Episode 36 - "E. Henry Thripshaw Disease"

"Tonight on 'Is There' we examine the question 'Is there life after death?' And here to discuss it are three dead people." -  John Cleese as Moderator Roger Last

I watched Monty Python's Flying Circus whenever I could as I was growing up, whether on the syndicated channels like WTOG Channel 44 in St. Petersburg, or on any of a number of PBS fundraising marathons, wherein they'd trot out the Pythons to raise money for less worthy programming. I saw them all-- or so I'd thought. Some episodes, however, eluded me, even though I had seen others as many as ten times. These "myth-isodes" were rarer than UFO sitings, than that Wacky Package sticker that you need to complete your collection, and no matter how many packages you buy, you never get it-- and neither do any of your friends, so you can't trade.

This episode is one such "myth-isode", scarcely seen on regular programmed schedules. In fact, of the four episodes we have remaining in this season, two of them are "myth-isodes." Although I don't have access to PBS in-house programming documents, I suspect this was due to the naughty nature of the episodes.

As we've read in previous posts, the BBC took a stronger hand in censoring their light entertainment content, in response to the shrill rants of socially conservative activists such as Mary Whitehead Whitehouse who angrily denounced permissiveness, sexuality and homosexuality in the media. After two seasons of a hands-off approach with Monty Python, the third season saw some definite "hands on" action, as executives insisted on reading the scripts before shooting, and issuing memos. Though reluctant to yield, moist and viscous with artistic freedom, the 60s backlash was fully engorged, and viciously and repeatedly penetrated the artists and their content, plunging brazenly into the creator's prerogative, resulting in exclamations, violent bucking, and a crusty old white stain on the material-- all in the name of purity.

Specific to Monty Python, this impacted most directly on the last three shows. This show in particular was the last show recorded (though not the last aired). The BBC read the scripts and issued an edit list which came to be known as "32 Points of Worry", and they asked that all three shows be taken from the broadcasting rotation and stuck in a drawer. Fortunately, saner minds prevailed, and with some brief cuts (which Terry Gilliam is still angry about,) the episodes were ultimately broadcast.

One of the cuts came from this episode. The sketch was shot, but removed completely from the final episode, and is now not to be found even on the non-broadcast version. It was called "The Wee-Wee Sketch." In it, Frenchie Idle offers Jones some wine from a vast collection. After Jones drinks it, Idle reveals that the beverage was not a Talbot 63, but "wee-wee". Jones drinks from another glass, tasting Chablis. "No, Monsieur, that too was wee-wee." There is a whole cellar filled with bottles of various vintages of "wee-wee", including (hilariously yet disgustingly) a pink rose. ("Roh-ZAY". How do you do accents on this blog?)  The BBC claimed that this was a reference to menstrual blood. Gilliam asks, in outrage "What the fuck are you talking about?!" But come on, Terry! It's pink urine. It's either blood, or beets. And as Alice Cooper pointed out, only women bleed. 

This sketch not only indicates increasing trouble with the BBC, it also displays a rift within the group. Many in the group insist that Cleese was the rat fink who went to the BBC and complained about the sketch, requested the censorship. This seemed poor form from part of the team who brought us last season's Undertaker Sketch ("Fred! We've got an eater!"), but although Cleese is unapologetic about hating the sketch ("...a deeply embarrassing piece of material,") he never cops to pointing it out to the BBC. As we've seen, the BBC were already rooting around for breaches of taste, and would have needed no help from Cleese.

Finally, it establishes something else that the Pythons have said from time to time-- that they were running out of material. This is a sad thing for me to face up to, as a writer. I cannot imagine being given an opportunity to create content for a television show, and just not be able to do it. But the "Wee-wee" sketch shows that they were scraping the bottom of the barrel, and when it was cut, there was no bench-warmer sketch to bring in. They just went with a shorter show that week. Cleese was reluctant to do the third season because he believed the lads were repeating themselves, but this late in the game, even repetition was beyond them.

But enough about what's not in the show-- let's take a look at what is in the show. Because what remains in the show was still enough to keep it off of the air in the States. But today, you can watch it. You can claim that elusive Wacky Package sticker and complete your collection. And all you gotta do is BUY THE BOX SET ALREADY! (Wee-Wee not included.)

