The Titles - Season 2

"Maybe there is a god after all. Or maybe it's a different one. The old one got fired." Terry Gilliam
  
As we parse and replay old Monty Python bits, we often forget the titles, so familiar are they to us, opening each and every show. They are excluded from the albums, necessarily, and when people speak of their favorite Python bits, no one mentions the first class silent comedy that plays out before each episode gets well and truly underway. Only the foot, the glorious squashing foot, stomping the titles once at the beginning and once again at the end, has transcended the show to become a permanent fixture in the zeitgeist. (I once had a drama professor compare the end of an Ibsen play to Monty Python's foot. Now, that's zeitgeist!) But the titles established not only the look and the farcical free-form content, but the attitude of Monty python as well-- silliness laced with rage and violence, taking what had come before and twisting it into new and scarcely recognizable shapes.

Gilliam was a huge fan of MAD magazine (surprise!) and Harvey Kurtzman, its creator. Having worked on the Occidental College humor magazine, FANG, (it's fascinating to see the many careers that are launched by college humor publications, from Harvard Lampoon to the Occidental Fang,) he went to New York in '62 and met the man himself. Mr. Kurtzman was working on a self-published magazine, called HELP!-- did the Beatles crib that title for their '65 movie and album?-- and hired Gilliam as associate editor. The most famous and propitious work he did for Help! was a fumetti strip (a comic book with photographs instead of drawings,) starring John Cleese as a man molesting his daughter's Barbie Doll. Cleese was in town doing a revue of his college sketch work on Broadway. (For our younger viewers, this was before Broadway got into cannibalizing Hollywood and its own past glory with re-stagings of old musicals and movies. They used to actually do original content on Broadway. I know, right?!) And although I wouldn't presume to call this the start of a friendship, it definitely got the stars in alignment for the rest of Gilliam's career.

Help! folded in '65, and Gilliam, hilariously, went to work for an advertising firm. Imagining this anti-authoritarian, anarchistic angry young man in the bowels of Mad Ave. gives me belly laughs, and I think an exquisite series could be made out of it. But it wouldn't be long running. By '67, Gilliam had had enough, and left for London, where he asked Cleese for a job contact. Cleese pointed him towards producer Humphrey Barclay and a show called "Do Not Adjust Your Set", which happened to employ Idle, Palin and Jones. Gilliam had found his place. From that happy connection came the show we are discussing in general, and these credits in particular. Let's take a look at Season 2, and see what new human oddities Gilliam has in store for us.

As always, will you buy the box set already?  The blog's free-- least you could do is pay for a box set.

Okay, this season starts out the same as last season-- flowers blooming, the words "Monty Python's Flying Circus erupting from the stamen, The fertile garden from which these roses erupt is a man's bald head, his dead eyes regarding us as he sits placidly in concrete, and then gets squashed by the iconic foot. Moving on...

We begin in a black and white industrial contraption, full of turning gears, levers and pipes. Amidst all of this Rube Goldberg-ian machinery, an errant hand and foot, as well as a chicken torso, The chicken torso has a suit jacket and white shirt, and but for the feathers erupting out of its rear, we might think it no more than a plump man. The chicken torso floats obediently in front of the foot. Meanwhile, in the center of the frame, a blue suited man, squat with wide-legged striped pants and a gaunt Civil War era face, stands docilely on a rising piston. The piston  lifts the man towards the hand, which grasps his head, as another piston juts out from the man's right and dislocates his torso, removing it entirely from his body. The torso falls out of frame, the legs still on the piston, the heads still in the hand. Whatever will he do? No breathing,

 eating or sex! Fortunately, the chicken torso is there. The foot pushes the chicken torso into the space no longer occupied, the hand drops the head (which has a bowtie dangling beneath it) onto the torso. The blue suited man is now...Chicken Man! The foot is not impressed. With mechanical cruelty, the foot pushes Chicken Man off the piston, and he falls out of frame. Gilliam is dealing with the eternal question "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" The answer is clearly "The chicken, and the chicken came in the midst of mechanized low-cost indifference." Might this be analogous with Gilliam's Madison Avenue experiences?

Having landed safely on a conveyer belt, Chicken Man is transported through a metal coil. Once he

"What's in the box?!"

 emerges, a hand places a box over him, lifting him off the assembly line. Things start to move fast now. The hand places the box in a barren landscape,reminiscent of Sedona, with strange, swirly mountains in the background, a real (not animated) cloudy sky overhead. The front of the box folds out to reveal a face-- We know this face! This is the melancholy man who had naked ladies flying out from the top of his skull in the season 1 titles.

Hey! We know that guy!

Now, plastered atop the face of the box, the top of his head noticeably absent, he smiles, a big, fake toothy grin. I don't believe it for a minute.He seems to have the most awkward of underbite, and his eyes retain the sad whimsey. But then, he pulls his party trick. The teeth retract into his upper and lower lip, like cat claws. It's just as well, because the disembodied head of a bandaged man, looking very Karloff-ian, bursts out of his mouth, erupting like projectile vomit right at us. This poor, sad bepectacled man has the most interesting things popping out of his head-- much like Gilliam.

When the Karloff-ian head can get no larger, it splits like an Apple stock certificate, revealing no more topless head, and no more box. Just a hand, displaying  a bald head. For the record, this is the fourth disembodied head in this credit sequence. This particular head is blue, and looks very much like Walter White, only with different eye wear, and blue.

Eggs a la Heisenberg

But the hand clearly thinks this head is an egg, and behaves appropriately, placing it under a hen nesting on one of the far off swirly mountains. The chicken startles as the egg hatches, and who should come out but-- Chicken Man! Having been assembled, he now must be born.

"I'm the one who cracks."

(Vince Gilligan should have put that in the Breaking Bad finale-- no one would have seen that coming.) Though the chicken came first, by way of a magic cardboard box it has managed to be transported inside the egg, to fool us all. God is the practical joker supreme, misdirecting us to the wrong conclusion. Is the Bible full of similar practical jokes? "Let's see how long they stick around through all the 'begats'." Is this why God got fired?

Having been born, this bird's gotta fly. Wings sticking out of his jacket in lieu of arms, the Chicken Man flaps away off left.

When the camera picks him up again, he is flapping before a glorious rainbow in a cloudy sky, pulling a banner with the name "Monty Python's Flying Circus", like one of those irritating planes advertising beer over the beach during Spring Break. Chicken Man then gets the fate that all of those advertising planes deserve-- a giant foot squashing him into oblivion. The foot comes out of the clouds this time, giving us no doubt that this is the foot of God. Would the foot have squashed him if he hadn't been shilling for the Brits? Or was God destroying the evidence of his practical chicken-egg switcheroo? We'll never know.

