SALZBURG, Austria — A few years ago, the Salzburg Festival had a production of Mozart’s “Magic Flute” that was roundly disliked — disliked by the public. Even some critics risked being thought square by objecting. Then, the festival acquired a new production: by Pierre Audi, a Beirut-born British citizen. It was more like it.

Like what? Like “The Magic Flute.” It is whimsical, friendly, and interesting. There are goofy touches — such as the little red circus car in which Papageno rides around (initially). And there are more serious touches, such as the elemental fire and water that mingle toward the end.

This year, the Salzburg Festival is again putting on Mr. Audi’s production. And in the pit is Riccardo Muti, the Italian conductor who is pretty much the big man here at the festival.

When I attended a “Flute” of his last week, he had good moments and indifferent moments. In the overture, he had most unfortunate moments. He merely raced through this music, depriving it of its proper character. Nuttily fast tempos in Mozart are a curse of today’s music world. Listening to the overture, I was a bit homesick, which is to say Levine-sick.

Incidentally, James Levine — the music director of the Metropolitan Opera — conducted “The Magic Flute” at the Salzburg Festival every year from 1978 to 1986.

Mr. Muti was guilty of further racing, such as in the delightful Papageno-Papagena duet just before the final curtain. (This is a special treat from Mozart.) At last week’s tempo, the duet loses both its charm and its quirkiness. But Mr. Muti was always competent, and he also contributed some truly stylish conducting.

He could have no complaints about the Vienna Philharmonic, the band under his hands. They are all Mozarteans, through and through. They play Mozart with a natural and right weight: not heavy; not light and thin. And they have an excellent principal flute — no small matter in “The Magic Flute.”

Salzburg had taken the trouble to assemble a first-rate cast. Portraying Tamino was Michael Schade, the German-Canadian tenor. His voice is changing now, as is only natural: It may not have the same sweetness or youthfulness as before; but it retains its beauty, and seems to have grown in strength.

Tamino’s big aria is “Dies Bildnis,” and Mr. Schade sang it like he was born to the task. The aria was both well shaped and substantial — “substantial” meaning not la-di-da. And Mr. Schade gives you better than “opera acting.” He is a stage performer. And, with the “magic flute” in hand, he actually gives the impression that he knows how to play it.

Pamina was the soprano Genia Kühmeier, one of Salzburg’s own. Angelika Kirchschlager, a mezzo, is another Salzburger. And so was Doppler, as in the effect. And so — who could forget? — was Mozart. Speaking of him, Ms. Kühmeier, like the Vienna Philharmonic players, is a Mozartean through and through. She has proved so time and time again — and she did on this particular occasion. Her aria, “Ach, ich fühl’s,” soared on long, arching, lovely lines. This was a clinic of Mozart singing.

She and Mr. Schade, as can be expected, made harmonious partners. At the end of the opera, Pamina sings (I translate loosely), “Tamino mine! Oh, what bliss.” And Tamino responds in kind. This was unbelievably tender and beautiful from our performers — but not precious.

Papageno was the Austrian baritone Markus Werba (who happens to be the great-nephew of the late and distinguished accompanist Erik Werba). He is a lithe, personable fellow who makes a winning Papageno, in every way. Plenty of sound comes out of his small, slim body — but it is lyrical, unforced, and smooth.

The Queen of the Night was a Russian with a mouthful of a name: Albina Shagimuratova. She sank her teeth into the Queen’s music — making it meaty, crunchy, and dramatic. She was not as clean and pure as some. But she was formidable and exciting, as the Queen should be — a songbird with teeth.

For years, René Pape reigned as Sarastro at this festival. He is not here this year. Another German bass, Franz-Josef Selig, has the unenviable task of filling those shoes. He did so ably. He may not have the elegance of Mr. Pape — but he sang in moving fatherly tones, and evinced much dignity (or “gravitas,” as they say in politics).

The Monostatos, Austrian tenor Dietmar Kerschbaum, was a hoot — a semi-scary hoot, singing skillfully all the while. A trio of fine, mature singers served as the Three Ladies — these were not ingénues, thrown into scanted parts. And three seriously piping lads from the Vienna Boys Choir were the youthful guides.

Overall, this was a performance that did justice to “The Magic Flute” — and what an opera to do justice to. I know a senior music critic and scholar, who is as steeped in opera as anyone. Ask him whether he has a favorite, and he’ll say yes: “The Magic Flute.” That is an understandable and wise choice.