The phrase "I'm not quite dead" becomes a running joke in "Monty Python's Spamalot."

Like the villager who's not ready to be tossed on the wagon of plague victims, this show won't let the Broadway musical fail on the Strip without a stubborn, head-smacking protest.

Investing unprecedented time, money and talent to create 90 minutes of in-the-moment comedy, "Spamalot" lives up to a time-honored Las Vegas formula: top-shelf craftsmanship you struggle to remember the next day.

Unless, of course, you already know your Knights of Ni from your killer rabbits, and speak Python code with your college buds by reciting the movie source material, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." Python loyalists may be the demographic most disappointed by the Wynn Las Vegas pruning of the Broadway hit.

But the Strip is a place where a show compromises its ticket-selling potential by the mere speaking of English. Most fans will give Eric Idle and musical collaborator John du Prez credit for pulling off a neat hat trick here, just as they infiltrated Broadway with their Trojan Rabbit.

Up to a point, "Spamalot" punches the same nostalgia buttons for male baby boomers that "Mamma Mia!" does for their sorority sisters.

Tim Hatley's production design echoes Terry Gilliam's whimsical animation and forced perspectives, and a recorded John Cleese supplies the voice of God. The first few minutes unspool trademark Python double talk about the air speed of swallows and the legitimacy of a king anointed because "a watery tart threw a sword at you."

But soon, King Arthur (John O'Hurley) summons forth the Lady of the Lake (Nikki Crawford) and her "Laker Girls," transforming "Spamalot" from the bleak, muddy medieval waters of "Grail" to a glittery landscape that equips the creators to take on Las Vegas and rival Broadway musicals.

Crawford's Liza-meets-Eartha Kitt lounge lizard could get her own show. And when she and Edward Staudenmayer skewer Andrew Lloyd Webber in "The Song That Goes Like This," the parody is gentle enough to invite serious show-tune buffs to the party along with the Python devout.

Jokes are piled upon jokes, many emerging as visual punchlines in Casey Nicholaw's choreography.

Consider just one bit. The cast is lampooning show business tradition by singing "You Won't Succeed on Broadway (if you don't have any Jews)." The choreography mimicks a folk dance. And in the middle of it all, a peasant rolls by with a cart containing a bale of straw. Why?

Because at that exact moment, the cast will shout, "Hay!"

O'Hurley is a more obvious choice to play Arthur than Tim Curry on Broadway. You'll have to see him stretch some other time. His grandiloquent J. Peterman voice from "Seinfeld" is a perfect fit for the straight man whose near-constant stage presence anchors the thinnest of plots.

O'Hurley's singing voice is not so domineering, allowing sidekick Patsy (Justin Brill) -- aka the guy who follows Arthur around, clopping coconut half-shells in lieu of a great steed -- to grab the reigns on the signature tune, "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life." (Python fans know it's originally from "Life of Brian.")

The Python ensemble spirit is preserved under the disciplined eye for detail of legendary director Mike Nichols. Steven Strafford is a scene-stealer as Prince Herbert, but plays four other parts.

The Broadway edition opened with three stars, explaining the missing applause beats when two windows pop open at the beginning to reveal not David Hyde Pierce and Hank Azaria, but Harry Bouvy and J. Anthony Crane. Bouvy is his own comic force as Sir Robin. Perhaps too much is asked of Crane to tackle all of Azaria's many voices, but he pulls off most of them, including that of the French Taunter.

(Actors complain about "corporate theater" not allowing them their own line interpretations. But 100 percent accuracy is demanded of this iconic speech: "Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelled of el-der-berries!")

The 90-minute edition loses only one song in its entirety ("All For One)" and even preserves the fake-out "Finnish musical" at the beginning -- though not the fake program notes setting up the gag. But there are casualties, including the payoff of the "Knights of Ni" bit -- What? No shrubbery? -- and the "Make sure he doesn't leave" routine with Prince Herbert's guards.

Couch potatoes can cue those up at home after they get off their duffs for this one. They won't find anything else on the Strip with both a midnight-movie spirit and a Vegas sense of overkill.