Episode 11 - "The Royal Philharmonic Goes to the Bathroom"

"She [the cat] flies across the studio and lands in a bucket of water."
"By herself?"
"No, I fling her." - Graham Chapman as the cat flinging Don Savage, with Michael Palin as the Host of "Interesting People".

Monty Python's Flying Circus, due to the nature of its many brilliant creators, was persistently locked in a struggle between form (as exemplified by Jones, Palin and Gilliam and their right brain "stream of consciousness" attack) and content (practiced by Cleese, Chapman and Idle and their Apollonian plays on words and logic.) Oxford v. Cambridge. But the show worked best when both sides were ably represented, great sketches warped at the ends by great absurdity. This particular episode seems to be light on content. Few of the sketches seem to be inspired or very original (with one brilliant exception) and it falls to the flow to keep us entertained. This episode is a case study displaying the advantages of the Oxford vision. This is Terry Jones' show.

As always, if you haven't purchased the box set yet, what the hell are you waiting for? Buy it here! I promise, I'm not making a dime off of the sale, but hopefully the Circusians are. With the box set, you can watch along with me and yell at me when I get something wrong. If you've never yelled at me before, I guarantee it's worth the price of a box set. My lip trembles, sometimes I soil myself-- it's awesome!

Speaking of soiling yourself, let's get to this week's scatological offering. Flung at us first is the "It's" Man, crossing the near side of a busy London roundabout in skittery fast motion. Managing (intermittently) to avoid those funny box-like 60's Eurocars, he barely manages to say his piece before he is flattened by a beautiful blonde with a baby stroller. The Titles follow, and the show begins properly-- or improperly.

First caption reads "Episode Two's". The first in a series of potty jokes, "two" being a euphemism for shit? Next, the show's title "The Royal Philharmonic Goes to the Bathroom." Palin delivers the one joke joke, stepping up to a clearly labeled "Bathroom" door and knocking. In response, Rachmaninov's Warsaw Concerto plays from behind the door. Palin rolls his eyes. A whole orchestra? This is gonna be quite the wait. (But still shorter than the ladies room, I'll wager.)

"Engaged" The Potty Mouth.

The complaint letters start to flow immediately, the first written by an unfortunately named prude and voiced by Cleese. Placating Mr. Voyeur, they show a British Olympian in action-- and a second letter of complaint erupts, voiced by Idle, insisting there's nothing disgusting about the human body (intestines excluded.) A third letter, Palin, complains about the other letters being written for a cheap laugh, and signs off "William Knickers". Footage of the Philharmonic, with toilet sounds spliced in, sends an animated yet disgusted audience grumbling out into the streets. A balloon advertising Acme toilets ("As Used by the Royal Philharmonic") rises out of the isolated concert hall, then explodes to reveal another disgusted audience member-- with a flush handle wedged in his right temple. He is himself a toilet. ("Gaze not into the abyss...") You may recognize the top of his head from the titles-- naked ladies burst from it. Once flushed, we pan up to asylum bars, and through them we see a 16th century drawing. The Pythons have played out this particular stream of excrement, and we're ready to wipe, wash and get on with our day. But we get the sense that they could have gone on all day. Kind of like watching the Globetrotters pass the ball around, only instead of a basketball, it's a bolus.

"Those were the days..."

The 16th century drawing turns out to be a graphic for what would seem to be a sketch. It's a TV show about the World of History, hosted by Chapman as Professor R.J. Canning. He recites a litany of horrible and impressive plagues from history-- only to be interrupted by wistful undertakers on film, sitting on a coffin; "Those were the days!"
Back in the studio, the Professor, pride stung, insists to the clapping crew that he won't continue the show unless the interruptions stopped. He is promptly interrupted by another film of two undertakers (Chapman and Jones) racing their hearses. The film is oddly edited, relying on long shots of the road and tight close-ups of the drivers, with exaggerated competitive expressions.

See? I'm being competitive!

(Chapman pulls his lips back to his ears, Jones pulls his down to his Adam's apple.) They crash off screen ("Screech! Crash! Camera Jiggle!") near an "accident black spot" sign-- a British thing, I imagine, that denotes the site of a hazardous part of the road or a fatal collision in the past. Near the sign, other undertakers enjoy a picnic, content in the knowledge that business will soon pick up. We cut back to the studio, and Professor Canning is putting on his coat and walking out. "Don't zoom in on me, either. I'm off!" We can't say he didn't warn us. Fortunately, Jones' undertaker is there to fill the void. "Depressed?" he asks. "Tired of life?... Keep it up." This is the next thread in the show's tapestry, from toilets to undertakers. Jones has made short work of that sketch. It exists only to be interrupted by random silliness.

"Meanwhile, Inside..." a caption informs us, and another sketch tries to get going, an Agatha Christie spoof with Cleese as Inspector Tiger and Carol Cleveland and Chapman as the upper class couple in the drawing room, with a blonde daughter and Gilliam as the chauffeur. This sketch is actually four different bits rolled up into one sketch-- maybe five. The first bit is Cleese trying to say the phrase "I must ask that nobody leave the room," and never getting it right. He parses every possible permutation, and keeps juuuust missing. "Everyone must leave the room, as it is, with them in it." While I freely admit that this sketch is frustrating for me, ("Just say it! SAY IT!") it never fails to reduce my wife to helpless laughter. She is something of a semantics junkie, and probably has an inner struggle similar to Tiger's with every sentence she utters. (For further ways on how to reduce my wife to helpless laughter, please see our honeymoon video.) The second bit is the funny name bit. When Cleese announces that his name is Inspector Tiger, the room responds "Tiger?" "Where!? Where?!" Cleese screams. (Ah, that smart British comedy. It doesn't matter how well educated or paid a comedian is, he will never pass up a joke that would make a five year-old laugh.) The third bit is the re-enactment of the crime. After Cleese's lobotomy (just watch the sketch!) he discovers that there hasn't been a murder. Fortunately for him, the lights go off, and a murder ocurrs--

his, by poison, arrow and gunshot. Idle walks in, and after some silliness, decides to re-enact the crime. Said re-enactment results in his death. A third inspector... a fourth... The fourth bit, of course, is that this whole thing is a spoof of the uniquely British Agatha Christie and her drawing room mysteries. It's a funny sketch, but a bit on the empty side. It's like a dog trying to find a good place to lie down, circling here, then sniffing out a possibility there, back to the first, onto a third. With no end in sight, the sketch is interrupted by Jones' undertaker, who promises to return the minute "something interesting happens." Score another for form, naught for content.

We cut to film clip of four Undertakers carrying a coffin on their shoulders. Exhausted by their burden, they exchange furtive glances-- and dump the body. The funereal jazz picks up a New Orleans tempo, and they prance off with the empty coffin. This is the third of many short film clips involving undertakers in black suits, top hats and shroud. This is Jones at work, getting his Keaton on. Earlier, his silent films such as "Changing on the Beach" had a self-conscious quality, but he seems to have thrown that off, embracing a (slightly) more realistic, less stylized approach. These are funnier, darker, and more in keeping with the emerging Python tone.

