Monty Python and Philosophy

by Gary L. Hardcastle

  But our superior masters, Roman or British, ask no more of us than they ask of themselves—not one of the Queen’s native subjects can possibly fail to see his own Latin teacher in Cleese’s centurion, nor fail to see himself in Brian’s own cowering submission to correction. Romanes eunt domus? I think not. A hundred times on the blackboard and no blood pudding. And of course, if Americans had anything like the British confidence of civilized superiority, they wouldn’t make such a fuss about being the greatest nation since 1066. Americans go on so much about it just because they know it isn’t true. Don’t be misled by a few simplified spellings, you self-appointed purveyors of American superiority. You know you love the Queen. You know you do. Praise Brian for the self-loathing Canadians. With them around at least Americans can feel superior to one other passel of British subjects. Now have some back bacon and return to your seat.

  But there is more to it. One thing that is utterly lost on American audiences is how the Pythons use British class-consciousness as a continual source of contextual humor. Apart from the social situations themselves, the class consciousness is mainly conveyed by the various accents adopted by the Python characters, all the way from Terry Jones’s shrillest cockney up to John Cleese’s Oxbridge titter. It is no accident that the individual Pythons tend to occupy roles that cast them within the same class range of British society (with some small social mobility). But a lot of their posture towards all things British has to do with the re-enactment of their own class forms, made comic. It is the very rigidity of British class consciousness that creates the comic context.

  And here we draw closer to the true secret that was revealed to me by God. The British understand the Romans so well because they built an empire to rival Rome’s own—not only by organizational genius, or an unfailing sense of what is and is not important, or by a perfect confidence in their own superiority, but also by sheer self-mastery and utter repression of all emotional weaknesses. So, four weapons. Five is right out. And the unexpected gift that accompanies these repressions is, surprisingly, an ability on the part of Romans and Britains to laugh at themselves. Americans simply don’t possess this capacity, at least not qua American. The British, like the Romans, are fascinated with how well they can mock themselves. Americans, lacking the needed detachment, become unconscious of their own pathos. The Americans may laugh at the British, but not at themselves, and which is the greater virtue? This is why Americans could never have built the empire they now enjoy at the beneficent noblesse oblige of their British cousins (shame that the French got that phrase when the British own the virtue). Americans do not want to suffer for the sake of imparting higher culture to a barbaric world. They want to make money and B movies and live in Florida. Only their own comfort, security and wealth moves them in any serious way. Yes, yes, democracy, freedom, things of that nature, but it’s not like we will hop in our boats and go off to create it (not really). The British and the Romans willingly ordered their societies in ways as repressive to themselves as to those they conquered for the sake of civilizing the world, and without a moment’s doubt that they were the ones to do it. But of course, this is funny, is it not, or more precisely, “comic”?

  Are they able to laugh at themselves because their sense of superiority is so little threatened by seeing how comical it is? Or are they actually superior because they have always been able to laugh at themselves? This is too great a question. Neither God nor Brian has revealed this bit to me.

  A Good Spanking

  You may doubt that anyone, even a writer with a special revelation, could now tie together all this business about God being dead and the comic and politics and empire, but you underestimate the power of Brianic salvation. Your lack of faith is appalling. I should give you all a good spanking. Like an alien craft catching my fall from the tower of my own babbling, comes the saving stroke of an Italian pen.

