The Teatro Real summons the ghost of Solera (thanks to Verdi)

There was no need to raise a curtain, or resort to the conventions of stagecraft, or dress the singers, or smother them with fireworks. I Lombardi alla prima crociata (1843) was performed this Sunday at the Teatro Real —and will be performed this Wednesday —as what it is at heart: a score that burns on its own , an oratorio in arms, a spiritual journey written in the blood of a patriot. What was offered to the public was not an opera in concert version, but a musical crusade in its purest form , stripped of all accessories, where the essential—the music, the text, the voice, the choir—regained control of the scene.

And on that bare stage, where the dramaturgy was dictated by the music stands, the figure of Temistocle Solera was felt most strongly. Not only as librettist for the young Verdi , but as the first director of the Teatro Real itself in the mid-19th century. An exalted playwright, political agitator, biblical poet, Milanese courtier, Solera wrote this work as if drafting a proclamation . Mixing religion and melodrama, crusade and redemption, he created a hyperbolic libretto—unstageable—that cannot be separated from the context in which it was conceived and that now seems untimely: a country in fragments, a nation yet to be imagined, music at the service of the collective epic . And his shadow, far from having dissipated, seemed to preside from on high over the musical ceremony that took place with no other stage setting than his own memory.

Everything in the performance obeyed an internal rigor. Daniel Oren , at the podium, directed like someone preparing an assault. There was no subtlety in his gesture. There was control, strategy, obsessive attention to the pulse and the word. Each vocal entry functioned as a tactical maneuver. Each instrumental passage, like a retreat. And yet, within this almost military logic, emotion emerged unsummoned . It appeared between the bars, like the tremor that follows silence, like a crack in marble.

The Real's orchestra responded with precision and flexibility . It didn't sound bombastic. It sounded exact. And in that exactness lay the style: an expressive sobriety that allowed the music to breathe, that respected its contradictions. It wasn't about embellishing Verdi, but about understanding him. And in that filigree instrumental work , the concertmaster, Gergana Gergova , occupied a privileged place. Her violin emerged when all was silent. Not as an ornament, but as a parallel voice . In the most intimate moments, her phrasing was almost a silent replica of what was being sung: desire, hope, renunciation. It was a violin that spoke without speaking.

The voices did not burst forth as soloists competing against each other, but as figures in a single painting. Francesco Meli (Oronte), restrained and elegant, displayed his aristocratic singing style and exemplary phrasing, in contrast to the bravery and audacity of Iván Ayón Rivas (Arvina), whose high notes inflamed the stands with the logic of danger and pyrotechnics.

Lidia Fridman (Giselda), called in at the last minute to replace Anna Pirozzi , knew how not to force the spotlight. She sang from within . From a robust vocal center and a sustained emotional composure. She didn't seek to impose herself, but to resist. And in that resistance, she found the character. Marko Mimica , as Pagano, provided the shadow. His dark voice didn't threaten, but rather hurt, often taking advantage of the inertia of the choral magma.

Because the Intermezzo Choir, under the direction of José Luis Basso , was much more than a harmonious mass. It was the people. It was the conscience. It was the scene itself. In an opera built on collective intervention, the chorus is not background, but structure. And here it was heard as a single, articulate, and precise body, capable of transforming a religious prayer into a political gesture. The famous O Signore, dal tetto natio was not just a brilliant number, an isolated tableau. It was a point of suspension. An emotion delivered without shock . As if the music were breathing on its own.

The evening had something of a founding event about it. Or perhaps a restitution. Because what was seen and heard wasn't a simple repertoire revival, nor a seasonal solution. It was the return of a voice. That of Verdi, in his first revolutionary effervescence . And, above all, that of Temistocle Solera, who returned to his theater not as a name buried in the programs, but as an active presence, a figure summoned by the music and recognized in the final silence. As if the Real, finally stripped of all that was superfluous, had reunited with one of its founding fathers.

There was no need to raise a curtain, or resort to the conventions of stagecraft, or dress the singers, or smother them with fireworks. I Lombardi alla prima crociata (1843) was performed this Sunday at the Teatro Real —and will be performed this Wednesday —as what it is at heart: a score that burns on its own , an oratorio in arms, a spiritual journey written in the blood of a patriot. What was offered to the public was not an opera in concert version, but a musical crusade in its purest form , stripped of all accessories, where the essential—the music, the text, the voice, the choir—regained control of the scene.