Episode 27 - "Whicker's World"

"Eventually you get evil-smelling flocks of huge, soiled budgies flying out of people's lavatories, invading their personal freedom." - Graham Chapman as  Mrs. Conclusion

 Okay, this is one of my favorites.

It was an early autumn night in Florida. I had made the television my own on Saturday nights in the mid 70s. There was "All in the Family" followed by "The Jeffersons", then "Mary Tyler Moore" and Bob Newhart" followed by the Carol Burnett show, all on CBS. This kept me busy from 8-11. But at 11:00, unless I wanted to watch the local news, I had to change the channel. Our local independent station, WTOG, had starting showing Monty Python's Flying Circus. I had already purchased the "Live at City Center" album, and I'd seen earlier snippets on variety shows like Dean Martin. But this was the first time I'd ever actually seen the Monty Python television show, albeit with commercials. 

Boy, was I confused! I could barely understand what was being said, let alone what was going on. Let's see what I'm talking about and go through the episode together, bit by bit... that is, if you've purchased the box set. If you haven't, here's yet another link to do so. Seriously, without you, it's just so much masturbation. Join in!

We begin with a sweeping shot of a majestic yet barren landscape. The orchestral soundtrack (that fans will find familiar from "The Holy Grail" movie, still three years away,) blares its horns as the title informs us this is "Njorl's Saga"!  Iceland, 1126. The camera pans onto Viking Palin, who clears his throat to read from a scroll-- but the camera keeps panning right off him to Jones as the Nude Organist! Jones lacks the smarmy self-satisfied grin that Gilliam brought to the role last season. He also lacks the tan and the bow tie, replacing it with a pale, pasty lunacy, leering over his shoulder at the camera with a crack-toothed grin. Cleese as the Announcer says "And now..." Palin as the "It's" Man gets his word in. And new credits open the show.

"My bad."

The lads return to one of their favorite sets, the courtroom. Jones plays the stentorian Judge, Idle the abashed defendant, Cleese the prosecutor, Chapman the oft-wounded constable and Palin the silent juror, with a number of other jurors who look a lot alike, even though many of them are women trying to pass as men. Normally, when Python goes to court, we get a series of slight little gags assembled like a comedy train. This time, not so much. The lads have a sketch-- one sketch, and it's funny. Idle is guilty of an insane number of murders, having left more bodies in his wake than the retaking of Grenada, and whilst being captured, he has added to his lustre by nearly killing the arresting officers. But, in the dock, he's so nice about the whole thing, that everyone decides to bring his sentence down to a manageable six months suspended. It's hard to tell if the lads are spoofing the leniency that accompanies moral relativism, or meditating on how easy it is to get away with murder when everyone loves you. What is easier to spot is the darkness. Monty Python throws the gauntlet down right off, with a harsh yet hilarious take on mass murder. This feels like an Idle sketch, with his "Academy Award" admission of guilt.As the courtroom sings him out with "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow..."

Gilliam takes over with a strange bit that takes us further into a literal darkness. A deranged convict finishes the song (stealing Gilliam's voice) and the final note cracks his head, sending the parts tumbling down his neck. A detective and constable climb up onto his shoulder and leap down the neck hole in pursuit. A chase through the convict's body ensues, down ornate staircases, architecture dripping with viscera, flooded with blood and fluids. Soon, they are dodging apples and garlic and swimming through the stomach acids. Uncharacteristically, Gilliam just fades us out, as if he were bored with the whole thing, and we return to--

Njorl's Saga!  Cleese in V.O. promises us a "terrible" Icelandic saga! When Palin's Viking objects "It's not that terrible," Cleese must stick his head into frame to clarify "I meant terribly violent." The saga begins. Idle's voice over narrates as Jones strides out, bedecked in beard and furs, to his little pony. But Idle's narration gets bogged down in excessive lineage, as Njorl patiently waits to mount his horse. A Jones V.O. chimes in, apologizing for the first V.O., only to get bogged down in its own lineage. Finally, Cleese voices over with an appeal for suggestions on how to get the saga started. An address is read, different from the address on screen, and we--

What is she putting on her bosoms?

Cut to a tiny, wood-panelled office. Cleese pours himself some tea as a secretary sprays stuff on her bosoms. Wait, what? No explanation is given, although the script tells us its deodorant. Must be a British thing. Cleese addresses the camera, interrupted briefly by Njorl in a car, and explains that the voice over mess has been fixed by the North Malden Icelandic Saga Society. You may not have noticed it, but the real sketch has finally been set up, and that was the first joke. Away we go...

Back to the saga, Njorl is roused by the end of the voice over. Flustered, he mounts his horse and rides off. It begins to feel like an Icelandic saga, until Njorl reaches his goal-- North Malden! This Icelandic wanderer trots his steed through a typical London suburb, complete with city boosters to welcome him, and the viewers, to the glories of North Malden.

Idle's voice over transitions from hushed to huckster. Cleese's voice over must step in and apologize for the clear hijacking. The rest of the film, he promises, will adhere more closely to the spirit of 12th century Iceland.

