Episode 43 - Hamlet

"Okay-- you got her on the bed, you got her legs up against the mantelpiece..." - Everyone but Terry Jones as a Fake Psychologist

We're halfway through the Cleese-less season, and how are the lads doing? Mostly, they're working hard. Despite the assertions that Gilliam would have more performing to do to replace Cleese, we haven't seen all that much of him. The other four are ripping through more costume changes than a Peter Allen concert, (Thanks, Rich Bogle!) and bringing in outsiders with mixed results. As for the content itself, the results are also mixed. True, there has been a greater tendency towards long form, rambling shaggy dog episodes, Jones' stock in trade, but there have also been flashes of brilliance, as seen in the Michael Ellis episode. But to date, there are no takeaway sketches that stand out as being particularly funny. Instead, the lads seem to explore humor as a fugue state, using quick cuts and random twists to put the audience into an altered state of consciousness, as opposed to, you know, making them laugh.

We get more of that with Hamlet, a rarely quoted and little remembered offering. In fact, most of the laughs seem to derive from a running gag that sounds like it was written by Cleese-- it's that harsh and judgmental. And indeed, Cleese does receive credit for "blank verse" at the end of the show. Let's check it out. Grab your box set with both hands, tease out the disc, all shiny and beckoning, and ram it into the player. And if you don't have a box to grab, buy one here! (Even if you're the type that never pays for it.)

Hamlet as Action Figure

We open with a symphonic fanfare backing up white titles on black background announcing "Hamlet", "by William Shakespeare". At what point can we stop giving Shakespeare credit for Hamlet? We all know he wrote it, and it's not like his agent needed to negotiate the credit. I could understand if they thought that the name Shakespeare would sell tickets-- maybe it does on the BBC-- but in that case, just put it on the promotional material. There's something a bit pompous about pointing out to an audience tuning into see Hamlet that it was written by William Shakespeare. But pompous is clearly what we're going for here, as the symphonic fanfare shifts to a minor key, making us uneasy. This is, after all, a tragedy. Finally, a title announces "Act One".

Cut to film of a Buick-ish car squealing down the quiet streets of England. Quick cuts create an action film vibe, and the stately symphony has been replaced with brass-y horns. This is an action film, not a tragedy at all! The car squeals to a stop by the curb, and who should get out but-- Hamlet! Played by Jones, in leotard, doublet and princely crown, he trots awkwardly to a door and rings the bell, which gains him admittance. It's not an action film either. What the hell is it?

Where'd he get the skull?

It's a psychiatrist session! Jones' Hamlet lays on the couch, complaining in his patented high pitched upper class whine that everyone expects him to do the famous soliloquy "To be or not to be".  Chapman, the sober (heh) authoritative psychiatrist, sits at his side, listening soulfully. But  when Jones says "to be or not to be" by way of example, Chapman picks up the cue and dramatically recites the next few lines. Jones cuts him off with another example, inadvertently cuing Chapman to do the "Oh that this too, too solid flesh would melt" soliloquy. Jones cuts in again, bemoaning his blues-- it's actually very like Hamlet-- when Chapman interrupts him. "Do the Yorick bit", Chapman pleads, kneeling by the couch. And where'd he get the skull? A former patient? ("Best thing for him, really. His therapy was going nowhere.") Jones refuses, actually sounding less like Hamlet and more like Jones. "I'm sick of it! I want to do something else. I want to make something of my life."

"No, I don't know that bit," Chapman mutters. It's a cute little joke, not up there with their best, but solid enough. But having mined that vein, the sketch moves on. Hamlet admits that he wants to be a private dick, and when Chapman asks why, one of the many reasons Jones gives is sex. "Ah, it's the sex, is it?" Chapman nods knowingly. The psychiatrist has found his entree. And even though Jones tries to remind Chapman that there were other motivations, Chapman focuses exclusively on the sex. "What's the sex problem?" Jones insists he doesn't have one, so Chapman, in full perv mode elicits. "Okay, you got the irl on the bed, she's all ready for it, she's a real stunner, she's got great big tits, she's really stacked, and you got her legs up against the mantelpiece..." Chapman is in top form as he is carried away by Jones' therapy.

