Though a large, painted foot may descend to grind out these words, they must be writ: “Spamalot” is overrated, derivative, and a pox on the mighty name of Python. Disorientation and laughed-out exhaustion were the overriding result of watching original Flying Circus sketches – feelings that have no place in the glossed-up, handed down Broadway version. A play swimming in respect for its own legacy violates the scrappy, anarchic spirit of the truly Pythonesque. So when a new group heralded as the true heir to the Python zanies shows up downtown at the Village Theater, cue the stampede.

Brit import the Hollow Men haven’t exactly been languishing under rocks – they have a Comedy Central show, awards, and enough cash to splash out on matching shiny white ties. And though their current show only occasionally displays the brilliance of their forebears, even a hint is enough in these desperate times. In interviews, the group itself (Sam Spedding, David Armand, Rupert Russell, and Nick Tanner) denies the Python connection. But in a bizarre skit featuring an American president who entrusts policy to “the dandy,” the weirdness feels deliciously familiar. (Whenever George needs help, a top-hatted toff, who sits covered by a sheet in the Oval Office, says “This is a rum turn-up!” and interest rates plummet.)

The group has been together since 1996, with some of the sketches in rotation for years. This isn’t “wait-for them-to-crack-up” sort of improvisational stuff, nor is most of it particularly physical. The Hollow Men specialize in tightly scripted, rapidly performed scene-lets, most of them based on a mash-up of recognizable genres. A police lineup and an audition hall combine to give us criminals taking direction; a psychologist’s office meets a drinking game, with a patient doing a shot every time he says the mystery word (“abuse”).

The typical comparison is to Kids in the Hall, the Canadian sketch comedy group that once posited God’s head was a cabbage. But the Hollow Men, despite Mr. Armand’s seemingly incessant desire to pop on a lady’s wig, have far less interest in the surreal images of either KITH or the Flying Circus. They prefer to rely on their quick writing rather than flying pigs. One recurring bit has a blond bombshell and a man on the run exchanging one-liners that never quite add up. “My father didn’t have a spine,” breathes Mr. Armand. “That must have been tough,” raps out Mr. Spedding. “Noo,” the bombshell coos, “quite the opposite actually …”

All of this is quite amusing, occasionally pushing the needle to “quite funny.” But twice the evening turns absolutely raucous. Mr. Armand, who looks like a mix of Rowan Atkinson and one of Raphael’s cherubs, interprets two songs in mime. The first, Glen Campbell’s “Wichita Lineman,” simply has him lip-synching along, beaming confidently until a cheap invasion by the Village People throws him off his stride. The second, the sort of gag that reduces one to giggles days after seeing it, introduces Mr. Armand as an interpretive dancer, possibly from Norway. As Natalie Imbruglia’s “Torn” plays, he mimes every word, calligraphic eyebrow arched suggestively. With impossible delicacy he taps his watch on “You’re a little late,” or rips an imaginary piece of paper to accompany the chorus. Finally, we were laughing uncontrollably, pounding the seatbacks in front of us.

For a group of clever writers, mime – and this is no insult – suits them impeccably. As a farewell, they re-enact the title sequence from the Bond film “For Your Eyes Only.” As Mr. Russell strikes poses with his white tux jacket and gun, Mr. Spedding and Mr. Tanner shimmy, and a bullet travels slowly and ever so suggestively across the stage. As sketch writers, they seem competent and fun. But as physical comedians, interpreting the great musical classics of our age, they beat their competition – well – hollow.

Until July 16 (158 Bleecker Street, between Thompson and Sullivan Streets, 212-307-4100).