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.
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| Behind you! The Chicken! Look out! |
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.
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