Since this year is the 60th anniversary of Doctor Who, we had a special extra-looooong Doctor Who Night. Its theme was 'the Bad in the Good and the Good in the Bad.' Even the theme was long!
Caves of Androzani
The Good
Just about everything. I mean. this story is about as close to purrfection that a Doctor Who story can get without having either PaulDarrow or cats in it. Robert Holmes wrote a lot of great stories, but this is his magnum opus in which every character and plot thread come together beautifully. There are three great cliffhangers out of four episodes, culminating in the greatest depiction of the Doctor's regeneration at the end. It's Peter Davison's best story as the Doctor, and Colin Baker's too for that matter.
The Bad
This Magma Beast costume isn't all that great.
Other than that, the only downside to Caves of Androzani is that Doctor Who can't be as good as this all the time. It is Doctor Who written for adults, which is nice to have occasionally. And I mean really written for adults, with grown-up political themes and characterisation, not just putting in gratuitous sex and swearing (like Torchwood, mew). But even though the series could do with being like this more often than it is in reality, the makers mustn't forget the core audience of kittens and little mannys for too long.
If the BBC wanted to make a grown-up sci-fi series they could easily do it, but it wouldn't be Doctor Who. It would be more like... Blakes 7.
Earthshock
The Good
While not in the same league of quality as Caves of Androzani (few Doctor Who stories are), Earthshock is an attempt at making a blockbuster action story on a BBC budget, and it is a pretty good attempt for all that.
A lot of this story's reputation rests on the shock appearance of the Cybermannys at the end of part one, which was a genuine surprise twist for TV audiences in 1982 (it isn't called Earthshock of the Cybermannys for a start), but that doesn't hold up today since it is hard to avoid the presence of the Cybermannys on the DVD box, or the iPlayer episode thumbnails. But even without that it holds up, with the Cybermannys used well as an implacable foe for the Doctor, and we get some classic Cybermanny tropes returning, such as a traitor among the mannys and having Cybermannys bursting out of their cardboard containers to go on a march.
The Bad
This special effect doesn't hold up. They might have got away with it in the era before home video, DVD, iPlayer, etc. but even then it gets used twice because it appears in the cliffhanger to part three and then in the reprise at the start of part four, so twice the opportunity to spot the joins.
You might be surprised that I also consider the death of Adric to be a bad thing. Reducing the number of Companions from three to two was undeniably a benefit of this - almost every story of season 19 showed us proof that three Companions was too many - and choosing the most annoying of the three to get rid of was also to their credit, but the way this was done was... not great.
First, you're never going to convince that Doctor Who is an 'anyone can die' kind of show. It's not The Sandbaggers. Likewise, killing off a Companion to show 'consequences' doesn't W-word when there are dozens of other occasions when the regulars survive similar situations. These general complains aside, the specific way in which Adric was killed off was handled badly because he dies off-screen, and the only confirmation we get in Earthshock that he is definitely ded is that the end credits change to be silent* and over a picture of Adric's destroyed badge on a black background.
Without the meta-confirmation this could simply have been a cliffhanger, with audiences reasonably expecting that Adric would be rescued by the Doctor using his time machine in the next episode. So by having Earthshock end in this way it winds up being a problem for the next story as well...
But before we get to that...
Dimensions in Time
This 30th anniversary story is (for now) the midpoint of Doctor Who's history, so it seems appropriate that it should be the midpoint of our Doctor Who Night celebration.
The Bad
A 15 minute long story that had to juggle all the surviving Doctors, as many Companions as they could get, the Rani and a "menagerie" of monsters, plus a crossover with Eastenders and a requirement that it be shot in 3-D would have been a struggle for even the best of writers. But the way this was written it barely holds together in a coherent manner, with one thing happening after another for reasons that even Sylvester McCoy rattling off technobabble cannot justify.
The only thing that saves this from being utterly terrible is that it isn't long enough to outstay its welcome as a bit of lightweight Children in Need entertainment from the strange days of the 1990s after the cancellation of the original series.
The Good
It's undeniably lovely to see some of the Doctors and Companions on screen together again, regardless of the nonsense they're taking part in. This is also the only time that Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart appeared together with Colin Baker's Doctor, allowing him to complete the set.
The scene where Lalla Ward as Romana meets Grant and Phil Mitchell (Ross Kemp and... the other one) and icily no-sells their cockney hardmanny act is the one genuinely good bit, ending on her delivering the punchline
"Doctor who?"
By the way, Dimensions in Timeis canon. All cats know this to be true.
Time-Flight
The Bad
So why can't the Doctor save Adric again?
Tegan: "We can change what happened if we materialise before Adric was killed."
Doctor: "And change your own history?"
Tegan: "Look, the freighter could still crash into Earth. That doesn't have to be changed. Only Adric doesn't have to be on board."
Doctor: "Now listen to me, both of you. There are some rules that cannot be broken even with the TARDIS. Don't ever ask me to do anything like that again. You must accept that Adric is dead."
It's come to something when Tegan is the voice of reason, mew. If we take into consideration some of the stunts the Doctor would later perform with the TARDIS in the new series (especially when it came to saving River Sue) then it seems like he just didn't want to save Adric.
But this isn't even the worst of it. Within a minute the Doctor suggests a "special treat to cheer us all up" and after that Adric is practically forgotten about! This is then followed by a knockabout komedy bit when the Doctor dashes out of the TARDIS in a panic to check the cricket scores in a newspaper.
The story has barely begun, and Time-Flight has started as it means to go on. The Master is the baddy in it, but he spends the first half in disguise as "Kalid" for no reason other than so he can be revealed as the Master at the end of part two (including rigging up some green slime to come out of his face when he is 'killed' as Kalid). The studio sets are poor, and many of the effects rubbish - I have to wonder if most of the budget for this got spent on Earthshock instead. Either that or they spent it on getting that Concorde wheel into the studio!
Having just thinned down the regular cast by disposing of Adric, we now get a number of guest characters acting as additional, temporary Companions - Professor Hayter (played by Nigel "Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling" Stock) and the three crewmannys from the Concorde (including among them Michael "Sandbaggers" Cashman). Hayter gets to make a noble sacrifice, while the Concorde pilots act like comic relief in their clumsy attempts to help the Doctor, including trying to fly the TARDIS like their aeroplane.
Therein lies the main problem with Time-Flight - that of its tonal inconsistency. If it had been an outright comedy then it could have succeeded much better on its own terms (save for being inappropriately placed right after the tragic - stop laughing - death of Adric), but the light-hearted bits sit uncomfortably alongside the attempts at serious drama.
The Good
Those comedic elements are the parts of the story that W-word best, from the comedy of errors at Heathrow that leads to the Doctor getting involved in the story in the first place (including the exasperated airport manager and his security manny, the latter played by Sir Frank from Yes Prime Minister), to Anthony Ainley's purposefully melodramatic performance as "Kalid" (though this might have been better if it had avoided certain racial stereotypes that mean it hasn't dated well), to the good-natured Concorde crew's clumsy attempts at assistance, and then culminating in the Doctor leaving Tegan on Earth by mistaik.
