The Titles-- Season 1

"I'm a better cartoonist than I am a bomb maker." - Terry Gilliam

And now for something completely different!

For each season (or "series", if you really want to be anal about it,) the animator did a different title sequence. The images seem random, and basically just set a silly, madcap tone. But as we break down the sequences, we begin to see a farcical, slapstick mind at work-- a mind that resents authority and isn't afraid to use their images against them.  A mind teeming with prurience and rage. A mind that breaks the worlds into shapes instead of classes, dimensions instead of importance. Ladies and gentlemen, we give you Terry Gilliam! (All of the pictures below are his work.)

Born in Minneapolis, MN, but all grown up in L.A. during the mid-sixties, Gilliam had a front row seat at the un-televised revolution. The Watts riots were in his back yard, the Black Panther movement just up the street. After studying Mad Magazine in high school, he studied political science in college. As a "commie long-hair" he was often pulled over by cops for driving while totally cool. Reagan's gubernatorial win in '67 was probably the last straw. He moved to England and soon got work with Jones, Palin and Idle on "Do Not Adjust Your Set".

Though Monty Python was determinedly non-topical, the temptation to strike out at current events must have been irresistible for someone like Gilliam. Still, his talent enabled him to sublimate his critiques into a surreal visual world of bright colors and ornate letters. The photographs were propriety. Gilliam inserted them into his world, and mangled them. Let's see him in action as we breakdown the titles for the first season. (Or "series"... shut up already, you anal twits!)

The music is a marching number, and it begins with a bell. As the music commences in earnest, we see a brown screen. Creeping up the left side are two red roses. The roses climb to the top of the screen, then abruptly blossom. Sticking out of the center, like some elephantine stamen, are the words "Monty" and "Python's", bright yellow at the bottom and black at the top, font reminiscent of carnival tents.

Why flowers? Could it be that Gilliam related to the flower children movement, as his hair would indicate? Or was this a reference to England's "green and pleasant" land, and the British passion for constant gardening? Or were they just pretty? The flowers are all Gilliam, lush and bulbous, with luxurious cross-hatching to delineate the petals.

A third flower, this one pale blue, joins the others on the left side, blossoming lower and vomiting the word "Flying". Finally, another red rose creeps up the right side, feints to the right, then circles back to the left, curlicuing to face the other flowers and spewing the last word, "Circus".

We pull back rapidly, and the words are gone. Just a tangle of flowers. We pull back-- and holy crap, the flowers are growing out of some guy's bald head. Thank you, Rogaine, but that's not what I had in mind. The man is dressed in a blue suit and black bowtie, with a long nose bisecting his face, forehead, cheeks and chin bulging out, leaving the mouth in shadow. He might have a moustache. His eyes are half-closed and dull. Finally, he seems embedded in the yellow floor, which looks like concrete. As though he were being punished by some inept mobsters, his ass and legs are the only thing submerged. His pointy shoes stick up like meercats. How did he get there, and why is he accepting his debasement with such boredom? Shall we ask him...?

Too late! The foot has come down! The iconic sole of Python, the airbrushed foot comes down from the heavens, straight down, no forward or rearward momentum as though the foot were out for a walk and just happened to land on our poor imprisoned chap, no, this was no accident! Incidentally, at the top of the ankle there appears to be the hem of a garment, a robe perhaps? Does this foot belong to a holy man, or a hedonist? A holy man wouldn't so blithely take a helpless life, and a hedonist has better ways to get his feet all squishy. Maybe there will be clues to this mystery later on.

The roses and the feet have taken half of the march. Now we speed through a series of images, all of them spun out in a rapid-fire Rorshach test. Gilliam brings in the old pictures for this. A ruffled man with a sword stands beside a round, very, very round woman, and dribbles her like a basketball. He has to hold his arm high to do it, making him look as silly as she does, but he manages. Both of them look out proudly to the audience, as if this were their favorite party trick. We pan down quickly, and we realize they're on top of a man's head. The man seems sober and practical, with his glasses, sad eyes and sensible haircut. But the picture of sobriety is rent asunder, as the skull cap and hair cut fly off the man (ostensibly sending Ruffles and his Ball tumbling off to the right,) and scantily clad woman fly out of the remainder of his head. Their feathered boas make them capable of flight, and they escape joyfully from the confines of this dullard's brain.

Is this, perhaps, an animator's final statement of the world-- that prurience, while base and mean, is as close as many of us will ever get to actual imagination or flights of fancy? It certainly seems as if this poor, sane, sad-eyed slob will never have a flight of fancy again, now that the fancies have flown. Maybe we should re-evaluate wet daydreams. They are triumphs of imagination over reality. It's never a bad thing to flip one's mind.

We cut to a cardinal, red-robed and green-faced-- he looks like Cardinal Richelieu, but who knows?--  standing in the center of a Gothic church, mostly black and white. A blue carpet lays at his feet. Suddenly, a strange train with a dwarf engineer zips by, black and white steam billowing from its narrow stack. The train pulls a nude lady lounging her caboose temptingly on the roof of the coach, one knee raised to cover the very naughty bits.
The lady is huge compared to the engineer and passengers-- but she's just right for the Cardinal. As the nude lady zips by, the Cardinal turns, lifts his robes, and reveals he's got a set of wheels, too! He zips off after the naked lady.Or maybe he's more the dwarf engineer type.

Next, a mustachioed man sucks face-- literally-- with what looks like a female corpse. Holding her face tightly in his hands, he kisses her, inhales her, her head deflating and disappearing under the moustache. This murder goes by almost too fast to notice. The woman's puffy sleeves deflate not the least bit, which implies there's some sort of flush valve in her neck,protecting the important bits. The woman only loses her head.

