Monty Python's Matching Tie and Handkerchief

"It's a very simple case of non-presence." - John Cleese as Phone-in Psychologist

In December, 1973, the Pythons were at a crossroads. They'd done three series and had become cultural icons in Great Britain, Idle even performing his "Nudge, Nudge" character for a Breakaway Chocolate Biscuit ad and filthy lucre. They performed cabarets around London, sometimes with only two of the troupe, and they had done a tour of England up one side of the coast while David Bowie was going down on the other side. This show had taken them to Canada for their first tour of North America, and the Canadians treated them like the Beatles. They were a "thing".

But they were a thing with a fast approaching expiration date. Although most of the troupe was having a blast in their first foray into celebrity, John Cleese was a little befuddled by the whole thing. First off, there wasn't as much money as he felt there should have been, and he wanted to explore other creative endeavors, instead of doing Python 10 months out of the year. There was that whole thing with his wife Connie Booth, for instance, and the group did not allow for much participation from the Yokos. He also had a good friend who was starting a company for corporate training films. Plus, whatever happened to reading a good book on philosophy once in a while? Increasingly on the tour, he would eat alone, room alone, and leave at the earliest possible moment, which according to Idle, was when the fun stuff happened. By the end of 1973, it was clear that he would not participate in any future television series. What was not clear was whether the BBC would be interested in a Monty Python series without the man many thought to be the star of the show.

Still, it was Christmas, and the Pythons had created the British Christmas record market with their previous releases. Driven by Terry Jones and Michael Palin, the lads had released three albums previously, all of them selling very well and providing all with steady income. This particular album is interesting in a number of ways--

1.) Its original title was "Free Record Given Away with Monty Python's Matching Tie and Handkerchief." They decided to shorten it by cutting out the joke. They originally sold it with an

actual tie and handkerchief. When that went by the wayside, they switched to inner sleeve artwork that showed a matching tie and handkerchief through a cutaway box on the outer sleeve, and then when you pulled out the inner sleeve, you found a man hanging from the gallows by the tie. They got rid of this in future pressings, too. Raising the question, if holiday suicides are so objectionable, how come they're so popular?
2.) It's confusing. First off, the record famously had three tracks, the second side having two concentric tracks, meaning that you would get two different playlists depending on where the needle fell on the vinyl. On top of that confusion, there were no track lists printed on the spindle label, and both sides of the record were labeled "Side 2". It's one of those things that are irritating, until you figure out what's going on, and then you really enjoy it because you're "in" on the joke.
3.) This was the first Monty Python record nominated for a Grammy in 1976. (Richard Pryor beat them out.) It shows that they were making serious inroads into the American comedy market, and should have started them all a-droolin' with the potential for a new market for their TV shows. But--
4.) It's the last Monty Python album based on their TV show material.

Let's check it out. Oh, and if you want, you can Buy It Here!! (This one has bonus tracks that we won't discuss here-- just keeping it all topical.)

We start in the middle with a brief radio forum. "Ordinary folks" vent their spleen over all the other "ordinary folks." Palin, Chapman and Cleveland angrily and hilariously decry against what all the "others" are doing, as Idle politely moderates. It's hilarious, and in 40+ years, nothing has changed. "...all right thinking people in this country are sick and tired of being told that ordinary, decent people are fed up in this country with being sick and tired! I'm certainly not, and I'm sick and tired of being told that I am!" The hypocrisy is dizzying, and silly. A question arises-- what would the candidates do if they were Hitler-- and that takes us into the Church Police sketch.

Church Police, or Church Fuzz, actually works well in the audio format, with Carol Cleveland literally chiming in with voice overs announcing "One slice of strawberry tart without so much rat in it later." The arrival of the Church police is not quite as abrupt as in the show, but they do give us sirens, squealing tires and crashing. They add a couple of jokes; Palin asks "What's all this, then, amen?" and he's referred to as Vicar/Sergeant and  Detective/Parson. Instead of the big hand coming down from the heavens, a nasal voice echoes "The one in the grey, he done it!"  They close out the sketch the a hymn, rewritten to include the Church Fuzz.

Cleese announces the next show,"Who Cares?", with the this week's subject of surgery, or more specifically, transplanting elephant parts on humans for no particular reason, or with any positive outcome. Chapman is the offending "surgeon and financier", It's a fun little bit, with Chapman sedately defending his work, despite the transplant of a pederast onto a Bishop and a bored woman onto a mahogany Chesterfield table, as well as Chapman's complaints about the lack of sufficient accidents to create more such opportunities. As cars crash in the background and Chapman runs off to look for new body parts--

Idle takes over with radio coverage of "Novel Writing". Just as with the coverage of the eclipse on the previous record, called Monty Python's Previous Record", this is sports coverage of the least active of activities, namely sitting your ass down at a keyboard and making words up. The subject this episode is Thomas Hardy, as he sits down to pen "The Return of the Native". Palin and Chapman provide color commentary as Hardy doodles, stares off into space, and finally, pens a rather ordinary sentence fragment that has the bank holiday crowd cheering. "It's 'Tess of the D'Urbevilles' all over again," Chapman groans, disappointed, before Hardy takes it up a notch. An old Python idea, but one of its best applications.

A new bit yet again, with Cleese doing a scarcely comprehensible bit on word association. "This is a technique out a living much used in the practice makes perfect of psychoanalysis-ter and brother..." "Eke out a living", "practice makes perfect", "sister and brother",... you get the idea. Cleese runs with it, weaving increasingly elaborate sentence fragments into his main message. It gets pretty ornate. It's funny how many people can quote the parrot sketch, yet how few will attempt "Johann Gambolputty" or, well, this.

We shift easily to the sound of flies buzzing and Australians Australiating and Philosophizing. The Watermaloo Philosopher sketch, from season 2, the first time an album has gone to seasons other than the most concurrent for material. Why would they do such a thing? Well, I suspect that between season 2 and the taping of the album, Idle had come up with the philosopher's song. After a rushed read through of the sketch, with everyone chiming in with the various "No pooftahs" rules, Idle leads the now famous song,the first time the song appears in recorded Python material.

Another bit of new follows, with Palin doing a Hitchcock-ian radio show, with suspenseful music and orchestral bangs, all revolving around how nothing happens on a fairly typical day. "For Ralph Mellish, this was not to be the start of any trail of events which would not in no time at all involve him in neither a tangled knot of suspicion nor any web of lies, which would, had he not been involved, surely have led him to no other place than the central criminal court of the Old Bailey." It's a good, fun bit, riffing on the overwrought narrative of such radio dramas. But it's soon interrupted by his wife, Jones (no surprise there,) who shoos him out to work. He obeys, narrating himself out. Chapman, as his doctor, explains what Palin's problem is, while Jones kills and eats a dog. A tempestuous and only audible (thank God!) affair between Chapman and Jones follows ("Put your tongue in my mouth, come on, come on...") with Palin returning in his own narration. This is essentially "Fun with Sound Effects" yet again, only more sophisticated, with a solid stripe of narrative running down the spine. I think another few albums and Palin would have had it nailed!

The Cheese Shop comes next, only now it's the National Cheese Emporium. The Turkish musicians vary the pace, sometimes getting irritatingly fast, thereby meriting the exasperated "Shut that bloody mazuki up!" from Cleese late in the sketch. Cleese does substitute "fucking runny" for "excrementally runny," and at the end, Palin owns up that he was "deliberately wasting your time."

Brief follow up bits follow up. The show "What's to Come" is interrupted by news that Thomas Hardy has completed his first sentence, and the crowd goes wild. A second show, on keeping Siberian tigers, is interrupted by a wasp, chasing terrified crew out of the sound studio and leaving the announcer to the mercies of the stung tiger. It doesn't go well. Finally, Cleese as great actor Sir Edmund Hilary gives us a peek behind the curtain of acting. While Idle asks about his craft in hushed tones, Cleese reveals that Hamlet is the most difficult role, because it has the most words. Othello has a lot of words, too, but it has more pauses, which gives the master thespian time to decide what face he's going to pull in the next moment. The disillusioned interviewer ends the piece with a whispered "Get stuffed." "Enjoyed it," Edmund replies. End of side one.

Side 2A starts with the Background to History. Chapman announces a very dry subject, the medeival farming system and its relation to oxen, but then turns to a Professor Tufts-- who plays a bitchin' reggae tune. "As ye shall have yoked in the plough... oh yeah! Oh, yeah!" Proof of open field farming inspires a rock song with a driving drum beat, along with a screeched out "Of the Norman Conquest" that cracks me up! Finally, an interview with a rocker/professor (Jones?) finishes up with a gospel song-- "The villeins and the ploughsmen got to have the lord's consent!", they repeat, ala "Hey Jude". This is an awesome bit of production value-- the songs are so fun, melodic and well made spoofs of music popular in late 60's early 70's Great Britain, Was Neil Innes in on this? If so, it is the best thing he has ever done with Python (and yes, that includes "How Sweet to be an Idiot".)

Next, a nice wedge of silliness with Chapman trying to buy "The Ronettes Sing Agrarian History" but can only get World War 1 Noises. "Is that the Ronettes?" Chapman asks. "No, the French and the Germans" Idle replies. He goes to a booth to hear a track, accidentally interrupting a man with a sheep. The WW1 noises are a conversation between a major and a sergeant, ala the Ypres sketch, but in this one, Jones tells superior officer Palin that his wife, according to her picture, is ugly. The record skips as a bomb is dropped, and Chapman tries to get some help from the staff-- almost all of whom are dead! The woman that sent him to the booth expired, and the store's manager has had his head ripped off during an interrogation. (Gilliam-- I think it's Gilliam, it may be Cleese-- plays the interrogator. When asked to return the manager upstairs, he shouts in a Gumby voice, "But he's told us nothing!" Funny.) Chapman finally returns to the sounds of WW1, where Palin gets a look at Jones' dog-- and she's very attractive. "I think I'll be calling on you a lot when this is over. I'm rather fond of dogs." The record skips again, and when Chapman complains-- he skips. And not in the liberated gay man way. See, he's on a record, too. Mind? Blown.