But there's no limiting the imagination of desperate city fathers. A fight scene follows, with one shameless plug after another for North Malden. During the battle, interspersed with banners proclaiming the wonders of North Malden, a phone conversation between Cleese and the North Malden Mayor (Palin) can be heard-- in voice over, of course. It's all funny, conceptually, but the many streams flow over us like a fugue. It's difficult to pick and focus on any one thing. The real message is anarchy as different interests struggle for control of the narrative, and no one wins.

Back to the courtroom. Chapman, in the dock, plays a television executive rationalizing his choices for television broadcast. The boys take a whack at the easiest target there is-- the hand that feeds them. Keep in mind, in between seasons 2 and 3, the lads had a lot of work on other shows, none of them as rewarding as Monty Python. This is their savage little strike back, as they go ahead and call regular television "bland garbage."

Gilliam laughs. Palin tries not to.

Once Chapman's dragged off and sentenced, we get on with the real sketch-- Eric Njorl is brought to the stand. (As they call him in, we get a call back to the earlier lineage joke, as well as a sound effect of someone being clubbed over the head-- a first for the Python's, I believe.) Njorl is brought in wrapped like a mummy in bandages, with a fur hat on top of his head. Given his tight wrapping, he's unable to raise his right hand to take the oath, or raise his voice in testimony, or raise any part of him (except for apparently the naughty bits.) This little sketch is the diametric opposite of the first one. This time it's the defendant, guilty of such crimes as "conspiring to do things not normally considered illegal," who has been brutalized by Palin the mad dog constable Pan Am. It sticks to the central conceit, despite a couple of gay jokes thrown in. Palin is awesome as the rabid lapdog of the status quo, lunging after Njorl, and anyone else, with his rubber truncheon. Funny thing-- while Pan Am gives his testimony, they clumsily switch out Njorl for a wrapped dummy, dropping something in the process. You can see constable Gilliam crack up. Palin almost loses it as well, but he blusters through. "He assaulted myself and three other constables while bouncing around a cell." Finally, they question Njorl, only to find he no longer occupies the bandage. They pop off his head and find he's hollow-- the second hollow criminal in this episode. This links us back to--

The Gilliamination. Peering into the vacant neck hole (I've never used the phrase "neck hole" so often, much to my chagrin) they find the Detective and constable from earlier, still searching for the escaped convict. As they wander of into the dark, the convict appears behind them, escaped and free-- only to have his head chopped off by the sharp red line on a stock market graph. Ain't nothing but a link, and this resolution is much (pardon the pun) sharper than the last go round. Terry is finding his legs.

The stock market is standard Idle fare, a man saying funny things at a desk at high speed. This time, it's naughty corporation names. "Nipples rose dramatically during the morning, but then declined by late afternoon." He's doused like the dog he is, and we move onto--

An animation. The water came from the bucket of old Mrs. Cutout, who then takes a transdimensional doorway to the laundromat, where Mrs. Premise (Cleese) and Mrs. Conclusion (Chapman) are talking philosophy and budgies. This is another great Pepperpot sketch, an inane dialogue about putting down your pets while on holiday, (the old Cleese/Chapman hostile magic is back!), when the conversation lapses into personal freedom and Sartre. Mrs. Premise just happens to know said Sartre, having met him on a previous holiday. A phone call in pigeon

"Oh, merde."

French juxtaposes existentialist philosophy and mundane phone chat; When will Jean Paul be free?... He's been trying to figure that one out for years. And off they go, to Paris, by raft, so that Sartre can resolve their argument. .

Now, things get a little vertiginous. As the Pepperpots near shore, they accidentally hit North Malden, ("It's a right old dump!") and the North Malden boosters are at it again. Idle steps in as Alan Whicker singing the praises of North Malden. Cleese cuts in as Head of Drama, with the secretary still spraying her boobs. He takes us back to the Icelandic Saga.

Orchestral swells-- Only it's the Pepperpots, not Njorl. The orchestra slows down, deflated. The ladies have taken a wrong turn to Iceland. "Paris must be over there, then."

In Paris (cue the accordion!), they find Sartre's flat, surrounded by men in berets and striped shirts. Shamelessly stealing the apartment directory bit from the "Mozart Rat Catcher" sketch last season, ("Jean Genet and Friend? Hmmm...Marcel Marceau Walking Against the Wind Ltd... ") they find Mrs. Sartre at home, played by Palin. She's another Pepperpot, a cigarette clenched in her teeth. She talks like a woman but coughs like a man, my Mrs. Sartre. A brief bit juxtaposing mundane chitchat with the higher faculties of philosophy. "Revolutionary leaflets everywhere! One of these days, I'll 'revolutionary leaflets him. If it wasn't for the goat, you couldn't get in here for the propaganda." (Yes, there's an actual goat eating pamphlets.) They finally pose the off-screen Sartre their question, the answer is comically brief, Chapman mutters a scarcely comprehensible "Oh, coitus!" and a plane returns them home.

The Goat!

