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