Creator of exotic and distant worlds

It is a fact that opera is an extraordinary tour operator, a machine of time and space capable of transporting us to every dimension. It is able to do so by virtue of the magic that springs from the mutual reinforcement of a series of sensory, aesthetic and intellectual stimuli, from the interplay of sets, costumes, stagecraft, vocal and instrumental music – each effective in its own right, irresistible when combined: a seduction of the senses and the mind capable of convincing the audience – even without Wagner – of the most compelling and immersive illusion. Such magic naturally also applies to the grand spectacle of Verdi’s operatic world (26 titles, 38 including revivals and alternative versions), perhaps the most powerful and influential dream machine of the Romantic era, as demonstrated by *La Traviata*’s current status as the most frequently performed opera in the world.

Changing horizons, inhabiting ‘distant worlds’ – as the motto of the 2026 edition of the Verdi Festival puts it – is undoubtedly one of the strategies that have helped to spark the interest of audiences. And, even before that, to fuel the composer’s inspiration, through ever-changing subjects whose evocative power often stemmed from the settings of the individual stories. The trio of works presented this year by the Festival – *Alzira*, *Nabucodonosor* and *Aida* – ventures to the very furthest reaches of Verdi’s creative territory, both in time and space. Indeed, it features the most geographically remote title in Verdi’s oeuvre, *Alzira*, set in the Peru of the conquistadors, one of only two (the other being *Un ballo in maschera*, which is actually set in Boston merely to appease the censors) that venture into the New World, and the only ones to depart from a European or Middle Eastern setting. With the other two works, however, we venture to the farthest reaches of time: Nabucodonosor and Aida are the only operas by Verdi set before the Christian era; whilst the action in all the others – with the sole exception of Attila, set in the 5th century at the twilight of the ancient world – takes place from the year 1000 onwards, spanning the late Middle Ages to the nineteenth century.

Distant worlds: the Lima of *Alzira*, the 6th century BC of *Nabuchodonosor*, the unspecified ‘age of the pharaohs’ in *Aida*. These are certainly useful for arousing curiosity about distant customs (both material and moral) and exotic events, but even more interesting, from Verdi’s perspective, for their non-trivial dramatic potential: powder kegs ready to explode, fuelled by the conflicts that history has accumulated over time and which, at the specific juncture in which the action is set, have erupted into open conflict. Conflicts between peoples and between states – the Incas and the Spaniards, the Assyrians and the Israelites, Egyptians and Ethiopians – which serve both as the exotic and powerful backdrop against which the individuals’ stories unfold, and as the brutal force with which history determines, and often tramples upon, those individual destinies. The happiness of Alzira and Zamoro, and that of Aida and Radames, is doomed to a tragic end by the raging of a war that feels more like a clash of civilisations than an ordinary territorial dispute; whilst that of Fenena and Ismaele – though far less significant in the overall structure of their drama – is long overshadowed by an ethnic conflict that only the direct intervention of the divine can resolve.

Whilst Verdi undoubtedly capitalises on the white-hot conflict of which the individual stories are both victims and expressions, it is also worth noting that the exoticism of opera in pre-unification Italia was largely a façade. Stripped of its costumes and with the scenery stripped bare, the dramatic core remains identical under any sky; the individual and collective conflicts reveal an irreducible universal character. This is why the patriots of the Risorgimento had no trouble reading into Nebuchadnezzar’s Babylonian captivity an allegory – entirely unintended – of the struggle for independence against Franz Joseph’s Austria. Local colour was the last thing on the minds of playwrights and composers alike. Indeed, there is hardly any trace of it in the music, save for a few negligible, occasional instances.

Things changed in the second half of the century, when transport made the world seem smaller and curiosity and the opportunity to explore it grew significantly, and consequently so did the need for a representation that was at least plausible. When, in 1871, Verdi accepted the invitation from the Viceroy of Egypt, Isma’il Pasha, to celebrate the opening of the Suez Canal with a ‘national opera that might subsequently become one of the most cherished memories of his reign’ (incidentally, given that straits were still in vogue: with that commission, the viceroy effectively secured himself a positive legacy for all time, more so than he might have done with a few wars), the time was ripe to respond, on a musical level too, to the call of distant worlds. In *Aida* (as, again from the mid-century onwards, in the ballets of *Les Vêpres*, *Le Trouvère*, *Don Carlos* and *Otello*, all commissioned for Paris) the ambition to find an exotic voice for that remote world is evident, drawing upon the enchanting melody of an oboe or the timbral wonder of an orchestra that evokes the scents of the night on the Nile. Nor did Verdi spare any effort: he consulted the archaeologist Mariette on the sacred dances of the Egyptians, on ancient instruments and on the priestly personnel; he consulted Michele Lessona and Giulio Ricordi on the liturgies of Isis; he visited the Egyptian Museum in Florence, perhaps also the one in Turin and the Egyptian section of the Paris World’s Fair; he had six straight trumpets made in the (presumed) style of ancient Egypt. Costumes and generic sets, such as those reused in 1842 from Antonio Cortesi’s ballet *Nabucco*, were no longer sufficient. The public’s new sensibilities demanded an exoticism that was still fictional but more sophisticated, a more faithful and credible illusion. And so, over 150 years later, the ‘authentic’ sound of ancient Egypt – which, incidentally, no one has ever been able to experience – remains, for us, that of Verdi.