Finally, a brief, stand-alone bit of brilliance that gives this episode its name-- Funky jazz music leads us into "Whicker's World". Alan Whicker was a globe-trotting British journalist with an eminently mockable style who had his own show called "Whicker's World". Here, the lads actually take us to
a literal place called Whicker's World, an island populated entirely by Alan Whickers. Addressing the camera in this hilariously halting nasal self-importance, all the lads take turns, handing off the mic to one another as they search desperately for someone to interview who isn't a Whicker. The thrill of this bit is its seamless execution, as different
Whickers tag in and out of the same monologue in long takes. The hand-offs speed up as sentences shorten to clauses, and finally, at the end, (okay, they're cutting at the end, but it's still fun) to a mere word. This is a tour-de-force, an exhilarating bit of comedy that propels us to the end of the show, even into the credits, which have the Whicker name inserted throughout, and make us sorry it had to end.

All in all, a very funny show that seems to be drifting away from the standard sketch format. Only two of these pieces could work as stand-alones, the mass murder sketch and Whicker's World. Everything else is part of an overall narrative as complex as it is hilarious. The multiple streams of the Icelandic Saga weave with the Pepperpots Sartre-ian quest. The jokes and sketches that used to keep us in a tight orbit are gone, for the most part, and we are left to drift with the lads in zero gravity. But the mass of their brilliance still coheres a shape out of all this randomness and we can still get it. It might take a couple of viewings to truly appreciate it all, but we can do that now. We're not 13, and we're not watching it on the local UHF channel and waiting around for the reruns.

Next Week; Mr. and Mrs. Brian Norris' Ford Popular!

Season 3 - Organists with Organs

"...And we now miss very few chances to be illogical and confusing." - Michael Palin diary entry, 1/7/72

It was around this time that Monty Python began doing live performances. Although they'd performed a sketch or two as part of an evening of revues for charity or political causes, they were now the main event, if not the only event, and the causes they performed for were often their own. It seems that Cleese was the spearhead of this particular operation, that money-grubbing beanpole, and he would round up Palin and Jones and go do a "cabaret" at Oxford or Coventry or wherever for a couple hundred pounds. Audience members would show up dressed as Gumbies, and every line would be met with howls and cheers, much like the live performances we have on video and tape. Endearingly, Palin actually pines for a less easy crowd than the boisterous ones he might get, which he refers to as "the vocal majority killing lines, laughs, and all attempts at timing." Sucks to be him.

We have a hit movie appearing in cinema, a TV special in Germany, a Christmas book in the works, a second album coming out, and live performances, all of them falling outside of their BBC contract and under the umbrella of their LLC, Python (Monty). The TV show itself, while coming under increased scrutiny at the BBC, was finding a wider audience, with sketches being requested like bandstand hits on weekend shows that played such requests.

In the swell of such accomplishment, the lads reconvened for a third season. Cleese was a tad restless, not as enamored of the long and unglamorous hours preparing the shows, and questioning whether they were still doing anything original. Idle, too, was less committed than before, seeing Python as a means to an end. But Jones, Palin and Gilliam understood Python to be an end in itself-- a revolutionary television show that would continue to test the boundaries of standard sketch television. They had ample reason to think that what they were doing was working, and they wanted to double down. Gilliam, meanwhile, was drunk.

He's so drunk!

Season Three stands as their greatest accomplishment, in my opinion. Many of the episodes are more complex and daring than any of their movies. They border on brilliance, if not actually occupying it. The lads seem to accept that they are more of an ensemble than they are individual performers, and heady concepts become the rule. "Characters" like Gumby, Shabby, and the Spanish Inquisition take a back seat. In fact, comedy itself takes a back seat, with the strange and offbeat bogarting the wheel. While this sometimes takes us into strange and bewildering territory, the creative minds keep us relaxed enough to enjoy the ride.

The episodes of the final two seasons are the least seen of the whole syndicated lot. There are a couple of reasons for this. One, commercials are more deadly to this ambitious enterprise than in the prior seasons. Two, the lads explore bad taste and nudity more aggressively than in the past, perhaps chafing under the benign and befuddled censorship at the BBC. In challenging the norms of television, they've created television that is very challenging.

It's strange that, just as their live performances started taking off, they created new material that was, for the most part, unsuited to cabaret. In a quick scan of their Hollywood Bowl show, I can only spot two sketches from Season 3, and one from Season 4. (And I personally don't think the season 4 representative has any business being in the live shows-- it's just not funny.) The rest are all taken from or inspired by the first two seasons.  The cult that we know as Monty Python was, for the most part, already complete, the favorite material established by the cheering, quoting crowd.

But screw those uproarious, timing-killing audiences, just getting in the way of their brilliance. The lads had shit to do.

Next week; Episode 27 - "Whicker's World"!

Another Monty Python Record

"...Adapted for radio by putting it onto a piece of wood and banging some nails through it." - Eric Idle as Announcer
 
It's the end of Season 2, and Monty Python is an established hit in Great Britain. They've formed their own corporate entity, Python (Monty) LLC, and claimed ownership of the written material for their show. This allows them to spin it off-- into movies, as we've seen-- without any participation from the BBC. It also allows them to produce records.