  The idea of laughter as blasphemy is nicely joined to its class context near the end of Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, a historical novel set in 1327. An old Spanish monk named Jorge, the librarian of a remote abbey, booby-traps the very last copy of Aristotle’s (now) lost treatise on comedy. Jorge is unable to bring himself to destroy the blasphemous book (he is a librarian after all), or allow anyone to read it (I always suspect librarians of secretly not trusting me with their books, and really wanting them all for themselves). Thus, he poisons the pages so that anyone will die from the sin of reading it. William of Baskerville, Eco’s protagonist, a sort of medieval Sherlock Holmes (and proper Englishman), asks the old librarian in the climactic scene: “What frightened you in this discussion of laughter? You cannot eliminate laughter by eliminating the book.” The old monk answers, in a speech that would make even John Calvin proud:No, to be sure. But laughter is weakness, corruption, the foolishness of our flesh. It is the peasant’s entertainment, the drunkard’s license. . . . laughter remains base, a defense for the simple, a mystery desecrated for the plebeians . . . laugh and enjoy your foul parodies of order, at the end of the meal, after you have drained jugs and flasks. Elect the king of fools, lose yourselves in the liturgy of the ass and the pig, play at performing your saturnalia head down. . . . But here, here [indicating Aristotle’s book] the function of laughter is reversed, it is elevated to art, the doors of the world of the learned are opened to it, it becomes the object of philosophy, and of perfidious theology. . . . [T]he church can deal with the heresy of the simple, who condemn themselves on their own…provided the act is not transformed into plan, provided this vulgar tongue does not find a Latin that translates it . . . in the feast of fools, the Devil also appears poor and foolish, and therefore controllable. But this book could teach that freeing oneself of the fear of the Devil is wisdom. . . . Look at the young monks who shamelessly read the buffoonery of the Coena Cypriani.38 What a diabolical transfiguration of the Holy Scripture! And yet as they read it they know it is evil. . . . The prudence of our fathers made its choice: if laughter is the delight of the plebeians, the license of the plebeians must be restrained and humiliated, and intimidated by sternness.39

  Quite an un-British speech. This man clearly has no sense of humor. We see, now, why your soul is in such peril. You have been very naughty indeed. You shamelessly watched Monty Python’s Life of Brian just like one of those young monks, and you knew it was evil, not because it was funny, but because it unfolds according to the best principles of the comedic art. There is something very twisted about its being so good. So long as humor remains a mere ethnic joke of the working class told over too many beers, it can be tolerated, but raised to a standard of educated taste, even to the level of philosophy, it is more threatening to authorities, religious or political, in Jorge’s view. Such humor undermines the efforts of our serious “betters” to shepherd us toward order—unless of course (and this is what Jorge misses) those “betters” are Roman or British. If our “betters” are these psychotic Christians of the Falwell type, who cannot ever laugh at themselves, then yes, the comedy becomes a palpable threat as the humor becomes more intelligent. In the case of Monty Python’s Life of Brian, the better the film is at depicting the times of Christ, the more diabolical is the effect to pathetic followers of the dead God. Monty Python’s Life of Brian is, by the estimate of all the Pythons, their best film.40 Yet the British do not worry (much).41 How can this be sac-religious unless one has already taken the immortal soul too seriously?

  Now let’s consider your soul. You apparently have two souls. The soul you know about is human, mortal (as far as you can tell), and inhabits this world, this life only. This is the soul which “animates” your physical existence, brings you to life, moves your body, fuels your consciousness. The immortal soul, if there is one, is a sort of sojourner in this world, it doesn’t much like your body (and if you look in the mirror I’m sure you’ll see the reasons), and frankly can’t wait to get the hell out of Dodge (or Hampstead, in fact, especially Hampstead). If these two souls are really the same, it isn’t obvious. So which soul is in p
eril? Must you lose one to save the other?

  Getting Right with Brian (Just in Case)

  There was a morose philosopher named Blaise Pascal (1623-1662) who, in spite of his dreary mood, can help you. We have seen the extent of your sin. You laughed. You may think this not your worst sin, but if so, you just aren’t listening. I almost think you must be British. Anyway, Pascal thought too much, way too much, and left behind his fragmentary putterings which were gathered together and published by still gloomier admirers, and that takes some doing. 42 One of these fragments received the number “233,” and contains what is called “Pascal’s Wager.” I won’t ruin your dinner with Pascal’s words, but I’ll adapt his wager to your current dilemma, according my own less moribund, er, umm . . . “idiom Sir?” Yes, that’s it, idiom; thank you Patsy.