Next, an illustration from a Sears lingerie ad stands before draped stage curtains. She's an hourglass shaped woman with curly brown hair framing her face, dark eyes looking warily off to the right, and a tiny mouth. And, of course, the lingerie, purple with black flower shapes hugging her body, a black lace "T" running along her breasts and then cleaving her ribs, running down to the naughty bits. Red ruffles line the top. The lingerie cuts up high on her hip. Although the nightie wraps around her shoulders in narrow ruffled straps, there are two additional straps, tied in a bow at her shoulders and attaching near her cleavage. This obliging, wary woman takes off one of the straps, a promise of more unstrapping in her eyes-- but we've been tricked! The strap is just a fuse! It sets of an explosion that billows up previously unseen lingerie material around this woman's hourglass waist, and the same pressure that expands the lingerie shoots her head right off her neck, blowing it straight up into the heavens. I imagine the woman knew this would happen. Perhaps this is her stripper gimmick, like Gypsy Rose Lee never really undressing. It's a hell of a gimmick, starting to undress and your head flying off. The trenchcoat crowd would never see it coming. It also explains the wariness in her eyes. It must hurt every single show, and there are five shows on Friday and convention nights.

The next shot is in heaven. Five winged nymphs and cherubs (I never could tell those two apart) float above in heaven, looking down on us, carrying grapes as if they were flinging them down at us. And in the first stab at continuity so far in the sequence, the woman's head from the previous sequence, she with the curly hair and the wary eyes, flies up into this serendipitous array and knocks out the cherub on the far left, sending the little naked baby tumbling earthward. The head flies off screen to the left, never to be seen by us again. I imagine her boyfriend will find her and reattach later for the next show.We're deep in a story now. The woman strips, sending her head flying. which hits a cherub and knocks him out of his cherubic grape wielding constellation.

We cut back to earth-- and there's the train with the naked lady atop the coach, still chugging along. The green faced cardinal is catching up, doubtless praying for a tunnel. His prayers are answered in the negative, as the falling cherub crashes down into the cardinal, crushing them both into the green earth. The cardinal's wheels stick up futilely, spinning to no effect.

The carnage is punctuated by a sweet holy woman in blue, who holds up what looks like a black feathered hat (or maybe it's a throttled peacock) to her face, hiding her eyes from the horror of the cardinal/cherub fatal collision.

There's a bit of Theme here-- women losing their heads in the act of seduction, either real or staged. Men getting squashed by heavenly objects. And a visual world of bloodless, random violence. I'm just saying-- there's more to Gilliam than funny lip synching and weird white eyes. He had something to say about the world, and he said it all the time. Even in these silly, brilliant titles.

Next, a man in a yellow striped suit stands buried up to his chest in the dark green loam, looking at us with a frank, bland expression. He lacks the dreamer's eyes of the prior sober man, as well as the glasses. His moustache rigidly conforms to the dimensions of his upper lip and lower nose, His hair is short and combed away from his face. Beside him stands a tiny man in a purple cap, blue jacket, green pants and brown shoes. Unlike the half-buried man, he is a Gilliam creation, with long nose and face. He stands behind an air pump and works the plunger up and down. As he does so-- the frank man's face enlarges, wobbling this way and that, getting larger, larger, filling the frame. There is a moment when all we see are his eyes. The man knows what's coming, but he's too proud to beg. A still moment of exquisite tension--

And the man's head explodes like the over-inflated balloon it is. Reversal! Now the men are losing their heads. As the bits and pieces fly off, a woman stands revealed-- and I mean revealed-- amidst  a cityscape of black and white Roman-looking buildings. The buildings stand alone, isolated by a criss-cross of very broad green streets, and there in the foremost broad street is a broad, wearing nothing but a scarf wrapped around her hair. She smiles giddily, her eyes (once again) looking warily to the right. She lounges invitingly, propped up by one arm. But before we can even appreciate the fact of this libertine, she pulls a stack of letters from behind (where was she hiding it?) and places them demurely in front of her, hiding all but one tantalizing breast. We've seen these letters before, bursting from the center of the blossoming roses at the start of the titles. Stacked, they read "Monty Python's Flying Circus" in the same yellow and black carnival font.

The music is nearing it's resolution. The titles have bookended the goofy animations. We know that it's almost over, and we've had a great time. But Gilliam has one final trick up his sleeve, or down his pant leg. The woman, hiding coquettishly behind the letters, might think that she has escaped scrutiny. But she is wrong. There is one being who sees all, and his scrutiny is serious. He slides down, as if someone pulled down the holy drapes, and there is the man himself, God, leaning his elbows on a surrounding cloud and gazing at the woman's beauty and total nakedness. He doesn't like what he sees. His stern countenance clouded by shadows and beard, he waves his robed left hand in a reproving yet holy gesture. "Summon the Kracken," he seems to say, and in this case, the Kracken is our old friend, the foot.

If we were unclear as to the nature of the foot before, now we know it is an instrument of God himself, a swift and (may I say) undignified punishment for sins real and imagined. The foot plunges down from behind the disappointed God, and squashes both libertine and titles out of our dimension. The final flourish, a squishy sound effect, punctuates the visual, and the noble marching song ends with a final fart.

And that's the titles for Season 1! (Series, season, whatever!) Brilliant, outrageous, alternately slow and fast paced, showing us an original talent in his prime. Well done. Mr. Gilliam, and well worth the renunciation of your US citizenship.

Next week; Episode 8 - "Full Frontal Nudity"(Although, thanks to the squished lady, we kinda get that every week.)

Episode 7 - "You're No Fun Anymore"

"And the same goes for dogs!" - Graham Chapman as a Constable.

Welcome back!

