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!