Episode 45 - Party Political Broadcast

“And to all of you, not forgetting those of you who may be halfway in between, without whom of course and not forgetting who made it all possible, when and will be back until then and so it’s good night from me and here’s wishing you a safe journey home and thank you for watching the show. Don’t forget it was all great fun.” - Michael Palin as the Emcee

(Sniff) It's okay. I can do this... The last episode?! Are you serious?!... it's okay. Just, do the thing. Will one of you buy a friggin' box set?! Can't you see the pain I'm in?!... it's okay. You can watch them again. At least you have the box set. Let's just rip it off the wound, and just... just...

We start right off with a blue screen, yellow letters announcing a “Party Political Broadcast on Behalf of the Liberal Party”. What follows is like no political ad I’ve ever seen. We meet the Garibaldis, a family of five in a cluttered little cluster of rooms. Idle, who plays Mama Garibaldi, does the ironing. Not clothes, of course, but surprisingly malleable teapots and creamers. At the nearby table, Palin, preppy and spotty in spectacles, sweater and short pants, reads the paper, The Daily Scun, while Dad Jones, tousled and unshaven, sits on a toilet eating “A No Weet” cereal and praying for a bowel movement. Jones waves a bit of the paper towards Gilliam, in a fat suit on the couch behind them, rapaciously devouring can after can of beans, with the beans spilling all over his chest, while Chapman, as a teen-ish woman, makes herself up at the table in a slutty two-tone leather skirt. She applies make-up liberally and poorly, more Emmet Kelly than supermodel.  There’s also a sheep dog near Gilliam, hoping for a scrap of beans.

That’s the set up. The sketch itself is essentially a slice of life for this terrible family as they listen to the soccer game, with a team made up almost entirely of people named Pratt. (A joke, most probably, but we have movie stars named Pratt these days.) Jones complains about the paucity of bowel movements in his life. Palin is apparently accident prone, breaking almost everything he touches. Chapman insists on staying out ‘til 3 a.m., even though she’s a member of Parliament, and denies that she was snogging with last night’s date, even though Jones overheard some lewd behavior. Idle fights off Ninjas from the Liberal Party at the front door. And Gilliam wants more BEEEEEEANS!

(The beans gag, it should be noted, is before Mel Brooks’ similar treatment of the legume in Blazing Saddles, although it is doubtful Brooks actually saw this episode before he shot the iconic film, so it must have just been in the zeitgeist.) The sketch has no build, no real narrative—it’s mostly a bunch of visual gags that play out over a steady roll of laughter from the audience. Idle ironing the radio, the prize inside Jones’ cereal is the Pope, Palin breaking things, a Tarzen-esque postman, and the disgusting cesspool that is Gilliam. The dialogue is random—Chapman’s sexual proclivities and Palin’s curiosity about Rhodesia.

But that’s okay—the family is only the start of the sketch, co-written by Neil Innes, which is a game show about the Most Awful Family in Britain, emceed by the spangly Palin. The Garibaldis, while pretty terrible, only rank at #3 on the Disgust-o-Meter, according to the judges. Idle, a judge, complains “I don’t think there was the sustained awfulness we really need.” Second place are the Fanshawe-Cholmleighs, a family of upper-class twits. Idle, Palin, Chapman and Jones all natter simultaneously, and yes, it’s pretty awful. It’s great to see the twits again, and at home this time, instead of on the field. But even they pale in comparison to the Joddrells, a family so disgusting, they can’t be shown on television.

Jones’ judge character, in a mink coat, reveals in upper class tones that “Mr. Joddrell, the old grandfather, when he licks the....” Palin has to interrupt to avoid the inevitable censorship, but she still manages to compliment his gobbing as accurate and consistent.  

We cut back to Idle and Gilliam, as ladies, and Jones, an old man, watching the show on television as Palin signs off. They’re a pretty awful family, too, but they can’t get past the Joddrell’s. Another spate of visual gags, including a hilarious puppet cat that has attempted a lunge through the wall and gotten stuck halfway, and Jones using a loaf of bread to wipe the cat feces off his feet. Chapman rings the doorbell of this awful family to try to sell them Icelandic honey, but soon confesses that there’s no such thing.

Chapman has a nice moment here as a woman with sideburns and beard, complaining about Iceland. “Listen, cowboy, I got a job to do. It’s a stupid pointless job, but at least it keeps me away from Iceland!” (Shades of Galaxy Quest, anyone?) They push Chapman out, closing the door on someone in a bowler, suit, yellow badge and rubber mask waving from the threshold (Who is he?) before the credits roll.

Over Western-style music and a black and white etching of an old West battle, cavalry vs. Indians, Palin’s V.O. reads the titles which set us up for a Western epic battle. But no, we cut to a doctor’s office. It’s kind of like a David Mamet movie—we expect the twist if you do it every time.