There's been a lot written about Monty Python and its experimental, revolutionary mode of sketch comedy. But the thing about revolutions-- we only celebrate the successful ones. This show, in my opinion, represents a brave but ultimately doomed experiment within the Monty Python canon. Crafted with the same talent, intelligence and irreverence as all the other episodes, it flounders like a blancmange on the grass courts of Wimbledon, only without the wicked serve. As Bill Belichick might say, "You can't win 'em all."

A lot has also been written on the combination of elements from the Cambridge school of comedy versus the Oxford school, as typified by John Cleese and the verbal, rationality-gone-mad material, and Terry Jones and his more cinematic "stream-of-consciousness" approach. I believe both schools to be well served by the cross-pollination with the other. This episode seems to indicate a win for Jones and his sensibility. The victory, however, is Pyrrhic. By Python standards, the show kinda sucks. In a rare break from his usual pattern, the unpredictable man is given enough rope to hang himself... and that's exactly what he does.

I don't mean to say that Jones wrote this episode by himself. I'm sure he and Palin worked on it together, with some substantial aid from Gilliam, and Chapman, Idle and Cleese wrote some relatively self-contained bits as well. We can spread the guilt evenly. What I mean is that this show represents a break from the usual synthesis between sketch comedy and the more cinematic "anti-comedy" of the Jones School, and the break heavily favors the Jones School. To its detriment.

It's not all bad, though. Let's break it down. Even their misfires manage to hit, as we'll see.

The "It's" Man runs down a long hill path. He falls into a bush in the distance, the re-emerges in a much nearer bush. They're having the same fun with us that they had when they threw him over the cliff, the blatant cinematic trick used ironically. Then when he finally gets to the camera, he can't remember his line-- or more aptly put, his word. Maybe it's "Tits"? Off-camera voices try to prompt him. The music starts, haltingly, as if it, too has forgotten its line-- or more aptly put, its stanza. Cleese's announcement this time sounds a bit German during the titles.

The first sketch shows Cleese as announcer stepping into the fakest pastoral setting ever to interview outdoorsman Idle, who is a "camel spotter." The camels turn out to be trains. Some good stuff with Idle, as his number of spotted camels (and yetis) steadily decrease, until he admits "Call it none." Finally, Cleese calls Idle on his bullshit, and Idle whines "Oh, you're no fun aymore!" Odd bits follow, animated and in-studio, each with the punch line "You're no fun anymore." The funniest is a ship hand tied to the mast getting a whipping. As the captain cuts him down, the ship hand says... all together now... "You're no fun anymore." Then back to Cleese and Idle. Idle reprimands the others for stealing his phrase, promising to throw the next offender under a camel, Cleese mocks him, and the chicken wielding knight (Gilliam, I'm told?) clocks him-- or more aptly put, clucks him.


A quick cut to the next scene, an odd number with Palin as an accountant  giving an incomprehensible annual earnings report. But somehow, the stodgy board is able to spot the absence of a penny. As they send the embezzler packing, Jones as a Bishop says the show's go-to tag line, and Idle crashes the sketch and together they throw the Bishop under a train (aka "camel." Just watch the show.) There's a funny group moment, when the Bishop denies he said the line, and the others go "Ooooo!" It's the British 1969 equivalent to "Oh, no you didn't!" Pre-empting any umbrage, the announcer gives people an address to complain to-- or more aptly put, four addresses--and a Jewish(?) Palin complains that, given the prior entertainment, a license fee increase would be unjust. Only he says it funny. Most interesting is Palin's take on a Jewish Man, with high waistband, battered hat, and a "What can you do?" shrug. If anyone with a heightened sensitivity towards stereotypes feels like getting offended by this portrayal, just wait. Have you got a heaping plate of outrage coming your way! A quick gag follows, a voice over an odd pipe-smoking farmer picture.

All of this material is fine, but none of it seems to be going anywhere. It feels patched together, with a minimum of attention paid to coherence. In fact, one could almost imagine that they're just marking time until they get to the real meat of the episode.

Intentionally or not, that's exactly what they're doing. Palin comes out onto a filmed stage as the cheesy M.C. announcing the upcoming science fiction sketch, with only Cleese in the audience applauding. We see that all of this craziness that hasn't quiiiiiite been working was just the overture. Now comes the opus-- a (nearly) show length sci-fi spoof.

They should have stuck to the sketches. Though well conceived and executed, the sci-fi sketch is a real low point for the first season, in my opinion. The jokes, all in service to a cliche sci-fi trope that we'd already seen spoofed even in 1969, seem wan, tepid, uncertain, if not downright objectionable. This is the first triumph of Terry Jones and his damn Welsh stubborness. We now see what Jones really wants to do-- he doesn't want a stream-of-consciousness show. He wants to direct for the movies! Still, everyone's game, especially Palin and Gilliam, who inserts cheesy space-ships and Scotsman beams. Let's take a look.

Cleese's voice over is well done-- American and full of portent as he adds an extra syllable to "billion" "And around these stars circle a bil-i-yun planets." The announcer warns us that aliens are attacking the heart of civilization, which turns out to be New Pudsey. That's our first laugh. Then a very funny bit as we do a tracking shot with Chapman and Idle, as Mr. and Mrs. Brain Sample. "Ordinary people... Not the kind of people to be at the center of one of the most astounding incidents in the history of mankind... so let's forget about them and follow instead..." The hurt look on Chapman's face is priceless as he appeals silently to the camera as it pans away. Idle as the wife nearly loses her hat in the British wind. Palin takes over center screen as a derby-wearing tax official (named Harold Potter. Was J.K. Rowling watching this episode?) We see shots of a cheesy UFO stalking Palin as he walks slowly, oh, so slowly up the streets of New Pudsey. Finally, a ray comes from the ship, inching towards the street, and Palin stiffens and transforms-- into a Scotsman with kilt and red beard, with his right fist held up in some sort of Black Power salute. The music helps us in the transformation, going from eerie organ music to bagpipes on speed. Palin marches off, fist erect, out of the city and off into the countryside.

