Episode 14 - Face the Press a.k.a. Dinsdale

" ... And a man they called Kierkegaard who just sat there biting the heads off of whippets"  -Chapman as Vince Snetterton Lewis

And we're back for another episode of Monty Python's Flying Circus, the first of the second season. The year is 1970. These young post-war Ivy League chaps have put together 13 shows and one album, they've gotten critical acclaim from the press, they've combined first-rate sketch comedy with a surreal stream-of-consciousness format, they've been approached about doing a movie, they've gotten a grudging nod from the BBC for one more season, they've written up some material and shot a bunch of film, and they've returned to the studio for another go. No sneaking under the radar this time-- all eyes are upon Monty Python's Flying Circus (all London eyes-- other sections of Great Britain didn't carry it.) Would the magic continue? Will the revolutionaries, having revolutionized, still be revolting?

As always, go out and get yourself the box set. Makes an excellent toad stool. Seriously, let's throw these guys some money.

We begin with a pan across an empty zoo cage. We get to the next cage-- and there's Cleese as the BBC announcer, in a black suit and tie, white shirt-- and pants legs that are probably too short. The "It's" Man no longer opens the show. Man, these guys are brave! Creating iconic running gags, they toss them as soon as we get used to them. Still, we recognize Cleese's Announcer from last season, in "The Ant, and Introduction" episode, as well as his catch phrase "And now for something completely different." The joke here is, he's in a cage at the zoo. Announcers generally don't announce from zoo cages, with their desks and BBC microphones. It's already completely different! But what's coming is even completely-er different-er. And what's coming next... is the "It's" Man. He's still here, after all!

Minister Chapman, versus...

Having announced something completely different, Cleese gives us the same old, same old. First ten seconds of the show, and they have already blown our minds! Palin gives his line, "It's...", and the titles roll. (New titles! We'll get to them later.)

...Worthy Opponent Creosote

A "Face the Press" caption appears as we pan down to Idle, who, in a point-counterpoint segment, interviews Chapman and a patch of brown liquid. On top of that silliness, Chapman is wearing a designer gown ensemble, which Idle describes as the camera lovingly pans it. On top of that silliness, Chapman responds logically, and then re-responds in a hilarious screech. In addition to all that, Idle's question is also funny. Four streams of humor, any one of which would have made a great sketch. The lads have come out swinging, and we're already punch drunk.

Idle introduces an artillery commander, who turns out to be Cleese in drag, speaking in what I surmise to be late 60s era British gay speak, ("...the ministerette has made me head of the RAF ola-polla.") whilst being fanned by a... Nubian slave? All of this is on a TV screen, watched by Jones (also in drag). The doorbell rings, and she shuts off the TV to answer it. There, an ax-headed clown with no pants and a goat (I guess the goat got hungry) asks for Mrs. Rogers. "I must be in the wrong house!" Jones concludes, and climbs over the back yard partition into an identical set, with Cleese still on the TV. I love this brief diversion before the proper sketch starts. I don't know what's funnier-- how Jones assumes she's in the wrong house just because someone says the wrong name at the front door, or how it turns out she was right about being in the wrong house. The sight of Jones in a dress climbing over the back wall is pretty funny, too. Her prim, ladylike walk to and from the wall nicely contradicts her whorish mounting of the wall.

Then begins our first sketch, given appropriate fan fare and Ben-Hur-esque titles by Gilliam. Palin is at the door, in a trench coat, mushroom cap and glasses there to deliver the new gas cooker that Jones ordered. What follows is an almost painful but beautifully executed slap at bureaucracy, as Palin and his team of trench-coated co-horts try to navigate the many rules and hoops required by the government installation of a stove. This sketch is preminiscent of Gilliam's "Brazil", still a decade away. It starts to flirt with going on a bit, but then resolves beautifully as Jones and Palin figure out a way to execute the process faster. As we leave the sitting room, we pan out, and there's a line of trench-coat wearing, regulation spouting aparatchiks going around the long block. (Check out the bystanders watching the craziness.) Where'd they get all these trench coats?!

Now that's a close shave!

The line lapses into a Gilliamination, with royal figures retrofitted for flight. In a classic bit, one of the ponce pilots steps in for a close shave-- very close. Now they need another pilot, and an index card written out advertises the vacancy. The card is posted to a bulletin board, and we're back to another sketch. Idle plays a perv in a trenchcoat (what's with the trenchcoats all of a sudden? They shot this show in July, it couldn't have been comfortable) trying every possible double entendre or codeword for "prostitute" out on a genial store clerk, way too literal to take a hint. One imagines this is the "Nudge, Nudge" character gone to seed. Note the "Apollo 13" flier on the store's wall. That's not for the movie, fans-- that's for the actual event! The sketch is one note, but well done and very short. In fact, just as they wrap it up, Cleese comes in and silly walks us away.

Yes, it's the Silly Walk! The classic Python bit for which I have chosen this blog's wall paper. The sketch is simplicity itself-- a Ministry devoted to developing silly walks, in an era of intense global competition. Pewtie-esque Palin humbly appeals for funding to develop his "not very silly" walk, and Cleese benevolently sends him to the French silly walk conference, "La Marche Futile". A typical Python treatment of a goofy notion, committed to and examined from all possible vantage points. But all of this is mere context for Cleese and his amazing, gymnastic perambulations.
His deadpan face as his legs do these astonishing things is nothing short of sublime. Others try to do their silly walks, but they just don't come close, although Jones has a nice, clumsy "kick your own ass" bit down a hallway, and Chapman's vintage hopwalk is funny. Still, Cleese steals the show. You have to see it to believe it. It is said that Cleese now hates this sketch and the specific fame it has brought him. Who can blame him, with his prosthetic hip? I hope one day to have the luxury of hating something I helped create in direct relation to how recognizable and beloved it is to every one else in the world. In a nice bit of internal logic, Cleese at one point silly-walks past a line of trench coat wearing gas cooker installers, connecting us to the prior sketch.

