The mustache over his lips could belong to a porn actor from the 1970s, the hair sits in a controlled disheveled manner on his head, the wool sweater is both interchangeable and an unmistakable trademark: Benedikt Mitmannsgruber speaks with the charm of a slightly overwhelming son-in-law at the Sunday table, even though he is actually presenting his new program on the stage of the sold-out Wiener Stadtsaal 1996 plays.
