Episode 26 - Royal Episode 13

"Frank? I think we've got an eater!" - Graham Chapman as  an Undertaker

It's the end of Season 2. They've had a great run this cycle, with destined-to-be-classic bits. But have they, as they often joke, run out of steam at the end of the season?

Spoiler alert; No. What follows is one of my favorite episodes. Despite some misfires, the overall show is filled with gleeful energy and a wicked desire to stretch the bounds of good taste, or even just taste. In fact, some people consider pieces in this show to be guilty of going too far. And some of those people were members of Monty Python.

Let's take a look. Pull out your box sets, and if you don't have one yet, just friggin' buy one! Thanks!

We begin our lapse into bad taste with a premium set up. Cleese, as the Announcer, stands solemnly in front of his desk. "Ladies and gentlemen," he warns, "I will not be saying 'And now for something completely different' tonight..." There's big news! The Queen will be watching! "We don't know exactly when she'll be tuning in," Cleese whispers. "We understand at the moment, she is watching 'The Virginian'." The thought of Queen Margaret, perched on her throne, watching 'The Virginian', never fails to make me smile. Cleese hurries on to promise us that the audience will be informed as soon as the Queen switches channels, and the television audience is expected to stand. But apart from that, the show will proceed normally.

The Royal Credits-- Pre-Royal Foot

The "It's" Man, too bedraggled for this august occasion, does not appear. We go directly to the credits. But these are the royal credits-- a lion and a horse perched on a throne, protecting the royal seal, a Latin inscription asks God to save the Queen, a banner unfurls before them, with the show's title. Instead of the usual marching ballad, we get Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance. It's all very regal and impressive-- until the same old foot comes down suddenly and squishes it. Well done, Mr. Gilliam!

The "First Spoof" of the Royal Episode takes us, via hymn, title, picture and awkward voice over, to Wales.  (A crawl lets us know the Queen hasn't tuned in yet.) In the mines, the miners come to blows over hyper-intelligent stuff-- when was the Treaty of Utrecht ratified, and such. Unable to settle things, they get a visit from upper class twit Cleese, wearing a sign
that says "Frightfully Important" carried in on a bier. After lead miner Idle gives an ornate show of submission ("Master of the Universe, protector of the meek, whose nose we are not fit to pick...") he puts the question to Cleese-- who, of course, has no idea what they're even talking about. This ignorance causes a miner's strike. They won't come back until management can clear up an argument regarding Greek architecture.

This bit is simple enough, but it has two comedic reservoirs to draw from. One is the weakness the lads have for trotting out their superior British education, with all the oblique historical references. The other is the fights and the outrage. Gilliam comes in at one point, and when Idle disagrees with him, Gilliam screeches "Ya stinkin' liar!"It's kinda awesome. And Jones takes a pick axe to the head.

We cut to newscaster Palin reporting on the various smarty-pants miner strikes, as well as other silly stories, such as the winner of the International Disgusting Objects competition (Braised pus beats a putrid herring) before linking us to the next line-up of silliness. Jones, the host of "The Toad Elevating Moment", interviews Chapman, a discursive speaker off his game, and Idle/Cleese/Palin, who, between them, can say whole words. It's all good, but more like a good improv sketch than the brilliance we've come to expect. Saturday Night Live would have made a movie about these three guys.

Without link or pause, we cut right to a toothpaste commercial starring dragons. It's Gilliam's turn at bat, and he gives us a more inspired commercial spoof than usual. The Dragon (hysterically voiced by Cleese) is depressed because the diminutive sluts that populate this kingdom are repulsed by him. a little Crelm toothpaste solves his problem, however, and the girls flock to him-- whereupon he eats them all. A less inspired commercial spoof follows. I don't know, guys-- if you're going to take satirical pokes at society, isn't advertising a little "low hanging fruit"-y? It was just last episode the lads did all the commercial spoofs, and this section feels like stuff they couldn't fit in last episode. Finally, Gilliam returns to take us to a Disney-esque paradise, complete with coquettish deer. Romping through this neutered wilderness is real-life Cleveland and Gilliam, in white clothes and-- surgical trusses?

Yes, it turns out that this, too, is a commercial, as addled salesman Palin pitches us a whole line of luxury trusses. (I bet the Queen wears one.) But then, Palin gets to the real thrust of his presentation-- how to feed goldfish. (The answer-- beef consomme, sausages, salad, potatoes, bread, gravy...) As he's dragged away, we get a stern reminder from the R.S.P.C.A. that goldfish prefer the occasional pheasant. ("Who wrote that?!")

We cut to film, but if you think that means we're leaving the short-term silly, think again. It's a lush, pastoral scene, with strings swelling underneath the beautiful landscape. In the distance, we hear young lovers-- or a rape in progress, because the woman (Jones) keeps saying "No." I guess this was before "No" meant "No." But put down the pitchforks, ladies-- it's just a tape recorder, playing a previously taped rape. So, no harm, no foul. This feels like a leftover variation gag on the similarly scenic pan to reveal a skipping record player from Ep. 11.
Idle and a lady sit reading nearby, all stiff-backed rectitude. We continue our long pan across the wilderness and pass a butler (Chapman.) "I hope you're enjoying the show." This is all so weird. Seriously. It could be a Beatles music video.