We interrupt this blog to bring you the letter that interrupts the show at this moment in the blog's recounting...

Back in studio, we manage to get through the bulk of a sketch. Idle as heady sports commentator Brian, using every four-syllable word in the book, evokes an ostentatious Howard Cosell or Keith Olbermann as he introduces the moronic Jimmy Buzzard, played by Cleese. As Idle poses questions to Cleese with phrases like "limpid tentacles" and "ceded midfield dominance", Cleese can only stare dumbly back, his arms crossed stiffly. When asked about his soccer strategy, he finally manages to claim "I'm opening a boutique." It's a funny bit, revealing the layers of hyper-intellectual nonsense we project onto what is essentially a simple physical act. Both Idle and Cleese are perfect; Cleese staring at the expectant Idle, hazel eyes so large and uncomprehending-- so, so empty in there.

So empty... So very empty...

But death waits for no man. Jones' Undertaker interrupts again to take us back to the Agatha Christie drawing room, where uniformed bodies are piling up, 13 Constables 13 to 9 Superintendents. The crowd goes wild!

Back to the Undertakers. They essentially function as the Pigs and Sheep did in the first two shows, only with more screen time given to them. To the Funeral March, the morbid quartet lug a coffin uphill. One passes out, exhausted. The remaining three set the coffin down, pull out a rested Undertaker, put the collpased one in the coffin and continue on their way.  They turn into Gilliam-animated figures with only a slightly jarring hitch in the music. They labor up a hill-- but it tuns out the hill is the thigh of a naked lady, who splats them into nothingness. Another naked lady pops up, and as the catty insults fly, they physically mutilate each other in ways only Gilliam could imagine-- hidden cannibals in their neck, rifles jutting from their armpit. It must be terrifying in Terry's brain.

We awkwardlky cross fade to the next sketch, a TV show called "Interesting People", hosted by the gum-chewing Palin. This is Python taking yet another stab at the banality of television, breathlessly racing from one silly bit to the next. I actually remember a show called "That's Incredible!" in the 70s, that did the same thing Python spoofs a decade earlier. Talk about being ahead of your time! Palin darts from silly guest to silly guest, including Mr. Stools, a .5-inch match look-alike,; a hypnotist that puts bricks to sleep; and a cat that flies across the room into a bucket of water, but only when flung. (Hey... my cat can do that!) One guest we don't see; a man who can recite the entire bible in one second while being struck on the head with an axe. Turns out he was a fraud. Palin, affable, smarmy and energetic, controls the insane applause with a twist of the knob. It's fun to see him actually respond to the audience, waiting for laughs and repeating lines that got chortled over. Cleese giving a cat influenza, as well as the sound of the cat meowing and sneezing, are my favorites, and the dour, solemn Bicycle Choir singing "All Through The Night" is something that pops up in our silly recitations around the house. This is the longest sketch of the episode, but it doesn't really play as a sketch, any more than a talent show would play as one act. It's a random train of silliness, with a lot of fun moments, but it never really rises to greatness or coherence.   Palin introduces "Four Tired Undertakers", and we're back to the videotape!

In a variation on the previous bit "undertaken," (heh-heh,) the grim reapers labor beneath a coffin. One collapses. The other three put him in the coffin. By the way, in addition to being brilliant writers, these guys could take a fall! All of the various collapses are worthy of Chevy Chase. Another one succumbs, and they out him in the casket. The third falls to the ground, the last undertaker standing barely manages to get him in the coffin, (it takes some kicking,) and finally, too tired to continue-- he himself climbs into the coffin. How did they get all four undertakers (and the ostensible, original corpse) in the coffin? Cinema magic! Enjoy the foleyed gasps and grunts as Jones struggles with the last fellow interer. Then the coffin moves independently to the graveyard. (Cinema magic!)

We cut quickly to Brian and Buzzard, who announces that he's fallen off his chair while eating a banana. Back at the graveyard, there's another Jones-ian silent bit, with a bunch of strange people scrambling out of the freshly dug grave, (How did they get so many people in the grave? Cinema magic!) and the coffin obediently buries itself. A quick animated link follows, with all the various coffins underground tittering and yelling at one another-- a slice of afterlife, if you will-- before a police constable pounds on the ground, pushing it down out of frame. He apologizes, and flashes us with one of the nicest naked bodies in the history of naked constables.

This awesome and surprising visual gag turns out to be a link! To the music of a brassy horn, we fade to a montage of more naked women. What's the name of this new naked lady show? "The World of History" Yes! We're back to the history show that the Professor walked out on earlier, only with a more salacious introduction. Naked women beat the bubonic plague any day.

This bit takes a simple idea-- using sex to sell history-- and totally gets to third base with it! The lesson for today is "Social Legislation in the 18th Century." Our instructor, A.J.P. Taylor, is Carol Cleveland! Cavorting on a bed and wearing silky lingerie! The best-kept secret is out-- Historical Sociology has the best professors. But strangely, and this is a bit of a turn-off for me, Professor Taylor's voice is mannish, deep... one might say Cleese-ian. Yes, Carol Cleveland is lip-synching to Cleese's history lesson. This predates the Michael Jackson Superbowl scandal in the 80s, but sadly it lags far behind the Debbie Reynolds scandal of the 50's, caught live on film in "Singin' in the Rain." As Carol tries to mouth Cleese's slowly spoken monologue whilst vogue-ing provocatively, the overall effect is surreal and stilted. The monologue feels like it was taken right out of a text book, with no jokes slipped in. That's the point, I understand, but the joke is so conceptual, it's not funny. It's just strange, almost vertiginous.
But then again, Carol Cleveland in lingerie often makes me dizzy. Before his/her lesson gets going, she takes a break with a new Monty Python catch phrase, and one destined to become a classic. "But first, a bit of fun."

A quick, frantic, fast-motion strip-tease follows (these guys are so smart!) and we're back to the lesson. Professor Taylor introduces Gert Vander-Whoops! (Palin), who also lies in a bed, wearing a suit and tie and teaching in a chirpy Dutch falsetto. Lying beside him is a gorgeous blonde nuzzling his neck and unbuttoning his tie. "But first, a bit of fun," he inserts, and grabs the girl.

Apropos of absolutely nothing, Jones floats down with angel wings, accompanied by a heavenly choir. It's random, it's silly-- and in this particular case, it doesn't work. It just comes across as obnoxiously absurd. Jones is flaunting his anarchist tendencies for their own sake. Announcing none other than Professor R.J. Canning, or Chapman from the earlier bit at the beginning, he rises, winched up by some underpaid crewman, no doubt.