We finish this bit with a goofy half-French/half-British sped up silly walk, introduced by the moustache swapping Frenchmen we saw way back in Ep. 1. It is always great to see Palin and Cleese working together, and in this silly-walk sequence, we get a two-fer. Idle's voice finally interrupts the proceedings with a goofy and very dated "choice of viewing" announcement over a BBC graphic, but it takes us to "Ethel the Frog".

"Dinsdale... knew how to treat a female impersonator."

"Ethel the Frog" seems to be a newsmagazine show a la "60 Minutes", Cleese, stern and urgent, announces a portrait of violent crime syndicate leaders Doug and Dinsdale Piranha. This long sketch is high octane brilliance, combining spoof of newsmagazines with silliness, absurdity, social satire, silent bits, and finally, a Gilliamination of a giant hedgehog. We've seen the Circusians synthesize their styles in an overall show, but this is their most successful collaboration to date on a single sketch, creating a 10 minute epic with great moments for all the chaps-- even Terry Jones, who usually gets short shrift in these things. The sketch feels like it was written by all of them,for all of them, in a fevered pitch of cooperation. Chapman's madness, Cleese's hostility, Palin's brilliant acting, Jones' sight gags, Idle's comic sleaze, and yes, Gilliam's hedgehog, all come together in a great take on media hysteria over crime.

He nailed her head to a coffee table?

Where to begin? The history of the Piranha brothers is hilarious, with brilliants asides. "Doug and Dinsdale Piranha were born in this house, on probation..." Palin gives us a pepperpot, standing in front of yet another (or the same?) line of trenchcoated gas cooker installers. Jones interviews teacher Chapman, but forgets to lean the mic his way, so what you see of Chapman's reminiscence is all you get, but with his suggestive hand movements, it's more than enough. (This bit will be repeated later on, as Cleese and Palin fight over a mic in a future episode.) Chapman comes back a bit later as Vince Snetterton Lewis, in a brilliant performance you'd normally expect from Palin. Chapman's dull, dazed, guttural monologue as he remembers the Piranhas, sprawled out across a tiny chair, is awesome. Every line is a good joke, and some lines are pocked with multiple jokes. Kierkegaard biting the heads off of whippets is, in itself, worthy of a moment of holy contemplation, but it's just a phrase in a line filled with jokes and references. Idle, fervently denying any wrongdoing by Dinsdale, is also in top form. Cleese in drag gives Idle a run for his money as an attractive woman, although the voice gives him away. Chapman's criminologist is a little off, but still tosses in a great line; "A murderer is only an extroverted suicide." Palin reprises Luigi Vercotti, only for once, we see the sensitive side of Luigi as he recounts the cruelty of Doug's sarcasm. When the sketch gets to the Piranha's arrest, it begins to wander off. Jones, as Supt. Harry "Snapper" Organs, lists all the disguises that he used to follow the Piranhas, including Richard III and Sancho Panza, and lists the bad reviews as well. Jones is very funny in this bit, his wounded pride at the bad reviews completely distracting him from the arrest of the Piranhas.

But after this, the sketch, and the show, peter out. There's an odd, incomprehensible bit with policemen in a theater dressing room, and a filmed bit with pedestrians running (one of them silly-walking) for cover at the news of the Piranhas' escape. Then, during the closing credits, we see the infamous hedgehog, Spiny Norman himself, searching for "Dinsdale!" all over London. We wind up back at the zoo, where Announcer Cleese, still in his cage, roars a good night, and the "It's" Man reveals his inner beauty.

Would the magic continue? Oh, yes! The Circusians have delivered one of their best shows of the entire canon, and seemed primed to deliver on the promise of season 1, with substantial value added. For anyone who thought the show a fluke, the challenge has been answered. But we can't expect such brilliance every week. Nobody expects...

Next week; Episode 15 - "The Spanish Inquisition"

Can you spot the hedgehog?

 

Season 2 - "And Now For Something Completely Different"

"Houston, we have a problem..." Apollo 13 Astronaut Jim Lovell

There was an awards show in London called "Weekend TV" awards. How's that for specialization? In April, 1970, Monty Python's Flying Circus was presented with such awards. In the Green room, celebrity hounds tried to puzzle out who attendees Michael Palin and Terry Gilliam were. Someone asked Palin if he was famous. "No," Palin replied, "but he is," pointing to Gilliam. The person thrust an autograph book into Gilliam's hands. Gilliam signed it Michael Mills, the BBC executive who promised the troupe "thirteen shows, and that's all!" Palin, when asked for a "just in case" autograph, signed the same name, and the two kept signing Mills' name all night.

Though they weren't yet household names, Monty Python's Flying Circus had become a cult sensation. From the first season, reviewers were championing the show, at home and abroad, claiming that the lads were revolutionizing television comedy. Ratings were solid, especially for their Sunday 11:10 P.M. time slot, creating a new trend for Sunday late night on the BBC. Victor Lownes III, the head of Playboy in London, was talking about producing a movie with them, to better introduce them to the American audience. (This was well before BBC America, and even PBS had difficulty broadcasting British shows because of format issues.) There was an ultra-cheap album in the works of the favorite sketches, performed live in front of a tiny studio audience. They formed an

Liar!