The Doctor didn't seem in too much of a hurry to go back for her either...
Arc of Infinity
The Bad
What is the worst thing about Arc of Infinity? Giving us Gallifrey on the cheap so the BBC production team could have a holiday film in Amsterdam? No. Wasting Michael Gough in a nothing part? No. Time Lords called "Damon" and "Talor" (pronounced as "Tailor")? No. The ridiculous-looking Ergon monster costume? No. Besides which, that's barely more silly than the helmet Colin Baker has to wear as Commander Maxil. The fact that they produced a story where the Doctor won by (effectively, to all intents and purposes) gunning down the baddy? Not quite, though that is an unforgivable way to end a Doctor Who story.
The worst thing about Arc of Infinity is that it is boring. The first three episodes are some of the most padded in the show's run - quite an achievement for a four-parter. They certainly wanted to get their money's worth out of the Amsterdam filming, with loads of extraneous shots on location bulking out the runtime. At the same time the events on Gallifrey move at a glacial pace, with Maxil and his guards shuffling the Doctor and Nyssa in and out of different rooms just in the hopes that we don't notice that they're not actually doing anything to progress the plot.
Then, in part four, we get something genuinely interesting and unique in the show's history happening (see "The Good" below) and instead of spending time on this, it instead focuses on an extended chase through Amsterdam, showing off the location as much as possible. This was a story with its priorities in all the wrong places.
The Good
Basically, it's this scene.
Omega (Peter "Davo" Davison, although he's voiced by Ian "Stuart Hyde" Collier) has escaped from the anti-matter universe into the real world, but the "transfer" is unstable so he only has a limited amount of time before he is either sent back or else goes
He spends most of this time running away from the Doctor, Nyssa and Tegan, but gets a momentary respite when he stops and watches a quaint touristy steam organ and listens to it play a tinny version of Tulips from Amsterdam. He smiles at a little manny, and we get the sense that this is Omega enjoying his freedom while he can. The story has been at pains to tell us Omega is "insane" and must be stopped (and, to be fair, he has just recently murdered a manny in order to take his clothes for a disguise), but this is us seeing another side to him - the part that only wants to live and be free.
A metaphor for the brevity of life itself, this moment is all too fleeting.
Coda: The Daleks in Colour
Not strictly part of Doctor Who Night, but I also watched this this week.
The Bad
If you want to bring new mannys into watching the classics of Doctor Who, then colourising them makes sense, since it is well-known that, just as doggys see the world only in black and white, some mannys simply cannot watch TV when it is black & white.
What makes no sense, however, is cutting down a properly long seven-parter to less than half its runtime, and still filling it full of flashbacks to scenes from earlier in the selfsame story! Was the target audience for this not only mannys with no attention span but also no short-term memory? Mew!
The only conclusion I can draw is that this was an attempt to cut down Terry Nation's first masterpiece so that it resembled the sort of episode one might see in the new series of Doctor Who. My suspicions were confirmed by the incidental music - slathered over every second of every scene, and doing its best to drown out the dialogue. The resemblance to a modern television production was uncanny. RTD must be so proud - they've turned something written by El Tel in the 1960s into something that could have been produced by him today.
The Good
This scene has lost none of its power after 60 years. Purr.
* Well, that is if we don't count the alternative version:
This TV adaptation of Hamlet by the BBC managed to snag a number of rising stars, helping it to feel much grander than it otherwise might: Michael "Charlie Croker" Caine was Horatio, Robert "Donald Grant" Shaw was Claudius, and Christopher "General Chang" Plummer played Hamlet. Plummer obviously liked Shakespeare so much that he was still quoting it years later when he was a Klingon.
In addition there was Steven "General Orlov" Berkoff and Donald Sutherland in small roles. Roy Kinnear played the Gravedigger - a very famous and significant part despite not having much actual screentime - and similarly David "Napoleon" Swift was the Player King.
For all these great actors, the real star of this is the setting, because it was filmed on location at Kronborg castle at Helsingør (Elsinore) in Denmark, the very castle in which the play is set. This makes it stand out among all the many filmed versions of Hamlet, for all that it results in a slight mismatch between the 16th century costumes and some parts of the castle which are evidently post that period. This is a must-see Hamlet for all aficionados of Shakespeare for this reason alone.
But there's more than just the castle that makes this a unique experience of the play, such as some unusual, experimental directing choices. We never see the ghost of the murdered king, and instead he is a POV monster - we see Hamlet through his eyes, only hear him in voiceover, and nobody is credited with playing him. Spooky.
The acting choices are no less individual. Caine and Plummer play Horatio and Hamlet as being maybe closer than friends - it's ambiguous but reading their scenes that way is definitely possible, and makes this a daring move for the mid-60s. And Plummer's intensity as Hamlet, especially during the scenes when he is pretending to be mad, reminds me a lot of Patrick McGoohan as Number Six, equally capable of sudden bursts of energy (or just shouting), to the extent that I wonder if McGoohan was influenced by this performance, or if the two actors were only drawing from the same set of acting traditions?
At a duration of 2 hours 50 minutes this is somewhat abridged, though mainly by the cutting down of speeches and dialogue rather than the removal of entire subplots. It is longer than the 1948 Laurence Olivier version (a mere 2 hours 35 minutes) but significantly shorter than Kenneth Branagh's 1996 film (4 hours) or the BBC's TV version with Derek "Shakespeare denier" Jacobi (3 hours 30 minutes), and marginally shorter than the more recent BBC adaptation with David Tennant (3 hours).
This version of Shakespeare's The Scottish Play might more fairly called The American Play, being an American production in which most of the American cast put on vaguely Scottish-sounding accents... when they remember to.
Even the director and star, Orson "Unicron" Welles, is not immune from slipping back into his own voice from time to time, nor his co-star Jeanette Nolan as Lady Macbeth. These slips are largely forgivable, partly because this film was made under legendarily tight constraints of time and budget, but mostly because the attempt at historical accuracy is otherwise so lacking that one has to wonder why they even made a token attempt at the accents in the first place.
The landscapes and castle locations we see don't look like any part of Scotland this Scotscat is familiar with, and the costumes look assembled from every land and every period of history they could find except for the 11th century when the historic Macbeth lived... with some tartan thrown over the top in a token nod to what non-Scots think the Scots looked like back then. At one point Macbeth dons a breastplate that is more 16th century than 11th - more accurate to the period the play was written in than set.
That's not what you come to this film for, though, is it?
Where Welles's Macbeth succeeds is - and this should be no surprise with Charles Foster Kane at the helm - in the vision; the style and feel of the thing. The castles aren't the castles of medieval Scotland; they're like something out of a dream or a nightmare, vast and illogical edifices of stone that trap the protagonists within them. This being a black and white film, they are lit so as to emphasise shadows and darkness, especially in scenes where there's been a murder... of which this has its share. Perhaps that's why they call it The Scottish Play?
Welles suits the action to the words, the words to the action: the murders of Lady Macduff and Macduff's kitten are filmed with fast cuts to mask the fast cuts, and a closeup of the snarling face of the murderer. The murder of Duncan takes place off-screen, of course, but the camera keeps coming back to show the door through which Macbeth has passed to do the deed.
