The Most Holy Grail Part 3 - Bad Guys?

 "You only killed the Bride's father-- that's all... You put a sword right through his head!"
"Oh, dear - is he all right?" -- Palin and Cleese as Aggrieved Father and Mortified Launcelot

We're about halfway into the first real Monty Python movie, and so far, we've seen the lads struggling a bit to rise to the occasion. After years of chomping at the bit to make movies, they have a movie to make, and the effort required to escape the gravity of their sketch comedy roots is proving to be daunting. They started strong, with silly credits and a series of stand-alone bits that are deservedly classics of the genre. But these were essentially sketches, often with very static blocking, despite the magnificent production design that surrounded them. As the film pushes on, we see a more serious effort to realize the promise of the medium. We get a musical number, albeit more a sketch than a story beat. We also find some attempts to create deeper narratives, requiring, say, movement, multiple scenes, and sustained tension. Some have worked (the French Soldiers, Galahad's Quest), and some have not (the Knights of Ni-- sorry.) When the content lags a bit, they create forward momentum and engagement with call backs to prior scenes, animation, and breaking the fourth wall, as well as a story thread that takes us out of the Medieval era and into present time-- the death of the Historian.

But the lads have some gas in the tank, some junk in the trunk, some blood in the grail, if you will. They are figuring this thing out, and in this section we'll see them come to realize that silly and structure are not mutually exclusive, but can, in fact, really work well together.

Arthur has rounded up his knights-- Bedevere, Galahad, Lancelot and Robin. He has been given the Quest by God, and after a disaster at a French castle, he has decided to split everyone up and let them search individually. We've had Robin's quest, Galahad's Quest, and Arthur actually has a clue as to how to get to the grail, but he has to get through the shrub-luvin' Knights of Ni first. Now... it's Lancelot's turn.

Ooops.

We begin with the first real stand-alone Gilliamination, as a scribener puts the finishing touches on a title page announcing the Quest of Sir Launcelot. But... a loud sound outside shakes his world, sending erratic scribbles all over the carefully crafted page. This is a common Gilliam theme, showing us how high art meets the mundane-- the most spectacular works of art you've ever seen were late drafts, and Gilliam shows us the early drafts, warts and all. The scribener, frustrated and perturbed, goes outside to see what the racket is. Gilliam's teasing comes to the fore, as the scribener goes down multiple flights of stairs,ultimately tripping and falling (off screen) to the tile floor below.

When he gets outside, the sun and the clouds are doing jumping exercises, ("Heyyyyy-YUP!") landing hard on the barren green globe. It's not just his world that's shaking-- it's THE world. He tells them to clear off, and they abashedly obey, the clouds running off right, and the sun shuffling back beyond the horizon, creating an exquisite sunset. This doesn't appease the scribener. "Bloody weather," he mutters in the dark of night.This is yet another stand alone bit, but it's nice to see Gilliam do his thing for the movie in more than just a supportive role. We return to the next draft of the title page, finished by the scribener without incident; The Tale of Sir Launcelot.

That's more like it!

I have no idea who wrote this particular bit, but I get the sense that Cleese came up with the basic conceit of a knight going in to rescue a damsel in distress, but getting his messages mixed, and instead of saving the day, winds up slaughtering an entire wedding. Doesn't that just sound like something Basil Fawlty would do? However, it soon becomes clear that once the conceit was designed, everyone piled on this sketch.

With most of the quests, we start with the knight in question; Robin's quest started with Robin and his minstrels, Galahad started with Galahad struggling through the storm... you get the idea. But Lancelot breaks that pattern, and to excellent effect.

It begins with Jones and Palin, the set up. Jones, the effeminate and extremely pale son of a land-coveting Lord, is about to be married off to Princess Lucky, who famously owns "huuuuge tracts of land". He feels melancholy about the whole arrangement,and is about to look out of the high tower window and sing-- but the pragmatic and unsentimental Father, who spends a lot of the scene shouting and pacing, won't have it."You're not going to do a song while I'm here!" With that, he calls the Guards to keep him a prisoner in the tower.

