If ever there were a perfect opportunity to mount a production of “Aida” featuring elephants, it was Wednesday night in Central Park. The vast, wide-open spaces could hold any and all elements of a true spectacular.

Alas, the New York Grand Opera does not have a budget for a pachyderm parade, but it did mount a pretty fabulous extravaganza within the bounds of its limited resources.

Many companies are afraid of “Aida.” Its sheer grandeur daunts the potential director. Before the New York City Opera went on sabbatical to reinvent itself, it ran yearly revivals of “La Bohème” and “Carmen,” but recently neglected “Aida,” possibly because of the company’s limited staging abilities. Over at the Metropolitan, the Zeffirelli set reigns supreme, a marvel of perspective that makes the cavernous house look all the more imposing.

So this current effort was not Zeffirelli’s Verona, and not an outdoor blockbuster. With Maestro Vincent La Selva at the helm, however, the company has acquitted itself admirably.

No animals, to be sure, but dozens of supernumeraries emerged from the pyramid erected within the confines of the Naumburg Bandshell, where every scene seems to be set on the inside of a gigantic golf ball. There were spear-carriers, sword fighters, hootchy-kootchy dancers, sedan chairs, and even two impressive sets of tusks carried by bearers. The full chorus was also onstage, the orchestra seated out front. From my vantage point, where had there been elephants they might have appeared pink to many of the imbibers at the back of the lawn, Mr. La Selva was in his glory, in complete charge, making a strong case for the inclusion of the word “grand” in his ensemble’s name.

Don’t minimize the effect of this pageantry. It is half of the essence of “Aida.” Compare the Triumphal March scene to Act III of Les Troyens by Hector Berlioz, written at exactly the same time. In the other half of the story, the individual lovers are dwarfed by the events around them. Both composers capture the special atmosphere of the ancient Greekpoets and dramatists now so sorely neglected.

The cast was stronger than in the Traviata earlier this season. Joanna McIntire was a fine heroine, with the usual caveat that her vocal power remains a mystery because she is only heard through the company’s quixotic amplification system. Her “Ritorna vincitor” was quite moving. Valeria Girardi was a solid Amneris, although she did not steal the show the way I am convinced that Verdi intended.

Gustavo Lopez Manzitti passed his ultimate test reasonably well. You might remember Roberto Alagna walking off the La Scala stage earlier this past season after his “Celeste Aida” was not wildly received. It is cruel to make the tenor’s big number occur in the first five minutes of the evening, but Mr. Manzitti hit his high notes, although sometimes needing to climb some steps along the way. Donald Yule as the Pharoah and Raemond Martin as Amonasro provided a deeply burnished bottom.

As always, the orchestra is the star of these productions, combating the deleterious effects of humidity on their instruments — although they caught a break during Wednesday’s dry conditions. Mr. La Selva has developed a signature Italian sound for his Verdi series, a sound not normally heard on this side of the pond. There is almost a concert-band sonority to his Verdi, typically only experienced in Italy itself. It wasn’t that long ago that this type of music, played with this type of style, would greet arrivals at the more luxurious railway stations on a glorious Italian journey.