In the distance, we see Birdwatcher Palin staring out through field binoculars, and a figure sneaking up behind him. We close in, and witness Jones, in a funky beret and shabby suit and tie, stealing eggs from Palin's sacked lunch. We find out in a subsequent interview that Jones collects birdwatcher's eggs. A one-sided interview follows, with Jones asking himself questions about why he does what he does, which includes collecting butterfly catchers. Why does Jones do this? To get on television. Mission accomplished!  

Since we left the know-it-all miners in Wales, we've been fed a steady string of silly throwaway bits. But now we start easing into truly inspired territory. In addition to collecting birdwatchers' eggs and butterfly hunters, Jones' eccentric OCD raises pigeon fanciers. This bit is hysterical! Kept in large wicker baskets, the pigeon fanciers erupt when released, all of them wearing trenchcoats and mushroom caps, strutting around like pigeons in an amorphous and ever circling flock. Seeing them coo about in Trafalgar Square, with the innocent passers-by staring in astonishment, is awesome! This is Monty Python silliness at its best.

We cut to an animation, featuring a cameo from our old friend Spiny Norman, who actually gets some applause from the audience. The bit is another inspired "only animators could come up with this shit" gag. A bearded terrorist with a giant round bomb pounds on the wall of his spartan room, asking if the balloon's ready. A little renaissance baby next door takes his cue, and blows up the balloon-- which is the baby's mother. The suckled breast is the air nozzle? It's funny. Trust me. The inflata-Mom carries the bomb up, and it explodes, morphing into spectacular fanfare for the upcoming Insurance Sketch! There are parachuting elephants and naked ladies with flags.
Most of all, there is an impressive Ben Hur style title, hewn from giant slabs of rock. I believe this is the first time Gilliam used such a conceit, but he apparently liked it, because he did it again in titles or advertisements for their next two movies.

The Insurance Sketch is where things start to get a little sick. Cleese at a desk, Idle sitting opposite, both pointing at a sign on the desk that reads "Life Insurance Ltd." Idle wants insurance, and in order to prove that he's serious, he has produced twelve gallons of urine. The humor comes from neither of them wanting to say the word. But just as the sketch gets underway--

Drums sound. Cleese and Idle pause, uncertain. The strains of "God Save the Queen" start to play. Breaking their promise at the start of the show, Cleese and Idle abandon the sketch, standing erect and facing the camera. Idle smiles inanely as Cleese whispers to him out of the side of his mouth, terrified. Palin, meanwhile, voices over in somber tones what's going on. "The actor is about to deliver the first great royal joke..." The camera follows Idle as he shuffles to the side of the set, revealing the cameraman and audience, all standing respectfully. Then Palin announces that the Queen has switched over to News at 10. Cast, crew and audience groan with disappointment.

We cut to News at 10-- the real News at 10! In a precious indication of the cultural impact Monty Python was having on the British scene, the news anchor at a rival network (ITV) agreed to do a bit with the Pythons. He gives us a quick update on the miners strike, then the anthem plays and he stands, reading a story about the patient care at RSN hospitals, which will link us to our next bit. I can't even imagine a local CBS anchor appearing as a CBS anchor on an NBC show. The IP lawyers of the current era would cough up blood trying to figure that one out. Beautiful.

On film, we see a great sketch where horribly wounded patients are put through military drills by Sergeant/Doctor Cleese. "I know some hospitals where you get the patients lying around in beds.... well, that's not the way we do things here!" The patients, covered in bandages, many of them on crutches, are made to run through obstacle courses, jump over fences, spar with the speed bag. "Get some air into those wounds!" Cleese screams. And when they're not working out, they're just working, building the doctors holiday homes and the like. It's a great sketch, filled with inspired physical humor. Check out the guy with his arms wrapped to his body, trying to get back on his feet after a fall over the fence. Like a spawning salmon.

We follow with some quick variations on other hospitals that exploit their patients; The hospital for attractive women who aren't particularly ill, the hospital for dealing with the rich,("In the worst cases, we can perform a total cashectomy.") and finally, a hospital for linkmen. This takes us, through a brief moutaineering excursion, to the exploding version of the Blue Danube. This is a classic visual bit, with a robotic orchestra blowing up in time to the classic waltz. The composer, facing out, (he can't bear to watch.) has one of those plunger boxes, and wipes them all out. Apparently, the Pythons wiped out their explosion budget for the week with this number, and could only afford one take.

Goat Chandelier-- did you think I was joking?

Next comes a bit that, frankly, I just don't get. Idle, over black, announces "A dormitory in a girl's public school." In the dark, we hear a lot of gravelly male voices planning an escape. Carol Cleveland turns on the lights, sending the "girls" back to bed, but there are also pantomime geese running around, and a goat chandelier. Yes, a goat chandelier. It turns out this is a preview for a television show about a girl's school starring a WWII military division. Okay... I get it now. But still-- a goat chandelier? Next we cut to the invasion of Normandy, performed by girls. We see stock footage of a ship, with girls saying "Come on, come on, come on..." and "whoo"-ing as they hit the beach. It's a reversal. Grizzled guys play the girls, cutsie girls are playing the guys. I finally figured it out. But seriously-- a goat chandelier?