Palin announces "Boxing Tonight", Bodell vs. Kenneth Clark, as from the show. They play it pretty straight, without Idle's clowning as the referee. This is another excerpt from season 2, and we're about to get yet another, on Side 2B, (not to be confused with 1/2 a bee.)

 The "Mrs. Niggerbaiter Explodes" sketch makes a rare appearance. Ironically, the comedy album Grammy winner for that year was Richard Pryor's "Bicentennial Nigger". I wonder if some grad student has written a thesis on that year's comedy albums and the use of such offensive epithets.

Carol Cleveland sets the stage for the Oscar Wilde sketch, a true gem and almost entirely audio. The gales of laughter the first two bon mots inspire is alone worth the price of admission. They cut out the "You bastard" line, I'm not sure why, but apart from that, it still all works beautifully. The next bit, "Taking in the Terrier", is the one where Cleese comes in the pet shop to buy a cat, and they try to talk him into accepting a horribly enhanced terrier, skinned and re-eared for the market. It's a favorite sick bit of mine, and they dredged it all the way back from Season 1.

But that's all we got. It's a funny collection, but of all the Monty Python attempts, this one really feels like it's scraping the bottom of the barrel. Mrs. Niggerbaiter? Bodell v. Clark? Really? It's a shame, too, because it feels like the new material had some potential and humor.

Still, it did the job. In just two years, the Python crew would be very well known in the smarter pockets of America, and PBS stations, as well as a doomed flirtation with ABC, would come calling for the rights to the show. For the first time, the lads would start to see some serious bucks. How much of this was because of their discography? I don't know-- but it couldn't have hurt.

Next Week; "Live at the Drury Lane!"

Monty Python's Previous Record

"Not this record! Not this record! Auuugh!" - Michael Palin as a horrified listener.

The show is in hiatus, and let's face it, Christmas is cold in London. It's time for the lads to take the material that they own, and spin it into a little firewood money.

But not so fast. Apparently, selling out was never of interest to the Python crew-- at least not until Eric Idle came to Broadway. As Palin remarks in "The Pythons Autobiography by the Pythons", if they were going to do an album, they wanted it to be unique and special-- not another retread, with the lads performing transcripts in front of an audience, as in their first record (as opposed to their previous record. That's this one.) And he's not just saying that for himself. Palin is speaking for the entire group, none of whom disagreed... or agreed... or could be bothered to say anything else.

Yes, the sad part about the Monty python discography is how little interest it inspired in the members themselves. Even Idle, at this stage, had no interest in records. Cleese and Chapman couldn't care less. Gilliam apparently said "Okay, here's the album cover. You know where to send the checks." (I'm only imagining this to be the case.) Only Jones and Palin saw the possibilities inherent in the album.

Remember, this was in the 70s, the era of Cheech and Chong, George Carlin, National Lampoon-- what couldn't be broadcast on television and radio could be scratched into the black, black vinyl of a record album, constituting the only uncensored option for popular entertainment in mass media, and giving the Pythons complete and total creative freedom. It was also the readiest entree into the coveted American market, as records were as easy to play in Detroit as in London. Waking America up to the allure of Python would have meant a huge increase in the marketability of the BBC television shows, which, by the grace of the short-sightedness of the BBC, were owned by the Pythons themselves. Add to that the fact that the writing was already half way done, and it seems like a no-brainer.

"I don't want to make an album-inium!"

So why were Cleese, Chapman, Idle and Gilliam so indifferent to the enterprise? Draw your own conclusions. But my suspicion is that their brains were hurting at the time. The brilliance and genius that went into the material was apparently all they had.

Thank goodness for Palin and Jones, who took on the challenge, spear-headed the writing and organizing effort, rounded up the sullen actors and got them the hell into the studio to establish a market for themselves, add value to the brand, and create some of the funniest comedy albums of the decade.

This was their third album-ic effort. The first was a BBC prompted disaster (except for the material and performances, of course,) and the second was a vast improvement, but still marked by production difficulties-- the recording engineer didn't take any notes of the takes, and they wound up assembling the album from a tangled, unlabeled ball of tape. This time, things went relatively smoothly, if the lack of anecdotal references is any indication. So let's give it a listen. Oh, and you can buy the album here, if you want! And if you don't want, what happened, bro? When did it all become about money?

We start right off with Michael Palin screaming in terror "Not this record!" before the needle scrapes across the grooves, as if the  record itself had to be restrained before it could be played.

Lush, sweet string music follows. "Are you embarrassed easily? I am!" says Idle proudly. "It's all part of growing up and being British." The course that Idle introduces is how not to be embarrassed. Palin takes over as the cheerful but awkward creator of this self-help program, which consists of being subjected to embarrassing stimuli for a prolonged time. This becomes a cheap excuse for rude sound effects such as wet farts-- actually, wet farts is their ace in the hole (so to speak.) This is a classic example of Monty Python's predilection for combining high brow with low brow, although in this particular case, they seemed to have shot right past "high brow" with scarcely a backward glance. There is a nice running gag with Palin's professor, as he tries to administer an evaluation, with the multiple choice answers "Slightly embarrassed", "Very embarrassed" and "Good evening" the last being (ostensibly) a desperate attempt to change the subject. Plus, Carol Cleveland's in it, so that will raise a brow or two right there.

One of Palin's "Good evening"s takes us right to Chapman wishing us the same. He then introduces Cleese to read "A Book at Bedtime". But unlike the TV sketch. no one has any trouble reading this book, which seems to be some sort of "Kama Sutra for Dummies".... "the man with the melon switches on the battery and places his left thigh carefully on the swivel table..." It appears the Pythons are grasping this opportunity for uncensored antics with both hands, much like they might a melon.

Classical strings play us out, and the sound of horse hooves takes us to the Dennis Moore sketch, the first television transfer of the album so far. The material is pretty much unadapted for radio, although Cleese seems to be rushing through it. We fade out as Cleese tries to explain exactly which tree he can hit, and Idle takes over with "The Money Programme". That bit is performed exactly as it was on television, and we lose nothing without the knowledge that the men backing Idle up in the closing song are wearing Dutch milk maid outfits. The pitfalls of randomness-- no one notices it when it's gone. The song is great, an Idle classic, with "lots of lovely lira" alliteration.

Back to Dennis Moore, and they're still talking trees. Finally, Cleese gets them back on board and puts forward the big ask-- lupins. The theme song plays him off as he gallops away on his horse Concorde.

Another Idle bit follows-- he's working hard for this record-- as an Australian commentator discussing the merits of Australian table wines. Essentially, he damns them with faint praise, claiming that Chateau Chunda is a wine "specially grown for those keen on regurgitation."

A new half verse of the Dennis Moore theme song ("Mister Moore!... Lupin Galore!... Extra Whore!"... I think. These things don't come with lyrics.) bridges us from wines with bouquets like an aborigine's armpit, to the Argument Clinic. I've gone on at great lengths about my admiration for this sublime sketch. Here it is on vinyl, The set-up with Carol Cleveland seems to take longer than it should, but I can't spot any additions, so it's probably just my wretched anticipation. When Palin finally navigates Chapman' abuse and makes it to Cleese's office, we go to-- STEREO!!! Palin in the left ear, Cleese in the right. It's a wise move, an experience we never get on television, of being right in the middle of this silliness. We lose a little bit when Cleese rings the bell-- there's always a huge audience reaction to Palin's mounting frustration at being cheated, and that's missing from this otherwise excellent version. At the end of the "Getting Hit on the Head" lesson, Palin grumbles "What a stupid concept!" and we quick cut to--

"How to Do It". This was a brilliant sketch in the show. It's less brilliant on the record, although Idle, Cleese and Chapman give it their all, fairly panting with breathless enthusiasm. But without the manic smiles and the dog, it's just not hitting the mark. Another Dennis Moore verse follows; "Dennis Moore, Dennis Moore, is not in this bit!" He actually is, though, as Cleese plays Mrs. Premise to Chapman's Mrs. Conclusion in the opening exchange to the whole John Paul Sartre epic. This is the great exchange about  killing house pets for the sake of personal freedom. "I just spent four hours burying the cat... it wouldn't keep still. Wriggling, howling..." And what the hell is a "budgie", anyway? A parakeet or canary, apparently

This is a budgie. You can hit them with a book...

We only get as far as the "personal freedom" line before we cut to a brief sequence of goofy personal ads, translated for radio. "[Chime] Forced gentleman required to share large hamster gentleman. Ooo, ooo." The "Ooo"s at the end are grunts of mortification at a mistake. I don't get these jokes, really, but I like hearing Palin and Idle act embarrassed for audio.

Another verse of Dennis Moore, this one with the "dum-dum"s instead of proper lyrics, and we're in the Post Office with Cleese as he attempts to purchase a fish licence. It's pretty remarkable, is it not, how heavy this side of the record is with Cleese/Chapman material. We have Dennis Moore, the Argument Clinic, How To Do It, the Budgie Whack, and now, the Fish Licence. We're in stereo again for this bit. The only divergence from the televised sketch is when Palin finally caves to the halibut lover-- instead of needing to be shown a newspaper clipping, Palin just gives in. Now that's some good writin'! Finally, when Palin insists that there is no need for a fish licence, instead of being interrupted by something so visual as a freakishly tall Lord Mayor and a soccer game against gynecologists, Cleese switches gears and asks for a licence for his pet bee, Eric. Actually, Eric the Half a Bee. "He had an accident." What follows is one of the sweetest and rarest moments on the album, indeed in Python lore.

