• Courtesy Of Rob Aft
• From left: Cameron Anika Hill, Eric Sciotto and Conor McShane in Singin' in the Rain

Song and dance open the secret passage to pure emotion, and it's elation that pours out of Weston Theater Company's dazzling production of Singin' in the Rain. The humor is fresh, and the showmanship is first-rate. But above all, this musical is the bright sunlight breaking through the clouds after July's flood that swamped the venerable Weston Playhouse, forcing the company to relocate the show.

The stage rain would have fallen just above where real high waters engulfed the basement and orchestra pit of the proscenium Playhouse. Fortunately, Weston has a second theater on the high ground of Walker Farm. Every aspect of staging had to be rethought for the smaller theater, and the way director Susanna Gellert handles the story's rain might make your eyes moist.

The story is set in the Hollywood of 1927, when talkies were replacing silent films. The screenwriting duo of Betty Comden and Adolph Green exploited this upheaval in the 1952 movie, originating a musical on film instead of adapting one from Broadway. Comden and Green satirized vaudeville and early clichéd movies whose only artistic advancement was upping the excess. They adapted their own screenplay for the stage in 1983.

Don Lockwood arrives at a movie premiere swathed in a stunning white topcoat and face-framing fedora, the personification of Hollywood glamour. On his arm is his stylish costar, Lina Lamont, sequined to stun. They're precisely what their fans want them to be: overwrought romantics in their silent films and carefree stars in real life, happy to pretend they have an off-screen romance.

Don's old vaudeville partner Cosmo Brown now plays piano for the silent films and neatly inserts bits of clowning into every interaction, especially with the pompous studio head R.F. Simpson. The transition to talkies seems like a bonanza until everyone hears a problem: Lina has a stevedore's Brooklyn accent and a foghorn of a singing voice.

Don's good looks doom him to vanity, but when he meets a young woman he'd like to enchant, she's ice-cold. Kathy Selden is an aspiring stage actress who thinks his hammy silent film portrayals are ludicrous mugging. Don's pride is punctured, but his heart is opened.

The pair fall in love, make an enemy, concoct a scheme and get to sing all about it. It's a romance in which dance expresses joy and a spoof in which comic numbers make sweet mockery of Hollywood styles.

Gellert sets the perfect tone of just enough wry detachment. The histrionic silent film acting isn't overdone, so we see it as a legitimate genre even while howling at its vapidity. Gellert lets the romance unfold through a firm attraction between Don and Kathy. And she honors Comden and Green's sharp satire with visual gags and polished performances that fully enact what they're burlesquing. Gellert makes every moment feel alive — the show is a rocket ride.

Weston has cast the musical with attention to diversity, featuring different body types and an ensemble that forms couples of all genders. It feels like a needless lack of imagination has been whisked away and the stage is now filled with all of us.

The entire cast spikes the top of the lovability scale, and all are fine singers. Eric Sciotto, as Don, makes song and dance an expression of love of life. He plays the romance with true feeling and everything else with mordant charm. As Kathy, Cameron Anika Hill rivets us with her first solo. Hill gives Kathy equal energy in the romance, so she's not a passive ingénue but a driving partner.

As Cosmo, Conor McShane is a limber twig of tireless energy, dancing his way to support Don and Kathy as their overlooked sidekick. His showstopping solo, the hilarious "Make 'Em Laugh," reveals the savagery underlying slapstick comedy. Amy Jo Jackson, as the talentless Lina, makes hay with the dumb blonde jokes but then finds her rallying cry in a rousing "What's Wrong With Me?"

David Bonanno portrays studio chief R.F. as alternately grabbing and losing the reins of his enterprise, reviving himself to match the pedigree of his classy suit. The big ensemble plays each little vignette with precision, landing individual jokes and then rolling out en masse to fill the stage with song.

Felicity Stiverson's choreography is equally clever for the ensemble and the leads. Showpieces include the precision of Don, Kathy and Cosmo tap dancing in silky unison, the Busby Berkeley tribute of "Beautiful Girl" with its rotating carousel of narcissists, and the entertaining pizzazz of the Broadway Ballet, a number designed to be humorously incoherent with a positive gumbo of dance styles.

Stiverson and Sciotto create a luscious daydream with the title song. Wisely, they don't try to re-create the iconic Gene Kelly routine but instead present their own version of walking on air.

Costume designer Jessica Crawford supplies a stream of gowns, hats and sweaters for a show that feasts on costume changes; she makes the garments suit vigorous dance moves, too. Don's raincoat in "Singin' in the Rain" miraculously twirls while always accenting his waist and shoulders. Vampiric flappers, bright chorus girls and sporting men in knickers all parade by, while Cosmo and Don shuffle through never-ending tweeds and plaids.

Scenic designer Frank J. Oliva leaves every corner and curtain rigging in full sight, including the six-piece band. A raft of props and furnishings shift in and out of view, as if the theater itself has become a bottomless trunk. Equipment that suggests the era, such as huge scoop lights and a vintage camera on a dolly, makes the trek back in time a fun expedition.

From the first four notes, the title song expresses a gorgeous ease. To struggle through a low point is one thing, but to sing in the rain is to relax and notice the sparkle of light in a downpour. This musical never has to fight for happiness; it just slides open the curtain to reveal it.