From the moment the curtain goes up on Walter Bobbie’s whiz-bang production of “No, No, Nanette,” you have the delicious sensation that you’re going to get the full old-fashioned works.

Chandeliers? Check. A magnificent 30-piece orchestra fanned out upstage, replete with twin pianos and a conductor in a dapper white dinner jacket, presiding from a fetching little terrace? Check. A lushly orchestrated, romantic score, spiced with Jazz Age riffs? Check.

Never mind that the book of “No, No, Nanette” (by Otto Harbach and Frank Mandel, abridged here), a Broadway hit in both 1925 and 1971, is all froth. Mr. Bobbie’s robust, affectionate staging demonstrates how potent the old-time trappings of musical theater can be. His “No, No, Nanette” is a lavish fantasy of beaded flapper dresses and tap-dancing extravaganzas (superbly choreographed by Randy Skinner), of foil-wrapped packages and twinkly black skies. (All, it should be noted, accomplished under the constraints of City Center’s Encores! series — 10 days’ rehearsal, minimal sets, black script binders carried onstage, and just six performances, the last of which takes place tonight.)

This “No, No, Nanette” is a kind of banquet of nostalgia — as corny and as satisfying as a bag of cotton candy on the boardwalk at sunset. It’s partly that the songs (by Vincent Youmans, with lyrics by Irving Caesar and Harbach) have the comforting flavor of a scratchy radio recording, alternating between swooning sentiment and jazzy exuberance. It’s partly that the 1971 orchestrations used here (by Ralph Burns and Luther Henderson) are as sumptuous as any you will find. It was partly, on the night I attended, that the audience, much of it gray-haired, showed such rapturous appreciation for this celebration of the disappearing art forms of a vaudeville era.

This “Nanette” is also a triumph of casting. That’s Sandy Duncan in the role made famous by Ruby Keeler, dancing with so much pure joy that imbibing it makes you a little giddy. And the guy who makes you think of Gene Kelly is the extraordinary Michael Berresse (of “Kiss Me, Kate” fame), exuberant in a role that really lets him strut his stuff. That sophisticated lady with the smoky voice is Beth Leavel (of “The Drowsy Chaperone”). And, of course, that’s Rosie O’Donnell playing the foul-tempered maid, punching her punch lines with deadpan timing.

With so much talent on hand and Mr. Bobbie in exhilarating command of his genre, it’s easy to float along with the flyweight story. When Park Avenue’s Jimmy Smith (a Ted Baxter-like Charles Kimbrough), a rich Bible publisher, gets himself into an innocent scrape with three young vixens, his lawyer Billy Early (Mr. Berresse) invites the comely extortionists to Smith’s cottage in Atlantic City to negotiate a deal. Meanwhile, Mrs. Smith (Ms. Duncan) and Mrs. Early (Ms. Leavel) decide to take a trip to the seashore. At the same time, the Smiths’ niece and ward, the good girl Nanette (a perky Mara Davi), decides to do something a little wild and sneaks out for a weekend with her chums in Atlantic City, chaperoned by her maid Pauline (Ms. O’Donnell) — only to bump into her would-be fiancé, the straight arrow Tom (Shonn Wiley), who is traveling with his boss, Mr. Early.

This is not the Jazz Age of Fitzgerald and Zelda, of gin, dissolution, and witty jokes. Nor is it the 1920s of burgeoning feminism — these ladies are content to shop and throw parties. The world of “No, No, Nanette” is one in which a sharp divide is drawn between good, upright folks like the Smiths and those unsavory flappers and sugar daddies. Mr. Early might let a pretty girl catch his eye, but that’s as far as it goes — in the end, he comes home to his wife.

Amazing, then, that such a starchy show displays such a feathery touch. A ballad of matrimonial bliss such as the iconic “Tea for Two” dissolves into a celebration of tap dancing, with a phalanx of attractive young hoofers in brilliant 1920s costumes (by Gregg Barnes). Down on the beach by Chickadee Cottage, guys and gals in bathing costumes perform a calisthenics-inspired dance number, seemingly oblivious to the amount of skin they’re showing. And the musical’s chipper theme song gets put to all sorts of sly uses, from a breathy Marilyn Monroe rendition to a ukulele version.

Still, this is a confection of spun sugar, and some may find the dancers’ permanent ear-to-ear grins a bit much. But no one could argue with the sincerity of the smile that stretches across Ms. Duncan’s radiant face. Rattling off an up-tempo Charleston, backed by dancers less than half her age, Ms. Duncan dances with a grace and verve that seem hardwired into her slender frame. Behind her are the twinkling stars, the glamorous orchestra, the shimmering chandeliers — and a beloved old tradition that hasn’t breathed its last yet.