Cleese sings! The legendarily tone-deaf Cleese wrote (with Idle) a tiny little gem of a song/soliloquy about the philosophical implications of the existence of a half a bee, and then sang it, the first half in a Higgins-esque oratorical style, then in a low croak. I am transcribing the lyrics below, but you must hear the song for yourself! It is an awkward and amateurish attempt at entertainment, but so friggin' adorable, you feel like your son is up on stage for the third grade talent show. The material is first rate. It's just the performance, which the lads do their best to tart up with piano, guitar and Andy Williams-esque whistle. Here are the lyrics--

Eric the Half a Bee

Half a bee, philosophically, 

Must ipso-facto half not be,

But half the bee has got to be,

Vis a vis its entity. D'you see? 

But can a bee be said to be

Or not to be an entire bee

When half the bee is not a bee

Due to some ancient injury?

Singing...

Lah-dee-dee... one, two, three

Eric the Half a Bee

A-B-C-D-E-F-G

Eric the Half a Bee

Is this wretched demi-bee

Half asleep upon my knee

Some freak from a menagerie?

No! It's Eric the Half a Bee!

Fiddle-dee-dum, Fiddle-dee-dee

Eric the Half a Bee

Ho-ho-ho. Tee-hee-hee.

Eric the Half a Bee

I love this hive employee-ee

Bisected accidentally

One summer afternoon by me

I love him carnally

He loves him carnally!

Semi-carnally!

The end.

Palin, having misheard the lyrics, asks "Cyril Connelly?" (a British actor) and Cleese corrects him, but the background singers finish off with the mistake, and the whistle fades us out. Aw, my brothers, it's such a gem to hear this tune, which is almost unbearable to hear. Cleese seems to mock himself and happy songs in the same wasted breath, My personal favorite is "A-B-C-D-E-F-G". Talk about filler! Anyway, enough about this. Suffice it to say, once you hear it it will burn into your brain, and years later you will find yourself humming the song, and wondering why on earth you would do such a thing to yourself, but you will also smile, even laugh. 

The whistle takes us to some flutes,which open the brassy theme song of a new radio quiz game hosted by Idle, the other heavy hitter on this side of the album. This show plays with sound effects, the very title of the show invaded by it. "What Do You [Broken Cuckoo Clock]?" This sketch is basically a radio version of Idle's "It's a Living" sketch, where the explanation of the rules takes up the entire show. The sound effects give it that radio spin. Funny, and certainly fast and complex, if not inspired. 

Jones announces that we're in a travel agent's office, and is sure to mention the "big breasted typist" in the outre office. Yes, it's the Travel Agent Sketch! It plays out pretty much like the televised version, although after the whole "I can't pronounce the letter 'c'", bit, when Palin gives him the advice to replace the "c" with a "k" instead of a "b", Idle says "I never thought of that. What a silly bunt."  Palin's interjections are brilliant, as is Idle's monologue. There's a nice little mirror here, as Palin's hysterical pleadings turn from the oblivious Idle to the audience. "Take it off!" he screams. "For God's sake, take it off!!!" The sound of a needle skipping across the vinyl grooves, and we're done with the first side, dominated by Chapman and Cleese material, and Chapman Idle performances. Even the Travel Agent's Sketch was originally written by Cleese and Chapman, with Idle adding the monologue, and Eric the Half a Bee was an Idle/Cleese collaboration. Let's see if side two gives us some Palin/Jones representation...

Well, not at first. Someone seems to have woken up Graham. We begin with him announcing "A massage from the Swedish Prime Minister". No, that's not a typo. What we get is the sound of a massage, and a pretty slappy one, at that. Music and sound effects play us off, and Cleese takes over as host of yet another sound effects oriented radio game show. Nothing particularly memorable here, and in fact it goes by so fast, it's scarcely comprehensible. There is one item worth mentioning-- one of the sound effects sounds remarkably like the Knights who say "Ni!" Maybe this is the origin story.

Moving on, we get another Cleese/Chapman classic, THRUST, or as you might remember it, the Anne Elk sketch. Chapman, having passed the joke by in the televised version, nails it this time,introducing Cleese as "An Elk." And then screaming, as though being prodded with a point-ed stick. "Sorry. Anne Elk. Mrs. Anne Elk." There are some other nice additions of silliness in the audio version, not the least of which is Chapman making his frustration heard, as opposed to just seen. It's a nice mirror of the prior Travel Agent sketch, and at the end of it, Chapman shoots the hard-to-kill Elk, first with a pistol, then with a machine gun. They should have gotten Palin's namesake Sarah in on that job-- elks are her specialty. Elks and Russia.

Now we get something new, something complex, something silly. Do I smell a little Palin.Jones action? We begin with lush, orchestral swellings, and Jones talks about the beautiful Yangtze River in China. To bolster his points, he quotes the poetry of various... British goalies? Although this is not apparent to me at first, the lads throw me a friggin' bone, and point out that for some reason, the goalies are fascinated by the river, specifically the fish within it. In standard Python fashion, they explore this concept thoroughly, with Scottish poetry commentator Palin distinguishing between the Yangtze poetry of younger goalies, versus the older ones. Finally, a football stadium song-a-long, "We love the Yangtse, Yangtse-Kiang,
Flowing from Yushu down to Ching-Kiang,
Passing through Chung King, Wuhan and Hoo-Kow
Three thousand miles, but it gets there somehow. Oh! 

Szechuan's the province and Shanghai is the port,
And the Yangtse is the river that we all support!"

Sounds like Palin to me. (Thanks, Montypython.net for the lyrics! I couldn't make them out.)

Another "massage", and  Idle does a great bit, reading with whispered intensity form a hot novel, that soon stalls. The naked lady stands in the moonlight... "A minute passed." Idle comes up with several hilarious variations on "a minute passed," including "a different minute passed," and "another minute, that felt like an hour but was actually only a minute... passed." The name of the hot novel, it turns out, is "A Minute Passed,"

Gilliam makes a surprise appearance as he announces grandly, "for the first time on record... the eclipse of the sun!" The lads seem to have found the fun of this medium at last, having moved beyond goofy sound effects. Cleese, Chapman and Idle report on the eclipse as though they were color commentators at a baseball game. "I think we can expect some first class eclipsing today." It's a very silly series of exchanges, so silly that director Jones has to make them start over at one point, but as the eclipse begins, "Well, I can't see anyone stopping it now," it starts to rain ("Rain. Rain. Rain."). The show is over.

Palin takes over, with a recording of Alistair Cook being attacked by a duck, with Idle as Cook-- nothing much here, just an odd sound overlay-- and then, screaming with enthusiasm, he welcomes us to the world of sound! But really, it's just another excuse for Palin to play with sound effects. "Listen to a cockroach sneeze!" "Listen to an ant rubbing Vicks on its chest!" Then, of course, things start getting out of control, as he breaks things, and fart, all the whole screaming "He-hey! Isn't nature wonderful?!" His sound samples also get sillier. A herd of zebras at the chemist's buying "something for the weekend."It's fun to hear Palin really go for it, but there's a sophomoric tone to all of this "look what we can do with sound" stuff. It feels like stoner college radio, only without the world music. It's certainly well below the level of most Python material.     

Another goofy audio personal ad follows, (Idle: "We will get the deceased out of the house and down the chute within the hour."), as well as another "massage" from the Swedish Prime Minister.

The Fairy Tale, a Cleese/Booth creation, takes over, a sprawling bit of silliness that they produced for their second German episode. ("Monty Python's Fliegender Zirkus!") It actually works better on vinyl than the televised version. Carol Cleveland took over the Connie Booth role-- I wonder of there's a story behind that-- and they focus on the King's song, "Yah-dee-buggity!" as opposed to the random stuff he was doing before. The silly song becomes a comic touchstone. The bit also ends much sooner, with a disastrous and random resolution to the second prince's quest for cigarettes, "which only goes to show," denouements narrator Cleese.

And that's the end of the album. Rife with the classics and great new silly stuff, as well as some filler, it's far from the revolutionary works of vinyl still to come, but it's representative of some of the great Cleese/Chapman bits from season three, Still, you can see their hearts weren't in it, and you feel bad for Palin and Jones, who try soooo hard! Let;s hope the next one sparks a little more imaginative fire.

Next Week; Matching Tie and Handkerchief!

Monty Python's Fliegender Zirkus Episode 2

"Has it become just a thin excuse for a multi-national orgy? " - John Cleese as Narrator

After a long hiatus, (sorry, had to make a little money) and looking for the episode, (thank you, SuperPeeves at YouTube!) I am finally able to give you a long-winded account of the other lost episode, the second German episode. Yes, the first one was such a disaster, they decided to do another one. Although, as I stated last post, the first episode was a commercial failure, as well as a cultural crossover misstep, it was also the best example of Monty Python as television revolutionaries. Without the home team (aka live studio audience) cheering them on, without the comfort of British cabaret to fall back on, they flew without a net, and for most of the 40-plus minute show, gave us little that was new in terms of comedic construction, but did it with a new presentation that was indifferent to audience reaction. The sole motivation, it seemed, was to bring chaos to order, and this they accomplished beautifully. The first episode plays like it's being screened covertly, in a basement, with police jeeps roaring by just overhead.