More typical damsel in distress

See what they did? The Father's back story, Herbert/Alice's urge to sing, the orchestral swells which get cut off, all of this feels like Jones and Palin doing their amateur theatrics. But the big twist on the old story, having it be a Dude in distress instead of a Damsel, that feels like Cleese. He was very hung up on fairy tale tropes at the time, having just finished working on one with Connie Booth, so he would've been in the neighborhood anyway. Plus, it is this twist which will contribute to the misunderstanding that will pay off such huge dividends later on.

Now we get what feels like an Idle scene, with Idle and Chapman as the hapless and clueless Guards charged with keeping Jones in the tower. Palin has a simple set of instructions for the Guards, but they just don't get it. Idle doesn't get it, anyway. Chapman just hiccups off to the side. (Is this casting because he had a drinking problem?) Here's an illustrative exchange...

"Just keep him in here."
"Until you, or anyone else..."
"No. Not anyone else. Just me."

It's maddening, sustained frustration, it goes on forever, and it's hilarious, as Idle plays every misunderstanding that could possibly occur-- and some that couldn't. But finally, the Father leaves, stopping yet another song before he goes,urging Chapman's hiccuping guard to drink some water.

But the instructions, as specific and maddening as they were, said nothing about stopping the Prince from asking for help, and the clever Prince tries to nonchalantly shoot a message attached to an arrow out of the high tower window. He fails, of course, his oh-so-casual shooting being not only not nonchalant, but hopelessly, tragically chalant. But the Guards don't care-- they're following the instructions to the letter, and no farther. Palin said nothing about stopping Herbert from sending out an arrow for help.

Now that the set up has been accomplished, we cut to Lancelot training his page to leap over brooks. His page, named Concorde (Dennis Moore, anyone?) is played by Idle-- man that guy gets around! Just as he's about to ford a stream, ThhhhhhWACK! An arrow sticks out of his chest. "Message for you, sir" he says as he collapses. A great bit of underplaying by Idle, counter-balanced by Cleese's over the top Lancelot. "Brave, brave Concorde-- you shall not have died in vain!" And in a call back to "Bring out your dead!", Idle stirs. "I'm not quite dead, sir...Really, I feel fine,sir."

But Lancelot is not to be distracted by details. The arrow contained a note, that is gender unspecific, and sounds, indeed like it might have been written by a woman. Eager this call to action, Cleese insists that Concorde just lie there while he accomplishes this task in his own "particular... idiom". And off he goes, leaving Concorde to ask "I'll just stay here then, shall I, sir?" (The script has a different line that I actually prefer; "It just seems silly, me lying here.")

Now we cut to the castle, as the porcine bride gets all trussed up, and the wedding guests mingle and murmur. At the castle entrance, two Guards (always two, aren't there?) stand, bored. One chomps an apple. But something catches their eye-- off in the distance, across a green field, a figure races for them. Ominous drums beat.

Back with the Guards, bemused silence. They take another look.

Across the field, the figure races for them, ominous drums pounding-- but he's no closer than last time! The Guards look again--and he's still about a hundred yards away, no closer for all of his running. Another look-- no closer! Then suddenly, he's upon them, killing one Guard before the other can even protest.

Here he comes...

This is a nice bit, probably Jones having fun in the editing bay. It's certainly not in the script. It's truly cinematic and silly at the same time, inspired in a way that "Stop that singing!" and Cleveland's violation of the fourth wall isn't. He manages to build the tension in a goofy way that isn't essentially a spoof on the way that other movies build tension. And it's slow, exquisitely slow, as a prelude to the rapid fire slaughter that now follows.

Cleese is now on the scene. With a demented,toothy smile, he swings, stabs, disarms, beheads and eviscerates the wedding party, fighting his way into the castle courtyard and pushing up the stairs. The lads don't sugarcoat it-- there's blood, painful groans, weeping and death rattles beneath Cleese's triumphant "Hah!"s and "Ho-ho!"s-- but that somehow makes it all the funnier.