But Idle steps in, wearing a homberg hat and a goatee, and chases Chapman out. Admitting very haltingly that Chapman was not a real psychiatrist, Idle takes over the therapy. "So you got the girl on the bed, you've been having a bit of a feel up through the evening, you've got your tongue down her throat, 'you got both her legs up on the mantelpiece..." Palin rushes in to stop the stop the madness, wearing a coat and carrying a valise. He chases Idle out. You get where this is going. Palin apologizes for the fake psychiatrists, and exhaustively presents his "real psychiatrist" credentials (including a letter from his mother asking "How's the psychiatry going?" Palin asserts "I think you realize the one person you can't fool is your mother." Funny!) Having established that he's bona fide, he then falls in line with the sexual theme. "You got the girl on the bed, she's had a few drinks, you have her sweater up, she's got both legs up against the mantel piece..." A buzz cuts him off, and Cleveland, over the intercom, announces "There's a proper psychiatrist to see you, Doctor." Palin changes his costume (cue Peter Allen) and leaves as a cop, walking out with a Groucho Marx hunched loped. Gilliam "Groucho"s in-- "You got the girl on the bed--" and is dragged out. Idle returns, and congratulates Jones on passing the "disorientation test." Now, with the defenses down, thy can begin the session. "So... you got the girl on the bed, both legs up against the mantelpiece..." He's chased out. Will this ever end?

The Machine is Self Aware-- and self abusing!

Jones addresses us as Bruce Genuine , Chairman of the Psychiatric Association. Well, I'm convinced! Jones promises that the association is cracking down on fake psychiatrists, using computers to develop an initial diagnosis. Back in the therapy office, a large computer counsels Hamlet. "You've had your tongue down her throat, and she's got her legs up on the mantelpiece..." in a "Robbie the Robot voice. Nurse Cleveland shoos the computer, and it walks out dejectedly, two sad pairs of shoes erupting from the bottom of the pantomime computer. Cleveland later takes it out to the field, attaches a propeller to it, sends it up into the air and shoots it with a bazooka.

Carol Cleveland and her Bazooka-- honestly!

 (I think this is the only time the name "Carol Cleveland" will appear with the word "bazooka" in a correct and literal context.) Yet another bit of destructive production value from the Pythons. But, keeping score-- so far this season, Cleveland has wielded a flame thrower and a bazooka. She should run for President-- she'd totally win.

Credits for a television show follow-- they seem too specific and unfunny to be Python creations, so I will assume (and later confirm) that they are actual credits (very long credits-- 20 seconds!) to another BBC show called "Nationwide", which seems to be some sort of new program. Idle appears as the show's anchor, announcing that Nationwide covers "wet things." (Idle seems to be doing a specific imitation of an at the time famous but now forgotten newsman, as opposed to a generic TV personality. If their jokes aren't topical, their impersonations are terribly so.) Though WW3 has broken out, Nationwide has instead decided to investigate the theory that sitting in a chair will rest your legs-- "Is it possible?... We sent our reporter John Dull to find out." A long pause-- even Idle gets nervous, before the final abrupt--

Check out the bystanders!

Cut to film, and one of the strangest and longest-winded sketches that Python has done. On a Westminster bridge sidewalk, with Big Ben in the background, Chapman sits in a chair. Yes, apparently sitting will rest your legs. As he reports on this, a bobbie, Palin, approaches. Palin announces that the chair Chapman sits in has been stolen, from a woman (Jones) standing across the street with one remaining chair. When Chapman insists that "it's just a prop," Palin starts talking about the authentic design of his police helmet. As he warms to the subject, he starts stealing things-- the remaining chair from the woman across the street, (who is then brutalized by another policeman,), a pad and pen and lunch from passing pedestrians, beer from a closed liquor store-- all to make himself and Chapman more comfortable. The bystanders here are hilarious-- one old couple just stares and stares before crossing the street with Palin as he steals the chair, and some young girl stands behind them for quite a bit, just watching. This would be really funny if it were faster and, perhaps, not on location, which gives everything a strange murky feel. As it is, it doesn't quite work. But I do enjoy the 60s anti-cop sensibility, being one of those who believes we must always be a bit suspicious of cops-- because they can legally shoot us.

