Julie Taymor’s production of Mozart’s “Magic Flute” made its premiere at the Metropolitan Opera in October 2004. Since then, the company has presented it many, many times. You can’t blame them: The public loves it, and the public is correct. Ms. Taymor’s work is imaginative, shrewd, and delightsome. Mozart and his librettist, Herr Schikaneder, would be tickled pink.

Anyway, the Met revived this production again on Monday night.

Note, too, that this “Flute” first appeared in the time of what’s now known as the “Old Met.” (“Old Met” used to refer to the building at 39th Street and Broadway.) According to current mythology — increasingly entrenched — the “Old Met” was stodgy, hidebound, and dull. Now, everything’s zingy. Here is a rule to remind ourselves of: When praising the present, you don’t have to disparage or falsify the past.

Unfortunately, the performance of “The Magic Flute” on Monday night was a stinker. And the trouble began with the overture — if you’re going to have a bad night, it might as well start early.

The first chord was not together. The second chord was not together. The third chord was more together — but still not right. Then, when the overture turned fast, it was absurdly fast — unmusically fast. The playing was crude, ugly, and far from Mozartean. And the closing chords, in a kind of consistency, were not together.

Conductor Kirill Petrenko would continue to have a weird and messy night. The orchestra was often disunited, and the pit was often disunited with the stage. And Mr. Petrenko repeatedly imposed these ultra-fast, ruinous tempos. The music that comes from Papageno’s bells could not have enchanted anyone — it had no charm. The chorus that ends Act I lacked uplift, majesty, nobility — it was merely raced through. And the Papageno/Papagena duet, that stuttering, quirky, winsome thing? So fast, it was barely recognizable as itself.

Altogether, the score was deprived of breadth and grace — even of its merriment. A genuine, un-frenetic merriment. Mr. Petrenko can do better. We have heard him do so, and we will again.

The cast was uneven, blessed with one superb soprano, who had a superb night — we will get to her in a moment. The tenor, Eric Cutler, had a pretty good night. He showed his lovely, fresh voice, and a solid technique. At his best, he sang with sweet intensity, or intense sweetness. In his interpretation of Tamino’s aria “Dies Bildnis,” he was slightly too liberal. A more straightforward following of the line would have helped. But he did no harm.

Papageno was Stéphane Degout, the smooth French baritone. For some reason, he was a little unsmooth on this occasion: He suffered from an unnatural heaviness, a kind of forcing. But he was never less than competent, and he seemed to enjoy his role (as well he should). Sarastro was a German bass, Reinhard Hagen. He has a pleasing voice, which he deploys well. He had some pitch problems, and his rendering of “In diesen heil’gen Hallen” was not the holiest ever. But Mr. Hagen was adequate.

The Queen of the Night was a bit of a puzzle. She was Anna-Kristiina Kaappola, a Finnish soprano (as those double letters suggest!), making her Met debut. She proved small-voiced, which was fine. But she was also less imperious, less biting — less characterful — than we would like the Queen to be. Her singing really couldn’t threaten anyone. On the plus side, it was accurate, and many of Ms. Kaappola’s high notes were quite beautiful.

A savvy old pro took the part of the Speaker. That was Eike Wilm Schulte, surefooted as always. And reprising her role as Papagena was Monica Yunus, daughter of Muhammad Yunus, the Bangladeshi microbanker who won last year’s Nobel Peace Prize. Ms. Yunus was comic, sprightly, and adorable.

On the subject of adorable: That aforementioned superb soprano was Diana Damrau, portraying Pamina. Usually, she’s the Queen of the Night in this opera — it has been a calling card. And she will sing the Queen later in this Met run. Then, she will retire the role, leaving it to other coloraturas.

As Pamina, she was at her tip-top best, filling the stage with authority and musicality (both of which qualities were often sorely needed). She was poised, mature, and compelling. She has the gift of singing meltingly but substantially — with body. Her “Ach, ich fühl’s” had poignant purity. Ms. Damrau put on a clinic of phrasing in this aria. And, of course, she can spring power on you — musically justified power — whenever she wants.

She was a valuable Queen of the Night — and will be, for a couple of additional performances — but you will find her an equally valuable Pamina.

Doing the stage-directing was David Kneuss, who added some curious touches. The Three Ladies – all of whom sang satisfyingly, by the way — were unusually hammy. Monostatos (Dietmar Kerschbaum) was unusually hammy too — campy, actually. Sometimes it looked like a cabaret up there, or a revue.

In sum, this was a very strange night at the Metropolitan Opera, where there are no guarantees. Even the best houses have subpar performances, sometimes subsubpar. This crew will next perform “The Magic Flute” tomorrow night. Who knows? Come to think of it, there is one guarantee: Mozart will be great. No matter what, he delivers.