What's interesting is the pace. The boys generally follow their comedic instincts, and the pace is brisk, if not breathless. But with the science fiction sketch, they're trying to adapt to a different more ominous pace. They still manage to get laughs through abrupt and ridiculous ends to the tension-filled set-ups, (What's going to happen? Will he burst into flames? Turn into a monster? No! He'll become a Scotsman!) But overall, they're off the beat.

Palin's transformation is scandalous. The paper boys shout the news. Though no eyewitnesses were shown in the transformation, everyone saw it happen. (How they missed the big ass spaceship flying so low, I don't know.) Jones, as a police detective, interviews the wife, played by Idle. (He is a gorgeous woman. Not Carol Cleveland gorgeous, but, you know. Then again, maybe I need to get out more.) The Detective tries to rationalize the event. Perhaps the transformation wasn't so sudden. "He never got drunk at night and bring home puddings?... He didn't have an inadequate brain capacity?..." Okay, Politically Correct Police, now is the time for your howls of outrage! I'm going out on a limb here, but somehow, I don't think they play this episode much in Glasgow.

I guess the Scottish have a better sense of humor than our national neighbors. If we did a show about the diminished brain capacity of Mexicans, we'd be picketed, taken off the air, and no one would mow our lawns ever again. No, we're more sensitive to the feelings of our border-sharers. We don't make fun of them. We just arrest them for no reason and deport them whenever possible.
Predictably, the aliens attack the Scots-hating Detective, and Jones, squealing "No further questions" in a Scottish accent, walks off along the same path as Palin did earlier, fist held high.

Now we see funny, quick cut scenes wherein Brits all over transform into Scotsmen, including a black sax player and a baby in a pram. We get a quick shot of the ship, just in case you've forgotten that this is an alien phenomenon and not a natural occurrence.

Now we get to the more dreadful chunks of this bit. Chapman plays a scientist, (an expert in what makes people change nationalities, yet!) making out with a vapid blonde, played by Donna Reading. The jokes feel labored and overwrought as we play with close-ups, pans and zoom outs. Donna addresses many of her lines to the camera, smiling like a debutante as she tells Chapman that her father has turned into a Scotsman. Chapman's performance seems stilted-- more earnest than the vet from Confuse-a-Cat, but not earnest enough to be convincing. The scene only works as exposition, to set up the next series of bits. You can still find humor, though. I mean, Chapman, kissing a girl? Come on!

The following sequence is comprised of film and animation showing a.) the overcrowding of Scotland (The woman in the crowded bed seems bored. She should be enjoying herself. Oh, she's no fun anymore!) and b.) the abandonment of England. Tilted cameras show abandoned streets. There's a great bit with Jones catching a bus to work that he has to drive, but the bits feel drawn out-- a long way to go for some minor laughs. Still it's better than the lab, which is where we go next.
Donna Reading gets increasingly irritating as she vamps, calls attention to the incidental music, etc. We zoom in for a close-up on Chapman's hand on Reading's knee. Funny! Once again, although it fails as a humorous sketch, it works as exposition. Donna's mother, now Scots-mother, has uttered a single word-- "Them!" A call out to one of the great cheese-fest horror films of all time, (and written by Ted Sherdeman, my wife's grandfather!) "Them" gives Chapman a first glimpse into the cause of all this horror. The question is, "Who... is... 'Them'?"

We get the answer in the next scene, at the home of a Scottish kilt-maker played by Palin, and his warted wife played by Jones. Angus Podgorny, we're told by the announcer, received an order for 48 mil-i-yun kilts from the planet Skyron in the Andromeda Galaxy. Podgorny and wife try to figure out the logistics of making that number and transporting them to Andromeda. (He'll have to make two trips-- his van won't hold all the kilts.) He's got an abacus. This is where we find out that the life forms of Andromeda are actually... Blancmanges. (What the hell are "Blancmanges"?) This scene is funny on paper-- great lines like "an extension to the toilet", etc-- but the show tries so hard to create a spoof of the ominous atmosphere prevalent in these movies that the jokes never escape the satirical gravity. It's almost as if everyone is doing their jobs too well. It's more bad sci-fi than it is spoof of bad sci-fi.

A funny scene follows with Cleese as a cop and Idle as a woman (her third of this show. He is really attractive as a woman.) Cleese is so outraged by Idle's messing with tennis propriety that he can't focus on the Andromedan threat. It still goes on a bit, but it's a nice relief from the oppressive tone of the narrative.
 
But the narrative must be told. For all their vaunted "stream-of-consciousness' technique, the Circusioans are trapped in the middle of a middling concept, and they can't abandon it the way they do many of their sketches when they get tired. They're going to finish their goddam movie. We go back to the Podgornys as they argue about whether they can trust a pastry to make good on its promises. The jokes are mostly gone (although "9 1/2 kilts" is pretty funny,) and all they have room for is character work and exposition. Pudgorney has been given a form to sign up for Wimbledon, and he's agreed to play, even though Scotsman are the worst tennis players ever. (It must be their diminished brain capacity.) At that point, a blancmange shows up (off camera) and eats Mrs. Podgorny, and the punch line for this scene is the anguished expression on Palin's face. Maybe it would have been funnier if Palin had managed to catch his wife's knitting needles, thrown to him as the blancmange ingests her. Maybe, but I doubt it.

