Mariusz Treliński's La Boheme, to paraphrase its' hero Rudolfo, 'does not search, since it is dark,' but rather 'reaches out to touch our hands.' Rather than offer something august, as opera tends to, it proposes that we take comfort in the warmth of those who share with us the 'here and now.' This makes for an operatic work that seems insufficient until we realize that the Bohemians might just be trying to teach us that we hold excessive and thus illusory views of what suffices for human happiness. If so, then the unease that Treliński's rendering of La Boheme births; the feeling that there is something missing in it, might just be a very intentional success: since the more deprived La Boheme makes us feel, the more we might wonder whether our needs are not overly sophisticated.

The performance is circularly layered: scenes are seductively boring in their beginnings, slowly unfolding their wings in anticipation of flight, only to fold at the last moment, shattering our impression that something is about to get rolling. This process of peaks and troughs seems to infect the entire opera, making it reminicent of Rudolfo's love for Mimi. It is passionate, full of vigor, youth, naive surrender to the heart - and at the same time wholly unprepared for the black depths of negative emotions that heart holds within, let alone able to answer questions about love and commitment that go beyond "where shall we dance tonight?" The entire performance is almost as stereotypical as the character of Rudolfo, who tends to cast his writting into the flames in order to keep from freezing, and who is equally resourceful at securing alcohol as he is inept in his practical life. The exception to this rule is the music itself, which is eloquent, at times haunting, always moving. In