At what point does delightful irreverence start to seem a little coy? In the case of David Parsons, that time is now. The cavalcade of Parsons pieces at the Joyce, full of his bouncing, enthusiastic movements and uncritical sentimentality, have a cumulatively wearying effect. If we saw only one of his numbers, perhaps sandwiched between the works of other, more serious choreographers, his work might retain some freshness. After all, the key to telling a joke is getting out of it with speed, and when taken in a nearly two-hour lump, Mr. Parsons’s serially jokey choreography overstays its welcome.

Mr. Parsons has one significant laurel on which he likes to rest: his 1982 “Caught,” the still ravishing, crowdpleasing solo. If he produced nothing else from now till doomsday, “Caught” would be enough. Admittedly, though, it’s a trick: A dancer (Jeremy Smith on opening night) seems trapped in a spotlight, but then flies free in carefully timed strobe-light sequences. With his jumps timed so that light catches him only with his feet off the ground, he soars above the stage for impossibly long moments. The illusion alone is worth the price of admission, one of those rare gimmicks that transcends itself. And dance fans scream for it. Smuggle in a lighter: This is the “Free Bird” of modern dance.

A tight partnership between choreography and light (crackerjack lighting designer Howell Binkley cofounded the company) is one of Mr. Parsons’s hallmarks.”Hand Dance,” for instance, is a charming little amuse bouche in which 10 hands frolic in a tight line of illumination. “Hand Dance,” which recalls 1960s experiments with animation, is adorable and deserves a cheerful highfive. But again, it makes us hungry for an entrée. And Parsons provides precious little protein to follow.

Having their New York premieres are “Nascimento Novo,” a cheerful, if irritatingly literal exploration of Milton Nascimento’s Brazilian music, and “Peel,” an ode to the reversible T-shirt with music by Michael Gordon. Neither does much to cling to the senses. In “Nascimento Novo,” Mr. Parsons regresses to an almost collegiate naiveté — a song about lovers depicts a man and a woman embracing, spinning, then embracing again, dancers using their bodies to spell out WE LOVE MILTON, and an ending pose involving upstretched, back-lit jazz-hands. It’s like waking up in the 80s.

Worst of all, Mr. Parsons doesn’t seem confident in his own work. In the middle of the repetitive “Peel,” he poaches from himself with a brief strobe sequence. But robbing Peter to pay Paul results in no winners: For those who haven’t seen “Caught,” Mr. Parsons ruins the surprise to come, and for those who have, it looks like naked theft.

Still, Mr. Parsons and company do provide an access point for many. His work offers uncomplicated humor — a dancer takes a break to drink a glass of water or does a flying pratfall — and undemanding musical selections will set some viewers at ease. If “In the End,” a jeansclad bit of nonsense set to the Dave Matthews Band, looks a bit too much like undergrads cavorting on the quad, it certainly seemed to delight large swaths of their patrons. Looking at attractive people frolicking together is no one’s idea of a bad time, and the company — particularly the unpretentious Malvina Sardou — has an infectious sweetness. But if your sweettooth is easily tuckered out, give the Parsons project a miss. And go find yourself a real meal.

Until December 17 (175 Eighth Ave. at 19th Street, 212-691-9740).