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.)