners.

When the Prince reappears and is greeted by fanfares, Mary realizes who he is and apologizes for what she said when she believed him to be someone else. He makes a formal announcement that he has decided to sell the castle, devoting the full purchase price to the needs of his people. Mary is touched by his decision, as he told her earlier about all the history and memories he associates with this building. To conclude Act I, she privately instructs Bondy to send a telegram to her father, announcing that she has purchased the castle and will now work on acquiring the Prince as well.

Act II is set in the same castle, newly renovated by Mary, who is hosting a party to show off the new decor. The chief ministers are delighted with the country’s improved finances, and Bondy informs Mary that they have taken over several Sylvarian industries. Mary’s American girlfriends arrive and admire the palace, as does the Prince, though he regrets some of the changes. The two admit that each has secretly been taking lessons in the other’s dance: Mary’s jazz director is teaching Sandor Boris the Charleston, while his Gypsy primás is teaching her to waltz. They agree that the Charleston is the American form of the Csárdás.

The Prince’s chief ministers secretly plan a marriage between Sandor and Mary, planning to declare her the Duchess of Chicago to overcome her lack of a pedigree. They also offer an order of nobility to Bondy, who requests a Star of David rather than the Cross of St. Michael. Benjamin Lloyd, Mary’s father, unexpectedly arrives from Chicago. She tells him about her plan to marry the Prince, but when she describes the contest, he doubts her love for the Prince and advises against the marriage.

His new aristocratic title emboldens Bondy to offer Princess Rosemarie his hand in marriage. She accepts, and they sing a joyful duet about how they will listen to jazz together in the penthouse of his Chicago skyscraper. The refrain “Im Himmel spielt auch schon die Jazzband” (In Heaven, the jazz band is already playing) likens life at the top of a skyscraper to the next world.

Mary tells her father that though she began to woo him because of the competition, she now truly loves Sandor. Mr. Lloyd meets the Prince, interrogates him about his profession, and gives his blessing to the match. Mary persuades the Prince that Americans are susceptible to romance, and they sing the charming duet “Rose der Prairie” in which they play the roles of a cowboy and an Indian girl in love. Sandor meets the American girls, who declare that Mary has won the contest and explain it to Sandor Boris, who is deeply offended. His ministers reluctantly show him the telegram Mary sent to her father at the end of the previous act. After a grand ceremony to declare Mary the Duchess of Chicago, the plan is to announce her engagement to the Prince, but instead he declares his intent to marry Rosemarie. Just as in Kálmán’s Gräfin Mariza, Act II ends with the discovery of a written document that leads to misunderstanding, a break-up, and general unhappiness.

In the Nachspiel (Postlude), the two chief ministers of Sylvaria meet the actual King of Sylvaria, Sandor Boris’s uncle, in the Grille américaine. King Pankraz XXVII is a ridiculous old man who lives a life of pleasure outside Sylvaria. In operetta terms, he is a third-act comedian – the most famous role in this category is that of Frosch, the jailer in Die Fledermaus – and as such, his scene includes deliberate references to other operettas. He enters accompanied by two young women, Joujou and Loulou, their names taken from Lehár’s Merry Widow. Being hard of hearing, he claims that the two young ladies speak only French, though they converse in Berlin dialect. Pankraz is extremely disappointed that the plan for Sandor Boris to marry Mary Lloyd has failed, since her wealth is necessary for the insolvent kingdom. He comes up with an alternate plan: as the judge says in Trial by Jury, “I will marry her myself!” The King then quotes Die Fledermaus by singing the refrain of Orlofsky’s aria, “Chacun à son gout!” The ministers are delighted with his new plan to retain Miss Lloyd for the Sylvarian royal family, a scheme similar to a plot twist near the end of The Merry Widow.

Prince Sandor Boris appears with his entourage and learns that Mary has been in the bar every night with a mysterious young man, listening to Wienerlieder and csárdás. In view of his engagement with Rosemarie, he attempts to suppress his strong jealousy and requests some music, but when the band begins with the music he preferred in the prologue, he asks for something more modern. He also reassures the musician in blackface that he is no longer angry. He and his officers begin to sing “Rose der Prairie,” and the Prince seizes the saxophone to play the refrain. Clearly, the reversal of musical preferences symbolizes an imminent romantic reconciliation.