 LLC entity, Python Productions Limited. It soon became clear that Monty Python's Flying Circus was getting more than thirteen shows. Mills was a goddamn liar!

In keeping with this immense success, the BBC schedulers shifted Monty Python to the prized 10:00 pm Tuesday night slot, and... wait, what?! Nobody watches shit at 10 pm! Apparently, having built a new viewing habit all over the commonwealth, the BBC in its wisdom decided to move Monty Python out of it. The best part of the deal? This slot was what was known as an "opt out" slot, so most of Great Britain wouldn't see Monty Python, but some regional programming such as "How to make Haggis" or "Fun with Coal"-- the equivalent of public access here today. Oh, yes, one more detail... four shows into the second season, they were to be pre-empted by "Horse of the Year Show". A firm yet polite letter yielded a meeting with the BBC, but although promises were made to improve the situation with better reruns, etc. nothing changed. Season 2 would be poorly scheduled, not very available, and play second fiddle to a bunch of ponies.

In other news, there was a conservative political backlash in England, as the country bounced the progressive labor party out of office. This was mostly due to popular reaction against the unwieldy protests of 1968 in Paris, Mexico City, and Chicago, among other places. The now famous Apollo 13 mission had been interrupted by an explosion, and nearly cost all on board their lives. The Vietnam war was raging, with no end in sight. The times they were a'changing, and not for the sillier. We were sliding into the tawdry 70s.

Still, the lads had been bitten by the Python bug. TV celebrity in Great Britain was different than here, and TV stars still had to take other work in order to make ends meet. Cleese and Chapman wrote for the Frost Report and the Two Ronnies, while Jones and Palin rewrote a screenplay about a penis transplant and some corporate film about writing checks. Yet all longed for the creative freedom of Monty Python, and in March of 1970, work began.

According to David Morgan's Monty Python Speaks!, an excellent collection of oral reminiscences from all the major players, the work went like so; A story meeting, usually at Jones' house, would be called, and everyone would throw out ideas and thoughts on what would make a funny show. Gilliam was there, though he had little to contribute-- he could never adequately explain his ideas in words. "And she eats his brains. Get it?" After reaching some consensus, they would go off on their own for two weeks and write. At the end of the two week period, another meeting to hear and assess the material. The sketches would be read, not performed. Cleese and Palin would do most of the reading, and Idle would read his work. The sketches would go in piles; the "Oh, Hell Yes!" pile, the "Might Could Do" pile, and the "How Did You Manage to Land this Gig?" pile. The troupe members got very canny about when to read their work. Early was never good, after lunch was a disaster. If it came down to votes, Idle was usually at a disadvantage, because he didn't work with anyone else, but with thirteen episodes to fill, there was ample opportunity to sneak stuff in. Finally, they would start assembling the sketches into shows and work together on the linking material, keeping an eye on making sure everyone was adequately represented on screen, and that the strong material was spread out evenly in all shows. This process was thankfully ignored by the development executives at the BBC. It was a wholly creative and invigorating process for the team, and forged deep bonds between them. This was always the golden time for the Circusians.

Having synthesized styles over the course of the previous year, certain patterns continued. Palin and Jones worked together almost exclusively. Cleese and Chapman likewise, although Cleese would have preferred to switch things up. But Chapman was drinking, and gay, and not very hardworking, and the others were content to let him be "John's problem." Jones pushed for greater freedom outside the studio, and his bits became increasingly cinematic and obscure.
 But the lads were more familiar with their differences, and more confident in their ability to make it all work. Hell, they'd just won the Weekend TV Award! A seminal moment in television was about to begin, as Monty Python's Flying Circus went about paying off the promise of its first season, in spades. (Which you couldn't say in 1970 without getting beaten up.)

Next week; Episode 14 - "Dinsdale!"

That Stubborn Welsh Bastard, Terry Jones

"You know, I've never thought of myself as a comedian." - Terry Jones, Comedian

Terry Jones is widely credited with giving Monty Python its revolutionary "stream of consciousness" narrative flow, and thus can be fairly called the Father of Python. Of all the Pythons, it could be argued that Jones has had the most successful and varied career, directing his own scripts on more occasions than any other member, as well as writing more for others' movies. He worked like a demon before Python, and seems to have kept at it ever since.

But personally, I'm with him. He's just not very funny. Sorry.

As a performer, he seems the least humorously intuitive. He's at his best on film, lost in front of a studio audience. As a sketch writer, he's uninterested in building concepts, preferring instead to abandon them for other shinier ideas. His fascination with the "New", something different for the sake of being different, saps his concentration from the discipline of writing. He's creatively ADD.

This is evident from the start, as he and Palin work simultaneously on "Do Not Adjust Your Set" and "The Complete and Utter History of Britain" in the late 60s. "It was absolutely manic," Jones recalls. The latter show, perhaps the inspiration for Steve Allen's more influential "Meeting of the Minds", was what caught Cleese's attention. Offered a BBC show of his own, he wanted to do it instead with Palin, Jones' co-writer on the show. And where Palin went, Jones went.

The writing for the show usually split along Cambridg/Oxford lines; Palin/Jones, and Cleese/Chapman, with Idle and Gilliam being the lone wolves. As time went on and circumstances demanded, the lads would shake it up a bit, crossing the lines to write with each other. The exception to that dynamic was Jones. He only wrote with Palin. He confessed later that he was insecure about his ideas, and only after Palin gave him the thumbs up would he feel confident in them.