On film, Chapman (in modern garb) enters a door, marked "Tudor Jobs Agency". Inside (in studio,) he meets Jones behind a desk. Jones is dressed up in Elizabethan garb, ruffled collar and cuffs, gold doublet, the whole thing-- but his manner is still modern. Chapman asks for a job, and Jones offers him things like sailors on a Raleigh expedition, and master "joiners and crafters" for building the Globe Theatre. When Chapman asks for something more modern, Jones insists they only have Tudor jobs. He seems to wait for a laugh a this point-- which never comes. It's a funny idea, conceptually, but the promise of the premise never extends beyond dialogue. When Jones finally admits that "We haven't put anyone into a job since 1625," he earns the first real laugh of the sketch. Bemoaning the terrible business model of filling only Tudor-era jobs, he finally drops the pretense entirely-- a wall panel slides back, revealing a dirty book shop.The whole Tudor jobs is a front to befuddle the cops.

This brings us to the comedy meat of the sketch, the juxtaposition of porn with the more refined Tudor era foppery. Cleese tries to buy a book on Devonshire Country Churches, but Idle can only offer him books like "Bum Biters". This is all as close as Python gets to a cheap laugh. Actually, it's not close-- it is a series of cheap laughs. Even when Palin gets the plot going as a cop leading a bust with an absent partner, the sketch never strays far from these opposite themes sewn together.

Palin's character, Superintendent Gaskell, carries the Twilight Zone-ish story that fans of the Lifeboat Sketch from "Salad Days" will find hauntingly familiar. Stuck in this Tudor-esque porn shop, mistaken for one "Sir Phillip Sidney", Palin finally escapes-- only to discover that he really is Sir Phillip Sydney, in the Elizabethan era. We follow him on his adventures as he singlehandedly fights off the Spanish fleet and their porn ("Toledo Tit Parade") before returning home to wife Cleveland, who surreptitiously reads "Gay Boys in Bondage", which she claims to be Shakespeare's latest. Soon, Palin's heretofore absent partner Chapman shows up, arrests everybody, and even steals the best laugh in the long sketch as he glances at one of the forbidden books. "That's a long one," he asides, and packs the protesting Palin up in the paddy wagon, with preminiscent shades of the "Holy Grail" ending.

Shades of "The Holy Grail" ending.

It's a very long bit, at over 11 minutes, and they clearly spent a lot of time and resources to get it right (even though it has some spectacular technical gaffes-- a slow close up of Cleese during one of Idle's best lines, jokes that are swallowed by the production value, etc.), yet it never really goes beyond the central conceit of having Shakespearean types read out dirty porn book titles. Palin's existentialist dilemma is interesting, but not funny, and they never manage to find the joke they seem certain is there. Is all of this the lads' way of saying that porn has always been with us? That censorship is retrograde and behind the times? I don't know. The whole thing is pretty mystifying. It feels as though the crew is more interested in making a cohesive film than they are in making us laugh.

Is that a dagger I see before me?

Fear not-- they've finally exhausted these shallow waters, and Gilliam arrives to save the day-- with an animated bit on Shakespearean porn. We get an odd cut to a hole (in the ground, you perverts. What hole did you think I mean?!) and this takes us to a series of tubes, which takes us to an animated version of Jones' nude organist. Do we get the titles now? No!

Cleese and Cleveland sit at a metal table, obviously at some sort of vacationing spot. They take hands, blissfully in love and happy to be alone at this glorious resort--  when Palin arrives, in a vicar's outfit, a bald cap, and crazy red hair coming off the temples, and asks to join them. Cleese and Cleveland agree, just to be polite.

"You're sure I won't be disturbing you?...I don't want to disturb you." After countless reassurances that he won't be disturbing them, he finally sits-- and totally disturbs them. He puts his fingers in their ear, smashes plates and sings a nonsense song (a grating song that we heard in the phone bank sequence of the "Summarize Proust" episode-- "DOO-doo, do-DOO-do" ad nauseum). Cleese's milquetoast reaction is priceless, while Cleveland seems genuinely disturbed by all the plate smashing. Makes you want to just reach out and comfort her. When they try to make their departure, Palin breaks into tears. "I knew I disturbed you!" Too British to leave, they sit down, and Palin continues spraying himself with silly string.

But then we get a wavy time-lapse dissolve, and we see Cleveland and Cleese at home, smashing plates and being silly with string. Cleveland's VO tells us that Palin changed their lives. We get a great filmed bit, with Cleveland and Cleese rushing to Palin's church. Silence for a long beat-- and then that horrific song and the sound of plate smashing from within. It's a nice, silly bit of fluff. It feels like Cleese/Chapman material, having a go at British middle class propriety. Though it never will live on as a classic Python bit, once you hear that song it will never leave your brain!

NOW we get the real nude organist, and the titles. The show is half over. Deal with it, bitches.