After some brief Suess-ian nonsense, Chapman raises a controversial question about the Battle of Trafalgar, based on the views of-- Professor R.J. Gumby! Making his second appearance in 3 episodes, it can be assumed that the good professor found favor in the hearts and minds of the Python crew. His costume is codified now-- sweater vest over white long sleeve shirt rolled up to the elbows, suspenders pulling pants up into camel-toe discomfort, rolled up to the knees, with galoshes on his feet, a napkin tied up on his head, moustache, glasses and gorilla posture. He bellows, every word emphasized, wounded confusion on his face as he struggles dimly to comprehend the insane world. Played this time by Palin, with Jones standing by for support, Gumby claims that Drake fought the Battle of Trafalgar on dry land to confuse the German fleet-- then promptly forgets his theory. It's fun seeing Palin's studied and exact performance. When formulating an answer, he looks off left, then up, then down, then right, before the answer comes to him. When asked to repeat his answer, he looks around in the exact same sequence (although this time, the process doesn't help him.) We soon see that Gumby has many supporters-- all of them fellow Gumbies, played by Idle, Chapman and Cleese. Idle and Cleese seem vaguely uncertain, stammering through their bits, but Chapman is particularly bombastic, standing before a church, waving his arms stiffly, bellowing "Well! Well!" Palin's performance will win out in future appearances, all of the Circusians Gumby-ing Palin style. These guys have found a winner in Professor Gumby.

We cut back to Carol Cleveland, summing up the Trafalgar controversy, and offering for sale what looks like a hand mixer but what is probably some sort of pre-70s sex toy. While we may mourn what has happened to sketch comedy since the '70s, I think we can all agree that we're better of with the current crop of sex toys. Professor Canning returns with an intro into another great historical epic battle, Pearl Harbor, and we arrive at what may be the most classic moment in this particular show.

The picture can't do it justice...

Canning promises a re-enactment of Pearl Harbor by the women of the Battersly Townswomens Guild. We cut to film of the entire group, including Gilliam, all dressed as women with purses and hats. Idle, their leader, looking as pretty as ever, very sweetly sums up the history of the Townswomen's productions, including Nazi War Atrocities. With cows in the background, Idle blows the whistle to start the Pearl Harbor reenactment-- And the women come rushing in, swatting, punching, kicking and screaming at each other as they roll around in the mud. This bit is hysterical! It deservedly holds a high berth in the Python canon, from the sweet, misleading set-up (Idle is so sweet, you think you'll just see some well-intentioned but bad theater,)  to the violent, semi-obscene pay-off, all in the context of historical drama-- it's just sublime. Intelligence, mocked intelligently. Towards the end of the melee, a pig walks into frame-- lest you think they were green-screening it. It was apparently miserable to film in the British autumn. Beyond any bruises or contusions that may have occurred, (they really go after one another!) once they got all filthy and wet and cold, there was apparently no place to change, wash off or warm up, according to Kim "Howard" Johnson's book. They walked around North Yorkshire in dirty stockings and bras, waiting for the cold tap in the farm outhouse to become available. But what are you gonna do? Give up show business?

Professor Canning returns, apologizing for getting upset earlier at the filmed interruptions-- and he's interrupted again by film of Cleese as the priest back at the graveyard, throwing mud into the grave, and getting some thrown back at him. Angry, he pulls a gun, shoots the corpse, and continues with his blessing. This is one of those Jones shots, camera low, looking up at Cleese, who, already tall, looms over us like Godzilla. When he pulls out the gun, his angry face smeared with mud, the gun hand huge in the foreground, it looks more scary than funny. Finally, the undertakers make their last appearance, walking gravely from the grave, getting in their car, and as they make a U-turn, we see that there is another side to them, as well as their hearse. Festooned with bright colored flowers, they zip off down the street to a weird electronic version of "There's No Business Like Show Business" whooping and laughing.

Back at the studio, Canning is still explaining his previous snit. But the show is over. He commands the "It's" Man to deliver his message to Lord Hill, and as the credits roll, Palin oh-so-cautiously crosses the street to the roundabout, flinching at the very possibility of cars. He makes it to the sidewalk-- only to be run over by the same stroller that struck him the first time. I'm sorry, he should have seen that coming.

Earlier in the season, the Circusians created sketches (content), and created a free-flowing form (form) for transitions between the sketches. This show scarcely contained any sketches. Of the three, only the Brian/Buzzard interview seems to arc or suggest the promise of conflict. The other, longer sketches functioned more as a train of absurdity, themselves a series of unrelated gags, much like the links surrounding them. In fact, the purpose of the sketches, in this show, seems to be to link the links. That we hardly notice this dynamic indicates the triumph of Terry Jones and his vision. Monty Python's Flying Circus is a sketch show that doesn't even need sketches. This first example of flying without a net (appropriate for a flying circus) bespeaks a confidence, even a brashness. It explains Jones' belligerent angel-- "Watch me fly, bitches!" Sometimes, the humor suffers a bit as we try to gain our footing. But at the same time, the boys are learning to work fast to get their laughs, creating minute long bits like cherry bombs flung at us. Sometimes the cat hits the bucket of water, and sometimes it doesn't, but even the misses are fun.

Next week; Content's Triumphant Return in Episode 12 - The Naked Ant

 

Episode 10 - "Untitled"

"Adopt, adapt and improve. Motto at the Round Table." - John Cleese as the Lingerie Robber.

Back again, for the whopping 10th episode. Many of the better early Python episodes demonstrate a cohesion of styles-- Cleese getting silly, Palin bringing his exquisite talents to a straight up sketch, all of them working as a team on a film like "Bicycle Repairman". But some of the shows regress a bit, and we have a variety of styles that aren't quite gelling. This is one such episode, a pastiche of sketches and bits that never really come together into the joyous and explosive whole ("Oy, my explosive whole!") that we equate with the best of Python. Never mind. It's still better than the best episode of "Friends." Yes, I went there! As always, please buy the box set. Stop peeking through the curtains like a pathetic, timid voyeur-- pay the cover charge, get undressed, and join the orgy. That syphilis ain't gonna spread itself. 

We begin with a long slow pan and zoom to Palin as the "It's" Man, hanging from a meat hook alongside a bunch of dead pigs. As the camera takes its sweet time getting close on his face, as a slow and sonorous funeral march plays, Palin's eyes dart anxiously about, taking in his dilemma. He holds his hands up, like a kitten being held by the scruff. Suddenly, his eyes seem to clarify with awareness and purpose. "It's!" he rasps emphatically. The subtext-- "Help!" One of his best performances. The Titles unfold, (with applause following Cleese's announcement,) and we're off!