We pan away to across the bridge, and Jones and Cleveland are making out on the other side of the road. I'm not sure, but I think Jones was the only one who had the honor of totally smooching Cleveland, and I'm not sure he deserved it-- but that's where writer/performers always win out. They kiss, rolling around on that cold London concrete, oblivious to the bystanders around them. Cleveland wears a short shirt-- perhaps (I can't believe I'm saying this!) too short?-- I see London, and I definitely see France. But moments lacking in modesty are the lifeblood of geeks like me. Thank you, Ms. Cleveland, and I still, and will always, respect you!

In between clinches, Cleveland asks Jones if he loves her. Of course he does. But she soon finds the limits of his love,m as she announces that her father is coming to live with them-- in their bedroom-- in their bed. (This is all revealed in a very tight close-up that feels wrong somehow. One or the other of them is out of frame, and the lighting is poor, so they seem very grey and uncomfortable.) When Jones refuses this honor, Cleveland whines "I thought you loved me!... He wouldn't look."

Apparently, Jones relents. In the bedroom (in studio now) Jones, naked in bed, sits stiffly between naked Cleveland and a stentorian pajama clad Chapman, Cleveland's Dad, all three beneath a fur blanket. "Just carry on," Chapman says as he reads, "Take no notice of me." For some reason, this does nothing to relieve the tension. Mercifully, they all decide it's lights out.

Then, under blackness, the sound of rhythmic rubbing-- then sawing-- then hammering-- then clanging-- "Father, what are you doing?" Cleveland cries out. "I'm making a boat," Chapman replies. Dad apparently has a hobby of building boats in the dark. But when the lights come on, the results are not impressive-- it looks like a pile of wood. "Well, I haven't put the sails on yet," Chapman says, defensively. It's okay-- he'll fix it later in the dark room. (Nice.) Lights out again, the sound of a penny rolling into a coin slot-- and cue the credits.

The sound of mayhem comes up as the credits finish, and we cut to pajama-clad Gilliam banging on the wall-- "Shut up!"-- trying to settle the noisy neighbors, before returning his "Burlington Wall Banger" which basically looks like a giant, golden turkey baster, back on its perch on the wall. Gilliam returns to bed, which is crowded with, amongst others, Winston Churchill and a cyclist. They're all watching Hamlet on television, as are we. There's a weird moment where we pan in on the TV, even as the TV pans in on Jones/Hamlet and Connie Booth, playing Ophelia-- a vertiginous double pan. Finally, we're in the performance proper. Jones finishes off a little speech-- and Booth says "Okay, you got her on the bed, her legs are up against the mantelpiece..." Cleveland herds her out.

What the hell is that thing?!

Now it's Ophelia's turn to get a propeller attached to her head and then get shot out of the sky. But as she does, (we're in Gilliam's world now,) two tiny folks jump out an parachute to safety-- safety being a castle with a giant, half-anatomized creature standing guard, with slumped shoulders, low dangling arms, and weird, bifurcated hooves-- very strange. But it's human enough to snore. The parachutists land, and the parachutes land on top of them like little domes. The domes look like a filled bikini top sticking out of the land. The parachutists surveil the sleeping monster by peeking through the top of the domes, like two little nipples. Their goal-- to sneak to the castle walls without waking the monster. But the plan goes to hell when one of the parachutists farts. The monster attacks them, and it looks to be all over-- but out of the castle emerges an old retro boxer circa 1930s, reminiscent of Joe Louis. He slides out of the castle and, without moving, knocks the monster out of frame. It's a little confusing-- wasn't the monster protecting the gates? Apparently, he had the town under siege, and these flatulent sky droppers gave the town the incentive they needed to send out their Killer. Because that's his name-- the Killer. We know because a poster slides up, and suddenly, he's part of the poster (neat trick there) advertising a boxing match between himself and the Champ.

