In the stirring Peter Weir film “Gallipoli,” when the leader of the Australian troops makes the command decision to send his men and himself to almost certain death in the morning, he opens a bottle of wine, begins a letter to his wife, and plays on his portable Victrola the aria “Au fond du temple saint” from Georges Bizet’s “The Pearl Fishers,” written when the composer was only 24. The duet, for tenor and baritone, is one of the most haunting in all of opera, a paean to male friendship that predates Verdi’s “Don Carlos” by four years. However, like “the bell song” from “Lakme,” it is one of those French airs that have a popularity of their own. The opera itself is almost never performed.

“The Pearl Fishers” has never had great success on this side of the pond. In fact, when it was premiered at the Met in the 1890s, this already short opus was presented with one entire act missing so that it could be coupled with Massanet’s “La Navarraise.” Primarily because of that one great duet, it was espoused by the magical combination of Caruso and de Luca, but post Great War performances are rare indeed. Are you tired yet of hearing me say how wonderful it is that the New York City Opera takes the initiative in presenting these forgotten jewels?

First and foremost, Sunday’s premiere was a good show. The much ballyhooed sets and costumes of fashion designer Zandra Rhodes were pure joy. Looking at the world through Rhodes colored glasses was highly imaginative and evoked just the right sense of exoticism for this Fantasy Island. Unusually, the women were all made to look Sri Lankan, but the men were decidedly Polynesian. What this production seemed to be saying – quite rightly – was that once we left the suburbs of Paris, it was all the same for Bizet.

The celebration of the swirl, the Day-Glo colors, the Klimt women hidden in the trees, and the dancing in tiger masks combined cinematically with the direction of Andrew Sinclair to produce crafty effects of time and space. The illusionary use of curtains created the proper sense of island isolation, while the costuming was daring and yet puffy and comfortable throughout. Somehow, when the warriors wear pink turbans, the danger can’t be too great. This is perhaps the proper moment to mention that Ms. Rhodes sported magenta hair for her well-deserved curtain call.

Much of the energy of the piece was communicated by the dancers, again correctly posited as equal in artistic measure to the singing in a French colonial native rotogravure Sunday magazine sort of way. Solo dancers Michael Mizerany, Chris Stanley, and Keturah Stickann-Skadberg were marvelously athletic and disciplined, while the troupe at large was colorful and distractingly attractive. Choreographer John Malashock deserves high praise.

Oh, yes, the music. Debut conductor Emmanuel Plasson did not have the orchestra in its finest shape of the season. He left many questionable chords out there to twist in the wind. But vocally, this was a fine performance, with all three principals capable of sustained beauty of line. Tenor Yeghishe Manucharyan has a bit of a nasal twang to his voce di testa and might want to attempt to develop more of a chest voice going forward, but he was especially impressive in hitting all of Bizet’s ridiculously high notes interspersed as vestigial reminders of the early 18th century. His “Je crois entendre encore” in Act I was very romantic and he was a competent, although perhaps outshone, duet partner for both soprano and baritone. The young Armenian gave his all for this performance, so I won’t even mention the infinite number of critical possibilities available by pointing out that his character’s name is Nadir.

Stephen Powell was a rugged and powerful Zurga, dominating the famous duet and holding forth expertly in his big number, “O Nadir, tendre ami de mon couer” in Act III. And the one minor character, Brian McIntosh as Nourabad, was suitably non-threatening as the high priest.

From her serene entrance atop a human conveyance, through her marvelous nocturnal solo scene, to her coltish joining of her own funeral procession, the star of the show was undeniably Mary Dunleavy as Leila. Very secure in both exuberant acting and centered voice, she could do no wrong. Listening to her seemingly effortless and dreamy “Comme autrefois dans la nuit sombre,” followed immediately by her soaring line in the love duet “Ton couer n’a pas compris le mien,” I was struck with her naturalness, so rare in the opera world. It wasn’t as if she were practicing an art form at all: She actually was this chimerical princess.

Perhaps the finest moment of the day was Ms. Dunleavy’s pleading with her captor in Act III. Cartoon world or not, at this particular juncture, there was a living, breathing person in trouble here and we all could empathize. Luckily, Zurga is really a nice guy after all, so no worries.

For many years, it was standard practice to shore up the finale of “Pearl Fishers” with the trio “O lumiere sainte,” which was not even written by Bizet but rather Benjamin Louis Paul Godard. It was good to hear that the old warhorse was not harnessed for this modern production. Courageously, City Opera let Bizet stand or fall on his own merits.

Thus ends a remarkable year at the New York City Opera. In addition to some excellent performances of Puccini, Verdi, and Mozart, the company offered the opportunity to hear true rarities of high quality. Already the more interesting house, the spirit of exploration and the level of scholarship there should only intensify as Leon Botstein joins it next season.

“The Pearl Fishers” will be performed again tonight, April 14, and April 20 at 7:30 p.m.; April 16 at 1:30 p.m.; and April 22 at 8 p.m. (Lincoln Center, 212-307-4100).