Next, we see a great example of the mind of Terry Jones at work. We cut to a lingerie shop. Idle behind the counter in a suit, Cleese in a horizontally striped shirt and mask pulled up onto his forehead. Mannequins in lacy underwear stand nearby. Cleese paces, irritated. "Where is he?" he mutters to Idle, who shrugs, bored. Cut now to a filmic close-up of a BBC form letter, and we pull back to reveal Palin and Jones as a married couple. (Spoiler alert! Jones is the woman!) Palin reads a letter which asks him to be in a BBC sketch. Now we know that Cleese and Idle are waiting for this dim plumber, who is only now waking up to the fact that he's gonna be a TV star. Jones' encouragement is hilarious, ("Look at Mrs. Brando's son next door. He was mending the fridge when they came and asked him to be the Wild One.") and despite his resistance ("What about the cat?") she sends him off with a hearty "Mind you don't get seduced!" He doesn't even leave through the door-- he leaves through the fourth wall, right onto the television screen! As soon as he leaves, he turns on the television, and there he is, greeting the actors, finding his mark, and walking off.

What a long way to start a sketch! Still, it's full of all that great Python stuff-- the meta humor, the doubling down on a middling concept, and of course, the silliness. Palin and Jones' portrayal of a typical English couple is fond and sweet. The audience seems mystified, or lulled, by the lyrical quality, and the great jokes slip past them like serial killers in the fog, only to come up later on the third viewing. I have no evidence to hand that the Jones/Palin team wrote this intro, but it feels like them. It's too subtle to ever play in a stage show, few people quote it, but it's a hidden gem-- except for the hidden part. They only open the show with it.

 Now that the sketch has been properly introduced, we begin. Cleese silly walks in through the shop window, his gun held out rigidly, mask in place. Clearing his throat, he politely attempts to rob what he thinks is a bank, only it's a lingerie shop, and the best he can hope for is a pair of knickers. Anticipating the self-improvement wave of the current era, he mantras himself into a positive interpretation of his massive blunder. Idle, smiling ostentatiously as the gun wedges into his nose, exudes British loathing, killing this hapless burglar with kindness. A one joke sketch overall, but well-performed by both Cleese and Idle, and strip-mined for every possible laugh.

Chapman cuts in with rambling, smarmy gay host David Unction, fake-tittering at the mention of the word "knickers". He links us to the next sketch, a talk show spoof hosted by a tree. (Remember David Hemmings played by a piece of wood?) The tree puppets used in the sketch are grotesque, with only mouths to denote a face, and only the one lip moves. No wonder we take an axe to these freaks of nature. If they didn't spew out oxygen with every breath, they'd be outta here! The sketch is random bits of silliness, perfect for exposing the self-congratulatory bullshit that passes for entertaining conversation on talk shows.

The jokes are multi-layered-- intentional or oft-told jokes from a tree's perspective, but relatively incomprehensible to us, and thus, funny. The unspoken question of who the hell cares what a tree thinks about teenage violence is a silent yet powerful rebuke to the activist stars (on both sides) that still plague the celebri-verse. The applauding audience is a forest. "Put your twigs together..."This feels like an Idle bit, and he chews the scenery with his David Frost impersonation ("SEW-pah!"). It doesn't get very far before we segue into a Gilliam animated bit with a performing Chippendale desk who winds up getting hammered-- literally. A long, long fanfare, capped off with a barbershop quartet harmony from the boys, (Cleese gets the last note-- funny!) and we get to the Vocational Guidance Counsellor Sketch.

This is back to the precise, clinical dissection of human nature that Cleese/Chapman excelled at. A young man comes in to change his job, only to be told that he's too "irrepressibly drab and awful" to be anything other than a chartered accountant, which is what he already is. His lion taming dreams are shattered. The jokes are great, the sketch builds nicely, with a quick call back to Episode 3 ("The Larch.") and it ends as an infomercial on the dangers of being an accountant. I love this sketch, I don't know why exactly. Palin reprises his Pewty character, this time as Mr. Entropy, and Cleese has great bits describing Entropy, and the lion.The sketch only gets more cruel when you realize that Cleese's dad was a chartered accountant. Suh-NAP! This is one of the many sketches Cleese and Chapman wrote mocking the honored profession, the first of which was for the "1948 Show" and is embedded below. Enjoy. It's funny, and ol' Wall Eyes himself, Marty Feldman, is in it. Sorry for the glitches-- I didn't upload it.
After the Vocational Guidance Counsellor Sketch, we catch David Unction looking at a men's body building magazine. This was before straight men read those things. He's called out by Jones as a Viking, and we cut to film of the sea, and Mr. Ron Obvious running alongside it. What follows is a long film bit showing the travails of Jones as Obvious, trying, at the urging of his manager Luigi Vercotti, to accomplish one impossible feat after another, from jumping the channel to eating a cathedral. It's fun to see Cleese, as the TV announcer, trying to keep Jones herded for the camera.
The film clip is funny, but the pain is too real somehow. Jones, as the game, gullible Obvious, is heartbreaking in this allegory of celebrity exploitation. It seems ridiculous that we can be made to care about someone who died while trying to leap into orbit, but there you go. Even the Circusians suspected what was going on, giving the Obvious sketch a tragic ending in a cemetery. Complete with a long zoom out, and an offscreen couple expressing confusion. "Satire? But this is zany madcap humor."

As if on cue, in walks Cleese into a pet shop. The set-up, so terribly similar to another pet shop sketch we've discussed just a couple of posts ago, quickly distinguishes itself from the famous "Parrot Sketch." Cleese wants a cat. The pet shop doesn't have any. But they offer to "customize" a terrier. "I'll file its legs down a bit, take its snout off, stick a few wires in its cheeks, there you are, a lovely pussycat." When challenged that the terrier wouldn't meow, Palin replies, "Well, it would howl a bit." After a few more exchanges along these lines, Cleese finally agrees to turning the terrier into a fish-- "But only if I get to watch." And the yo-yo dances, taking us from empathy to cruelty, back to empathy, back to cruelty, both sides locked in life or death struggle for our sensibilities, neither side winning the tug-of-war.

Anyone?

A series of quick one-offs accusing the show of being predictable (huh!) links us to the next sketch, with Chapman, Jones and an unnamed woman comprising a panel tasked with hiring a librarian. They interview Idle, dressed as a gorilla. This sketch is inscrutable to me. It has all the ornate silliness that you'd expect, with Chapman in the lead. His daydream of a panther ripping open a complaining readers throat is funny. Jones as a clergyman (occasionally stopping the sketch to inquire about a gladiator picture Chapman is looking at) gets some laughs with his prurient smile. But overall, I just don't get this. I've not found any literature on it, so if anyone could explain it to me, I'd appreciate it. Something to do with people being threatened by books? I don't know...

The bits that follow include letters to the editor, or an advice columnist called "Old Codgers", which I like. The letters are read by a person, and the response is a short, pithy meaningless phrase read by Idle and someone else, in unison, always ends with the title "Ma'am." A letter reading "Dear Old Codgers, I am President of the United States of America. Yours truly, R.M. Nixon" gets the reply "Phew! Bet that's  job and a half, Ma'am." I don't get this bit either, but it's still funny. Often around the house, we'll speak in the same sing-songy cadence as the Old Codgers. "Those shoes are quite the pair, Ma'am." The Old Codgers links us to the next sketch--

Next, we get Palin and Jones as a couple once again, in bed this time, asleep. This sketch even starts off with an intro pan, and goofy music playing. It's like suddenly, we're on the Lucy show!