 Next is a priceless bit-- the Pepperpots in a submarine. Linked by the girly beach landing, we see a periscope POV of the ocean. We get to the inside of a submarine, where Pepperpot Chapman mans the periscope. "It's still raining," she mutters. But that laugh, great as it is, is just the beginning. The entire crew is made up of Pepperpots, who chatter their inane dialogue with submarine references. "She said 'torpedo bay' she did, she did, she said 'torpedo bay.'" Chapman, in order to relieve poor Mrs. Nesbitt's headache, orders her fired from the torpedo tubes-- and the cat fed, and the kettle put on. They do a similar sketch in the next season, but this is the first time we've seen the Pepperpots out of the drab suburban environment. It's a nice, well-realized juxtaposition.

"Fire Mrs. Nesbitt!" Chapman screeches, and a brief animation shows us a cut out woman fired like a torpedo into a nearby ship. as she clangs off of the hull and sinks to the bottom of the ocean, she says "Oh, that's much better." You can scarcely hear her over the laughter. A complaint letter follows, gets too dirty to read, and Gilliam appears as a man with a stoat through his head. This links us to--

Okay, now things get really sick. Or, soon. We cut to a lifeboat, adrift on the high sea. All five are in the boat. A long pan in on Palin establishes the desperate hopeless mood as he searches in vain for some sign of land. But the drama gets pierced by Chapman, who reminds us (with a dick joke-- that's two episodes running) that this is just a sketch. Palin starts it all again, only to have it stumble to a halt again. The opening here is reminiscent of the Spanish Inquisition, as well as the Ypres sketch from last week, as the sketch devolves into amateur theatrics. Still, it's funny. Palin does such a valiant job of creating the mood each time, staring of in slack-jawed hunger at the empty horizon. Every time the camera resets and pans, you can't help but laugh.

Finally, the sketch gets going in earnest. The situation is remarkably similar to Ypres. 5 men in a lifeboat, with no food or water. Cleese, the Captain, is going fast, and in a moment of sacrifice, he offers up his life to the men-- but not just his life. "I want you to eat me." The reaction to his sacrifice is not what you'd expect. Apparently, Cleese is not very appetizing. They begin to argue over who the tastiest candidate would be, whether he's kosher and all the while, Cleese's feelings are hurt, 'cause no one wants to eat him. Finally they create a meal out of the various parts of all of them, suddenly pulling out peaches and avocados to supplement the carcasses. There's even a waitress, standing in the middle of the fake ocean, ready to take the order. Such civilized cannibalism! The audience and crew start to groan in outrage and disgust.The lads stare out at the crowd. "What did we do?"

A complaint letter agrees with the audience's elicited reaction, while confirming naval cannibalism, signed by a person/menu item. We then get some great Gilliam takes on cannibalism, each one funnier and grosser than the last. A stodgy Jones stops the proceeding, insisting that the show do a clean sketch.

As you wish.

Cleese walks into undertaker Chapman's office. Cleese, timid and quiet, plays off beautifully against Chapman's gregarious working class undertaker, complete with tall hat and black shawl down the back. "My mother's just died," whispers Cleese. "Oh, yeah, we can help

you," Chapman cheerfully assures. "We deal with stiffs." Things go downhill from there. Without sentiment, Chapman explains the options available to Cleese, cremation or burial. "They're both nasty," he admits. At this point, the audience is part of the sketch, moaning with every horribly offensive joke And it gets worse. It turns out that Cleese has brought his dead mother along, in a sack. It's love at first sight for Chapman. "We've got an eater!" At first, Cleese is mortified-- but as Chapman describes the meal they'll make out of her, he admits to feeling "a bit peckish." Still, he feels bad. Chapman bargains "We'll eat her, and if you still feel a bit guilty about it afterwards, we'll dig a grave and you can throw up in it."  The audience has had enough. Outraged, they storm the set.

This is the sketch that went too far. The gleeful hostility earmarks this as a Chapman/Cleese creation. As the story goes, they brought it in for consideration, and Jones and Palin disapproved. It wasn't so much that they didn't think it was funny. They just thought it in extremely poor taste (pardon the pun.) It was one of the only times a sketch was questioned in terms of not offending the status quo, as opposed to the quality of the sketch itself.  Gilliam, normally a staunch ally of Jones and Palin, questioned the sketch as well, but he couldn't question his reaction. He literally fell on the floor laughing when he heard it. The sketch was in. But Jones and Palin insisted on ameliorating the impact by writing the anticipated howls of outrage into the show. Thus, the audience's reaction, and the stentorian prude insisting that the cannibalism be stopped. If you can't beat 'em, anticipate and mock 'em.