The first record was produced by the BBC, and it was a disaster. Recorded live in front of a tepid audience, in mono, (nobody told Chapman,) the record was the album equivalent of their first movie-- a rote regurgitation of their televised sketches, lacking the inspiration and insanity that made the sketches work in the first place. None of the Pythons were happy with the result. They resolved that this time, things would be different.

Leaving the BBC behind, they signed with Charisma records to make their albums. They found themselves in a hippy recording studio with a stoned out engineer, who didn't label the tapes because his head wasn't in that space. As a result, getting things in the proper order became a challenge. Add to that indignity a pick-up engineer who recorded on a 4-track out of his garden shed. (Arthur "Two Sheds" Jackson.) What up, Brits? Don't you know these guys are movie stars now?

Despite these challenges, the lads took to creating the album with all the fervor they bring to their shows. There's new material, they break up the sketches, create new linking bits, and embrace the comic possibilities of the non-visual medium. Their innovations extend beyond the album itself, to the album cover (a scribbled out Beethoven cover with the words "Another Monty Python Record" written up in the corner,) and the liner notes (a history of Beethoven's genius at Wimbledon) as well as material supplementary to some of the bits on the album. It kind of puts their limp-wristed movie to shame. Let's check it out...

Pastoral chirps of birds (or are they sheep?) back up a Palin-voiced apology; this album has nothing to do with MPFC, is actually a collection of Norwegian Carpenter Songs. A Cleese apology apologizes for the apology. This is indeed MPFK, says Cleese, amusement coloring his voice. Guess what comes next? Whoever said "Norwegian Carpenter Songs", you win a Norwegian Carpenter! The song itself is goofball great, and a narrator describes the violent dance that accompanies said song. Cleese gets us back on track, though, and the titles music plays.

The theme song is cut off by church bells announcing New Year's Eve in Jarrow. (We lose that nice joke the show had, which makes me wonder why they included the bells in the first place.) They bring out the big guns right away. It's the Spanish Inquisition! (Interrupted by a brief and unnecessary apology.) When the Cardinals make their entrance, there's no orchestra bang-- just the sound of ...cracking wood? A sound proof door swooshing open? A sick lion? Palin changes the last weapon to "a nightcap with the neighbor" instead of "pretty red costumes". They stop the bit pretty quickly, with Gilliam offering a sketch or a quickie. Cleveland takes the sketch. Poor Terry.

Fanfare precedes World Forum. Idle sounds more snotty than humble, and he lapses into game show host a little early, but the sketch, with additional audience sweetening, works as well as ever. Idle was made for records, his voice a comfortable touchstone, quick and facile with his words. Jones gives Karl Marx a couple of inane lines, which is funny-- an important German saying "A little, yes" when asked if he's nervous. Is that Chapman as Mao?

Palin calls in with a complaint about the pervasive Communist propaganda of the last sketch, in a nice adaptation of Monty Python's frequent riffing on complaint letters. ("Ohhh! They [the Communists] are peeking out of my wife's blouse!") Cleese follows with an introduction to-- yes! Gumby Theater! In another new bit, the lads give a long and impressive build-up to the Gumbys performing Checkov's "The Cherry Orchard", and of course, the performance itself is less Masterpiece Theatre and more Demolition Derby. "Hello!... Sorry!... I got my head stuck in the cupboard!" Idle then introduces "A Book at Bedtime" read by a Gumby. This bit is sweet as well as funny. The Gumbys are the first communal Python creation, and it's clear that all of the lads love them. I'm thrilled they made it to the record. The bit is hysterical!

Now, back to the old stuff. Cleese introduces the man who contradicts people, playing the part not quite as well as Palin. Jones' gruff tones rattle the ears a bit. A gong takes us back to the Norwegian Dances again, with description. Then we race on over to the Architect Sketch, with some additional mumbling from the Masons in attendance. The sketch gets as far as Cleese's big monologue and dismissal. His final "I nearly got in at Hendon," is way off mic and very funny. The next architect is not Idle, but-- The Spanish Inquisition! "Our chief weapon is surprise. That's all. Just surprise" Palin announces. Chapman and Jones correct him. "What about fear?" Palin goes on with his monologue, but when he finishes, everyone has gone, having tea in the other room with the architects.

In a rare holdover that doesn't really fit, Idle announces a choice of viewing before Ethel the Frog. This is the bit about the Dinsdale Brothers. Palin introduces instead of Cleese, without the frantic speed and energy that Cleese brought to it. But Cleese takes over as narrator, and all's well. It's astonishing how well the sketch translates to audio only. Cleese, as the female impersonator, describes spiny as "12 feet from his head to his anus," instead of "from snout to tail." The sketch ends with Cleese being interrupted by Palin's Vercotti, sent by Dinsdale to stop the sketch. Palin vandalizes the actual record we're listening to. "Sorry, Squire-- I scratched the record/Sorry, Squire-- I scratched the record..." the record skips over and over, until we get to the end of Side 1.

