It was one of the most anticipated events of the musical season – and of the theatrical season, for that matter. On Friday night, the Metropolitan Opera presented Mozart’s “Magic Flute” in the new production of Julie Taymor. She, remember, is the magician behind “The Lion King” on Broadway. Ms. Taymor has two Tonys, an Emmy, and a Grammy on her shelf, and a MacArthur “genius” grant to go with them. Judging from this “Magic Flute,” she has earned everything she has ever received.

This is a striking production – enchanting, yes, but also wise and moving. It would be hard to imagine the eye more treated. Think of the most elegant, surprising, and intelligent circus you can.

Nimble, black-clad folk – looking like ninjas – wave streamers. A dragon breathes fire. Birds flutter. Bears dance (I’m pretty sure they were bears). Cranes transport little powder-white spirits. (I believe they were cranes – ornithology is not my bag.) Images race out of kaleidoscopes.

When the Queen of the Night appears, she is decked with banners. I thought, “Six Flags over Georgia?” Sarastro’s conclaves are freaky and arresting, just slightly – and disturbingly – reminiscent of Klan meetings. A giant chessboard appears. And Ms. Taymor does a dark and stormy night very, very well.

As she does everything well. For all you see on stage, this is not a cluttered production. Every moment is well framed, well composed. When the stage should be sparer, it is. And when it is full, it is nonetheless transparent, in a Mozartean way. Ms. Taymor’s costumes, George Tsypin’s sets, Donald Holder’s lighting, Mark Dendy’s choreography – this whole “Flute” breathes intelligence, as well as imagination.

And now, to the music, leaving the most important performer to last. This cast is loaded with fine singers, even in parts that are minor. The Three Ladies were three of the Met’s best: Emily Pulley (who was exquisite in a “Dialogues of the Carmelites”); Jossie Perez (an all-purpose mezzo); and Wendy White (a memorable Brangane). Papageno was Rodion Pogossov, a Russian baritone. He lacks geniality in the voice – and geniality should be one of Papageno’s chief characteristics – but there was plenty of geniality in his person. Matthew Polenzani was Tamino, displaying that sweet-but-substantial instrument. He has a little Wunderlich in him, this fellow.

The Queen of the Night was a Slovakian, with an interesting – and interestingly punctuated – name: L’ubica Vargicova. She was slightly tremulous, but admirable. She has obviously been well trained. She missed her high F in the first act, but she came back with a strong Act II aria: not perfect, but brave and stirring.

Crowning the evening as Pamina was Dorothea Roschmann, quite simply one of the best Mozart singers in the world (and therefore one of the best singers in the world, period). I always ask, when I hear her, where does she get that intonation? Is she always in the center of the note? And her voice, in addition to being beautiful, is eerily adaptable: ravishing and quicksilver; pure and pulpy; dark and ethereal. The aria “Ach, ich fuhl’s” is one of the most difficult in the soprano repertory, and Ms. Roschmann executed it with extreme control and musicality. Some label should record this woman every chance it gets.

Volker Vogel’s Monostatos was careful and accurate, and Kwangchul Youn’s Sarastro was sturdy, and moving, in a solemn way.

The most important performer in a Mozart opera, however – and in a great many operas – is the conductor. James Levine had an excellent night. He was on top of himself, and his forces. The beginning of the overture was thoughtful and drawn out; the body of it was fast and bold – both fleet and brawny. Mr. Levine’s is a mature Mozart, not fussy or dainty. Just when he is about to get too Romantic, he tugs on the reins. Much of this score received what you might call the Levine bounce: a bounce hard to describe, but unmistakable to the ear. It is a robust springiness. And those C-major choruses – forerunners to Beethoven’s “Fidelio” – had their discipline and joy.

Everyone did his part (I should have mentioned Ms. Taymor’s co-puppet designer, Michael Curry). (How many times do you get to write “co-puppet designer” in a review?) The biggest applause of the evening was rightly reserved for our director – and co-puppet designer, and costume designer – Ms. Taymor. She has competition from this opera’s past, and particularly from the Met past: Marc Chagall and David Hockney. One heard some opinion that those productions were better. But let’s say they were different. Julie Taymor’s “Magic Flute” is one of the most beautiful operatic productions you will ever see. It is equal to the work. Mozart and his librettist, Schikaneder, would be smitten – and grateful.

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If you missed the New York Philharmonic’s most recent subscription concert – it had only three iterations, Thursday through Saturday – a pity. It was an outstanding one.

The program was all Prokofiev, with music director Lorin Maazel on the podium. The soloist was Sayaka Shoji, a Japanese violinist of about 20. We are enjoying a bumper crop of young violinists, and Miss Shoji is a part of it – but more about her in a moment.

The evening began with the ballet “Romeo and Juliet,” or rather ex cerpts from it: the Montagues and the Capulets; Friar Laurence; and Romeo at Juliet’s Tomb. Mr. Maazel was firing on all cylinders – I am speaking of Thursday – and so was his orchestra. The conductor calibrated that first excerpt shrewdly, in phrasing, dynamics, and feeling. The orchestra played with a technical exactitude that allows for tension – Prokofiev-like tension. Mr. Maazel exploited every sharp angle, as he exploited every lyrical stream. The Philharmonic’s flute was straightforward, not too fancy. Glissandos were modest. Mr. Maazel permitted no excess.

The Friar Laurence music was rather cool and insouciant, and the orchestra did not offer great beauty – but such beauty is unnecessary. Mr. Maazel continued in his tidy way.

The final section – Romeo at Juliet’s Tomb – had considerable drama, of course, but not bathos. And the Philharmonic’s brass managed to be aggressive and plaintive, somehow. I mean, simultaneously.

Miss Shoji played the Prokofiev Concerto No. 1. She is a slip of a thing, and utterly self-possessed. She demonstrated a sweet tone, though not a sugary one. In the opening movement – as throughout the concerto – she showed restraint. Nothing was forced. If Miss Shoji were an athlete, we might say of her, “She plays within herself.” One could have asked for more sass, more sarcasm, more bite. More personality. This playing was a little decorous – but that does Prokofiev no harm. He has enough personality on his own.

The Scherzo was duly devilish, and nicely unrushed. Miss Shoji used a melting tone over the orchestra’s cocky beats. That orchestra was taut, responsive, catching the screwy nature of the score. In the final movement (four-sectioned), Miss Shoji evinced a largely quiet power. There was nothing phenomenal about this account – but there was nothing wrong with it. In fact, there was a lot right with it, and it was obvious why Mr. Maazel wanted to bring this young woman to New York’s attention.

The symphony after intermission was No. 5, a masterwork, and right up Lorin Maazel’s alley. He can revel in its odd rhythms and startling emotions. The conductor gave the symphony a sensible – you might say inevitable – shape, and always kept a current running. A listener didn’t have to worry about anything; he could sit back and enjoy the Fifth as Prokofiev intended it.

The orchestra made mistakes here and there: squeaks in the woodwinds, flubs in the brass. But on the whole, they performed as Mr. Maazel wished. The Fifth is, indeed, a great work, containing just about everything that Prokofiev has to offer. I often complain about one-composer evenings, but this program had the effect of reminding us of Prokofiev’s genius. He had both craft and inspiration, in spades.

That there would be an encore was never in doubt. That it would be Prokofiev was also not in doubt. My only question was, would it be the March from the “Love for Three Oranges” or the Death of Tybalt, from “Romeo and Juliet”? It was the latter – and it delivered its bang.