I get where they're going. The aliens' scheme is silly, and they're laying the pipe for that reveal. But it all feels forced. It's as if Jones is saying "This is our show. Go laugh on your own time." We see more of this in the short fourth season, but this episode is the harbinger of bad times to come. Whereas earlier episodes displayed a vigorous mixing of comedy with randomness, this time the alliance seems uneasy and uncertain.

Behind you! The Chicken! Look out!

A quick PSA from Chapman as a cop using the demise of Mrs. Podgorny as a morality tale lightens the mood a bit, with the knight creeping up behind him. Then things pick up with Idle as a Detective investigating Podgorny's death. He brings a sudden, explosive energy to the proceedings, and he's eaten way too soon. Another anguished close-up of Palin dissolves into-- oh, good-- Donna Reading's knees. With all comedic momentum dissipated,  we're back in the laugh factory that is the lab.

While knocking poor stupid Donna unconscious, (let's add domestic abuse to our battery of politically incorrect jokes in this piece,) Scientist Chapman connects the dots, -- the aliens mean to win Wimbledon! And now the joke, the joke that all the other jokes died to keep alive, the big joke, the meta joke, is laid bare! Aliens have come many light years away to win a tennis tournament.... Okay? Sorry, guys, it's funny, but it's not that funny.

Cut to Wimbledon. Eric Idle announces the results. "Billie Jean King eaten in straight sets..." (So, here's the thing. If the aliens could just devour their human opponents, why did they bother turning all the Brits into Scotsmen? I have a theory; they didn't want to eat that terrible British food.) There is a technicality however-- there must be one human being in contention. Enter Angus Podgorny, who has a chance to avenge the murder of his wife. Unfortunately, he's the worst tennis player ever. Seeing Palin break bad on the court is funny, but the pacing still seems off. This is the first we've seen of the blancmange, and unlike Jaws, it wasn't worth the wait. It looks like a draped dwarf pagoda, and moves clumsily with a rocking motion. The sucking sound effects are funny, and the odd juxtaposition of a tennis racket swinging from the pastry is goofy beyond belief.

Not Eric Idle pretty, but...

But then, Chapman and Idle as the too-ordinary Brainsamples race out onto the field. Chapman the scientist tells us in a quick cutaway that they will eat the blancmange. (He hits the recovering Donna Reading again. Because, as Mark Twain has taught us, if hitting a woman isn't funny the first time, hit her again.) In a long shot, the Brainsamples chase the blancmange around and eat it. The world saved, we get to see a long, long shot of Palin playing tennis by himself. It's a long bit, but it works. Besides, they throw the credits in as well. The final joyous leap is all Palin. That man has some serious vertical!

Yet, for all the odd, uncomfortable pauses between laughs, and for all the comedic miscalculations, there are still some memorable lines. "You're no fun anymore" has made it to the Python quote lexicon, and ask a statesider what a blancmange is, he'll tell you "A tennis-playing alien." There's a lot of fun in this episode. Only, instead of it being handed to you on a silver platter, you have to root through the disgusting alien pudding and rip it out, just like the Brainsamples.

Next week; The Titles! Season One.

Episode 6 - It's The Arts

"Warning! Lark's Vomit!" - Cleese as Inspector Praline.

Hey, fellow Python heads, and welcome to another Monty Python episode. As always, if you haven't already, buy the box set and watch with me. Otherwise, this whole blogging exercise is faintly masturbatarian. Not that I mind, but I'm  sure you have better things to do then watch me wank. (Besides, if I do that here, what will I do in the shower?) But if you view the episodes alongside me, it's more illicit and less pathetic. Call it a "Circus Jerk."

The show so far... Monty Python began five episodes earlier, with a late night Sunday slot on the BBC. The show's sensibility was a cross between standard sketches, film clips, and links, and structured with a loose "stream of consciousness" format. Although bewildering at first blush, the show managed to hang together with absurdist running gags like pigs and flying sheep, or words and phrases like "And now for something completely different..." The creative tension in the group seems to be derived from the tug of war between the Cambridge contingent (Cleese, Chapman, Idle) and the Oxford contingent (Jones, Palin, Gilliam) although so far, they all seem to be playing very nice together. The random silliness never wanders too far from the more Apollonian sketch humor. Typical Python sketch treatments include "the Brain Drain", a wacky idea surrounded by intellectual references, and "the Naval Exam", a wacky idea wherein every possible variation and detail are thoroughly explored. Plus, they all seem to like the name "Arthur". The episode we'll be doing today is not "The Ant...". That was the next episode according to Kim "Howard" Johnson's book, but the box set has a different order, and I'm going with that.

Episode 6 begins with the "It's" Man, rushing up to a phone perched on a tree stump. He just misses the call. It seems like the tacit shipwreck he survived was just the start of his frustrations. Is this a frustration that plays anymore, in the era of portable phones? Does anybody truly "miss" a call, without doing so intentionally? Monty Python always prided itself on not doing topical humor, but it appears their phone gag has indeed become topical.

What's he hiding under that fig leaf?

Then we get a series of wacky captions-- we're even told how much each caption is, in freaky-deaky British currency-- while ARTHUR Figgis waits patiently. An acolyte rushes the stage asking for an autograph. Mr. Figgis tries to oblige-- but in a sudden shift to animation, his autograph gets away from him, curling up into a squiggly ball (a great Darwinian defense mechanism) and running off the page, over a graph, until it is squashed, thrown into a cannon, and shot. (Screw rehabilitation!) The squiggly autograph is now Michelangelo's "David" with a fig leaf. What's he hiding under there? We'll see! The title reads "It's The Arts". And we're back with Arthur Figgis, still waiting to do his show. The opening bits were just a short reacharound. (I'm not getting far from the whole masturbation theme, am I?)