Side 2 begins with the Death of Mary, Queen of Scots. It makes sense that they would use material created for radio on their TV show, to put on the album. It does go on a bit, at over 2 1/2 minutes, but it's funny, so, all good. The exploding radio takes us to the Pepperpots, a bit more somber when they're not in front of a live audience, but equally hysterical-- perhaps even more so. "How to Recognize Different Parts of the Body" follows, interrupted by-- The Spanish Inquisition! Why couldn't they do this in the movie?! When Palin brings out the soft cushions, there's a long orchestra bang. The comfy chair brings a 3-note symphony, and as everyone asks, ala Gilliam, "The comfy chair?", we fade into a quiz, which is essentially an excuse for funny sound effects. (Spoiler alert; Visconti!)

To great fanfare, Jones announces (from what sounds like a slight distance) "How to Be a Great Actor." He could use some echo or something-- it sounds like he's shouting through a paper tube. The bit itself, another original, makes great use of the buzzer. The idea is, they put you in scenes as Olivier or whoever, and you, cued by a buzzer, say their lines, written by a "great bearded playwright." Cleveland plays the scene with the buzzer, very well. It's great to see the lads having such fun with their new medium.

Idle introduces the next bit, the train play. Thankfully, we pass over the play and go right into Cleese's brilliant, caffeinated assessment of the play. From their we go to another original bit, a performance of a Tchaikovsky violin sonata. As with Gumby theater, it's all about the build-up, as Palin describes the scene in hushed tones. Things go badly for the violinist, who manages to destroy violin after violin without getting beyond the first coda. Soon, the concert devolves into fist fights, human pyramids and an aerial bombardment. Once again, fun with sound effects. Ever heard a solo played whilst diving into a bucket of boiling fat? Get this album, and you will.

Next comes-- SPAM! It has a clarity that the TV version doesn't, and in my opinion, it's the better for it. Jones has to throw in the line "Bloody Vikings" so that we know who's singing. Finally, we actually hear the end of the song, with organ accompaniment, key change, a a final falsetto high note. I didn't know Vikings could sing that high. We follow with the transvestite judges, with some minor line changes. We don't get the visual effect, but Palin in particular gets us laughing with his effete delivery.

Another original bit, "Stake Your Claim" has host Cleese challenging peoples' ludicrous claims, only to have them back down way too easily. He has to force Chapman's pepperpot to honor her claim-- her original claim, not the one she made up in a panic-- and this links us to the Lifeboat Sketch. The flubbed lines are delivered in quick whispers, speeding us through the material. Idle gives us a high-pitched teen voice that's pretty funny. "Depends how we kill him, sir."

The inevitable complaint call follows, voiced by Palin instead of Cleese. Sorry, Michael, you don't read it as funny as John. The transvestite judges come back, followed by the Undertaker sketch. At the very end, Palin gives us a pitch for the next collection of folks songs, sung by-- The Spanish Inquisition! The Cardinals come on and do a quick frenzied Norwegian tune, bringing us full circle, and we're out!

It's clear from this effort that the lads are as comfortable in the sound booth as they are in front of the cameras-- maybe more so. They use their intelligence and insight to play with the aural medium skillfully and exhaustively. Unhappy with their first efforts in film and album, they came back strong with this hysterical record, with as much original material as adapted. Bottom line, my friends-- if you limit your exposure of Monty Python to the movies everyone's seen, you're missing out on some of their best stuff. But even if you are pretty familiar with their television show, and you haven't heard their albums-- you still got some laughing to do!

Next week; Season 3!!!

"And Now For Something Completely Different" - The Movie

"Some idiot designed a poster with a happy snake with a funny hat on..." John Cleese, regarding the disastrous American box office of Monty Python's first film.

This chapter is a little outside the mission statement of the overall blog, as it is about a movie and therefore not part of their TV show. Furthermore, the film mercilessly picks the bones of the previous two seasons for sketches, which bones have already been picked in this blog. But I am including it because I think this film marks an important departure for the group as a creative entity. This is where the TV writers/performers turned into film stars, in an era when being a film star was cool in a counter-cultural way. This is also where the lads felt oppressed under the yoke of a "creative" producer who insisted on calling some shots. Finally, it's where they started to really think big, which is ironic, because this film plays it safe and small. The lads had a shot at cinema, and they blew it. They'd be more aggressive with their next film opportunity.

We won't be re-parsing the sketches-- instead, I want to focus on what they did differently, which isn't much.

