We are supposed to have a new Metropolitan Opera, with the coming of Peter Gelb as general manager, and a huge public relations push. But, amazingly, there is still opera to judge: singers, a conductor, an orchestra, a production. No amount of PR can change the basic question: How did it go?

The Met opened its 2006–07 season Monday night with Puccini’s “Madama Butterfly.” In the recent past the Met has opened with galas consisting of selected acts from various operas. Such galas are apparently déclassé now. I always liked them, frankly, and the Met did them well. Moreover, you rarely have the chance to hear and see excerpts in an opera house.

In any event, “Madama Butterfly” is a great work, infinitely better than its critics. When a company does it to the hilt — no pun intended, for Butterfly dies by the sword — it is devastating. But the performance Monday night was disappointingly, sometimes shockingly, bad.

What had gotten into conductor James Levine, I don’t know. Shortly after the curtain was raised, I had to ask, “Does he like the opera or not? And, if not, why is he taking it out on the score?” He conducted most of Act I brusquely, impatiently, and even crudely. He had no time for Puccini’s beauty or charm. This was not a matter of trimming excess, which is a Levine specialty; this was a simple refusal to appreciate. Toscanini at his most brutal wouldn’t have conducted this way.

All through the opera, Mr. Levine cheated Puccini. Where was the grandeur when the Imperial Commissioner came in? Where was the gaiety of the wedding crowd? Where was the menace — the orchestral menace — when the Bonze entered?

In the Love Duet, Mr. Levine sighed decently, but he was still stiff, without any rhapsody and rapture. And in the Flower Duet, there was almost no ecstasy, no tingle — no nervous excitement. The ending of that wonderful piece was slow and lifeless.

And even the basics were uncovered: For example, soprano and orchestra were badly not together in the aria “Un bel dì.”

In the music of Butterfly’s all-night vigil, Mr. Levine was strangely cold and unfeeling. In that great Suzuki-Pinkerton-Sharpless trio, he completely let the climaxes go by. The dawning on Butterfly of what is going on was stilted, static, and unmusical.

Mr. Levine was disappointing even down to the last note: that chaotic “wrong” chord, which underlines that the world is out of whack. It had zero power.

I had not thought it possible for Mr. Levine — the all-understanding and all-expressing — to conduct with such indifference.

Portraying Butterfly was the Chilean soprano Cristina Gallardo-Domâs, who is experienced in this role. She is an alert and skillful actress (if a touch mannered). But, on this occasion, she had trouble with her singing. Throughout Act I, she was quavering and uncertain, missing several notes. She was also repeatedly sharp. Ms. Gallardo-Domâs settled down some in Act II, but she never lost her case of the sharps. The aria “Che tua madre” was passably executed, but could have been much more incisive. And, for the final aria — “Tu, piccolo iddio” — she summoned up all the cutting power she could. It was not enough.

Interestingly, she found her voice — an excellent voice — on a few notes: the ones that Butterfly sings when insisting that her son, Sorrow, will one day be known as Joy. Ms. Gallardo-Domâs is obviously a soprano of ability.

Her Pinkerton was Marcello Giordani, the Italian tenor. He was in wretched form: full of tension, straining, lunging, braying. He had none of the smoothness or lyricism that Puccini requires. Into the opening note of the Love Duet, he slid hideously — Dean Martin would have been embarrassed to do so. As that duet continued, Mr. Giordani contributed no tenderness, no beauty. Plus, he was a stranger to rhythm, and almost to pitch.

The marvelous little aria toward the end of the opera — “Addio, fiorito asil” — he simply bulled through.

The mezzo singing Suzuki was Maria Zifchak, who was adequate, and the Sharpless was the baritone Dwayne Croft — capable as usual. He is an underrated performer, perhaps because so dependable. (Critics and fans are weird that way.)

The production comes from the English National Opera, and it is the work of the British director Anthony Minghella, known for movies (“The English Patient,” “Cold Mountain”). His “Butterfly” is arty, colorful, and pretty. It contains a number of smart ideas, along with some less inspired ones.

Most attention-grabbing in this show is the Love Duet. As Butterfly and Pinkerton sing, paper-lantern orbs appear. Then confetti descends from the sky. Or are we looking at flower petals? After a while, the petals seem to be butterflies. Yes, it is raining butterflies, I believe. Puccini’s music is so great, we don’t need this distraction, this spectacle. The Love Duet should not be background music to anyone’s special effects.

But, given the singing Monday night, I was glad for the distraction.

As the opera unfolds, Mr. Minghella keeps going with his butterflies (or — again — what I take to be butterflies). Singly, they drop from the sky, particularly at key dramatic moments. Before long, I found this an annoying gesture — or device or tic — and wanted to go up there and swat one of those buggers.

Funnily enough, given the Love Duet, the Flower Duet is rather subdued, visually. It doesn’t rain flowers, as it might. (In fact, Butterfly says, “Let it rain flowers!”) There are simply tasteful bouquets set about. Bizarre.

And Butterfly’s little boy, Sorrow? He is not a real boy, but a puppet. From my seat, this item looked like Yoda, the big-eared creature from “Star Wars.” This may be a child only a mother can love.

The capacity crowd loved the whole evening, and applauded long. And speaking of long: This “Butterfly” lasted from 6:30 to 10:15, socked with two intermissions. Never will you experience a more extended “Butterfly.”

And if I may revert to the beginning … Mr. Levine began, as usual on Opening Night, with the national anthem. But, not as usual, it was perfunctory, half-hearted, and limp. And why did that snare drum go on for so long? I guess if you’re going to have a bad night, you might as well make it thorough.

The “new Met” is being congratulated everywhere for the “buzz” it is creating — posters on buses, celebrities in the lobby, etc. Great. But if opera is to be “buzz”-dependent, we can simply fold our tents now. Classical art forms are never popular, no matter how much we may want them to be. As I always say, “There’s a reason they call popular music popular.”

The Met is further being congratulated for a new “relevance.” I’m never quite sure what people mean by that word, but I can tell you what I regard as relevant: good singing, good conducting, good playing, and good productions. And if the glossy magazines or the TV stations don’t like it, or don’t come around, tough. They own the rest of the culture anyway.

You know?

Until November 18 (Lincoln Center, 212-721-6500).