Episode 28 - Mr. and Mrs. Brian Noris' Ford Popular!

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"...It contains material that some might find offensive, but which is really smashing." - Eric Idle as Host of "Farming Club".

Monty Python's Flying Circus is no longer limited to television. As they write and record this show, they are stars of the cinema in a current hit film (in Great Britain) "And Now For Something Completely Different", as well as performing live on stage across the country and making albums. Freed from the constraints of televisual demands, you would think their best work resided in different mediums. You'd be wrong. In fact, one can scarcely equate the timid, regurgitated film with the creatively electric, brilliant and multi-leveled material on this week's show. The credits tell us they were created at about the same time. But these lads on telly are a different thing altogether, and they are flaunting it this week. Let's get to it--

But, hey, buy the box set, and save me the trouble of repeating myself with the same limpid results as the first Monty Python movie.

The intrepid explorers, and their fan.

We start with a long pre-credit movie that anticipates Palin's future in broadcasting. It's a documentary film about suburban accountant (more fun with accountants!) Brian Norris, who becomes an amateur sleuth-explorer searching for an anthropological link between the residents of two separate but identical London suburbs. The lads have a lot of fun with the dramatic build-up to Norris' "historic journey" (named after his car, just as "The Kon Tiki" was named after the raft), complete with a sudden meaningless twist at the end. But beyond the spoof of self-glorifying documentaries is an incisive critique of the loss of identity in a mass-produced world-- or is it a dig at anthropology? Probably both, as Norris identifies similarities between the architecture and lawnmowers of these supposedly disparate cultures. Palin, in his Pewty reprise, is hilariously stilted, and Chapman as his huuuuuge wife is Stan Laurel-esque, smiling inanely at the camera. There's a nice bit about how little diaries can reveal (word to the wise, Mr. Palin!) and a whole slew of jokes in Idle's narration that keep this nice bit chugging along. Usually, when the lads want to show us how intelligent they are, they limit themselves to fast-paced name-dropping. Here we see the real brains behind their humor as they effectively and organically skewer the simple modern life and the intellectual self-obsession with it, as well as the movies that compound the error by self-aggrandizing the whole silly affair. Well done, all!

The organist, in a cluttered backstage corner, plays us in, with Cleese and Plain tossing in their brief words, to the credits. A quick public school sketch brings us back in the studio, away from all that film, with Palin as a stern head master reprimanding three awkward but very high achieving young men (Idle, Jones and Gilliam). Their crimes-- creating  a unit trust linked insurance scheme, winning the Gran Prix, solving American racial tensions and being a gynecologist. Of course, all of this is for naught-- they're British school kids, and are therefore the bottom of the barrel. We close out with a nose picking joke (ah, nose! You're always there for us!) and lapse quickly into--

"How to Do It", an ultra-positive smiley kids show that tells kids how to be a gynecologist, how to solve all known diseases, and how to play the flute in 30 seconds. Cleese, with his half-cracked grin, is all repressed hostility, bending forward in emphasis on every point like a constipated rabbi. The big dog is a nice touch.  Then something interesting happens. We pan-- not cut, but pan to the next sketch. The camera slides across the edge of the set, right into an adjacent set of a suburban living room. Palin and Jones play two Pepperpots cooing over some baby pictures.

Palin's name is Mrs. Niggerbaiter. Now, I'm told that the troupe had some difficulties with the censors this season. My question is, where the hell were they when this character was named? This goes well beyond black face and political incorrectness-- this is the muther-fuckin' "N" bomb, tossed in to create a silly name. Was the name "Puslicker" or "Queef" taken? Was the Mad Lib book misplaced?

"Mrs. Nigger Baiter"? Really?

I'm a huge fan, and we have a great show going, but this seems like a rare misstep for the lads, and for such a minor gain. I admit that the creators are, to a man, British, and I'm coming at this as an American. The show still wasn't playing in America, and most of the Pythons had never been to the states. It's probable that they saw the word as a quirk of Americana-- a silly Southern colloquialism that deserved to be mocked. The audience it was created for would not have the same associations, blah-blah-blah. I get it. But as intelligent as they all were (are), and having seen what happened here during the sixties, (this was only four years after Martin Luther King's assassination,) their use of the word seems deliberately oblivious, designed for shock value and insensitive to the repression and violence that lies behind it. We now see the crucial boundary of random silliness. Tossing in such a word seems cold, insensitive, and a tad cruel, just to be seen as wacky. Anyway...