As with the prior episode and its Eisenhower shrine, we start with the same shrine with a different picture. We roll out from it, to find ourselves in Doctor Chapman’s office. He’s “treating” Gilliam’s “naught complect”, and the treatment is a bag to be worn on the head, a bell, and a sign that says “For Special Treatment”. He takes all of Gilliam’s money, throws it in a safe behind him (which “cha-chings” happily), and tells Gilliam to “Get out… Dirty little man.” It’s almost quaint to see how the lads see doctors, as opposed to the poor overworked cowering things that the insurance companies have neutered. Or maybe this was just wish fulfillment on Chapman’s part, since he actually was a doctor. “Oh, the money I could have made… and being drunk wouldn’t have been an issue at all!” Back to the sketch, Chapman calls for the next patient, and it’s Jones, blood spurting out over his nice blue suit. “What seems to be the trouble?” Chapman asks.  Jones was actually fine until the waiting room nurse stabbed him. But before Chapman can do anything about the wound, he needs the proper form filled out. While the spurting Jones tries to fill it in, Chapman practices his golf swing and his peasant shooting. Jones faints on the form, blood pooling on the carpet beneath him, and Chapman inspects how far he got. “Surely you knew number four!” Chapman remonstrates. “It’s from the Merchant of Venice! Even I knew that one!”

Oh, Nurse...

While Jones blots his own blood from the carpet on his hands and knees, Nurse Cleveland (oh, how the phrase leaves me weak!) steps in with a gun. “Doctor, I just shot another patient. I don’t think there’s any point in your seeing him.” She heads back out with a sword while Chapman outlines Jones’ options. “I’ll stop the bleeding, but technically I shouldn’t even do that, on marks like these…” But a scream from the waiting room announces that Cleveland has done her good work, and returning with blood all over, she announces that there are no more patients, so she and Chapman go to lunch, leaving Jones to bleed out while he corrects his form. “Thank you, Doctor,” Jones croaks as they leave.

This bit of bloody sadism comes to us courtesy of Chapman and co-writer Douglas Adams, he of “The Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy” fame. Not content with his on-camera cameo last week, he and Chapman worked up this hilariously old-school sketch, and it feels soooo good. Reminiscent of the famous Saturday Night Live sketch, with Dan Ackroyd as Julia Childs, (“Save the liver!”) but preceding it by a few years, the focus and clarity of this sketch stands in stark relief to the parade of scarcely-connected gags that came before. It’s not particularly fresh or innovative, but it still manages to slay—literally, if Jones’ outcome is as predicted.

On to the next sketch. Idle wears a British army outfit, replete with medals and badges. But as we pull back, we see that his uniform isn’t strictly regulation. Beneath the tunic, he wears a tutu, knee socks, and women’s character shoes, while he dictates a letter complaining in stentorian tones about the previous sketch. The typist is a big-hatted bishop named Brian played by Palin. When Idle asks for a readback, Palin reads something all biblical, but it seems to satisfy Idle. Well… not completely, as it turns out. Because Idle insists that they “stop pretending”, and in true British fashion, they each declare their… moderate, or not very large… feelings for each other. “I don’t suppose there’s much we can do about it,” Idle asks rhetorically.

“Not on television, no,” Palin responds. What follows is kind of touching, actually—as close as Python ever really came to pathos, apart from the David Frost sketch. These two characters, on television, are tragically disenfranchised from following their hearts because they’re characters on television, and the regret that suffuses their every line is a little heart breaking. But they don’t play it long—just enough to get the censors nervous. As they lean in towards each other, Idle asks Palin to take another letter. And we’re out—

And at the opera. In a Gilliamination—the first of the show—an opera tenor in a burgundy tux, standing alone in a huge empty but ornate space reminiscent of Versailles (except for the floor, which is reminiscent of a barber pole,) sings Wagner (“Wagner, Max!”), specifically a strange, doodly “Flight of the Valkyries” tune. But, apparently, not everyone likes Wagner. A cannon rolls in from the other side of the frame, pointed directly at the tenor. The tenor picks up the gauntlet and continues singing, only to have the cannon fuse lit. As it burns down, the tenor keeps warbling, until the cannon fires, and the tenor pulls into his tux like a snail into his shell. But! Miracle of miracles—no cannonball has erupted. Relieved and happy, the tenor sings with renewed vigor. Then things get strange. The shell comes out of the cannon, but at a snail’s pace, taking forever to emerge from the cannon and creeping across the room, defying all laws of physics by staying afloat at that (lack of) velocity. The tenor, relieved anew, continues his aria, apparently confident that the shell constitutes no danger. But when the shell finally reaches him—BOOM, right? Wrong! The shell hits the tenor, and then just drills into the tenor, until it disappears without sight into the tenor’s bulk. Even the tenor did not see this coming, halting his song once in surprise. But once the shell has been absorbed, there’s no reason not to finish. The tenor blasts his final note (voiced by an echo-y Palin, by the way) to great applause from an unseen crowd. Acknowledging the adulation, the tenor boOOOOMS! as he bows. A nice study in sustained anxiety brought to you from the warped mind of Gilliam.