Amidst the riot on the set, (there's a great shot of Cleese up against the wall, protesting his innocence frantically,) we pan to the credits on a monitor as "God Save the Queen" starts to play. The riot is over-- the Queen don't play that. Audience and cast alike stand erect as the titles roll and we fade out.

This was the last show of Season 2. This last sketch of this last show perked up the ears of the BBC censors. After two years of safely ignoring the show, it had now caught their attention, and Monty Python's institutional censorship struggles began. But it can also be argued that the Pythons were not lulled into a false sense of security by their success. They always seemed to understand that they couldn't play the long game, and took a scorched earth policy to television sketch comedy. I think that this stands as one of the sickest, most twisted sketches ever seen on television, rivaled only by some of Dan Ackroyd's stuff in the early days of Saturday Night Live. Despite its poor taste, it is still hysterical, and undeniably Pythonesque.

Next week; The Half Time Show!

  

Episode 25 - Spam!

"My nipples explode with delight!" - John Cleese as an Hungarian.

Ah, Season 2!


It's difficult to spot from the states. We didn't watch Monty Python's Flying Circus in season increments. We watched them during PBS pledge drives, in no particular order. The first Flying Circus episode I saw, the first one that our independent UHF station ran, was from season three, (and was scarcely comprehensible.) But going through these episodes in broadcast order (or something close to it) gives one a true appreciation for Season 2. Classic, iconic and immortal Python bits derived from this season; The Silly Walk, The Spanish Inquisition, The (codified) Gumbies, The Bruces-- and this week, we get some Spam!

But Spam will taste rancid in your mouth if you don't BUY THE BOX SET! Meanwhile, my Spam juice (don't call it "grease") drips down my chin, raising a healthy sheen amidst the tumescent pustules. This is what it is to devour guilt-free. Join me.

In order to truly appreciate the first bit, you have to remember that there was a time when people watched this show for the first time. They checked their television listings, saw that Monty Python was on, and turned to the required channel-- only to find an old (and nor particularly promising) movie showing, called "The Black Eagle". With a terrible, dissonant and overly dramatic soundtrack
filled with horns and ominous drums, credits roll over footage of a flag waving off a ship's mast. None of the names are familiar. The credits go on for a couple of minutes. Then an explanatory graphic pops up; "In 1762, the Spanish Empire lay in ruins..." The movie starts, as pirates sneak chests of probable booty onto shore, in a tense, quiet scene with signalling lanterns, waves lapping. They carry
them-- right past Cleese's Announcer, who sits at a desk and promises "something completely different." We're three minutes in.

That's three minutes of a real, honest to God movie, with no jokes, winks or hints as to the true nature of what the hell is going on. You can imagine that this is a dig at the BBC, who often pre-empted MPFC with inane fare like "Horse of the Year Show", and the lads have just beat them at their own game, pre-empting their own show. Only this time, Cleese and Palin's "It's" Man are there to recover the loot, and bring it to us. Though there's not much to enjoy during the bit, the pay-off is worth the wait. You have to hand it to Terry Jones, who I imagine was the creative mind behind this. The commitment and confidence that this joke displays is awe-inspiring.

The titles play without incident, a rare thing in Season 2, and we cut to Constable (and very bad actor) Palin taking change from Tobacconist Jones. ("Tobacconist Jones! I got Tobacconist Jones!") His line, clearly just exposition, is terribly delivered-- then Palin looks just past the camera. "Was that all right?" A nice bit, brought home by Palin's goofy amenability. Jones rolls his eyes at the camera-- and screws it up.

The dramatic music from the movie returns! A graphic, in the same Gothic font as the faux movie, pops up; "In 1970, the British Empire lay in ruins..." The awkward and poorly written text fades out as Cleese steps in, wearing a fur-lined leather coat, hat, glasses, moustache, and a thick Eastern European accent. Using a phrase book, he keeps uttering inane phrases, while it's clear he just wants a pack of cigarettes. "My hovercraft is full of eels" means "Can a brother get some matches in this bitch?" You get the idea. Then things turn lewd, like they do. His clearly innocent desires come out filthy dirty and hilarious. Tobacconist Jones ("I got Tobacconist Jones!"), trying to be helpful, takes the phrase book and finds the phrase for "Cigarettes cost six and sixpence"-- and gets punched for his trouble.

There's a nice bit here where Constable Chapman, hearing the disturbance, runs about a half mile through the London streets, past bemused British bystanders, arriving unwinded at the shop. "What's all this then?" He takes away the lewd-talking Hungarian, and we cut to a court room. The publisher of the phrase book, Alexander Yahlt (Palin), is on trial causing a breach of the peace. Most of this is just goofiness. Like the Agatha Christie sketches, the courtroom sketches seem to be generally the dumping grounds for silly little stand-alone bits. We get an off-screen barbershop quartet, we get a weird impersonation from defendant Palin, we get prosecutor Idle party-gaming the defendant, and we get Constable Chapman farting. (Notice how Cleese tries to keep a straight face-- and fails.)

Hold it together, Cleese!