There we go- an epic origin story of Chicken Man, made by hand and foot, then boxed, but reborn in the flesh, only to have that flesh flattened, as disembodied heads surround him. What is the meaning of this?  Man's transient, mutable mortality? An analogy for the packaging of imagination? The triumph of art against all things but its own eventual end?

Or was he just being silly? Did he never imagine that someone would dissect it decades later? If not it was the only blind spot in his otherwise all-seeing imagination.

Next week; Episode 21 - "Archeology Today" (I'm singing all ready. "Tooooo-dayyyyyy....")

Episode 20 - The Attila the Hun Show

"There is this very real need in society for someone whom almost anyone can look down on and ridicule. And that is the role that OOO ARRR NAGGY GAMLY RANGLE TANDLE OOOGLY OOGLY OOGLY Thank you Mrs. Thompson." - John Cleese as a Village Idiot

They were silly from the get-go. But early on, they were sedately silly. Intellectually silly. The only one who really went for it physically was John Cleese. Perhaps they thought, if the whole random silly thing didn't work, they could still be admired for smart comedy.


Well, it worked. And now, in the middle of their second year, as they write their sketches and start planning their upcoming movie, produced with Playboy money for the American audience, they know that it worked. They have the long sought after formula, the secret sauce, and they're beginning to let it show a bit. We saw a bit of this last week, in the manic pace and silliness of the sketches. This week, they go all the way. Batten down the hatches, pull out your box set, and let's get to it.

"Another merciless sweep across Central Europe."

We begin with what is supposed to to be archival footage of barbarians fighting wars on horseback. But of course, there were no film camera back at the fall of Rome, so this is archival footage of old fall of Rome movies. A voice over (Cleese) breathlessly gives us the historical context to Attila the Hun, setting us up for an action picture extraodinaire. But Palin's voice over cuts in with a "Ladies and gentlemen, it's the Attila the Hun Show!" Cut to Cleese, wearing furs, bronze chestplate, and the most adorable pony tails flopping about in slow motion as he runs towards the camera. Cleveland, in a leopard skin bikini, runs towards him, in equally slow motion. They meet in the middle, breast to chestplate, and bounce back, mugging to the camera. Cleese seems a bit stiff, but it works. In the background, the song "With a Little Love" plays in the background. I'm told this was the theme to the short-lived Debbie Reynolds sitcom. I haven't watched it. Please don't make me.

What follows is pretty common stuff these days-- a spoof of the cheesy sitcoms that were so rife in the 60s. The credits introduce us to the usual cast; awkward daughter (Chapman) complete with coconut bra, and rebel son (Palin) complete with greaser hair and chewing gum, with Idle as a black butler, complete with black face. They do the happy family thing, swinging on a tire swing, (no tires back then,) playing cricket (no cricket, either). When the show starts, it is set in a typical sit-com living room. Bad jokes are met with hysterical canned laughter. As I said, we've seen this before. Still, there's an edge. Perhaps it's the manic gleam in Cleese's eyes, or the occasional glimpses of blood. The sketch ends quickly, cutting to more brutal archival footage-- and suddenly, Cleese's announcer is there in the midst of all this, zooming up as he promises us something completely different. He's returned, as has the "It's" Man, and the credits roll.

In a strange cut, a nun on a cycle zips by, and Palin's V.O. announces that "It's the Attila the Nun Show." We cut to a hospital bed, where a nun struggles fiercely against two orderlies trying to hold her down. It's a pun, sure, and a dig at Sally Field's "The Flying Nun", probably, but it's also one of their more odd and inelegant links. Still, we had to get to the hospital to start our next sketch.  Carol Cleveland is in a bed, surrounded by screens. doctor Chapman comes in, with a nurse, to examine her. Only he's brought a half dozen pervs to watch, complete with trenchcoats and mushroom caps. (This is how Gilliam sees them, too. Maybe that's just how the pervs rolled back in the 60s.) "They're students," Chapman assures, then adds to the ambiance with red lights and music as he asks Cleveland to "Breathe in... out..."

Then a curtain comes down, as if the hospital were just some scenery for a strip club. Idle announces the next act-- The Secretary of State for Commonwealth Affairs. Jones steps out, in a suit and derby-- and does this elaborate strip tease, his second of the series. This one is more elaborate, with tassles on his nipples and ass. Keeps his socks on, though. And trough it all, he gives a dry speech about joining the common market. It's a hard act to follow, but Chapman tries, with pipe and mid-drift.

Clearly, stripping politicians are the new trend, and we go out on the street for man-on-the-street interviews. The lads, dressed as mod 60s chicks, talk about why they love politicians. "We're in it for the lobbying," one says. The best gag-- "I like Black Rod." (It's a British thing. You wouldn't understand.) Jones provides the link as an angry, heart-broken working class parent. How could my little girl be into politicians? It's a nice sequence, flowing seamlessly from the hospital room, to Jones middle class council flat. But now things get sketch-y.

In a major and unexpected twist, Jones is the man and Palin the wife in this sketch. Palin interrogates Jones on which news team was interviewing him as she crams a chicken. Then Chapman comes in as the council rat catcher, although at first he pretends to be the Chairman of the Test Selection Committee, having chosen this council flat as the venue for the cricket match against the West Indies. I only mention it because it comes up later in a running gag. (Also, the lads use this conceit again a little later, with horse races taking place in someone's sitting room.) Chapman brings the silly as he investigates the flat's wainscotting. (In a quick film aside, Idle plays a resident of Wains Cotting, pleased by the sudden fame this sketch has brough her small village. "We've been mentioned on telly!")But it turns out Palin and Jones don't have rats-- they have sheep! The hole reveal is nice, a huge semi-oval hidden behind a chair. Just before he goes in, a cricket team asks if the tests are here. Jones chases them off. (Aren't you glad I mentioned it earlier.) Chapman enters the hole, and there's a gunshot. It turns out these are Killer Sheep!

Note Palin trying not to laugh.

The crack-up. These happen very rarely, but when they do, it's delicious. When Chapman staggers out of the hole and says "He's got a gun!" Palin can be seen trying not to laugh. "Blimey!" Palin replies, chicken on hand, his lips pursed low, the frantic delighted panic in his eyes. That's nice. Nobody cracks 'em up like Chapman. Though the diaries and reminiscences declare that Chapman was the lazy alcoholic with no work ethic, it should be remembered that this is a comedy show, and in the two instances I can recall wherein the actors themselves nearly lost control on screen a la Harvey Korman, Chapman was the titter inspiration.