As with most insecure people, Jones was quite the bully. Idle recalls that Jones would never give an inch in an argument, even when faced with compromise from the other side. "Terry is very Welsh." Cleese remembers "...[Jones] always believed in everything very strongly. I always used to say to him, 'Terry, have you ever believed in anything not very strongly?'... I often didn't believe in things very strongly, but I'd got fed up with being steamrolled." Jones agrees, laughing. "I only threw a chair at him once." He badgered the film director and editors over the film bits. It's hard to imagine how the group persisted. Jones was not the draw, yet he controlled and fought for aspects of the show as though he were. Why didn't Cleese and the others silly walk away?

I can only guess why. I suppose part of it was the assumption that Palin and Jones were a package deal, and that losing Jones meant losing Palin. But I like to think, and desperately hope, that the others began to see the accidental yet immense value that Jones brought to the enterprise. Though not a comedian, Jones was a conceptual artist, backed by a massive intellect. And he had the good taste to be those things in the late 60s, when it was possible to attract an audience simply by being avant-garde.

Though not a great sketch writer, Jones, through sheer Welsh will, managed to chisel out a conceptual niche for himself in the greatest sketch comedy show of all time, which in turn informed all other aspects of the show. Jones' vision made Gilliam's inclusion possible, gave Palin many memorable moments, and freed Cleese and Chapman from their Apollonian social critiques and allowed them to soar with the wings of absurdity. Monty Python would not have been Monty Python without Jones. He is perhaps the only member of the troupe who can claim this distinction.

The ultimate tragedy of Jones is that he gave much more than he took. The stubbornness that served him so well in creating a context for himself failed him later on. The final season of Monty Python, without Cleese's challenge, was dominated by Jones, and the show suffered for it. He was unable to yield to and learn from the other members of the troupe. His post-Python work is scattered and middling, great ideas marred by uneven execution.

But at least so far as Monty Python's Flying Circus is concerned, Jones has won the argument. We cede, cry "Uncle." For one, brief moment that will shine forever, Mr. Jones, you were absolutely right! Now, please, put down that chair...

  Next week; Season 2!

Episode 13 - Intermission

"Are you rolling your own jelly babies?" - Graham Chapman as a Surgeon who specializes in "these sorts of things."

Holy crap! Is this really the last episode of the first season? (Series? Whatever?) Amazing! Feels like we've known these guys forever, doesn't it? As always, if you haven't already, buy yourself the box set of these great shows. They deserve ownership, even cruel bondage and enslavement.

Over the last twelve episodes we've seen a slightly uneven synthesis between two warring styles of entertainment, the Cambridge Style, as embodied by Cleese/Chapman/Idle, which emphasizes Content with an unadventurous presentational style; two men at a desk, an office, a TV interview show, standard music hall presentation-- and the Oxford Style, repped by Jones/Palin/Gilliam, which eschewed content in favor of a cutting edge Form of presentation, creating mosaics unconstrained by reason, incorporating film and animation. We've had shows leaning towards one style or the other, and some shows that kept the styles in relatively separate boxes.

The last episode was a triumph of synthesis, and it gave us a glimpse of what lay down the road for Monty Python's Flying Circus. We see brilliantly conceived sketches leaving the studio to continue their exploration beyond the punch line, we see adventurous randomness serving the hardworking structure, and vice versa.

But having achieved this milestone in their personal and professional development, the lads took a week off. The last episode of the season, while funny and brilliant, feels lax and meandering, as if the Circusians were celebrating last week's accomplishment instead of creating the next classic. This feels less like a show and more like the after-show party, as though it were conceived and written in one drunken session. If last week's offering was the Superbowl of comedy, this week's is the ProBowl. (For any Brits reading, this is American football I'm referencing.) Without further ado, let's get to it.

We begin with a call back to Ep. 11. The Undertakers have returned, dolorously carrying a coffin to the Funeral March. By now, we're familiar enough with the show to know what's in the box. Sure enough, the "It's" Man props the lid open and gives his line as he's carried past. This is what all the harrowing escapes have been inexorably leading to. It's what all the "all the harrowing escapes" inexorably lead to. What an elegant bow on Monty Python's first running (as well as falling, screaming, drowning, hanging and tumbling) gag (as well as gagging).
An "Intermission" card appears, and Jones mumblingly announces a "short" intermission. Gilliam creates a car wreck out of the word "Intermission," and the titles run. The "Intermission" card reappears, and Jones promises a "medium-sized" one. (Best he says that to all the girls.)

What is that music that plays in the background? When one is mocking muzac, this is the music they play. They played it in "Animal House". Still, I don't know the name of the piece. Anyone? Anyway, Gilliam saves us again, creating an animated hand that plucks the word off the card and feeds it to a bird with the head of a young Sadat. We've seen this head in an earlier episode, his moustache angling upwards to simulate a smile-- but I'm too lazy to ferret out the exact one. We'll see a lot of callbacks to prior bits. Meanwhile, back at this episode, the bird belches and links us to...

"Don't play with your food!"

The first proper sketch plays like an Army variety show. Cleese and Idle (playing an ugly woman, for a change) enter the lobby of a restaurant, and silliness abounds! It doesn't matter what the sketch is about-- it's all just an excuse for the most random collection of gags, some good, some terrible, some delivered in character and some breaking the fourth wall.  The big laugh of the "sketch" is Jones wheeled in on a platter, naked, with an apple in his mouth. "I'm the special," he announces proudly. "Try me with some rice." (Earlier they establish that this is a vegetarian restaurant, but nevermind. Maybe the naked Jones is a vegetarian.) In a prophetic moment, a busboy announces that there's a dead Bishop inside. "I don't know who keeps bringing them in here," Palin mutters. It gets not even a titter... so of course, they had to make a whole sketch about it later on. Idle finishes the sketch complaining about the sketch, and another "Intermission" card cuts in, this time a "whopping great" one.