A Gilliamination follows-- against a jungle backdrop, animals pop up like a whack-a-mole arcade game, shot at by an offscreen rifle. Such animals include a Norwegian Blue Parrot, Big Al from the Country Bear Jamboree, and one of the actors from the earlier nudist Shakespeare production. A giant hand reaches into the foliage to claim all the bodies, and throws them into a giant mechanical drink shaker next to a pub. We go inside the pub, and a nice bit follows that gives new meaning to the term "sucking face".

An antiquated matte frames the screen like an old silent film, and a new "skit, spoof, jape or vignette" is announced, this one about the "free repetition of words." Idle and Jones play a customer and telegraph operator, in a very stilted and awful way, all within the matte. As they work through the not very good joke with intentionally bad delivery, all we can do is wait for it to be over. Thankfully, it soon is. The goofy bad-ness of the sketch is sweet, but only because we know what they are capable of. Less said, the better. Let's move on...

Gilliam takes over again-- kinda his show, really, post the Tudor-porn stuff-- and provides us with a link, folding up the matte and delivering it via long horse to the BBC, where he unfolds it-- and the next sketch starts. In what feels like another Cleese-ian bit, moderator Cleese (in a moustache that makes him look a lot like Basil Fawlty) interviews three men on the existence (or lack thereof) of an afterlife. Did I mention that they're all dead? It's similar to the bit from season 1, where Jones interviewed the taxidermified animals-- the main joke lies in the lack of response, although Cleese seems more comfortable with it than Jones did. Silence means "no." There's a nice bit at the end, when the credits roll--  Kubrick, Welles and Lindsey Anderson, among others, get credit for "research" as the cadavers are dragged off the set.

Today, just a disease! Tomorrow, t-shirts!

Without a link, we dash to Dr. E. H. Thripshaw's office.  Palin steps in, speaking with an odd jumble of words that Cleese interprets with little difficulty. "My particular prob, or buglem bear, I've had ages. For years, I've had it for donkeys." Standard Idle-esque gibberish that Palin pulls off beautifully. Finally, Cleese diagnoses him with a disease "so rare that it hasn't got a name. Not yet. But it will have, oh, yes!" Guess what he wants to name it? (For a hint, check out the episode title.) As the lights go down in the office and a spot comes up on Cleese, we learn that his plans for the disease don't stop there. Merchandising-- a game-- Film Rights!

And now, the... filum. Clip.

We see that film, with titles by Gilliam. The movie shows us stock footage of a battle fought in Syria in 1203. Horses, swords, armor-- the crusades!" We soon cut to Chapman, wearing a big dry grey wig and speaking with stalactite stentorianism, as a film critic. "That... clip... comes from the new David O. Seltzer... filum." Chapman interviews Thripshaw, who is aghast at what they've done to his disease-- the film bears no resemblance. This is much like the Anne Elk sketch, only this time the interviewer is maddening instead of the guest. Chapman is great-- though he gets few laughs from the studio audience, he gets a lot from me-- and Cleese plays the victim very well. Cleese brings a clip of his film, remade to better represent his original diseased vision. It's just like the last clip, only now, as a knight goes to battle, he runs into Cleese at a desk. "What seems to be the matter?" It's a nice little bit of visual trickery, and a silly and grandiose end to this pretty simple bit.

Have you tried oiling it?

Palin pops up out of a water barrel, dripping wet, and says that the next bit will be preceded by silly noises. Sure enough, over black, silly noises, and an establishing shot of a church with bells. We cut to a brick-walled church study. Palin, a vicar (second of the show) with nerdy glasses, his hair plastered down, leads straight-man Chapman in, ostensibly to discuss some biblical question that Chapman has. But Palin can only talk about sherry. He's got some, he can't share, he finds more, Idle comes in with a twelve thousand gallon shipment for him, ("You're one of our best customers-- you and the United States," Idle says, which is hysterical-- we don't drink sherry here.) Finally, Jones leads in a team of mariachi singers, with Cleveland on the maracas, (and what maracas!) to celebrate his purchase of Amontillado.

But when the song ends, with a final "Ole", we find it's all a front for dirty books. And the censored credits roll, with naughty nicknames attached to the regular gang of co-conspirators. A final BBC announcement tells us that E Henry Thripshaw Disease t-shirts are on sale, details to be determined.

And that's it. Not much of a show, to be frank. It feels uninspired and lacking in the playful curiosity that made the rest of this season heretofore such a blast. The Vicar smashing plates is as close as we come to a surprising, visceral moment of comedy, (although the "Is There...?" show was pretty funny in a gut punch way) and the rest, while still well-performed and written, just felt empty somehow. I doubt the "Wee-Wee" sketch would have done much to help. Is this what Cleese feared? Is this what Monty Python looks like when they're out of new ideas?