A brief background to the movie-- Cleese's friend Victor Lownes, head of Playboy in London, (Man, I want John Cleese's friends!) propositioned Cleese with a film production of the Python's greatest hits, distributing the film in America at college art houses around the country and making buckets of money. And who wouldn't say no to that? Lownes put up half the money, found another investor for the other half, to create a total budget of 80,000 pounds, low-budget even back then. His mandate was for the lads to string together the best bits from the shows. He also held veto power. For instance, Palin's character Ken Shabby made an appearance in the original script, and Mr. Lownes was so grossed out, he demanded Shabby be cut from the film. (Mr. Lownes, it would seem, is a regular hothouse flower. "Why, get that Shabby thing away from my mint julip... I have the vapors!") Finally, when Gilliam worked up the credits in a Ben-Hur fashion, he excluded Lownes' credit from the conceit, giving him a different treatment. No good! Victor wanted his name carved in huge blocks of stone, too! But hey-- at least he didn't insist that Carol Cleveland be replaced with a Playboy Bunny. They shot the whole thing on location in London, and at a cold, clammy dairy farm up North London. Ah, the glamor of film!

We start with "How Not To Be Seen," which devolves into the giggling of Cleese's announcer, who takes us to the titles, done in true Gilliam lunacy. His animations lose nothing on the big screen. There are palm trees blossoming with the movie's title, a bouncing head, a parachuting strumpet chopped in two by a mouse trap, and, of course, the foot.

A title now reads "The End", and in a replay of the Season 1 finale, Jones steps out as an awkward theater owner, shown from a distance as if we are in the audience. It was probably a pretty keen effect in a movie theater. Jones announces that, since the A-list movie was shorter than promised, other vintage film clips will be shown. Palin and Chapman do the "tape recorder up the nose" bit, in scratchy vintage film style, and from a distance. The distance dims the comedy a bit.

Then we launch into the Hungarian Phrase Book sketch, oddly edited and plays very slowly. It's interesting to note that this sketch was inserted into the film script before they had recorded it for the TV show. Gilliamination follows, with hands growing like trees, flying like geese, etc. attached to a barber cutting off his own head whilst shaving-- always a great bit.

The Marriage Counselor sketch is next. Cleveland is wearing a different, and if I may say, not as alluring, dress, there are many long and oh-so cinematic pans, and the pacing seems off. Pewtie's adviser at the end is no longer a cowboy, but God himself, (prescient of the next movie, eh?) who tells Pewtie to "Pull your finger out" to summon the 16 ton weight. The music is way too excessive. The sketch is just not as funny or thrilling as it was on the TV show.

Gilliam bits again-- he's kinda rocking the house here. The carnivorous carriage, with a Carol Cleveland voice over at the end, lapses into the statue of David with the fig-leaf. The fig leaf hides a female blue-nosed censor lady (ala Mary Whitehouse?) with yet abother Cleveland vocal contribution. They're using Carol a lot in the movie. And that suits me just fine.

We do the "Nudge, Nudge" sketch in what looks like an actual pub. The scene is done in one long take with a dolly shot. Idle nails it, but... eh. Right into the Fresh Fruit sketch, with Cleese strutting and shooting the rest of the group. There's lots of strange angles in this bit, as they try to capture Cleese's lunacy.

Chapman steps in as the Colonel, complaining. Chapman seems tired, or maybe he's just hung over. He links us to Hell's Grannies, then interrupts that one to show us the Close Order Bad Temper/Swanning About. Gilliam's Cancer Spot follows. In the film version, he gets his way, and it's actually less funny than gangrene. Another dolly shot takes us into the Mountaineering Sketch, with the double-visioned Sir George Head. Again, lots of weird angles and over the shoulder shots.

A line-up of sub-par bikini models leads us to Cleese in his bikini, announcing the next different thing-- Cleese and Palin doing a bit on the street. "Like to come back to my place?" Jones the "Boo" sign-wearing perv links us to the Chinese communist conspiracy animation, which takes us (unfortunately) to Crelm. Dancing Teeth is next, with a 20th Century Frog intro, and that takes us to Jones' Musical Mice. This is where some of their Python magic kicks in a bit-- instead of being dragged off stage, Jones is chased off stage ala the Undertakers Sketch. A little anarchy starts creeping in, linking bits together. Idle comes out to introduce the next number, someone with exploding teeth as opposed to exploding knees. Why the change, I wonder? The crowd chases Jones through the Idle introduction of--

Cleese interviewing Sir Edward Ross. "Teddy Baby." In the film version, Cleese claims that it is Richard Nixon who has a hedgehog named Frank, ("Hey, American college kids! We just made a Nixon joke!") The punchline is punctuated by the crowd, still chasing Jones. There's an interesting bit with Ernest Scribbler and Palin's Milkman both crossing paths (and both played by Palin!) but we leave Scribbler for the nonce and follow the Milkman. Cleveland is the seductress, and betrays none of the uncertainty the TV slattern did.

We then move on to Scribbler and the Deadly Joke. Palin is wonderful, as always, and we get a great shot of Scribbler dead which is almost worth the price of admission itself. After Idle (Mrs. Scribbler) dies, we cut straight to the WW2 footage, bypassing the cops who moan lamentations-- one of my favorite parts of the sketch! The joke test sequence is recreated shot for shot. You don't mess with the gold.