The lads re-create the dour experience of British cinema. Even in the swinging 60s (this show just makes it, taped on 1/4/70), the actual experience of movie-going (as opposed to the movies themselves) was trivialized by really shitty commercials and intermissions. (Having just visited Scotland, I can say that only the quality of the commercials has improved, but the experience still feels trivial.) With cheesy vibes music and bad animated title graphics, "Pearls for Swine" brings us a string of terrible ads. The lads capture the spirit of these abuses perfectly-- maybe too perfectly. The effect is less funny than it is irritating. They have the same effect on me; "Get on with the show!"  Our old friend Luigi Vercotti makes an appearance, as his restaurant is advertised and raided simultaneously. This is a callback to Episode 8, as well as Episode 10.

The ads end, and the lights come up on a nearly empty movie theater. Cleese, in a knee high dress, heels and stockings, with a yellow wig and white bonnet. Cleese doesn't try the usual tricks to relay femininity. The clothes are as far as he goes. Beyond that, he's all man as he sells his wares. Only his ware is a giant dead bird. "Albatross!" he shouts. Jones approaches, asking for "choc-ices," (Brits are so cute with their snack food.) But Cleese angrily tells him he's only got the albatross. This is an absurdist sketch dealing with the phenomenon that we don't buy what we want-- we buy what we're sold. In the end, Jones takes the albatross, "on a stick." This sketch made it to their live shows, and the word "Albatross" has become a calling card for Python-ites. (I just wish those "Ancient Mariner" groupies would stop crashing our parties.) Another "Intermission" card is blown of the screen by previews. Finally, the management admits that there'll be no movie-- too expensive-- and the Queen sends us home. Jones, with a dead bird in his lap, links us to the next bit as he tries to sell his new best friend.

On film, Palin propositions Bobbie Cleese (successfully,) and we cut to our second sketch of the evening. Jones, as the man from the theater, is now in a doctor's office. Idle plays the Dr., Carol Cleveland the nurse, Cleese the other Nurse. Idle makes a mess of things with Tarzan speak, and ultimately the knight steps in and clocks him. The last time we saw the knight, he wasn't in the show ("Sir Not Appearing in this Film") and it's good to see that they found a part for him in the last episode. Poultry'd back into reality, Idle yells "Albatross!" We cut to Palin and Jones doing their now definitive Gumbys, which links us to the next bit.

Separated at Birth?

In a call back to the first sketch of the first episode, (Famous deaths. "Take it away, Eddie.") Palin hosts "Historical Impersonations," where great figures in history impersonate other people, for instance, Cardinal Richelieu impersonating Petula Clark (and who the hell is Petula Clark?) It's just high-paced silliness. The biggest laugh is Napleon impersonating the R-101 disaster, (the British version of the Hindenburg, with far greater casualties but no iconic media coverage) but my favorite is Florence Nightingale as Brian London, who had gotten spanked by Muhammad Ali four years earlier.
Finally, Marcel Marceau gets squashed with the 16-ton weight, in mime and in reality. The crowd goes wild! (Lots of vintage applause footage in this episode. They must have gotten tired of waiting for the audience to catch up.)

In a call back to Episode 3, Cleese interviews two children (Idle and Palin) while mugging to the camera. Palin is hysterical as he stammers out that, insofar as toppings are concerned, his preference is Raquel Welch to a 16-Ton weight. The kids get switched out by two insurance brokers (Chapman and Palin), both of them as short as the kids, because Cleese still has to double over to talk down to them. They ask to see "more fairy stories about the police," and a fairy (Idle) grants their wish. Ain't nothing but a link.

In another Jones-ian homage to silent films, a constable (Jones) rides a bike to a secluded local, and blows up a criminal balloon, which becomes Idle. A merry chase ensues, with Jones leading a quartet with his pointed finger in shuddery time-lapse style, while Idle lures them into a Warner Brothers inspired gift-wrapped box with a "Don't Open 'til Christmas" sign attached. He's pretty well prepared for a balloon. But his cleverness is for naught, as a tutu wearing constable waves a magic wand and makes Idle disappear. An interview with Palin as a wand-wielding constable follows. "You can defy time and space, and turn violent criminals into frogs, which you couldn't do with the old truncheons." All of this was preamble to Probearound, a newsmagazine show. This week's topic, announcer Cleese tells us, is crime. In one of the best moments of the show, he is suddenly shot, and Idle steps in with a gun. "I always introduce this show." Idle investigates the use of voodoo and Ouija boards, as well as wands and Druid sacrifice.

All of this links well with the next sketch-- Palin (with those glasses, he must be blind,) plays an Arthur Pewtie-esque milquetoast named Attila the Hun, trying to turn himself in for the crimes his namesake committed. Turns out he's really Alexander the Great. Silliness abounds. Letters follow, the last one unraveled by the trenchcoat wearing perv from the Episode 8. He's pulled into a police car and taken via Gilliam's twisted mind through a policeman's ear, a nude girl's naughty bits, and a crocodile until he winds up at the office of Dr. Larch. Another callback to Ep. #3!

Dig the fake hands on Palin, man.

