Bellini’s I Capuleti e i Montecchi at the Liceu: When Human Fragility Meets Vocal Greatness

I Capuleti e i Montecchi, Vincenzo Bellini

Gran Teatre del Liceu, Barcelona

30.10.2026, Opening night

Voices: Lisette Oropesa, Raffaella Lupinacci, Iván Ayón-Rivas, Marko Mimica, Alejandro López. Conductor: Riccardo Frizza. Director: Allex Aguilera.

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The Gran Teatre del Liceu in Barcelona opened its new production of Vincenzo Bellini’s I Capuleti e i Montecchi on Friday evening, in a staging by Allex Aguilera that, from a purely scenic perspective, offers little that is particularly remarkable. The sets are simple, almost unremarkable, and there is little visual ambition in the physical construction of the stage. Yet what the production lacks in scenic imagination, it compensates for through carefully developed dramaturgy and, above all, the magnificent costumes designed by Françoise Raybaud, which are consistently striking, elegant and spectacular.

Bellini’s I Capuleti e i Montecchi is not an entirely even work. Its dramatic architecture occasionally reveals certain weaknesses, yet it contains passages of such extraordinary lyrical beauty that its imperfections become almost irrelevant when placed in the hands of exceptional singers. And exceptional is precisely the word that defines the vocal ensemble assembled by the Liceu’s artistic team for this production.

But Friday’s opening night was no ordinary premiere.

It unfolded against a troubling backdrop: the aftermath of a railway accident, an atmosphere of violence and unrest in the streets, and the particular tension felt in Barcelona. For artists arriving from abroad, such circumstances can hardly provide the most reassuring environment in which to work. More painfully still, a fatal accident during the preparations for the production had cast a profound shadow over the entire company.

It is impossible to imagine that such an event could leave those involved emotionally untouched.

As Lisette Oropesa movingly observed in a video released before the premiere, the voice is a human instrument. And because it is human, it responds to emotion, to changes in our physical and psychological condition, to the weather, to sorrow and, inevitably, to tragedy.

There is something particularly devastating about performing a tragedy on stage when tragedy has so recently intruded upon real life. The fictional suffering of Romeo and Giulietta acquires an entirely different resonance when those entrusted with bringing it to life are themselves carrying the weight of genuine human loss.

Under such circumstances, can we really judge a performance according to the same standards we would apply on any other opening night?

These singers had spent weeks working tirelessly, rehearsing, refining and perfecting every detail of an extraordinarily demanding score. And suddenly, beyond the artistic challenges, they were confronted with an event of heartbreaking reality.

They are human beings before they are artists. And in an increasingly dehumanised world, humanity, compassion and empathy should never be considered optional.

Yet perhaps, astonishingly, none of these considerations is even necessary to explain the artistic achievement of Friday evening.

Because Lisette Oropesa and her colleagues demonstrated, beyond any possible doubt, that they belong to that rare category of singers capable of transforming an operatic performance into something approaching the miraculous.

They elevated Bellini’s music to genuinely stellar heights. Inhuman heights, one might almost be tempted to say.

But no. Not inhuman.

Superlative. And profoundly human.

Those familiar with Lisette Oropesa’s voice might have sensed a certain fragility in her instrument that evening, an almost imperceptible vulnerability suggesting that neither body nor spirit was entirely at ease.

And yet what she accomplished as Giulietta was nothing short of extraordinary.

Bellini’s writing demands an exceptional combination of technical security, expressive intelligence, breath control, vocal flexibility and the ability to sustain seemingly endless melodic lines without ever compromising their natural beauty.

Oropesa negotiated these formidable demands with remarkable assurance.

Every phrase was shaped with intelligence; every difficult passage was approached with extraordinary musical sensitivity. Her singing combined brilliance and strength with a delicacy that could, at moments, become almost unbearably moving.

There was no sense of artistic compromise, no moment in which the musical architecture seemed to falter.

Instead, she offered a Giulietta of exceptional vocal refinement and dramatic conviction, proving once again why she occupies such a distinguished position among the great sopranos of our time.

Oropesa is a true diva, in the noblest and most demanding sense of the word.

And on Friday she demonstrated precisely what that distinction means.

