Monty Python and Philosophy

by Gary L. Hardcastle

  But there is a twist. Arthurian legend has traditionally been used to maintain and endorse patriarchal ideas and attitudes. From the days of King Edward of Britain in 1286 to the modern Boy Scout movement (its founder, Britain’s Sir Robert Baden-Powell, even inscribed Arthurian legend as historic fact in his Boy Scout manual’s Knight’s Code) the legend has trumpeted the importance of male gender in society. With Monty Python, however, the connective tissue between the world politics of the women’s movement and Arthurian legend in the film is flipped. The Pythons use Arthurian legend to speak to the absurdity of patriarchy and its reverberations in the twentieth century.

  Some of these reverberations are philosophical. The Pythons are infamous for their use of philosophy and, in particular, for their attention to analytic philosophy. Monty Python and the Holy Grail has a strong thread of analytic philosophy—a philosophical program that analyzes individual statements. It endorses a kind of atomism—the idea that an idea can be understood best by breaking down the whole to its separate parts, and examining the relationships among the parts. Atomism opposes the philosophical idea of holism, according to which the whole is primary and greater than the sum of its parts. Joseph Campbell finds holism at the core of mythic stories about the hero. Such stories feature a theme of transcendence through which the hero journeys from duality to an underlying singularity and unity with the universe.45 Parmenides (around 515 B.C.-450 B.C.) perhaps set the stage for this kind of quest, famously writing that “All is One. Nor is it divisible, wherefore it is wholly continuous.”

  However holistic, Grail romances specifically highlight the significance of the individual’s path. Arthur and his knights receive the call to search for the Holy Grail, and each knight decides to seek the Grail by taking separate paths. The search is not conducted by a group, but by separate individuals—a circumstance that allowed the Pythons to disentangle and highlight different aspects of patriarchal society.

  Come On, You Pansy!

  Traditional masculine ethics are based on an abstract idea of morality—outside of relationships and emotions.46 This abstract notion of right and wrong leaves no room for negotiation. Negotiating is more common to feminine ethics or care ethics. Care ethics holds that relationships—and not abstract principles—are the motivating factors in moral development.47 Consider the scene in which King Arthur, played by Graham Chapman, and his faithful, coconut-clacking servant, Patsy, “ride” through the wood and come upon the Black Knight. The Black Knight, played by John Cleese, battles the Green Knight in defense of a footbridge, and Arthur is duly impressed.48 Naturally, he invites the Black Knight to join his quest for the Grail. But the Black Knight refuses and challenges Arthur as he and his entourage attempt to cross the footbridge.

  Enter masculine ethics. The Black Knight must protect the footbridge, regardless of who tries to cross. There will be, so far as he and his masculine ethics are concerned, no negotiation, no exceptions, no exploration of gray areas and examining relationships from different angles. The Black Knight is compelled by his duty to this idea (“None shall pass,” he intones) and this idea only as it functions in the moral abstract. Relationships, in particular, don’t matter. Arthur’s protest that he is “King of the Britons,” is of no consequence to the Black Knight. “None,” after all, “shall pass.”

  Once they begin their battle, Arthur promptly chops off the Black Knight’s left arm. “’Tis but a scratch,” claims the Black Knight, refusing to back down. His aggressive masculinity is an absolute component of his ethics, and will not be compromised by inconveniences such as missing limbs or extreme pain. To give in to those would only amount to “crying like a girl.” That’s for “pansies.”

  Soon, the Black Knight is a fountain of blood standing on a single leg. Yet he continues to goad Arthur—who watches this spectacle without suffering a scratch—into the breach. “Come here!” the Black Knight yells. “What are you going to do, bleed on me?” Arthur asks sarcastically. “I’m invincible!” replies the Black Knight. “You’re a loony,” replies Arthur, speaking as much to the Black Knight as to the masculine ethics that he struggles to maintain in his defeat. Even without a leg to stand on, he continues to taunt Arthur and Patsy as they cross the bridge and continue their quest: “Running away, eh? You yellow bastard, come back here and take what’s coming to you. I’ll bite your legs off !”

  We Have Found a Witch. May We Burn Her?

  Another scene opens with flagellating monks in the manner of Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. The monks walk purposefully in a line through a village street as Arthur and Patsy arrive to witness Sir Bedevere’s widely-known expertise in science and logic. But Bedevere appears to be known for something else as well.