The powerful atmosphere of dread created during this pivotal scene - a combination of the actors, their lines, and the cinematography - makes it one of the film's best, along with the final few scenes once Macbeth sees the prophecies of the witches have all come true in their Tolkien-baiting way. His last lines see him become almost heroic as he learns, in the end, defiance of his fate, too late to avert his doom:
"Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane,
And thou opposed, being of no woman born,
Yet I will try the last. Before my body
I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,
And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'"
Alas, poor Orson, he was if anything too reverent with the speeches, and performs them as he might a radio recital. The famous "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" soliloquy suffers in this way, and we don't even get the benefit of seeing Welles's face since he speaks it in voiceover. This robs the adaptation of one avenue of uniqueness, so at least we have the direction, the lighting (or purposeful lack of it), and the magnificent stylized sets to make this stand out from the many other interpretations of A Scottish Play.
Two years passed. In that time Monty Python's Flying Circus became a legend, expanding to become far more than just the TV series. There were live shows, tie-in books and records (the age of the home video having not yet arrived), and even their first feature film, with which they (or at least their financial backers) hoped to crack America. They also made Monty Python's Fliegender Zirkus, two special episodes for German television which, although they have been shown on British TV channels as well, contains some of the rarest Flying Circus material since they are not usually included on commercial releases of the TV series.
Recording of the third season commenced in 1971, and was completed by May of '72, but broadcast on the BBC did not begin until the October of 1972. The season started with the fifth show recorded, and it's a strong one that hasn't dated nearly so badly as a lot of the third season - the topical references have either been lucky and dated well, or else aged into timeless "zany madcap" humour, and there's a lack of racially/sexually questionable material - which the third season as a whole, alas, contains a lot of.
The titles are now introduced by three characters - first up is the new one for this season, Terry Jones as the nude organist plays a chord while half-turning to grin at the camera, then John Cleese's familiar announcer says the truncated
"And now..."
and then finally the It's Manny says his word. The voice speaking the title is now that of a Gumby, and Michael Palin has taken over this duty from Cleese. The title sequence itself is wholly new Gilliam animation, save for the foot at the end, but it is impossible to overstate how much less iconic it is than either of the first two seasons' sequences.
The first sketch is, to begin with, a traditional courtroom sketch, where a mass murderer (Idle) is let off with a suspended sentence because he was polite and apologised. The studio audience is evidently pumped up for the recording, because they continually laugh all the way through Terry Jones reading out the long list of names of the victims, despite that not being a joke but just the setup for the joke that follows.
Gilliam's animations have become, if anything, more grotesque since the last season, and we see our first evidence of this in the one where two policemannys pursue an escaping criminal inside his own body. The landscapes of the body are a disturbing mix of architecture and body parts, all in strange colours.
The terrible "Njorl's Saga"
"It's not that terrible."
"No, I meant terribly violent."
is packed with a number of different gags, moving seamlessly to each in turn. And just when the sketch seems to have moved on from the North Malden sponsorship bit, it returns in the form of the six warriors who have the letters MALDEN on their chests, a brilliant reveal.
Erik Njorl next appears in the courtroom from earlier, in the dock for a satirical sketch that lays into police corruption - as relevant today as it was in the '70s. This contains lines like the police superintendent (Chapman) asking the judge
"Is a charge strictly necessary, m'lud?"
"The press is here."
and the offensive weapon the accused was supposed to have in his possession being "the big brown table down at the police station."
"It's the best we could find, m'lud..."
Palin then appears as "Police Constable Pan-Am," an incredibly stupid thug who attacks all and sundry with his truncheon and blatantly takes direction in answering counsel's questions from the superintendent.
"You are Police Constable Pan-Am?"
"No, I deny that to the last breath in my body. Oh. Sorry, yes."
Palin's enthusiastic delivery of the line "Oh yes!" deservedly gets a big laugh from the audience, though they remain prone to laugh at anything and even drown out some of the dialogue with their hilarity. What do they think this is, a Radio 4 panel show?
The extended sketch where Mrs Premise and Mrs Conclusion (Cleese and Chapman, who were clearly also the writers) go from the launderette to visit Jean-Paul Sartre in Paris to ask him if his Roads to Freedom was "an allegory of man's search for commitment," I find much funnier now that I know there was a 13-part adaptation of the trilogy made by and shown on the BBC less than two years before this sketch. This series, starring Michael "Stone Tape" Bryant, was repeated on BBC Four in 2022 as art of the BBC's 100th anniversary, which is where I first found out about its existence and got a chance to watch it.
"When will he be free? Oh pardon. Quand sera-t-il libre? Oooooh. Ha ha ha ha She says he's spent the last 60 years trying to work that one out. Tres amusant, Madam S."
A gag about all the other celebrities who live in the same block of flats as the Sartres is a close repeat of the Beethovens from show 21. The Roads to Freedom TV series theme song plays on the radio for a couple of seconds in the Sartre's flat, before Mrs Sartre (Palin) turns it off calling it
"Oh, rubbish."
The end of that sketch leads into the Whicker's World sketch. This was a series that began in the '60s but continued to be made until 1994, so being ruthlessly sent up by the Pythons here obviously didn't do it any harm. The five main Pythons each impersonate the distinctive appearance and mannerisms of Alan Whicker, and take it in turns pointing out all the clichés of his show.
How would you rank the impressions? You have to paw it to Eric Idle, his is clearly the best. After that I'd say there's not much in it, but I'd go Michael Palin second best, then Graham Chapman, then John Cleese, and then a bit of a gap before Terry Jones brings up the rear. Let me know in the comments if you'd disagree with my order.
Twenty-eight
A strong contender for the least likely episode to ever get repeated on a mainstream television channel ever again, this opens with possibly the most obscure joke in all of Monty Python's Flying Circus, one which I have never been able to decipher. The opening shot is of a closed, richly-decorated book, with a voiceover (Palin) and superimposed captions which say
"THE KON-TIKI"
"RA 1"
"RA 2"
"AND NOW.."
and
"MR. & MRS. BRIAN NORRIS' FORD POPULAR"
Now, I know what the Kon-Tiki is, and so it is easy to deduce what Mr & Mrs Brian Norris' Ford Popular is then a reference to, but Ceiling Cat alone knows what the "RA 1" "RA 2" bit means...
The sketch itself drags on for considerably longer than it can justify, though the contrast between the narration (by Idle) taking the concept seriously and the visuals we see, which contains all the actual gags, means there is some merit to it. Mr Norris seems an obvious forerunner of Mr Pither, whom we shall meet later on this season.
How to do it is an obvious send-up of Blue Peter (two of the schoolboys - Idle and Gilliam - in the sketch that precedes and leads into it are either wearing Blue Peter badges or else close copies of them), though done in a cramped studio set. This being the BBC, you would expect that any sketch show attempting such a thing these days would make use of the real Blue Peter studio, but this sketch ends with the revelation that the tiny studio was sat in the corner of the living room belonging to one of a pair of pepperpots - Jones and Palin.