The sketch itself is a sweet one. It's clear that the Pepperpots are besotted with a little child, but when that child walks in, it's John Cleese, in a suit. "Does he talk?" Palin asks in a "cootchie-coo" voice. "Of course I can talk, I'm the minister for overseas development." Cleese's patronizing grin is perfect as Palin tempts him with a rattle. But as he and Jones (Mother) settle down to business, Palin goes off camera-- and explodes. "Oh, Mother. Don't be so sentimental. Things explode every day." Still, Mother has an existentialist dilemma-- people don't just explode, do they?

Chapman, a Doctor, sets us straight. Exploding is a perfectly normal phenomenon. In fact, Chapman uses dynamite to cure athlete's foot. (His record-- 84 dead, 65 maimed, and "12 missing believed cured.") I should also mention, in the name of completeness, that Idle interrupts both the Pepperpots and Chapman's presentation as a vicar trying to sell encyclopedias, or anything else. Both marks demur by claiming not to be religious, which is kinda funny.

Beyond the Fringe...

As Chapman's dynamite-deranged Doctor tries to demonstrate his method by poking at an anatomy chart, the skeletal human decides to beat it, donning a face (it looks like Hubert Humphrey?) He walks rght off of the film, past the sprockets, and into the white abyss. "There goes that link," Gilliam mutters.

So far, the show seems to be structured like a marathon race, or tag team wrestling. One sketch gets handed off to the next sketch, and the next, without any linkage, but spinning a single word or concept from the previous sketch into the next sketch. It feels like an improv team working a call. But now we get a full-on team treatment of a television special, similar to Ethel the Frog or Ken Clean Air System. The subject seems to be music, as Idle introduces guest Gilliam as a stodgy musical impresario here to discuss Tchaikovsky. "Which is a bit of a pity," Idle veers, "as this is Farming Club." This is similar to the bit Palin did last season, and it still works! Gilliam is ushered off the set as a cute pig pops up on the screen behind Idle, who lines up all the agricultural topics to be discussed. But once Gilliam is gone, Idle says "But first, a Farm Club special-- The life of Tchaikovsky!" Sweet! They just didn't want the stodgy guy on their show!

Now things get interesting. We hear the music of Tchaikovsky, mixed with farm sounds-- cattle and pigs, etc. The video is also of cattle, and the show's credits claim that this special is brought to us by various agricultural marketing boards. So we have a loony juxtaposition of a famous composer on one hand, and livestock on the other, for no particular reason, but it's funny and strange.

Now we get into the breathless, urgent talking heads, starting with Idle giving us the background on Tchaikovsky, particularly his homosexuality. Cleese takes over with a brilliant monologue, splicing biography with film credits. Tchaikovsky's father, Leo McKern. His mother, Julie Christie. His hometown, Eddie Waring... (And who the hell is "Stan the Bat"?) In keeping with the gay theme, Palin takes over as historian/hair dresser Maurice, who feminizes Tchaikovsky, as well as all nouns, verbs and adjectives with goofy names. "Eventually, she Dickie-died of Colin-cholera in St. Patsy-Petersburg in Gerty-great Percy-pain." Cleese rushes us over to Chapman and Jones, who pull an Apollo mission coverage on us, even throwing up a "Tchaikovsky XXI" graphic on the wall behind them. Chapman anxiously tries to get across to us the scale of Tchaikovsky's body, which is pretty much body-sized. Not content with simple measurements, say 6 feet, Chapman goes for the analogies. "If you can imagine Nelson's

Column, which is three times the size of a London bus, then Tchaikovsky was much smaller!" He hands it over to Jones, who pulls his best geek out to divide a Tchaikovsky doll into three stages-- the legs, the main trunk (with the very naughty bits indeed!) and the "command module" (the head.) Though seated at the same desk, when they talk to each other they look off in the opposite direction. A quick round robin takes us to the next bit, but we realize something-- this whole bit seems to be performed live! Three sets, five talking heads, all working in fast-paced unison, using the momentum and scattered focus to keep the audience deliriously entertained. It's a masterful tour-de-force. The accomplishment may even be lessened by the television medium. Used to such quick cuts, we can't easily spot the genius of doing it in real time. Wonderful!

Jones has sack!

And now, a performance of Tchaikovsky's first piano concerto. Jones, the pianist, also escapes from a sack, padlocks and handcuffs. This is Jones at his best, clumsily flailing around on the piano as he wriggles out of the sack. His physical dexterity and courage is astonishing. We also get an appearance from our old friend Rita, the Vegas showgirl who accompanies various magicians, and who has been played by Carol Cleveland in the past. This time, she's played by Julia Brck, and to be frank, I couldn't care less. Where is Carol Cleveland? Carol! Get your butt inside! The new season has started!