For the second episode. they decided to do away with the German speaking, and instead allowed themselves to be dubbed.  Part of the reason for the poor ratings  was attributed to the Germans being unable to sell stuff that isn't dubbed-- even to their own people! Let's take a look. As there is no current box set availability, I am posting the youtube links as we push through, in the hopes that you will enjoy the source material-- that has always been the mission here. So let's checken zis out!




We begin with a nice visual William Tell gag, complete with overture. The bulk of the sketch is set up, and the payoff happens so quickly, we're rushed out of the door before we're given a chance to laugh. (Spoiler alert-- good archery takes lots of practice.) The boy manages to make a face that could easily pass as dread or death-- good jab, my anonymous lad!

We pan across 70's Munich, and a Cleese voice over lulls us into the belief that we are watching a financial documentary. But as we zoom in on Palin, with blonde hair and a preternaturally tanned face, we find that it's actually about the ravenous sexual appetite of these economists trying to forge a European common market. Although they normally chase pretty attractive women, it's clear that their standards are not overly high. In a board meeting, the lads interrupt their work to ravage Gilliam in drag-- I'd know that jutting lower jaw anywhere--  even though he's an old cake lady. "Why are these financial experts so keen to get into bed with young girls?" Cleese asks, perplexed. It's a nice and subtle bit-- the media's professed bemusement over sexual scandals like this. Chapman makes a brief appearance as a loony sociologist with a goat, shirley temple wig, leotard and googly eyes, answering Cleese's question. "They're probably just confused." But whatever the reason, Cleese, now on camera, opines, it now calls the common market into question. "Has it become just a thin excuse for a multinational orgy, or is it still a serious attempt to aid the rich?" Cleese is struck by a car, and we go to brand new Gilliam created credits.

The credits show what God's foot thinks of urban blight. The black spot (cancer or gangrene?) makes an appearance, pocking the landscape around a Civil War general or something, before blotting out the camera. Heads on flower stems are picked. A butterfly pollinates a male head, then a female head, which creates a baby head that the spot devours. A spooky tree grows up out of the spot, giving us the title again, and the foot brings us home.

Idle, with long flowing locks hosts a show on Sycophancy, with guests Sycophant Palin, insufferably agreeable, and non-sycophant Chapman, who was just being polite. A documentary follows on "sycophants" which actually turn out to be seals. The documentary moves on to a Mr. Tutankhamun, who has preserved 4 thousand square miles of Bavarian forest to protect the eight mice that live there. There are some brief discursions from this idea--  he's also got a fish preserve, with fish hanging from the trees, and Idle's talk show makes a brief reappearance, with sycophant Palin now transformed into a seal-- but the documentary basically transforms into a cowboy show, with the "miceboys" rounding up their herd. There's a great bit when they brand a new mouse, complete with agonized squeal.

Outside of a Western saloon (this set made an appearance in the last German episode-- do the Germans have a standing Western set up and running?) Jones hears the rumbling of a stampede-- of mice! Animation takes over, as the townspeople shake with dread at the approach of the mice-- and with good reason, because the tiny things bowl the whole town over.

Jones, as documentarian narrator, phases us over to Gilliam as a Walter Huston wanna-be prospector, panning for... chickens! In a great visual gag, Gilliam manages to pull a dry living chicken out of the running stream. He safely stores the chicken, then does the treasure of the Sierra Madre dance, and beautifully, I might add. We then see a team drilling underground for the fowl treasure, and Palin shows us (after a hilarious false start by moustache-wearing Cleese) where the chicken deposits are under North Dakota. Animation follows, with an oil well striking feathered gold. But, as with all good things, some hucksters gotta come along and screw a good thing up. When Gilliam the prospector, aka Gabby, tries to cash in his find, he's told by Chapman that the chicken is fake. ("Fool's chicken", they used to call that in the old west.) Pictures show us other fakes, including a camel that tried to pass for a chicken, and a man from Kent (Kent, Camel... who sponsored this show?!) who did a very poor impression himself.

Well, to sum up-- we've gone from a preserve for a few mice, to a western theme, to chickens as gold, the lads skimming from one odd concept to another, never lighting for long on any of them, They seem more intent on exploring potential silliness than really landing any one concept. It's delirious, fun, but vaguely unsatisfying. There are no real belly laughs, just an almost baroque appreciation for how these men can go anywhere with anything and find something silly in it. Of course, you can find chicken in almost anything, so what's the big deal.


A Gilliamination pulls us out of the loop, with a dark eyed man on all fours in his one room house. We hear the sound of a dog barking. It gets closer, closer-- suddenly, the dark-eyed man claps his hands together, and gets tossed about the room, trying to control whatever is in his grasp. Finally, he proudly rides off on what turns out to be a flea. Yes, we're back in the western theme, and this man is a flea-breaker, looking to compete in the flea dressage for the Olympics. But that, at last, finally, gets us out of the pseudo western and into the pseudo-Olympics.

We've seen the next bit before, because it's hysterical, and why wouldn't they show us whenever they had a chance? Most of Monty Python's live shows have included this "International Philosophy" contest, pitting Greek philosophers such as Socrates and Aristotle, complete with togas and beard, up against German philosophers such as Kant and Hegel, also in beard, but dressed more conservatively, in a winner-take-all soccer game. (The German team includes Beckenbauer, who actually plays soccer for Germany."A bit of a surprise there,"says Palin.) Palin sets us up for a very exciting match, but when referee Confucius blows the whistle-- everyone paces and thinks. Palin tries to make something of nothing, but we soon cut away to Cleese, who announces wrestling.

Here we get another classic live routine, with Chapman pulling out all the yoga stops to wrestle himself in the famous Colin "Bomber" Harris sketch. The sketch pretty much plays out like you'd think, with some wicked contortions and grimaces from the way-too-flexible Chapman. (You lads sure you want him sober?) Cleese gives us the color commentary; "Colin's already working on that weak left knee of his..." After one fall, Colin knocks himself out, and so wins the match, going on to meet himself in the final. Well done, Graham-- a physical tour-de-force that is as smart as it is funny.

Back at the soccer game, the score is still zip-- in fact, the ball hasn't even moved. Martin Luther, the Germans' manager, puts in lightning rod Karl Marx, but as soon as the whistle blows, it's all pacing and thinking. But Cleese as Greek Archimedes suddenly has an idea, which inspires the whole Greek team to action, and they take possession of the ball, dribble it around the thoughtful Germans, and feed Socrates, who headbutts it right in the net. As the Germans argue that the goal was merely an "a priori adjunct of non-analytic ethics," Confucius blows the whistle, and the game is over.

A quick bit of context regarding this sketch-- the lads taped their first German show in 1971, as Munich was gearing up for the Olympics the following year, and the second show was taped in 1973, after the Olympics. What happened in between? The Olympics, namely the infamous 1972 Munich Olympics, which featured a terrorist kidnapping of Israeli athletes and resulted in their tragic deaths. It was horrific, the equivalent of 9/11, only on an international stage. The pressure to not make a joke referencing the Munich Olympic must have been substantial. Monty Python made it anyway, and made it one of their greatest bits. There is a bravery here, as well as humor, that deserves to be appreciated along with the humor.

We pull out from the stadium to a Gilliam vision of downtown traffic-congested Munich. A tiny man tries to speak to a Robert Crumb, big-thighed vision, and she slaps him. Another attempt get him the same result. Outside, a man asks a cop for something, and he is clubbed. Another man asks a vendor, and he is hammered. Mao asks Nixon something, and Nixon cleaves him. War breaks out, blood, devastation, death war and horror, until a nuclear weapon drives all the noise away... and back in the apartment, the man with the big-thighed vision can finally be heard. What he has to say is actually very sweet-- but the woman slaps him silly. So much for giving peace a chance.


We've seen this next sketch before, in several iterations. The one that pops to mind is the "I'd like to buy a bed" sketch, with Chapman standing in a bucket until everyone sings "Jerusalem". In this version, Idle walks into the shop (looks like a real shop, too-- like in a mall) and asks for a hearing aid. "What?" asks Cleese. He can't hear very well, His hearing aid isn't working. He sends Idle to teh contact lens specialist, who is blind. Hilarity ensues, as Jones stumbles in, looking for a refund on his contact lenses, and he's blind as well. Palin and Jones fight brutally without ever touching each other. Finally, Palin and Cleese throw one another out the door, leaving only Idle, who addresses the camera like Groucho Marx. "You should see them when they've had a couple of drinks. Good night, folks!" It's funny, with the obligatory punch line stapled on at the end, and beautifully performed, but nothing really new here. Almost a throwback to their first season.

Next comes the fairy tale. This is interesting, because it marks the first time a writer from outside the usual six lads was brought on board to help out with a sketch. The writer was... Connie Booth, American actress and current (at the time) wife of John Cleese, Connie would later earn huge accolades for her co-writing on one of the best British sitcoms in the history of the BBC, Fawlty Towers. Of course, the fact that she co-wrote it with Cleese couldn't hurt. Her credits since have been a bit sparse, but Cleese defends her by saying she had much more participation in their finished work than Graham Chapman ever had in his work with Cleese. And he would know. It shows how loose an organization Monty Python was at this point. It's also curious that both German shows had a fairy tale bit. Was it the proximity of the dark forests of Bavaria that inspired this?




The tale is about the Kingdom of Happy Valley, where everyone is legally obliged to be happy, or else they are put to death. An illustration follows, with mopey Gilliam tried in a court of happy law for being "very depressed, with malice aforethought." and moaning in defiance of the Cheerful Noises act. When the defense attorney Idle cheerfully claims that Gilliam's wife had just died, the courtroom erupts with loud and endless peals of laughter. The guilty verdict is even more side-splitting, and Chapman, as the judge, dons a red rubber nose and sentences Gilliam to "hang by the neck, until you cheer up."