Mary enters flirting with the mysterious stranger and receives a marriage proposal from King Pankraz, much to her dismay. She and the king sing a duet, mostly in disconnected French phrases to indicate how little French they know (another reference to Fledermaus). A newsboy enters with an “extra” edition, bringing the news to Sandor Boris that Rosemarie has run away with Bondy and they have gotten married at the American Embassy. The stranger provokes a confrontation with Sandor, but instead of a duel, it produces an explanation: this man represents the Fox-Paramount film studio, and he is in Europe in pursuit of a real-life story to film. The whole set of events that have occurred so far makes for a perfect film, but as the American public requires a “happy end,” it is necessary for Mary and Sandor to reunite. They do so joyfully, and the curtain falls as all dance a “slowfox mit Mary.”

Two Productions

Table 2 lists the two productions discussed here and their directing teams.

My commentary will combine what I learned from interviews with observations from watching the DVD of the Vienna production and both a live performance and an online video of the one in Budapest.

Contrasting Moods and Styles

Both these productions were very successful in different ways. The Vienna production was panned by some critics but much appreciated by audiences, and the DVD had good sales. (See Feurzeig, Reference Feurzeig2016 for more details.) The Budapest production received the award for best production at an annual competition among all Hungarian theaters and became a successful part of the company’s strategic effort to draw younger and more fashionable audiences. (Lőrinczy, Reference Lőrinczy2017) While each version was acclaimed, they differ in several ways beyond the plot changes, as explored next.

Comparative Reflections

The two main differences between these productions involve the times they represent and their relationship to the original show. The Vienna production focused on the 1920s: that era was reflected in the costumes, the constant presence of film, and the animated sequence during “Rose der Prairie.” The resulting show became, at least in part, a meditation on issues of the 1920s – though some of those, particularly the relation between Europe and America, continued to be real and important in 2004.

The Budapest production used two divergent eras as inspiration for costumes and sets, referencing Europe at the turn of the twentieth century and mid century America. Its presentation of characters in a more caricatured way, including the “macho Balkan prince,” the crazy princess, and the stereotypes at the costume ball, created a surreal atmosphere that could be timeless or could equally well reflect on life nowadays in an increasingly absurd and totalitarian Eastern Europe.

The original operetta was set more or less in its own present day, but these revivals, designed over seventy years after the original, could have introduced some interesting anachronisms, capitalizing on that element that was present from the premiere with La belle Hélène. This was not a major factor in these productions, though. The Vienna version focused more on the time of the original, emphasizing the media of film and Disney cartoons that were developing then. The Budapest version, while it did include some visuals and jazz styles later than the 1920s, did not present them with the irony we expect from operetta anachronism. The possible exception is its most referential scene, the costume ball, but as a hodge-podge mixture of American and Balkan stereotypes, it did not emphasize temporal incongruity.

In comparison to the 1928 original the Vienna production was a mostly faithful adaptation, while the Budapest version distanced itself much more, almost to the point of using the original as source material from which to create a patchwork quilt. This is reflected in its addition of a character to the story, major plot changes, the use of several Kálmán numbers from other shows – the Vienna production added only one – and the repurposing, shuffling, and condensing of some music for entirely new purposes.

Overall, the Vienna production remained faithful to the Viennese operetta tradition by being bittersweet and sentimental, though not without a good dose of self-aware irony. The Budapest production was more surreal, privileging funny or exciting moments and short-range effects over continuity. The “happy end” is more believable in Vienna; in Budapest, we might expect that not too long after the curtain falls, the American heiress and the Balkan prince will enter into a celebrity divorce worthy of the tabloids.