Throughout all of this, the buzzkill Judge Jones yells at people to "Get on with it." Finally, Cleese cross-examines a blow-up of Cleveland in a bikini with some text above her. This is a send-up of the Page 3 Girls from the British papers like the Mirror and the Sun, although they're ususally naked or at least topless. No such luck here. Soon, all the players in court are nothing more than photos with text above them, the text read in unctious voice over.

This links us to Gilliaminations, with an angry mob storming past and stealing some giant head's eyeballs. (The mob has signs that read "Graoo Folg Now" and "Skrig Skrig Skrig". I don't imagine that sort of thing gets mentioned much in these blogs.) As the mob runs away, a giant white helmet rises up out of the street. Cheese it!

It's the cops! Only this isn't a British bobby, but a scary, red-eyed, militaristic bubble-headed American cop! Shades of 1968 Chicago brutality, perhaps? No matter-- we're past political satire and into movie spoof. The music from "2001: A Space Odyssey" comes up, as the bubble-head helmet turns into a red planet, with two other planets aligned behind it. The third planet gets kicked like a soccer ball, and winds up being the globe in the title card for the next sketch. Gilliam takes his time here, letting almost the entire theme play out before the foot deflates the pomp. Gilliam! With the feet!

World Forum is next, an Idle sketch through and through. It begins as some sort of "Meet the Press" show, but with historical rock stars like Karl Marx (Jones) and Mao Tse-tung. But the moderator, Idle, soon reveals himself to be a game show host, asking these terribly important people about soccer trivia. They can't answer, of course, but Idle doesn't care-- they're on HIS turf now! This bit is essentially an Idle monologue, with the humor playing off the concept and the befuddled reactions from the historical personages. Idle seems to have it in for "sport", or people's myopic fascination with it. Remember the opening sketch from earlier this season, wherein sports took over all of television? This sketch could be part two of the trilogy. One of the highlights of this one-joke sketch is Mao Tse-tung getting an answer right, naming the song "Sing Little Birdy." But then, we're back in the pattern, as Karl Marx plays the special gift section, and vies for a "beautiful lounge suite." Materialism will catch us all, Karl. Just smile at the cameras and count the money. (As luck would have it, Karl does not win.) This bit made it to their live shows, with Mao's line changing to "Great Balls of Fire" and Karl muttering "Aw, shit" as he loses the lounge suite.

A brief but brilliant Gilliam bit follows, with a Madonna holding the baby Jesus (I assume it's the baby Jesus-- they didn't do many baby paintings back then unless it was at least a cherub.) Madonna, in a choked falsetto, promises "a bit of fun," then passes her hand in front of the baby's face. The sleeping baby suddenly has this grotesque smile pasted on. Another pass-- the baby sleeps. Another-- grotesque smile-- and so on, until she gets the hook. The safety curtain falls-- then rises on the trenches during WW1.

Another bad graphic, voiced-over by Palin, is corrected to "In 1914, the balance of power lay in ruins..." We fade up on a bunker in Ypres, 1914. Idle plays harmonica. He and Palin play out a little scene, with such intimacy and mood, that we almost don't notice the nun standing in the background, rigid like a lawn jockey, with a Greek Orthodox priest nearby and a luau survivor off to the side. The audience doesn't seem to notice them either. It's not until Director Jones interrupts the scene, urging all those not in it out of it, that we really see the six anachronisms just standing there. A few false starts later, (how did he even see the astronaut?) and Jones gives up temporarily, cutting to the art room.

Sure, the nun's easy. What about the milkman?

We accidentally spot Karl Marx making out with Che Guevara on the abandoned World Forum set, then hustle on over to the museum piece.

Palin and Idle wander in as two pretentious art lovers, fawning over this masterpiece or that "firmness of line"... but as with Palin's constable at the start of the show, it's all just exposition. Jones shows up in peasant farmer garb and rings the doorbell to a Titian. He's the man from Constable's "The Hay Wain," and he wants to speak to Titian's God. After silliness about one painting not liking

the habits of other paintings, the Hay Wain Man announces a strike. The Impressionists are walking out, and Chapman's God promises to get the Renaissance on board. Gilliam takes the baton, and shows all the working class works of art leaving their famous paintings. A news story picks it up, showing the paintings and sculptures picketing. (There's a great Venus De Milo gag-- she can't vote because she has no arms. We'll see more of that later in the show.) Cleese tries to sell the paintings without their subjects. "What am I bid for Vermeer's 'Lady who used to be at a window'?" This is old school Python, patiently and exhaustively examining all sides of an intellectually challenging concept-- art on strike. Lots of "Look how smart we are" references tossed in, ala Picasso on a bike.

We haven't seen them do this in a while, and it's fun, especially since Gilliam is in on the action and able to make it all play.

The news announcer links us back to "Ypres 1914". Idle and Palin do their scene before Chapman comes in, announcing their dire straits. They'll have to make a break for it, but there's one too many of them for the rations they have left. "One of us will ave to take-- the other way out!" Chapman holds out a pistol, and there's a huge orchestral bang reminiscent of the Spanish Inquisition (Ah, Season 2!). From here on out, things just get silly. Cleese, playing a no-armed chaplain, insists he should be left behind. "I'm not a complete man anymore," he orates. "You've lost both your arms as well,"

"They're very good scissors."