Now the story properly begins, as the principals are introduced-- King Otto (Jones), singing silly songs on his Hammond organ, the sullen Queen (Chapman) and our romantic lead Princess Mitzi Gaynor (Booth) with huge ugly wooden teeth that she files and varnishes, and a dead pet rabbit. Booth meets Cleese, a Prince (it's official-- he's in the book, presumably the white pages) and falls in love, and together they wade through Jones hilariously insufferable tunes until he agrees to marriage-- provided that Cleese perform a task to prove his worthiness. The task-- leap off the highest tower in the kingdom with nothing but your sword. There's a suspenseful bit, where he seems almost to float down, but it doesn't go well. "He wasn't worthy," mutters King Otto. So Booth meets (if that's the word-- she pretty much rapes him) a second Prince, played by Palin, with long nose and wooden teeth. This time, the adulterous Queen Chapman intervenes, and extracts a more manageable test of worth from Otto-- the legal purchase of some Rothman's (cigarettes.) The next morning, amid a joyous celebration filled with expectant townspeople, Palin's Prince accomplishes the dubiously easy goal-- only to have Idle as Prince Charming arrive on horseback, with elan and a pet dragon that he kills with a pistol. Princess Mitzi chooses him, ignoring Palin's promises of revenge. But later,in the chapel, Palin brings Gilliam, as a witch. (In a nice bit that precurses Tim the Enchanter, Gilliam turns a nobleman into a lamp, then a skunk, then a seltzer bottle, then something tiny and white, then back to a nobleman. "Now watch it, Gilliam growls.) But Gilliam's skills backfire when King Otto refuses to negotiate with terrorists. "I hereby change every person in this cathedral into chickens... except me!" he adds, too late.Witch and congregation are well and truly flocked.

It's a goofy little piece, with few callbacks, no story building, well beneath what Booth and Cleese would accomplish a few years later, but it's full of the Python silliness, and everyone's got a nice part. The silly song the King finishes with became a minor passion of Chapman's during the first Monty Python tours-- maybe he even wrote it. With lyrics like "Ya tee buckety," it doesn't really sound like Booth or Cleese.

The chapel full of clucking chickens grabs the attention of Gilliam's chicken prospector Gabby, and the show finishes with a nice loop as the credits roll. All the Western characters race after the sound of chickens, played over by banjo music. Finally, a bright garish sign reads "Ende". Cleese is there as the documentarian, bandaged up from his accident, and the sycophant/seal sits in a chair nearby. "Why do they do it?" Cleese asks rhetorically. Then he and the seal go out for dinner.




This effort constitutes the last time that the lads all worked together on their TV show. It's a fun episode, with some nice bits and the usual Python stream of consciousness style of comedy, but a bit of a let down. It seems that maybe Cleese was right, and that the lads really had nothing new to do. It would be bittersweet, if not for the knowledge that while taping this show, they began work on the screenplay that would become "Monty Python and the Holy Grail."

So there's that.

Next week; The third album.

Monty Python's Fliegender Zirkus Episode 1

"The Germans came to us and said 'Look, we haven't got a sense of humor... Can we use yours?" - Eric Idle

At some point during the creation of the third season, Monty Python's Flying Circus invaded Germany. Being British, they were polite about it, and only did it upon the request of the Germans-- specifically TV producer Alfred Biolek, who watched a few episodes of Monty Python while in the UK and thought their brand of humor would play well in the Fatherland. As it turns out, he was wrong. "This was an absolute flop, it cannot be stated differently." And so, they took a page from Germany's world war playbook-- if something is an unmitigated disaster, do it again.


At first, the Pythons were reticent. They didn't speak the language, and they were smart enough to anticipate cultural gaps that many jokes would not manage to bridge. But there were more alluring possibilities as well. For instance, no studio performances. The entire show would be shot on film and edited at their leisure. This would have been catnip to Jones, Palin and Gilliam, the auteurs of the group. Gilliam, in particular, an animator with little lip-synching to worry about, would translate effortlessly. Also, not speaking the language would free them up from time-consuming links and set-ups. They could just go all out with silliness. The promise lured them to at least visit that damn place, and in October 1971, the lads took a trip out there.

They celebrated Oktoberfest, and Albrecht Durer's 500 birthday. They visited a concentration camp, and were allowed to leave. The country was buzzing with anticipation of the Munich Olympics coming the following year. Much of all of this made it into the content of their shows. But beyond all of this, the lads came to realize that they all had serious preconceived notions about the German people, especially regarding their sense of humor. Germany was one of the first non English countries to embrace Monty Python-- even if they didn't embrace this particular show. The creation of these two episodes became an exercise in cultural broadening for all the troupe. Plus, we get 1.5 hours of weird-ass television, with the company speaking pigeon German, which is good. Let's check it out!

Best Guest Performance Ever!

We begin with a pretty lady at a desk, doing her TV announcer thing. The speech she gives essentially translates as a "what you are about to see" schpiel. But the set collapses behind her, revealing a reedy fen. Two frog men emerge, take her and drag her back into the water. Throughout these indignities, the lady, Frau Newsreader Claudia Doren is unflappable, never even taking a break as she is pulled from her desk (and her mic) and dragged back into the swamp. Well done, Claudia! This is reminiscent of the newsreader sketch from the first season-- Cleese and his desk kidnapped and dumped in the ocean amidst gunfire and car chases-- but this is simpler and more elegant. Although, one could argue, a very sinister first impression.

Gilliam is up next, with two dark-eyed ladies staring at a scandalous picture. A gentleman comes up behind them, and voiced by Palin, announces "And now for something completely different," only in German. It's very strange for Palin to be speaking German, but I guess I'd better get used to it. he titles follow, the third season titles with the pipes at the start and the weight lifter at the end. Let the show begin!

A quick bit with Jones as the Olympic torch bearer, running through "Athens". Making sure to triple check this quiet road, he is promptly hit by a car. Not hit hard, just tapped a little in the knee.

We cut to a documentary about Albrecht Durer, which surprises us with the revelation that the painter was known, not only for his painting, but for his rent-a-car service. Cleese quickly steps in, apologizing for the inaccuracies. He is stern, authoritarian, and decidedly unsilly, as he promises to keep an eye on this documentary. Just as well, because the documentary soon claims that Durer was an insect. Then the documentary takes us over to--

Australia, Australia, Australia, we love you, ah-men! Palin, as a German-speaking Fosters-swilling Bruce, complete with corks dangling off his bush hat, says he doesn't know Durer from a kangaroo's rectum, then goes off on a Tourette's-inspired recital of "arse" and "bum", which gets buzzed by Cleese the killjoy, who apologizes again for the previous spokesperson. An appreciation of Durer follows, sung by Anita Ekberg-- only it's not really Ekberg, just a cut out, and the voice is Jones singing a subtle variant of the Dennis Moore song. Cleese returns again, to apologize, again. (They seem to be apologizing a lot for this show.) They finally give up on the documentary, and cut to "The Merchant of Venice"-- as performed by cows. Not just any cows, though-- The Bad Ischl Dairy Herd.

Once again, we get footage (of cows) voiced over, one of them with a yamulke and curly hair braid. We get some applause from the Woman's institute, and we're out. One of Shakespeare's shorter plays.

We go back to the Olympic torch bearer, bandaged and crutched. This time, he's not the victim, wreaking havoc with his torch. (Hey, we've all been there, am I right fellas?) He passes Chapman as a lady, and when asking for directions, he sets her umbrella on fire.

He's French, speaking English, with German subtitles

Gilliamination links us to the next bit-- a riff on Frenchmen. Jones, quintessentially British, claims to be a Frenchman who has not been to the bathroom in five years. Palin confirms this, speaking English in an outrageous French accent, subtitled in German. (It can get exhausting.) Palin has papers proving that Jones is French, and documents attesting to the fact that he hasn't been in five years. A series of impressive testimonials follow, from news footage of the Chancellor, to Nixon, to the Queen, all stating emphatically that yes, it's been five years. Finally, we get Chapman as a doctor, who should know-- he and Jones have spent the last five years in doctor patient bliss. But it couldn't last, as Chapman was drawn by his very nature back to the flock of Doctors he came from. Like the pigeon fanciers in Season 2, the doctors chirp and mill about a green field, finally rounded up by Farmer Idle, who brags on his current crop of doctors, including his "short-horned gynecologists".

So far, it all seems a bit stiff. The lads feel a bit off their game, uncertain as to which sketch to stick with and which to run screaming from. They are also without one of their best weapons-- language, and the delivery thereof. The process from the written to the spoken included getting a translator in the middle there to dictate the German translation so that the actors could learn it by ear. But that would imply that they were also memorizing the translator's delivery of the joke. In other words, Monty Python has essentially become its own tribute band, writing jokes which are then translated and re-performed by someone else, and doing those jokes. It's a little like The Who ding Elton John's version of Pinball Wizard, if Elton John were a German translator.

Still, for all its strangeness, you have to stop and wonder at the accomplishment and ambition. These guys are doing an original show, in a language they don't speak. Holy crap!

Anyway, Cleese returns, and in what must have been the dress rehearsal for the "Holy Grail" credits, he informs us that they are returning to the Durer documentary, and that the producers responsible for the last attempt have been sacked. The documentary begins, much like the second attempt, only now, strange things are happening to the wood carving art work. Large cannons peek out from hills, pierce other towns with neat little black spots. A horse is cross-sectioned, and looks much liker an orange inside. A rhino starts hopping on dancing naked ladies. Hey! Who let Gilliam in here?! In a great slow burn, the lads are playing the long game, giving us a "real" version of the documentary pictures, and a fake, anarchasized version. (It's a German word. Look it up!) Despite Programmer Cleese's apologetic efforts to stop it, the cartoons have taken over. Cleese surrenders and brings us back to the program.