Head reattached-- he'll be fine!

This is all a link to the next sketch. We're in the locker room of a boxing venue. Palin blusters in as a fighter manager, with dry look grey hair, a big ass cigar and a black tailored suit. Behind him come the trainers, with the boxer on a stretcher. "You were great champ, you were great!... where's his head?" One of the trainers produces a paper bag. Palin screams into it "You were great!" Far from concerned with the lopped off head, the trainer points out a cut over his eye. "Maybe it was a mistake wearing spectacles." Idle, a trainer, relives the fight with Palin. Idle seems to be playing with transparently fake enthusiasm, as if the sketch itself were some sort of joke. They exchange a series of jokes, the big laugher being "Did you see his left arm?-- Well, we'll look around for it later." Gilliam comes in as a ring employee with his own paper sack. "Is this your boy's head?" Palin takes the head and, just because, Idle knees Gilliam in the groin. Now that's smart comedy! The legs of the fighter twitch occasionally as they prepare him to meet the press. The jokes continue, without much of a build-- the fight lasted less than a minute, Champ lost his head last week as well, and finally, though the Champ is technically dead, they have a rematch next week, so no burial.

We cut to a hospital room, where the doctors and nurses are ignoring, or violently repressing, the patients as they listen to the rematch. We hear, through a scarcely audible radio broadcast, the Killer predictably kill the Champ, but lose on a technicality. The belt goes to the new heavyweight corpse! All in all, a nice bit, rife with jokes and energy, but the audience doesn't seem to laugh much, and neither do we. The energy and focus diminishes with the second part, which plays like a too-long and ham-handed commentary on societal acceptance of violence. I guess jokes aren't everything, and the situation/story doesn't really build-- it's all after the fact. Still, nice bit of goofiness, and a good reminder that these men can write jokes if they want to-- they just don't always want to.

A more conceptual link follows-- the radio cuts to a radio show, and as voices in the show (Chapman and Idle? Chapman and Jones? Chapman and (dare I say it) Cleese? Chapman and someone, as the pepperpots) converse, we cut to different radios, as if the radios were conversing. (The conversation is about the random purchase of a piston engine-- "It was a bargain." This gets referenced later.) Finally, we cut to Idle, as a pepperpot, on a park bench, listening to the show. Frustrated with the poor quality, she tosses the radio over her shoulder-- thereby ending the show for all the people listening.
 While this isn't funny per se, it's a nice bit of random stream of consciousness, taking us to a goofy yet somehow logical conclusion. Finally, we cut back to Idle, who is joined by pepperpot Palin, with a piston engine on a dolly, and they have the same conversation as the women in the radio show. (Told you they'd reference it later.)

Here, birdy, have a nice little steak... 

We pan to another pepperpot, Jones, who feeds the birds-- by angrily flinging cans of beans and huge steaks at them. Once in a while, we cut away to the birds, dead and surrounded by hams and cans, just in case you didn't get what was happening. Chapman joins her, and they have the same, though slightly elongated, exchange about the piston engine. ("How do you cook it?" "You don't cook it!" "You can't eat that raw.") Then, as if possessed by Shakespearean spirits, they start quoting from Hamlet, baffled themselves by what's coming out of their mouths as they wander off, the piston engine forgotten.

A title tells us this is Act 2, a room in Polonius' house, and Palin comes on as a sports announcer-- no doubt another reference to an actual commentator circa '74-- announcing an upcoming game in Epsom. Color commentary follows in the form of people from Epsom talking about how nice it is to live in Epsom, before we finally get to Idle, who is out covering the Queen Victoria Handicap. After interviewing the diminutive jockies,  who have a nice and fully accented verbal sparring match, all with their mouths just below frame (because they're so short-- get it?) we get to the nice bit--

Once the race starts, we see that all the racers are Queen Victoria, complete in gown and headdress. "It's Queen Victoria, followed by Queen Victoria, Queen Victoria, and Queen Victoria... Queen Victoria making a run on the outside..." This is the gem of the whole Epsom bit, but once you see them pop out of the gate, the joke is pretty much finished. You get a little giggle when they jump the first hedge, but that's about it.