The sketch feels like it was written for a prior gig by one of the guys. Essentially, a parade of passionate lovers visits the bedside of this homely woman (sorry, Terry-- you're no Carol Cleveland!) including a mariachi band. The husband occasionally rouses, stopping the proceedings, but goes back to sleep once mollified. Even if you've never seen this sketch before, you've seen it a million times. It's that old. Still, Monty manages to surprise us. First, we meet Biggles, the anachronistic sky-captain, and his partner Algie. We'll see them again, but this is their first appearance. Second, Palin gets up to tinkle, and the others reprimand him for not finishing the sketch. "There's only another bally page!" whines Algie. This pedestrian sketch all of a sudden seems pedestrian by design, luring us into an awkward position and ripping the rug from under us. It's fun to see everyone together in the room, and the performances are all good-- I especially like Idle's Frenchman. "Come to mah urrrrrrms!" But it feels like we spend way too much time in self-aware predictability, just to enjoy a brief second of inspiration. In the lavatory, Palin, the dozing husband, meets his blonde mistress and delivers the obligatory punch line. A quick series of animated animals devouring each other while discussing the predictability of the last sketch feels oddly disjointed. Still, if you've never seen an ostrich eat an alligator, it's not to be missed. The "It's" Man is motored into the abattoir, someone walks out with his entrails, and another show is finished.

Many of these sketches were originally written for other episodes, and it shows. Though every moment is touched by geniuses, the sum is never more than the parts, and the vertiginous leaps in tone and world view give us less a flow than a series of jolts. Clearly, the Circusians are adopting many new styles in their team effort, but they still haven't consistently managed to adapt to one another. That improvement will come. In the meantime, we can still enjoy the individual pieces, and delight in the incongruence, as depicted below. Thank you, Terry Gilliam, for so exquisitely rendering a portrait of the group at this stage in their creative development.

Ostrich Eats Gator-- But both make great boots!

Next week; Episode 11 - The Royal Philharmonic Goes to the Bathroom

Episode 9 - The Ant, An Introduction

"The giant redwod! The larch! The fir! The mighty Scotch pine!" - Michael Palin as Bevis

People like to think that Genius is consistent. DiMaggio should always get a hit when at bat, Don Juan is always a great lover. But reliant as it is on inspiration, Genius is mercurial. The greatest hitters can strike out, and the greatest lovers can be left hanging. (Just ask my wife.) Where Genius is involved, you just have to give it your all and hope it lands. Sometimes it won't.

Let's see how the Geniuses did this week. As always, feel free to watch along. If you haven't bought the box set yet, clearly Genius hasn't struck you more than a glancing blow.

The "It's" Man runs through a forest/minefield, keeping one step ahead of the explosions as he pants to the camera. When he finally gets here, he looks almost bored. "Just another day ay work." Then, the Titles, with a Cleese announcement that's sounding more French with every show. This time, the announcement is enhanced with an echo.Why? I don't know. Genius, I suppose.

John Cleese and a very good friend.

A caption reads "Part 2" and then... "The Llama". We cut "live" to Golders Green, where Idle, smiling inanely at the camera, strums a guitar, dressed in a black mariachi outfit. Beside him, equally demented grin scarring his face, is Jones in a matching outfit, playing castanets. Cleese hurries out, a manic smile-- these guys can really do fake, desperate, showbiz smiles-- and a tux, and he speaks in pretty impressive Spanish on a small raised platform about the llama. There are subtitles to help us along, and we soon realize he's getting everything wrong. Llamas have "A beak for eating honey"? It's an interesting mix of bad entertainment, an edu-mercial, and just plain silliness. Cleese has difficulty pulling a bouquet of flowers out of his jacket to emphasize a point, and Idle and Jones add, in song, that llamas are larger than frogs. Finally, Chapman putters out on a scooter dressed up as a Contessa, blows up a paper bag and pops it. The rest of the crew shout "Ole!", hopping into the air, as Chapman bows. The energy is deliriously infectious, but remember, they weren't improvising. Someone wrote this. How did they know? Why is this funny? Genius, I suppose.

Quick personal note; They performed this bit on the City Center album, with Michael Palin voicing over the captions in a very dry, subdued tone. "Look out. There are llamas." I was very familiar with it, due to incessant listening, well before I saw it on television. I'd always enjoyed it, but seeing Idle, Jones and Cleese and their crazy eyes, followed by Chapman on the scooter, is not to be missed.

Moving on as the audience applauds, we cut to a dingy London street. A low rent snack shop perches precariously on a narrow wedge of a corner. As we move around, we get a close up glimpse of swingin' London in the late 60s. Look at the pile of rubble-- yeah, baby! Moving past the grit heap, we step into an alley, and, trash can by his side, we see Cleese in a dinner jacket and thick socks visible under his (always) too-short slacks, sitting at a desk. There's a phone on the desk, although where it would plug into, I don't know. There's also a tumescent, old-school BBC microphone jutting from the desk's center. It's as if the Announcer, desk and all, had been warped from a drab office to this grubby back alley. Cleese doesn't seem alarmed, as he hangs up the phone and announces "And now for something completely different..." It's as if he's been going to this alley every day 9-5 for the last few years. Although we've heard the catch phrase before, (see Episode 2 - Sex and Violence) this is the first time Cleese has said it, and his "Man at the Desk in Some Strange Place" bit will be a staple in the second season cold opens.

Cleese introduces Palin, who has a tape recorder up his nose. One nostril plays, one nostril rewinds. It's a call back to Chapman's man with two noses-- physical deformity as vaudeville. Palin takes us into the next sketch with a pre-corded, nasal obscured announcement. Cleese, in age make-up and tweeds, pays Sir George Head, O.B.E., who is hiring a climbing party for Kilimanjaro. But wait, there's more. Cleese has double vision. The sketch plays every possible variation on this joke, as well as toss in additional jokes. "Kilimanjaro is a pretty tricky climb, you know, most of it's up until you reach the very, very top, and then it tends to slope away rather sharply." Chapman provides a bit of random lunacy, and the sketch wraps up with the reveal that Head's double vision was correct-- there really are two people there, and two George Heads. Not particularly inspired, but brilliantly executed, with poor Idle as the increasingly exasperated straight man.

They hang onto the double vision theme, as Cleese returns as the Announcer, only now there's two of him. He introduces a man with a tape recorder up his brother's nose-- it's Palin again, this time with his stiff backed brother Chapman. They perform in stereo, to enthusiastic applause from a lone spectator in a football stadium. (They don't have any other kind of stadiums in London, do they?)
Gilliam animations follow, with a halo-d priest speaking Latin and sales pitches to the audience, before he's sucked up through his halo by an admiring and libidinous angel, and kissed to distraction-- a great animator's gag, making the halo a direct conduit to heaven. A cabbage knocks him the priest off the screen, and when the bewigged carnival attendant tries to reward the ace with a naked lady, the unseen pitcher throws another cabbage at the attendant. If someone tried to offer me a naked lady, I'd hold my cabbage for later.

