Tchaikovsky’s masterpiece “Eugene Onegin” returned to the Metropolitan Opera on Friday night, in Robert Carsen’s 1997 production. This is the “Onegin” with autumn leaves on the stage — millions of them. Mr. Carsen’s production is spare, despite that abundance of leaves; but it is also unlacking. And that makes it a very rare production indeed.

In the role of Tatiana was America’s Sweetheart, or, for this occasion, Russia’s Sweetheart: the soprano Renée Fleming. She is an amazing combination of voice and technique — plus a generous amount of theatrical ability. And she was in very good shape on Friday night.

Tatiana’s Letter Scene went very well, with Ms. Fleming really working that glorious lower register of hers. (The Letter Scene is fairly mezzo-y.) Her singing was exceptionally clean, and her technique never faltered, all evening long. Can anyone sing softly better than she? And I’ll tell you what happened after she had written her letter: She ran some impressive laps around her bed, through the autumn leaves (yes).

In the course of the opera, Ms. Fleming conveyed Tatiana’s passage from girlish naivety to womanly self-possession. Nothing was overdone, and everything was beautifully, intelligently done. So, add Tatiana to the long list of roles in which Ms. Fleming is an exemplar. She may occupy the strange position of being wildly famous yet underrated.

Her Onegin was Dmitri Hvorostovsky, the Siberian tiger (and baritone). When he first appeared, in a long red coat, he looked like a handsome lawn jockey. And he sang with assurance. For the last 10 years, I, and other critics, have applied the word “suave” to him a thousand times — and suave he is. In his singing and his comportment. He had a technical problem or two, but nothing serious. And he put on some classy dance moves.

Lenski was the Mexican tenor Ramón Vargas, who belongs to a category you might call creamy-heroic — and creamy-heroic is a very good thing to be. He sang freshly and easily. Early on, he had some trouble up top, and, a bit later, he suffered some flatness. But he delivered when it counted most: Lenski’s Aria was boffo. It was smooth, moving, and gorgeous. And the duet with Onegin, right before the duel, was exquisite.

In the part of Olga was the Russian mezzo Elena Zaremba. She was, as always, dark and throbbing — only, on this occasion, maybe too throbbing for her own good. The Nurse was another Russian mezzo, Larisa Shevchenko, and she was straight from Central Casting — the Bolshoi’s or the Mariinsky’s Central Casting. She was a kind of Mother Russia figure. Doing Gremin was a Russian bass, Sergei Aleksashkin, and he was dignified and affecting, as Gremins should be.

Our conductor for the evening was Valery Gergiev, music director to the world, it seems. And he did not have his best outing — far from it. Much of the performance was sloppy and awkward, and the choruses were a particular surprise: They should be compact, stirring, and even thrilling. Instead, they were more like perfunctory.

Mr. Gergiev can be the most exciting conductor around, as he has proven over and over. On a certain night last season, he made a lesser Tchaikovsky opera, “Mazeppa,” absolutely gripping. But a curious indifference marred “Onegin.” The dances were at one and the same time humdrum and super-fast.

Which reminded me of one of my favorite Thomas Beecham stories. He has conducted “Coppélia” (I believe) extremely fast, and the dancers struggled to keep up. He proudly says to the orchestra, “Made the buggers hop.”

But Mr. Gergiev put some genuine dramatic tension in the last scene, and you never know with this mercurial, fascinating musician: In subsequent performances of “Onegin,” he may be world-beating.

One final word, related to the staging: During the party for Tatiana, Lenski and Onegin fought very, very credibly — I mean, physically, not just verbally. This is almost unheard of in opera.

Until March 3 (Lincoln Center, 212-721-6500).