  So you know you have a finite soul. You also know that infinite things exist, like numbers. But here is a curiosity: “Infinity” is by definition a number, yet no one knows what it is, or much about it—for instance, whether it is odd or even. Yet, every number must be either odd or even. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. You don’t need to know, but you see it’s possible for you to know that something exists without knowing what it is. Your immortal soul is analogous. It may exist even if you don’t know what it is (and of course, the same for God, but never mind Him). And if you have an immortal soul, you have already wagered it: you laughed, not once but repeatedly during Monty Python’s Life of Brian. I firmly suspect you saw it more than once; you probably have the video somewhere, don’t you? You have wagered. Now what do you stand to lose and gain? If you have an immortal soul and the dead God isn’t quite dead, isn’t an ex-God, is only stunned or resting, you lose all. But if the dead God never was God, and you do have an immortal soul, then you don’t really know if you’ve gained or lost, since that really depends on whether God finds Monty Python funny—in short, if God is British, you’re okay—your laughter even counts as worship of such a God, you are among the elect, and will receive a fine German car in paradise (since it is paradise, it won’t be a British car). What I mean by “British” is that God is of the sort who not only can take a joke, but positively laugh at Himself. You have wagered your immortal soul, if you have one, on the chance that God is British. Does that make you worried or what?

  Now you may have no immortal soul (I mean others, yes, but not you), and in that case the bet is really off. Might as well enjoy yourself—where was the Castle Anthrax exactly? But let’s suppose you have one, so it’s down to God being British. We need some way to decide. The evidence is a bit ambiguous. I mean, the sinking of the Spanish Armada and Trafalgar seem to suggest God may be British. But it’s hard to be sure. We only know He isn’t Spanish or French. God might still be German, but here Nietzsche helps, since the “madman” was unable to find him there. If God is German, He is hiding or afraid of us or has emigrated (in which case He might still be British by naturalization). Since God was drinking Two-Buck-Chuck with me, He isn’t Italian. If God is Russian, everyone is screwed, starting with the Russians. No point in worrying over that. We might go on by this process of elimination that philosophers call “induction” until the salmon goes bad, but let’s use a handier method. Philosophers call it “deduction,” which is induction for lazy, impatient people.

  1. If God is not British, you are screwed (since you laughed at Brian).

  2. If God is British, you’re saved.

  3. God is either British or not British

  This last proposition (3) is where the cheating occurs. It’s called the Law of Excluded Middle, which is a fancy name designed to distract you from it’s real nature, which is The Law of I Shall Finish this Thought by Tea Time. If (1) is true, indulge your mortal soul for whatever time it has left. I know you watched Monty Python’s Life of Brian and you laughed—this hasn’t actually been revealed to me, I’m doing induction. You’re still reading this. Only three possibilities present themselves: (a) you watched the movie and laughed (like a Roman soldier); (b) you are going to watch the movie and laugh (which amounts to the same as (a)); or (c) you have nefarious intentions toward me and everyone like me. In case you haven’t noticed, if a’s and b’s are screwed for watching Monty Python’s Life of Brian, imagine how it will be for me. So if you have evil intentions toward my lot, have a little faith in your cheerless God and let Him take care of me and my ilk. Your “God” has already fed Graham Chapman to Lucifer and the rest of us can’t be so far behind. Be patient and have the courage of your convictions. So I know the rest of you are A’s or B’s, which means either God is British or it’s too late for you.

  I realize you want some modicum of hope that God is not only not French, but actually is British. Here is the hope. The strongest competitor for God’s nationality is, well, American. If ever a bunch of undeserving people was touched by divine favor, it’s the Americans—even luck seems eliminated as a competitor. Now, if God is an American, you’re a goner. And frankly, most of the evidence, with the exception of Viet Nam and Iraq, points to an American God. But consider: isn’t it right that only a British God could have thought up America? America is to Britain what Disneyworld is to, well, America. It’s an impossible gift, beyond human imagination, to be allowed to be British and to see what your entire culture would look like if it were a cartoon. It is true that America could never be as funny to the British as they are to themselves, but it runs a fair second. Yes, God is British and when the Britons had everything else God could give them, and became bored with it, the Supernatural Make-a-Wish Foundation for declining empires waved a wand. Poof. America. And here we are: watching Monty Python, not exactly getting it, but laughing at it just as cartoon characters would laugh at us if they could see us watching them on the telly. And if you must know, that is why the penguin was on top of it. The penguin was an American spy, not Burmese. It also explains the bomb.