I think they got a bit more junk in the trunk.

Next week; "Dennis Moore"

Episode 35 - The Nude Man (aka "The Nude Organist")

"And now, for ten seconds of sex... all right, you can stop now." - Eric Idle as Announcer

In the later years of one's life, it is common to look back on the old days with a fond smile and remember when you used to look good nude, and when others agreed. Those days are long gone for me, but they will always be here for Terry Jones, the second nude-est Python troupe member. (First place goes to Graham Chapman, for his revealing role in "The Life of Brian".)


Although this seems a strange way to start a blog post about a comedy group, remember that this blog is trying to map out the creative life of the team as seen through the context of the television show. And whether they knew it or not (I think a couple of them did,) this episode marks the beginning of the era of decrepitude for Monty Python. The show was nearing the end of its third and last complete season. Even as their fame was growing, their records beginning to sell overseas, live performance requests increasing and American interest rousing, at the same time, the BBC reins were tightening, and some of the team were beginning to think that they'd done about all that they could do on a TV show. And so, here, accidentally or subconsciously, the lads take a quick look back. Old forgotten themes return, old characters take the stage, and a lighthearted lack of ambition informs most of the bits. Gone is the ambitious cohesion from last week, or any efforts at a complex, multi-layered sketch. This episode represents their second childhood.

Let's check it out. And speaking of checking it out, have you seen the full nude fold out of Carol Cleveland that they put in the Monty Python Box Set? The one you have to see to believe, and buy the box set to see? (There is no nude fold-out of Carol Cleveland. I'm just trying to get you to do the right thing.)

Cleese and Palin are co-pilots of East Scottish Airways. "Our destinations is Glasglow" Palin brogues, "There is no need to panic." Cleveland makes an early appearance as the stewardess, adoringly slung over Palin. But it turns out that Palin's reassurance about the panic was premature. Idle, ramrod straight in sweater, shirt and tie, mushroom cap and tweed pants, enters from the passenger area. In a thick-ish brogue, Idle claims there's a bomb on board. He'll tell them where for a thousand pounds. ("A thoosand poonds.") This is a reworking of an older sketch, wherein Palin played a polite hijacker who wanted to take a plane to Loudon, instead of its scheduled destination, Cuba. (It was a 60s thing-- lots of planes hijacked to Cuba.)  Idle is equally inept at this hijacking stuff, unable to declare his terms without stammering and starting over. Finally, he manages "Unless you give me the [money], the bomb will explode (exploode) killing everybody."    

"Including you," Cleese points out.

"I'll tell you where it is for a pound," Idle renegotiates. Apparently, he hadn't thought of that.

In a very nice twist, Idle forgets the location, and must recite a rubric out loud to remember. Then, when he tries to sell the location for a pound, Cleese "guesses" the location-- and Idle pays him a pound. (Hey, a deal is a deal.) All of this punctuated with silliness from Idle, stiffly calling the stewardess "pretty lady" and rubbing the money to avoid fingerprints. Finally, Chapman enters as a stage manager with headphones on and a script in hand. "This character giving you any trouble?" "He's ruined this sketch," Cleese complains, whereupon Idle promises not to ruin the sketch "for a poond." And we have the first running gag of the show. Idle and his Scottish beggar will return. In the meantime, the players abandon the sketch, and we cut to film.

Terry Jones nude organist is, again, not nude. He sits in a field, at his organ, a plush robe on, surrounded by a documentary film crew. (Back then, kids, you needed cameras, mics, lights and crew to make a movie, even a modest documentary about a nude organist. Phones were for calling.) Terry Jones blathers pretentiously about the meaning of his role, as representing "two separate strands of existence" and like that. Hey, he can't talk that way about his role. Blathering pretentiously is my job! But Jones becomes aware that he's missed his cue, shoos everyone off, they take his robe, and smiling with all four cheeks, he plays his chord.

Cleese's announcer is next, doing a one on one interview with a lady reporter at his desk in a field of yellow . His sounds a little less blathery, but no less pretentious. "I adhere to the Bergsonian idea of laughter as a social sanction against inflexible behavior," he says, before he clears his throat and gives his non-flexible two word line. Should it alarm me that I almost understood that? Henri Bergson was sent up in an earlier game show sketch this season. He believed that sensory experience and intuition trumped rational behavior every time. Interesting stance for a philosopher. I can certainly see how Monty Python admired him. Speaking of irrationality, we break the groupie pattern with Palin's "It's" Man, standing alone in front of a bunch of crates. No one cares about his deeper meaning. So I'll just step in and say that "It's" Man represents the lengths one will go to for attention.