  First, Bedevere is confronted by a group of villagers who have dressed up a young woman to look like a stereotypical witch. Bedevere examines the woman and takes testimony about her alleged mischief from the villagers. One, played by John Cleese, explains that this witch turned him into a newt. “She turned you into a newt?” Bedevere asks, and there follows a long, puzzled silence. “I got better,” Cleese’s villager sheepishly explains. Bedevere’s logical gymnastics are no match for these villagers’ stories, but he grants that the woman may yet be a witch. To know for sure, he explains, she must be weighed. She may be a witch only if she is made of wood and weighs the same as a duck (because both ducks and wood float on water). Impressed by this faulty logic, the villagers follow Bedevere to his grand scales (much like the scales of justice) to weigh the young woman against a duck. If the scales balance, the young woman must be made of wood, and is therefore . . . a witch.

  But it is not Bedevere’s logical loops that impress King Arthur. Once again (remember the Black Knight) Arthur is easily impressed. As he observes the wise Bedevere in action, the homo-erotic subtext to this story of a witch burning is suddenly no longer subtextual. The male bonding begins as Arthur invites Bedevere to join the quest for the Holy Grail; Bedevere drops to his knees and grovels in submission, and Arthur unsheathes his very large sword which he taps on Bedevere’s shoulders, thus dubbing him Sir Bedevere. As these bonds fall into place, however, the angry mob, eager for a witch burning, has dragged the young woman off screen and, despite the fact that she seems to weigh more than a duck, are surely up to no good. But these realities are of little concern for Arthur and Bedevere, now infatuated with each other, their shared sense of masculine ethics, and their shared quest for the Holy Grail.

  We Have but One Punishment. . . . You Must Tie Her Down on the Bed and Spank Her

  Arthurian legend and sadomasochism? Consider Sir Galahad the Chaste, played by Michael Palin. On his journey, he is lured into the Castle Anthrax by a Grail-shaped beacon and confronted with the unspeakable terror of a bevy of most-willing and unchaperoned beauties. Here the film addresses the theme of the individual’s path—the crux of all the Grail romances. Seeking individuality, these stories suggest, has a greater reward than following the desires of others. So imagine Galahad the Chaste’s predicament.

  Slowly, he warms to the idea. The women have requested that Galahad punish each and every one of them by tying them to a bed, then spanking, and then engaging in oral sex, that epitome of male sexual desire. But just as Palin is being led off to the bathing area to prepare for his tasks, he is intercepted by Sir Launcelot, played by John Cleese, who arrives at the castle with his knights to save Galahad from such unholy temptation. After all, on this most holy of quests, Launcelot counsels, Galahad must maintain his devotion to the search and the common good. The idea is an old one in Arthurian legend and in masculine ethics as well: males engaged in their duties must not become “disengaged” on account of such temptations.49 As early as the Old Testament, in which Eve tempts Adam with an apple, women are portrayed as temptresses. Women, rebirth, and the feminine are often associated with the primitive and ancient symbol of the snake to indicate some aspect of deceit, such as having a “forked-tongue.” The feminine is also associated with mystery, unpred
ictability and, therefore, danger.50

  Castle Anthrax is as deadly as its name. It is full of poisonous, deceitful women eager to tempt the righteous and good men of the world, throwing up false grail-shaped beacons to lure unsuspecting, innocent men to their lair. Again, the image of the snake is a clear parallel as a poisonous and sly hunter who uses wiles, like projecting a Grail-shaped beacon, to capture “prey,” or unsuspecting knights, like Sir Galahad the Chaste.

  True, Galahad resists Launcelot’s efforts to save him. “Oh, let me go and have a bit of peril,” Galahad pleads. No, Launcelot insists, “It’s unhealthy!” “I bet you’re gay,” Galahad responds, as he adds one more layer of meaning to the scene and the film. In Arthurian legend, Launcelot saves Guinevere after she is abducted by the lord of an enchanted castle. Yet Launcelot, Arthur’s greatest knight, is also a fool for love and embarks upon a passionate affair with Guenivere following her rescue. The story makes use of a typical medieval hero-trial, what Campbell calls, in his Transformations of Myth through Time, the “Trial of the Perilous Bed” (p. 235). The trial always entails a treacherous bed that the knight must dominate in full armor. With Launcelot, the dangers of the bed involve being pelted by arrows (symbolic of a reverse-rape) and attacked by a ferocious lion. Yet with Cleese and Palin, the “Trial of the Perilous Bed” becomes the women of Castle Anthrax (indeed, Cleese uses the words “peril” and “perilous” throughout their exchange). Launcelot, moreover, is anything but a fool for love (unless it’s love for Galahad himself). Why else would he drag Galahad away from the beautiful women demanding his services?

