“Warriors of the Himalayas: Rediscovering the Arms and Armor of Tibet,” which opened yesterday at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, may not have a sexy title, but the show very much deserves our attention. The Met’s collection of arms and armor is spectacular, and this exhibition made me question why I do not spend more time in those galleries. (I am generally not a huge fan of military paraphernalia in a museum setting.) In fact, “Warriors of the Himalayas,” the first comprehensive study of the virtually unexplored area of Tibetan armor, weapons, and equestrian equipment used between the 13th and the 20th centuries, is one of the must-see shows of the season.

The Met does not usually make much ado about its substantial arms and armor collection: Roughly 10% of its Tibetan works are on display at any given time. But the department’s curator, Donald LaRocca, has put together a groundbreaking exhibition of more than 130 works (helmets, swords, armor, spears, firearms, saddles, and stirrups), some absolutely stunning. This is as astonishing for the items on display as it is for its jaw-dropping, who-knew factor.

Who knew that some of the most astounding metalwork – gold, silver, brass, iron – of the last 500 years was being done on military saddles, bridles, and stirrups in China and Tibet? Who knew that during the 15th, 16th, and 17th centuries, tooled leather quivers, bow cases, helmets, forearm guards, and horse armor could reach a glossy, rich, reddish-brown, almost golden patina that resembles lacquerware? And who knew that a show of arms and armor could be so well-paced and -installed as to make the works as precious and jewel-like as objects from a medieval treasury?

“Warriors of the Himalayas” gets off to a rather drab and inauspicious start. The walls are dark. The galleries are low-lit, almost stage like. The show is heavy on wall text. And the first works on view – lamellar armor made of iron, leather, and textiles, which produce rhythmic patterns similar to fish scales – initially appear more functional than beautiful.

But don’t be dissuaded: The wall text is just enough to ground you in the history, traditions, materials, influences, and iconography of the objects on view. The deep greens, blues, and browns of the galleries set off gorgeously the glimmering metals, silks, cane, and leather. Helmets are treated as individual works of sculpture; swords, scabbards, and spears, displayed en Pointe, have a monumental grandeur. And this surprising exhibition, which includes two life-size horse-and-rider mannequin sets outfitted in full military armor, gradually builds to a fairytale crescendo.

The exhibition points out that not only is the remote Tibetan plateau – an area roughly the size of Western Europe – the birthplace of Tibetan Buddhism (a pacifist religion), it was also the scene of intense military activity from the seventh to the 20th centuries. In addition, it was fertile ground for cross-pollination between various cultures: Tibetan, Mongol, Chinese, Korean, Nepalese, and other Himalayan groups. The exhibition traces the various cultural influences in Tibetan arms and armor, which until very recently scholars dismissed as archaic and simplistic. Judging by the craftsmanship evident in the works on view at the Met, that earlier assessment is difficult to believe.

One of the first galleries is devoted to metal helmets of various shapes and sizes. Some are one-piece bowls, though most are made up of overlapping plates, or lames, from as few as eight to as many as 49. Like lone architectural elements, many of the helmets resemble stovepipes, onion- or umbrella-shaped domes. In plain iron; decorated with simple stripes, finials, and rivets; or with turquoise gems and intricate gold designs of flora, fauna, Buddhas, and calligraphy, they range from the barest simplicity to the most elaborate.

The exhibition’s muskets, swords, sword guards, spearheads, and scabbards, some of which were ceremonial and some of which were used in battle, are as varied as the armor and helmets. Many of these weapons were used well into the 20th century, and, equally imposing and delicate, they are as beautiful for their forms as for their decoration.

The great revelation in “Warriors of the Himalayas,” though, comes in the last two galleries. There we find saddles and tack, stirrups, and bridles made of wood, iron, copper, silver, gold, leather, lapis lazuli, turquoise, coral, ivory, and textiles, of the most lavishly ornamental and complex designs. The symbols and motifs used here resemble those in Tibetan paintings, and much of the scrollwork in the saddles is as intricate and beautiful as that on the objects from the Sutton Hoo burial treasure or in the abstract lacertine patterns of the Lindisfarne Gospels.

In “Set of Saddle Plates” (Tibetan or Chinese, c. 1400), densely writhing yet interwoven gold dragon forms twist within a sea of finer, tighter rhythms that wriggle like a pit of golden snakes. As with many of the saddles on view, the forms take on a layered vibration, as if you were looking into a thick forest of leaves and vines. Yet their patterns always hold as a continuous surface, like that of a choppy sea. The heady combination (Baroque, Medieval, wild, and regal) is that of free-floating and infinite chaos held within what feels like a pliable structure – an apt metaphor, I suppose, for the business of war.

Until July 2 (1000 Fifth Avenue at 82nd Street, 212-535-7710).