We see stunts, blood,and dead bodies collapsing to the ground. None of his combatants are armed or equal to his ferocity. he takes out the dancers as the minstrels play. Then he takes out the minstrels. he chops and bludgeons his way into the bridal chamber, where Princess Lucky and her handmaidens giggle and fuss, but the party is over. Lancelot stabs, slices, hews, kicks the bride in the chest, and rushes up anlother flight of stairs, taking a moment to hack at a small vase of flowers on the wall.

Oooops.

Cleese finally makes it up the tower stairs, his sword caked with blood, and arrives in Prince Herbert's room, killing the befuddled Guards. (Chapman's last words-- "Hic".) He kneels quickly before Jones-- "Oh, fair one, behold your humble servant Sir Launcelot..." and then he gets a look at him. "I'm terribly sorry." Jones practically swoons; "You got my note!" "Well, I got a note..." Cleese replies, completely at a loss. Jones is so thrilled, he bursts into song--

But Palin cuts it off, screaming "Stop it!" to the off screen orchestra. And in a quick sketch insertion, a furious Palin calls the mortified Cleese on the tapestry for killing all of his wedding guests. Cleese can only apologize, "Well, I really didn't mean to." It's a classic and o-so-British bit, a school boy being yelled at by the headmaster, only for mass murder. Meanwhile, in the background, Prince Alice/Herbert has tied bed linens together to escape from the tall tower, and urges Lancelot to join in his escape.

That thing in the window is the Prince falling to his death.

But once Lancelot mentions Camelot, all is forgiven. "Camelot?... Very nice castle, Camelot. Very good pig country." They are fast friends now, and Palin offers Lancelot a drink downstairs. As they head off, with Cleese saying "That's awfully nice of you..." Palin quickly cuts the bed linen rope, sending Jones falling down the extremely tall tower... for reasons that will soon be apparent.

Of course, "downstairs" means back into the carnage. In the bridal chamber, moans and cries fill the air as keening mourners crouch over the dead and the bridesmaids see to the bride, spitting blood all over her gown. At the sight of Lancelot, things get... awkward. "There he is!" they shout, and they rush the stairs. "Oh, bloody hell..." mutters Palin-- he knows where this is going. Cleese goes all demented again, and kills another bunch of people, before Palin calms him back down. "Sorry," Cleese sighs, "See, I just get carried away... Sorry, everyone."

"Let's not bicker and argue
over who killed who."

As the guests cry for justice-- "He killed my Auntie!"-- Palin calms everyone down. "This is supposed to be a happy occasion. Let's not bicker and argue over who killed who." He reminds them that they're here for a wedding. Since the Bride's father is dead-- there's a reprise of "Bring out your Dead" again, when the Bride's father, (he of the sword through the head) manages, Rasputin-like, to recover. Inconvenienced, Palin continues his narrative as he surreptitiously has the Bride's father killed-- Palin adopts the Bride "in a very real, and legally binding sense." And with the Prince having fallen to his death (see, he had a plan all along,) Palin suggests that Lancelot step into the Groom's shoes, much to Lancelot's surprise.

Check out Idle (to the Prince's left)
with the Shakespeare bow.

But, in the twist on the twist, Lancelot is saved, by the Prince, who didn't die, but was (apparently) caught by a healed Concorde. Palin asked how he could have survived such a fall. "Well... I'll tell you," and the music starts. Agonized, Palin tries to stop the song, but you can't stop the beat! All the bloodied guests sing "He's going to tell..." Jones gets his song at last. Cleese, meanwhile, instead of just walking out with Concorde, decides to try a more dramatic exit, swinging on a rope. But he doesn't quite make it, and winds up dangling over the musical number. "Could somebody give me a push?"