The Promised Pin-Up

Titles roll, and a caption promises us "10 seconds of sex." Perhaps a fold-out of Carol Cleveland? No, a black screen and a clock ticking for ten seconds, before the caption, VO'd by Idle, says "Okay, you can stop now." Chapman, on film, sipping tea, promises us that the show will start right nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnow. A little padding never hurt anyone. Although it couldn't help Carol Cleveland. What a nice girl!

The first sketch is a filmed bit, about buildings being constructed by characters from 19th century literature. This harkens back to the first season of the show, when silly juxtapositions were posited, and then tirelessly explored, such as Picasso on a bicycle. It's been a while since the lads have done something so straightforward, but they still got it, baby!

Angels, Devils, Adam and Eve

Palin plays a news documentarian, reporting on this new trend without distraction or asides. The names, and books from whence they came, come at us in a high speed blizzard, as costumed characters work cement mixers and dig. My favorite bit is a brief focus on Idle, playing Arthur Huntington from Anne Bronte's "Tenant of Wildfell Hall", as obscure a reference as you are likely to find. Not even the more famous Charlotte or Emily, but Anne. Huntington has built a self-generating energy source for this particular building, to win his fictional heroine back. The bit goes deeper as Palin explores a block of flats being built by the characters from Milton's "Paradise Lost". This project isn't going as well, because as Jones the foreman gripes "No one really got on." (That's British for "got along.") No twist, just a doubling down on the reality of the weird little concept.

Built by Hypnosos

We leave the  antiquated characters behind, but not the theme of building. Palin reports that new flats are going up, erected by the Amazing Mystico-- and Janet! Who remembers Janet? From Episode 2? Anyone? It's understandable if she don't look familiar-- Janet was played by Cleveland, in a sparkly magician's assistant outfit, gesticulating like mad for Kargol's every utterance. This time, Janet is played by Marie Anderson (I believe), while Jones plays Mystico, a wide-eyed theatrical hypnotist who puts up buildings-- IN OR MINDS. (Careful-- blowing of a mind will necessarily destroy any buildings previously inserted within.) His 5 pound fee is much more reasonable than the usual millions a block of flats might cost. Tenant Idle is interviewed; "You don't mind living in a figment of another man's imagination?" "No," Idle replies, "It's much better than where we used to live." But when he remembers that his other place was great, the building starts to collapse, and he must talk himself out of the memory. If you believe in low cost housing, clap your hands. Chapman is interviewed as Architect Clement Onan. Onan, some will notice, is a famous biblical spiller of seed, and onanism is another word for masturbation, which the lads tried to get into a prior episode, but which was edited out by the BBC. In Chapman's name, they re-wax that banister.

She's no Carol Cleveland

The documentary changes subject yet again, meandering from building erections to the powerhouse that is Janet. Palin sings her many accomplishments in a voice over, juxtaposed with hilariously goofy "show biz" photographs that look inane-- especially with her mouth wide open in glee. But the accomplishments ("Nobel prize winner, architect, novelist and surgeon,") turn dark, as she uncovers spy rings and stalks supposed wrong-doers. After one such wrong-doer is hanged, the documentary tackles the many cases of execution in Leeds for crimes such as "shouting in the corridor." Finally, we leave this wandering, subject-less documentary behind.

Jones, as Cop Harry "Boot In" Swalk (I love that name!) passes off the executions as accidents due to stress. But, in a nice silly bit, you can scarcely hear him, as other cops start singing over his police radio. Jones asks people to write in with what I assume is a funny address, because it gets a laugh, but the humor is lost on me. Maybe it's three different towns? Chime in if you know.

Now we cut to a proper sketch, sans link. Gilliam and Jones are working men in a mortuary. Jones carefully cuts hard-boiled eggs in half, separating them from the yolk, and Gilliam tapes them back together and puts them in a jar of vinegar. This is never commented on, or noticed. I'm actually ashamed that I noticed it this time, but there you go. A little silliness thrown in just as part of the tapestry. They're listening to the radio, and when the DJ (Cleese) gets insufferably cute, they switch to Radio Four, for their favorite program, "Mortuary Hour", hosted by Shirley Bassey. They don't switch channels, they switch radios. Radio Four is a tiny radio within a different radio. Maybe there's a smaller Radio Five within Radio Four. Did I blow your mind? Where will you live?   

Dig Cleese's crazy wig!

