On Tuesday night, the Philadelphia Orchestra swept into Carnegie Hall, guest-conducted by Charles Dutoit, the man who led the Montreal Symphony Orchestra for a full 25 years. He had with him a legendary pianist, Martha Argerich, and a new symphony – by James MacMillan, the Scottish composer who is widely acclaimed, and performed.

That symphony is not exactly new, having been written in 2003, but it was new to New York. Mr. Dutoit premiered it in Tokyo, with the NHK Symphony, of which he is music director. Mr. MacMillan’s Symphony No. 3 carries a subtitle,

“Silence.” Why? The work was inspired by a novel – also “Silence” – by the Japanese writer Shusaku Endo. In Carnegie Hall’s program were very lengthy notes as to what the symphony is supposed to “mean.” That is often a worrying sign: Music is an aural art, and a piece ought to explain itself, or at least justify itself.

Mr. MacMillan’s Symphony No. 3 will be familiar to anyone who frequents the concert hall and listens to contemporary music – it does not matter whether you have heard this particular piece. It starts out sparse, and vaguely Eastern. Soon we encounter bleakness, anxiety, despair – those hallmarks of today’s music. Percussion is ample (and not unimaginative). Strings slide up and down, sounding like sirens or alarms, adding to the end-of-the-world feeling. Woodwinds give off those shudders. Do composers not tire of writing this piece (and do audiences not tire of listening to it)? They say that all Vivaldi concertos sound alike. That’s not true, but at least they have the excuse of having been written by the same man.

This symphony is not without variety, however, as we get a lovely song or two, some jazzy licks, and some other nice effects. But the composer does a lot of spewing and posing, to an end that is unclear. Besides which, the piece is way too long for what it purveys – an example of self-indulgence, and an imposition on the audience. Today’s composers experiment around – often with other “musics,” as they say – and they work out an existential angst; orchestras and other institutions seem happy to let them do it. But these composers must consider whether anyone will want to listen in the future.

People certainly want to listen to Martha Argerich, one of the great cult figures in the business. The concerto she played was Beethoven’s No. 1 in C major, Op. 15, although its first movement seemed more Argerich than Beethoven. Her very first phrase, she distorted grossly; this was Romantic soup, not Beethoven. Then, when the music got quicker, she rushed and slurred, badly. Then she rushed some more, with increased franticness – the concerto was on amphetamines, or something. When she reached more lyrical portions, she slowed down again. Stop, start, stop, start. The arc of Beethoven’s movement was lost. You would not take these liberties with Chopin – and that is not to mention the usual Argerichian pounding and slapping. Some of those accents are simply mystifying.

But Ms. Argerich did some impressive playing in this movement: nimble, cat-like playing. And her cadenza was fabulous – which makes sense, because in these bars the soloist may depart from the composer, asserting the soloistic personality. Ms. Argerich’s problem is that she can view a whole concerto as a cadenza.

The Largo movement requires some soft singing, and this pianist’s softness was more muted than singing. Furthermore, phrases were “rubatoed” out of recognition, or at least out of effectiveness. But fragments of the Largo were exquisite, and Ms. Argerich reminded us that she is one of the great trillers of all time. No one has ever questioned her technique – just her musical judgment. (Did I say “just”?)

The Rondo is right up her alley: fleet, lithe, interestingly accented. And Ms. Argerich played it brilliantly, despite some of her usual pounded octaves. She was both gossamer and biting, which is an unusual combination. In her final phrase, the top note – that F – failed to sound, which was a disappointment, after such successful playing. Her audience, of course, went nutso.

And she gave them an encore, the Bourree from Bach’s English Suite in A minor, which she played with evenness and fervor. The piece contains a more reflective part – a second Bourree, actually, in A major – whose charm and sweetness Ms. Argerich missed. But when she could return to the A-minor fervor, she was home again.

The concert had begun with Faure’s “Pelleas et Melisande” Suite, which we had recently heard in this city, from the New York Philharmonic, under Lorin Maazel – that was exemplary, beautifully felt. Mr. Dutoit’s account was far from that. The Prelude began with a lousy entrance, and entrances would not get less lousy. Worse, this first movement was poorly breathed, lacking a musical thread. It was flaccid and dull. The second movement – the Spinning Song – featured a lovely, unforced oboe solo, and the conductor kept the pulse steady, which was a relief. (After all, this is a spinning song.) In the following Sicilienne, Mr. Dutoit was less attentive to rhythm, and the flute – while making a beautiful sound – suffered some flatness.

And the final movement, that noble, tragic, almost unbearable thing? Limp, apathetic, lifeless. Mr. Dutoit (born in Lausanne) has a reputation as a French conductor, but he did not justify it on this occasion.

At least there was that mercurial pianist to look forward to.