And what follows is, for my money, one of the most exquisite Monty Python sketches ever performed. Chapman, as Figgis, recounts a litany of great German composers, but seems puzzled that one name never makes the list. He mentions the name of the forgotten composer-- and the name is two minutes of non-stop Germanic nonsense. The sketch then goes all "Naval Examination" on us as it forces Figgis to say the name, over and over. The show then cuts to film, where the composers ancestor is being interviewed, and both parties must say the name repeatedly. It's impossible to have a formal conversation about this composer without taking two minutes and seven breaths to say the name. Chapman, Cleese and Jones all get a shot at saying it at least once, and they all perform it with breathtaking verbal dexterity. John Cleese, in particular, races through the name, trying to get through it before his subject dies. It's one of those sketches that leave you dumbfounded with its simplicity, brilliance and insane difficulty. One can't imagine that you'd see this on any American comedy show, especially one like Saturday Night Live, where they can't get through the simplest of sketches without reading the cue cards. It's a tour de force, apparently written by Palin. I can't help but notice that this sketch didn't make it into their live shows. I guess after taping it, they swore never to try anything so difficult again. Is it even possible for old guys to do it?

Inspired by the Circusians, I have decided to take the Gambleputty Challenge! Click here to see how I did! And while you're at it, take the Gambleputty Challenge yourself!

Quick! Gimme a fig leaf!

The sketch ends with a variety of people and animations saying parts of the name in sequence at incoherent, break neck speed. We return to the David, who has a tug of war with the long arm of... something. Spoiler alert! David loses! We see what's under that fig leaf, and the stock of Italian men everywhere sinks drastically. If this were what was waiting for me in my shorts, I doubt my showers would be so long.

Short, funny animations follow, and we zoom in with action music to a silly sketch about bank robbers who plan a non-heist very carefully. I guess it's better than not planning a heist. Michael Palin as the scruffy criminal is great, and Terry Jones is unusually funny as the slow-talking thug who doesn't understand why they're paying for the watches they're stealing.

A series of on-the-street interviews come next-- my favorite being Michael Palin as a pepperpot, saying with coy sensuality "I think sexual ecstacy is overrated." In the midst of these, John Cleese appears as uniformed officer Inspector Praline, promising to appear in a sketch. He makes good, entering Terry Jones' office with a nauseous Graham Chapman in tow. What follows is the Whizzo sketch. If you haven't seen it or heard it on one of their concert albums, you have missed a real treat. This is one of their great ones. Cleese questions Jones (ARTHUR Hilton) on a box of assorted chocolates with ingredients like dead frog and ram's bladder while Graham tries hard not to vomit. (In the stage show, Chapman's character Constable Parrot is called Constable Clitoris, is played by Gilliam, and actually does vomit. As Michael Palin narrates in the album voice over, "For those of you listening at home, the young constable has just thrown up into his helmet. This is the longest most continuous vomit ever seen on Broadway since John Barrymore puked over Laertes in the second act of Hamlet in 1949.") Chapman finishes up the sketch with a PSA, punctuated with dry heaves. It is sick humor at its best, delivered with aplomb--Hilarious!

Poor sick Constable Parrot links us to the next sketch, a bit of film about a day in the life of a stock broker. Ironically, this was written by Cleese and Chapman, who were spoofing what Jones and Palin tended to write. And the cross-pollination begins... This is another one that I saw on the Dean Martin Comedy Hour-- only the tobacconist lady was cut, for reasons that should be obvious to those who've seen it. Another short but awesome animated bit follows, with Gilliam riffing on my (other) guilty pleasure, comic books. An animated announcement for "The Theater Sketch" follows. It's not the best sketch. Idle plays a Native American, complete with buckskin and bow, going to see a West End play. What a wacky juxtaposition! But what's really interesting is that they seem to have performed the sketch in the studio audience. You can see them watching, amused, but trying not to laugh. Chapman ably plays the straight man, and the sketch ends with an Indian Massacre. The biggest laugh in the sketch is a call back to Crunchy Frog.

Terry Jones and semi-regular Ian Davidson provide the link, playing a bored couple reading about the Indian Massacre in the paper. Of all the moustaches to pop up in Monty Python, Ian's was always my favorite. Sincere, heartfelt, boyish and mannish at the same time, hiding his upper lip so completely, giving him that effortless woodchuck look. Upon reading that police are looking to talk to witnesses, beautiful women and "anyone that likes police officers," Cleese comes out as a bobby with a great/awful pun ("Take advantage of our free officer.") and Jones chooses the next sketch-- A Scotsman on a Horse.

This is a film bit-- very simply written, but exquisitely executed, except for Cleese's horseriding. The intercutting somehow manages to build up a nice head of tension-- we almost forget about Cleese's wig. And his horseriding. Palin manages to switch from innocent yet shifty young bridegroom to the "bottom" in a gay relationship, without us noticing. Smoothly played, Mr. Palin.

Another short animated bit by Gilliam, and his best of the show-- the carnivorous baby carriage. Once the carriage is cornered by the cops, isolated by a spotlight, the 16 ton weight makes another appearance, this time in animated form. The spotlights turn into a 20th Century Vole title. This leads us to the final sketch of the show, the Film Producer sketch.

This sketch feels like a throwback to the Sid Ceaser era. A power mad (accent on the "mad") film producer bullies around a bunch of terrified, sycophant-ish writers. There are moments of brilliance-- Jones' exclamation "Splunge!", for one-- and Gilliam makes a great screen appearance, which is nice. He can be really smarmy. But overall, it lacks the inspiration of the other sketches, and mocking of film producers is like making Hum-Vee jokes. It's just too easy. Still, some good jokes and nice moments. Cleese's meercat hop, Chapman's line "There'll be plenty of time for that later on," and of course, "Splunge!" During his descent into psychosis, Chapman as Irving C. Salzburg picks up the phone and fires the "It's" Man. The credits roll as Palin slinks off, and it turns out this episode was done entirely by Irving C. Salzberg, and variations thereof. The sketch was written for Marty Feldman back in the "1948 Show", and was fueled by lingering hostility over Cleese and Chapman's experience writing "The Magic Christian." I think it was just (sniffle) too close. (choke) 

That's not what I put in there!