Chapman replies. Holy Hidden Wang, Batman-- was that a dick joke?! Did these smart, intellectual television roustabouts just joke about the Johnson? The rest of the sketch involves Chapman, the highest ranked officer, losing again and again in the suicide lottery. His efforts to avoid doing his duty devolve into childhood rhyming games. Even when he tries to manipulate the outcome, he is the chosen man. This feels like prime Chapman satire, an authority figure trying not to be seen bending the rules to his advantage. Finally, he asks everyone who wants to escape to raise their hands. Everyone does-- except for Cleese's no-armed padre.

And the Venus De Milo joke from the previous sketch lands, and what a beautiful landing!There's a connection that the Pythons rarely made-- a thematic connection. I, for one, appreciate it.

The Ypres sketch has gone about as far as it can go, and so it's time to get the hell out of the sketch. Cleese, in fine Shakespearean bellow, begins a lofty monologue about the glory of sacrifice. He is soon carted off by modern security officers and driven through post war London to-- The Royal Hospital for Overacting!

The Richard III ward

This is a great bit, all on film, that shows Chapman taking us through the Overacting Asylum. We see the usual mainsails of British theater--   Long John Silver, King Rat, and of course, the Richard the 3rd ward. We see Palin overdo the "A horse!" bit, and then we see the much healthier (and quieter) Idle doing the same bit like he's describing his day. Finally, Chapman takes us to the Gilliam wing, where things are very strange indeed, as dual Hamlets' heads switch places with Yoricks' skulls, synchronized!

A quick animated bit shows a city destroyed in an atomic explosion, only to transform into a bouquet of flowers. This links us to Flower Arranging-- by Palin

as D.P. Gumby! (Ah, Season 2!) I wonder if D.P. had the same meaning then as now. At any rate, if a Gumby is arranging flowers it won't go well. First he mangles the pronunciation of chrysanthemums, and then he mangles the chrysanthemums. "Get in!" he yells at the flowers as he crams them in the vase, flowers first.

From the flower cramming, we cut to the chicken cramming. Jones, as a female counter server at a restaurant, stuffs a chicken. It's strange, every chance they get, he or Palin is stuffing a chicken. We pull back to reveal a little diner filled with Vikings, in fur vests, horned helmets, and braided blonde hair down each side of their

Bloody Vikings!

head. Idle and Chapman float down from the ceiling.... Okay, I call "acid" on this sketch. It is one of the weirdest, most random, and most popular of all Python sketches-- and I don't think I'll ever have a clue why. It's pretty simple, overall. All of the items on the menu have Spam in them-- some of them multiple times; "Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, baked beans, spam, spam, spam and spam." Chapman, as the Pepperpot wife of Idle, doesn't like Spam-- she wants something without Spam in it. Whenever a character starts saying "Spam" to often and too rhythmically, the Vikings in the cafe start singing the Spam Song! "Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Lovely Spam! Wonderful Spam!" We see Viking ships joining in. Cleese's Hungarian comes in. You can barely hear him over the bedlam, but he gets the song going again, much to Jones' disgust.

We cut away to an Historian (Palin), who talks about the great Viking victory at the Green Midget Cafe in Bromley. But as he recounts the victory, the talk of Spam drives him to delirium, and soon he is singing along with the Vikings, who are just behind the historian's maps. We're back in the cafe. The Vikings are singing. Idle and Chapman levitate slowly to the ceiling. We fade out as the closing theme music comes on, and the credits roll, all of them infected with Spam-mania.

It's really just the biggest wad of goof-ballery ever, and there is no reason whatsoever that this sketch should have reached the pinnacle of Python lore. Yet even the cursory fan knows the Spam Song, and people quote the sketch all the time. Could it be the pop culture/food collision that is Spam? It's white-trashy food here in the states, but in post-war England, Spam was a staple. (Probably made of staples, too.) Could it be the song is just fun to sing? The sketch is an odd mix of satire and anarchy,

Not with a bang, but a "What the fuck...?"

and just when we think we've escaped, the Spam Song pulls us back in to watch this loosely constructed reality just implode. When time suddenly stops and the world ends, it will probably look something like the end of the Spam sketch. Other galactic observers will be equally unaccountably mesmerized.

Oh, there's also a Palin voice over during the credits, giving us the heads up on the upcoming performances of the Viking singers, as well as the sale of the Hungarian phrase book. Prce; A kiss on the bum." Post credits show Marx and Che Guevara in bed together in a post-coital cuddle.

And that's it-- a relatively modest show by Python standards, with a couple of solid sketches, some interesting bits, and one brain trip at the end that scarcely achieves coherence, yet became a cultural lodestone that made Spam a Warhol-ian icon. The lads were in the zone, that's all, making some classic comedy without trying-- in fact, ostentatiously not trying. Trying not to try, and succeeding beyond their wildest dreams.

Many of the shows in the following seasons draw on the success of the Spam sketch. They are random, a rig filled with dizzy horses striving to chart their own paths simultaneously, and in this writer's opinion, the lack of form and coherence began to erode the comedy.

