Is there any medium/genre more self-referential and masturbatory than the Broadway musical? Just about every stinking one of these things are about exulting in how gloriously stupid they are. From “42nd Street� to “Cabaret� to the most recent examples – “The Producers� and “Monty Python’s Spamalot� – the latter of which, 30 years ago, had nothing whatsoever to do with the Great White Way – Broadway exemplifies nothing if not itself, usually in a cheeky, winking manner acknowledging just how dumb it is.

Even a show as progressively shocking as “Shockheaded Peter� – which dwells, amusingly enough, on all manner of hideous childhood deaths – is, ultimately, about how it’s presented (the narrator being obsessed with his own standing as the greatest actor in the world).

So here comes another – “The Drowsy Chaperone," itself a parody of old-school musicals (the clunky, crappy title yet another intentional tip to its self-satirical nature). And here’s the damning thing about these parodies – you know what? They work pretty persuasively.

The show begins with a disembodied voice declaring, "I hate theater … it's so disappointing, isn't it?" Well … enter your answer here. After a particularly bitchy snap at Elton John, the audience is already sucked in.

That voice comes from a protectedly gay habitué of the medium, played oh-so-cleverly by Bob Martin, who shared one of the production’s five Tonys with Don McKellar – a Canadian genius who’s written hilarious screenplays for both underseen movies (“Highway 61,� for starters) and TV shows (“Slings and Arrows;� “Twitch City�) – for writing the show’s book, the one legitimately, persuasively clever thing about this “Chaperone."

Martin’s “The Man in the Chair� sits in his depressingly cramped Big Apple apartment and provides critical commentary for this most minor of Broadway confections, a veritably concussed Murphy-bed of a musical itself, pointing out its blinkered conceptual conceits (which are many) and its concealed delights (which are few – but, in the show’s long-term view, outweigh its idiocies).

The plot is utter junk, pointedly so, involving an engaged couple with issues, and others with issues, and yet others with issues until you almost expect Kevin Bacon to emerge to explain the degrees of issues all these characters have to one another and how their ultimate true love will prevail. And not only does true love prevail, but b.s. prevails, as well, which, of course, is part of the joke.

“The Drowsy Companion� won five Tonys, including Best Book and Best Music. It’s very funny. Since there’s no intermission (the whole production spans less than an hour and 45 minutes), it takes up little of your time. You can see it and grab a cab out of Times Square ahead of everyone else to head for hipster clubs, who will likely be stuck in the area for another hour or so. Even the Times Square subway trains aren't overpopulated when this is over. I snuck out to Greenwich Village for dessert in mere minutes. What more can you want?