At the corner of Jersey and Crosby Streets in SoHo, during one of those New York City days when it suddenly feels way too hot, the sun was blazing down and a tang of urine wafted up.

Traffic had been halted, passers-by were hoisting selfie sticks, and, huddled in a building’s shadow, a film crew was taking in a scene from a different time.

Women in pencil skirts and pin curls and men with high-waisted pants and fedoras walked the street, passing an old-fashioned phone booth where a young man — dashing, tall and Brylcreemed — was hollering down the line.

“I thought about it, and I ain’t going to change a word,” the young man thundered into the receiver. “Holden would never approve.”