Idle tractors the doctors back, explaining how farm-raised doctors allow cows more time to work in hospitals. And CRASH! Three story lines converge, as we see cows in an ER loading dock, mooing with subtitles both medical and Shakespearean. (With a brief apologetic interruption from the Durer documentary.) It's the end of Act 1 of the Merchant of Venice, as performed by cows. The strangeness is suddenly working for me. More than any other Python show, it feels as though revolutionaries have taken over the broadcasting company and are messing with the order. And of course, this is where they would do it, in Germany, where order is the national religion. Rather than attack propriety, as they did in the UK, they attack order itself.

Idle reviews the production form the ornate balcony of the theater, enthusing over how the cows have mastered the challenge of doing this particular play. Other animals have tried and failed, notably some chickens. But then Chapman, in a long walk-up to the camera, announces some Doctors doing the same play. They're terrible, getting distracted by medical diagnoses. Cleese's Programmer ducks in with another apology-- there will not be another Durer documentary attempt.

Great bit now with Gilliam. A trench coat wearing man stands backstage, watching the production, and did I mention it's terrible? He walks onstage, and we hear bullets and bombs as he expresses his free speech rights. Satisfied, he walks back off stage and out of the theater, where he encounters a billboard with a sexy model on it. Looking around to make sure there are no observers, he whips open his trench coat and flashes the billboard. He gets another shot with a split billboard, one ad with a man and one ad with a woman. He flashes the woman, repeatedly. He fails to notice a real woman walk up with a dress. Inspired by the flashers bravado, she flashes the male ad. They notice each other, and it's true love at first flash. Suddenly, their clothes are like butterfly wings, and they fly off together into the sunset. Very nice! Gilliam's first attempt at story nets us a real winner, equal parts crudity and inspiration. If the Germans didn't like this bit, we have to wonder what's in their water. The sunset turns out to be some gun-toting family's home. They shoot the animator, and he falls, screaming...

And lands on a road, where backpacker Jones tries to hitchhike. Half Gumby, half zombie, Jones leans from the waist, his idle arm dangling low-- is he Frankenstein to Chapman's Dracula? No one will pick the forlorn freeloader up-- until the torch bearer crutches on by. (Hey, wait a minute! Didn't Jones play the torch bearer, too? It looks more like Idle now, although the face is bandaged up.) The Torch bearer offers him a piggy back lift, and off they go. But behind them is a dark forest, once upon a time.  

Little Red Riding Hood vs...

We pan to the forest, and a voice over tells us the fairy tale of Red Riding Hood-- as played by John Cleese, tall, hyper-aggressive and repulsive. This bit made the rounds (with English voice over) in the live shows, so it's a familiar routine, despite the few times this show has been seen. The basic joke is Red's complete lack of vulnerability (or even femininity) as opposed to the wolf-- played by the cutest, most bashful and nervous dachsund ever. The wiener dog, with scraps of fur taped to his body, looks embarrassed to be a part of these childish proceedings, and must be manhandled into position or action. Not only do the governing hands point out the schlockiness of

The Big Bad Wolf

this production, they also provide some scale-- this is a pretty tiny dog. When the "wolf" says, in voice over, "She looks good to eat," it can't help but draw a quick laugh from one, unless you're a diehard PETA enthusiast-- 'cause the dog doesn't look like he's having much fun. But finally, his torment ends when he gets to Grandmother's house-- which turns out to be a NASA facility, and Buzz Aldrin's security guards have the dog shot. Off screen, of course, PETA members-- please put your red paint down. But Red isn't out of the woods yet. Heinz, the rapist of Stuttgart, sets his sights on Cleese's lovely body, and is strung up for his troubles. The other rapists of the forest (all in trenchcoats) come to cut him down, and everyone lives happily ever after in weird ways, which include the explosion of Grandma's cottage/NASA. There's not much that's funny in this, apart from Cleese' s interpretation of Red Riding Hood and the dog's interpretation of the wolf. It's pretty silly, to be sure, but silly in that random Palin/Jones way. It never achieves much actual humor, just a weird, surreal trance state.

Red winds up in Cairo, or Germany posing as Cairo, where she once again is accosted by Jones, this time as a dirty postcard salesman. He finally catches Red's interest with dirty pictures of-- Albrecht Durer. And we're back to Durer, this time in a turban, and all of his drawings have been altered to suggest Middle Eastern themes-- a camel instead of a horse, a pyramid in the middle of a village, and a rhino with a turban and sunglasses. (How sheik!) Cleese turns them all down. Where can I get some?

Back to the Torch Bearer, hobbling down the road with Jones piggy-backing him, and using the torch to cook an egg. He gives Idle the egg, and they go their separate ways. Jones puts up a tent in a forest clearing-- a very elaborate tent, with three stories, multiple gables, etc. It's a long bit, with him unpacking the tent in fast motion, the joke being that such an edifice could come from such humble beginnings. But again, not that funny. Just silly.  

This is impressive.

But now comes some truly inspired humor, as a the 27th Annual Silly Olympiad is announced in voice over. (I will point out that Kim "Howard" Johnson's episode description deviates from what I see on the show, so there may have been some fiddling with A nd E's presentation here.) Like Red Riding Hood, we've seen this bit before, too, and it's awesome! In the English version, there's a lot more voice over, but the jokes all still work, despite the silence in this version. We get the 100 meters for men with no sense of direction, a race for the deaf, freestyle swimming for non-swimmers, ("We'll be back when they fish out the corpses.") and a marathon for the incontinent. They start interweaving the events. My personal favorite-- the "Men with their mothers" event, where the racers are trying to get their mothers to please just move down the track, and the mothers have to shop or chat or just gripe. Hilarious!

Now, and American West theme sneaks in, and out of the bar steps-- Albrecht Durer! Painter, philosopher and Marshal in these here parts. Cleese's program director soon puts a stop to that! (Do you suppose there was a tourist-y marketing attempt to commemorate Durer's 500 birthday and that's what Monty Python was mocking?) He orders up a game show, and Palin and Cleese oblige with a wild west game show called "Stake Your Claim". (I feel like I've seen this before, but I'm not sure where. I'll figure it out, though.)

After a false start and a change of venue, the show gets started properly. It's a great bit, the first "true" sketch of the show so far, where Host Cleese good-naturedly pierces guests impossible claims. Palin claims to have written the entire works of Shakespeare, but when  Cleese points out that Palin is only 43, and the works are known to have been performed 350 years earlier, Palin caves with masterful comic timing. "I was hoping you wouldn't bring that up..." Other guests, frightened by Cleese's acumen, abandon their claims, muttering "I'm no match for you." It's a simple bit, but very funny. Maybe I just like sketches. Pepperpot guest Chapman tries to change her claim, from jumping off a castle and being buried alive, to burrowing through an elephant, knowing that the show would not have an elephant handy. Cleese makes her honor her original claim, and let us raise a glass to toast her memory. Nice try, frau Chapman. As the show wraps, Palin returns with more outrageous claims, but Cleese won't let him back on the show. Whic is fine with Palin, because-- he always wanted to be a lumberjack!

In one of the first bits purloined from the British series, Palin sings "The Lumberjack Song" in German. Oh, that is weird. The background singers take it a little slowly, but they chime in with nice harmonies. The German frau (Palin's "best girl") is dubbed. Why? Maybe the whole sketch couldn't be mic'ed properly. It's trippy to watch it in German, but Palin gives us the same infectious thrill that he always had. A complaining letter follows, with an assurance that the remaining 30% of lumberjacks "form relationships with farm animals in the usual way." Added complaints follow about marsupials and indecent acts on trampolines, before the letter is shot right in the "a".

Gilliamination follows, with a photographer taking pictures of subjects, and a field marshal with preternaturally wide jaws eats an entire town before his head explodes with fanfare for-- the Bavarian Restaurant Sketch! ("Das Bayerisches Restaurant Stuck!) This is a little gem. It feels like a Cleese Chapman sketch-- it's that cruel. An American couple, played by Chapman and an actual lady come with their guidebook translations and pigeon German, to a Bavarian restaurant known for its authenticity. At first, it starts out with giddy huckster-ism. Palin and Idle polka and sing to an accordion as they take the coats or push in chairs, all in the finest Bavarian tradition. But when burgermeister Jones, carried out an a beir, sings and dances over with the menu, he hits Chapman on the head and the lady in the face.

Well might you ask...

Things go downhill from there, with evil liquids poured on them and food stuffed into their clothes, all in the name of Bavarian tradition. Finally, Chapman is tossed from the window with sauteed potatoes, and is too dead to get the check (which is traditional American behavior.) Cleese did warn them that "the food, the service, is all traditional, beyond good an evil." (A Nietzsche reference-- was he Bavarian?) The sketch mocks the kitsch of "traditional" restaurants, at the same time as it mocks the people who seek them out. Cleese is hilarious in the sketch, kicking his heels and tapdancing with that manic grin on his face, checking to make sure that the cruelty is consensual. "You did want an authentic meal," he reminds them.

The material prior to this piece is all well and good, but it felt a tad polite, like the lads were holding back, with the exception of the Munich Olympics bit. The whole show had a timid apologetic tone. But the Bavarian restaurant sketch ranks right up there with "The Dirty Fork" or "Job Interview". It feels like Python has decided to stop being so polite and swing for the fences. I'm curious whether the Germans found it funny-- but I do. The sketch is almost six minutes long, and it feels too short (as opposed to the Albrecht Durer documentaries, which are much shorter, but way too long.)

