‘Spamalot’ a great dose of the doldrums, but even a little fun excess cannot provide salvation for these ‘Damn Yankees’

A joyous musical comedy about the Dark Ages featuring songs about the Black Death and farting palace guards: It sounds as absurd as, well, a musical about 19th century French resistance fighters or dancing cats. So maybe not all that unusual.

Still, “Spamalot,” which returns to the Metroplex in its national tour at Bass Hall through the weekend, is far more absurd in its execution than the premise of “Les Miserables” or “Cats” or any other play for that matter. It’s also a helluva lot of fun.

Based on the 30-year-old cult film “Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” “Spamalot” still manages to be funny even when employing recycled jokes from a generation ago. Partly that’s because the musical is cheekily self-aware: A key plot point (plot?) is the “quest” to put on a Broadway musical — which is difficult, since Broadway won’t be invented for 1,000 years. It’s some twistingly self-referential, it’s insanity to expect any of it to make any sense. You’re just meant to enjoy.

And enjoy you should. “Spamalot” plasters its Las Vegas sensibility in every scene — garish colors, pointlessly scantily-clad showgirls, tap dancing knights. There are jokes about Amy Winehouse and Andrew Lloyd Webber. A nun dances a tango with a monk, her wimple making her as aerodynamic as Sally Field in a Puerto Rican windstorm. They say “shit” a lot.

Its ludicrousness is almost matched by a tuneful energy. One of the Knights of the Round Table (I won’t say which one, but it’s not who you suspect) turns out ot be gay and gets an production number worthy of a Gay Pride parade. The Lady of the Lake (Esther Stilwell) appears at odd intervals to hit some high notes. Patsy (Brad Bradley) charmingly mugs it up with rubber-boned litheness.

As King Arthur, Gary Beach has the smug swagger of George W. Bush, but good as he is, he doesn’t steal the show — there are too many talented players for that to happen. This is a comic ensemble piece that leaves you smiling. And just try to get the earworm “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” out of your head. Just try; I dare ya.

“Spamalot” runs its course in a lightning-fast 120 minutes. As “Damn Yankees” slid into its fourth hour, all I could think was, “To hell with damning the Yankees; can’t these Texans pick up the pace?”

Truth be told, this production, onstage through this weekend at Garland Summer Musicals, clocks in almost exactly at three hours — it only seems longer. It has never been among my favorite musicals anyway, mostly because of a script that meanders unfocussed. Joe Boyd, an ageing couch potato, rues how the New York Yankees perpetually best his beloved Washington Senators. In a fit of pique, Joe idly offers to sell his soul to the devil if the Senators could win the pennant.

In a flash of brimstone appears Mr. Applegate (John Garcia), a fiendish imp who offers to grant his wish — and turn Joe into a young, hale hitter (Joshua Doss) who becomes the hero of the team. Quicker than you can spell “Faust,” the deal is sealed.

But despite his acclaim and sudden lack of arthritis, all Joe can think about is how he misses his wife — odd, considering that he barely acknowledged her for years on end in favor of baseball. (So profound is his obsession that the song that kicks off the musical is a lament sung by the missus about being a sports widow for six months at a time.) He even resists the chance to cheat on her with a sexy flirtation demon named Lola (Morgana Shaw).

So let’s get this straight: A guy who avoids his wife gets a sudden flash of fidelity when he could have sex risk-free as women throw themselves at him?

Joe must be gay.

Alas, no — we wish! That might have spiced it up some: “Take Me Out” with tap dancing. But “Damn Yankees” may be the most hetero musical ever conceived — at least until “Jersey Boys” came along. It just happens to be as much a eunuch as Joe himself.

Perhaps it’s that anti-feyness that has made it a hit of local theater companies for half a century: Suburban husbands can be dragged to a show about sports without thinking too much about sitting still for a (gulp!) “musical.” On the other hand, watching fit young men in tight-fitting uniforms satisfies a fetish plenty of gay men (and certainly straight women) share. It’s a win-win!

Only not. There are some nice songs (the most famous, “Heart” and “Whatever Lola Wants,” do most of the heavy-lifting), and Doss and Garcia deliver entertaining but vastly different performances, but the bloated running-time, paired with the threadbare story and musical numbers that are more empty calories than satiating nourishment, doom it.

It hasn’t aged well. The most romantic ballad may be “Goodbye Old Girl,” sung by Joe to his wife. Ah, nothing says tender marital love like calling your spouse “old girl,” as if she’s a donkey up for bid at the village market. (The team seriously dates the show alone: The Senators disappeared from Major League Baseball on three occasions, once becoming the Minnesota Twins and once, more recently, the Texas Rangers.) And where are all the steroided mini-hulks jockeying for endorsements? It doesn’t even look like a baseball musical.

Doss is almost too good for the show. He enters after one-and-a-half dull, toneless songs, and in eight measures injects a bit of vocal testosterone into the scene, raising the bar for everyone else. The ballplayers (ably led by coach Doug Fowler) who sing “Heart” rise to the occasion for the most endearing musical number, but Shaw’s merely adequate as Lola (she’s been occupied with other obligations, missing one show last weekend, and doesn’t even dance of the key numbers — an absence which only highlights how extraneous the song is).

Garcia mugs it up delightfully in a role that not only permits but quite possibly demands hammy excess. He vamps with the audience during his big number so much, his performance should come with eggs and a side of toast. Scenery had his teeth marks in it.

Having a full orchestra is a rare touch in local theater, but only when the drummer can keep the beat, which this one couldn’t. Such unrealized potential encapsulates what keeps this production from hitting any home runs: It’s a swing and miss, with two batters on base.