And so begins the last sketch of the season, and one that seems too absurdist even for Monty Python. After a false start with Napoleon, psychiatrist Dr. Larch, (Cleese) treats patient Notlob (Palin), who hears voices. Turns out Cleese hears them, too, and after surgery it's revealed that hippies have squatted in the man's stomach, rent free. (Because "It's not furnished, you facist.") Idle and Cleveland, the hippies, pop their heads out of Palin's stomach like some acid trip nightmare, spoofing the 60s counter-culture and insipid folk music. Chapman as the surgeon is brilliant, rhapsodizing about his godlike surgical skills. "What a great slit." This sketch is like a cross between a sketch and an underground comic. And Palin's character Notlob is yet another shout out, to Episode #9, the Parrot Sketch. We will not see another twisted drug-trip of a sketch like this again from these guys. It's decidedly uncharacteristic of the Python canon, but a nice surprise amidst the many surprises, as the season draws to a close.

But Gilliam is still in the house. His animations complain about the show, and they throw in a great, classic bit of a mother trying to get her daughter to smile for the camera by ripping her apart. It's reminiscent of the "Sit up straight" photo session from earlier in the season, but with a great ending. A smiling girl wanders into the mise en scene. The mother rips the smiling head off and puts it on her daughter's neck. "Now there's an ending for you," the complaining animation says, before being squished by the giant foot. Finally, the "It's" Man runs off down the street, the Undertakers hot on his heels with the empty coffin still on their shoulders, firing guns, as the credits roll. A final "Intermission" card with a Cleese voice over gag, and they're out.

This show is all over the place, filled with silliness and random asides and bits. Even the performers seem aware as they mug to the camera. But they've earned an opportunity to blow off some steam. They've only revolutionized televised sketch comedy. Cut 'em some slack.

That's the first season. By now, the troupe knew that they had a hit on their hands, a critical success as well as a commercial one. They were already working on their first movie, "And Now For Something Completely Different" funded in part by Hugh Hefner, and probably thought they were on the precipice of becoming movie stars. They were almost right. And By now, Michael Palin got back on the stick with his diaries, so we have more first hand information as we head into the next season.

But first, let's look at that movie, take a closer look at Terry Jones, and find out what was going on in the world. We need a bit of a break to appreciate the enormity of Season 1. Something seriously funny has been accomplished, something which people still talk about. (Or is that just me?)

Next week; "And Now For Something Completely Different" the movie!

 

 

Episode 12 - The Naked Ant

"...it's lampshade time!" - Cleese as Mr. Hilter

 
Monty Python has a well-deserved reputation for random, stream-of-consciousness comedy, eschewing punch lines, even standard comedic structure, for a more free form approach, interrupting sketches the second they get prosaic, predictable, or just because. In last week's episode, we saw a prime example of that approach, with sketches that seemed to be assembled like Lego blocks, easily taken apart, tossed around and thrown back into a new assembly held together by random silent filmed bits with undertakers. This is the triumph of Form over Content. The sketches are just repositories for jokes, the more random the better. None of the sketches are memorable, or even required, for the jokes to work. The ride moves so fast, we never realize that there's nothing much there. (Until some pain in the ass blogger shows up...)

But this is not to say that they couldn't land a great sketch or two. In this episode, Content returns, and it's on fucking fire! (For the most part.)

In this blog, every paragraph will end in a parenthetical! (Except this one.)

As always, buy the box set. Let's face it, as we get older, our bones lose calcium and become brittle. This includes our funny bones. And our back, especially right in the small of the back. When I complain to my wife about the small of my back, she says "That hasn't been small in years, honey." I need a new car. Anyway... where was I? Yes! Buy the box set. (Sorry...)

We begin with... not the "It's" Man. Instead, we see some lefty playing pinball. Remember, this was '70, and pinball was all the rage in England. Some band was even writing a rock opera about it. As the silver ball rolls into play and begins to bounce off the bumpers... We cut to the "It's" Man, bouncing off trees to the soundtrack of the pinball machine. There seems to be no force making him do this, apart from a psychic connection to the ball itself. He is the ball. Finally, "the ball" exhausts himself and rolls towards "the flippers," aka Us, collapses and delivers his line. Low score, high hilarity. (The band with the pinball rock opera was The Who- shout out to Jon Zelazny and his awesome novel!)

The Titles commence, captions promise that this is Episodes 17-26, (it's not,) and give the show's title, and we cut to an action scene. Apropos of nothing, a train engineer, played by Jones, fights with a growling bear. (Kim "Howard" Johnson claims it's a Polar Bear, but not according to my TV.)

"Bear with me!" Anyone?

This is taking place, according to a caption, at "A signal box somewhere near Hove". And now you have as much information as I do. Like the winched angel from the prior episode, this bit has no context and little humor, apart from rampant absurdity. It's sole purpose seems to be to disorient the viewer. We only see it for a few seconds before we cut away. And yet, it has all the production value of the Parrot Sketch-- perhaps more. Train switch handles, a wall and working window, the costumes, cans of food on the shelf-- a lot of resources seem to have been pumped into this random, pointless bit. Why? Did they have this set just sitting around from another sketch show? Or is this how committed the Flying Circus is to aimless and random? And who's in the bear costume? He's awesome, and it couldn't have been comfortable. Bravo, Anonymous Bear! (My money's on Gilliam.)

It's Raining Men!