We cut to the next sketch. Palin as a Barber washes blood of his hands at the sink. Jones enters, looking for a "short back and sides" hair cut, not in the least put off by Palin's blood splattered smock. What follows is an awkward few minutes of near-miss comedy, with Palin performing a manic Sweeny Todd scenario (before there was any popular awareness of Sweeny Todd.) The lack of successful humor in this sketch is complemented by its odd pace and (by Python standards) epic length.

Why is this sketch not funny? They pile on the jokes, including a funny bit where Palin, trying to avoid slaughtering another patron, ("Never kill a customer.") plays a tape recording of Palin cutting hair. But even this bit is squelched by an imperfect landing, as Jones' outrage and Palin's apology is obscured by the still-playing tape. The overall sketch is equally muddy. Is Palin trying to kill him, or trying not to kill him, or trying not to cut his hair? Is the joke of the sketch that Jones doesn't know what sort of danger he's in? The cartoony embellishments (the bottle of red eye, complete with "Red Eye" written on the bottle) don't help, reminding us that this is just a sketch-- and not a very good one. It's rough going, because Palin tries sooooo hard to sell it, with a mawkish drunk act and his occasional burst of psycho phrases (including "Psycho".) Apparently, Palin and Jones busted their ass writing this piece, going late into the evening. But after the clarity and expert precision of the Mountaineer sketch, this feels like a child's finger-painting. It's only good because we love you, kids. Without that context, it borders on sadism, and we'd never put that shit on our fridge. Sometimes, Genius just doesn't land. Watching this sketch is a painful experience, like watching an ugly duckling with a broken wing.

And then...

And then...

The crippled duckling transforms before our eyes into a glorious swan, as the sketch suddenly veers right. Palin becomes... a lumberjack!

There is no point in trying to explain the sublime "Lumberjack" song. Like "The Parrot Sketch", you probably already know it backwards and forwards. Palin rips off his smock, to reveal a flannel shirt, and suddenly he's singing a manly song about being a lumberjack and doing feminine things. The femininity repulses his back-up singers, (Chapman, Cleese, and the Fred Tomlinson Singers, dressed as Canadian Mounties) and traumatizes his "best girlie" played by Carol Booth. "Oh, Bevis!" she wails. "I thought you were rugged!" Palin is hilarious, chewing imaginary gum while he sings and rhapsodizes, slapping his thigh manfully. The reaction of the chorus and Booth just adds to the hilarity. It turns out that the pain of the previous sketch was birthing pain. And it was worth enduring. "The Lumberjack Song" marks the first original song composition on Monty Python's Flying Circus, written by Palin and Jones, although it was far from the last. One imagines the group's resident rock star, Eric Idle, wondering "How the hell did those two beat me to the first song?"

Excuse me for a second-- I'm going to watch it again.
Ahhh....

If you watched the above, you saw what happens next. As Palin is abandoned by Mounties and Girlie, we cut to a funny letter voiced by Cleese, and a quick joke (by Chapman as a pepperpot) that came in last in the Rubber Mac of Zurich Awards.

Another great first follows-- Gumby! Chapman stands in front of the Lumberjack backdrop, a napkin tied atop his head, suspenders over a sweater vest, glasses, moustache, and striped, high-waisted pants rolled up to the knees. As he hits himself with bricks while crooning, we'll pause to note that this is the first official appearance of Mr. Gumby, (in this case, "Prof. R.J. Gumby",) We have seen the napkin before on Cleese's head, but here, Chapman coalesces the character, with his loud, bellowing voice and clueless yet adorable demeanor. We'll see more of Professor Initial Initial Gumby in the near future-- but we'll never see enough of him.

We cross fade to a supper club, where Idle, as an emcee (aka "Compere") introduces the next act with unctious and passionate self-abasement, winding up crawling on the floor before the performer "so totally and utterly wonderful that I would rather be sealed in a pit of my own filth than dare tread on the same stage with him" calls in to cancel. The sketch feels like pure Idle-- riffing on show biz with fiercely intelligent language, wrapping up the sketch with a predictable twist, and Eric's insufferable compere is exquisitely played, pulling his cuffs and pressing against his hip bones as he leans to the left. They should show this bit before every Oscar acceptance speech. In lieu of Harry Fink, Idle brings out Ken Buddha, of the inflatable knees Buddhas. That odd gag goes by before we can register it, but Idle follows up with a pun that sets us right again. Next comes Brian Islam and Brucie.

A Gilliam animation follows, with two men in old-style swim suits doing a funky dance along the lines of the wacky sergeant earlier in the series. To the sound of an old farting orchestra, they jump around onstage, expression stoic and immobile as they switch legs, spontaneously clone themselves, and otherwise have a great time. Back at the Refreshment Room, the audience applauds, and we return-- no! To the psychotic barbershop! (It's okay-- he's just linking the next sketch.)

A filmed bit follows, with the Circusians dressed up as Twits to the Manor Born, leaving an estate house all liquored up, shotguns a-blazing, to go out and hunt pheasant. A series of mishaps follow, with American Indians, parachutists, and young lovers in the hedgerow, complete with bustle. The ruling class morons return home with one pheasant, tied to a stick, limping, bandaged, one even dead. The corpse gets off one shot post-mortem, and doubles the quarry for the day. The scene freezes into a picture, and we're backstage at the show. The knight is waiting, warming up with his cold chicken. He's told by the director (?) that he won't be needed for that show. He walks off past a chicken coop, and there's Cleese. "And now for something completely different..." I think they've finally latched onto their own catchphrase.

We come up on the last sketch of the show, a painful bit called "The Intruders." Chapman and Carol Cleveland (why is all the luck wasted on gay men?) sit on a couch, just getting to the good part of a date, when the doorbell rings. It's Idle, doing a variation on his "Nudge, Nudge" character. Having met Chapman in the pub three years ago, he barges in with tasteless bonhomie, destroying the mood and bringing other strange people in his wake-- a "distraught" (aka gay) widower and his shabby friend (and goat), a bunch of miners, and Cleese and Jones as an Albee-esque couple, full of crude insults innuendo. Cleese and Jones are the stand-outs in this sketch, and Jones especially steals the show as Cleese's ratbag wife. "I told you to lay off the beans, you whore!" Cleese bellows. "I only had three cans!" she snarls back. Jones' contribution to show is generally more along the writing and conceptual lines, and his performances are embarrassed or wimpy chaps, or maternal women.
But here, he pulls out all the stops. It seems like the cringe inducing cruelty of Cleese/Chapman can take him to new heights-- unfortunately, he doesn't avail himself of their inspiration.

"Ooh. I wet em."

