On that particular episode of The Graham Norton Show, the three stars were there to promote The Monuments Men, a film in which all of them appear.

Damon, Murray, and Bonneville already have very different public personas, which made their chemistry especially fun to watch: Murray, the wild card; Damon, more grounded but capable of letting loose; and Bonneville, with his often dry, often British comedic reserve. When these traits collide, things tend to get interesting.

The mayhem kicked off early when alcohol entered the picture. The trio had apparently indulged before coming on camera, and there was talk of chugging champagne once they were up on stage.

These were not just polite sips; at various points the trio threw back glasses together. As the champagne flowed, inhibitions loosened, laughter escalated, and small moments became large ones.

Bill Murray, as often happens, became the epicenter of many of the antics. At times he slipped into one of his joyful, almost childlike laughing fits — the sort where control is abandoned, and he’s simply riding the wave of ridiculousness.

Damon, Bonneville, and host Graham Norton couldn’t help but respond — Murray’s contagious laughter is like that: once it starts, it pulls everyone in.

Matt Damon played a mixed role in the chaos: part participant, part observer, part instigator. He shared stories (one about being mistaken for Mark Wahlberg, for example) which set off bits of hilarity.

When Murray was off‑the‑rails with laughter, Damon often reacted in real time — deadpan looks, attempts to steer the conversation, occasional warning glances to Norton, etc. All of this added to the comedic tension: who would be the one to try to rein things in, or if it were to be reined in at all.

Hugh Bonneville’s contributions were quieter but just as essential. His typical British politeness, his more subdued delivery, made his reactions — especially when he was bemused or slightly stunned — doubly funny.

For instance, when Murray or Damon would say something over the top, Bonneville’s expressions or comments had a kind of “caught in the maelstrom but still polite” charm.

 Bonneville is often the foil, the straight man to Murray’s wildness and Damon’s relative normalcy, which allowed the mayhem to feel more balanced and more hilarious.

One of the standout antics was when the trio (along with host Norton) at some point started throwing fruit at the audience. This absurd bit of physical comedy (throwing fruit!) shifted the show from standard interview mode to unpredictable variety show mode.

Suddenly you’re not just listening to actors being promotional — you’re watching people who clearly decided to let the show become a performance of mayhem.

The laughter, spills, goosebumps of embarrassment, and outright ridiculousness all worked because none of them seemed to be pretending. There was no attempt to hide the looseness. In fact, embracing the looseness seemed to be the point.

It made for an episode that people remember not because of what the Monuments Men promotion told you, but because of how these three actors interacted in real life under low guard, under alcohol, under the urge to just have a good time.

Culturally, moments like this are interesting because they break down the polished veneer of star appearances. We’re so used to seeing celebrities be careful, scripted, curated.

When someone like Bill Murray goes off‑script and becomes giggly, when Damon lets himself look less composed, when Bonneville plays along, it reminds viewers of actual human beings, quirks and all. That vulnerability – or perceived vulnerability – can amplify how funny something is.

Critics and fans alike loved this particular Graham Norton episode. Many praised it as one of the more memorable guest panels on the show.

It’s become one of those “clip‑show moments,” one that gets shared: “Remember when Murray and Damon couldn’t control themselves over a picture of Bonneville?” or “When they started throwing fruit?” It lives in the collective memory not for its promotional content, but for its comedic authenticity.

This kind of mayhem, while funny, doesn’t just happen anywhere. It’s helped by a few conditions being just right: the chemistry among the guests (which here is rich and unpredictable), enough looseness (liquid courage helps), a host willing to let things go off‑script, and probably a live audience that feeds off the energy.

Norton’s show has a format that supports these funny breakdowns: he asks good questions but also lets things be messy.

In the aftermath, such episodes do something more than entertain: they add to the mythology of the actors. Bill Murray gets reinforced as the unpredictable wild man, curious, mischievous.

Damon shows he has restraint but can loosen up. Bonneville gets respect for his grace under pressure: remaining dignified even when surrounded by chaos. And for the audience, there’s a pleasure in seeing stars act like people — messy, human, funny.

At the end of the day, what you get from Murray + Damon + Bonneville = Mayhem is a lesson in how star power can be used for more than just promoting a movie.

It can be a canvas for spontaneous performance, for comedy that can’t be fully scripted. When the ingredients are right, a talk show becomes more than an interview: it becomes theatre, unpredictable and alive. And that’s something that sticks.