We cut quickly to another blue screen with yellow letters, this time reading “An Appeal on Behalf of Extremely Rich People Who Have Absolutely Nothing Wrong With Them”. In case you can’t read, Palin voices it over for you. On film, Chapman sits behind a desk, all kindness and warmth and moustache, a flask and glass of brandy at his side, and a lamp that looks like Gilliam drew it on his other side, a jarring blue screen behind him. I keep waiting for weird images to pop up on the screen, but it’s all Chapman as he delivers his pitch for the poor afflicted, only not poor, and not afflicted, and not even an appeal, really. He just wants to raise the awareness of the average man on the street, who “can’t appreciate the pressures that vast quantities of money just do not bring.” After showing us some examples of wealth, he points out “It’s only human to say ‘Oh, this will never happen to me,’… and of course, it won’t.” Then he wraps it up, asking for no gifts, no matter how large or small.. Instead of going broad, as Mr. Neutron did last week, this solid spoof of the Victim Generation goes deep, keeping a very tight focus on its unique selling point and never straying beyond it. But every line builds beautifully on the concept. Well done!

Towards the end of his “appeal”, we see Jones (as a pepperpot) watching Chapman on television in her living room. The doorbell rings, and after a couple of quick callbacks to the opening scene, she answers the door, humming “Anything Goes In” to herself. Idle’s at the door. Jones starts to ask “You must have come about…”

“Finishing the sentences, yes.”

What follows is yet another sold bit. Jones has difficulty finishing her sentences, so she has contacted a specialist, Idle, who will coach her into more self-sufficiency. All of this information is revealed in sentences started by Jones and finished by Idle. After they’ve had some fun with that, Idle explains the process, coaxing Jones to finish his sentences, thereby finishing a sentence for herself. When Jones finishes a sentence and realizes she has done so, the moment is one of revelatory empowerment. Now the roles have been reversed, and following that logic, Idle shows Jones to the door, and she leaves. The lads are on a roll, three very nice if contained bits in a row. This one has the feel of the Argument Clinic in its Apollonian discipline, and although they could have taken it further, it’s a sweet little nugget—Not at all offset by the return to random as soon as Jones leaves. Cleveland, Idle’s off stage wife, has just had another baby—her twelfth since lunch, and oops, there’s another one. This tag-on raises a lot of questions that can’t be answered. Was Cleveland really Jones’ wife? How did Jones, a woman, impregnate her. Didn’t Jones mention a husband in the sketch? (She did.) So all of reality reshuffled once Jones learned to finish a sentence? I guess the real question is, was this random joke worth shredding the prior sketch? (It wasn’t.)

There's the guy in the rubber mask!... and there's Stonehenge.

Back to Jones, on film, as she walks down a British driveway towards her destiny, Flight of the Valkyries playing behind her. She passes an all-female road repair crew, wearing dresses, etc. She walks through a city, over a hill, through a field, finally to arrive at her glorious destination—Stonehenge! Where a man isn’t necessarily a man. Palin steps out with microphone to belabor the point, in case you can’t read or see. “This is Stonehenge!” he announces—“And it is from here we go to Africa.” The man in the suit, bowler, yellow badge and rubber mask steps in and waves. And who is he again?

Still on film, in the deep forests of Africa, we meet intrepid but oh, so British explorer Palin, in a bush outfit, blond hair, and dripping with sweat—actually, pouring with it, in twin waterfalls from beneath his shirt, trailed by four black “natives.” Palin is in turn trailing the famous Walking Tree of Dahomi, and after six months and three days, has finally caught up with it. He waxes rhapsodic about all the various gaits this tree might have used in its journey of four thousand miles, while dripping sweat—only to be told by a whispering native that this isn’t the tree. The tree has moved on. They head off after it, and we see that the natives aren’t carrying supplies, but saxophones. They look a little bashful to be jazz musicians, but what else could they be, if they’re not natives?!

Later, Palin gives us an update—they haven’t spotted the famous walking tree, although apparently there are many trees that walk, and skip, and bushes that sidle. But they have spotted a Turkish Little Rude plant, a plant that imitates the pale buttocks of a Brit—it even farts when you drop it! And that’s not even the headline.  There are natives playing cricket! But that fails to get the now spurting with sweat from many holes Palin interested—not while there’s a Puking Tree on the other side of the clearing.

Gilliam has to take over, just to bring focus to this enterprise. An animated professor knitting himself a straitjacket in a Medieval room, announces that they had found the legendary Bat Men of the Kalihari—a cricket team lost in time. This is a riff on the Bush Men of the same place, famous for having been passed by as history marched on, still living the old ways. Having one of the old ways be cricket is a great idea—let’s see what they do with it.

The discovery of the Bat Men prompts a further discovery of rare footage of the Bat Men of the Kalihari taking on W – a team made up entirely of men named Pratt. This is where we came in, yes? Now, while cricket is a very strange and exotic sport to me, I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to be played like this. Crickteer Jones steps up to the wicket, prepared, and the native bowler/pitcher throws—a spear, impaling Jones, who complains just a bit before collapsing into the sticks. Another cricketer gets one through the leg. One gets the head chopped off, which is caught by the catcher. Needless to say, it’s a one sided match. Chapman reads off a list of results, all of them varying the central theme—this Pratt retires injured, this Pratt retires very injured, this Pratt beheaded and bowled… I don’t know what it means but it sounds funny. Bloody funny.

And there goes the head!