The applause for Terry Jones' amazing feat takes us to "Trim Jeans Theater". Three stilted Australian spokespeople (one, Chapman, is a woman) shill for the upcoming productions of TJT. Apparently, you watch the show while wearing the Trim Jeans, an orange balloon-ish pair of knee length shorts with a white belt around the waist, incredibly unflattering and hideous, and doing some floor exercises, and you lose "inches" off your thighs, buttocks, abdomen, etc. The famous productions staged for TJT have been altered to accommodate the product, including title changes. "Enjoy 'The Trim Gentlemen of Verona' and 'Long Day's Journey Into Night While Inches Melt Away'." The T.S. Eliot play "Murder in the Cathedral" is hilarious, and their version of "The Great Escape" is sublime-- even the German Shepherds are wearing Trim Jeans! 

His mouth gets away from him.

An inspired Gilliamination follows, with a fopish game show host type getting ready to introduce the next bit, when his lip-sticked mouth decides he can't keep uttering these bullshit inanities, and floats off the face. The emancipated mouth sounds like a stoner, ("I'm off. Gone. Split.") and the Host has to chase it around, and finally nail it in place beneath his nose. Once again, a gag only an animator could have come up with.

It turns out the act the Host was trying to introduce was none other than... The Fish Slapping Dance! In between season 2 and 3, Monty Python produced this little gem as part of a pan-European May Day special. MPFC was tasked to create some bits, and they came up with a series of folk dances. I don't know what happened to the rest of them, and as soon as I find out, I'll let you know. But the Grimsby Fish Slapping Dance made it into Monty Python's Flying Circus, and has become a fan favorite, a classic example of the silly, odd, yet hysterical comic stylings of the group we're all here to love. By the bank of the Thames,

Palin tries not to crack up.

Palin and Cleese, both in African bush country outfits and miltary moustaches. Palin holds two small fish, one in each hand, and prances towards Cleese, slapping him in the face with the fish, then prancing backwards. Cleese stands rigid for a few rounds of this. Then Palin stops and stands at attention. Cleese produces a gigantic fish and swings it at Palin, knocking him into the Thames. Cleese displays the fish in a courtly bow. It's so simple, yet so brilliant. Palin looks as if he might burst into hysterical laughter the whole time, but he holds it together. He has since claimed that this is one of his all time favorites, and its easy to see why. A truly inspired bit, and the inspiration for the title of this blog.

This takes us to yet another Gilliamination-- Palin's figure sinking to the bottom of the sea gets swallowed by a Nazi fish. From inside you can hear the sounds of "enhanced interrogation", as the Germans try to suss out allied shipping routes. The German fish is swallowed by a larger British fish, which is in turn swallowed by a giant Chinese fish, complete with stereotypical squinty eyes and buck teeth. The Chinese fish is alerted to a British ship up above (seen on the "ladal scannel",) and it bites out the bottom. This takes us to the final dizzying sequence of sketches and bits all tied together with a steadily increasing gravitational pull, taking us in like a black hole or a toilet flush.

The ship is sinking. We see footage from "A Night to Remember" as Jones voice instructs passengers not to panic. "Women and children first," he drones. We cut to the bridge, and Jones as the Captain is putting on a woman's dress. Chapman next to him is dressed as a child. "Women and children first," he reminds the passengers. Then Cleese steps up as a Red Indian. "It was the only thing left," he whines. Astronauts join the mix. Then Idle comes in dressed in a Renaissance costume. An argument ensues over whether he is a Renaissance man or a Flemish merchant. Idle gets insulted, stamping his foot in insistence-- he's very funny. It's a nice silly little bit that takes us into the next scene. The caption reads "A few days later..."

With the argument about Flemish merchants still going on behind closed doors (sorry, I was tired of typing "Renaissance." Oops...) Jones is pushed into the room by Idle-- who now wears military khakis. Cleese sits at a desk in the corner, evilly smoking a cigarette and wearing a thin moustache. He's a Venezuelan General, and the rest of the crew have been found on his shores. Watch, though-- the crew have been switched out. Idle's Renaissance Man (sigh) has been replaced with another actor, so Idle can play the soldier. Cleese's Red Indian is also recast. So is Chapman's kid and Gilliam's Space Man. Only Jones remains of the original cast, for reasons that will soon be obvious (if they aren't already.)