But here, tonight, in the magic of Season 2, it works beautifully. Enjoy it while you can. Unlike Spam, humor like this has an expiration date.

Next week; Episode 26 - Royal Episode 13

Epidode 24 - How Not To Be Seen

"Ecce homo, ergo elk... The ambiguity has put on weight." - John Cleese as Gavin Millarrrrrrrrrrr

Well, that was fun, and we all had a jolly good laugh. Last episode's conceptual flight of fancy took us through the world of filmmaking, fish licences and head-butting gynaecologists, but now the lads get back down to the business of putting on a sketch comedy show. The interesting thing about this episode, apart from its brilliance, is its resistance to the usual cross-pollination of ideas the episodes generally employ. Let's all pull our box sets out together, shall we? No, I'm not cross-pollinating my box with yours! Get your own box set!

Structurally, this show can be broken down into three separate sections connected by the merest links. Some are funnier than others. But one of the best parts of the show-- the audience! The Pythons are back in the studio for the bulk of the show, building sketches in front of real laughing people who sound thrilled to be there. It should be remembered that Monty Python tried to perform their shows as best they could in real time. While we are able to intellectually appreciate the filmed bits, it does break the compact a little bit-- they are conceived and executed without the participation of the crowd, who can only laugh after the fact. Though this show has filmed bits, they are (with one brilliant exception) short and easily contained. The performed pieces, meanwhile, build an energy and affinity that bleeds over into the filmed bits.

We start the silliness with Cleese at a desk, reading a book on Mandarin. The Pythonettes hated these "man at a desk" sketches, even though they wrote many of them. Too mundane, I suppose. They tried to break up the pattern as often as possible. Case in point; A knock at the door announces the arrival of Idle, who steps in through the upper-story window. Cleese plays bewilderment, milking laughs from the audience. The sketch is a silly trifle, as Cleese calls Idle on the carpet for a series of terrible ad campaigns for Conquistador coffee. "The tingling fresh coffee which brings you exciting new cholera, mange dropsey, the clap, hard pad and athlete's head. From the House of Conquistador!" The sketch ends with a terrible punch line, which they mock, but the audience participation is raucous.

Cleese links us to a film, shown on the back of venetian blinds. Country vistas with a lush soundtrack-- that starts skipping. Turns out the soundtrack is just a record player, the old fashioned kind with the big horn on it. (I smell Terry Jones!) Cleese's Announcer apologizes as he lifts the needle. He announces "And now for something completely different--" and starts skipping, like the record player. Palin's "It's" Man says "It's", and the titles roll-- and start skipping! Well played, gentlemen. What looked like a mediocre gag turns into an inspired running gag.

"My, it's hot in here."

We cut to documentary footage of Ramsey MacDonald, English Prime Minister circa 1929. Palin takes over in black and white footage. "My, it's hot in here," he says-- just as Carol Cleveland said at the start of Episode 16. And like Cleveland, Palin starts to strip, revealing bra, panties and fishnets.

It turns out this footage is being watched by pervy John Cleese, wearing a moustache that just makes him all the pervier. It's another "man at the desk" sketch. A knock, and Cleese points to the sign on his desk-- "Exchange and Mart Editor". Thank God, or the sketch would have made no sense. Jones enters looking for a job. Cleese tries to buy his briefcase, then barter for it, then hire him, if he'll throw in the briefcase... etc. They do it well, capping it off with a request for tea. Cleveland answers via intercom with yet another negotiation as Jones strips to his waist. (He traded his string vest for the job... wait a minute! String vest?!)

The revolution is televised!

This links us to a Gilliamination. It starts off brilliantly-- The secretary is overwhelmed by a sea of yellow Chinese heads, led by the insidious Mao Tse-tung. Then things get a little rote, as we lapse into commercial spoof. Uncle Sam sells American imperialism, or is it toothpaste... or is it motor oil? Or is it all the same? We get more of Gilliam's teeth, although this time they don't dance so much as rot and collapse. (Those damn communists!) There's also apparently a anecdote about using David Frost's actual phone number in the bit, but no one admits it was on purpose. Finally, this long commercial ends with Palin's announcer getting shot, and thus ends the first section.

The shot takes us to a dead body on a set. Idle and Cleveland walk in to discover the body, and an Agatha Christie sketch ensues. The conceit is more focused this time, though, as every character in this piece is obsessed with the train schedules. There's a running gag about a bowel movement the dead man had "after breakfast" ( you can be the comedic revolutionaries all you want-- sooner or later, we always get back to poo), but apart from that, every aspect of the piece revolves around the various trains, routes and schedules available nearby. Even the killer's motive is a train reservation, and his undoing is a botched train schedule alibi. It's not the funniest sketch ever, but its commitment to the premise is impressive. It turns out that all of this is a play, and as the lights go out and the curtain falls, a voice over announces the author, Neville Shunt, played by Jones, who taps in train-like

rhythms, "choo-choo"ing to himself and ringing bells. A nice moment of sheer insanity from Jones. He has a not-so-nice one coming up.

