Monty Python’s Flying Circus: “It’s The Arts (Or: The BBC Entry To The Zinc Stoat of Budapest)”/“You’re No Fun Anymore”
“It’s The Arts (Or: The BBC Entry To The Zinc Stoat of Budapest)” (season 1, episode 6; originally aired 11/23/1969)
You could easily make the case that in terms of influence and innovation, Monty Python’s Flying Circus is the greatest sketch show ever produced. People would argue the point, but it’s a defensible statement; Flying Circus is hugely important, well-known, and in many ways serves as a dividing line between Old Comedy and New. It’s like saying The Beatles’ Revolver is the best pop album, or that Hamlet is the greatest play. There’s no hard and fast way to prove your point (and any criteria you make up to argue in your favor is going to be highly subjective), but you won’t get laughed off the Internet, or out of the dorm room, or wherever it is people have these sorts of terribly silly debates.
You’d be hard-pressed, though, to argue that Flying Circus was a perfect show, or even all that consistent. Sketch-comedy series are inconsistent almost by design. A narrative show, with regular characters and a plot and emotions and whatnot, has all sorts of nifty ways to hold viewer attention and give the writers something to latch on to. Every new episode has a wealth of history behind it, and history means relationships and ideas to play off and all kinds of toys. You manage to pull an audience in, and they’ll sit through some duller bits just to get to the good stuff. If you read a lot of TV reviews, you’ll find critics talking about “piece moving” episodes, i.e., entries in a serialized narrative that exist largely to get us from point A to point B. Point A was exciting; point B is devastating; the stuff between them, eh—but it’s necessary, so we don’t mind it. Even on non-serialized shows, character and premise is a huge help. Even if this week’s episode isn’t so hot, there are still people we like running around doing things, and we can still tell ourselves it’s important because it’s part of a larger context.
Most sketch shows don’t have that luxury. Most sketch shows live and die on a scene-by-scene basis, and Flying Circus is no exception. This hasn’t really been a problem so far, and won’t be a serious issue until later in the run, but given the Python’s willingness to take risks, experiment, and fling whatever they can think of at the screen, it’s inevitable that sooner or later, they’re going to hit on a dud. For my money, the first serious dud for the group comes in the second half of “It’s The Arts,” and what makes it especially unfortunate is that it’s followed fairly soon after by a slightly better, but still not all that terrific, sketch. The first half of the episode is business as usual, including at least one classic routine as well as a number of effective pieces and some lovely animation. Then Eric Idle appears all made up to look like the Hollywood version of a Native American, and the whole thing dies.
“Indian At The Theater”
Premise: An American Indian straight out of a John Wayne movie sits beside an average British theatergoer. Both men are waiting for a play. The Indian discusses his love of drama in a way that humorously contrasts with his garish appearance and unsophisticated grammar.
Sample line: “She heap good diction and timing. She make part really live for Indian brave.”
Analysis: I don’t want to be overly harsh; I’m sure the sketch has its fans (I assume all of them do?), and it’s not a bad idea. Conceptually, it’s a bit like the law-abiding gang sketch from earlier in the episode. There, a bunch of Pythons dressed up as thugs discuss their plans, the joke being that they aren’t planning on committing any actual crimes; they are, in fact, desperate not to break the law. The joke being (he said pedantically) a comment on our expectations versus reality—we see the costumes and the set, we’re expecting a bunch of baddies plotting a bank job, and then we’re surprised into laughter when we get the opposite. There’s more going on, but that’s the gist of it. “Indian At The Theater” has Eric Idle in a full costume that raises very specific and limited assumptions, and then he talks about how he loves the craft of acting, and how his tribe is getting into show business. There are a few snickers, but it’s just so one-note, and that note isn’t even very good. Once you understand the concept (which takes maybe two lines), you get everything about the sketch, and there’s something frustrating in watching a simple idea playing out so, well, simply. Idle and Chapman (who plays the bemused Brit next to Idle) seem game enough, but their performances fail to transcend the material, and I spent the latter half of the sketch split between trying to decide if this was supposed to be bad, and watching the extra directly behind Idle struggle not to look into the camera.
