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?