We pan back to see that this whole thing is being watched by spangly Palin, the MC of the Most Awful Family in Britain M.C., only now a banner that reads “Sport” has been carelessly draped across the “Awful Family” sign. He says “That’s all from us”—True that—and we cut to the closing credits. The Monty Python font is used to spell out “A Party Political Broadcast on Behalf of the Liberal Party”, and instead of the big military band playing the theme, we get Neil Innes, on guitar, poorly picking out the tune. A fond farewell from the lads, or an admission that, after four years, they were still inept at all this? The sour picking is soon replaced by the military band as the silly credits roll.

But as the credits finish, we cut to Cleveland dancing energetically on a table, while four drunken Brits, one of them the bowler, suit, yellow badge and rubber mask man, dance around her. Idle comes into frame as a newscaster, sternly announcing the silly news. Millions of pounds lost at the stock exchange when someone coughed—we’ve seen that happen when software coughs. Capital punishment reintroduced in rugby—yeah, that’s what the soccer dads over here do.

After a bit of this, he sends it on back to… himself… and then over to Palin, on the Paignton Pier. (Hey! Paignton! One of my favorite locations, from the Grill-o-Mat episode!) Palin announces that “It’s from Paignton that we can take you back to the studio!”

(The bowler yellow badge rubber mask man is there, too.) Back at the studio, Chapman, in swim trunks and scuba mask, with an impaled otter on a spear, sends us back to spangly Palin, who sends us back to Idle, with Cleveland dancing in the background. Idle announces an upcoming documentary on Ursula Hitler and her Magical Bees, as he switches out seats with Jones. But before Jones can speak—we cut away. This is a nice, dizzying round robin, getting all the lads in for one last wink at the camera—except for Gilliam, noticeably absent.

Finally, we cut back to the graphic that started this all off, the Party Political Broadcast. Palin reads it off for us—but gets an attack of the giggles halfway through and can’t continue. Others seem to laugh along with him. The announcer tried to take it seriously, but he just couldn’t hold it. It was all too silly. Fade to black.

And, at last, the lads pull out one of the better shows of the season, with some solid sketches. In this “meme” era, all anyone really remembers from this episode is Gilliam screaming “BEEEEEANS!” from the filthy couch, but there’s so much more that deserves our fond recollection—the Patient Abuse sketch is awesome, and the Two Characters in Search of a Gay Boink (not the official title) is also quite good, as is the “Finishing Others’ Sentences”. And although the writers resisted the temptation towards commenting on the “last show” dynamic and getting all maudlin, I’d like to call your attention (as if I needed to), to Carol Cleveland dancing gleefully on the table, surrounded by drunk, rubber-faced Brits.

Could there have been a better final image? I don’t think so. Given the tenuous relationship between women and men, especially in England, with all of its upper class embarrassment and pompous rectitude, things can get messy. Add professional comedy into the mix, with its use of the baser instincts and a natural inclination towards hostility, and you get a very heady and intoxicating brew. This was all indicated by the role of gender in Monty Python—their insistence on playing the female parts, and their resistance to writing material for Carol Cleveland (until the movies, that is) suggests a discomfort with, even a subtle hostility towards women. But at the same time, they liked them, and used them often as objects for sexual lust. I guess what I’m saying is, most human endeavor is in the service of getting laid. And at least five members of the troupe wanted to be laid by women. And chicks dig funny guys. There, at last, is the truth—not only of their feelings for women, and Cleveland specifically, but of the motivations behind their silly behavior. They’re going to keep grabbing at the dancing woman on the table for as long as they can, and hope that she favors their silliness. This is an eternal struggle.

This is the last episode of nothing.

Next Week; Graham Chapman

Episode 44 - Mr. Neutron

"If you don't take care of your scalp, you get rabies." - Michael Palin as Mrs. Entrail

Well, we're here, at the Garden, it's a cool, humid night as the home team, the lads from Oxfmbridge, try to fend off another challenge from the tag team of Mediocrity, in the beige trunks, and Randomness, in the guppy. The lads, or as the broad sheets call them, Monty Python, (with or without their flying circus,) came into this match as favorites, an excellent pedigree, huge skills and something to prove. It's been a rough couple of rounds, some great bits mixed up with some nearly incomprehensible bits of crazy. Without John "Killer" Cleese in the corner, the lads aren't as deep as they used to be, and the edge has gone off the rage that had kept them so focused in the past. Terry "The Yank" Gilliam has stepped up his acting game, but his animation seems to have suffered, serving it up more in support to the other pieces. Media has also been an issue, as the boys find less allure in the studios (where they keep the live audiences) and create more of their work for the film camera.

To compensate, Monty Python has had to draw deep from their well of support. We've seen lots of new faces, such as Neil Innes, and old friends Carol Cleveland and Connie Booth. Even Cleese has made an appearance, albeit in the abstract, with his material springboarding some key assaults. And we'll see more support today from a subsidiary member of the group that went on to do great things. Will the lads rally and score a definitive victory? Let's check it out and see. Grab yourself the box set, settle in with some popcorn and moist towelettes for the blood, and let's watch the fight of the century-- again.

And they jump right in, slamming them with the credits, getting the only moderately predictable 30 seconds of the entire show out of the way, eliciting a few chuckles from the studio audience. What will their first sketch be...?