But hey, this isn’t the worst ever, and it’s funny to watch one of Palin’s emcee characters getting riddled with arrows at the sketch’s conclusion. The main concern is that it robs the show of momentum, and that loss of energy continues to the next major sketch, “20th Century Vole.” There’s some great incidental business before then: Terry Jones as a housewife pulling the name of the next sketch out of a policeman’s hat; the next sketch being “Scotsman On a Horse,” with Cleese as the titular Scotsman racing to Palin’s wedding, only to pick Palin up (instead of the bride) when he gets there; Gilliam animation of a racing baby carriage which is crushed by the ever popular 16 Ton Weight, before segueing into the 20th Century Vole logo. This all works the way the show usually works—it’s fast paced, intermittently disorienting, and if it isn’t all gut-busting, it doesn’t need to be. (Also, Cleese’s grim-faced Scot is a killer.) But then we get to…
“20th Century Vole”
Premise: An arrogant movie-studio executive browbeats and cajoles his writing staff with impossible demands
Sample line: “Splunge!”
Analysis: This one’s better than the Indian sketch, and it’s always great fun to see the entire troupe (along with guest star Ian Davidson) on screen. The energy levels are high, which helps make the scene play better, at least at first. Like the Indian sketch, this is a one-idea bit, and once you realize the structure—Chapman (as the exec) is going to terrorize each member of his staff until they run screaming from the room—some of the fun goes out of the scene. Which isn’t to say that one-idea sketches are inherently problematic or weak. Some of Python’s greatest moments are essentially iterations based around a single concept (“The Dead Parrot Sketch” is the most obvious example, but there are dozens), and wringing the most out of a gag is a time-honored comedy tradition. The only rule: make it funny. And “20th Century Vole” does have its funny moments, including the word “splunge,” a desperate attempt by one writer to avoid expressing praise, disapproval, and indecision all at once. But it goes on too long, and after a while the goofy energy gets a little tiresome, like watching a bunch of guys giggling at a private joke.
It’s a shame, because most of the episode is as great as ever. There’s the usual weirdness in the opening (“THESE CAPTIONS COST 12/6d EACH”), which segues into an arts program (“It’s The Arts,” marking one of the few times the title of the episode was actually relevant to the episode itself), and a discussion about a forgotten composer with an incredibly long last name. Here, to pad out my word count: Johann Gambolputty de von Ausfern-schplenden-schlitter-crass-cren-bon-fried-digger-dingle-dangle-dongle-dungle-burstein-von-knacker-thrasher-apple-banger-horowitz-ticolensic-grander-knotty-spelltinkle-grandlich-grumblemeyer-spelter-wasser-kurstlich-himble-eisen-bahnwagen-guten-abend-bitte-ein-nürnburger-bratwürstel-gerspurten-mitz-weimache-luber-hundsfut-gumberaber-shönedanker-kalbsfleisch-mittleraucher-von-Hautkopft of Ulm. (Yes, I copied and pasted that.) The centerpiece of the sketch is Cleese’s interview with the only man alive to have met Johann Etc. Done up in old age makeup and slumped in a chair, Jones looks moments from death, so of course he and Cleese use Johann Etc’s full name every time they mention him, which is often. It’s a perfect example of how suspense can hone a joke; you know Jones’ character is going to die, you just don’t know when.
The other highlight, coincidentally, also features Cleese and Jones in an interview-type situation, only this time, Cleese is a cop who’s understandably miffed at some of the ingredients in Jones’s Whizzo brand of chocolates. It’s largely an excuse for Cleese to list off an increasingly awful “foods” (“lark’s vomit” is about as good a topper to a routine as I’ve ever heard), but it’s well-written, the ingredients are imaginative and convincingly gross, and Cleese and Jones perform it beautifully. Cleese’s cop is offended, but in a muted way, like he can’t quite grasp that Jones could be so dumb; Jones, on the other hand, is blindly proud of each successive horror. If Jones had been trying to cover something up, or if Cleese had gone into a rant, the sketch wouldn’t have worked as well—the tension of the two men with completely different worldviews trying to understand each other adds that extra funniness.