Review: SPAMALOT at Denver Center For The Performing Arts

In 2005, tiny little baby me entered the NYC lottery eight days in a row for the chance to buy standing-room tickets to the original Broadway production of Spamalot. On day eight, I got ’em. For years afterward, I regaled friends with the story of how Tim Curry accidentally kicked me while running up the aisle at the end of Act One. That was a star-studded cast: Curry, Hank Azaria, David Hyde Pierce, Sara Ramirez. I didn’t think Spamalot could get much better than that.

Until this touring production.

Led by Major Attaway as King Arthur, this cast slapped. Let’s start with Attaway. His voice is extraordinary. The program notes that he does extensive voiceover work and...yeah, that makes sense. His rumbling baritone fills the theatre in both spoken and sung dialogue, lending actual gravitas to a heroic figure trapped in an exceptionally stupid world. The man also oozes charisma, using charming physicality to make the smallest moments punch a joke harder or add a little wryness to an exchange. He’s a more-than-able dancer and commands the stage like nobody’s business. Despite playing the central role in such an aggressively slapstick comedy, by the end I couldn’t help but think that Attaway felt, weirdly, kingly. Like, I’d maybe follow him into battle.

Chris Collins-Pisano is another standout as Sir Lancelot, the French Taunter, the Knight of Ni, and several other assorted lunatics. The French Taunter, specifically, had me in hysterics. As a lover of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, I worried the scene might feel like a watered-down recreation of the film, but Collins-Pisano’s abject vehemence in delivering the familiar lines combined with his stupid little helmet click-clacking into his costars gave rich blood to the ghost of the scene. And while it felt a little like throwing grain to us Colorado podunk chickens, it must be stated that he earned himself a mid-show applause break for his Frank Azar and South Park impressions. Collins-Pisano does not appear to know how to commit less than seven billion percent to anything, and I am HERE FOR IT.

The rest of the cast meets that energy enthusiastically. If I had to complain, Amanda Robles’ diction as the Lady of the Lake occasionally gets lost in her vocal gymnastics, taking a few jokes with it. That said, the end of “The Diva’s Lament” made me loudly—and somewhat rudely—proclaim “WOW” when she burst into a dazzling coloratura. The ensemble, meanwhile, seems to understand the essential requirement of Spamalot: no joke is too stupid to be treated with absolute commitment.

Another character on that stage is certainly the design. Cory Pattak’s lighting and Paul Tate DePoo III’s scenic and projection design help establish the crisp comedic rhythm without which this show would fall flat on its face. Cuts between characters and locations happen with theatrical speed, like a crash zoom bringing endless silly scenes in and out of focus. The animated projections capture the visual ridiculousness of Monty Python without simply reproducing it, and God’s three-dimensional appearance is particularly effective.

I was delighted to discover how giddy all the stupid jokes still made me. Yes, some of the musical’s biggest numbers, particularly “You Won’t Succeed on Broadway” and “His Name Is Lancelot,” don’t quite hit the same irreverent peaks they did when they were written. Yes, perhaps a show mounted in 2026 could give actual roles to more than one woman—or, at minimum, reconsider why the female ensemble spends so much time in lingerie while the men get full suits of armor. There are places where Spamalot shows its age.

But then a monk collecting the Black Knight’s severed limbs calls out “Arms for the poor,” and what am I supposed to do? Not laugh? Someone interjects “Hey!” into a chorus precisely as a hay bale rolls across the stage. Yes, please. The jokes are dumb. They know they’re dumb. The production commits to their dumbness so completely that resistance starts to feel exhausting.

Maybe it’s time for a Monty Python resurgence. For a few hours, Spamalot transported me away from the infinite troubles of today’s world and into one that was infinitely sillier. I left the theatre feeling a little like I do at the end of a massage: slightly dazed, pleasantly loose, and like my soul had shaken free of something that had been holding it too tightly.

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