Wedding Pre-Launcelot

Best... Quest... Ever! Once again, Cleese brings the hostility and the bloodshed, but in a cleverly constructed twist on the traditional "damsel in distress" trope. We get great character bits from Palin and Jones, and a couple of nice farcical turns from Idle. Gilliam and Jones create the backdrop of medieval mundanity against which this homicidal lunacy plays. A narrative with multiple characters playing across multiple scenes and locations give us a truly cinematic sense. The lads hit all the keys in this one, and it brings a spark of energy to a film that was starting to sag under its own episodic weight.To all surviving members of the Circus-- thank you for this sublime and inspired bit!

Wedding Post-Launcelot

Next?

We're back to King Arthur, prancing along, and back to cats getting beaten like rugs. Arthur and Bedevere arrive in a small town and try to coerce an old lady to give them a shrubbery by saying "Ni" to her. While the bit is not particularly good, Chapman is brilliant in a very meta way. He seems embarrassed, like a performer delivering groaner lines. Once they get the old lady on the ropes (after some much needed coaching-- Jones has difficulty remembering the magic syllable,) they find themselves surrounded by townsfolk-- one of them, Idle, a shrubber. I mean, what are the odds?

Problem easily solved, Arthur and Bedevere return to the freakishly tall Knight of Ni and his minions, with the shrubbery laid out with a little picket fence. Only now, the Knights have a new word--a multi syllable word that the script spells out as "Neeeow... wum... ping!" but it's pronounced something more like "Eki-eki-eki-eki-ptang!Zoo-boing! Zeboweeeshum..." New word, new demands. Passing through the forest will now cost them another shrubbery ("only slightly higher, so we get a two level effect, with a little path running down the middle...") and they have to cut down a tree with a herring.

Arthur has had enough of this silliness. He refuses, insisting "It can't be done!" And in saying so, he stumbles on the nemesis of "Ni", the word that "Ni" Knights can't hear, say, or abide. (The word is "it".) Every time Arthur says the word "it", the knights howl in agony. Then, Sir Robin shows up, with his minstrels still singing of his cowardice. As Arthur and Robin catch up, Robin drops a lot of "I" bombs, each one further destroying the Knights of Ni. They ride off, leaving the howling Knights behind.

A quick dialogue-less shot of the Historian's murder, as cops cover the corpse, and the Historian's Wife points the Detective in the direction of the armored assassin.

Foreshadowing...

Back to the proper story-- A Gilliamination gives us an animated link in true Gothic art fashion, with Palin's voice over essentially telling us that the band gets back together. We catch a quick glimpse of the Black Beast of Arrrrgh as the animated crew passes behind it, and we see a lot of gags."In the frozen lands of Nador, they were forced to eat Robin's minstrels-- and there was much rejoicing." A shepherd on a grassy knoll takes us through the passing of a bunch of seasons, and we fade back into "reality".

The Knights, all reunited, walk through a craggy mountain range. Suddenly, in a reprise of the "Exploding Version of the Blue Danube" huge fireballs erupt around them. The Knights realize that the source of the pyrotechnics is a hooded, antlered figure on a far peak. A gesture of his hand, and another explosion, and another, and another. Until the figure gestures towards himself-- and he explodes.

If the bit had ended there, it would have been pretty funny, but another explosion erupts right in front of the Knights, and Cleese steps out. He is the hooded, antlered figure-- he is the Enchanter they have been looking for since scene 24, and his name is... Tim? In a thick and overacted brogue, Tim and the Knights exchange information, their conversation punctuated by occasional displays of pyrotechnics as unmotivated as they are impressive.

Intimidated, Arthur can barely ask for help from the Enchanter, but Tim promises to take them to a special cave where directions to the grail can be found. "But," he warns them, spitting profusely with true theatrical muscle, "the cave is guarded by a monster so foul and cruel that no man has fought with it and lived! Death awaits you all, with big nasty teeth!"

"What an eccentric performance," Arthur whispers to Galahad.

We'll leave it there for now, as we have officially arrived to our third act. The Knights have gone on their separate quests, have reunited, and are now within striking distance of their goal, but the stakes have risen-- just as they would in a regular movie.

Tune in next time to see what the lads have in store for their big finish!

Next Week; The Climax!