Palin's character is Mrs N*****-Baiter, and is named as such, out loud and in full, three times over the course of the sketch. The conceit is a funny one - that she talks to Cleese's character as though he were still only a toddler, even though he is "Minister for Overseas Development" - but the joke name has dated so poorly that this is now one of the hardest Monty Python sketches to watch.
After a few lesser sketches (including the Farming Club special on Tchaikovsky, and Trim-Jeans Theatre), which have some good moments but are hardly classics, we get what is possibly the shortest Monty Python sketch to have obtained 'classic' status: the fish-slapping dance. The big laugh comes from Palin getting blatted into the water by Cleese, and the following animation, though it does follow on from the first bit, isn't really worth counting as part of the same sketch. It gets decidedly 'lacist' once the Chinese fish-ship arrives on the scene, with traditional '70s sketch show l-and-r-swapping accents. There'll be plenty more of this sort of thing later on in the season, unfortunately.
Some stock footage of a model of the Titanic sinking (perhaps taken from the 1958 film A Night to Remember?) leads in to the next sketch, where the crew are making the "women and children first" announcement while in the process of disguising themselves as women and children... until they run out of those costumes and have to start adding to the list of those who are allowed to escape first.
"The BBC is short of money" is the next sketch, and never mind the racist bits from earlier, this is probably the sketch the BBC would most like us to forget, since it feels all too topical when compared to the BBC we have nowadays. It would have been even more satirical if they had turned the Flying Circus into a panel show - much cheaper than a sketch show.
Julia Breck, more frequently to be seen in Spike Milligan's Q series where she would be a regular later on in the '70s, makes a single appearance here as Puss in Boots. I do like the bit where the screen wobbles as though going to a flashback, then doesn't. Cleese and Jones time their "Go on!" and "Oh..." (of disappointment) perfectly.
The BBC finally get thrown out of the flat and they commit to the joke all the way through the credits, having them on pieces of paper scattered across the floor.
The show isn't quite over, since after the fade out another programme starts up. It's It's.
This features the actual Lulu and Ringo Starr, only the second time the show has had celebrities appear as themselves (after Reginald Bosanquet at the end of the second season), and they have gone straight to the early-1970s A-list for these two. The trouble is, when the It's Manny tries to introduce the programme, as soon as he says "It's" the theme music starts up, drowning out anything else that is said and causing the two guests to walk out. A lovely little sketch and a fabulous use of the big-name guests.
Twenty-nine
This is a high point (possibly even the high point) of season three, containing as it does one of the series' most famous sketches, and deservedly so. But that comes near the end, first we get the title sequence to The Money Programme (including its real theme tune, one of the all time greats). This plays in full, and the first indication we get that this isn't the real The Money Programme (other than it being on a Monty Python's Flying Circus DVD) is when Eric Idle appears as the presenter. His rant about how much he loves money leads into the song "There is nothing quite as wonderful as money" and is a great start to the show. This is followed by the real programme titles.
Elizabeth R had finished its original BBC broadcast only eight or nine months before this episode was recorded. Now here we have Erizabeth L, a "sullearist" send up where the Tudor nobility are all on motorized bicycles and they all swap their ls and rs in every word like the racist caricature of Engrish - even the superimposed captions "Episode Thlee" and "The Almada" do it. With Terry Jones in yellowface as the director insisting upon this (even correcting one of the actors' "Groucester" to "Groucestel") it would be tough to defend this sketch at the best of times, and is arguably even more racist than "Mrs N*****-Baiter" was in the last episode since they clearly knew that this was transgressive even at the time.
It is still pretty funny though. I love the touch that when Cleese turns up as "Inspector Leopard" to arrest Jones as "Yakamoto" the court announces him with a fanfare. The theme of police violence continues from two episodes ago, although as this was the first show of the season to be recorded we could instead claim that it started here.
"The Church Police" sketch isn't very funny, though it does contain the memorable image of the giant paw of God descending into the studio set to point at Eric Idle.
The jungle restaurant sketch features an actual black manny. Obviously he doesn't have any lines, and it is Palin blacked up who plays "Mr Akwekwe" the restauranteur. I know I shouldn't judge a 50-year old show by today's standards, but it really does feel as though season three has already been much more densely packed with questionable racial material than the first two seasons - in these respects the series is dating more poorly as it approaches the present day, not less.
As the sketch goes on it starts to lean more heavily on 'actors forgetting their lines' gags, which I would consider a rare instance of this show sticking with a subject a touch longer than they should. It gets better when the characters start spotting the various film crews, which is a variation on the characters-semi-aware-they're-actors thing we haven't seen before. Unfortunately this ends with Terry Jones blacked up as his second director character of the episode (could this be a comment on how Jones was supposedly always trying to take over as the director on all the Pythons' projects around this time?), and then the sketch ends with a police inspector turning up, just as Erizabeth L did. The credits roll, and the picture fades out, to be followed with the BBC globe of the time.
"And now on BBC One, another six minutes of Monty Python's Flying Circus."
announces Eric Idle. This is both a joke, and the setup for another joke later on. The first joke can't possibly land as well as it might have in 1972, since nobody watching this on DVD is going to think the episode just ended, but I also think that they might have sold the joke even better to the 1970s TV audience if they'd had a genuine BBC announcer do the voiceover instead of Idle.
The show continues with the Argument Sketch which, no matter what any contrarians might claim, is one of the all-time classics. The "abuse" Palin gets from Chapman (carefully avoiding using any truly bad words that you couldn't get away with on the '70s BBC) is eminently quotable, and really the whole sketch is just full of great lines and exchanges - for all that it consists of "Yes it is" and "No it isn't" type exchanges for quite a bit of it, there is a lot of variation on the theme.
So many internets arguments of our modern era could do with being compared to the futile contradictions of Palin and Cleese, both at the top of their game here.
Obviously that's the famous part of the sketch, but for me it remains almost as good, just as quotable, and - if anything - gets even sillier once Palin goes into the other rooms. Take the
"No, no, no, hold your head like this, and then go 'waaagh'!"
bit from the "being hit on the head lessons."
For the third time in the episode a sketch is ended by having a police inspector turn up, and then it gets very meta as the inspector is also then arrested by a second inspector for "offences against the 'Getting out of sketches without using a proper punchline' Act." This inspector is in turn arrested for the same offence, and the sketch hard cuts away just as that arresting inspector is about to get arrested in turn, the infinite recursion by now so fully established in the viewer's minds that we need see no more.
The cut is back to the BBC globe, as before, where we are told (by Idle again)
"And now on BBC One, one more minute of Monty Python's Flying Circus."
For those of us watching on DVD it is clear that the show ends here, but one has to wonder how many TV viewers at the time kept watching, unaware that the programme had, in fact, already ended...
Thirty
"Ring Kichard? But surely that's not an anagram, that's a spoonerism."
"If you're going to split hairs I'm going to piss off."
I think more arguments, especially on the internets, should end in this way.
The rampant capitalism of the 1970s is satirised by the Merchant Banker sketch, in which Cleese's merchant banker is unable to understand the concept of charity.