And it's film! The lads are going to their new obsession, film, bringing the New Wave and Fellini-esque traditions to sketch comedy. The lads are chomping at the bit to make their movie, and who can blame them? In a nice tracking shot, a British suburban street is cleaved by a scrap metal dealer in a horse-drawn wagon. It looks like... it is! It's Jones, cantering through town, bellowing "Bring 'em all out!" or something incomprehensible, Pepperpots run out at his summons-- only they're carrying ballistic missiles and bazookas, putting them in the back of his wagon as he trots by, in some weird suburban disarmament. And is it?-- yes! One of the Pepperpots is none other than Douglas Adams, of "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" fame! But I'm not sure this retroactive celebrity can save this odd single jab.

But wait-- a red "Royal Mail" van comes riding up the street, passing Jones and delivering... Palin! He's helped out of the van by a Lord Mayor type, and the two walk over to a small set of bleachers that wasn't there just seconds ago. That gets a laugh. The bleachers are set up next to a mail box, which has a gold robe draped around it. The mail box is the reason for all the pomp and circumstance, we soon discover, as Palin announces the new box. Whenever he says "box", he hits it hard, the "b" exploding concussively and the rest of the word rising in pitch. "The...BOX..." He speaks into a microphone, which echoes through the street-- yet for all the pomp and AV work, the announcement itself is pretty prosaic. It can be summed up as "Here's a new mailbox," but it goes on for a full minute... and then in French. And then in German. Not much sketch here, just a snarky comment on the predeliction of local politicians to make a big deal out of very meager accomplishments, and it takes a while to deliver its punch. Mediocrity ducks it easily, and Random is building a cardboard stomach in the rear. It's not looking good for Monty Python.

But wait! A Palin Voice Over tells us that this simple life was all about to change. We cut to a yellow train arriving, bearing-- yes! Graham Chapman, in a yellow superhero outfit and outrageously blown back golden retriever hair, and across the chest, the title "Mr. Neutron"! Palin's V.O. waxes rhapsodic on the many powers of Mr. Neutron-- strength, brilliance, unbelievable destructive abilities-- but the image doesn't jibe, as Mr. Neutron just carries a shopping bag. He doesn't fly. He doesn't even hover.

A nice animated bit follows, a pinball whirl of planets rush past with "Mr. Neutron"'s name in big block letters, while Palin speculates on the origins of the esteemed Mr. Neutron. He promises us, however, that the origins don't matter. "No matter where he went, terror and destruction were sure to follow." The animation bears this out, as explosions along a grid like surface bring down the planets above. This is sounding good! I likes me some terror and destruction!

But as Palin announces that Mr. Neutron is waiting for his moment to wreak havoc, we see him having tea with Jones and wife Palin in a back yard. Palin regales him with gossip, and Mr. Neutron answers in a deep, emotionless drone, sitting stiffly in the lawn chair.

Jones basically hates every one and everything. He ekes out a small laugh, calling kids "little bastards," but it doesn't really go anywhere. Mr. Neutron, on the other hand, is pleasant, if bland. "This is a nice area," he drones. "It is convenient for the shops and the West End." (Spoiler alert! Jones hates the West End!)

And I think we're seeing the kid's strategy, Howard. They build up a big expectation with Mr. Neutron, warning of the danger and destruction he brings, but he's really a kinda boring and conventional person, apart from the costume and hair. If Mr. Neutron is analogous to American nuclear power, then I would have to say that this point of view is right on the money. Although many Europeans get hysterical about the fact that we have all these missiles and bombs pointed at or near them, it's actually kind of dull, because we're too dull and conventional to use them. (Note; This was written before the 2016 elections and the possible presidency of Trump.) But if, on the other hand, this is analogous to their current season-- great expectations met with an almost rigorous tedium-- it's maybe a bit too on the nose. Could this be some kind of subconscious mockery of the absence of John Cleese? Are they inadvertently rubbing our noses in the fact that we want John Cleese and he just ain't here?

Palin's V.O. takes us to Washington, and the headquarters of F.E.A.R. - The Federal Egg Answering Room (huh?), which is actually a code name for the real organization, F.E.E.B.L.E. The FreeWorld Extra Earthly Bodies Location and Extermination Center-- where "All was not well." In our first foray into the studio, (6 1/2 minutes into the show, by the way) Idle plays a US general-- we can tell he's U.S. because he's smoking a cigar. A woman hands him a sheet of paper from the teletype. Good God!" he cries out, in the worst American accent ever. We know he can do better, so this must have been intentional-- bad British accents in Washington. The camera zooms in on his as he calls up the Commander on the phone.

SNIFF! SNIFF!

And we're back out of the studio, back on film. (The lads must have been cracking up during this taping-- they hardly had anything to do.) In a white and barren room, beneath what looks like a German eagle, Palin sits at a huge, wide desk, with nothing on it but a phone. Souza's "The Stars and Stripes Forever" plays behind him-- I had to look that up, and as an American, I'm ashamed. As we slowly pan in, Palin starts sniffing his pits, his shoes, his general chest-al area. Clearly, he's getting a whiff of some bad B.O., and he's the only one around. (Not that he doesn't cast his eyes about, embarrassed.) Just to make what he's doing is clear, the lads have dubbed in the sniffs-- we're way too far away to hear them, but it's like he's sniffing us. The phone interrupts him as he's about to dive into his shoe. It's Idle on the other end, announcing that Mr. Neutron is missing. Palin orders the destruction of Washington D.C., until Idle reminds him that Neutron isn't there. "I want a full scale global alert. Surround everyone with everything we got!" (Don't know why we hadn't thought of that in Vietnam.) With all branches of the military on "eternal standby", he sits back, impressed at his own effectiveness... until the smell hits him again (No question about it-- the sniffs are louder than his shouted dialogue was.) and as we pull out, he's back on the scent. The kid's pulling the Blame America one-two. Can they bring their punches up from below the belt and elevate the material into satire?