Later in the sketch, she laughs so hard, she pees. Chapman throws a fit to get them to leave, and Cleese shoots him. This is the Python equivalent of the Smothers Brothers' tried and true way to end a sketch-- having a midget bite someone. This sketch is typically Cleese/Chapman, with a cringe-inducing cruelty reminiscent of the Job Interview sketch. It's funny enough, but lacks the joy of, oh, say, "The Lumberjack Song".  Having eliminated the conflict, Cleese and the rest sing a Christmas carol, (recorded in early December, aired in mid-December, this is actually as close as the Pythons come to a Christmas special,) and the "It's" Man is sent back into the exploding forest, but warned in Spanish to "Cuidado" for the llamas.

So there you go-- a seriously weak sketch redeemed by one of the best ever, all in the middle of a very funny show filled with future classics. Plus, the introduction of Gumby, the Fred Tomlinson singers, and a glimpse of both Carols. Genius may be mercurial, but there is enough Genius in this group to amass a pretty strong batting average. Suck it, Don Juan!

Oh, my God! He's sucking it. He's really good at this!

Next week; Episode 10 - Untitled (Double Digits!)

Episode 8 - Full Frontal Nudity

"It's like, uh... well... you know. In't it?" - John Cleese as a Hell's Grannie
 
This episode doesn't have the same familiarity that most of the other episodes had. I watched them whenever they were run on WTOG in St. Petersburg, Fl., or on the PBS stations in my various apartments and homes throughout NYC and Pennsylvania. If you think about it, with only a total of 45 episodes, playing weekly on some station, the entire Python canon would run through in just a little over ten months. Reruns were to be expected, even anticipated, and I saw many episodes repeated to the point of being able to quote them in their entirety ("Gambleputty" notwithstanding). But for some, strange reason, I never saw this episode, until I got the DVD box set. They never played it. Why? What s it about a show called "Full Frontal Nudity" that made this episode so damn difficult to catch on network television?! As a boy in the full tumescence of adolescence, this is THE Monty Python episode I would have most wanted to see, just based on the title. In addition, it contains the exquisite "Parrot Sketch." Though I could recite the Parrot Sketch backwards and forwards from the live album, I hadn't seen it in the actual show. Why were the Florida television stations depriving me of the "Parrot Sketch", and "Full Frontal Nudity"? Perhaps if I had written and insisted on "Full Frontal Nudity" they would have corrected their oversight and aired "Full Frontal Nudity" for all to see.

If those of you out there haven't already bought the box set, you probably haven't seen this episode often, or at all, and this gleeful reminiscence will be wasted on you. Do yourself a favor and buy it now!

It's a bomb. See?

The "It's" Man begins the episode, paying off the heightened sexuality that the title promises. His face fills a close-up with anxiety, and as we pull back, we see he's sitting in a lawn chair in a (presumably) green and pleasant lawn. A table stands ready beside him, with chilled champagne in a martini glass waiting. At his feet, a blonde bombshell (oddly prophetic term, that) kneels, wearing a striped two-piece bikini and high heels. She hands him the champagne, then stands and takes his arm, leading him to the foreground. You can faintly hear Palin's pleased grunts as he slowly gets used to the idea that there might be more to life than off camera trauma. Perhaps this is his long-awaited reward for all the torments and tribulations from shows past. The woman fondles his arm as he schlurps the champagne, smiling at the camera. His eyes are alight with hedonistic expectation. Then the fawning woman reaches out of frame (with some awkwardness) and hands him a black orb bomb, fuse smoking. The word "bomb" is painted on the bomb, just in case you thought it was some sort of weird marital aid. The woman (who should be more concerned, she's well within the blast radius,) playfully tugs at his beard as he delivers his word, now aware of his true predicament. Of all the cuts, this is the cruelest. As John Cleese said in "Clockwise", "It's not the despair I mind-- it's the bloody hope." Kind of like being a teenage Python Geek, finding out there's an episode called "Full Frontal Nudity" and NEVER... GETTING... TO WATCH IT!

The titles follow, a graphic follows them with the title of the show, and two "man in the street" interviews follow. Palin brings back his "sexual ecstasy is overrated" woman, prudish yet flirtatious, who denounces "permissive society". Jones, as a trenchcoat wearing pervert, disagrees. Surprise. A graphic insult to David Hemmings' acting follows, Graham Chapman reprises his Constable Parrot role with a genial agreement to do a nude scene, provided "it was valid." (Don't worry, Graham-- "Life of Brian" is coming, and oh, boy, is it valid!) A quick snippet of vintage war footage plays next, with Cleese promising a very cool story. As in the previous episode, that's not the story we're about to see. Meanwhile, in Unoccupied Britain, 1970"...

Chapman, as the humorless Colonel, plays straight man to Idle's alarmed Private. Apparently, Wilkins (Idle) had no idea that being in the Army may involve killing. A great standard 60s sketch that suggests the military isn't marketing their "opportunity" honestly. We'll see more of this in later episodes. But before it even "properly" gets going, Chapman dismisses Idle as being "silly" and we're on to the next sketch. Cleese, giving it all he's got, announces the Vercotti Brothers (Jones and Palin), who come in to offer him "protection". "We'll make sure none of your divisions get done over... for fifteen bob a week." It's actually a brilliant idea for a sketch, but it feels like it needs a twist.

No twist ever comes. They play the concept, repeating beats like "Oh, look at that! It broke" with little variation, and Chapman stops the sketch again because it's too silly. But in a nice, inspired moment, Chapman admits that the sketch is badly written, that he hasn't had a single joke, and they couldn't come up with a punch line. As they cut to the cartoon, a nice politically incorrect moment when Jones whines that the audience won't get this. "Shut up, you Eye-Ties!" Chapman bellows. It makes one misty-eyed, how you could denigrate a whole swath of the population and no one would take it seriously enough to sue or protest. Stiff-ass Brits get all the luck!

Along comes Gilliam, to fearlessly take on the episode title! A trenchcoat wearing pervert grumbles his way to a park bench on a hill, and, looking to make sure nobody's around, pulls out the second volume of "Full Frontal Nudity." Unfortunately, all the splayed models (vintage photos) cover up when he turns their page. His outraged grumblings are hilarious. Frustrated, he tries out the local nudie show, and his view is blocked just as the goods go on display by an increasingly outrageous variety of obstacles-- A multiple car accident on a stage?-- until he finally takes out his frustrations on the gay M.C., with surprising results. Then a great hammer comes and hits him on the head. This is the first appearance of the hammer, a first cousin to the sixteen-ton weight. In a sense, I am that trenchcoat-wearing perv, going to great lengths to see this episode promising Full Frontal Nudity and being cock-blocked at every turn. Gilliam has revealed to the world my own adolescent irritation with not being able to see the episode. He's killing me softly with his song. (Sniffle.) Mr. Trenchcoat needs to learn what I learned-- if you want to see the box, you gotta buy the box set.