A new animated bit follows, with an apology for the previous sketch interrupted by lewd pursuits. The old lady tripping the bus takes us into the Killer Cars. Gilliam interrupts this bit to show us the narrator (Idle) as an old man, who promises that the fight is "a scene of such spectacular proportions that it could never in your life be seen in a low budget film like this... And notice how my lips aren't moving?" The mutant cat is put into a meat grinder, which connects us to Venus doing her clam shell boogie, which takes us to the Parrot Sketch.

Cleese and Palin are at the top of their game, and the sketch suffers no transitional impairments-- until Palin suddenly blurts out "I never really wanted to do this in the first place!" And off we go to the (real) woods for the Lumberjack Song. (For the record, they jettisoned the whole "Notlob" business, as well as the Maniac Barber sketch. You don't mess with the gold and you don't mint the mess.) As Palin marches off, we hear Cleese inquire about his parrot. The Lumberjack Song is beautifully shot, and loses nothing by being in the woods, versus in front of a Vaudevillian backdrop. It is pretty poorly dubbed, but that adds to the charm. Connie Booth reprises her role as the demure/disappointed belle. Instead of "rugged", she whines "I thought you were butch." I guess they thought this was more American? I hate to break it to you, 40 years later, but in the States, the only thing gayer than being gay is using the word "butch" to describe manliness. The singing Mounties (all of the other lads in the chorus) pelt Palin with fruit.

This takes us to the Dirty Fork sketch. It begins, strangely, with an apology for being late. (?) There's a great tracking pan of Palin's entrance into the scene, as Ian McNaughton flexes his muscles a bit. Finally, the punchline, delivered without the groans of the audience, directly to a low angle camera, which somehow makes it less funny.

The classic "Kiss as Musical Instrument" plays as an interlude, followed by a new bit, "How to Build Certain Interesting Things." A pile of trash turns into a robber with a gun, which links us to the Lingerie Robbery Sketch, done without the asides to the camera, and somehow the less for that. Cleese reappears, the show's MC, walking on water as he brings us the next bit-- Cleese and Idle, doing their "People Falling Past the Window" sketch. The complaining letter follows, with a nice shot of the dummy falling out of the window.

Back to animation-- there's a lot of it in this movie-- of the pervert caterpillar transforming into the TV show host butterfly, and then a new bit where people in the snow sing "Vocational Guidance Counselor..." Guess what comes next? Cleese and Palin do their bit, with a few line changes, ("I can't stand it anymore! I want to live!" blurts Palin) and a nice over the shoulder shot. The close-ups work really well. For instance, instead of a picture of a lion, they splice in footage of a lion charging, and we get a C.U. of Palin screaming in terror. They cut the infomercial aspect of the sketch short, and Palin says he only wanted to see his name in lights. Idle, as a Hitler moustachioed fairy, grants his wish--

And it's "Blackmail". Palin plays it confused at first, but he recovers quickly. This bit doesn't create the energy of the televised version. Finally, the last "contestant" is Colonel Chapman, who links us to the Pearl Harbor sketch. Believe it or not, they actually reshot this! There's a whole dolly shot, and the pig wandering in is absent. Now, that's dedication!

We cut to the Romantic Interlude-- Jones and Cleveland making out and showing suggestive film clips. Jones promises "Just one more, dear," and we get the last sketch, The Upper Class Twit of the Year. The sketch is cut, and not for the better, completely throwing off the pacing and build. It was during the re-shoot for this bit that Cleese discovered a half-empty bottle of vodka in Chapman's briefcase, the first clear sign that Chapman had a drinking problem. I suppose Chapman made the decision to cut the sketch, because of all the sketches that should not have been cut, that didn't need to be cut, this is the one. What were they thinking?

Finally, the closing credits, with the stony names (except for the cursive flourish of Ian McNaughton's title.)

For all the credit that Monty Python gets for revolutionizing television, it's insane how safe they played it when they didn't have censors to worry about. To be fair, Mr. Lownes certainly had a lot to do with that, but this film is a testament to how madcap the lads weren't. They would never let anyone else make editorial decisions on their cinematic material again, and when they came back to the BBC studios to record their third season, they would push the envelope in ways that they didn't in this fairly substandard (for them) film.

Ironically, American college audiences did not flock to this movie when it was released in the States, with a hideous ad campaign and little or no awareness raised. But in England, where the material had already been seen on telly, the film did very well, which may or may not say something about British film audiences. It still makes money to this day for the Playboy Corporation, as Monty Python's other films and the television show has built a constant demand for all their work. Meanwhile, another more ambitious project funded by Playboy at the same time, Polanski's Macbeth, has failed to make a dime. So maybe the lads were right to make such a limpid film.

Next week; Another Monty Python Record

The Half Time Show

"Well, why don't you move into more conventional areas of confectionery, like praline?"

Holy Crap, that's a small guitar!

The stadium lights dim. A stage has been swiftly erected on the field, and the crowd quiets. The television viewers take a break from beating their wives to watch the show. The announcer's whiskey smooth tones echo off the concrete. "Ladies and Gentlemen... Neil Innes!" Oh, boy, is this half-time show gonna suck!