"Er... I forget my name for the moment but I am a merchant banker."
This is a decent sketch up until the point where Terry Jones is dropped through the trapdoor (and we get a glimpse of a member of the crew down there), but then it turns into a sketch about sacking one of the two pantomime horses that the merchant banker's company employs. The mere presence of pantomime horses inevitably makes this sketch feel a bit Rentaghost.
The subsequent "life-and-death struggle" nature documentary sketch is also quite poor, labouring the point of its joke and using quite low quality archive material. In fact, this episode is generally sub-par for a lot of it, and only really picks up when we get to the sketch where Jones plays the manny who causes everybody he talks to to fall about laughing. This is sort of a cross between the 'funniest joke in the world' and the 'dull life of a city stockbroker' sketches from back in season one, but what sets it apart from them is the scene where the manny's boss (Palin) sacks him, and then laughs his head off at the misfortune he has just inflicted.
The next sketch is Palin delivering a mad monologue where he talks himself into making a strange gesture, sort of like an exaggerated imaginary page turning, whenever he pauses, so that we don't think he's finished speaking. This is immediately followed by a sketch about continuity announcers that is done entirely in voiceover over the BBC globe, and continues into the news programme that they were announcing. The real Richard Baker (another newsreader of the time, like Reginald Bosanquet who we saw in show 26) appears in vision only, drowned out by the sounds of the announcers, supposedly reading the news and also making the same gesture we saw Palin do in the earlier sketch.
This whole section is well constructed, with the gags nicely building on one another, and so a great improvement on the first part of the episode, but after this we get "The Pantomime Horse is a Secret Agent Film" whose title sequence leave us in no doubt that this is a Bond parody. But as it is back to the pantomime horse-based humour of earlier on, the quality also drops to a similar level. The music used for the chase between the two pantomime horses is another appearance from our old friend Devil's Galop, as used when the Spanish Inquisition were hurrying to the Old Bailey.
Yes and mew, it is safe to say this episode is not a favourite of mine, especially coming right after the superb show 29.
Thirty-one: The All-England Summarize Proust Competition
If you've ever tried to marathon the whole of Monty Python's Flying Circus then it's about here that it starts to get very brown and extremely '70s. Given that this is also the point in the series when they started including lolrandom things like having a loony (dressed as a sort-of clown) lean into shot, wave at the camera, then lean back out of shot, you may think you're starting to hallucinate.
The title sketch is supremely silly - though I've always found it never reads as funny on paper so I'm not even going to try to summarize it here, save to say that its use of the word "masturbating" as a punchline (technically a double punchline, since the following gag also relies upon it) seems surprisingly risqué considering the relatively tame level of bad language the Pythons normally used while on the BBC.
A sketch about camp hairdressers trying to climb Mount Everest couldn't scream 'written by Graham Chapman' louder if it tried.
Another very random sketch is the one that the Just the words script book simply calls "Our Eamonn," a name that doesn't do the sketch justice. There doesn't seem to be any central conceit holding the sketch together, only a lot of strange things happening one after the other, from the telephone operator who needs to know everyone's shoe size before they'll assist, to Graham Chapman coming in fully blacked up as "Eamonn" the primitive African warrior. It's quite unsettling, in a way, how much it defies rational comprehension. Plus they try to wring as many laughs as possible from repeating the word "yes" into the telephone, which the studio audience tolerates ('laps it up' would be a better phrase) far more than I do. This all takes place in a set made to look like a very, very '70s suburban home.
There's an improvement in the form of the language laboratory sketch, where mannys are learning to speak English but with certain accents or modes of speech. It contains some proto-Yes Minister satire, with the would-be politician (Jones) learning to say
"I'm afraid I cannot comment on that until it's been officially hushed up."
and
"While there is no undue cause for concern, there is certainly no room for complacency."
as well as an insincere laugh.
The travel agent sketch contains a few good lines (such as Mr Smoke-Too-Much having never had his name pointed out to him until now), but goes on and on and on, and of all the sketches that rely on tedious repetition for their humour this might be the worst of the entire series. I know that is sort of the point, in that it is attacking - savagely - the mundanity of package holidays, but having never experienced such a holiday myself (and never likely to, seeing as I don't live in the 1970s) it doesn't land with me. And it is yet another quite extraordinarily brown set.
Thrust is the latest in a long line of silly names for faux current affairs programmes. Cleese delivers a delightfully eccentric performance as Anne Elk (Miss), it reminds me somewhat of Uri Geller, although this sketch too is stretched out far longer than the jokes really warrant. At the end it crosses over back into the travel agent sketch, where it becomes difficult to make out what the characters are each saying, because they're all talking at once (Idle as Mr Smoke-Too-Much still continuously droning away in the background) plus there's the audience laughter on top. This is a pity, since it is the conclusion of the episode.
Never mind 31 episodes in to a Flying Circus marathon, this is a deranged experience at any time.
Thirty-two
This opens with a superb satire of Mary Whitehouse and her ilk in the Clean Up National Television brigade, as Conservative housewives wage a "war against pornography" which includes, of course, the BBC. It is packed with jokes, both visual gags and in the voiceover narration by Eric Idle.
This is followed after the titles with a very different, yet equally hilarious sketch of the Gumby brain specialist (Cleese) who is just as confused and stupid as his Gumby patient (Palin). Lines like "My brain hurts" have stuck with me for years, although really what makes it special is all in the performance. Palin recovers from almost corpsing when he has to deliver the line
"No, no, no, my brain in my head."
The second part of the sketch is almost as good, starting with Chapman as the surgeon being transformed into a Gumby before commencing the operation, and ending with Jones as the Gumby anaesthetist crashing through the wall (next to the door in centre-frame, a lovely bit of audience misdirection in camera) and anaesthetising Palin by smashing him on the head with his apparatus. Just wonderful, silly stuff.
"There's a man at the door with a moustache."
"Tell him I've already got one."
So opens the sketch with Cleese as the manny presenting a TV documentary live in a couple's home (played by Chapman and Jones - playing the couple, I mean, not the home). Cleese sexing up the boring subject of molluscs in a desperate attempt to prevent the couple from switching him off accurately predicted the trajectory of mainstream TV documentaries over the next 40 to 50 years, which means it was either extremely prescient or else this sort of thing was already going on in the 1970s.
That sketch could have been written yesterday, but I really don't have any trouble imagining that it was just as valid in 1972. Less likely to get shown on the BBC if made nowadays, I suppose, in case our current government thought it was referring to them... for some reason.
This is followed by a surreal sketch with the Royal Navy's expedition to "Lake Pahoe" which sees Cleese as an interviewer who becomes increasingly Long John Silver-like as the sketch progresses, and revisits an old theme of the navy being full of cannibals (per show 26) when Chapman, as the expedition leader, starts denying it before the interviewer even has a chance to bring it up. The lake turns out to be in the basement of a suburban house, which is a bit of a lolrandom ending, but it's still a fun sketch along the way.
Speaking of lolrandom, the show's last sketch is described by Cleese's character as "the silliest sketch I've ever been in," and Idle's character is a Scotsmanny ("the silliest person we've ever had on this programme") who orders a whisky for each of his starter, main course and pudding.