Having reduced Palin to a quivering mass (not really,) Chapman cries out "What you've got is a killah!" and the Killer Sheep theme is introduced. Wanted posters pop up with tense driving music, cute fuzzy sheep where the mug shots should be. Newspaper headlines display the baaaaaaa-d news. We cut to goateed Idle and nurse Cleveland in a lab. This is reminiscent of the blancmange sketch, and like the blancmange lab sketches, it feels awkward and forced. The cricketers return, this time in black face. (Ah, England! What you can get away with over there...) and Gilliam makes an intercut appearance as a viking, throwing in two lines with the funniest accent in the show, but everytime we
cut back to the lab, the energy sags. They seem to have a weakness for bad British sci-fi that coincides with a blind spot. At any rate, the lab bit is short, and we cut to an animation of gangster sheep. Some good gags here-- my favorite is the reference to "the Kid." (He's a lamb. Get it?)

Cute as the Dickens!

This all flows beautifully into Palin doing the news for parrots, a funny conceptual bit that expands to include television programming for parrots. In a bit similar to the Semaphore Wuthering Heights (and for my money, much funnier,) they perform "A Tale of Two Cities" for parrots. It's hysterical, with Chapman, Cleveland and Jones shrieking their lines and cocking their heads. News for Gibbons follows (they could do this all day,) and we cut to an Idle bit, a monologue about silly happenings in Parliament, then back to the news for wombats, and it's the Attila the Bun show, an animated bit with a sword-wielding roll, eaten by a lobotomized BBC announcer disguised as a menu item.

With the almost dizzying rush from one great idea to another, it's easy to forget that this show hasn't had much by way of actual sketches. We get one now, in the form of a filmed documentary about village idiots. The hushed reverent tones of the narrator (Idle) usher us through a day in the life of Village Idiot Arthur Figgis. (Arthur Figgis! He's back! I guess saying Johann Gambleputty's name

drove him to village idiocy.) The sketch basically takes the concept of the Village Idiot and turns it on its head, making it a job that pays in dead rats, straw and mud, with degrees and college classes, as well as self-taught idiots. The thoughtful and over-intellectual examination of the anthropology of idiocy is juxtaposed with frantic, goofy physical acts of lunacy. It's a good sketch, with surprising moments and great performances from all. The tag at the end shows Cleese in bed with two naked women, and I guess the take went on too long for Cleese's comfort, as he seems eager to get the hell out of that glorious little nexus, clapping his hands as if to say "That's enough of that."

But the documentary isn't over. We move from the village idiot to the urban idiot-- and it's the Twits, making a triumphant return! This takes us to the height of idiocy-- cricket. This is where those cricket gags from earlier are coming home to roost.

I don't know this game, I don't want to know this game, but clearly I'm in good company. The Circusians portray the sport as the dullest ever, with sports commentary like "Extremely well not played there," and "A superb shot of nothing whatsoever." Cleese, Chapman and Idle call the game, tossing in jokes about Idle's huge nose, but most of the piece is too foreign to appreciate. The British audience doesn't seem to appreciate it either. Too soon? Calcified players are carried off the field, replaced by boxy 60s kitchen appliances and furniture, which actually has more agency than the human players. A race between wash basins and pedestals and such follows, and then a game show.

The game show is apparently a riff on a British show called "Take Your Pick", which was hosted by one Michael Miles, a New Zealander with a sadistic grin who would treat guests with a scarcely concealed contempt. The sketch was originally written by Cleese for "...the 1948 Show," but they never did it. Reuse, recycle. It starts with Palin as the Bishop ("Mr. Belpit, your legs are so swollen.") with Davidson as a rabbi, and some sort of other cleric, screaming "Open the box!" from the audience. Palin seems to be enjoying himself capitally. Cut to the game show itself, (which is apparently named "Spot the Brain Cell", according to Kim "Howard" Johnson's book, the First 200

Years of Monty Python,) with Cleese as the host. Jones gives a brilliant turn as contestant Mrs. Scum, matching Cleese for insane gleeful energy. It's a quick back and forth, as Jones gets the complex answer easily but can't get the easy one, the struggle punctuated by Cleese's manic laugh and Joker-like smile. Finally, they give her the prize, a blow on the head, viciously delivered by Cleese, and the clerics in the audience jump Chapman, who plays the Vanna White eye candy. The lads add injury to insult by showing the British audience the license fees they had to pay to watch this show as the credits roll.

The Circusians are increasingly adept at this stream-of-consciousness stuff, and almost made it through the whole show without a sketch to base things around. On top of that, as performers they seem to be loosening up, throwing themselves into random commitments with an abandon lacking in most of the first season. This, it could be argued, is the Golden Hour, where everything worked with ease and fluidity, and they could do no wrong (except for the sci-fi spoofs). It's a beautiful example of the lads at the top of their collective game. And they're only halfway through their second season!

But it also provides us with a whiff of danger and uncertainty. The bits are increasingly conceptual, with only the merest hint of comedic structure or unity. As we've seen in the cricket match sketch, a one-joke piece about how boring cricket is, vast resources can be thrown at some very pedestrian ideas, and unlike many of their more deserving sketches, when it's time to cut away, the lads could just as easily double down, creating a retroactive running gag that interrupts earlier sketches, all in the service of a minor idea. The problem with getting to do what you want is that increasingly, you do what you want. 

Next week; Season 2 Titles. (Seriously.)

Episode 19 - It's a Living

"Foolishly, he ignored [the spot], and three days later, he died of cancer gangrene." - Carol Cleveland as the Grim Lipstick Story Teller

 This is the famous censorship episode.

As recounted in previous posts, Monty Python's Flying Circus was usually left alone to do what they want. The show made little sense to the executives, but the audience, gathered in such poor time slots, and the awards, certainly perked up their ears, and they began to take an interest. That's never good. But it was particularly awful in this case, because in an effort to control the tiger, they yanked its tail. And the tiger's name is Gilliam.

To be fair, the executives could not have known. This was all before "Brazil" and the various demonstrations of pique on sets far more prestigious and expensive than this silly sketch comedy show. They probably hardly understood his accent. How could they guess they were provoking an angry, anti-authoritarian visionary?

Let's get a good seat for the fireworks! And if you haven't purchased the box set yet, that means you are exploiting the struggling artists hard at work here, and that will make Terry Gilliam angry. You wouldn't like Mr. Gilliam when he's angry.

Although the "It's" Man does not appear in this show, we get his word right up front, in a cheap, garish show set that's Las Vegas by way of Kinshasa. "It's A Living", the aluminum foil letters read. Eric Idle sits, surrounded by a bored cast of red shirt Python extras. Idle explains the rules of the show-- "We get a fee, then we get another fee..."-- which could apply to any show ever made. Idle makes it all seem so dumb and pointless. Finally, having explained the rules, which include bar policy, he signs off. Content is non-existent, the deal is all. A nice bit for Idle, monologuing intelligently in the chair. Why is he the only celebrity who never got a talk show? He does it so well.

