Everyone knows by now that Cirque du Soleil has shows in Vegas. The more uncomfortable truth is that there is occasionally too much Vegas in their shows. Their signature blend of storytelling and acrobatics can waltz awfully close to pretentious schmaltz, sort of like what might happen if you dipped Julie Taymor in treacle. But with the charming “Corteo,” now at Randall’s Island, they hang on to the spectacle while ditching most of the glitz. Oh, there are still glitter cascades. But by setting the show at an Italian funeral (corteo translates as cortege), they manage to avoid their worst tendencies and actually (big) top themselves.

An old clown (Mauro Mozzani), lying in state, watches as all his friends come by to pay their respects. A voice-over tells us it may be a dream, but there are women swinging incense censers – this clown has done a prat-fall off his mortal coil. Swooping angels drop by to hand off a pair of wings, and soon he is taking part in his own wake, and celebrating with performers who have gone on before him.

Director Daniele Finzi Pasca manages to make this innocent conceit last for nearly two hours – but the show runs two and a half. By the second half, the acts have begun to succeed each other as they would in any circus: flips lead to contortionists and then a short clown-show, with the bits stitched together only by a seraph happening along.The concept,like poor Mauro,has passed on. But Mr. Mozzani has engendered such enormous good will, as has the palpable delight of the cast, that everyone cheerfully continues to ooh and aww.

It’s an old cliche that there’s nothing new under the soleil: Adding gauze does not make the trampoline act into something innovative. And, certainly, the usual suspects do reappear. We see crackerjack gymnasts, a woman walk a tightrope, and – the favorite of 10-year-old girls everywhere – ribbon dancing. But by embracing a simple storyline, and refusing to pretend the jugglers are embodiments of light or water-fairies or something equally tacky, we are free to simply enjoy their prowess.

Even jaded old theater hands will be impressed at the sheer weight of scenic machinery on display. Sit close enough and you can squeal over the massive flying system, which looks exactly like the Roosevelt tramway, but built inside a tent. Huge chandeliers or fluffy-skirted angels track back and forth, gliding far over our heads, and eventually out of sight.

What’s more, Mr. Pasca has at least a few new (by way of being very old) images up his sleeve. When gleeful, pigtailed acrobats jump on oversized beds, it becomes a routine the whole audience wants to join in on. Jean Rabasse’s set incorporates ancient labyrinth images on the floor and bouncy baby putti on the show curtain. And in the evening’s showstopper, little person Valentyna Pahlevanyan flies out over the audience’s heads, attached to four, enormous helium balloons. Floating along, kicking off from the audience’s hands, she looks like a character out of one of Italo Calvino fables, as at home in the air as on the ground.

One caution: Going to the circus used to cost you peanuts; now, it does as much damage as a Broadway show. But if we can pay hundreds to see measly, old triple-threats (performers who can sing, dance, and act) in Manhattan, the Cirque performers deserve at least twice the compensation. A singer who can also dangle 40 feet above the ground in the splits? A clown who can play wine glasses and ride a flying bicycle? Even the tech crew, occasionally glimpsed as they scuttle up vertical light trusses, has at least as much bungee ability as those monkeys in “Wicked.” Surely that’s worth juggling the finances?

Until June 4 (One Randall’s Island, 212-830-7722).