The first note of the orchestra's tuning was already a joke and the humour horse galloped along unbridled for the rest of the Spamalot production. And unhorsed, actually. Thankfully, the production relied on African jokes holding coconuts in their beaks. They have more air-speed velocity, you see, than European jokes - faster and impenetrable to even the holiest of hand grenades.
If you're already lost, you'll have to take it on faith that you'd be happier in life if you find out what I'm talking about.
If you already know exactly what I'm talking about, your Monty Python senses have been tingling for weeks in the lead-up to director/choreographer Judy Russell's opening night of Spamalot, the musical theatre version of Monty Python's classic Holy Grail movie.
There are several ways this show wins. The storyline is tighter than the movie. It cuts it down to its best moments, adds some character development to speed it along, maximizes the songs, touches it all up with some glitz, and leaves you gasping with equal parts laughter and Broadway awe.
Another element of amazement is the program - it is filled only with Prince George faces. This particular production of Spamalot could take the show on the road, right back to New York or London's West End and still charge the same entry fee to see it. There are signs, sure, that it is a community production, but you get glitches on the Great White Way every night, too, so for Russell and company to confine the problems to mere details is enough to inspire letters to City Hall demanding a proper performing arts centre.
The problems really were just flickers of trouble. The crew could give you a list of the unseen issues, but the only thing the audience detected was a temporary loss of power in one microphone, but in the PG Playhouse, not a problem, you can still hear the dialogue, and thanks to some intentional slight-of-hand with a couple of characters you probably didn't spot the technical burp when the Black Knight's legs weren't amputated in perfect fashion.
The only other hints of community theatre were a couple of actors not unfurling their full stage presence, and this was opening night after all. If was practically a moot point by the final thunderous applause. Lead actor Barry Booth let his British accent slip a little, and he started tentatively before hitting his groove, but what a charming performance he turned in as King Arthur, founded on a sound singing voice.
There were no poor vocalists in the mix. The chorus numbers could blow your wig off, and individual star efforts were turned in by Padgraig Hogan, Nigel McInnis, Jon Russell, Scott Roberts, Adam Harasimiuk and Shelby Meaney.
Meany was the show's true anchor. Her acting chops, comedic timing and singing voice all crossed the borders of theatre into professional-grade territory. Able to communicate a whole conversation in a single facial expression, Meaney is a silent movie star born 100 years too late, so she compensates with a singing voice like a siren.
McInnis was another who had the complete package. He was frankly a better French taunter of silly English ka-nig-its than John Cleese and a better Dennis of Swamp Castle than Michael Palin.
Likewise, Jon Russell's performance superseded Michael Palin's version of the King of Swamp Castle and Cleese's rendition of the Black Knight. He is also responsible for a sudden Fabio revial, but that's a wig of another colour.
Harasimiuk's talents tilted more towards the acting - his characters (all the leads played many roles, as did many support actors) were brilliantly rendered - but his singing only took a lesser step because he made it so himself. It seemed he was slightly intimidated by his own singing voice, but he needn't be, he's got the vocal goods and was often the best performer on the stage.
Roberts pulled off some of the most emotionally complicated dialogue, balancing violence and sensitivity on the end of his swashing sword. If you know what I mean.
Proving again that there are no small roles, actors like Gil Botelho, Mark Wheeler, Dwight Scott Wolfe and Hogan (a musician by trade who ought to seriously consider acting as another creative weapon) made much of their limited characters. Had there been an impossibly amateur actor in the bunch, it would have shone through, so strong was this ensemble, but even the human props were locked in the moment.
Being a musician in this show is the pits, and thus worthy of praise. It took some stagecraft engineering to get conductor Curtis Abriel and 12 other players tucked into position at the feet - and even under the feet - of the stage performers. It looks like a place where one sneeze would set off an Armageddon of glockenspiels, tambourines and trumpets yet somehow all the pieces and players hit their notes with surgical beauty.
The visual mayhem of the orchestra den is juxtaposed with the shocking sets up above. Many items were purchased from the Arts Club Theatre production of Spamalot done recently in Vancouver and engineered into the confines of the PG Playhouse. Never before has the building's flytower been used to such full effect as everything from turrets to trees right up to God's knees wend their way through the production. The capacity of the Judy Russell crew and the capabilities of the building itself were expanded by virtue of Spamalot.
And as an audience, you can also expect a mental renovation. You'll laugh your holy tail off and for hours - even days - afterwards you'll be looking on the bright side of life, so happy that you're not dead yet. You'll want to go for a walk. And you won't be fooling anybody. Doot-dee-doot-dee-doot.