And that's number six. Some classic sketches erupting, and some mediocrities oozing out as well. Still, the show's fast gallop keeps us forever looking to the next, the new. The boys seem to have their (lack of) format down, and everyone is at ease with it.

Everyone but Michelangelo. He's a little pissed off. He doesn't like people messing with his seminal masterpieces


Next week; Episode 7 - "You're No Fun Anymore."

Ports in a Storm of Sanity

Back in the 70s, when I was a kid, everyone talked about Saturday Night Live, but nobody talked about Monty Python.
I'd seen Monty Python film clips on American comedy shows, and I'd seen the film ads for "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" but my first complete exposure to Monty Python's Flying Circus was the Columbia House 8-track I ordered entitled "Monty Python Live at City Center." I was on a comedy kick, purchasing Redd Foxx 8-tracks and Steve Martin 8-tracks and the Carpenters 8-tracks. Part of the allure, I confess, was all the dirty words.

Unlike the show, (which I hadn't seen yet,) the Python sketches were a low bar introduction to the troupe, with easy to get bits like Dead Parrot, Whizzo, the Argument Clinic, and all the songs. I listened fervently and often, and soon found myself reciting the Dead Parrot sketch, as well as the Neil Innes songs, to some very mystified friends.
But one friend wasn't mystified. She had seen some episodes on PBS, and she knew more about Monty Python then me (although she  didn't know where they inserted the naughty bits during the live shows.) She was an odd little misfit, with a bizarre obsession for Robert Shaw (she'd actually seen the movie "Swashbuckler",) but we could quote sketches, or bits of sketches, and crack each other up instantaneously.
Later on in college, people sustained an ironic distance from everything. They all knew of Monty Python, but had the same relationship to the show that they had to, say, oxygen. The dorm would occasionally show "The Holy Grail" and the place would be crowded.  but it was more an excuse to drink than anything else.
But there was one girl who wore a home made t-shirt, the front of which read "Who the hell is Monty Python?" the back of which read "Piss off!" She knew things about Monty Python I didn't know. For instance, she had their record albums. I'd heard the Holy Grail soundtrack, and of course, the above 8-track, but that was it. She let me borrow the albums, and I'm ashamed to admit that she had to ask for them back. She was an odd little misfit, with a bizarre obsession for the Beatles, but an obscure reference to Monty Python's Flying Circus could make the two of us share a secret smile in a room full of unaware philistines.
Later, married with child, I found myself working as a waiter at a resort up in the hills of rural Pennsylvania. Most of my fellow waiters (servers, this place called them,) were local kids or their mothers, almost none of whom had heard of Monty Python beyond The Holy Grail"-- but there was one guy, who worked for the social department of the resort. For some reason, others at the resort insisted we meet. They seemed to think us the "same type." Soon one of us dropped a Monty Python reference, and we were off to the Twit races! I would recite the "Professional Logician" bit from the Holy Grail soundtrack, and have him rolling on the floor. My wife and I would invite him to dinner, and when the quotes started flying, my wife would just look at us and ask "Where did you go?" He was an odd little misfit, with an obsession for Kerouac and bedding unavailable women, but we spent hours wiping tears of laughter from our faces as we discovered Monty Python cues in the unlikely haven of rural Pennsylvania.
It astonishes me how rare it is to find true Monty Python aficionados. I know they're out there. You just don't typically run into them in the course of a day. But the good news is, it doesn't take many. If your local Monty Python fan club counts just one person, you, that can feel lonely and alienating. But if just one other person joins the club, you go from alienated to exquisitely exclusive.
So this post is a thank you to all the misfits out there. I don't know what a normal guy like me was doing with the likes of you... unless I'm something of a misfit, myself... but I'm immensely grateful.

Episode 5 - Man's Crisis of Identity in the Latter Half of the Twentieth Century

Before we begin, I want to give a big fat Birthday shout out to my daughter, who doesn't read this blog! She is 19 years old today. One morning, before she was two, as we sat at the breakfast table, she suddenly went "Ahhh!"

"What, sweetie pie?" we asked, alarmed. "What was that?"

"That was a baby going 'Ahhh!'" she smiled. Not even two years old, and she was already grasping the meta-humor that would make Monty Python so inimitable. So Happy Birthday, darlin'! Thanks for making me laugh for the last nineteen years!

Now, onto the show at hand--

"Blimey! Whatever did I give the wife?" - Graham Chapman as PC Henry Thatcher

According to Michael Palin's Diaries, Monty Python's Flying Circus was suddenly and unaccountably swept off the air for two weeks after the 4th show. The BBC probably thought no one would notice, and would placidly watch whatever else they parked in the Sunday night 11:10 time slot. But by this time, Monty Python had begin to find its fan base, and some of them worked for the media. MPFK was lauded as a new revolution in comedy, a brisk wake-up call to the other more comfortable comedy shows. (I'm looking at you, David Frost!) So, without fanfare, apology or explanation, the BBC permitted further episodes of Monty Python to run on into the late autumn nights.

We begin with the "It's" Man, rowing a boat down a river to the shore, where he starts the show with our favorite contraction. I am increasingly impressed with Palin's manly facility. After last week's climb up a steep rock wall, tonight he rows a boat, steers it to shore, finds his mark, and stands up in the boat, all in character, without a single dry heave. I'm going to be very careful with what I say about his diaries in the future, or he will kick my ass!