A series of quick snippets follow, with other men agreeing to do full frontal nudity if "it was valid." We go to Palin's art critic for an extremely funny sequence of Artistic Tourettes. His long suffering wife steps in to deliver a terrible pun, ("It's my only line!" again) and we cut to a pastoral shot of him strangling her. (In case you're keeping score, that's a shot at Italians, homophobia and misogyny-- and we're only 9 minutes into the episode. God, I miss the 60s!) We pan over to Jones in a tux, carrying Carol Cleveland, in a bridal gown, running through the meadow, over a hill, through the London streets-- Holy crap, these guys were in good shape!-- and into a John Saunders department store to buy a bed. The clerks are all, well, "interesting". One exaggerates numbers, and the other can't bear to hear the word "mattress" without trauma, which can only be undone by a lot of singing. This sketch, in various iterations, appears frequently in the Python oeuvre, but it's always good for a laugh. Cleese gives a funny threatening finger to the bride and groom that only gets a laugh from me. Seeing Palin, Idle, Cleese and Jones all singing in the tea chest is sweet. You can't get that close unless you like each other-- and unless you're incredibly thin. Carol Cleveland provides the punch line, and gives us a teary "But it's my only line!" wail at the end. For no apparent reason, the boys start hopping around. It's silly, y'see. But as you'll soon see, we can't have that.

Life of the Party

Back out onto the street with Jones in black face (Ah, the 60s!), and black body as well, playing a pygmy, opining on full frontal nudity. Cleese follows with a character so repressed, it hurts, but he is the only one who will do full frontal nudity, valid or not. Finally, Chapman returns as the humorless Colonel, who reprimands the show for being silly. "Nobody enjoys a good laugh more than I do," he explains, "except my wife. And most of her friends. Oh, yes. And Captain Johnson..." Finally, just as in the "Teeth" episode, he takes over the show, commanding the camera to cut to an outdoorsy-sketch. "Ten, nine, eight and all that." We obey, cutting to a fur covered hermit hiking up a mountain. Chapman's Colonel is pleased. "Let's hope it doesn't get silly..."

Palin, the hermit, comes across Idle, another hermit, and they sit and chat about their lives and the other hermits in the area. It's not easy being a hermit, they agree, but "at least you meet people." Like the "It's" Man, Chapman's hopes are dashed, and he comes out and stops the sketch, sending hermits, camera crew and Cleese (in the middle of an interview) off the rocky hill. There seems to be an undercurrent of frustration in this show. The Perv who can't get his glimpse of bush, the newlyweds, the hard luck Colonel-- and me, trying to watch this show as a boy. As the Stones sang in their 1969 offering, "You can't always get what you want."

Animation returns, as a broom sweeps all the people off a cliff and into a meat grinder. The ground streams of meat turn into Venus' hair, as she stands, lustrous and naked (fully and frontally), naughty bits covered by her meat/hair. Only one perfect breast is exposed-- which turns out to be utilitarian. A hand reaches up from the ocean and twists the nipple, and hoochie-koo music plays. Venus dances along, her wonky legs shattering the illusion of perfect womanhood ("perfect womanhood" defined as a pretty woman with radio tits. I'd totally tap that!) until her clam shell upends and she falls to the bottom of an aquarium in a pet shop. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you... The Parrot Sketch!

"Helloooo, Polly! Pohhhhhh-leeeee!"

What can I tell you about this sublime sketch that hasn't already been said? It was written by Cleese and Chapman, based on a bad garage experience endured by Palin, it's sheer bliss to watch Cleese and Palin working together, Cleese in his weird foldable plastic raincoat, Palin looking shifty behind his cigarette. There are a few glitches-- Cleese's line "Now that's what I cal a dead parrot," is delivered off-screen, as the camera zooms in on Palin. One bit that is difficult to get from the live albums, and which is not even captured well in the show, is when Cleese, assured by Palin that the parrot is only resting, opens the cage and hollers at the parrot, promising food if she should wake up. Palin, from off camera, reaches in and gives the cage a little shove. "There, it moved," he says, from off camera. A brilliant bit in a brilliant sketch, with a brilliant closing monologue. Listen, if you're reading all this, you're probably a Monty Python fan, and if you're a Monty Python fan, you probably already know this sketch by heart. So take a moment, relax, and recite the sketch to yourself. Let it wash over you like a fowled nest of feathers.

If your familiarity with this sketch is based on the live performances, as mine is, you'll be surprised, even a tad disappointed to see the sketch not so much end as unravel, as Palin sends Cleese to a different shop, but it's the same shop, but it's in a different town, with different signs, but his discarded bird cage is there-- it's an amazing whirl of meta-humor, as the Circusians play with the limits of studio locations and Cleese appeals to the camera for customer satisfaction. There are a few good lines-- "It was a pun," for instance-- but I personally would rather they had let this one alone, and just moved on to the next bit. Still, you can't blame them-- they didn't know they had an instant classic on their hands.  Cleese complains that the sketch has gotten to silly, Chapman agrees, and we cut to Idle as news announcer eating yogurt. Promising frontal nudity, we cut to film of Jones, flashing "women" on a London street-- only he's not showing them his genitals so much as a sign that says "Boo!" Back in the studio, Idle, prompted by Chapman, introduces the next film.

"Heh-heh-heh-heh-hehhhh."

Another classic, "Hell's Grannies", a mocumentary that exposes the social ills of rogue senior citizens. In a brilliant and silly twist on the typical documentaries of the era that tried to scare us away from rebellious youths, "Hell's Grannies" shows us cackling old ladies beating people up, vandalizing property, and burying dead bodies. This is another great example of the Pythons taking a silly, simple germ of a concept and going deep with it. In black dresses, hats and shawls, these old ladies terrorize the community, walking down the streets to a brassy trumpet accompaniment, shoving passersby out of the way. One of my favorite moments is Chapman as the bobbie. "Pension day's the worst. They go mad!" And Jones as the cinema manager. "Come the two o'clock matinee, all hell breaks out in there." And of course... crochet! But, things get silly, as the documentary bleeds into the societal ills of Baby Snatchers (great gag!), and rogue Keep Left signs. Chapman comes out to stop the sketch. A quick joke from Pervert Jones, finishing off the Full Frontal Nudity theme, and we cut back to the "It's" Man, alone again, naturally, except for the smoking bomb. A final dig at David Hemmings, and as the titles roll, we see that the bomb has stopped smoking-- only now it's ticking. One of those tricky double fuse bombs. Uncertainly shaking the bomb, Palin serpentines off before exploding.

This rarely-seen-on-network-television episode is one of the high points of the first season, with classic bits and film clips. There are some odd glitches, but they only lend an air of authenticity to the brilliant successes. Could it be that the rinky-dink glimpses of vintage photograph nudes were what kept this classic show off the air for so long? Fortunately, the comedy was more immortal than the televisual values of the seventies. And as for me, I may have tuned in for the nudity, but I stayed for the comedy.

And the nudity.  This is for you, adolescent Python Geeks!

Huh! She was turning the other way just a second ago...

Next week; The Ant, An Introduction. (No, really this time.)