Next, we get the BBC graphic, the blue spinning globe against a black background. They're making good use of this graphic so far this season. In appearance #2, Announcer Palin gives a television twist to time. ""Well, it's five past nine, and nearly time for six past nine." Palin plays every possible variation on this theme before someone calls him a "loony." (I believe this is the first appearance of the word "loony" in the show. Short for "lunatic", it becomes one of their favorites-- the semantic equivalent of a Gumby.) The announcer becomes an animation-- but not just any animation. He becomes the man in the titles who gets turned into a chicken man. The titles begin in black, with only Palin's voice indicating clumsy disorientation, and when he finally finds the lights, he's being dismantled a la the credits. Good one, that. Giving the titles a back story.

A few quick bits about interruptions (including Announcer Cleese saying he can't be in the show this week. Heh.) before we link to a filmed bit about  a prize giving ceremony at a school. This takes us back to the "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" sketch-- they might even have used the same location. This one is less honest and sweet, but more cinematic. A Bishop begins to award the prizes, then is sucked under the table, subdued and replaced by another Bishop, who steals the awards. He is beaten and replaced by Chapman doing a Mickey Rooney-esque Chinese impersonation ("I am Bishop, East Ang-ria...") that is supposed to play on our terror of Chinese communist takeover. Currently, it plays as a politically incorrect, terrible, insensitive but very funny Chinese impersonation. Dragged under the table, Detective Jones replaces him, and is shot for his trouble. Now the whole scene turns to a battle sequence, as Cleese tries to hand out awards to kids, who are killed upon accepting them, in a brilliant homage to the movie "If..." All of this happens without the slightest reaction from the other stiff-backed ladies and gentlemen up on the stage. Most of this is caught in a long shot from far away, with a few disconcerting close ups-- such as the grinning lady

(Mrs. Idle?) who gets some of the biggest laughs in the sketch. Cleese is clearly dubbed, and very poorly, but with the camera position, you have to be an anal twat to notice. (That's me!) The piece is primarily conceptual, but it's funny if you can get past the terrible presentation-- and of course, the post-Columbine funk the US is in.

As it turns out, the terrible presentation was part of the joke. The scene becomes a TV clip, watched by Interviewer Chapman, and Jones, who, in yet another brilliantly prescient Python moment, plays ultra low-budget filmmaker Dibley, who rips off the studio hits and then complains about how poor their versions were compared to his, excluding the production value. It's a solid bit, with short cheap versions of "Rear Window"
 and "Finian's Rainbow" (both starring Palin, Jones' muse). While Jones is generally the least inspired performer, he's great in this sketch, playing resentful hurt beautifully as he complains that Schlesinger got his version of "Midnight Cowboy" in the theaters, "while mine's still at the chemists."

Now, things just get silly. Chapman announces an interview with the Foreign Secretary about canoeing. The Secretary, having just returned from the war in the Oman, stands in a black suit and derby by a beautiful stream, a canoe by his side. He clears his throat, gets in the canoe-- and two Dhofar rebels run on from opposite sides of the frame, wearing very sheik clothing, and throw him and canoe into the water, muttering Arabic gibberish.  This is the gag, a funny visual filmed bit. It's interrupted,
only briefly, as Chapman introduces some impressive sounding bureaucrats who perform a human pyramid. But then we're back, as the President of the Board of Trade climbs into a stream side basket, and gets thrown into the water by the Arabic Chip and Dale. This continues with a number of dignitaries, some in baskets, some not, by ones and by twos, all thrown into the hungry stream. Finally, just when the joke starts getting tired, Chapman closes the show announcing a poem. Palin plays an 85 year old poet-ess, with a floating hanky, standing by the stream-- only she's on the near side, not the far side. As she reads, the Rebels show up on the other side, outraged to be thwarted by her. Palin plays it beautifully, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder and smiling smugly.
I'm guessing one of the Rebels (the one in the Merlot burka) is Cleese, who hops and gesticulates with such athleticism. Then, just as you think Palin might get away with it, a Samurai pops in, wielding a sword, and against all expectation, pushes Palin into the water before grimacing in triumph at the camera. Hilarious! A graphic pops up that makes no sense to me; "New Haven- Le Havre; Gateway to the Continent" These are port towns with a ferry between them, and I imagine that getting to France will ultimately make you vulnerable to Dhofar rebels and Samurai? And it's funny that that's a sales point? Aw, gimme a break! It's Friday.

We cut to an actual in studio sketch. Palin and other anonymati have dinner. Palin's "fill in the empty noise" chatter is funny, and vaguely hostile as he seems to simultaneously mock dinner conversation, and actors with no lines who pretend to have them. The doorbell interrupts the dinner. It's Cleese, looking like a 16th century serf, with a bucket of dung on his  shoulders. Palin earned it by signing up for "Book of the Month" Club. Other goofy promotions follow-- a dead Indian, and the M-4 motorway. Finally, Palin and wife are the prize in a police raffle. This sketch is based on an actual event, as recounted in Palin's Diaries. Writing with Terry Jones at his house one day, the dung man cometh. From thence to genius!

A listing of additional prizes takes us to an animated link,
somewhat awkwardly connected with a Palin voice over that just sort of trails off. The animation involves Samurai suicides (a prelude to Life of Brian, perhaps?) and Adam on white. (Which Adam? THE Adam. Were you thinking Adam West?) This all links us to a restaurant, where down and out Jones meets celebrity phony Timmy Williams (Idle), a David Frost doppleganger. The sketch is funny, though more pedestrian than most Python sketches. Jones tries to plead for help, but Williams is too busy being a celebrity to care, or even listen. Idle, in 5th gear the whole sketch, seems to get the names wrong, but at one point, he has a great moment; the documentary film crew asks him to pause a moment while they adjust the sound. Before they call action, Idle sits, his chin in his hand, completely dour and awful-- then, "Action", and he's all smiles and gooey phrases again. The credits to the show are also great-- "Written entirely by Timmy Williams. Additional material by..." and a whole slew of names race past. Clearly, the lads, all of whom worked for David Frost in some capacity, had some issues.

We fade up on a talk show. Palin interviews Chapman, but Chapman, in a huge fake nose, is just too silly to interview. Palin refuses to go on, unmoved by the accusations of anti-Semitism when he pulls off Chapman's nose. But we've ridden that horse enough. Time for animation! We return to the buxom trampoline
woman from show 17. A man bounces off her, past other women of easy virtue, including Mona Lisa, who's definitely had some work done. This all takes us to a set of stairs, and up the stairs--

The happy quintuplet

The Marriage Registry Office. In a bit similar to the "Me, Doctor" sketch, Jones tells Idle he'd like to get married, and Idle, the registrar claims he's already married. The sketch builds beautifully and swiftly, so that all of the Circusiams wind up married in a photo. Animation time, gentlemen-- animation time. One of the men is plucked from a picture, his head popped off, and a woman uses his blood for lipstick. She proceeds to tell a story about a black spot...

Love at first blight...