Even when the body may not respond with its usual generosity, even when the soul is burdened by sorrow, a great artist can find within the human voice an almost inexplicable reserve of beauty.

Her singing filled the Liceu with warmth, luminosity and emotional truth.

It was an achievement of immense artistic dignity.

Alongside her, Raffaella Lupinacci delivered a Romeo of such astonishing beauty that words seem almost inadequate to describe it.

Her performance was, quite simply, stratospheric.

There are voices that impress through power, others through agility, and still others through the sheer beauty of their timbre. Lupinacci possesses that extraordinarily rare combination of all three, together with a technical command that allows her to move across the full extent of her instrument with breathtaking naturalness.

Her lower register has an almost otherworldly quality: dark, profound, resonant, seemingly emerging from some mysterious region beyond ordinary human experience. There is something almost sepulchral about its depth, yet its beauty is utterly captivating.

And from those extraordinary depths, the voice rises into a luminous upper register of crystalline purity.

The transition is seamless, the colour infinitely seductive, the musical line shaped with exquisite intelligence.

Her coloratura passages were executed with astonishing precision and refinement, never becoming mere demonstrations of technical virtuosity. Each ornament seemed to emerge organically from the emotional substance of the music.

There were moments of such delicacy that one could scarcely avoid being moved to tears.

Indeed, Lupinacci did not merely deliver an outstanding interpretation of Romeo.

She approached something almost indescribable.

The beauty of her sound, the sophistication of her phrasing, the extraordinary breadth of her vocal range and the absolute command of her technique combined to create an interpretation of exceptional distinction.

And this was not simply a vocal triumph.

Her stage presence was equally remarkable. Every gesture, every movement and every dramatic intention seemed carefully considered, without ever appearing artificial.

She inhabited Romeo with an extraordinary combination of physical conviction and emotional sensitivity.

It was one of those rare performances that leave an audience momentarily speechless, aware that it has witnessed something genuinely exceptional.

And yet the Liceu had another extraordinary gift in store.

Through the remarkable judgement of its artistic team, the theatre brought to Barcelona one of the finest contemporary interpreters of the Italian lyric tenor repertoire, and unquestionably one of the most compelling young exponents of Bellinian singing: Iván Ayón-Rivas.

Here is a tenor who seems almost an exception to the conventions of contemporary operatic celebrity.

Modest, approachable and refreshingly distant from the excesses of divismo, Ayón-Rivas possesses something infinitely more valuable than a cultivated public persona: an instrument of extraordinary natural beauty, supported by a technique approaching perfection.

He is, in my view, one of those rare tenors whose qualities invite comparisons not merely with his contemporaries, but with some of the great voices in operatic history.

Inevitably, the shadow of his illustrious predecessor in the Peruvian tenor tradition, Juan Diego Flórez, accompanies any discussion of his artistry.

Yet Ayón-Rivas, to my ears, surpasses him in certain essential qualities of vocal beauty.

There is a particular richness, a sensuality of sound and a velvety generosity in his legato that bring him closer to the unforgettable vocal elegance of Alfredo Kraus.

His singing possesses that rare, almost tactile quality: a melodic line that seems at once perfectly controlled and irresistibly natural, supported by a warm, fleshy, exquisitely rounded sound.

Nothing is forced. Nothing is exaggerated. Nothing appears accidental.

Ayón-Rivas is an intelligent, methodical and measured artist. Every phrase reveals meticulous preparation, yet the result never sounds calculated.

This is the paradox of truly great technique: the greater the discipline behind it, the more effortless the music becomes.

As Tebaldo, his appearances are relatively limited, but he made every one of them count.

Each intervention approached the sublime, with a purity of emission, an elegance of phrasing and an absolute technical assurance that were a pleasure to behold.

It is difficult to imagine a more accomplished interpreter of this repertoire today.

One can only hope that the Liceu will invite him back, again and again.

Barcelona deserves to hear much more of this extraordinary artist.

The excellence of the ensemble extended well beyond its three most prominent vocal personalities.

Marko Mimica, as Lorenzo, once again demonstrated why he is among the most fascinating basses of his generation.

Those who have encountered him in other productions, including Tristan und Isolde in Bilbao, will already be familiar with the remarkable individuality of his instrument.