You can't say the lads don't know when to close it out. The credits follow, over a long filmed bit of Lord Jones ceremonially walking downstairs, accompanied by footmen, to a waiting carriage. Once inside, we hear a toilet flush. (Like I often say-- we're never that far from potty humor.) He steps back out, and the footman run the soiled coach away. This feels more English than German. Although Germany had its royalty back in the day, they have quite a different relationship than the English did, and still do.

Black and white Gilliamination follows, made unique by a completely colorless palate, nothing but pen and ink rendition of planes, trucks and trains all transporting this coach, until they pass a billboard. Zoom in on the billboard-- and the frogmen are returning the abducted newsreader frau Doren to her desk, where she bravely continues talking. It's a thankless bravura performance on her part, which I for one appreciate. There is no better praise than this-- I doubt Carol Cleveland could have done better. They seat her back st her desk, positioning her just so, and replace her background flat-- always leave a country like you found it. "And now," she finishes, "Albrecht Durer." Fade to black.

What a show! True, it fails as often as it succeeds, but while the lads were trying hard to be gentle, they were also refusing to be anything other than what they were-- anti-authoritarian anarchists, not so much lampooning television as destroying its hallowed (and hollow) conventions. And besides bridging cultural gaps with their inimitable sensibilities, they friggin' spoke German! And they did it without winking and nudging their way through it, but committed completely and without irony. The show is a true oddball treasure, proof that the lads didn't know what it meant to play it safe. They don't even have a studio audience to encourage them. I will "stake my claim" that if Monty Python is supposed to have revolutionized television, nowhere is the revolution more evident than in this subversive, dangerous show.

Next Week; Albrecht Durer! Or Show Zwei! (If I can find it.)

 

Episode 39 - Grandstand

"Ladies and gentlemen, no welcome could be more heartfelt than that which I have no doubt you will all want to join with me in giving this great showbiz stiff." - Eric Idle as Dickie Attenborough.

(Sniffle)

In many ways, the Monty Python legend was just beginning. Their shows were selling out, they were starting to make inroads in American broadcasting, and they had plans to get a movie made, their first original film, which would become known as "Monty Python and the Holy Grail".  Maybe you've heard of it.

But this blog is about the television show, and this particular episode marks the end of an era. It is the last show with the complete cast of Monty Python's Flying Circus. It's also an uneven show, filled with some wonderful high points, and a couple of low ones as well. This is another "myth-isode", rarely seen on the PBS pledge drives. It's also anomalous-- for all of their talk about non-topicality, this episode relies almost entirely on a degree of awareness of entertainment, cricket and sports television circa 1972. Many of the jokes simply do not translate. Finally, after three glorious years of seeing the lads come together to create a brand new type of show, this episode is when we really see the various comedic sensibilities start to fray and come apart. The center no longer holds. It's as bittersweet as it is inevitable.

We come to praise Caesar, not to bury him. Still, if you're into the whole burial thing, and you need a box, you may want to look at the box set of Monty Python's Flying Circus! Buy it, rip out box #12, and let's get going!

Doesn't he look like Dick Cavett?

We start with the "Thames" logo, something that we used to see in the states preceding many PBS programs. Apparently, it was the third (of three) English channels (not counting the actual liquid channels) and thought a lot of itself. A 60s era fop, with dotted shirt, "dry look" hair and a tan-- he actually looks a lot like Dick Cavett, announces that before the "action-packed" programming can begin, we must endure "a rotten old BBC program." (I'm sorry... "programme".) The presenter is David Hamilton, real-life host of the British "American Bandstand" show "Top of the Pops". This is yet another indication of the cultural altitude that the Flying Circus had reached. Rival television personalities, from rival networks, would come on the show for some gentle ribbing. It means little to us here in the states, but it probably had a huge impact in England-- the equivalent of Seinfeld showing up on Frasier.

The Nude Organist plays his chord in a field-- say goodbye-- and Cleese gives his "And now..." prelude-- say goodbye-- and Palin's "It's" Man reads out his word-- say goodbye-- and the titles... do not appear. As in the Cycling Tour episode (but without as much cause) there will be no titles for this show. We should have appreciated them when we had the chance.

Instead, we launch right into one of those sad crusty awards shows that everyone watches. (Why? Why do we subject ourselves to such hideous television every year? Boring speeches, embarrassing maudlin displays, terrible musical acts and those long gaps between the content and the commercial, all building up to some forgone conclusion such as "Will they give Best Picture" to the funniest film, or to the film about some semi-famous person that died? And I'm as bad as anyone. I've actually shushed people at Oscar parties. What is wrong with me? Why do I do it? Why?!) This episode's framing device, called the "British Showbiz Awards", is a cheap affair, not like the overblown Oscars here. Off to the side behind a panel desk sit two men in a tux, and making their third appearance, a pantomime Goose  and a pantomime Princess Margaret, apparently the VIP judges/presenters. In a caption, pantomime Princess Margaret is referred to as "Her Royal Highness The Dummy Princess Margaret". Walking through long strips of glittery tinsel, Idle steps out in a tux and a non-hair piece that looks pretty awesome. Make-up is stepping up their game.

Idle, as Dickie Attenborough, gives a speech that must have been written by a blender, with tortured phrases wandering in and out of each other. "... A guest who has not only done only more than not anyone, for our Society, but nonetheless has only done more." All this nonsense spoken with such emphasis and import, you are almost convinced he is actually saying something. Adding to the pathos, Idle pulls out an onion and wedges it beneath his eyes, eliciting tears.

The tears... the urn... the bowtie...

In prophetic shades of Chapman, Idle introduces a dead guest presenter, which is brought out in a bow-tie wearing urn. Fortunately, the urn can speak (if only Chapman's could), and announces the nominees-- Edward Heath (with some actual footage of some protestor throwing ink at him), the newscaster who said "Lemon Curry" in the Salad Days episode, and some group (it's hard to hear Palin from inside the urn) for the Oscar Wilde sketch, which we now get to see.

And oh, it's a sweet one! One of their best.The set-up is simple. Victorian era raconteurs Oscar Wilde, James Whistler and George Bernard Shaw are hanging out with the Prince of Wales. They lob bon mots back and forth at each other, some of which land beautifully, some of which fail spectacularly, some of which are rip offs of the ones that land beautifully, all in an effort to amuse and flatter the Prince of Wales. It's a wonderfully written set-up, establishing, through humor and conflict, the lion's den nature of the Victorian salon. Chapman is exquisite as Oscar Wilde, a part he was born to play. Things go south very suddenly, when Wilde attempts to flatter Prince Eddy. "Your Majesty is like a big jam donut with cream on the top." When this fails to get a laugh, for obvious reasons, the Prince starts to get offended. Trying to save his bacon, Wilde points at Cleese. "It was one of Whistler's!" Now Whistler has to salvage the insult. "What I meant was that, like a donut, your arrival gives us pleasure, and your departure only makes us hungry for more." Well saved, Whistler. But now it's Whistler's turn. "Your Highness, you are also like a stream of bat's piss... It was one of Wilde's." Wilde puts it off on Shaw, who saves it. But then Whistler and Wilde team up against Shaw, ("You bastards!" Shaw protests, like Dickens did last week,) and Shaw's response-- a raspberry-- reveals the honest core of all comedy. Underneath all that wit and wordplay, we're all really just giving each other raspberries. It's such an exquisite sketch on so many layers, it's a shame it had to be so short, but brevity is the soul of wit. (It was one of Wilde's!)

Gilliam keeps the party going, with pans of photos of the most happening scenes in London, black and white photos painted with occasional muted swaths of color, reminiscent of the early Saturday Night Live credits. We finally zero in on a glamorous couple. The slightly anxious but smiling lady, voiced by Cleveland, excuses herself to powder her nose. but once she disappears into the bathroom, the most ungodly sounds come out of there. (Speaking of raspberries!) Finally, after a veritable symphony of excreta, the lady comes out, looking as glamorous and anxious as ever. "Much better."

Then the party is broken up by CharWoman, the latest Gilliam superhero, a bare-breasted Tarzan-like woman who swings on a vine through this party, knocking the pretentious social climbers aside, and through London itself. "Charwoman!" Idle's voice over announces. "Sweeping away the last remnants of male chauvinism!" This seems more like a dig at aggressive feminism than at male chauvinism, as Charwoman beats her huge, bra-less breasts, until her nipples explode (presumably with delight.) Given the "in-your-face" sexuality of this bit, you have to wonder how the BBC ever got around to cutting anything.

Back at the awards show, Idle's host is now wearing bunches of onions around his neck as he introduces the next guest-- David Niven's fridge, also donning a bow-tie. The fridge can speak as well, and it announces the nominees for best director-- all of whom are Richard Attenborough (Idle), under thinly disguised psuedonyms. As he squirts tears from a bottle down his own face, Idle shows us a clip from the film that won't win, Pier Pasolini's "The Third Test Match".

This film, about cricket, shows many indie angles of a cricket match. Jones plays the bowler, under heightened stress as he sees visions of death, religion and sex. This is Jones doing his auteur thing, and pretty successfully, too. He rubs the ball against his thigh, eliciting orgasmic chirps from female spectators, all dubbed. He finally manages what I assume to be a successful pitch (I understand cricket a little less than I understand Pasolini,) loping over fornicating couples in the grass. He appeals to the judge, a Catholic bishop (played by Palin) who laughs maniacally.