Now things get weird. He can't get any of his soldiers to speak to him. Cleese explains that this is because the BBC is broke and a speaking role costs 20 guineas. "28", the man corrects, and now he's got a speaking role. Someone throws themselves out of the window for no apparent reason-- except for the extra pay a stunt costs. Cleese angrily reprimands everyone. "We can't afford it!"

Idle cuts in, broadcasting from an echo chamber with a bare light bulb shining light on his script. Idle is naked but for a blanket, shivering in the cold. He denies rumors that the BBC is broke. So long as they continue broadcasting from the Kellys' flat, they should be fine 'til the end of the month. Mr. Kelly bangs on the door. "You gonna be in there all night?" Yes, Idle is broadcasting from the Kelly's bathroom!

Back to the Venezuelan sketch, Jones and the crew are shoved in again. None of the soldiers have pants anymore. Before the sketch gets started, Puss (of Puss and Boots) enters, grandly playing to the audience in what I'm told is classic British pantomime fashion.

Descent into Chaos

When Cleese insists that this is the Venezuelan Police Department, Puss (Ms. Breck), a pretty-ish poor man's Carol Cleveland holding a stuffed cat, gets the audience to chant along with her "Oh, no it isn't!" Poor Cleese struggles to get the sketch back on track, ignoring hecklers and interruptions. Finally, Jones starts to tell his story. "I had occasion to pass the forward storage locker..." The image warbles and fades out, as though we're about to see a flashback-- then comes back up. "Go on!" Cleese demands, and Jones continues his story. That's a nice bit.

So, Jones continues his story, a horror tale of a monster hidden in the ship. But while he fervently tells it, teamsters step in to carry off the set and furnishings, revealing a typical British sitting room. The chain-smoking Mr. and Mrs. Kelly (Chapman and Palin, respectively) finally stop the proceedings. "What's this about doing 'Horse of the Year Show' in here?" Palin asks in a masculine Scottish voice. (Readers of the blog will remember that last season, Monty Python was actually pre-empted by "Horse of the Year Show". A meeting with Paul Fox, head of the BBC 1 programming, followed, and the scheduling situation improved, but Fox defended his decision by insisting the horse show was one of their most popular programs. This is sweet revenge.) They figure out that this drama is BBC 2. BBC 1 is in the kitchen. We follow the Kellys out as the Venezuelan Police Sketch continues to descend into chaos.

Out of my kitchen, Horse of the Year!

 In the hallway, the Kellys listen through the kitchen door to the horse show. There's a spill. They rush in, and sure enough, a horse has tumbled over Mrs. Kelly's china. A jockey pulls herself up from the floor amid fallen white rails. The long-suffering Kellys have had enough and throw everyone out of their kitchen. Back in the hallway, as they chase out the horse show folk, Jones pops out of a hallway door with a big bulbous nose, addressing the camera. "It's one of our most popular programs," he says. "That's what you think, Mr. Fox!" Palin says as he slams the door on him. (Ah, sweet revenge!) Idle steps in with his blanket, trying to sign off, but the Kellys hustle him out the door. The closing credits are slid in through the mail slot on a sheet of paper as the music plays.

But wait! There's more! The show has ended, a new show has begun. The show's title; "It's". Yes, Palin's "It's" Man has finally gotten his own show. It's a talk show, apparently, with guests Lulu and Ringo Starr (the real Ringo Starr! Looking like Cornelius from Plane of the Apes) ensconced comfortably on a couch. Idle announces "The man you've all been waiting for!" Palin steps out in full shredded garb, awkwardly and humbly taking his long-awaited spot in center stage. He sits next to

Don't say the text!

Ringo and looks bashfully at the camera. "Hello, good evening and welcome. It's..." No sooner does he get that magic word out than the Monty Python march starts up, with the animated titles superimposed over Palin and guests. His show is over. Trying to stop the dream from ending, Palin waves frantically at the camera, wrestles with Ringo Starr to keep him on the set, pleads with Lulu-- all to no avail. That was it, his shot, and he blew it. Fade out.

What we're seeing is an increasingly complex construction to all of the bits. Few of the sketches can exist without the other sketches attached. They're either too short or incomplete on their own. But linking them together creates a novelistic complexity and depth the likes of which we haven't seen in prior seasons. The last seven minutes of this show are like a class in following concept lines to their end, weaving them with other concepts so that they are inextricable. It's a pretty amazing display. How long can they sustain it?

Tune in for next week's episode; "The Money Programme"!