We cut away to Mr. Neutron, who prunes his rose bushes and chats with pepperpot Idle. At this point, Palin's V.O. has to reassure us-- "Easily the most dangerous man the world has ever seen. Honestly!"- because he's just not lookin' that dangerous. Idle has a nice moment, when she promises to send her husband around to help, and laughs maniacally. But it's strictly behavioral. Are we seeing a new strategy here, a tactic of misdirection? As with Mr. Pither in the Cycling Tour, is Neutron just an excuse to take us through a vast slate of English and American eccentrics?

No! Because now we're back at the large desk with Palin's Commander. His shirt has been pulled up, and he sniffs his own chest, sliding fingers into his pits. Another buzz from Idle alerts him that after three days of "eternal standby" and frequent bombings, the U.S. military has become the terror of the world. But though the world is in the grip of F.E.A.R. (aka F.E.E.B.L.E.), they still haven't found Mr. Neutron. Palin decides to put his best man on it-- Teddy Salad of the CIA. The name gets a laugh-- a cheap laugh. I guess they'd already used "the Cheap Laughs." The blows are low and getting lower-- B.O. and funny and easily misunderstood names, all in the service of mocking the States. Is the Kid weakening?

Teddy is up in the Yukon-- and Palin warns Idle to wear a great disguise. Well, there are disguises, and there are disguises. This is the latter. Idle wears black tights and a backpack that proudly announces "Nothing to do with F.E.E.B.L.E." He approaches a lone cabin in the middle of the bleak North England landscape (which is supposed to be the Yukon, remember.) The rustic cabin has a doorbell, which gets a laugh. Chapman answers in a thick orange beard and a lumberjack jacket. When Idle tries to pass himself off as a person with the Government-- the government ballet, that is-- it turns out to be a minor disaster. Chapman is all about the ballet, and he's not alone in that cabin-- about five homosexuals crowd around him as he talks ballet with the increasingly uncomfortable Idle. When Idle finally swerves the conversation back to the object of his mission, Teddy Salad, Chapman says "The secret agent?" Apparently Salad is no better at disguises than Idle. Idle tries to maintain his pointless fiction, and Chapman points him towards the store. This could have been a nice bit, but the promise of the sketch never gets realized. Idle never really gets into trouble with his cover, there was no need for cover in the first place, and the only joke is that you can't tell who the homos are, or when to drop one's cover. I think the lads are on the ropes here, Jimmy. None of their attacks are developing or landing the way they should, and even the narrative seems transparently pallid-- a lot of fuss over nothing, and nothing turns out to be... nothing.

Back in the studio (11:42 into the show, over a third,) Mr. Neutron hangs wall paper and gives diet advice to a fat Brit played by Palin,who recounts how much he eats. If this sounds not particularly funny, there is a toilet joke. When Mr. Neutron recommends salad, Palin asks "Teddy Salad?" Whoa! They're confusing a character named Salad with salad! Who could have seen that coming?! Easily dodged by Randomness, although he loses the squid.

Back in the studio again, with the live audience for back up. Idle, having made it to the log cabin store where Teddy Salad is supposed to be, is given a salad by Italian waiter Palin. Palin rejoices at serving a salad, when all he ever serves is fish to the Eskimo customers he gets. Sure enough, Chapman and Jones and OWLs (Others Without Lines) all in Eskimo garb, complain about the lack of fish at their table. "We want fish," Jones cries, "We've finished our fish." But Chapman insists their not Eskimos. Indeed, they speak with refined British accents. So what are they? Well, according to Palin, they're irritating, because they don't want canneloni. It makes him homesick for his childhood days in... Odom? The non sequitirs are dizzying, but for all the leg work, Frank, they're not getting in any solid laughs to the gut. What a waste of the studio audience, who tries gamely to giggle, but can't keep up.

Idle approaches, speaking loud and slowly, since Eskimos don't understand English, and even though Chapman reminds him they're not Eskimos, Idle continues his short bus English, asking for Teddy Salad. When asked what Teddy does, Idle replies "He's a hen teaser." Bringing us a quick shot of Idle as the Fiat chairman, asking "What is a hen teaser?" Remember, we saw that clip in the Golden Age of Ballooning, so the lads are doing multi-show running gags. Nothing new there, they were doing that in Season 1, but I appreciate the effort. Chapman. Back to the scene, Chapman says that the only Teddy Salad he knows is in the CIA. (Though earlier, he said he didn't know a Teddy Salad.) Idle insists on sticking to his cover, even though Chapman admits he's MI6-- "but not a word to the Eskimos."