Finally, Cleese comes in, in a hilarious wig and costume, and voice to match. He tells the workingmen to put down their radios-- they're expecting company. Chapman, as a Lord Mayor, wheels in (literally-- he's on a wheeled dais) Palin, as an elderly Peer of the Realm, followed by Cleveland as Palin's wife. The sketch is a simple, straight forward riff on classism in Great Britain. Palin is not only an idiot-- he has a brain that is easily dislodged, so tiny is it. Once they wheel him in, Palin tries to think of something to say, and can't manage it. "I, uhhhh, I uhhhh, I uhhhh..." Palin does this really well-- remember his stutter in A Fish Called Wanda"? Chapman tries to lead him into verbosity, bragging about some element of the mortuary, but it fails to work. In a great physical bit, Cleveland adjusts his head, bonking him on each temple to get the tiny brain back in its slot. The way Palin moves his head, you actually can see the brain shifting. But the sketch doesn't really go anywhere, and they just wheel him off. There's some linkage here-- the workingmen go back to their radios, but Cleese says "This is the big one!... Withby Police with twelve hangees!" (But because we could scarcely hear Jones earlier, it doesn't really register.) Finally, Idle returns as the stiff Scot. "I won't interrupt this sketch for a poond." Too late.

Don't apologize-- go on!

A Gilliam bit follows. As with the opening groupie sequences, Gilliam speaks to the camera, explaining what he does. It's kind of cool, actually-- his hands hold pieces of his animation, and he begins to demonstrate how he puts it all together to make the magic. But like the others, once he realizes that the show is going on, he puts the pieces down, slides his head up into frame and apologizes. Sliding back out, we start his bit. It's a shame-- I would have liked to see more of him talking about it.

Big feet, large robes.

The bit itself is full of great Gilliam touches, but has little to offer by way of narrative. It feels like he's grasping at air. The animated man that he was demonstrating with turns to us, embarrassed, and marches off screen. We hear sounds of lovemaking (Oh, Jones, you little perv!) and a caption with an arrow tells us "Action taking place here" in the second floor of a cottage. A giant Bobbie head sneaks out, his eyes level to and glued at the second floor. The mortified couple  runs off, with the entire second story. They run past a monk, who hears the sirens and disappears into his robes on a "lunch break". Floating WWI helmets fly in like UFOs, inciting serious slinky neck strain in an admiral. The UFOs dive down into a trench, and a bunch of WWI infantrymen slide out, occupying the previously empty trenches. "Gott in Himmel", a German admiral says, and so terrified is he of the sudden invasion, his hair shoots straight out, sending the pickelhaube he wears flying. The helmet slices a little girl celebrating England's victory in half. That's it. Fun to watch, but not much narrative.

Spoiler alert-- It's a tie!

A filmed bit follows, with Jones from Paraguay facing off against Chapman from England in the Olympic final of the Men's Hide and Seek Competition. Like the earlier 19th century fictional characters sketch, this sketch relies solely on its concept for laughs, playing it mostly straight otherwise. The sketch asks, how impossible would it be to find someone if this game were an actual sport? While Jones counts, Chapman gets on a plane, flies to Sardinia and hides in some castle. It took Chapman over 11 years to find Jones, and now it's Jones' turn. The lads have some fun with the coverage-- Palin gets old and wrinkled and covered with cobwebs reporting from the studio. Idle on the other hand, stays fresh as a daisy reporting from the field. The contest results in a tie, and it's priceless to see the expression on the contestants' faces when he hears there must be a rematch.

Remember the unctious MC with the red jacket, played by Palin in Season 1? On the beach? With the donkey rides? He's back! As well as the beach, and the donkey rides. "Hello, again," he quacks, "Nice to be back, glad to see the show is going well." But he's not all that's back. As he introduces the next sketch in a sitting room, he apologizes for the poor production quality, but "the budget's a bit low." Cleese steps in and hits him-- with a chicken! Cleese then walks off and hands the chicken-- to the knight, standing nearby! It's all he hits! Original hits, original stars! Knight! Chicken! MC! Donkey Rides!

Cleese walks off, passing Idle's Scot, sitting in a beach chair drinking tea. "This is a totally free interruption-- no money has changed hands." We follow Cleese, who, with exquisite specificity, squishes something in the sand. This is our extra link to the sitting room sketch, which Cleese enters, and promptly squishes a matching bit of vermin in the sitting room.

Cleveland, Cleese's wife, has dinner waiting. She dreads the expected visit from their neighbors, the Cheap Laughs. Sure enough, Jones and Chapman ring as Mr. and Mrs. Cheap Laugh respectively. Bad jokes, pratfalls and hysterical laughter ensue. A time lapse gives us another view of the donkey ride gag, and when we return, the Cheap Laughs take their leave. Cleese and Cleveland argue as they discover other cheap laughs left behind-- bucket of water, whoopie cushion, and finally-- a 16-Ton Weight! That, too, makes a victory lap around the track. There's nothing cheap about that laugh.

