(Photo:© Toni Bofill)

Vincenzo Bellini composed “I Capuleti e i Montecchi” in little over a month – or so the theatrical legend goes – just in time for the Venice carnival season of 1830. To manage such a staggering feat under tight pressure, the composer recycled a considerable amount of music from his recent misadventure in Parma, “Zaira,” and paired it with a ready-made libretto that Felice Romani had originally crafted for Nicola Vaccai’s “Giulietta e Romeo.”

This frantic tour de force inevitably accounts for some of the structural unevenness found within the opera. While Giulietta’s music achieves moments of unbearable, sublime melodic beauty, other sections can sound somewhat formulaic or conventional. Furthermore, the libretto does not take its cues from Shakespeare; instead, it draws from an older Italian literary tradition that retold the classic star-crossed romance, placing the bloody feud between the rival noble families front and center (hence the title).

A Non-Shakespearian Tale

Within Bellini and Romani’s dramatic framework, this feud is elevated to the status of an all-out war, with Romeo presented almost as a battle-hardened military hero. The opera opens in media res, with the two young lovers already deeply entangled, spending their time alternating between passionate declarations and emotional brinkmanship as they frantically seek a way to secure their union. Giulietta, in particular, cuts a much timider figure than Shakespeare’s iconic heroine, paralyzed by a deep-seated fear of social convention. She cannot fathom the audacity of defying her father to run away with Romeo, preferring instead to invoke the specter of death as a desperate shield against her forced wedding to Tebaldo. In short, this narrative is less a timeless Shakespearean tragedy and more a 19th-century feuilleton melodrama. Even the iconic death scene deviates from Shakespeare’s bleak finality, though this is dramatically understandable: Bellini – much like Charles Gounod a few decades later – simply could not resist the operatic imperative of writing a soaring death duet where the lovers pass away in each other’s arms.

An Uninspired Production

For its run, the Gran Teatre del Liceu imported a production originally mounted by the Opéra Royal de Wallonie-Liège, directed by Allex Aguilera. It relied on stark, stylized sets featuring castle walls flanking both sides of the stage and a monolithic rotating cube at the center. Hollowed out on one side, this cube functioned as a bleak architectural box, perhaps intended to symbolize the crushing weight of societal conventions pressing down on the young lovers. The action was awkwardly shifted from the 14th century to the opera’s premiere year of 1830, though this temporal displacement was readable only through the men’s costumes, as Giulietta sported distinctly more modern gowns. As is so often the case with such conceptual overlays, this time shift served no discernible dramatic purpose. The overall visual landscape was uniformly gloomy, sparse, and devoid of props. Ultimately, it was a rather bland, uninspired production, though it possessed the saving grace of being completely harmless, thereby allowing the musical forces to take center stage unhindered.

Precision & Elegance from the Pit

In the pit, Riccardo Frizza led the Liceu orchestra with admirable elegance and a profound, idiomatic understanding of the bel canto style. His interpretation was refreshingly understated – perhaps bordering on cool at times – yet it was executed with meticulous attention to detail, a relentless forward drive, and a constant, sensitive support for the singers on stage. The orchestral solos were delicately illuminated, with the harp cutting through the texture with crystalline beauty during Giulietta’s opening aria. Meanwhile, the Liceu male chorus performed with exemplary precision and a wide dynamic variety, driving the dramatic momentum forward with thrilling authority.

Vocal Triumphs: Giulietta and Romeo

As has become her trademark, Lisette Oropesa threw herself heart and soul into the demanding role of Giulietta. Her liquid, silvery soprano dazzled the house with its uncommonly luminous timbre, effortlessly navigating the treacherous technical hurdles of the writing with breathtaking grace and ease. Oropesa’s trills were astonishingly fast and brilliant, her coloratura crisp, and her chromatic scales flawless. Her high notes rang out with natural brilliance. Beyond mere vocalism, her psychological portrayal of the tormented young girl was profoundly moving and intense; her rendering of the aria “No, non poss’io partire” in Act two was delivered with a heartbreaking pathos and melancholy that held the audience spellbound.

Mezzo-soprano Raffaella Lupinacci as Romeo vividly brought the lovestruck teenage hero to life, combining an alluring vocal palette with a commanding stage presence. Her voice boasted a beautiful, bronzed low register that, as it ascended the staff, acquired a metallic, slightly edgy intensity before blossoming into radiant, powerful high notes at the top. She delivered a great account of her initial entrance aria, “Se Romeo t’uccise un figlio,” but her absolute highlight came in the Act one duet “Sì, fuggire.” Here, she demonstrated a magnificent, expressive legato during the languid slow section, forging an electric dramatic and musical chemistry with Oropesa.

Variable Quality in the Male Ranks

Unfortunately, the male principals did not scale quite the same artistic heights. Iván Ayón-Rivas stepped into the role of Tebaldo, Romeo’s fierce rival who enjoys the backing of Giulietta’s father. While his tenor was healthily projected, boasting powerful high notes packed with plenty of squillo, his vocal approach sat rather uncomfortably within the delicate ecosystem of bel canto repertoire. At times, he lacked the requisite elegance and stylistic refinement, favoring a muscular, aggressive delivery over a truly lyrical line. Nevertheless, his confrontation with Lupinacci during their duel scene proved dramatically effective, with Ayón-Rivas successfully capturing both raw, blinding rage toward his rival and utter devastation upon hearing the false news of Giulietta’s death.

Bass Marko Mimica took on the role of Lorenzo, Giulietta’s loyal confidant and the architect of the tragic sleeping-potion scheme that ultimately backfired so catastrophically. Mimica has built much of his career around bel canto masterpieces and is widely regarded as a specialist in the idiom; however, on this particular evening in Barcelona, he often seemed strangely out of focus and stylistically wayward. Despite these interpretive shortcomings, his bass instrument remained richly projected, frequently mellow, and fundamentally beautiful in quality. Rounding out the principal cast, Alejandro López portrayed Giulietta’s authoritarian father, Capellio, and appeared quite out of his depth within Bellini’s specific musical landscape. While his bass possessed a solid, healthy projection that lent a much-needed anchor to the choral ensembles, his overall contribution lacked refinement and grace, occasionally deteriorating into unappealing shouting.

Despite the unevenness of the staging and the variable strength of the supporting male cast, the Liceu audience responded with roaring enthusiasm at the final curtain. The house erupted in cheers, showering a very special, well-deserved warmth upon Lisette Oropesa and Raffaella Lupinacci for their anchor performances.