Last season’s “Rigoletto” at the Met was an occasion for star turns. Anna Netrebko was stunningly good, not only as a singer but an actress as well. Rolando Villazon was in superb voice as a callously clueless Duke of Mantua. Even the indisposition of Carlo Guelfi on the night I attended couldn’t dampen a very special evening. Only the oom-pah-pah conducting of Placido Domingo was disappointing.

This year, all of the big names are gone, but plenty of charm remains. Juan Pons was excellent in the title role on Wednesday’s opening night, reminding of a standard of acting and singing now almost forgotten in the short attention span world of the latest and trendiest.

Mr. Pons has sung “Rigoletto” hundreds of times and may be a little weary of the role. Just like Wotan in “Die Walküre,” however, the greats know how to use their accumulated ennui. This jester is anything but amusing and Mr. Pons plays him in a very low key — more of a downtrodden average Joe than an exotic curiosity.

Vocally, he was superb, weaving a long lyrical line with just a touch of the pathetic. Always in control, he saved his on-the-edge singing for that magnificent scene in which the humpback must plead with the courtiers. The ovation he received after this tour de force was the longest and loudest of the evening by a very wide margin. It was refreshing to attend a “Rigoletto” in which the protagonist was the star.

Making a smart Metropolitan debut was the Russian soprano Ekaterina Siurina as Gilda. She has just the right ingénue voice for the part, sweet and remarkably pure, with no straining whatsoever. She was aided immeasurably in this smoothness by a judiciously altered score. The run-up to the final note of the Addio was eliminated, and more than a few high notes in other scenes were transposed significantly downward.

Ms. Siurina exhibited little resonance in her voice, but this may have been cultivated. She eschews vibrato in favor of absolutely campanilian tones, but this is stylistically unusual for Verdi singing. She sometimes seemed to be an escapee from a Rameau set piece. When she performed duets with Mr. Pons, however, the contrast of her stylized intonations with his warm and elastic Romantic lyricism worked very well. She obviously looked to the veteran for leadership, with Mr. Pons often beginning a phrase a good half a beat before she. For this generational story, there is a lot to be said for father and daughter singing as if from two distinct orientation points.

Mr. Pons had to provide that leadership because it often seemed that the pit orchestra was leading debut conductor Friedrich Haider, rather than the reverse. There was virtually no coloristic contrast between the sardonically happy music of the first act and the febrile tragedy of the second (or, since the Met insists on their second intermission, Acts II and III). Mr. Haider brought little to the party, leading a particularly flaccid thunderstorm, but at least keeping the volume down to allow his vocalizing fledglings to soar unencumbered.

Making his Met debut was tenor Joseph Calleja from Malta. His voice is powerful but tends toward nasality. Perhaps because of opening night nervousness, he started out with very choppy phrasing, almost working at cross purposes to the orchestra and breathing much too often for any sort of extended line to develop. As the work wore on, he became a little more relaxed and his flow improved, but on the applause meter, his “La Donna `e mobile” was a flop. He wisely left the thespian development of the character for a future performance.

That fun couple, Maddalena and Sparafucile, portrayed by Nancy Fabiola Herrera and Paata Burchuladze, was unfortunately weak, thus tarnishing the great quartet and trio at the work’s conclusion. But James Courtney’s Monterone was arresting, the curse somehow more spine-chilling when delivered with such an emotional tremble.

It is impossible to say enough positive comments about the Met chorus, undoubtedly the finest in the world. Tonight the men were spectacular, vocally nimble and devastatingly cruel as the courtiers. The production, by Otto Schenk, is one of the best in the house, worth every penny just to see Gilda run across that rickety bridge to her doom accompanied by flashes of lightning.

“Rigoletto” is one of those rare operas that is always enjoyable no matter how bad the performance. In a performance in Central Park in the late 1990s, an unfortunate Gilda was so weak that everyone cheered when she was murdered by Sparafucile. New York is a tough town.

Until December 22 (Lincoln Center, 212-721-6500).