In bed, later, Cleese and Cleveland make up-- "I'm just tired of always having to be like the Cheap Laughs," she whines; might this be a little bit of personal frustration seeping in?--  but their bed folds back into the wall, replaced by Idle at a news desk. Nice bit of choreography there, and I would love to see how Cleese and Cleveland managed the dismount.

"Probe" casts Idle as a reporter investigating cruelty and unfairness in bullfighting-- a big, aggressive bull versus "a small greasy Spaniard."  They ask Cleese, Brigadier, and Chairman of the "Well Basically" Club. "Well, basically..." Cleese replies. This is a nice bit for Cleese who lapses back and forth between a staunch military man recommending first strikes on bulls, and a prance-y effeminate theater reviewer admiring the showmanship of bullfighting. A large hammer swings in from the wings, clubbing him back into machismo. Finally, in the midst of his tirade against bulls, the lights go out. Idle announces from the dark "I'll turn the lights back on for a poond."

Gilliam returns, with a well-meaning tech man who can fix the show's problems with a touch of the button. This turns out to be more than he bargained for, as the arm snakes around and around. The hand finally finds the button, sending a visible electronic bump to a mic with lips that says something in German. Now things get weird. Two trees start to grow to a German marching song. They grow side by side, right up into deep space-- until they both flatten against some invisible ceiling. A smash cut to a brick wall, with graffiti reading "Remember 1937" A sudden shot of Hitler-- who can only stammer an apology. "I don't know why I've been included in this cartoon..." Another head pops out of his mouth, claiming this whole thing to be full of political significance. Hitler bites down, beheads the man, who lands in a crater on a strange planet, insisting all the way that "I was right." A strange riff on topicality from Gilliam, but more strange than funny.

 

Strange sci-fi music joins the strange planet, and Cleese's VO tells us all about the planet Algon. Is this another Skyron, with tennis-playing blancmanges? Not quite. More a riff on the breathless news coverage of the Apollo program, and their tireless search for metaphors to make all this science crap comprehensible to us morons. "Here", Cleese intones, "an ordinary cup of drinking chocolate costs four million pounds. An immersion heater costs..." You get the idea. And split-crotch panties? Unobtainable.

Algon, you're trying to seduce me.

Palin takes over as the host of this program, as they examine live footage from the first intergalactic probe to the barren wastes of the planet Algon. Apparently, they have discovered sexy lingerie on other planets. Will they find them on Algon? Probably, as Marie Anderson, in some weird stewardess costume, wanders past the camera. "The probe has struck crumpet!" Palin crows. Maybe this is the point of all scientific endeavor-- to discover someone who will sleep with scientists.

The science show devolves, cuts off, and Idle's stiff Scot comes out and reads the credits. "Conceived, written and performed by the usual lot." As he finishes, the camera pulls back to reveal the 16 ton weight poised above him. He makes a pitch to other BBC producers, and the weight is released. We fade out before we see it land.

What a pleasure to see this show, and all the old characters trotted out. Even Gumby makes a rare vocal appearance, announcing the opening title. But while this show delivers the laughs, and the past laughs, it gives us little that's new. Maybe Cleese was right. Maybe they'd really done all that they could do. We'll see...

Next week; Episode 36 - "E. Henry Thripshaw's Disease"

Michael Palin - "What a Stroke of Luck!"

"I always wanted to be an explorer, but-- it seemed that I was doomed to be nothing more than a very silly person." - Michael Palin

Everyone loves Michael. Don't believe me? Source it. Terry Gilliam says "Mike was the one that everyone liked..." in David Morgan's Monty Python Speaks. John Cleese adds that he's"immensely likeable." Only Graham Chapman is silent on the subject. (What's that about?) Terry Jones wouldn't write with anyone else, and Cleese preferred performing with him over everyone else. Michael is Python's favorite son, a veritable Joseph in a coat of many colors, only without the jealous brothers. He's been married with children since before the Python days, which would indicate that even his wife likes him and prefers performing with him over everyone else.

Palin's fabled affability is an extraordinary stroke of luck for all concerned. Without him, there wouldn't have been a Monty Python, and if there were, it wouldn't have lasted a season. There was ample talent in the group, and with it came ample ego. Cleese and Jones, locked in a life or death struggle for the direction of the group, needed Palin to smooth the waters and keep both hooks baited. As the story goes, Cleese was offered a show. Chapman was his writing partner, but Chapman was notoriously unreliable. (Or as Palin said at Chapman's funeral, "I'm sure that Graham is with us now... or he will be in twenty minutes.") Cleese didn't want a one or two man show. He also wanted to work with Palin, having seen him throughout the years in their university revue days, and most recently in "The Complete and Utter History of Britain." "Well, you won't be doing any more of those," Cleese remarked. Kind of like walking up to the girl of your dreams and saying "Let me know when you're tired of dating sociopaths." Palin brought writing partner Jones, as well as Eric Idle and Gilliam, whom he had worked with on "Do Not Adjust Your Set". For the mathematically inclined, Palin's posse was 2/3s of the group.

