Charles Busch’s campy comedy “die Mommie die!” opened Sunday in an agreeably glossy, giddy new production at new World Stages that delivers pure entertainment. Mr. Busch’s comedy may be, dramatically speaking, little more than a send-up of the so-called “women’s pictures” of the 1940s and ’50s. But there are send-ups and send-ups, and this one — replete with an evil twin, a well-endowed tennis pro, a Hollywood mansion, and a giant suppository — sails along on gusts of inspired invention.

Mr. Busch reprises his own celebrated role from the 2003 movie version, that of Angela Arden, a faded diva whose grand mannerisms and patrician accent suggest Joan Crawford crossed with Dustin Hoffman’s character in “Tootsie.” With her finishing-school posture, her haughty chin, and her deadpan asides, Angela is a glorious creation; whenever she’s onstage, sparks fly.

Alas, whenever Angela retires to the wings, the onstage tension plummets. True, the other actors who bustle around her grandiose drawing room — think faux castle meets Alpine ski lodge, with a side of French doors — are game performers, and often funny in their roles. But there is no one whose wattage approaches Angela’s.

Angela’s singing career has been on the skids since a car accident took her sister’s life long ago. Her movie producer husband, Sol Sussman (Bob Ari), has tried valiantly to revive it in ill-fated vehicles such as “Peter Pan” and “South Pacific,” but his attempts have all led to further ignominy. Having drifted away from Sol over the years, Angela now spends her days canoodling with Tony, the tennis-pro gigolo (Chris Hoch), and rehearsing for an upcoming gig in the Catskills. other members of this 1967 Beverly Hills household include the couple’s teenage daughter Edith (Ashley Morris), a pert beauty with a predilection for miniskirts and, um, dad; Lance (Van Hansis), the gay, dim son who keeps getting thrown out of college, and Bootsie (Kristine Nielsen), the Southern conservative housekeeper.

Into the pot Mr. Busch also throws four different murder plots, a vial of poison, an undercover federal agent, and an LSD trip. Then he stirs — and stirs — and stirs. “die Mommie die!” is a whirligig of a comedy that never pauses long enough to lose its momentum.

Carl Andress, who directed last season’s camp soap opera “The Cartells” in a similar deadpan style, keeps the whirligig spinning, outfitting his actors with a series of physical flourishes that winningly establish character. (Tony bounds into the living room with a series of slick, posed jumps, while Bootsie punctuates her ramblings with zany hand gestures.) An intermittent B-movie score by Lewis Flinn sets the mood.

The fun here comes more from style than substance, and Mr. Busch’s script is peppered with delicious references, trashy zingers, and barbs that score (in one memorable case, quite literally). The pleasure of “die Mommie die!” lies in the way it genuinely revels in its (literate) absurdity. In a world where parodies and spoofs are a dime a dozen, here is the rare one that’s fleshed out with the kind of pitch-perfect details only a diehard fan of the genre could so lovingly assemble — and ridden for all it’s worth.

Until February 17 (340 W. 50th St., between Eighth and Ninth avenues, 212-239-6200).