We cut back to commentator Palin, who is now partially dressed as Queen Victoria with a blue sash, and he and two other commentators (one we saw a few weeks ago, played by Idle, and the other a new actor, all in various

 stages of Victoriana) discuss the harsh penalties in a soccer game-- penalties for breaking wind or pursing lips. Then, Hamlet appears as one of the guests, and Palin says "You got the girl on the bed..." and Nurse Cleveland chases him out.

We know his punishment by now. In a Gilliamination, a Reginald Maudling type in a Queen Victoria costume with a propeller attached to his head hovers up to a bluff, and promptly explodes. A kid on the bluff with a bunch of purple balloons, skittish of the gunfire, says "I'm gettin' out of here", and lets the balloons float him up into the air. He floats over the city, a look o unmitigated delight on his face, when hawks with cannon heads start to soar by, shooting at his balloons.

They miss, but the large hand doesn't. It plucks the balloons out of the air, and feeds them to a little bearded baby. The hand belongs to a mostly naked lady, That's the end of that bit. Not the most inventive Gilliam contribution, but visually striking nonetheless-- he's doing interesting things with motion, camera angles and zoom in/outs. It's not inspired, but it's cinematic.

A title announce Act 5, "A Ham in the Castle". A cluster of Queen Victoria lookalikes carry dead Hamlet off the stage, and then it's the curtain call (the second time in four episodes they've ended with a curtain call.) Jones/Hamlet and Conni Both/Ophelia join the Victorian mob as the credits roll.

The credits are funny, all of them relating to Hamlet and "bachelors", bachelors being a euphemism for gay. Chapman is "a bachelor friend of Hamlet's", while Gilliam is "quite a butch friend of Hamlet's, but still a bachelor". You get the idea.

A nice mirror to the "It's" Man follows the credits. A sudden explosion in a field sends up a cloud of dirt. Palin walks through it, in tattered clothes, a younger, fresher, more hopeful version of Mr. "It's". The camera zooms in on him-- what wisdom does this survivor have to impart? "And then..." he says. And that's the end.

Sadly, not my favorite show. The lads seem to be losing their more cohesive qualities, and the ideas are formed, acted on and tossed aside with wild abandon. No time is taken to develop the ideas or even consider why they're funny. As a result, we get a whiff of potential from almost every bit, and then we're on to the next. The flow is as random and free as ever, but the laughs are just not there. Hamlet, the thru-line of the whole show, is never exploited for laughs-- there's no "Hamlet" sketch as he tries being a private dick, for instance-- Macbeth would have made a better one.  So why use him? The sketches themselves are forgettable, the Gilliam contributions seem exhausted (if visually stunning) and the one master stroke, the Victoria handicap, seemed to flummox them-- they could do little but just linger on it. The sudden reliance of dick punches and fart jokes seems telling-- the lads are tired, and the wear is starting to show.

Still-- funnier than most episodes of Saturday Night Live. And much, much funnier than the original Hamlet.

Next week; Mr. Neutron!

See? Try to feed the birds, and they just die on you!

The Titles - Season 4

"It was very good for us to have an American in the group." - Michael Palin, about Terry Gilliam.

We've discussed his anger. (Jones tells us in "Monty Python Speaks" that Gilliam was asked-- told-- by the BBC to use a proper animator and not do his own work. Terry told the BBC to fuck off, thereby earning for himself the right to do all the backbreaking time sucking labor by himself.) We've discussed his farcical sensibilities. And now, for the last time, we get to examine the last of the credit sequences he ever did for Monty Python's Flying Circus. (He went on to do the credit sequences for "Life of Brian" and "The Meaning of Life".)