In terms of performance, Cleese was in hog heaven. All of the major Cleese sketches, including Dead

Parrot, Argument Clinic and Cheese Shop, are performed almost solely by Cleese and Palin. What's more, writing for Palin seems to have brought out the best in Cleese, adding a soft silliness that had eluded him in the past. Palin's shopkeepers, affable yet extraordinarily resistant to the concept of customer service, found new depths of excuses, rationalizations and outright British bullshit, all expressed through Palin's implacable good nature. "He's probably pining for the Fjords," Palin says of the dead Norwegian Blue Parrot. Palin brought a kindness to Cleese's work that only made the frustration sharper, more cruel. It was a  match made for the ages.

Jones would claim the same for his collaboration with Palin, but there are few memorable Palin/Jones sketches. This is because Jones had his sights set on film, not comedy, and the compression of their teamwork was rarely evident. We come close with "Cycling Tour", a half-hour sketch/episode that followed Jones and Palin on a tour of Cold War Europe, but Jones spends most of the bit under one identity delusion or another, and is rarely able to interact with Palin's character. Still, Jones would usually (and wisely) cast Palin in his work, and never let anyone else see it until Palin signed off.

Forget about the collaborations for a moment, and consider the sheer volume of Palin's writing output. I was stunned, as I began this blog, to discover just how many of the quintessentially Python sketches were written by Palin/Jones. Spanish Inquisition, Lumberjack, Spam, yes, but also Johann Gambolputty and Ministry of Silly Walks! Cleese, who was forced to do it for the rest of his life, hated that sketch, and yet it always felt like a Cleese sketch to me. There are stories of the series winding down for the year, and the rest of the crew would be off on whatever Mediterranean tour, while Jones and Palin stuck around to finish things up. I would imagine this gave them vast opportunities for quickie material thrust in here and there.  But even without that, Palin had a work ethic that created mountains of material that dwarfed the output of others.

But... and I want to be very careful here... it was also a lucky thing for Michael Palin that Monty Python happened. It gave him a context, without which, he would have been little more than a middling writer and performer. And the reason I claim this is simple-- At the start, Palin had little to say. His sketches play like revue spoofs, brilliant yet somehow empty. Is he doing a sketch about a transvestite lumberjack, or a psychotic barber? Both, and consequently, neither. It's just a sketch. While we celebrate the hard right turn, we also have to jettison the prior material as meaningless. In fact, the meaning behind many of Palin's sketches is that there is no meaning. Reality is up for grabs, and with reality, character and motivation. Nothing is organic, it's all written, and we're all actors performing unprepared for an anonymous audience. But even that's not really true.

Palin grew as a writer after the series ended, and much of his material for the movies is clever and insightful, as well as hysterically funny. But imagine, during Palin's rebuke of King Arthur in Monty Python and the Holy Grail ("Listen, strange women lying in ponds..."), imagine that Palin stops in the middle, addresses the camera and does a royal weather report. Random? Yes. Satisfying? Hell no. We need to see the violence inherent in the system! We need to believe that this King is being brought up short by the smart peasant Dennis, and at the same time, that Dennis is an asshole that creates his own oppression. A goofy song in the middle would have torn the illusion to shreds. Fortunately, by then, Palin was too good a writer to let that happen.

Palin and Cleese, in later years.

It may be that his experience with Python deepened him as a writer and person. Once the show became the pop cultural touchstone we know and love, Palin had something to protect. He and Jones fought against distributors bringing Flying Circus to the States if it meant they could re-edit the programs. And if you haven't seen Palin lose his famous affability in the defense of "The Life of Brian", check it out here. I would argue that the experience of Monty Python's Flying Circus, and the fame that accrued from it, gave him a sense of himself as a person with something to say-- something that needed to be understood, if heard.

Finally, it was from the platform of Monty Python that Palin got his dream gig-- being paid to travel! Taking the job refused by Alan Whicker (oh, sweet irony of life!), Palin has had a hugely successful second career as a world traveler and professional experience junkie, spinning his exploits into numerous BBC television series and books and cashing in on the reality TV craze. Talk about luck!

It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, apparently.

 Next week; Episode 35 - The Nude Man".