Thirty-three
Graham Chapman's A Liar's Autobiography, volume vi gives hints, or in some cases clear indications, about the bits of Monty Python that most interested him. Biggles makes several appearances in the section which blurs the fantasies of the young Graham with reality, and these seem heavily influenced by the "Biggles dictates a letter" sketch, particularly the bit where Biggles worries about whether or not Algy and Ginger are gay. The outwardly butch Algy admits it at once (and gets shot for his trouble) while the flamboyant camp stereotype Ginger denies it and gets described by Biggles (played, of course, by Chapman himself) as
"Stout fellow, salt of the earth, backbone of England... Funny, he looks like a poof."
Sigmund Freud eat your heart out.
This is the episode with the cutaways to characters who just say the non-sequitur "Lemon curry?" I'd say this is another example of season three trying too hard to be zany and madcap, like with the loony leaning into shot we saw back in show 31. This running gag does at least have a payoff later on, albeit a weak one.
Another obsession of Chapman's was mountaineering. The sketch about horizontally climbing a city street in the same way as one might climb a mountain is knowingly silly, with the interviewer (Cleese) and pedestrians alike moving around on the pavement normally. The mountaineer being interviewed, Bert, is of course played by Chapman.
"Bert, some people say this is crazy."
"Ah, well, but they said Crippen was crazy."
"Crippen was crazy."
"Ah, well, there you are then."
The stop motion of three men falling horizontally is charmingly low-tech, and I reckon that makes it more amusing than if they had found a way to do the effect more convincingly.
After a couple of shorter sketches including one where a lifeboat and a suburban house get mixed up, and then an attempt to make an exciting current affairs programme about storage jars, the extreme silliness of the show up until this point is paid off in a bit called "The Show So Far..." where Terry Jones reads out a summarised description of the show so far, and he sounds somewhat embarrassed at how silly the descriptions make it out to be.
This is followed by a sketch that was parodied by Rik Mayall and Alexei Sayle in a tiny but memorable cutaway in The Young Ones. It's the famous Cheese Shop sketch, where Palin as the shopkeeper has an enormous number of different ways to tell the customer, Cleese, that he hasn't got particular types of cheese in stock. Although I don't actually think it was, this feels like they're improvising their dialogue on the spot, and in terms of Palin-Cleese two-pawers, this is almost as good as the Argument Sketch - it is a highlight of the season.
Speaking of highlights, this is followed by 'Sam Peckinpah's Salad Days' with its extreme level of blood and violence, as cartoonish as it gets outside one of Gilliam's actual cartoons.
A cameo appearance of real-life newsreader Richard Baker, who already previously appeared in show 30, pays off the "lemon curry" gag when he says it in a confused way before the camera fades to black. They're in danger of overusing their newsreader cameos, although they're still a long way from being as bad as The Goodies, for whom Corbet Woodall was practically a regular.
This is followed by an audience-baiting ending to the show where Cleese, on a beach location dressed as a Spanish Conquistador (or possibly a Tercio) soldier but speaking as though his announcer character, announces that "the show is a couple of minutes short this week" and "there aren't any more jokes or anything." He then walks off and leaves the camera showing the beach and with only the sound of the waves. There really aren't any more jokes, so any viewers who keep watching expecting a punchline end up disappointed. I have no way of knowing if the full length of this bit is preserved on the DVD, but if it is then I feel that they didn't quite commit to this anticlimax as much as they could have, since the camera doesn't really hold on for long enough to properly keep the audience in suspense.
This sort of purposefully frustrating non-ending has been done better by later TV comedies, including a season of Smith & Jones where they promised in a song played during the end credits that there would be no extra funny bit after the credits, and were then usually true to their word. More recently than that, in the penultimate episode of Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle, Lee noisily pretends to be noming a popadom for ages, and after doing the punchline to the audience ("Every time you look at your watch, I start again") it continues "for quite a long time before we finally fade out" (as the Just the Words script book described the ending to this very episode). I suppose in a way the Pythons even topped this themselves with the ending to Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
Anyway, ending (plus another couple of weaker bits) aside, this is a great episode, containing several of the third season's strongest sketches.
The Cycling Tour
I always look forward to watching The Cycling Tour as it is so unlike any other episode of the series, being as it is the only one to have a central narrative running through the entire show and linking all the sketches. This even extends to it having an on-screen caption naming it as The Cycling Tour and no Monty Python's Flying Circus title sequence. With Palin at the heart of it, plus Palin and Jones playing a single character each and evidently heavily responsible for the writing, this feels more like a proto-Ripping Yarns than it does a Flying Circus.
This is also the episode with the least amount of Gilliam animation - confined to a couple of animated monsters integrated with the live action background, who are seen only briefly in the opening scenes before making their proper appearance right at the end. In the early scenes we are also introduced to Palin's central character, Mr Reg Pither, who is on the titular cycling tour "of North Cornwall," and these are excellent at establishing Pither's personality as we see him annoying every other character he meets and insisting upon asking a doctor (Idle) for directions.
"Oh all right. Take this to a chemist."
The first person who isn't annoyed by Pither is Mr Gulliver (Jones). After an accident involving the pair, Gulliver starts to go through a succession of personality changes. First he is convinced he is Clodagh Rogers, but this soon changes to Trotsky, with much humour arising from Pither being aware of the first change but not the second, so he's still treating Gulliver like Clodagh while he's now acting like Trotsky.
The action moves to the Soviet Union, where they are happy to have Trotsky back. Pither goes to the British Embassy where we get probably the most egregious example of yellowface in the whole of Monty Python, with Chapman and Cleese as the bingo-crazed Chinese Communists who have unconvincingly taken over the position of the British ambassador. With humour arising mainly from the old l-r swap and Chapman's character ("Mr Atkinson") being unable to pronounce "Cornwall" it is aparringry lacist but, I must confess, I still find it one of the funniest scenes unlikely to get shown on the BBC ever again.
Pither is taken to Moscow to be honoured as the manny who has brought Trotsky back to them, and it is this scene which gives us this quote, which I am reminded of whenever fictional characters are depicted as speaking English when they ought by rights to be speaking a different language:
But even as Gulliver/Trotsky addresses the central committee, he undergoes another personality change, becoming Eartha Kitt. Pither gets arrested and faces a firing squad, who turn out to be incompetent and miss him several times. My favourite subversion of the much-overused "it was all a dream" trope comes when Pither wakes up to find himself at home with his mother:
"No dear, this is the dream, you're still in the cell."
Gulliver meanwhile is now fully made up as Eartha Kitt, including long dress, feather boa and, sadly, full blackface and wig. But when he opens his mouth to sing it is the voice of Edward Heath that comes out, which the Soviets are less happy with. A thrown tomato restores Gulliver's mind to normal, and he is reunited with Pither just as the firing squad decide to charge them with bayonets...
CAPTION: 'SCENE MISSING'
"Phew, what an amazing escape."