This is the big kerfuffle. Gilliam created this charming and silly animation that began as a fairy tale. A Prince, hopping around on all fours (apparently, this means he's happy-go-lucky) finds a spot on his face, and dies. The spot goes on to seek his fortune in the big city, meets a lady spot,m and they move into a neighborhood and fulfill racial stereotypes by breeding like rabbits. The spot, originally, was cancer. The BBC objected to (of all things!) the word "cancer", and changed the word, inelegantly dubbing "gangrene" (with a male voice) over Cleveland's narration. After twenty years, Gilliam was still upset about it. "It's just crazy. Who's protecting who from what?!"  he asks Kim "Howard" Johnson two decades later. But personally, whether "cancer" or "gangrene", the sketch doesn't change. In fact, of the two versions, (the "cancer" version immortalized in the film "And Now For Something Completely Different,") I actually prefer the ineptly dubbed version. For just a second, we see the man behind the curtain, and he's ridiculous. As expertly as Monty Python skewers authority, the skewer themselves even better. "Gannet on a stick!"

Who would you rather have a beer with?

Finally, "Election Night" a brilliant send up of the hysteria surrounding elections. Cleese brings manic energy to his television news anchor, tabulating the results as they come in. The results are announced on film, usually from some sort of balcony, with a sensible candidate, and a silly candidate with a silly name like "Walrus Titty". The frantic goofiness in the studio is reminiscent of "Spectrum" (Episode 12) with rushed, harried silliness and great jokes peppered in; "The Silly Party has taken Loudon... Mary Whitehouse has just taken umbrage!" This launches us into the credits, and hot damn, it's over!

This show, while offering no stand-out bits, is another stone laid in the foundation of the legend of Monty Python. It takes a huge step forward with random and brash insanity, giving us not so much leaps as huge bounds of  logic. It claims "silly" as its own, creating Monty Python's own political party. It introduces the term "loony" to the Python lexicon.

But then there's the black spot. The first sign of censorship, and the outrage that it elicits from Gilliam. Much of this episode takes place on film; The School Prize bit, the bad knock-off films, the Silly Party, and the Oman rebellion on  the bank of an English stream. All of this, and all the animation, is delivered to the BBC as a fait accompli, and with such a huge proportion of the show done with such autonomy, it must have been easy for them to think that they were creatively free to do their own thing. But although they were skilled, confident and increasingly eager to strike out on their own, there was still a hand on their reins. And that hand was, in its way, sillier than they could ever be.

Next week; Season 2 Titles!

Episode 18 - Live from the Grill-o-Mat

"... If there was not one thing that was not on top of another thing, our society would be nothing more than a meaningless body of men gathered together for no good purpose." -  Graham Chapman as Sir William, President of the Royal Society for Putting Things on Top of Other Things

In praise of the framing device!

Monty Python's Flying Circus began with a framing device-- a bedraggled shipwreck survivor crawling to shore, entrusted with a simple mission; start the show with the word "It's.." Once the show is over, the bedraggled survivor is unceremoniously urged, or thrown, back into the peril from whence he came. A bit at the beginning, a bit at the end, frames the show.

As the show got more complex, the framing devices followed suit, became support pillars or tent poles, with a pattern and pace. The Undertakers in Episode 11, for instance, create a framing device for the show, and there were more frames than show in that show.

This is actually a perfect device for MPFC-- it creates a semblance of order for their chaos, and gives the audience a touchstone to get their bearings and collect themselves for the next flight of fancy. This season, we've seen a frequent reliance on framing devices to structure their shows. Last week's Gumbys are an example. But when a framing device has its own plot and forward momentum, this gives the show an almost dramatic progression as the stakes rise. Personally, I love that. Others may praise the free form randomness of the Circusians, and there's much to praise, but comedy for me is best when there's a build to a funny and unexpected climax. That's what this week's framing device does. It's one of my favorites. Let's check it out.

As always, Buy the Box Set. It's not enough to think about the box-- you gotta get in the box.

No ever-present announcer behind a desk, this time we start with a BBC globe graphic twirling along. Palin announces that tonight we're live from the Grill-o-Mat Snack Bar, Paignton. Sure enough, wedged at a table next to two diners completely oblivious to him sits Cleese. This character is similar to the Announcer, but he seems less diffident, perkier, more eager to please. He introduces the credits, the "It's" Man has his say, and the titles commence. Back at the diner, Cleese sniffs at his own cleverness as he compares the next sketch to the appetizer.

The appetizer in question is "Blackmail". I heard this sketch done live on the City Center album, wherein Palin, the show host, introduces it as "The only game in which you can play with yourself." At heart, it's just another game show spoof, with wacky, tacky Palin, in his tiger skin coat and spangly bowtie and lapel flaps, smarming his way through the proceedings. But Palin actually worked up some interesting rules to this game show, with a variety of hints thrown out to unlucky (and unwitting) contestants, and a "stop the film" segment, all designed to get viewers to send money to them. It's actually a brilliant idea-- I would totally watch this show. It's funny in the standard Python-esque "explore the concept" way, but it's also notable for--

The first appearance of the Nude Organist, played this time by Gilliam. He plays a chord progression with a flourish, wearing only a collar and a maniacal smile. We'll see more of him next season, though he'll be recast.

The Blackmail show ends when a contestant calls in to "stop the film". That contestant turns out to be calling from a very important meeting-- the annual meeting of the Society for Putting Things On Top of Other Things. If this isn't a Chapman sketch, I'll eat my hat. (Spoiler alert! I only wear chocolate hats.)The idea is so blatantly and transparently silly and in love with its own silliness, it feels as though the soul of Chapman was transmuted into sketch form.
Plus, he's the lead, which rarely happens when others write the sketches. Idle and the others pompously self-congratulate, ejaculating "Hear, hear!"s like rabbits ejaculate other rabbits, while Chapman gives the keynote address, which could be the keynote address for almost any organization. "We put things on top of other things, we're doing it more than ever, we could do it even more." Throughout all of this, the audience is relatively sedate. When Chapman calls Cleese on the carpet for not putting more things on top of other things, Cleese bashfully admits that "the whole thing's a bit silly." Chapman agrees, the meeting is over, the society is disbanded, and the entire thing gets scarcely a singe laugh. Still, I like it. It's quintessential Python, and a nice jab at the upper classes for a change, instead of just television, which is such an easy target. (As opposed to the upper classes?)

But the next bit is even more brilliant. As the Society attempts to leave the room/building, we cut to film. They regard the camera with fear and loathing. "Good Lord! I'm on film! How did that happen?" All possible exits are covered by film. They're trapped. They decide to tunnel their way out, and the sketch becomes a "Great Escape" spoof. They do another "If I could walk that way..." joke variation-- that's three shows in a row-- before finding another exit that takes them into the mind-- or digestive tract- of Gilliam. They've run right into an animation. All 5 Society members wind up in someone's stomach, and as he excuses himself into the bathroom, we cut back to a slightly embarrassed Cleese at the Grill-o-Mat.

