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I assumed this was the typical English crack about Americans being humorless or not understanding irony. It was that, partly, but more that Americans might not recognize the character types the Pythons portrayed to eerie perfection: Cleese's exasperating Mr Praline; Basil Fawlty's twisted cousin; Palin's pitiful Mr. Pewtey ("This is your moment Arthur Pewtey -- this is it Arthur Pewtey. At last you're a man!"); Chapman's fog-bound Colonel or his dubious judges; Idle's insinuating Nudge, Nudge or his dim, daft gels; the genteel bowler-hatted gents played by Jonesy; the Gumbys and the Pepperpots. (Rest assured, these people exist -- I've met them all, even Mr Pither, Palin's cycling fool.) Or that we might not see what's funny about class, or public school, or the welfare state, or Tories, or the BBC, or the army, or judges or policemen or drag (especially judges or policemen in drag). Yeah, all that goes over our heads.

Yet once entrenched over there a year later, I sensed what she meant -- everyday life in England can seem absurd and paradoxical, Magritte surreal if you will. (I mean that as a compliment.) Thesis writers stalking White City will drone on about Python being in the tradition of Peacock and Lear and Carroll and, well, Stoppard (he wishes he were half as good), or bang on Chaucer, Shakespeare and the University Wits. But, like most grinds, they'll miss the obvious and very mundane, quotidian nature of much of their humor: If you want a joke, look around you. They'll blow the dust off shelved music-hall routines, dredge up the Goons, deconstruct Footlights and Revue, disinter Peter Cook, go Beyond the Fringe, sit through countless episodes of "That Was the Week That Was" and other '60s TV shows, but will never meet a chartered accountant or drink Watney's Red Barrel (ugh!) or see Morris Dancing or be trapped into conversation by a trainspotter (hell, they are trainspotters). They'll never have the bureaucratic headache of having a gas cooker installed. They won't know what they're missing.

"Now where's that dictionary -- ah yes -- here we are, inner life ... inner life ..."

Enhanced hooey aside, my opinion of Python hasn't budged in these 25 years -- they're still bloody geniuses, the best sketch show there's ever been or likely to be. (The "British Fast Show," unknown here, is the best of the current crop.) Python is also better seen than read -- lots of fair-to-middling books out now ("The Complete Monty Python's Flying Circus: All the Words," in two volumes, is all you want) -- though seeing them is not as enjoyable anymore, what with the butchery A&E has wrought on them. Fortunately, the uncut shows and films are widely available on video. "The Meaning of Life," their true masterpiece, is a venomous, bitter gob that splatters every piety, socio-political and religious, I can think of.

Still, celebrating Python 25 later seems a bit naff (not at all fucking funny), not unlike superannuated boomers who strain their bypass stitches every time the Stones are wheeled onstage. (Can't get no! Can't get no! Satisfaction! Try Ex-Lax, guys.) Aside from the globe-trotting Palin, what have they done lately that can compare? "Fawlty Towers," "Ripping Yarns," "The Rutles: All You Need Is Cash" and "Time Bandits," were all long ago and far away. "Where does a dream begin?"

Our heroes are now merely going through the motions. After a string of successes in American movies, Cleese is waiting for that sealed envelope from Buckingham Palace; Sir John has such a nice ring to it, don't you think? (Turn it down, John! Hold out for that baronetcy that's yours for the asking!) Palin's next punt should be to outer space, first Python on the moon.

Jones will voyage across the pond to New Haven to be awarded an honorary degree in recognition of his contributions to Chaucer studies; maybe he'll teach there, a vast improvement for them. Idle, who isn't, will become a cricket announcer. Chapman's working his buns off in a series of afterlife "Carry On" comedies, joining Kenneth Williams, Sid James and the rest of the (non-living) crew. And Terry Gilliam, the lone Yank, will continue to let down the side, betraying the whole meaning of Python with his gargantuan Hollywood droppings.

I know what you're thinking, dear reader. I know what you want me to say, but I'm not going to say it. I wouldn't touch that Spanish Inquisition line with a Ten Pole Tudor. So push off.
salon.com | Oct. 5, 1999

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