The titles begin, with a new flourish John Cleese's reserved, understated "Monty Python's Flying Circus" has been replaced with a more rambunctious Cleese in an exaggerated, nasal British twang; "Moh-Ee Python's Flying Cerrr-CUS!" No longer content to trade on false propriety, Cleese just gets silly.

"I Hope to God it Worked..."

The location: "Suburban Lounge near Esher". An anxious couple, played by Palin and Jones, look at their cat on the lawn. Soon, a vet, played by Chapman, arrives. Chapman seems to be in a different sketch than Palin and Jones. Chapman is all goofy rectitude as he explains to the worried couple that their cat needs to be confused. Palin and Jones, on the other hand, go deep with their characters, with Palin particularly funny as the henpecked husband, being shushed constantly.

Then the sketch clarifies with a bit of film, showing a paramilitary organization whose sole mission is feline bafflement. Cleese, as the head officer, unfolds himself out of a car and gives a scarcely discernible pep talk-- the words aren't necessary-- his entitled attitude is everything. After building a stage and performing a ludicrous series of surreal pantomimes, the mission is accomplished. The cat, mobile again, trots past Cleese and the worried couple.

The closing line "It's all in a day's work for Confuse-A-Cat" is reminiscent of the closing line of the Bicycle Repairman sketch. Palin says "It's all in a day's work for Bicycle Repairman" with gracious, working-class modesty, snorting afterwards. But it's one note compared to Cleese's multi-tiered delivery, his geniality turning into cold determination as he glares into the camera. It's all affectation with Cleese, but his specificity is brilliant.

A shot of Cleese with titles showing a bewildering variety of similar enterprises, such as "Stun-A-Stoat Ltd" turns into a short animation from Gilliam that links us to the next sketch-- The Customs Sketch. This sketch is a delight! Self-contained and pretty routine, it is made transcendental by the duo of Cleese and Palin. Palin is hilariously shifty, and it seems all Cleese can do to keep a straight face-- but he just manages. Unlike the previous sketch, the differing styles meld exquisitely in this sketch. You really get the sense that Cleese and Palin like, admire and complement each others styles.

Jones, in close up so intimate I feel like I have to call him the next morning, introduces animals on a panel interview show. The animals are all stuffed, and look funny/scary. (I personally wouldn't have owned that cat if it were alive.) A series of on-the-street interviews follows, each one funny. It's notable for the first appearance of a Gumby-esque character that eats squirrels and votes Conservative. Although he lacks the brainless adorability of the Gumbys from later episodes, he does wear the napkin on his head. In the middle of his rant, the chicken-wielding knight clomps in and knocks him out of frame.

And who the hell is Margaret Drabble?

The various interviews lead us to another short stand-alone sketch with a brilliant Chapman-esque punchline. These guys may not respect punch lines as a device, but they sure know how to pull one out when they feel like it. This is the first of Chapman's Constable appearances, very ineptly planting illicit drugs on Idle. Frankly, I want to see more of police dog Josephine.

Goofy letters complaining about things follow-- always a treat. The second one is notable because a mere thirty years after the start of WWII, the Circusians mock sentimentalizing it. I wonder if the day will ever come here in the States when it will be okay to make light of 9/11 sentimentalization. Right now, it's a prerequisite for public office. More street interviews, including my favorite from this show, Cleese's final solution for the lower classes. Release the vultures!

A weird mind-bender follows with Eric Idle as a newscaster reporting on his own arrest. He leads us to "Match of the Day", with Terry Jones and Carol Cleveland macking out. It turns out all Terry Jones wanted her for was her projector. I tried to find a picture of the two of them, but haven't been able to, so here's one of her. You're welcome!

Check out that navel!

Bevis the film geek takes us to a Gilliam commercial spoof-- this one better than many of his others. This time, he spoofs Charles Atlas. We all grew up with those comic book adverts, and apparently Gilliam found it as silly as everyone else in the world. But he manages to find different types of jokes to throw in, even if he literally resorts to gay-bashing to do it. The final shot is unexpected, beautifully set up, and hilarious!

Next comes a Cleese/Chapman sketch about management training. Cleese tosses maddening hints at Chapman, who (like the audience) has no idea what he's supposed to do. The sketch is an odd one, bordering on sadism, but Cleese sillies it up, and it builds to a very funny (if by now cliche) ending. I've seen this performed before, in the Cleese special "How to Irritate People" (by before, I mean that it was performed before Monty Python-- I saw the Python version first.) and it was strange then, too. It seems to want to be a piece of commentary against opaque corporate conformity, and as such, is somehow too earnest for this silly show.

But any earnestness is shredded by Palin, who steps in with commentary from the Career Advisory Board, of which he is Chairman. ("I wanted to be a doctor, but there you are.") He gives us a hilarious example of a successful encyclopedia salesman, as played by Idle, and an equally funny example of an unsuccessful encyclopedia salesman, and his twins, reminiscent of the death of Admiral Nelson. He signals to himself as the "It's" Man, who rows, rows, rows his boat away.

Just as Show #3 was film heavy, this one is sketch heavy. The links, with two exceptions, feel less inspired than usual, and apart from the commercial spoof and the short, short, short bit at the beginning, there is little contribution from Gilliam. This is as close as Monty Python comes to a standard sketch comedy show. But the sketches themselves are brilliant enough to sustain a down day on the Terry Jones front. (He must have shot his load during the "Confuse-a-Cat" show.) The bench is deep at the Flying Circus. We're also seeing the beginning of one of my favorite collaborations in the group-- Palin and Cleese.

Next week; The Ant- An Introduction