Now there's a talk show called Back Chat, where a cricket team confronts Pasoline (Cleese) complaining about the lack of realism. "There's lots of people making love, but no mention of Geoff Boycott's average," they complain. "Who is Geoff Boycott?" Pasolini asks. Personally, I'm with Pasolini. This is actually a funny and smart bit, but it's hard to hear. Palin concedes that a famous cricketer works as a Marxist symbol, but what about his off-breaks?

A Pepperpot sketch follows, with Chapman and Jones this time. Both of the ladies are named Mrs. Zambesi. They turn off Pasolini and the awards show, and discuss the merits of giving blood. Silliness ensues. When the conversation confuses Jones, they start to shop for a better brain. It's surprisingly easy-- and cheap. (There's some caption jokes about currency conversion and decimalization which make almost no sense to me, but which I will assume were funny in 1972.) We get a nice call back to the Summarize Proust episode as Chapman calls for the brain-- she has to confirm her shoe size. After Cleese, in a low tight robot voice and wielding a severed limb, announces that the doctor is coming, we get the doctor's dummy, and then the doctor himself, Palin,who brings along a mechanical external brain that gets strapped to Jones head. "Doesn't it go inside my head?" Jones asks. "No, you're thinking of the brainette major." This model is the roadster. There's a great bit were the calibrate the brain, Jones reciting gibberish as Palin turns knobs and adjusts dials. Finally, once they get it close enough for government work, Chapman pays Palin with mime money and Palin leaves (with departure announced by Cleese.) Chapman and Jones go for a walk, and clearly there's more calibrating to do, as Jones calls out inanities and insanities to passersby. One great gag-- she calls out "Stpling machine, Mrs. Worral." A lady neighbor, an identical mechanical brain strapped on her head, replies "Stapling machine, Mrs. Zambesi. They also pass some unexploded Scotsmen (last week?) and penguins on their way to the blood bank.

The Blood Bank sketch is a more ordered silliness. Idle whispers to harried doctor Cleese that he wants to give urine, instead of blood. "We have no call for it. We have quite enough of it without volunteers coming in here donating it." Idle did it! He finally got in the "Wee-Wee" sketch! Plus, he got Cleese to be his co-conspirator! Take that, censors! Cleese refuses to accept Idle's urine, or sweat or ear wax, until Idle finally agrees to give blood-- and he's already got it waiting in a jar. Cleese, suspicious, smells the blood. "This blood is mine!" To get back his blood, Cleese finally allows Idle to donate his precious amber bodily fluids. I like this sketch-- short, simple, silly, but not ostentatious in its silliness like the prior bit, it's a tiny little gem, well done by both Cleese and Idle.

 An odd bit follows. Palin plays an announcer out on a grassy racehorse course, but the event in question is wife swapping. (Laughs from the prior sketch drown out his intro, "Welcome to wifeswapping from Redcar." It makes everything that follows a bit opaque.) The wives are listed like racehorses, only without the silly names. "No. 14 Mrs. Casey" In fact, most of them are "Mrs." That's why they call it wife swapping, yo! Turning this tawdry 60s trend into a horse race is a funny idea, but it never really ignites. It feels more sophomoric than clever. It's also another shot in the teeth to woman's lib, turning sexual empowerment into the ultimate objectification. (Any Sopranos fans out there? Remember the episode where Tony refuses to sleep with Ralphie's mistress, because "I already took his horse"? Remember how angry the woman in question got? That's how much women like to be compared to livestock. I'm sure Charwoman would be outraged, if not for her exploded breasts.) A quick Benny Hill-esque filmed bit follows, with women angling across a narrow London street, going in and out of random houses, back and forth across the street, accompanied by commentary from Palin. "Mrs. Casey coming up fast on the inside, it's Mrs. Casey coming from behind..." The interview afterwards with the wife's abashed "owner" Mr. Casey is funny, if offensive; "She's been going very well in training..."

Next is the "team event." "Come Wifeswopping" is a take-off on a show called "Come Dancing", a BBC ballroom dancing competition show. Idle is the host, in yet another bald wig-- it's his scalp coming-out party-- and surrounded by beautiful gown wearing babes, he extolls the previous "dancers" with phrases like "you couldn't get a melon between them." Which means one thing when you're dancing, but when you're wife swapping-- it means pretty much the same thing.  Appropriately, we see a line of formally dressed men and women, with numbers on the males' backs. The music sets us up for a mambo, but after making us wait for a few seconds, the British reserve disappears, and the men lunge for the squealing women. In typical Python style, they're trying a lot of variations on this theme, but one is no funnier than the other. It all feels a bit rape-y.

She's asking for it.

Fear not! They have one more trick up their sleeve. The Rugby competition! Two teams line up for the scrum, but instead of fighting over a ball-- they're fighting over a conservatively dressed wife, Mrs. Colyer. The woman in question is a dummy, and she's tossed in like a sack of potatoes. Screams are inserted in voice over as she's stepped on, tossed and carried across the line for a score. I imagine the gang bang in the locker room will follow? Finally, the closing credits of the show, with footage of various match-ups in a screen split by four playing behind. In each of the screens, more traditional orgies play out, which is a relief. (Check out the lower right quadrant-- two ladies.)

Every once in a while, I have issues with tone, and this is one of those times. They're very silly and no one means any harm, but the objectification here, and the absence of a woman's perspective, gives this whole bit a slight whiff of hostility and violence towards women. Certainly, it's a take on the male need to turn everything into an event, as well as a jibe towards the sexual revolution and the so-called sophistication that accompanied it, but just as Shaw's raspberry is the true nature of all comedy, so the violent objectification of women is at the core of this bit. I want to like it, admire it for its "Picasso on a Bike" relentless exploration of a theme, and laugh at it (and I do laugh during the rugby scene-- I hate myself for laughing, but I can't help it) but it all comes too close to the "hate" end of the British love-hate relationship with women.
 

Back to the Showbiz Awards. Idle is literally pumping water out of  his eyes like a geyser, with two metal pipes at either side of his head. "There they go, the credits of the year," he weeps. After some goofball jokes, we get to the highlight of the show-- the Award for the Cast with the Most Awards Award. The cast of "The Dirty Vicar" sketch comes out on stage. There's Cleveland, and another busty woman in Victorian garb. There's Jones, as a vicar (he looks pretty clean to me,) and there's Chapman in a tux. Suddenly, Gilliam steps out in a German mountaineering outfit,with shorts, high socks and pick ax, folowed by two other men in tuxes. Having accepted their award from the dummy princess, they perform the sketch.

And it's terrible! Seriously. It's terrible. We've discussed in the past how material was written and chosen for the show. Chapman and Cleese would write fifteen or so pages, Palin and Jones would write 15 or more, and Idle would have about ten minutes of his own. That's 40 minutes of material right there, not counting titles, credits and Gilliam. They would have to throw out at least one quarter of their material, to fit the show length. Somehow, this horrible, embarrassing sketch, made the cut.

Let's summarize. Two proper Victorian ladies share tea and conversation. Chapman the butler announces that the new vicar has arrived. As he obsequiously goes to fetch him, in the scene's one spasm of inspiration, Gilliam and the two tuxes wander in happily. They realize they're on the wrong set, and run out. Very nice. It's all downhill from here. Jones the vicar arrives, goosing Chapman, who screeches like a pepperpot. He spots the non-Cleveland lady, grunts "What a lovely bit of stuff!" and proceeds to rape her, tearing off her blouse, throwing her over the back of the settee. Ignoring her friend's screams, Cleveland pours tea like nothing's happening. The vicar then goes after Cleveland, saying "I like tits!" He rips her blouse open, grabs her. Then he comes to his senses, apologizing. "First time in my new parish, and I completely lost my head."  Both ladies are prepared to forget the unpleasantness ever happened, and they pour him some tea. Polite conversation lasts about a thirty seconds before Vicar Hyde returns, assaulting Cleveland and throwing her to the ground. (Cleveland's screams of protest are funny-- they sound a lot like Christopher Lloyd's death scene in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" At this point, Idle walks in as Dickie, to end the sketch. The cast takes their collective bow, the ladies scarcely bothering to cover their exposed under garments.

For the record, I get the whole "camp" ethos, how sometimes something is so bad that it's good, and we occasionally see the lads trolling these waters. But there is just nothing to recommend this sketch. There's no motivation, little structure, and apart from Gilliam's gaffe, nothing new or inspired about it. Perhaps it's trying to be a "fart in the Vatican" kind of thing, but Jones isn't human for long enough to experience any real mortification, and Cleveland and the other one never acknowledge the offense. Consequently, the whole sketch just seems churlish and mean, with Jones the rapacious id having his way with gorgeous but unwilling women, and the women are complicit in their own ravaging because they are slaves to propriety. The fact that the lads knew it was a bad sketch is revealed by the honors it receives in this bullshit awards show, but that doesn't mean that we had to watch it.

In an example of art imitating art, Idle steps out to end the award show. Like this particular episode, his closing speech is the low point of his oratory, unfunny and not particularly bombastic. He finishes to silence, looks around to the other actors-- "Are we done?"-- and the lights fade out.

And thus ends Season 3, the last episode of the last season in which Cleese still performs. Cleese's departure from the group only extended to the TV show. He still worked with them on the live shows, the albums, the books, and of course, the movies. But the character of the TV show would forever change with Cleese's departure, in ways both good and bad. On the plus side, Gilliam would step up as a performer. On the minus side, there would be no Apollonian sensibility to stand in the way of the randomness of Palin, or the chaos of Jones.

Goodbye

But before we move on, we still have more "vintage" Python to celebrate. I'm talking the German shows! Twenty five years after Germany attempted to invade England-- Monty Python returns the favor!

Next Week; The Lost German Episodes!