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!