A few seconds of this fight, (it took you seven times as long to read the paragraph I wrote about it,)  and we're off to a new caption. "But in an Office off the Goswell Road". Doubling down on the absurdity, Cleese and Idle sit across form each other at a table, perched like trained labradoodles, waiting for their cue from off screen. Once they get it, they both double over their prepared paperwork. See how the set decoration has already faltered-- they don't even get their own desks. But they do get an open window, and bodies begin to fly by, in a generally downward trajectory. Idle, alarmed, tries to get the blinkered Cleese to share in the horror of what's happening outside. But Cleese, unflappable, surmises "Must be a board meeting," and this instantly mollifies Idle. Soon they're taking bets on who will jump next. Cllese and Idle are excellent, with Cleese giving us a study in reactive humor. You can hear the sounds of traps and ladders in the background as the crew throws the bodies past the window. We cut rapidly away to a letter complaining about the tasteless sketch, when in mid-letter, the writer falls out of a high building. (Who mailed the letter? Did I just blow your mind?) Back to Idle and Cleese, who disagree on who the fallen letter writer was. (We'll never know... he never had a chance to sign the letter.)

But there are more falling people, one after the other, a veritable genocide of Gilliam-inated vintage photos, all of them screaming as they fall to their deaths. Anguished, Cleese cries out "Can't somebody stop it?!" Gilliam obliges, turning the background one quarter counter-clockwise.
Now the falling photos are zipping horizontally across the screen, and their screams subtly shift to peals of joy, their connection with the ostensible ground sounding like a line of Harpo Marx dialogue. "Honk!" We pull back to reveal that they are all running into the bouncy belly of a beautiful flapper. Another great animators gag from Gilliam. He takes it up a notch when the Flapper pops off her own head and uses it to catch an errant person on the rebound. The person rattles in her skull like a washer in a bowl. Out of nowhere, a Magician appears in mid-air, and a flag pops out of the Flapper's head proclaiming him to be "The Great Fred". Waving his wand and repeating "Abracadabra, Alakazaam!" he makes flowers pop out of her head, then her neck-- then his own head! His disemboidied hand continues producing flowers until the screen is filled with them. The trenchcoat wearing perv from "Full Frontal Nudity" walks by, muttering, when he hears some come hither laughter from behind the flowers. He parts the petals and witnesses a naked nymph playing with a beach ball, laughing. Building in pitch and volume, the laughter takes on a hysterical twinge. This chick is nuts! (But naked, so there's that.) She waits for the beach ball to return to her, cackling insanely-- and she's squashed by a heavy globe. Brother to the 16 Ton Weight, Son to the original squashing Foot, the Globe obliterates naked crazy lady, and God's benediction, a rainbow, curves over the globe-- another God-approved hit on naked female beauties. The title appears on the globe; "Spectrum". (That's the science name for rainbow.)

"Where do we stand, where do we sit...?"

So far, the show has been made up of small random bits, with only one tiny sketch. But Spectrum changes all that. Although at its heart, Spectrum is just another TV show spoof, it's also a blistering send-up of self-important, high-octane news shows that tell us little but tell us that little very urgently. Palin begins as the show's anchor, promising us a tough look at "the whole vexed question of what is going on." "What do people mean when they talk about things?" he asks, rhetorically. He tosses the hot potato over to Chapman, who shows us a meaningless graph referencing the population, but for no apparent reason. "Telling figures, indeed," Palin cuts in, getting the sketch's first laugh, as the audience catches on. Palin's blinding, dizzying and well-elocuted monologue of nonsense questions is a bravura performance, and the energy that all the lads give to their one-line insertions is intoxicating. Finally, unable not to comment on Palin's speedy speech and speechy speed, we cut to high-speed footage of train tracks speeding by, an engine's POV. As the train hits the darkness of a tunnel, we hear a crash. "Sorry!" Jones calls out  from the window of the signal box, a bear paw on his shoulder, in a call back to the opening scene. (Bear v. Man. This time, it's personal!)

Spectrum has given us some notice. Now the Circusians close the deal with "Hilter and the Minehead Bi-Elections".At a boardinghouse in Somerset, Minehead, the unsuspecting Idle (and wife, billed as Mrs. Idle), after aimless conversation about car routes and cat's boils, stumble upon Hitler (Cleese), complete with a Nazi uniform, planning his next campaign to conquer Europe via Minehead. But like Superman and his Clark Kent glasses, Hitler is made unrecognizable by switching the "t" and the "l" in his last name, thereby going by the name "Mr. Hilter." Equally well camouflaged are his co-horts Mr. Bimmler(Palin) and Ron Viventroff (Chapman). Together, they are mapping out Hilter's campaign to run in the upcoming Minehead elections as the "Bocialist" candidate.  (Sketch idea; a hotel with a guest named "Olama sin Baden.")

"Not much fun in Stalingrad, no..."

A simple idea-- Hitler has survived and is regrouping in Minehead-- feverishly and thoroughly examined by the team of Cleese and Palin, writing together for the first time! It didn't happen often, but man, did they hit this one out of the park. Cleese's structural savvy combine with Palin's goof-ballery to create a sketch so rich, they have to stack the jokes like pancakes. Cleese as Hilter is rabid, manic and brilliant, uttering German nonsense from the balcony to a farmer and dazed kids. Palin as Bimmler stammers through an introduction, claiming that he was only head of the Gestapo for five years and professing his love for English chips and fish. Chapman has one of the best lines, playing a farmer; "I don't like the sound of these here 'Boncentration Bamps'". In addition to silliness, Palin drags Cleese out of the studio, creating a sketch that unfolds and deepens as they leap to film. Seeing Hilter try to recapture the magic of the old days with a tinny megaphone and a bike is hysterical. (Check out the bystanders as they ride by.) Cleese and Palin play all the notes in this sketch, the first real synthesis between the two camps of form and content. This sketch is not to be missed. (It also contains the phrase "cake hole", which is nice.)