Cleese takes over as Gavin Millarrrrrrrr, art critic. As when he was discussing Ewan MacTeagle, Cleese goes into overdrive, propping up the play with frantic breathless and very pompous critic speak. "The clarity is devastating. But where is the ambiguity? It's over there, in the box." With frequent references to La Fontaine (a French poet) and an elk (an elk, not Anne Elk. You're getting ahead of me.) the bit is, as always, hysterical.

We cut right over to Palin in a talk show studio, introducing the next interview. But for some reason we can't yet understand, he keeps tripping on his words, throwing in accidental references to teeth instead of film. "Martin Curry is visiting London for the pre-molar-- Premeire!-- of his latest filling-- FILM!..." He hands the interview over to Jones, who is having the same trouble as he interviews-- Chapman! Who has two enormous buck teeth that stretch down below his chin. Aha!

That's why they've been delivering dentifrice. It's actually a nice conceptual bit, aided along by the visual silliness. Chapman, a film director, has all of his characters sporting huge buck teeth, and can't even see that it's unusual. It reminds me of a Woody Allen joke about meeting his agent for the first time; "He looked at me and instantly decided I should be in movies.... he's a little short guy with red hair and glasses."

Film clips follow, dramatic scenes made hilarious by the addition of these huge wobbly teeth. We cut back to the studio, as Chapman hilariously tries to drink water. Jones cuts us over to on-the-street interviews of the first night audience. The lads haven't done this for a while, but they're as fresh as ever. My favorite is Chapman's; "Ive been in the city for twenty years, and I must admit, I'm lost."

All of this links us to "Crackpot Religions Ltd." Idle introduces us to the Church as Corporation, complaining about the lower classes-- "I can't touch it-- there's no return on it, y'see." Only the rich and "crumpet over 16" need apply to this religion, which uses game shows to choose hymns, beer and violence to convert people, and pin-ups to keep them "in the fold", so to speak. Gilliam pops in as the nude organist, the second appearance of this madly grinning character.

Then we get a nice bunch of film clips as old characters return as Bishops of this crack-pot religion; Bishop Gumby, Bishop Shabby, Bishop Nudge, with an Idle-licious John Lennon impersonation thrown in; "I'm fighting a war for peace." Other religions make their pitch; Naughty, No Questions Asked, Lunatics (Jones' not so great crazy moment-- feels forced.) and finally, the Catholics, aka

"The Most Popular Religion, Ltd." This takes us to a great Gilliam bit, Cartoon Religions. A melon-headed man tries to smile reassuringly, but the smile is so broad, it splits his head in half, and the devil inside is revealed. My favorite part is when Monsignor Melonhead hammers his top into place, then gently tries to smile again, testing the restraints. It doesn't get a laugh, but it's so true!

Thus ends section 2. Section 3 begins with the now classic "How Not To Be Seen", a government training tape. This bit feels like the mutated love child of Jones and Cleese, incorporating Jones' love of the great outdoors and Cleese's insane hostility. It builds beautifully, establishing the technique of not being seen, the importance of not being seen, and then plays on many variations of "not being seen" versus "gotcha!" Gumby

Spoiler alert; He's behind the middle one.

makes another appearance, getting exploded right out of his galoshes. It ends unsettlingly, like last week's violent montage, as atomic bombs go off and Cleese laughs maniacally. Still in all, a great bit. It will make the cut to their movie in just a couple of months.

As it ends, we go back to Palin in the studio, who throws off a bunch of TV talk show gags that never fail to delight. The audience loves every one, and the level of engagement seems to take Palin a bit by surprise, as he must slow down his delivery to accommodate the laughter. Speaking of an interview subject, Palin announces "Mr. Bent is in our Durham studios... which is rather unfortunate, as we're all down here in London." It takes him a few tries before it's safe to continue his lines. Get out of the film clips, Michael-- this is what a live audience can do for you!

Palin then interviews a man (Jones) hiding in a filing cabinet, trying not to be seen. Unfortunately, he hasn't thought it through, and Palin reminds him that he can be heard. Boom goes the dynamite! We finish with a rock band singing "Yummy, yummy, yummy, I got love in my tummy," only they're all trying not to be seen, squatting in boxes, as the camera gives them the full variety show treatment, zooming in and out, panning across to the background singer boxes, lights flashing, etc. The credits roll, and that's the show.

"What's in the box?!"

Or is it? "Here it is again," Idle announces, for any who may have missed it. The show replays, in its entirety, with a clip every twenty seconds or so. The resulting montage is swift and unintelligible-- but once again, ya gotta admire the commitment. We finish again on the singing boxes, and we're out for real this time.

Monty Python has broken through the box-shaped barriers surrounding televised sketch shows, and has found a brave new, relatively uncharted world of comedy,  and they have duly experimented with that freedom. But shows like this remind us that ultimately, what it's all about is making people laugh. Once again they have established that they are up to the task, even beyond their own expectations. Screw the overweight ambiguity-- these chaps are funny!

Next week; Episode 25... SPAM!