It’s as simple as ABC. The three operas – “Aida,” “Boheme,” and “Carmen” – that form the cornerstone of most repertory companies in America have been mucked around with so much in the past 10 years or so that, when one is presented in basically its original form, it is almost unrecognizable. Not long ago, a Russian friend from New York was visited by her sister from St. Petersburg. The sibling announced that she was treating them both to a performance of Boheme. Imagine the surprise when the cab pulled up not to Lincoln Center, but rather to a Broadway house. Trying to be polite, my friend did not say anything, but could hardly hold back a laugh when her sister whispered to her, about halfway through the first act, that “this wasn’t the way it was done back home!”

The current New York City Opera production is fast-forwarded to the era of World War I, but otherwise is true to the original milieu of the garret and the grisette. Not a new staging but an effective one, it calls to mind that era when a young woman might easily die not of consumption but rather influenza. There are nice touches indeed, including the transition from freezing loft to snowy street accompanied by one literally heartfelt low pizzicato.

If “Rent” taught us anything, it is that this particular story must be related to us by young people. Why would we want to hear the 50-something Pavarotti, even before his voice went totally south, sing Rodolfo when he really would be better cast as the old roue? Much more desirable to have the vigorous Cuban Jorge Antonio Pita, with a breathily yearning lyric-dramatic tenor, lead a quartet of lively male voices in a high-energy and well-acted performance that might not be the desert island choice for high-toned mellifluousness, but is instead thoroughly believable and dramatically invested.

Mr. Pita’s “Che gelida manina” alone was worth the price of admission. Of the other men, Grant Youngblood was the standout as Marcello and will appear in some evenings as Germont in Traviata as well this season. Angela Marambio was a full-voiced Mimi and affecting as a vocal actress. Less pleasing was Julianne Borg’s Musetta, who squandered the big number – “Quando me’n vo’ soletta per la via” – with awkward phrasing and shrillness made all the more noticeable by the men’s bouncy and convivial reprise.

What was particularly pleasing in this performance was the ensemble singing. In the cafe scene, for example, there was the palpable sense of direct connection with the audience. In the relaxed environment of City Opera, here was an opportunity to recapture the electricity that may have been drained from this undeniable classic through excessive adaptation. In this current effort, we care about these people and realize on some elemental level that they are heroic, struggling artists trying to convey their own personal dreams and pain. And here’s the epiphany: These aspirants actually are struggling artists, running on hope and fumes. All in all, a natural, honest theatrical experience. When the youthful revelers marched away in profile at the end of the act and the very last one turned to us to reveal a death mask, there was a noticeable shudder throughout the hall.

One can easily fall in love with the enthusiasms of these engaging and attractive singers, but, just as in the story itself, the passage of time forces a reevaluation of our infatuation. Perhaps this is not the A-list version, but, as an ensemble, it is delightful nonetheless. The unobtrusive conducting of Steven White allowed the circadian rhythms to flow naturally.

When “Boheme” was premiered under Toscanini in 1896, it found itself often unfavorably compared to the same story contemporaneously adapted by Leoncavallo (Mahler in Vienna, for ex ample, mounted the effort of the latter as the better example of the new realism, but only after zealously championing the Puccini to his superiors). At the very same time, Massenet was also seriously considering taking a run at the piece. Fortunately for posterity, the enchantments of the Puccini triumphed. For a man who never missed a meal in his pampered life, he certainly makes us all deeply feel the nobility of starving for one’s art, at least until a certain age.

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In the very same month that Giuseppe Verdi was saying goodbye forever to the world of the cavatina and the cabaletta in “Il Trovatore,” he composed, in a remarkably short time, not only the greatest lyric soprano role in the history of music, but also the Italian opera that most closely enunciates instrumentally each individual character’s innermost feelings: the ravishingly beautiful and poignant “La Traviata.”

Written in an era where popular literature dictated that all girls died of consumption and all boys in duels, or, alternatively, by drowning during an act of heroism, the adaptation of the Dumas pere original was sure to be an instant success. The premiere, however, turned out to be a disaster, as the Violetta was, let us say, amply endowed, and the notion that she was tubercular was simply laughed off of the stage. But Verdi believed in the piece, and remounted it again at La Fenice the following season to high acclaim.

The title, “The Fallen Woman,” is perfect because it is the Verdi opera that most completely centers around one person. Every nuance of a Violetta determines the shape and uniqueness of a particular performance. Sometimes, even the parameters of an individual voice can radiate concentrically to influence not just the music, but also the drama.

Leading an all-American trio of principals, the current courtesan at City Opera is Maria Kanyova. With a strong and somewhat heavy voice and a low tessitura, Ms. Kanyova can pull off moments of great power and proved, in her “Dite alla giovine,” that she can spin a glorious melodic line with subtlety and patient craftsmanship. Engaging her expansive instrument to surround the notes, when singing of sorrow she is extremely empathetic. But this type of prodigious sound does not always translate well to the light and breezy.

There is a school of thought – call it the Callas school if that helps to evoke the moment – that does not see the opening act as one of hilarity, but rather an early indication that this woman is already disengaged from society. Ms. Kanyova was never to enjoy herself at this party and told us so with her opening facial expression. Her lack of vocal dexterity in the normally bubbly parts of the brindisi emphasized that nimbleness, sweetness, and light are simply not her stronger points. As a result, this Violetta literally dons the black raiments early on and never metaphorically sheds them.

As drama, this approach worked well enough, but as music it tended to deaden the opening act considerably. Abandon itself was abandoned and re placed by caution. The Alfredo of Robert Breault was doomed from the outset to a less than frothy set of tempi, relegating his “Libiamo” to the mood of a somewhat later stage of drinking. Much more engaging and impressive was his “De’miei bollenti spiriti.” In fact, he, like Violetta, only truly hit his stride in the second act, once the music turned from tragicomic to simply serious.

In the local boy makes good department, Bronx-born baritone Michael Corvino was excellent as Germont. Singing with controlled intensity, Mr. Corvino expressed wisdom and regret, compassion and honor with richness of tone and precision of diction. At City Opera, it’s all about potential; and he seems to have it by the bagful, although the deuced amplification system at the New York State Theater leaves me uncertain as to the capacity for volume in those lungs. It is simply impossible to evaluate singers completely in this hall; suffice it to say that his “Di Provenza il mar,” Verdi’s soothing barcarolle for Venice, was the highlight of the evening.

I would have wished for more elan from conductor George Manahan and the orchestra and more passion in digging into those passages where Verdi is so eloquent, almost in a leitmotif manner, about the thoughts of his beloved characters. The production, by Renata Scotto of all people, was first-rate. The chorus, dancers, bullfighters, and other hangers-on stepped in and out of tableaux vivants effectively and the contrast between the opulence of the parties and the simplicity of the final bedchamber was visually stunning. Overall, I would give this Traviata two and a half camellias.