In this, the Age of Irony, Louisa May Alcott’s novels might seem to scream out for a revision. Little Women and its companion tomes (Little Men, Jo’s Boys, Under the Lilacs and Eight Cousins) are unabashedly earnest, unashamedly unhip and absolutely sincere in their praise of authentic family values—integrity, loyalty and interdependent sisterhood. Marmee March and her daughters—tomboy Jo, style-conscious Amy, angelic Beth and romantic Meg—are all too easily caricatured more than a century after their creation. So it’s to the Marriott’s immense credit that Little Women, the Broadway Musical, rings with truth rather than treacle.

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Pictured: Heidi Kettenring (left) and Dara Cameron in Little Women. Photo courtesy of Dan Rest. Playwright: Based on the novel by Louisa May Alcott; book by Allen Knee; music by Jason Howland, lyrics by Mindi Dickstein. At: Marriott Lincolnshire Theatre, 10 Marriott, Lincolnshire. Phone: 847-634-0200; $45. Runs through: Feb. 3

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Alcott’s complex, fully-formed women stand out in a literary era thick with hysterical governesses, doomed adulteresses and dragon-lady spinsters. Leaving such ladies to her menfolk peers, Alcott penned complex characters embracing life in all its messiness; real women in a literary era of archetypes and impossibly virtuous heroines. Which isn’t to say Little Women, the Broadway Musical, is as well constructed as Alcott’s books—far from it. Jason Howland’s music and especially Mindi Dickstein’s lyrics are egregiously generic. Predictable power ballads (such as Astonishing) ooze triumph-of-the-human spirit cliches while subtle-as-a-Mack-truck shifts in tone and dynamics let you know precisely what you should be feeling.

But the limitations of the score doesn’t stop the Marriott’s blazing cast from making Little Women a joyous and even inspiring event. Led by Paula Scrofano (more gorgeously luminous than ever in the fourth decade of a remarkable career) as Marmee March and Heidi Kettenring (fire-eyed and clarion-voiced) as the headstrong Jo, Little Women’s ensemble infuses every moment of the production with heart.

In a genre (over)populated by ingénues, director Joe Leonardo creates a crowd of fierce, fascinating females: Morgan Weed’s precocious, endearingly vain Amy; Abbey Mueller’s soulful, compassionate Meg, Dara Cameron’s sweet, saintly Beth and the invaluable Ann Whitney’s horse-hide tough Aunt March—each is a portrait of a deeply memorable lady. Their context is also memorable, with Allen Knee’s book etching a clear picture of how easily and how often the so-called fairer-sex was dismissed back in the days of hoop skirts and corsets. Little Women opens with aspiring novelist Jo reading a rejection letter: Her writing is terrible, the publisher tells her. Moreover, she should go home and do what women are supposed to do with their lives: have babies. (And if you think that scene is jaw-droppingly archaic, think again: I’ve got a shoebox full of rejection letters from the mid-1960s, addressed to my Lisagor Award-winning mother, containing the exact same advice.)

A formidably proper John Reeger as the wealthy, curmudgeonly neighbor Mr. Lawrence and a bright-eyed Stephen Schellhardt as honorary March brother Laurie complete an ensemble of mighty heart. The pleasures of Little Women? They’re anything but small.