Back on film (that was almost a 2 1/2 minute stretch there... not bad,) Idle trudges across the "Yukon" landscape, ominous background music playing. He spots a dog sled, pulling a Yukon miner type across the grass. Yes, grass. Now, that's funny! Jones is the miner type, and the only snow in sight is in his beard, Idle announces, with some portent, that he's with the American Government Ballet. Jones is as interested in ballet as Chapman was, but Idle cuts him off. "Sure is nice to see ya, Mr. Salad."

"I'm ain't Salad. You want Teddy Salad?" Jones points out a dog in the sled team, a short haired and adorable brown dog staring off into the distance.

"That's a dog," Idle protests. "Only bits of it," Jones reassures. In a quick bit that feels achingly reminiscent of Cleese and Chapman's animal degradation (only with a twist-- this time it's the humans being "enhanced" to accommodate the dog), Jones tells us how Salad got his weight down to 1 1/2 pounds to fit into the costume. "Eighteen inches off each arm and over three feet off each leg-- all of the head was removed, except for the eyes and the brain." They go over to a lone tree to talk. The cutaway shot of the tree gets a laugh-- bad filmmaking, or is the tree somehow funny to Brit audiences?

Idle and Jones by the tree talk to the dog- did I mention that the dog is adorable? Apparently, Salad is so deep in disguise that he is unable to deal with Idle, except as a dog. He must be given a bone first, and taken "walkies". But when Idle mentions Mr. Neutron, the dog's head pops up and stares Idle directly in the AWWWW, HE'S LICKING HIM! Who's a good boy?! Who's a good boy?! The Kid has brought out the big guns now-- let's see how the most innovative comedy troupe ever uses the cute dog.

But first, while Idle takes Salad walkies, we cut to an in-studio bit. At 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister (Idle) gets an update from undersecretary Palin. But for some reason, never explained in the sketch, the Prime Minister's office is also a restaurant-- a high end one, too, judging by the Italian violin player (Jones). The joke here is that, while Palin comes to relay some classified and urgent news, Jones insists on playing loud, romantic tunes for them, even leading the other patrons in a Conga line past them. I guess they shouldn't have turned the seat of government into a restaurant. Which brings us back to why they would. There's a weird bit where Idle hears that FEAR is dropping bombs (I thought they'd already done that,) and he decides to evacuate, reaching for a picture on the mantel surrounded by candles-- a shrine, essentially. Who's in the picture? Dwight D. Eisenhower. I am now convinced that there is a level to all of this, a subterranean vein that has something to do with American military power and the British sense of impotence in the face of that power, coupled with the British suspicion of American intellectual laziness. The Kid is setting up his opponents for the Strangelove assault.

Back on film, (that was just over two minutes in the studio,) Jones and Idle talk with the well-walked dog. Idle has lost hope-- he's thrown sticks, they've chased reindeer, but no discussion. But just as Idle offers a meatball to the adorable doggie, the doggie whispers adorably in Jones' ear. "He's trying to tell us something!" And wonder of wonders-- the doggie speaks! "Carpenter," he grates in a Palin V.O.(Carpenter is the name of Idle's character,) ",,, it's just that it's so goddam painful in here." When Idle repeats the mission-- to take care of Mr. Neutron-- Salad Dog responds haltingly. "I... I... I gotta go walkies."

That explosion is in a small English village

In the mostly vacant headquarters of FEAR/FEEBLE, Palin is entirely naked behind his desk, washing his pits. When he hears that the Carpenter/Salad gambit has stalled, he decides "We'll bomb him out!" A rudimentary animation intercut with stock war footage shows explosions all over the globe, but mostly, according to Palin's VO, they bombed little English villages. "But always it was the wrong place." A nice bit of visual dexterity follows, as a blue van with "US AIR CORPS" painted on it, drives through the rubble of a city. "Sorry, Enfield...We apologize for any inconvenience caused by our bombing." A genuinely funny bit, not least because the impulse to apologize after a bombing is British, but not American. When we bomb someone, right or wrong, we congratulate them on their good fortune. Apparently, Python's conceptualizing of Americans is as bad as their American accents.

But here's what's impressive-- Explosions go off behind the city's rubble. The van is real, and the rocky road that the van is on is real, and the explosions are real, but the crumbled cityscape is animated-- or at least, a picture. Apparently, this visual effect was not accomplished by Gilliam, but by a visual effects supervisor? I need to get some corroboration on this, because it feels like Gilliam..

Back at the studio, Mr. Neutron takes on the studio audience late in this match. Palin's V.O. announces that this dangerous man, "who could destroy entire galaxies with his wrist," has fallen in love, with Jones, of all people. Jones plays pepperpot housewife Mrs. S.C.U.M., who natters incessantly about the destruction of Enfield. More forceful than we've ever seen him, but no less drone-y, Mr. Neutron tells her to forget about her husband and go away with him. He's feeling empowered after winning a cereal contest prize of $5000 pounds, and he wants her to help him rule the world.

(He had her at $5000 pounds.) Chapman scores some of the first real hits we've had in this show, intoning lines like "As Tarzan had his Jane, as Napoleon had his Josephine, as Frankie Lane had whoever he had..."with befuddled dead pan brilliance-- and an occasional frog in his throat. At the end, with perfect timing, he drops the stentorian deliver and asks Jones "You're not Jewish, are you?" getting one of the biggest laughs yet. Sorry, cutaway shot of the tree, time to make room for the real pros. Chapman shows the lads why they should spend a bit more time in front of an audience, instead of getting all Jean-Luc-y on us.