If this were a conventional sitcom or dramatic piece then that might have seemed like a terrible cop-out ending, but in the zany madcap world of Monty Python it fits in perfectly. Then after the (normal) end credits have rolled it ends with the animated monsters, who are named Maurice and Kevin, dancing to a Clodagh Rogers number.
I like this not just for the unique structure, but also because it has loads of good bits and hangs together well as a whole, making it one of the funniest episodes of the third season.
Thirty-five
Eric Idle's character Mr Badger ("the silliest person we've ever had on this programme") returns from show 32 to ruin the first sketch with his silliness. He offers not to ruin it "for a pound" but by then it is too late.
I do love the simplicity of
"And now for ten seconds of sex."
(sound of clock ticking over a blank screen for 10 seconds)
"All right, you can stop now."
The sketches after the titles flow into one another, moving quickly from one silly concept to the next until Mr Badger again interrupts, as he does several more times throughout the show. This is followed by a Gilliam animation, then the Olympic Hide-and-Seek sketch in which the competitors can hide anywhere in the world so it takes years for the games to play out. In the filmed section with Jones out on the streets of London, seeking, we can see members of the public chuckling at the sight of him or looking in the direction of the camera. The ultimate punchline, that the years-long match is a tie and so has to be replayed, is as inspired as it is ludicrous.
The knight with the chicken makes his first appearance in quite a while when Cleese is seen to borrow the chicken with which to hit Palin. This leads in to the dinner party sketch with the "Cheap-Laughs" (Chapman and Jones) who leave their hosts' house wrecked and full of practical jokes awaiting said unwary hosts.
The sci-fi sketch about the economics of the planet Algon features some CSO that Barry Letts would be proud of, and there is a certain resemblance in particular between some of the scenes and the cliffhanger ending to part four of The Mutants. This was recorded in 1972 so is contemporary with season nine of Doctor Who as well.
And Mr Badger returns again at the end to read the credits in return for being paid 40p by the BBC. This isn't a bad episode by any means, it just has a tough time following after what was easily a series highlight.
Thirty-six
Erizabeth L wasn't the only third season sketch to have a marked Erizabethan influence, doubtless due to the broadcast of two landmark BBC historical dramas (The Six Wives of Henry viii in 1970 and Elizabeth R in 1971) not long before the making of this series. A large portion of this episode is given over to the sketch that begins with the "Tudor Jobs Agency" before swiftly becoming about a police raid on a seller of "dirty books." The two then get all mixed up as Superintendent Gaskell gets mistaken for Tudor celebrity Sir Philip Sidney, and he slowly becomes the character.
After swordfighting with two Spanish smugglers trying to bring a huge collection of pornographic mazagines ashore, Gaskell seems to have fully embraced life on the 16th century vice squad, until the arrival of his missing partner Sergeant Maddox (in modern day dress) snaps him back out of it. Alas, like a Shakespearean tragedy, things come to an unhappy end when Gaskell/Sidney is undone by his wife's secret porn stash, and Maddox arrests them both. This is such a bizarre sketch, in the way it blends the two disparate aspects back and forth, that it is really memorable, with a great central performance by Palin.
After a couple of shorter sketches we get the one about Thripshaw's disease, where Palin's patient uses the wrong words for things, and which contains the quotable line
"And the thing about saying the wrong word is (a) I don't notice it, and (b) sometimes orange water given bucket of plaster."
I sometimes think I know mannys who suffer from Thripshaw's disease.
More quotable lines come in the following sketch about the vicar that's obsessed with sherry:
"Not at all, vicar, you're one of our best customers... you and the United States."
There is an irony that in this sketch it is Palin who plays the vicar, while Chapman's character is the one who keeps refusing the proferred alcohol.
The end credits all contain references to pornography, some of them more explicitly so than others.
Thirty-seven
Sir Kenneth Clark of Civilisation fame makes an appearance in the first sketch, albeit played by Chapman (who doesn't even attempt an impression of his voice), before being knocked out by a boxer.
After the titles, we get the first Dennis Moore sketch - the highwaymanny played by Cleese who is obsessed with stealing the lupins from his victims. This first part is really only establishing the character, ready for later parts of the sketch to recur throughout the programme - a bit like the Spanish Inquisition only not nearly so good.
There's a very poor sketch with Idle and Chapman as two pepperpots reading their horoscopes in newspapers, although the studio audience seem to like it a lot. References to Roger Moore, Tony Curtis and Peter Wyngarde in the horoscopes make it very clear that this was made the same era as The Persuaders! and Jason King. This transitions into a sketch about doctors fleecing their patients of all their money, which seems oddly out of place in a series made in a time when the NHS was at its height, but I suppose is just following in the same vein of subversive comedy as the sketch about the hospital run like the army from the tail end of season two.
The second part of Dennis Moore starts with a clearly intentional parody of BBC historical dramas, as Georgian era courtiers discuss the great events of the time while standing around in a drawing room studio set without us seeing anything of the far grander events they describe. This could be a general piss-take of the whole style of BBC historical dramas from the '60s through to the '80s, but it seems most closely to resemble The First Churchills, which had a similar 18th century setting (though a bit earlier) and was broadcast in 1969. Another possible influence is the BBC's Casanova series from 1971.
Dennis bursts in through an open window (accompanied by the off-screen noise of the standard glass-smashing sound effect - must have been some Autons coming to life in the next studio over) and demands their lupins.
"He seeks them here, he seeks them there, he seeks those lupins everywhere."
After he's gone, it is revealed that one of the ladies (Carol Cleveland) has tricked him by withholding one lupin concealed on her person, although eagle-eyed viewers may note that they actually still had a few, since Cleese dropped a couple on the steps as he swung out on a rope. When Dennis delivers the lupins to the poor peasants, it is revealed that they have an abundance of lupins but still lack any of the necessities of life. Sending him back with a list, Dennis arrives in the rich drawing room in the same way, with the same glass-smashing effect, even though his swinging in through the already-open window is even more blatant this time than it was before.
The "Ideal Loon Exhibition" is an excuse for some lolrandom things to happen, then after a couple of short sketches we return to Dennis Moore for part three, where he is now stealing from the formerly-rich nobles to give what few items he didn't get from them before to the now-rich peasants. His backing singers point this out in their Robin Hoodesque ditty
"He steals from the poor and gives to the rich, stupid bitch."
This gives Dennis the realisation
"Wait a tick... blimey, this redistribution of wealth is trickier than I thought."
As a comedic punchline this is alright, although it does come as close as the Pythons ever did (as a group, I mean, not counting some of the opinions later put forward by individual members) to expressing the reactionary idea that one shouldn't attempt socialistic redistribution of wealth on the grounds that it might be a bit tricky.
Don't worry, though, as this episode is unlikely to get repeated on a mainstream TV channel ever again, thanks to the next sketch, Prejudice, in which Michael Palin says 13 racist or xenophobic epithets in the space of 14 words, at least half of which would result in instant cancellation if said today. The satirical intent of this is made clear by the superimposed caption that accompanies this:
"All facts verified by the Rhodesian police"
There's an obvious edit point as Palin moves from a standing to a sitting position, which does make me suspect there was originally something here that even the BBC of 1972 considered a bit much. Of course this could equally well have been a cut for time or because they needed to retake part of it, but given the subject of this sketch I do have to wonder...