The ambition here is substantial-- a sketch morphs into film morphs into animation, all cut together. The separation lines are disappearing. I notice in this season how Gilliam is inserting live action into his animations-- Cleese and his propeller desk, the Gumby toads, and now this. As their craft expands, so does their artistic potential.

Back to the show--  Cleese puns his way through the next introduction of the next sketch-- starring Cleese, in a high necked raincoat and a drippy nasal accent. The Parrot sketch man makes a second appearance. He introduces himself and Idle, his flatmate, and promises to discuss the burning issues of the day. This is a miniscule bit, and not much laughed at-- but it serves today as prescient! This show is the blueprint for almost every YouTube channel out there. Even as Cleese tries to discuss overpopulation, Idle keeps trying to tell a joke, with almost no enthusiasm for the joke. Cleese shushes him. It's web-television, prophesied! The show is cancelled by director Jones, (although he promises them a bit later if they have a piano stool,)  but Cleese hears something and figures "We may still be able to get in this show as a link." (They're already on the show. Mind... blown!) As they listen to the pipes beneath the floor, the Society men, (having been flushed, presumably) flow by, screaming. (Idle, who shouldn't be able to see them, asks "How'd they do that?" Python is remarking on its own growth.)

The animation gets trippy from there, but the hapless Society members, after being vomitted by a gorilla and crashing the Last Supper, wind up on a cloud, being dive-bombed by another German cloud. Eat it, Yellow Submarine!

Cleese, back at the Grill-o-Mat, seems excited by the cliffhanger. Behind him, Chapman appears as a waitress whose loud talking breaks of Cleese's delivery. After telling her to keep it down, he introduces the next sketch, called Prawn Salad. Did he just mess that up?

No. Prawn Salad Lmtd. is the name on the door that begins the next sketch, an Idle piece about a hapless man who accidentally destroys an entire mansion and everyone in it, calling out
"Sorry!" as he goes. Idle is exquisite, Chapman plays a passive aggressive hostile Butler to perfection, Carol Cleveland in her first appearance this show squeals as she dies. The first item on the demolitin derby, a mirror, is clearly aluminum (or aluminium, to the Brit-philes out there,) and the fake SFX never fails to get a laugh out of me. It's not particularly inspired, but it's well done and very British. There's a bit where Idle runs down the stairs, just avoiding the collapsing house, which finally explodes.

But as Idle stands there in the wreckage, the shattered door remains in his hand, calling out "Sorry", who should pass by but-- The Society men, picking their way through the debris, on their way to a school play. (They pass Palin's Bishop, still rehearsing his "swollen leg" line from two shows ago. If Monty Python ever does another movie or show, it should be called "Mr. Belpit's Revenge," and the Bishop should get to say his line, in all its iterations.) Finally, they arrive at the school and the play, "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers." Cleese cuts in, saying he doesn't need to cut in, and off we go.

"Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" is a play put on at an English  school. It is terrible, with much pomp and little entertainment value. As a snapshot of how English schools drain the life out of everything (even sex, as demonstrated in "The Meaning of Life",) it is exquisite. Chapman as the headmaster is wonderful, the kids are all great, including Gilliam, and Cleese, the man in the raincoat, plays piano horribly while Idle turns the pages. The entire thing is cringe-worthy every second of the way, yet it feels like one of the most honest sketches Monty Python has ever done, or ever will do. The jokes derive almost exclusively from environment and character, and the fourth wall feels impenetrable. It's a rare kind of Python sketch.

As the play ends happily, Cleese plays us out, and the sheet music links us to the next animated bit-- Two twin General Benjamen Butlers with fifth dimensional head gear decide to hunt piggy banks. Their hunt takes us to a butcher shop, and a short but sweet bit wherein Idle, the butcher, is alternately rude and polite to Palin. Even though Palin figures out the rules, he still gets blind-sided by Idle's Tourette's.

Back at the Grill-o-Mat, Cleese confuses Chapman's waitress by ordering tea, even as he analogizes the next sketch as "coffee." Said "coffee" is a brilliant documentary about Ken Clean-Air System, an sub-verbal boxer played by Cleese. Reminiscent of

The Piranha Brothers bit, it's filled with silliness, great jokes, and wonderful performances, although it never manages to lift off like the Piranhas did. Still, there are great lines; "The great thing about Ken is that he's almost totally stupid," says Chapman as manager Englebert Humperdink. There's a great moment where Cleese is jogging along the curb, and he is stopped completely by a parked car. He stares at the car, confused, baffled. Finally, he turns around and goes back-- ostensibly to the next parked car. (My daughter and I used to act out this moment all the time.) Finally, we get to the big fight (announced brilliantly by Palin,) and it turns out Ken is fighting a girly-girl with ringlets played by Connie Booth. Man, can she take a beating. Why did Cleese ever divorce her?

Back at the Grill-o-Mat, Chapman's waitress is cleaning up. Cleese has already left. We catch up to him on the bus, where he sits on the top deck, depressed that his bits weren't very popular.
After all that hard work linking the material, he's going to be let go. As he hilariously tries to hold back the tears, the show ends.

No classic bits or sketches, nothing memorialized in the live shows, but a strong offering nonetheless, filled with overlooked gems and Python rarities. With the inclusion of Cleese's framing device and the sub-epic journey of the Society members, as well as the almost sweet evocation of school theater, the team seems to be pushing towards deeper more complex cinematic narratives-- not aping them, as in the Science Fiction sketch, but crafting and developing them from scratch, adding character arcs with just a dash of empathy. No longer content to use the framing device to merely order their sequences, they are now filling the frames with life, putting things not on top of otrher things, but in between other things, with greater confidence and assurance.

And they're still funny.

Next week; Episode 19 -  It's a Living

Episode 17 - The Buzz Aldrin Show

"...None of your blood caked on the walls and flesh flying out of the windows inconveniencing passers-by with this one, I mean, my life has been leading up to this." - John Cleese as Architect Wiggens

Perfection is dynamic, not static. This creates a problem for the sedentary. We sit and obsess over minute details in the belief that we will achieve perfection, but usually, perfection can only be attained on the run. It requires hard work and massive skill, true, but it also requires happenstance and grace, both momentary and short-lived. The bitch of it is, we work as hard and as skillfully on the imperfect as we do on the perfect. Harder! Skillfully-er! What the fuck, Perfection? Why you gotta do us like that?

This week's show is perfect-- for the first ten minutes. And while the glow of that perfection carries over to the next few minutes, the remaining show does not, cannot, live up to the start. But they try, oh, mama how they try! And the imperfection of Monty Python still outshines the pinnacle of most other sketch comedy shows.