Three Examples

Other Aspects of Operetta Revival

While there are crystal-clear examples of commentary on current political and social issues in operetta revivals, that is far from the whole picture. Recent operetta productions are moving in various directions of satire, sex, and reinterpretation. Satire is central to the genre, and most original works satirized some aspect of contemporary life. Revivals often shift the satire to emphasize additional topics. Examples include the gentle mockery of Greek tourism in the Paris Belle Hélène and the expanded emphasis on American film and cartoon culture in the Vienna Herzogin.

Moving the plot to a different era can provide new material to be caricatured. This is true of the Paris and Hamburg Belle Hélène productions and the Budapest Herzogin production (which combined two eras). The Hamburg production satirized the 1960s by using costumes that referred to brand names, sports teams, and so on, also mocking American mass culture and the fashions of the 1960s, including drug use. This is an expansion on the original anachronism of the operetta, supposedly set in ancient Greece but also satirizing Second Empire France. The Paris and Hamburg productions also framed the story in ways that brought out problems of mid twentieth-century suburban marriage, transferring the Second Empire satire to a more recent (though still past) context.

Early operettas were very open about their sexual content. The mid-century nostalgia and Heimat films de-emphasized sex, but it is coming back. This is particularly evident in the Hamburg and Berlin Hélène and Budapest Herzogin productions: all feature intimate scenes that bring out various approaches to sex, while the Berlin production, with its cross-dressing and naked-buttocks costumes for the male dancers, hints at less conventional sexual practices.

Some operettas create problems through their exoticism, which reflects stereotypes and attitudes of earlier decades. An obvious case is Lehár’s Das Land des Lächelns (The Land of Smiles, 1929), which examines an intercultural marriage – but in a way that thoroughly stereotypes and largely misrepresents Chinese culture. It also uses simplistic means to represent Chinese music, such as the stereotypical pentatonic scale. While it is difficult to undo this without reorganizing the entire plot, sometimes small steps can be taken. For example, a Vienna Volksoper production in 2009 brought in a troupe of Chinese ribbon dancers, blunting Lehár’s musical stereotyping with an authentic dance tradition.

In considering the question of what companies are trying to accomplish these days when they put on a classic operetta in a new form, I see the answer as ranging between two extremes. Some creative teams seem to think that operetta is a type of experience, and their task is to bring that experience to their spectators. At the other end of the spectrum are creative teams who think that an operetta is a specific artwork, and their task is to recreate that work for a new audience.

The “type of experience” approach leads to productions that do not highly respect the materials of the original; thus, they are quite happy to change the story, move around or cut the music, include major interruptions, and add or subtract characters. This approach is most strongly represented by the Berlin and Budapest productions described earlier.

The “recreate a work” approach need not be literal and word-for-word – it is not equivalent to the nostalgic style of earlier decades – but it operates from the assumption that operetta is not purely generic, so the specific characters, plot, thematic content, and musical material of an original work remain central. This is most strongly expressed by the Zurich and Vienna productions described earlier, but I would also place Hamburg and Paris in this camp.

Those working in the “type of experience” style might argue that doing a show in a straight, direct manner is no longer effective, because the original satire has lost its meaning, the plot was idiotic to begin with, and the content and form of operetta must be intensified now in order to achieve a result for modern audiences parallel to its original effect on past audiences.

By contrast, those working in the “recreate a work” approach view the originals as durable and worth preserving. They credit their spectators with the ability to absorb and appreciate that material without adding interruptions or unexpected jolts and thrills for their own sake. Perhaps they are aiming at a different type of audience.

Interestingly, despite the increasing age of the classic operettas – the earliest ones now being nearly 170 years old – many theaters welcome operetta productions representing both approaches, while others such as the Mörbisch Lake Festival emphasize the nostalgic element. It will be interesting to observe which of these styles stands the test of time as the original shows grow older and even more distant from the direct experiences of creative artists and audiences.

Still strongly based on its own genre conventions, including recognizable character types, plot maneuvers, and styles of music and dance, operetta is also regaining its satirical spirit. New productions of old works paradoxically defy many societal conventions through campy mockery of social institutions, direct reference to political controversies, and flagrant representations of sexual experiences and deviance. Perhaps surprisingly, operetta is alive and well. Let us raise a glass of champagne to its future twists, turns, and triumphs!