"But as you know on this programme we're not just prejudiced against race or colour, we're also prejudiced against - yes, you've guessed, stinking homosexuals!"
The credits roll over Dennis Moore holding up a coach, only to then try to redistribute the wealth of the four occupants so that they all end up with exactly the same amount of money and jewellery.
Thirty-eight
The first sketch of this episode - the choreographed Party Political Broadcast - is missing from the DVD set* I have, which means it must have been taken from the repeat where that sketch was cut because it was so close to an election (almost certainly in 1974, when there were two general elections in the UK). Instead the show begins with the title sequence, without even an appearance from the nude organist, announcer, or It's Manny.
This is a great episode if you enjoy seeing dummies being hurled off castle battlements, since that is what the Kamikaze Scotsmannys sketch mostly consists of. It's supposed to be Edinburgh Castle, but lolno. The framing device of the many TV crew members trying to help the narrator with his barely primary-school level of literacy gives us a lovely array of '70s fashions to look at, especially Cleese with his mismatched suit jacket and trousers, and polo neck underneath.
There's a Gilliam animation that is a very on-the-nose parody of 2001: A Space Odyssey, but the exactness with which it follows the iconic sequence in which the primitive manny throws the bone in the air is what sells the eventual punchline.
The sketch about the intelligence of penguins sees the Pythons having a go at BBC programme planners, almost as though they somehow knew in advance that this show was going to end up suffering interference from BBC management.
The Kamikaze Scotsmannys sketch resumes and finally reaches a level of absurdity that it becomes funny, as the last surviving Scotsmanny, Sapper MacDonald (Chapman) fails to explode when on his mission, and the Russians call in their bomb squad to deal with him. There's an incongruous use of the Mastermind theme to represent the tension over their defusing of the unexploded Scotsmanny - I can only assume that tune didn't have quite the same associations in 1971 as it does today, where you can't possibly hear it as anything else.
The third season's obsession with "loonys" reaches its apex with the Spot the Loony game show (while we're nearly at the end of the season in broadcast-order terms, this show was the third one recorded so maybe the loony obsession was actually started here?). My favourite sketch of the episode is the filmed sketch with Palin and Cleese as two competing documentary makers fighting over the single microphone and camera crew. This escalates into a car chase with Devil's Galop played over it.
The end credits plays over a film of Edward Heath, and the "Spot the Loony" buzzer sounds repeatedly over it - you didn't cut that bit, did you, you fuckers?
Post-credits, there's a series of fake trailers for upcoming BBC sitcoms, taking the piss out of the Pythons' contemporaries in TV comedy since they are mostly variations on actual shows: Dad's Doctor, Dad's Pooves, On the Dad's Liver Bachelors at Large, The Ratings Game ("the loony life of a BBC programme planner with the accent on repeats"), Up the Palace, and Limestone Dear Limestone. As with other fake continuity announcements placed at the end of shows that might fool a casual viewer into thinking they were genuine, the game is given away by Eric Idle doing the voiceover instead of a real BBC announcer. It ends with the declaration that the BBC is closing down for the night, complete with an effect designed to look like a '70s television switching off. Suffice to say this doesn't really have the desired effect on a DVD played on a modern TV set.
* Actually the sketch does appear as part of the DVD set, but separate from the episode, in a lower quality version on the special features disc. I suppose reintegrating it into the show to restore it to what was originally broadcast was too much like W-word for the lazy bastards.
"These enquiries led to certain changes at the BBC..."
Thirty-nine: Grandstand
This episode opens with the iconic pre-1990 Thames Television ident and music, before David Hamilton (a genuine Thames presenter of the era) says
"Good evening. We've got an action-packed evening for you tonight on Thames, but right now here's a rotten old BBC programme..."
The nude organist, announcer and It's Manny appear as expected, but in place of the usual titles we get a title sequence for The British Show Biz Awards instead.
The sketch which follows is a scathing attack on luvvie awards ceremonies, and while the specific celebrities may be different now the general target of the satire is just as valid as it was 50 years ago. Eric Idle plays Richard "Dickie" Attenborough, who at the time was considered an arch-luvvie (perhaps today's equivalent would be Sir Stephen Fry?) who presents the awards ceremony by trotting out clichés in such quick succession that they become jumbled together.
Richard Baker is nominated for an award for saying "Lemon curry?" in an obvious callback to his brief appearance in show 33. Also up for an award is "the Oscar Wilde skit" which links into the subsequent sketch.
Here we see Wilde (Chapman), James McNeill Whistler (Cleese) and George Bernard Shaw (Palin) all trying to be witty to the Prince of Wales (Jones), in a sketch full of great lines and with a proper punchline and everything, but which is somewhat spoiled by bad sound, audience laughter over the top of dialogue, and poor directorial choices in camera angles and cutting, trampling over the funny bits. In my opinion this is a studio-based sketch that could definitely have been improved by a better take.
An excerpt from Pasolini's The Third Test Match fills a game of cricket with sexual and religious imagery, but the exaggeratedly eccentric direction always ends up reminding me of the equally oddly-directed cricket match in The Girl Who Was Death.
Fans of pre-decimalised currency will enjoy the "new brain" sketch, in which the UK's baffling old monetary system is used, despite this having been recorded in 1972 (over a year after the switch was made) and broadcast in 1973. Superimposed captions inform us this was an "Old sketch written before decimalisation" and that "1np = 2 1/2 op". More callbacks to prior shows come when Mrs Zambesi has to give her shoe size when using the telephone (show 31) to order up the new brain from "Curry's" and then the two pepperpots pass unexploded Scotsmannys in the street (show 38, which I suppose forced this show to come no earlier than it in the running order).
After a couple of shorter sketches, including a quite unsettling one with Idle as a manny who has somehow stolen a quantity of a doctor's (Cleese) blood, we get the sketch the programme is named for, being based upon the BBC's Grandstand, a long-running sports programme designed to keep BBC1 from showing anything actually worth watching on Saturday afternoons between 1958 and 2007. The presenter in the early '70s was Frank Bough, and Michael Palin isn't quite doing a recognisable impression of him - I doubt that I would have guessed that he was supposed to be Bough without my having done some internets research beforepaw.
The Pythons aren't done with taking the piss out of the awards ceremony, since we return there to see Attenborough using artificial means to simulate tears, and when he says
"And now for the moment you've all been waiting for..."
the caption "THE END" flashes up.
This isn't actually the end, since first we get "the Dirty Vicar sketch," supposed winner of "this year's Mountbatten trophy, showbusiness's highest accolade." It is an almost willfully unfunny sketch to end the season on, as Terry Jones's vicar character crudely sexually assaults the two female characters (played by Carol Cleveland and Caron Gardener) while shouting out lines like
"I like tits!"
I have to assume this was the Pythons sending up the type of lowbrow comedy of the time that they felt unjustly won awards. Well, that's another thing that isn't any less true today than it was back then. The show ends awkwardly with an anticlimactic fade to black.