Let's check it out. Pull out the sixth disc from your box set, and we'll all watch together. If you haven't yet purchased your box set, what the hell are you waiting for? The perfect moment? Didn't you read the first paragraph? Perfection is dynamic! Get off your static ass and buy the box set!

An animated pastoral setting gets us laughing right away, as Gilliam's animated perv makes an appearance as a caterpillar, with eight spindly legs sticking out from the trench coat. He finds his narrow home perched on a leaf, and he crawls under the blankets. The audience knows where this is going, but Gilliam makes us wait, with clock ticking and snoring indicating the passage of time. Finally, the bell goes off-- and the gayest butterfly ever erupts from the sheets, with neon wings. The perv has been transformed into a game show host, with blond boufant hair, pencil thin moustache, red suit and bow tie. It didn't matter that we knew what was coming-- Gilliam's over-delivery still surprises us. The butterfly flies out of frame, and Cleese's Announcer, sitting calmly at his desk (customized with propellers), floats up into frame. You know the line. Palin in close up gives his line from the beach, and we roll the titles.

A very proper voice over from Cleese accompanies a graphic apologizing for what follows-- and what follows is GUMBY! After a year and a half of development in miniscule film clips, the Gumbies get their own show! They stand before an office building, all five of them in matching costume (Chapman's sweater vest is rolled up over his belly,) and announce the next sketch.
Palin's take on the character is the one the troupe has adopted-- slow, bellowing voice, hands hung low and cupped in gorilla posture, and every word emphasized by the torso bobbing up and down. We also see something new here-- the violence of the Gumby. Having announced the sketch, the camera does nothing. They impatiently direct the camera up, with increasing urgency and volume. We'll see more of this violence in future sketches. (Also new is the Gumby "Hellough!" greeting.)

The camera finally gets the memo and pans up. We fade into a room, with Chapman addressing Palin and Jones. Two model buildings are on the table in front of Chapman. We got us a sketch here. Only-- the Gumbies are still screaming outside. Chapman, too distracted to get the sketch going, screams "Shut up," and we get the next new Gumby modification; "Sorry!" Chapman finally throws a bucket of water on them, and we cut to a quick shot of them, dripping wet (way too wet for one bucket), looking around trying to figure out what just happened.

Now the Architect Sketch begins in earnest, with Chapman introducing two architects, both vying for the same gig. Cleese, as Wiggins, is first. His bit is brilliant. I'm partial to Cleese because of the covert hostility he brings to almost everything he does, but here the hostility is overt the top! First, as he descries his building, which is supposed to be a "block of flats", he includes details like rotating knives and soundproof walls. It soon becomes clear that he is describing a slaughterhouse. When asked is he's proposing to slaughter the tenants, Cleese responds "Does that not fit in with your plans?" When it looks like he's not going to get the job, he yells at the suits-- then tries to take it back, sucking up so that they'll make him a Mason. It's shades of Fawlty Towers as Cleese's anger burns bridges which he then tries to crawl across. Cleese is great, and Palin and Jones are also great as they politely but clearly dismiss him, "Thennnnk yooooou," avoiding eye contact.

Idle follows with a straight forward "satire" as his hi-rise model topples and bursts into flame right there. The sketch seems analogous to "The Towering Inferno", yet said movie doesn't come out until 1974! So what is this bit a satire of? There was a tower block collapse of a building in Great Britain in 1968, called Ronan Point. A gas explosion took out a load bearing wall, and a corner of the building completely collapsed. Could this be what they were mocking? At any rate, it wasn't a "Towering Inferno" reference, like I'd always thought it was. Idle uses the word "magnalium" which is a flammable aluminum alloy. Was anyone expected to get this joke? Still, the gag is a visual one.
 Despite the partial collapse and spontaneous combustion of the model, Jones and Palin decide the price is right.

Now comes a great bit-- Idle shakes hands with Jones, and it's a wacky Mason hand shake. Cleese pops his head in and addresses the camera-- "It opens doors, I'm telling you--" and they show us the handshake again in slow motion. Only they don't bother with hi-tech gadgets like slow-motion film. Idle and Jones just shake hands more slowly. Idle gives a frozen, grimace-y wink that is hysterical! A voice over asks what other ways are there of recognizing a Mason. We cut to film clips of silly behavior, all accompanied by the near-hysterical laughter of the audience. The final nail in the Mason coffin is Chapman, wearing horns, an apron, hat and shoes, and a sash saying "I'm a Mason".
Amidst the silliness, the message is clear-- all that Masonic hokum is more about getting attention than avoiding it. We cut to an animated bit as they try unsuccessfully to recondition Chapman's Mason with a large hammer and a nude lady.

Now we cut back to the Gumbys, who shamble on screen in a film clip. They announce the next sketch, "The Insurance Sketch", and in almost a direct repeat of before, they start to angrily insist the camera get over there. No bucket of water this time. And now the perfection begins to ebb. I love the Gumbys as much as the next man, who is probably a Gumby, but to be frank, we did this already. The only twist this time is that there is no twist this time. Suddenly we're in a cluttered office, with Palin looking all shifty behind the desk, and Chapman looking as dull as he can look. Chapman even gets a caption identifying him as the "Straight Man" (heh.) What follows is a rather uninspired sketch about "Devious" insurance agents. There are a couple of nice moments-- Palin introducing himself, Idle walking off with his free "nude lady", the inducement to sign up, and Chapman's casual decision to abandon the sketch-- but it's no great shakes.

Get it?

A quick word about Chapman in the show so far-- he's hardly in it. He seems to play only utilitarian characters whose job is to lay out exposition and set up jokes-- the straight man indeed. In reminiscences of the show, the surviving cast members suggest that Chapman was not the hardest worker-- more of a hedonist than a writer. If that perception existed, this might explain why he gets such measly roles. Still, as the only golden boy in the mix, with his romanesque profile and his massive height (second only to Cleese,) and his innate silliness, he never fails to draw the eye, even when he's got nothing to fucking do. He leaves the insurance sketch, and by doing so gets one of the biggest laughs in it. While Jones may have been primarily responsible for the stream-of-consciousness aspect of the show, it's beginning to seem to me that Chapman was the source of the silly. He just exudes absurdity.  Anyway, back to the show...

Just as the Insurance Sketch seems consigned to extreme ordinariness, (now that Chapman's left,) a bishop's crook suddenly slams on Palin's desk. It's the Bishop! Another Palin-esque sharp right turn into a completely different sketch.

Things pick up now as Gilliam gives us one of his most inspired works yet-- a brilliant spoof of a 60s TV action show credit sequence. The credits themselves are funny, but what Gilliam accomplishes with the spoof titles is exhilarating, eye-popping, and right on the money. Never before have his gifts for animated mimicry been so completely revealed. It must be seen to be believed.

