Either you like the Zeffirelli “Turandot” or you don’t – and if you don’t, I dare say you don’t like grand opera, or life. Well, maybe that last goes too far, but not by much.

The Zeffirelli “Turandot” is the Metropolitan Opera’s production of that Puccini opus, debuting in 1987. It is Franco Zeffirelli at his Zeffirelli-est. It is probably the most dazzling and most lavish show in the Met repertory. Some people consider it impossibly gaudy; I consider it smashing, and inspired. Over the years, I’ve referred to this production as the “Wedding Cake ‘Turandot,'” because the Emperor’s palace reminds me of the Victor Emmanuel monument in Rome.

And, speaking for myself – still speaking for myself! – I don’t tire of the production (nor do I tire of the opera, Puccini’s last, and arguably his greatest). There always comes a time for a production to be put out to pasture. But how can the Zeffirelli “Turandot” be topped? I say, when the sets and costumes crumble and fray – just manufacture new ones. Identically.

The Met began a run of “Turandot” on Monday night; the performance was led by Bertrand de Billy, the French conductor who is head of the Vienna Radio Symphony Orchestra. This was a flawed “Turandot” – but it was a strikingly human, gritty one. In the end, it was a triumphant one. In an opera, will and heart can overcome a multitude of flaws. This is impossible in a Haydn piano sonata. There is, indeed, something about (grand) opera.

The soprano in the title role was Andrea Gruber, and she had all the imperiousness that the character needs. In her initial singing, she was seriously tremulous – but aren’t they all, these Turandots? (Well, many are.) Ms. Gruber’s intonation was unsure, and she was a bit stiff, musically – but she projected dramatic intensity. And she got better as the evening wore on. In the end, she basically conquered a role that can be a killer (a soprano killer – of course, Turandot kills a lot of people herself).

A detail: Ms. Gruber delivered the line “[At last] I know your name!” – “So il tuo nome!” – incredibly evilly. This is, indeed, a Turandot.

In the part of Placido Domingo, I mean Calaf (Mr. Domingo is the outstanding Calaf in modern Met history), was Johan Botha, the South African who has made a big impression here as Florestan (“Fidelio”) and Walther (“Die Meistersinger”). He is a heldentenor, and he sang Calaf that way. This is not a bad way to sing Calaf, and Mr. Botha did some likable things. But he could be a little heavy for the music, for example in those lovely lines when Calaf notes the fragrance that the princess has left in the air. And “Non piangere, Liu” lacked a certain bloom.

So too, many of the high notes did not ring, though most of those notes were effortlessly reached and produced. At least one of them – a C toward the end of Act II – was woefully flat. Overall, however, Mr. Botha was game. His marquee aria, “Nessun dorma,” was unusually burnished, and nicely shaped. Mr. Botha has terrific vocal gifts; what one would like to glimpse more of is musical charisma.

In the marvelous, opportunity-filled part of Liu was a Bulgarian soprano, Krassimira Stoyanova. This was an atypical Liu: She sang “Signore, ascolta” much less sweetly than most, and more emotionally – more operatically, if you will. This was not Elisabeth Schwarzkopf. Those soft high notes did not exactly float (and they weren’t so soft, either). But, like Andrea Gruber, Ms. Stoyanova was singing much, much better in Act III, when she stole hearts and wetted eyes.

Appearing as Timur was Hao Jiang Tian, who embodied the infirmity and pathos of the old king, but who sang less clearly than he might have. Also, his rhythm was occasionally off, causing the conductor and the orchestra to do some fancy footwork.

The three imperial ministers, Ping, Pang, and Pong, are maybe the trippingest trio in opera. (You would vote for the Rhinemaidens?) A lot of fun can be had with these parts, and there is much excellent music to sing, too. Haijing Fu, Tony Stevenson, and Eduardo Valdes performed ably.

And where do certain tenors go when they … when they reach a certain age? They go to Emperor Altoum’s chair, near the top of Zeffirelli’s “wedding cake.” Charles Anthony was in that chair on Monday night, singing characteristically, which is to say, singing well.

The chorus is an extremely important actor in this opera, and this gives us occasion to hail the Met’s chorus, which is so consistently good it is possible to overlook.

As for Maestro de Billy, he led – again – a flawed, involving, exciting performance. He demonstrated a fine sense of flow. Dramatic moments had their necessary power, and nothing ever sagged. The conductor did not seem to lose interest in this work, and neither did he flog it. He treated it as the great work it is.

I will close with a memory, concerning the Met “Turandot.” More than 10 years ago, I went to a performance, mainly to see the veteran soprano Ghena Dimitrova. There was a young Romanian woman in the part of Liu, a soprano I had never heard. She was astonishing: in her technique and in her (silvery) vocal beauty. She was Angela Gheorghiu, who became The One They Love To Hate. I have never heard a better Liu, and probably never will. She is, in fact, a great singer, which will be universally recognized, once it’s safe.

Oh, well.

January 7 & 26, February 1, 5, 11, 25 & 28, April 27 & 30, and May 5 at 8 p.m., January 29 at 1:30 p.m., and February 17 & 22 at 7:30 p.m. at the Metropolitan Opera House (Lincoln Center, 212-362-6000).