I'm sure that we all have our favorite Python members, just as I'm sure you've spotted my own preference for Cleese in these pages. But it must be remembered that all of the others were writer/performers. Gilliam was the only visual artist. And in the late sixties and early seventies, he

 had an airbrushed yet warped vision that probably did more to market Monty Python than any other single thing. We may enjoy other sketch comedy shows, such as "The Two Ronnies" or "A Bit of Fry and Laurie", even as much as the Pythons written material. But Gilliam's animations give us an instant and deep impression of the inspired lunacy-- the properly posed photos doing the strangest things, the insane visual gags, and of course, the iconic foot. These acid-trip creations stamped the rather conservative comedians as part of the counterculture, and gave them rock star status. Gilliam gave the lads tickets to the Show. Although Cleese refers to Gilliam as something of an outsider to the group, it was brilliant of them to give him full group status and make him a shareholder, as opposed to just an employee. They not only got someone who gets them, but they got someone who was able to translate Python into visuals.

I'm sure that we all have our favorite Python members, just as I'm sure you've spotted my own preference for Cleese in these pages. But it must be remembered that all of the others were writer/performers. Gilliam was the only visual artist. And in the late sixties and early seventies, he had an airbrushed yet warped vision that probably did more to market Monty Python than any other single thing. We may enjoy other sketch comedy shows, such as "The Two Ronnies" or "A Bit of Fry and Laurie", even as much as the Pythons written material. But Gilliam's animations give us an instant and deep impression of the inspired lunacy-- the properly posed photos doing the strangest things, the insane visual gags, and of course, the iconic foot. These acid-trip creations stamped the rather conservative comedians as part of the counterculture, and gave them rock star status. Gilliam gave the lads tickets to the Show. Although Cleese refers to Gilliam as something of an outsider to the group, it was brilliant of them to give him full group status and make him a shareholder, as opposed to just an employee. They not only got someone who gets them, but they got someone who was able to translate Python into visuals.

The story goes that Gilliam’s first solo feature, Jabberwocky” following Monty Python and the Holy Grail so closely, was marketed as Monty Python’s Jabberwocky and Jabberwocky and the Holy Grail. This callous and untrue association of his work with Monty Python infuriated Gilliam, and probably set his difficulties with studio marketing in stone. But with that exception, the partnership with Monty Python was also good for Gilliam, who was able to transition from magazines, to animated television, to filmed television, to films. And no matter how far away he flew from the Flying Circus, the visual style that he forged in these last few years stayed with him for the rest of his career.

In later life, Gilliam renounced his American citizenship. This irrevocable move was a reaction to the administration at the time,(Dubya), and one wonders how comfortable he is with that decision in the face of Brexit and all that says about his new home. But it was Monty Python that gave him identity, purpose and justifiable acclaim. In burning his US passport, Gilliam only made his homecoming official. 

The Penny Drops...

Let's take a look at the last whole bunch a credits. If you haven't yet, buy the friggin' box set (although if you haven't yet, why would you now, you freeloading pervert?)

We begin with one of Gilliams' famous alien landscapes. A twisted branch pokes out of the ground, with a strange, brown honeycombed growth perched on top of it. Maybe it's just a honeycomb, all dry and brittle. To the growth's left, perched in mid air, is a black box, like a television, only without knobs. Beneath the box, a garish one pence slot. The brown horizon behind is flat and featureless, with a photograph of a billowy bunch of clouds acting as the sky. There is nothing going on here-- the branch, the flower and the TV are the only show in town. It's like television before cable.

Then, as if beckoned by the slot, a pence rolls across the foreground and slides into the awaiting, eager, one might say whore-ish slot. We hear it drop down, and the show officially begins with an interesting conceit that is not exclusively visual. The sound of the martial theme song can be heard, but with scratches and pops, as though we were listening to it on a record player with terribly small, lousy speakers. An image starts to appear on the screen of the black box, one square at a time, in time with the song, until, by the end of the first stanza, the picture is revealed as two naked ladies dancing. This is all done in a static shot-- really, once the penny rolls across, Gilliam just adds a new square to the black box. He must have needed coffee that week, or been too busy with his performance duties. But once the nakedness is revealed the censoring, judgy foot comes down on the screen, not so much squashing as obscuring the two ladies-- and ladies they are!