Jones rides the wave for a bit, as his Bishop, a scarred, guttural tough guy in a bishop's robes, cycles through town with his clerical coterie, tracking down a series of silly religious assassinations involving babies that explode upon baptismal impact and rocketing pews. Jones is good as the Bishop, if a tad incomprehensible, but the sketch fails to hold up. Though a spoof of the old 60s procedurals, the Python lads have zero interest in coming up with a phony case.

Having just failed to stop the bloodshed, he then aimlessly wanders through town in an exact replay of the Hell's Grannies bit from last year-- the same brassy music, the same dolly shot, the same extras getting nudged aside. Finally, he hears a call for help from Idle's vicar from the previous scene, and the crook comes down again on Palin's desk, and it's Deja Vu all over again as the fake credits roll. Not only is it deja vu as in we just saw that a few minutes ago, it's Deja Vu as in they did this joke last week with "It's the Mind"
repeating over and over again.

"This is where we came in" say the Potters, (such an iconic name nowadays,) and they leave the theater playing this endless loop. They then go home-- to the street, in an odd conceptual filmed bit-- very funny and clever, if a bit too understated to gain the approval it deserves. The Potters live in a nicely furnished apartment, only without walls and a roof. "The builders haven't been, then," Palin (Mr. Potter) says. Idle shows up as a film documentarian, eager to chronicle "the appalling conditions under which you live", but Chapman (Mrs. Potter) chases him off with a stern "Don't you start doing a documentary on us!" It's bits like this that Monty Python was created for-- a nice interesting concept they can explore briefly without worrying about sketch structure, punchlines and twists. Homeless couple. Bam!

In the end, though, it ain't nothing but a link. Chapman, wanting a bath, finds Alfred Lord Tennyson in the tub, reciting poetry. "The poet's been installed, then," Palin explains, and now we get a sales pitch for renting famous poets, with an animated jingle. This takes us into a rather goofy sketch of Jones (as a lonely, libidinous housewife) getting her poet "read" by Palin's inspector, much as you'd read a gas meter. But given the functionality of the sketch, Palin might as well be reading the gas meter, or delivering ice. It's a porn fantasy is all, only played for laughs, as Jones tries to seduce Palin by complimenting his "torch." The "Poet in the home" bit is the baseline of the sketch, but they do almost nothing with it, instead giving us a rather standard and pedestrian "awkward seduction" bit. There are a couple of odd beats-- Jones goes to the door before it rings, and just stares at the camera with a come hither smile until Palin starts the sketch. Then, after he reads the Wordsworth under the stairs (patient, patient Idle,) there's this long moment of silence as Palin gathers up his things. Jones can't try to stop him from leaving until he tries to leave. The whole thing feels under-rehearsed.

Hang on to your torch!

Jones, trying to stall Palin, asks about the weather, and Palin lapses into a weatherman character as he responds, even pulling down a weather map in her otherwise normal vestibule and addressing the camera with his smarmy game show host delivery.  This takes us on a brief round robin as Palin signs off, and a BBC announcer gives choices of viewing (including a debate with a nude man-- you'll see.) and a funny meta-gag. But that's only a brief diversion. Jones, the sexually frustrated hausfrau, turns off the TV and makes the big push on Palin, who has reverted back to the inspector character. The sexual clinch brings us to the nude man interview, (Chapman, the nude man, complains about "titillation for it's own sake,") which brings us back to the Bishop. The whole show, from the Insurance Sketch on, has been a self-contained comedic eddy of interesting ideas thrown at us like confetti, with no apparent interest in developing the idea past its one-line pitch. The only developed bit is the seduction scene, and that was the bit with the least potential.

But if the lads are flawed, they're flawed in a self-aware way. An "An Apology" card comes up, and Idle apologizes for the constant repetition, repeatedly.  This takes us to an animated bit involving men bouncing on a BWW, Jack and the Beanstalk, and Gumby princes. The Gumbys announce the Chemist Sketch, and we're off to the third part of this rather rigidly delineated show.

Pharmacist Cleese (haven't seen much of him since the Architect Sketch) rudely tosses out medication to mortified customers. "Who's got the pox? Who's got wind?" A BBC apology follows, with a stern list of words the BBC won't allow. Of course, they can't say the words that can't be said, and they get some laughs out of disallowing "Kn*ckers" as well as "Kn*ckers." One of the naughty words is "Semprini" (an English pianist-- maybe they meant "pianist" was a dirty word? Eh? Eh?). The Chemist sketch begins again, and Cleese asks "Who's got a boil on his Semprini?" Bobbies cart him off. He was warned. Jones takes his place as a "Less Naughty Chemist", complete with sign on the shelf and placard on the chest. Idle, as a mustachioed customer, delivers a bad pun that they almost delivered in the prior show, ("If I could walk that way, I wouldn't need after shave.") which brings in the bobbies and aborts the sketch. Finally, Palin (him again!) stands in as a "Not At All Naughty Chemist", and Idle steps in,

Wink, wink! We're doing a sketch!

sans moustache, as yet another customer. What follows is a pretty mediocre sketch that gets the bulk of its laughs by reminding everyone that its just a sketch, with actors moving the clock hands to indicate the passage of time, and characters standing by the cameras when they should be downstairs in the basement. Idle even addresses the camera and says as much. There are references to the Parrot Sketch, as well as the Spanish Inquisition, the first indication that Monty Python is aware of its own fame and celebrity. A "Man on the street" segment interrupts this post-modern sketch, with Gumbys and The Spanish Inquisition Cardinal making appearances.

Anyone want flying lessons?

But we're soon back at the Chemist, where a shoplifter has brought in the fuzz. Chapman storms in as Constable Pan Am. No longer the straight man, Chapman comes in and messes shit up! "I should warn you that anything you say will be ignored," he shouts, punching, onomatpoeia-ing, stealing and singing his way to the end of the show. Maybe this is really why they make him the straight man. Once he gets going, it's all his. Idle and Palin practically disappear before our very eyes as Chapman sends a radio transmission to Buzz Aldrin with his mind. This takes us to a final apology, a Buzz Aldrin closing credit sequence, and a final word from the Gumbys, post credits.

Ultimately, the show is a bit of a disappointment. Though it begins so exquisitely, it ultimately becomes a victim of its own cleverness. The lads spend more time mocking what they do than they spend doing anything. Maybe that's the point, but it leaves me a bit empty.

Still, the show is notable for the official embrace of the Gumbys, codified in live action and animation as an official Python original. The Gumbys are a rare bit of alchemy-- a character that wasn't created so much as evolved, from a show that tended to avoid repeating characters. Like proud parents, the Circusians will continue to trot the Gumbys out, but this was the first time they became frame-worthy. It's ironic that, despite their reputations for smart humor, it is the utter moron they all fell in love with. Isn't that the way it always goes?

Next week; Live from the Grill-o-Mat".