We fade into a funny series of "on the street" interviews, including Chapman droning, foaming and falling (exquisite!) and this takes us back to "Spectrum" and more Palin high-speed dribble. Palin links us to the next sketch. We've seen this one before, in "Full Frontal Nudity", with Jones/Cleveland trying to buy a bed without using the word "mattress." This time, we're in a police station, and Jones (bless his heart) must report a burglary seven times in different pitches and cadences, depending on which constable he's speaking to. They can only hear when (fill in the blank.) They take it further this time, with every officer requiring a different verbal tic to hear what's being said.

We cut to quick clips of others with speech defects, including a meowing pig and a bleating Nixon, until Cleese, in tweed coat, cap and overbite, comments almost unintelligibly that people talk funny. And we're off to the races! (You gotta move fast to keep up with this episode!)

What follows is a Monty Python classic,  the 127th Upper Class Twit of the Year Show. On a sparsely populated soccer field, the five Brit members gangle out, all wearing suits, caps and overbites like Cleese's. All twits with names like  "Vivian Smith-Smythe-Smith" and "Nigel Incubator Jones", mentally disabled but rich and privileged, gather once a year to display massive acts of stupidity, if they can muster the physical dexterity to accomplish it, with an excited, high-octane commentary by

I've had more trouble with bras...

 Cleese. This is Cleese/Chapman at their hostile best, giving their 60s resentments free reign as they push these obnoxious but somehow loveable morons  through the paces-- getting drunk with a debutante, waking a neighbor, insulting a waiter, all as part of a marathon. According to Kim "Howard" Johnson's book, the origin of this sketch apparently involves Cleese living in an apartment behind Harrod's. A wine bar across the street called "The Loose Box" (I love that detail!) catered to twits such as these, and they would keep Cleese up at night with their shenanigans and car door slamming. Revenge is sweet!

It's not easy to run yourself over.

The final challenge-- who will be the first to shoot themselves? This sketch is an unbridled joy to see, as all five Circusians display their skill with physical humor. Chapman leaping over a small stack of matchboxes is pants-wetting hilarious! The final image of the winning coffins, adorned with medals, perfectly tags this brilliant tour-de-force. (The bras are much easier to remove when the woman's torso falls off. Remember that, adolescent twits!)

Want to take a deep breath? Enjoy the bliss of pitch-perfect comedy. Sorry, there's no time. We're off to a letter admiring how well that upper classes kill themselves, and wondering why the lower classes don't follow the fine example. An animation follows, with a sergeant trying to cough himself to bits, as Jones spurs him on with a bitchy "Not good enough!" A menagerie crawls from a pipe, and takes us past a very Tory mansion, all brick and right angles. Inside, Upper Class Twit wanna-be Chapman smokes a pipe while interviewing his daughter's new fiancee-- Ken Shabby, aka Palin, reprising a role from "The Ant- An Introduction".

Best Actress-- Connie Booth!

(This episode, you'll remember, is entitled "The Naked Ant." Is Ken Shabby the ant? Are you the walrus?) Connie Booth plays Rosalind, the daughter. There's some great gross-out humor here, but no one seems to notice how disgusting Shabby is, and the conflict rapidly diminishes. A Cleesian voice-over comes in, giving us a "The Story So Far" summation, only with nonsense stories and characters written around vintage photos, all to link us to the next sketch-- a Party Political Broadcast on Behalf of the Wood Party. (The woman watching the broadcast is done up in 60's leather go-go couture-- a lot of trouble to go through for this throwaway bit. "You musn't throw pretty girls away, Monty-- One day they may become scarce.")

The Wood Party sketch is a very odd duck indeed. It's an ambitious sketch, I'll give it that. A party minister (Chapman), in the midst of his speech, falls through the earth's crust, and his attempts to continue with a stiff upper (or lower) lip become disastrous. Lives are lost. Chapman is all probity as he dangles upside down from a BBC rope, his ass to the camera. (How'd they get the camera down there? Did I just blow your mind?)  But perhaps the sketch bit off more than it could chew.
The pacing is off. Even the technical demands seem beyond them, as people who are supposed to fall to the earth's core clearly land on a mat still within the camera frame. Of all the sketches to interrupt with Jones-ian non-linearity, this would have been high on the list of contenders. But it goes on much longer than it should. But we get to see Gilliam as a TV techie, and Chapman's acrobatic abilities are somewhat on display as he dangles. (Even his live bits as Colin Bomber Harris were more dignified.)

Finally, we cut back to Spectrum as they parse the incident from all directions. Cleese has a last, great bit as a Spectrum commentator with an arched eye-brow drawn on, speaking tremendously, tremendously, tremendously fast and actually catching on fire (through the magic of cinema.) Finally,
 Jones asks if anyone has more to add. Most of the characters from earlier chime in with a quick "No," even the dead twit Nigel, on film or in studio. Palin as Spectrum's anchor has the last word, as he examines what people mean by "no." (This was before "no" meant "no", apparently.) At last, making its second appearance in the series, the 16-Ton weight falls, crushing this quicksilver commentator into the 2nd dimension. A quick flash of a pinball machine alerting "Tilt!" and Palin bounces away off the trees. (Presumably going for the high score-- he never comes near the "flippers" again.)

Increasingly, the lads begin to find a middle ground between Form and Content, making the best of both worlds. Odd segueways and precisely constructed sketches begin to acknowledge each other, reaching across the left brain-right brain divide and inserting their neurons into the others synapse gaps. After some false starts and regressions, this is the show when Monty Python became Monty Python. It could have served as the map for all future episodes-- but Palin was probably the only one who could read a map, and he wasn't telling. Twelve episodes in, and Monty Python is born! (And we all know what comes next; Placenta!)

Next week; "Intermission." (Albatross!)