  You can get off your knees now. Brian’s saving work is done. You’ve been naughty, but God is not an American and your mortal soul is healthy. Your immortal soul, if you have one, has my assurance that God is not angry, and that your enemies will all die at some point. I could be wrong of course. Now go away, or I shall taunt you a second time.43

  7

  Monty Python and the Holy Grail: Philosophy, Gender, and Society

  REBECCA HOUSEL

  We’re Knights of the Round Table

  We dance whene’er we’re able.

  We do routines and chorus scenes

  With footwork impeccable.

  We dine well here in Camelot

  We eat ham and jam and Spam a lot.

  —Knights, Monty Python and the Holy Grail

  Mynd You, Moose Bites Kan Be Pretty Nasti . . .

  This chapter examines the historical and philosophical context and significance of Arthurian legend and Grail romances to uncover the serious roots of this very funny film, Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Aristotle (384-322 B.C.) said, “The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet.” Humor is always rooted in truth, which is exactly why it’s so amusing. Looking at the intriguing, yet serious, undertones of Monty Python and the Holy Grail will enrich any audience experience. Now let’s move on before this book’s editors decide to sack the author or—worse—forty specially-trained, Ecuadorian mountain llamas decide to take over.

  Why the Pythons Chose Arthur and the Grail

  Monty Python and the Holy Grail is the top-rated comedic film in Great Britain according to the British Press Association, and the film ranks highly with American audiences, too. In fact, the popularity of the film in America has spilled over into other entertainment venues, notably the musical based on the film, Spamalot, directed by Mike Nichols and written by Eric Idle. As they would later do with their controversial film Monty Python’s Life of Brian, the Pythons chose a subject iconic in Western popular culture.

  King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table stand tall as chivalric heroes in popular culture. The legend arose during a time in Europe whe
n there were four distinct and powerful mythological strands: the classical Roman, classical Greek, Germanic, and Celtic strands. Arthurian and Grail romances developed during 1150 to 1250 A.D., with the help of Chretien de Troyes, Wolfram von Eschenbach, and Sir Thomas Malory. Each of these authors crafted different renditions of the quest for the Holy Grail over the course of approximately one hundred years. Like all mythology, these romances reflected their time by assimilating various cultural notions from the four mythological strands. The cultural tapestry of Arthurian and Grail romances is woven from a patriarchal warrior society and what Joseph Campbell, famous for his scholarly work on world cultures and religions, called an “earthoriented, mother-goddess society,” with an overlay of Christianity.44 The romances represent the idea of the individual and the individual path, an idea derived from the four mythological strands. They also combine the Christian notion of community with an emphasis on rules and laws. The result is a powerful and patriarchal cultural stew.

  The Pythons, however, changed the recipe. They wrote and produced Monty Python and the Holy Grail in the early 1970s in the midst of a growing movement for women’s liberation. In 1968 Britain legalized abortion, followed by the United States’ legalization of abortion in 1973 and France’s two years later. Britain’s Sex Discrimination Act of 1975 also gave women greater equality. Yet in that same year the movement faced resistance in the United States, for example in the Hyde Amendment of 1976 (which cut federal funding for abortions) and in increased criticism of foreign aid for programs tolerant of abortion. Still, women were gaining political power, with nineteen women elected to the U.S. Congress in 1975 and 604 elected to state legislatures in the same year. Much as the Arthurian legends reflect the cultural and political currents of their time, Monty Python and the Holy Grail reflects these developments.