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