Shamelessly recreating the talk around my seventh-grade lunch table—thanks to the efforts of my pals and me, “It’s just a flesh wound!” entered the language—Monty Python’s Spamalot (now playing at the St. James Theatre) is a bouncy, cheesy, glitzy, altogether lovable revival of the 2005 show, which in turn adapted the 1975 midnight movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Restaging all of the movie’s funniest scenes, with hunks of dialogue taken verbatim (I know this because I memorized the screenplay as a boy), the stage version is a highlight of a young Broadway season that is taking more and more breaks from didactic identity politics and slowly emerging from this decade of cultural mental lockdown. 

High spirits all around; no need for...


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