Rafael Amargo’s “Poeta en Nueva York,” which had its New York debut at City Center this weekend, was billed as a dance-theater piece based on the poems of Federico Garcia Lorca. And indeed, recordings of the poems were played (in Spanish, without translation). But the relationship between Lorca’s bitter 1929 book of poems and the dancing remained obscure.

Had Lorca, I wondered, participated in sultry Gypsy dances in between penning acrid, violent poems? While having a terrible time in the cold, alien city, did he come across a band of flamenco dancers warming themselves over a flaming trash can? Did he join in their impromptu fiesta? Did he participate, despite his constant heartache, in a jaunty Maypole-like dance?

Most flamenco shows rely on some slim pretext to connect the dots. (At City Center’s Flamenco Festival, the dancers were once dressed up as earth, fire, air, and water, in a transparent attempt to unify the disparate.) But Mr. Amargo’s pretext was thinner than most, and more discordant. Sure, flamenco can express longing and loneliness, but there was little in “Poeta en Nueva York” that was harrowing or anguished.

This was a display of old aunts kicking up their heels (to the audience’s immense delight), and of Mr. Amargo, a heartthrob in his native Spain, roguishly undoing his shirt buttons to reveal his gleaming chest. At one point, he reached inside his shirt and meaningfully stroked his own chest, grinning as the young girls shrieked.

Much has been made in the European press of Mr. Amargo’s good looks, which place him somewhere between Sylvester Stallone and Paul McCartney. As a dancer, you might say he combines Mr. Stallone’s muscle with Mr. McCartney’s self-effacing excellence; unlike many flamenco stars, he is comfortable receding, standing in the onstage circle during someone else’s solo.

At times, there is something almost understated in his dancing, with his hands down at his sides and his feet flying. In the solo “Horse,” his highlight of the evening, he moved stealthily from poses to giddyaps to hoedown steps to full-out zapateados.

Mr. Amargo is decidedly the star of his production, but his three female singers were the most valuable players. Not all the music was live, but every time those ample women belted out Gypsy tunes in their throaty voices, the show clicked into place. Somehow, when they sang, everything – the dancing, the ubiquitous films, the onstage camaraderie – got better.

Mr. Amargo’s trim, limber dancers were given assignments ranging from traditional flamenco solos to Broadway-esque unison numbers. (There was even a hint of Fosse in there.) They danced well, and occasionally there was real fire in a flamenco solo. Their modern steps, in contrast, had a more workmanlike quality. Despite all the buzz about Mr. Amargo making his shows more youthful, there was little hip-hop, street, or club dancing in the show, just a big dose of Euro-friendly world music.

There were other splashy elements. A special guest, Rasta Thomas, chipped in with a duet and a solo, adding a few ballet leaps for variety. There was a steady stream of specially prepared film sequences, which ranged from the harmless to the absurd. At one point, a celluloid Mr. Amargo interrupted a woman reciting Lorca in a cemetery to give her a sloppy wet kiss. The audience hooted.

But Mr. Amargo didn’t take his window-dressing seriously, so neither did the crowd. It was clear from the get-go that this show’s basic drive was toward upbeat fun. By the final number, the cast had relocated to Cuba and been outfitted with tropical-print shirts. The stage looked like a Carnival Cruise Line commercial. A grandpa came out to mug for the audience and move his rusty old feet; Grandma cheerfully joined the skit. Then Mr. Amargo came out in a red-and-white outfit with red boots. With his usual air of drama, as if he were preparing to walk a tightrope, he delivered his final solo – master of his own pop show, and perfectly glad not to be playing an unhappy poet in New York.