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