From adorable to... a little creepy. 

As if they were reading this blog in '74, the lads stay in the studio! On a set made to look similar to the earlier filmed scene, we cut to Jones, Idle and the dog, only the dog is now an hilarious puppet, darker than his real life counterpart, and with a mouth that moves with the lines that Palin speaks. This would be much funnier if it weren't so strange looking. The lads play it straight as Salad Dog recounts past achievements instead of getting on with the mission. He describes how he once disguised himself as a functional water hydrant. "I could put out fires!... Mind you, it hurt." Finally, he gets down to business. He knows the exact address where Mr. Neutron is. As the cameras pull in on Idle and Dog, Dog narrows down the field with agonizing slowness in an attempt to build suspense. "He's not in China. He's in Europe. You want to know where in Europe?" etc. Then, suddenly, he explodes. Not with anticipation-- he literally blows up. Cut to naked Palin, surrounded by perfume bottles. "That takes care of the Yukon. Where next?" The answer-- his office. Boom! A quick bit here as Palin the Lord Mayor announces the world domination achieved by placing a ring of postal... BOX-es around the Gobi desert. A bomb promptly lands on him and all of his boxes. The lads are losing their cool as the clock ticks out.

Oooo... cool effects!

Back in the studio, with the return of Mr. Neutron. Can he work his magic again? A man in love, Neutron transforms Mrs. SCUM into the most beautiful woman in the world-- I was expecting Carol Cleveland, but once the animated white balloon that obscures her transformation disappears, it's still just Jones, but in a new dress-- and he tries to hurry her out before the bombs drop. We know the bombs will drop, because we keep seeing stock footage of bombers, in a strange cross-cutting that feels more tragic than funny. They don't make it out in time, BOOM! and we cut to a Gilliamin
ation of the globe all bombed to crap, looking like an empty cracked eggshell.

You thought I was kidding about the blood, didn't you? The Kids have finally done it-- they have destroyed the world! After years of limiting their anarchistic tendencies to squalid riots and an occasional bomb, they have completely blown up the planet, and they have blamed it on America! Taking down both Mediocrity with the scope of their destruction, and Randomness with their political message of the dangers of concentrated nuclear power.

If only it were funnier.The statement, that Americans become threatening in response to threats, is old hat. If you're going to stick to old scripts, you should have some new jokes. And there aren't many apparent in this round. Ten years after Dr. Strangelove, it lacks Strangelove's edge and flair.

Well, hold on. We're not done yet. Palin's VO asks all those cliff hanger questions-- "HOW CAN Mr. Neutron and his child bride survive?!"-- before we cut to Idle, reading from the Radio Times, a TV perched on the desk beside him. The synopsis is apparently in the paper he reads-- he breathlessly promises us that yes, Mr. Neutron survived, and a lot of violence, explosions, and very expensive special effects are coming up, and "We're going to see those expensive scenes... right now!" On the TV beside him-- the credits start rolling. Idle promises that just after the credits, the good stuff begins. He points out the "very expensive sound... expensive visual effects there... cheap director." But once the credits are over... the screen goes black, and "The End" pops up on the screen. "Oh, come on," Idle whines, "You can give us another minute, Mr. Cotton  please!"

A Conjuring Today title appears, ceding to Palin, in funny wig, googly eyes, magician's outfit and a bloody, clotted saw, promises that after last week's show, cutting a woman in half, he will show you how to cut a woman in three bits. He's then chased off by the Bobbies. They run past Idle, who talks on the phone; "Look, mate, if you'r gonna put on rubbish like that and Horse of the Year show, you can give us another minute..." Then things just get silly. We cut to outside the BBC. Idle walks out, papers in hand, and Jones hits him on the head with a giant hammer, while Palin's V.O. announces that "World Domination" t-shirts are for sale. You ever get the feeling they just walk around with a camera, doing silly things to fill the air time?

Well, what a bout. Although the Kid gets points for scope and narrative rigor, they ultimately failed to connect with most of their blows. They kept Gilliam on the bench for most of the show, and the rest of them seem to have one foot out the door, leaving the TV party early to make their date with filmic destiny. Their disregard for the live performance aspect of the show is apparent. Only Chapman gives us a bright spot in this otherwise strange but lackluster show.

The story behind this one-- Palin and Jones wrote another really long science fiction sketch, but the Brits surrounding him don't acknowledge or notice the alien. (Note; This show was written and shot well before the Brexit from the E.U.-- it turns out that the British are all too aware of the aliens in their midst.) The other lads were fine with the long sketch-- less for them to do. This pales in comparison to the days when they would have knock-down drag-out fights over what's hanging in the foreground. It really feels as though a crucial element has been lost.

There is something outrageous and brave in that the primary joke is how we are constantly promised something that never comes. Monty Python has become aware that they are not delivering, and rather than double down on their efforts, they will instead comment on how they are not delivering.

Okay... but I'll only give you one more show to get away with that.

Next Week; Party Political Broadcast

The End is Near...

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!