**** Titanique

Broad humor on the high seas

On deck: Marla Mindelle. Foreground: Jim Parsons, Constantine Rousouli, Melissa Barrera, Deborah Cox. Photo: Evan Zimmerman for MurphyMade

While many an under-employed actor might settle for trudging to go-sees, five summers ago three performers on hiatus took advantage of a lull to cook up a “krazy kooky” musical treat – a sendup of the 1997 film phenomenon Titanic. After debuting at the theatrical equivalent of a dive bar, Titanique quickly ascended to a sold-out run at the Daryl Roth Theatre and then spread to seven more cities (London accorded it a couple of Oliviers last season). It’s now berthed on Broadway, loopiness intact.

Primary credit surely belongs to Marla Mindelle, who lends just enough of a conspiratorial wink to her impersonation of the Canadian pop phenomenon Celine Dion: Mindelle has the accent and chummy affect down pat. While the real-life diva merely contributed a treacly theme song to the movie soundtrack, Mindelle’s Dion is determined to prove that she was actually aboard for the historic crossing.

Let the absurdities commence: Dion inserts herself into every scene like a goopy, innocently horny wraith intent on full manifestation. It’s not enough for Jack (played with hunky assurance by co-creator Constantine Rousouli) to woo the unwillingly affianced Rose (Melissa Barrera, utterly assured as the restless innocent): Dion is constantly angling for a threesome – not out of lust so much as her compulsion to hog the spotlight. Mindelle always has at least three levels percolating at any given time: her own skill as an actor, her chops as an impersonator, and the all-consuming drive that compels “Dion” to insert herself into the narrative at all costs, with reliably hilarious results.

Under co-creator Tye Blue’s direction, other performers occasionally succeed in wresting the spotlight. Jim Parsons, sporting an avian chapeau designed by Alejo Vietti, gets to segue from maternal control freak to past-giving-a-fuck harpy. (Should you have any qualms about taking under-teens to this show, heed them: it gets raunchy.) Further kudos to Vietti for providing Rose with a discreetly spangled nude bodysuit for her portrait sitting (you didn’t think that the creative team would overlook that opportunity?).

As the Unsinkable Molly Brown, Deborah Cox gets a belated chance – post-collision – to show off her impressive pipes. Equally well equipped with vocal wherewithal is John Riddle as Rose’s loaded, loathsome fiancé (Riddle’s operatic training delivers). The only minor drag: Layton Williams, whose prolonged Tina Turner impersonation as “The Iceberg,” while vigorous (and apparently Olivier-worthy), can’t hold a candle to the dance action across the street at Cats.

The entrepreneurial hubris that inspired the catastrophe, hence the film, cost over 1,500 lives: the tragedy rocked the world. Still, James Cameron’s fictionalized, four-handkerchief weepie was just begging to be parodied, and if ever we needed a good laugh, now’s the time. Good luck suppressing a giggle as Jack goes under – glug, glug – in a swirl of sea-blue chiffon.

Details: Titanique, to July 12