ONE night last week, I went to see La Bohème by Giacomo Puccini at the Metropolitan Opera—and the next night The Siege by Edward Zwick. The juxtaposition cast a certain light on the controversy surrounding Mr. Zwick’s thriller about Arab terrorists trying to blow up New York.
A few years ago, the Met installed title screens in the back of each seat so that operagoers can follow the libretto. This was a mistake, as the silliness of most opera plots now distracts you from the music, causing you to crack up and annoy your neighbors. La Bohème is about a Paris artiste-type who falls in love with a beautiful, tubercular girl who coughs herself to death in the last act. It boasts one of the most cliche-choked stories in all of opera history: from platitudes seemingly plucked out of every “Dear Abby” column you ever read (“Unhappy people should not live together,” a fellow artiste advises the lovesick protagonist) to the inevitable death scene at the end. (Every Puccini opera I’ve seen concludes with a beautiful woman kicking off.)





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