Given its growing popularity, it comes as something of a surprise to discover that Chabrier’s wonderful 1877 opéra-bouffe has for many years been represented in the catalogues solely by John Eliot Gardiner’s EMI recording, made in Lyon in 1985 (now Warner/Erato, 6/85). Superb though it is, many would doubtless argue that a new version has long been overdue, though whether this DVD, filmed in Amsterdam in 2014, ideally fits the bill is debatable.

The work itself gazes whimsically at the arbitrary proscriptions of absolute monarchy and the inanities of political diplomacy. Chabrier’s protagonist is the peddler Lazuli, in love with Laoula, the intended bride of the preposterous King Ouf. Ouf, like Gilbert & Sullivan’s Mikado (the comparison is frequently drawn), has a penchant for staging public executions and has his eyes set on Lazuli as his next victim. Laoula, meanwhile, is travelling to Ouf’s kingdom with the diplomat Hérisson de Porc-Épic, who, determined to conceal her identity at all costs, is passing her off as his wife, in blissful ignorance of the fact that his real spouse, Aloès, is having an affair with his secretary Tapioca. Ouf and Hérisson’s plans farcically begin to unravel, however, when the bogus astrologer Siroco, to whom the king is in thrall, predicts that his life is mysteriously linked to that of Lazuli, and that the latter’s death will inevitably result in Ouf’s own.

The music is marvellous in its deft wit, lightness of touch and refined yet exquisite sensuality: Reynaldo Hahn described it as ‘a rare jewel of French operetta, where the buffoonery and poetic verve of Offenbach are presented with all the musical charm, elegance and profusion the latter never sought’. Others have seen it as prefiguring Surrealism, which in turn forms the starting point for Pelly’s absurdist staging, though he frequently misjudges the tone, setting it in a bleak modern city, where we find the king’s subjects scuttling about in near darkness in fear for their lives as Christophe Mortagne’s Ouf scours the streets in search of victims. His palace, when we reach it, is built of cogwheels and bits of clocks (appropriately enough for a man who believes his time is running out), while his henchmen are sinister-looking anthropomorphic dogs. There are some fine moments: the Act 2 kissing quartet is cleverly (and sexily) done; and Mortagne and Jérôme Varnier’s Siroco are hilarious in the famous duet about the restorative powers of green chartreuse. But much of it is simply far too heavyweight, its abrasive humour sitting uneasily with the score.

Musically it’s strong, though. Stéphanie d’Oustrac makes a terrific Lazuli, impulsive and witty, wonderfully secure throughout the role’s wide vocal range. Hélène Guilmette sounds ravishing in Laoula’s ‘Couplets de la rose’, and her silvery soprano blends beautifully with d’Oustrac in their scenes together. Mortagne, an actor at the Comédie-Française as well as a singer, is hugely impressive as Ouf, while Julie Boulianne’s elegant Aloès coolly plays Elliot Madore’s prissy Hérisson and François Piolino’s Tapioca off against each other: Piolino is an appealing tenor and you rather wish Chabrier had given him more to do. In the pit, meanwhile, Fournillier has all the grace and lightness of touch that the production sometimes lacks. It’s well worth hearing, whatever you think of Pelly’s staging.