Many people regard “Peter Grimes” as Benjamin Britten’s masterpiece, and it is, indeed, a powerful opera. The Met revived it on Thursday night, in a new production by John Doyle. The production is not particularly fancy or sophisticated. It does not go in for many effects. And it is a successful production.

The opera tells the story of a man, Grimes, in a fishing town. He comes to a bad end, but not before the apprentice boys in his care do the same. The common view of “Peter Grimes” is that this is a tale of a loner, an outsider, who is victimized by a vicious, small-minded society. Some of us have never been able to accept this view of “Grimes.” As I see it, the title character is at least as much victimizer as victim. He is maybe the most pampered and excused brute in art.

But that is a very, very unconventional view.

Needed above all in this opera is a Grimes — a tenor in the title role. And the Met has Anthony Dean Griffey, who has sung Grimes in this house before. He is a somewhat untraditional Grimes, at least for those of us with Jon Vickers in our ears: Mr. Griffey is sweet-voiced, lyric. At times, the role could use more oomph (as in “Grimes ahoy!”). But there is plenty of room for sweeter singing (as when the character dreams of a “kindlier” home). And Mr. Griffey can pop out some power at you.

He made a satisfying and authoritative Grimes.

And the soprano singing Ellen Orford, Patricia Racette, was superb. The voice was vibrant, liquid, and exciting, as usual; and the technique was near faultless, also as usual. So formidable was she, she did not sound much like Ellen, sometimes; this character is often sweeter, softer. Indeed, Ms. Racette’s Ellen often sounded stronger than Mr. Griffey’s Grimes. But Ellen needs to be strong, too, and Ms. Racette was soft, sweet, and endearing when she had to be. Moreover, her English diction was so clear as to be exemplary.

A singer I know said to me, “She’s my favorite soprano working.” This is a very respectable opinion.

The rest of the cast was capable, with not a weak link. Anthony Michaels-Moore, as Balstrode, was stalwart. Jill Grove, as Auntie, was a tough broad, in her singing and even in the way she stood. Felicity Palmer, that wonderful English mezzo, was a terrific Mrs. Sedley. The character was an old biddy, but one who could sing with extraordinary freshness, in addition to strength. Ms. Palmer reminded me that she is the best First Prioress (in Poulenc’s “Dialogues of the Carmelites”) I have ever witnessed.

Making his Met debut as Ned Keene, Teddy Tahu Rhodes was smooth and rich. It will be good to hear him in larger roles. And what a triple-decker name! The Boles of Greg Fedderly was appropriately creepy. John Del Carlo delivered as Swallow, recalling, in some of his antics, his wonderful Dr. Bartolo (in Rossini’s “Barber of Seville”).

Auntie’s nieces, Leah Partridge and Erin Morley, flitted enjoyably, and sang well. Bernard Fitch was a honey-voiced reverend. And Dean Peterson made a fine Hobson: harried and well-meaning. He also made a good drummer, summoning a kind of mob.

Not to be forgotten is Logan William Erickson, who played the second apprentice. As this abused and hunted boy, he was deeply affecting.

I have said that the Grimes is the most important factor in “Grimes” — but a case can be made for the conductor. This is a symphonic opera (and a choral opera, come to that), even apart from the famous “Sea Interludes.” Donald Runnicles guided with a sure hand. He was always competent, sometimes better. He knew how to project a mounting storm; he knew how to present controlled chaos. The women’s quartet in Act 2 was beautifully shaped (and sung).

Through this performance, you could smell the sea, and you could also smell fear.

The Met’s orchestra was virtuosic and aware. Woodwinds handled their licks expertly; brass tongued nimbly, and intoned regally. The Met’s chorus was solid, doing the job Britten asks of it.

As for the production and Mr. Doyle: He was the one who won the Tony in 2006 for “Sweeney Todd.” There will probably not be prizes for his “Peter Grimes.” But, as I said, it is a successful and commendable production.

It does not dole out a great deal of action. Indeed, it has touches of concert opera, even of oratorio. There is a lot of standing and singing — but so what? The opera can be read to call for that. I believe Mr. Doyle’s production abets the story, putting the focus on the music and the general psychology. And I applaud his modesty: We’ve had quite enough of directors who insist on stealing the show.

The stage has one, vast set, designed by Scott Pask. The set has peekaboo doors and windows. And it lends a feeling of claustrophobia, of closing in. It further suggests that a town is much bigger than a man, able to crush him. The lighting designer, Peter Mumford, has worked deftly. At the end of Act 2, Balstrode is alone in Grimes’s blackened hut, discovering the latest horror. A light shines on his face — very effective.

Ann Hould-Ward has costumed judiciously. The townswomen wear black, suggesting uniformity and severity. Only the women who sing solos have color, and these costumes are apt.

Thursday night’s “Grimes” was well-sung, well-conducted, and well-played, and this new production frames the opera wisely. All around, a successful night. I might ask, however, whether the Met can make do with one intermission, rather than two. With only about two hours and 15 minutes of music, two intermissions felt like too many.