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!