When the foot lands, the record illusion disappears, and the theme song is given full voice for the rest of the set. We begin with an intimate close-up of a familiar photographed face-- the glasses wearing man with the Hitler mustache, seen in Season 1 titles as his mind blows with strange naked women, or as the potty mouth in "The Royal Philharmonic Goes to the Bathroom". He looks at us so soulfully with a gentle unease. The reason for his unease soon becomes apparent, as a head floats up from his uncertain smile. The head, a pretty Renaissance-looking etching with rosebud lip, braided hair and boredom oozing from her every closed pore, plants on Hitler-man's nose for a bit, and he rolls his eyes with exhausted irritation.

Exit Exhalation

 The eyes look familiar-- like that man with the bandages all over his head. But the man doesn't have long to stay mad, as Head Lady exits stage right. I wish everything I belched up left as promptly and politely.

But apparently, this strange expectoration is more precious than Hitler-man imagined. As Heady crosses frame from right to left, emerging out of a sewage tube with an Alpine landscape in the background, a long orange-jacketed arm stretches after her--

Deee-Nied!. An old-style draft drawing of an old locomotive intercepts Heady and whisks her away in the opposite direction of another flat, featureless landscape.

Heady is apparently prized goods, because hot
 on the heels of the train is a Borgia/bloodhound, walking along the ground on his nose after them, with a decadent yet pious look on his face. Behind him follows two hairless legs, with garters, socks and brown shoes. Do they belong to the Borgian bloodhound? Is we walking doubled over, his nose to the ground? Or is this a different pursuer?

Could this be the same person?

We'll never know, because as the legs disappear off to the left, Heady appears over the horizon. She has managed to evade her pursuers, no matter how many of them there are. We zoom in tight on her, our heroine, as if rushing up to ask "How'd you do it? How'd you get away from all those guys?" Even the barren landscape falls away. She is our Hero, our All, our Everything. She is Ripley, Marilyn, Eleanor-- Hilary?

But for all our adulation... she couldn't care less. Our praise and intense focus are a matter of supreme indifference to her. Without even bothering to lift her bored eyebrows or curl those rosebud lips in a smile of contempt, she just moves off to the right again. Later for us, as she floats, floats on.

Ah, but revenge is sweet. She heads off (see what I did there?) right into a spiral of pipes, taking her right into the face, and presumably the mouth, of a faceless, pudgy angel, naked but for socks and brown shoes. The pipe spiral tube pulls away from the angel, revealing a flat yellow plane. Apparently, Heady flew right into the yellow plane and disappeared, because she's gone. Is the yellow plane a mouth? A wormhole into heaven?

Perhaps. For as the pudgy angel unfolds his wings, only the top half of the body ascends, with an angel's robes and feet sticking down from ascending half-- the better half. Left in permanent squat is a green gut infested groin with legs and brown shoes. As always, our minds dwell in heaven, our nethers in the netherworld. Yellow balloon letters snake out in a V shape, oozy and dripping, announcing this as Monty Python-- not Monty Python's Flying Circus, we're all friends here, no need to be so formal-- before the foot of judgment comes down and flattens the disgusting leftovers of duality.

As with Season 2, Gilliam gives us a full story in this credit sequence, as Heady and the Bird Man both wander through strange and dangerous worlds. But this time, there is the hope of redemption, as she is taken away to heaven before the crushing sole intervenes. Is Gilliam getting soft in his old age? (He was, what, 27 when he did this?) Or is he anticipating a glorious film career as a reward for his diligence, hard work, courage and talent?

Whatever you do, don't tell him about Brazil. That debacle is still ten years in his future.

Next week; Hamlet

This is the End