Technically, it's not the half-way point of the complete series of Monty Python's Flying Circus. They created a grand total of 45 episodes. We've dealt with 26 of these shows, which puts us ahead of the game, but only technically. If we break down the creative life of Monty Python as we would a screenplay, (this is an occupational hazard for me, being a screenwriter,) the first season would constitute the first act or set up, while Season 2 would be the first part of Act 2. The late screenwriting coach Blake Snyder coined the term "Fun and Games" for this section, where the promise of the premise is joyfully explored. This is where the bulk of the trailer moments come from.

Extremely apt, because after the tentative start of the first season, the Pythons explode in Season 2 with confidence, fervor and creative genius, as well as achieving an odd coherence of styles. "The Spanish Inquisition" plays beautifully beside "The Architect Sketch." Mr. Gumby becomes the first repeat character, created by the whole group. Many of the Monty Python classics derive from this season, including "Spam", "Dinsdale" and "Burma!" Add to this a deepening appreciation amongst fans. John Cleese found himself frequently accosted with demands to do a "silly walk." (Season 2, again.) Director Ian McNaughton relates the surprise the cast felt when they walked into the studio to tape the show, and found the first row comprised entirely of Gumbys. When fans start to dress up, you know you've got a hit on your hands.

On the marche futile!

Having conquered British television, the lads set their sights on the world of film. No sooner was the taping for Season 2 finished than Monty Python set to work on their first major motion picture "And Now For Something Completely Different". The aim of the film was to distribute it across America and introduce hapless American collegiates to the Pythomenon. (Nah, that'd never work.) They incorporated into a single legal entity to take control of their collective intellectual property. Soon, one might assume, they would take the show beyond the BBC and syndicate for the lucrative American market.

But in the midst of this success, the likes of which none of them had seen before, some cracks in the foundation started to appear at the tail end of Season 2. Some of these cracks, such as the persistent tension between Jones' visionary anarchy and Cleese's relative conservatism, had been visible from the outset. Others, such as the BBCs inclination towards greater censorship, were brand spanking new. Only you couldn't say "spanking" in those days.

There were similar tensions playing out here in the states. CBS had fired the Smothers Brothers the previous year over censorship issues. There was a sense in the board rooms of broadcasting that entertainers, in their zeal to attract young viewers and controversy, had crossed the line into bad taste, and that it was their job to restore the status quo-- after all, the younger audience wasn't the only audience out there, and the other audience was better at writing angry letters. In England, the face of

She thinks you're subversive.

the angry status quo was Mary Whitehouse, a powerful social conservative gifted at tempests in teapots. Rather than attract her attention, BBC programmers would try to clean their own house, rather than invite cumbersome and arbitrary legislation. They targeted shows like Monty Python specifically because it was successful-- and they couldn't figure out why. It must therefore be subversive.

One of the red flags brazenly tossed at the censors was last week's Undertaker Sketch, wherein a mourning son is coerced into partaking of a feast made up of his dead mother, with parsnips and "brocol-lie". Ironically, the co-creator of the sketch, John Cleese, would often be aligned with the censors in the future. He fiercely resisted Monty Python's forays into bad taste, and was even accused by Gilliam of editing an animated piece out of a show involving Christ on a telephone pole. ("He would deny it," Gilliam admits. "He denies everything!") Tellingly, Cleese remembers that the censors never gave Monty Python any trouble, neither at the start nor at the end, believing himself to be less Quixotic than the others about offensive material.

Smile for the camera, John.

In fact, Cleese was becoming less enchanted with the show, and had announced to the group that he was starting to look elsewhere. The others convinced him to hang on for another half season, and then just carried on as though he would never leave. They tried to cover it up, but Cleese was the biggest crack of all.

At the time, nobody in the group wanted to hear what Cleese's beef was, in a betrayal of the group dynamic of listening and debating with one another. Of course, that was only about the material. Their Socratic method never extended to the members themselves. In very British style, they avoided conflict with each other, except for Jones, and in this particular instance, that would cost them dearly. Cleese was prophetic.

Cleese's issue was that the lads were starting to repeat themselves, that rather than breaking any new ground, they were playing in the quarries they had excavated the previous episodes. This concern is ironic, coming from the only member of the troupe who recycled material from previous projects. But he's got a point. A more critical examination of the season reveals troubling similarities between, for instance, the Spanish Inquisition, Ypres, and the Lifeboat sketches. All of them are pumped up as hyper-dramatic fare, then deflated with botched lines, poorly chosen props and clueless extras-- steroidal television transformed into amateur theatrics. The lads drew from this well three times this season. They're essentially the same sketch.

But few of the Pythons were interested in what was wrong when so much was going right, and Cleese's concerns went unheeded. Or maybe he was too British to bring them up forcefully enough to pierce the others' exuberance, or Chapman's drunk.

Blake Snyder's names for the second part of Act 2 include "Bad Guys Close In", and "Dark Night of the Soul".

Next week; And Now For Something Completely Different (the movie!)