His is not a voice that leaves the listener indifferent.

It possesses an extraordinary combination of depth, richness, projection and tonal personality, supported by a technique of exceptional solidity.

There seems to be no role that Mimica cannot approach with intelligence and authority, no musical material that he cannot transform into something precious.

His singing has that rare ability to make even relatively modest interventions feel dramatically indispensable.

In Bellini’s opera, he once again turned everything he touched into pure gold.

Alejandro López completed the principal ensemble as Capellio, contributing to an evening whose overall vocal standard was exceptionally high.

The Chorus of the Gran Teatre del Liceu, under the direction of Pablo Assante, deserves particular recognition.

There is something wonderfully endearing about these singers.

One may encounter them after a performance, sitting in the opera café, enjoying the ordinary pleasures of life, talking, laughing and surrendering themselves to the most delightfully mundane aspects of human existence.

And then, when they return to the stage, they become something extraordinary.

Under Assante’s direction, the Liceu Chorus has developed into one of the most homogeneous, disciplined and musically accomplished operatic ensembles in Europe.

Its blend is remarkable, its collective phrasing consistently intelligent, and its ability to move between dramatic force and delicate refinement is a testament to years of serious artistic work.

In I Capuleti e i Montecchi, the chorus once again demonstrated the exceptional standard that has become its hallmark.

It is one of the great treasures of this theatre, and one that should never be taken for granted.

In the pit, Riccardo Frizza presided over an orchestral performance of exceptional distinction.

Frizza is one of those conductors who understands that Bellini’s music requires far more than elegant accompaniment.

Its apparent simplicity conceals an extraordinarily delicate balance of colour, breath, dramatic tension and melodic continuity. To reveal its full expressive potential, a conductor must combine absolute technical control with a profound understanding of the human voice.

Frizza possesses both.

Under his baton, the Symphony Orchestra of the Gran Teatre del Liceu sounded magnificent.

He knows how to draw an astonishing range of colours from the orchestra, allowing individual instrumental textures to emerge with clarity while preserving the unity of the whole.

He also knows how to maintain discipline, something that is considerably more difficult than it may appear.

The musicians responded with energy, cohesion, strength and an extraordinary sense of collective purpose.

At moments, the entire orchestra seemed to breathe and speak as a single instrument.

There was power without heaviness, elegance without superficiality, and dramatic intensity without ever sacrificing the lyrical essence of Bellini’s writing.

It was a genuine pleasure to experience the orchestra under his direction.

Frizza should return to Barcelona as often as possible.

Ultimately, this opening night of I Capuleti e i Montecchi will remain in the memory for reasons that extend far beyond the conventional parameters of an operatic review.

Àlex Aguilera’s staging, with its restrained scenic vocabulary, may not have offered a particularly memorable visual experience. Yet its carefully developed dramaturgy, the spectacular costumes of Françoise Raybaud and the musical excellence of the entire company ensured that the essential emotional substance of Bellini’s tragedy emerged with extraordinary clarity.

But what made the evening truly exceptional was something less tangible.

It was the extraordinary courage of artists who, confronted with circumstances of genuine human sorrow, nevertheless found the strength to offer an audience the very best of themselves.

It was the warmth of Oropesa’s Giulietta, the almost supernatural beauty of Lupinacci’s Romeo, the sublime elegance of Ayón-Rivas’s Tebaldo, the magnificent vocal authority of Mimica, the excellence of the Liceu Chorus and the orchestral brilliance inspired by Frizza.

Together, they transformed an evening overshadowed by tragedy into an affirmation of everything that makes opera one of the most profoundly human of all art forms.

We live in times that too often seem determined to strip human experience of its sensitivity, compassion and dignity.

And yet, on Friday evening, the stage of the Gran Teatre del Liceu reminded us that the human voice remains capable of expressing what words alone cannot.

That fragility and greatness are not opposites.

That beauty can emerge from suffering without diminishing its reality.

And that sometimes the most extraordinary artistic achievements are born not from the absence of human vulnerability, but from the courage to embrace it.

This was not simply a great night of bel canto. It was a night in which the humanity of the artists made their artistry even greater.

Dr. Eloi de Tera

Director of Lohengrin Magazine