The internet magazine of stage reviews and opinion

SPAMALOT

Book and Lyrics by Eric Idle

Music by John Du Prez & Eric Idle

A new musical (lovingly) ripped off from the motion picture

Monty Python And The Holy Grail
Directed and Choreographed by Josh Rhodes
St. James Theatre
Official Website 

Reviewed by David Spencer

Since its debut in 2005, there have been three camps into which Spamalot viewers fall:

(1) Giddily pleased Monty Python fans, grooving on an A-plus cast recreating key scenes from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, the film from which the new musical has been “lovingly ripped off” (that’s the contractual credit, folks) by its principle author, Python veteran Eric Idle and co-composer John du Prez;

    (2) Forgiving theatre lovers who turn a blind eye to the show’s lack of cohesion and give over to the gestalt of happy an­archy—currently, reliably, pervasding the current revival at the St. James Theatre; and

(3) Musical theatre fans and pros who, understanding that no trails would be blazed in the art form, were geared enthu­siastically for at least the Pythonesque equal of Mel Brooks’ The Produc­ers—and found themselves terribly, even sadly, disappointed.

I fell into the third 18 years ago. And though I’ve always hoped I might feel differently upon seeing it again, I fall into it still. And while the audience response and the preponderance of rave reviews would seem to indicate we’re a minority, we’re not a small one.

Nor, I hasten to add, are we a hostile or angry or even disgruntled one, which is why we’re barely detectable. I, for one, am second to nobody in my affection for the Python œuvre, and like many, I know great swaths of their bits, including the Holy Grail movie, by heart. So it isn’t painful sitting through Spamalot, for it has certain joys.

The primary one is the aforementioned recreation of key scenes. The imitations of the original Pythoners are not slavish, but the cast of funnymen (with one significant exception, women here are but rousingly decorative  showgirls—actually the excep­tion is pretty rousing too) are too savvy not to understand that their laughs lie in rendering the characters faithfully; and the iconic rhythms and accents don’t leave much for the genuine comedy ear to figure out. You go where they take you (if you know what’s good for you). However, Michael Urie (as Sir Robin, among others), Nik Walker (as Sir Galahad, the outrageously accented French sentry and others), Taran Gillam (as Sir Gala­had, among others), Jimmy Smagula (Sir  Belvedere, among others), Christopher Fitzgerald (Arthur’s vassal Patsy, among others) and Ethan Slater (Prince Her­bert, among others), have been given enough additional material upon which to spin their own variations that they have the opportunity to add their own iconic readings of new lines to the classic read­ings of the old. James Monroe Iglehart, alone among his Broadway cohorts, pretty much gets to wholly re-invent his principal (and sole) character, King Arthur (created in the film by the late Graham Chapman)—owing to the fact that Arthur, despite his funny bits and royal obliviousness, is often straight man and foil to those more extremely loony than he. So as long as he sets his cohorts up properly—and Iglehart does—Arthur can pretty much claim his territory. The previ­ously mentioned woman among the lead players is powerhouse belter Leslie Rodriguez Kritzer as The Lady of the Lake: here ren­dered as a scat singing, all-encompassing pop stylist—and Ms. Kritzer leaves no stone unturned in her savvy, sexy exploitation of it.

But the alleged musical that houses these delightful performers and classic set pieces is where the evening falls crushingly apart.

Granted, there’s not much structure to the film; the quest for the Holy Grail is used as an excuse for Arthurian sketch comedy. But that kind of free-wheeling chaos (deceptive though it may be) has never been musical-theatre friendly, be­cause  it defeats the escalating forward motion toward a primally motivated goal (Sweeney’s revenge, Mama Rose’s showbiz triumph, John Adams’s American inde­pendence, Max Bialystock’s lucrative flop). This also means that the songs are likewise gimmick songs. They don’t really need to be there, emotionally or narra­tively; you could remove them with no damage to comprehensibility—a musical should no longer make sense when you remove the songs. This one requires the energy of song, but since the songs don’t function dramatically (and more on that in a bit), the energy expended onstage can become exhausting o the viewer (and more on that in a bit, too).

Even this infraction might be tolerable, though, if the songs were “real” songs. Alas, Mr. Idle is the most rudimentary of “hummer” tunesmiths; he hummed to a part­ner—in this case John Du Prez—who did the actual homework of harmoniza­tion and arrangement; and created an unnecessary passel of songs that barely even have the melodic sweep to qualify as songs—ditties mostly. Producers ghost-composer Glen Kelly was also on board, though even his formidable talent was hard-pressed to create the illusion of substance around Mr. Idle’s slender filaments of melody; and the songs lyrically never de­velop past a one-joke premise. You’ve read much about the song “You Won’t Succeed on Broadway (If You Don’t Have Jews)”, but it never tops the first joke be­cause it has nothing to say about why this should be so (still occasionally valid though may be!). And—assuming you know the film—did we really need a song called “Run Away” or one called “I Am Not Dead Yet” to en­hance the original bits? Even the lauded Andrew Lloyd Webber parody, “The Song That Goes Like This”, is lyrically flat be­yond its first A section, depending upon “exterior” gimmicks like modulating into keys higher than Galahad can negotiate, for additional laughs.

Furthermore, there is no interesting sub­text to the songs, they’re all declamatory or stylistic commentary.

Which brings us, sort of, to the revival direc­tion of Josh Rhodes, in the wake of the aesthetic set in the original production by the redoubtable Mike Nichols. Sad to say, in its own very polished way, it’s more (intentionally) chaotic than Nichols’ was; and his was chaotic. Set-pieces from the film aside—things tend to calm down for those, though even a few of those are over-extended—the bits in between consist of a lot of group run­ning about—rushing on, racing off, dancing madly—to no cumulative purpose. A musical dramatist colleague of mine commented, “Spamalot” “isn’t really a musical—it’s a music hall entertainment”—which is, I think, as valid as description as you’ll hear anywhere. (I recently saw a filmed interview with Nichols on the occasion of the original and was a bit surprised—though I shouldn’t have been—of how conscious Nichols was of this. Since a book musical implicitly promises a story, he demanded of the authors that they thread one through the proceedings, which they did, and Nichols’ freely admitted that it was what they devised was the slenderest of threads. “But it’s enough,” he said. “It’s enough.”) And the force of his imprint remains: Nichols’ formative roots were in standup comedy and later the direction of some signature works of Neil Simon (The Odd Couple etc.); and that probably attests to why the things in the show that remain strong (the film routines) are so strong, and the things that remain weak (the musical routining) are so weak.

But all this said, remember where we started. There are three Spamalot camps, and I am but a member of the mi­nority third. I review the show thus not to dissuade you (I wouldn’t dare even try—nor, come to think of it, wish to)…but merely to help the buyer beware.

Know the grail you seek.