  Er, Well . . . the Thing Is . . . I Thought Your Son Was a Lady

  Parzival was a knight of the Round Table. His Grail adventure speaks to individuals about seeking the truth from within. As Campbell notes, Parzival’s failure was due to his listening to others rather than himself. Finding the true self is what the Grail represents. During the twelfth century marrying for love was not common. Marriages were arranged based on social class, material possessions, and money—not love. Listening to one’s heart was not particularly popular in the shame culture of the twelfth century, where honor took priority over the self. The Pythons, of course, knew this cultural and literary history well when they introduced their audience to Prince Herbert, played by Terry Jones.

  Prince Herbert is sorrowfully sitting in his tower room awaiting his wedding to Princess Lucky, whose father owns large tracts of land in Britain (much to the joy of Prince Herbert’s father, played by Michael Palin). Prince Herbert’s father, the “King of the Swamp Castle,” has arranged the marriage despite Herbert’s protestations. Perverse as always, the Pythons cleverly present the reverse of what was typical in the twelfth century, where a woman would be forced into a loveless marriage. The feminine Prince Herbert despairingly writes a note describing his distress and appealing for rescue, which he fastens to an arrow and launches in a romantic gesture from his tower window to find its destiny. Well, at least the arrow comes close to finding its destiny. First it finds the chest of Concorde, the coconut-clacking servant of Sir Launcelot, played by Eric Idle. As Launcelot reads the note from the arrow, still stuck in Concorde’s chest, his eyes “light up with holy inspiration.” A sub-quest! There is nothing quite like a damsel in distress to provide the necessary heterosexual matrix for masculine display. Prince Herbert, though he enjoys musicals and notices curtains, is no damsel. The note only indicates a need for a rescue from the “Tall Tower of Swamp Castle” and nothing more. Launcelot is about to enter his “idiom” as he leaves the wounded Concorde, and rides off into the sunset to save . . . well, he doesn’t quite know who yet—hopefully, the distress is attached to some fair damsel and Launcelot’s own masculinity will be saved (especially after that scene with Sir Galahad at Castle Anthrax).

  “The whole sense of the courtly idea was pain of love,” Campbell states (Transformations of Myth through Time, p. 213), and in fact the Pythons plan on plenty of pain in the upcoming scenes. Launcelot, now in his idiom, ferociously makes his way through the guards at the door and the wedding guests—even kicking the bride in the chest! He slashes his way to the tower in a masculine frenzy of swords and bloodied bodies—anything for a damsel in distress. And there she is, sitting at the window. He kneels, presenting himself while averting his eyes. “Oh, fair one,” he says, “behold your humble servant, Sir Launcelot, from the Court of Camelot. I have come to take you…”—at this point he looks up and his voice tails off—“ . . . away . . . I’m terribly sorry. . . .” Prince Herbert responds with glee, “You’ve come to rescue me?” Launcelot reluctantly replies, “Well . . . yes . . . but I hadn’t realized. . . .”

  Poor Launcelot! The harder he tries to be a patriarchal paragon of masculinity, the more he appears to be just the opposite. Not to worry. Just as Prince Herbert is about to launch into song, the swamp king, a hairy, bearded man in a beastly fur coat, interrupts. Homo-social bonding ensues as the king and Launcelot decide to descend the stairs for a drink. Yes, the Pythons take the pain of courtly love in a deadly serious manner.

  The action continues with Launcelot once again striking out at guests before the king of Swamp Castle announces, much to Launcelot’s dismay, that since Prince Herbert is dead and Princess Lucky’s father is also dead, Launcelot and Lucky will be tying the proverbial knot. Launcelot is saved from this profusely heterosexual act, however; Concorde arrives suddenly carrying an injured but living Prince Herbert, who fell from the tower window (with his father’s help). Launcelot’s sword proves impotent after all, as the more feminine characters of Herbert and Concorde usher in a musical number affirming their presence. Launcelot moves toward a swashbuckling escape by attempting to swing from a rope through a glass window. Once again, Launcelot proves impotent, stopping short of the window while swinging pathetically in mid-air, “Excuse me . . . could somebody give me a push.” As the French guard says in the final scene, “You couldn’t catch clap in a brothel.”

  Gender misidentification, exaggerated masculinity, homo-social bonding, the heterosexual matrix, and phallic allusions abound in the preceding scenes with Prince Herbert and Sir Launcelot. Feminist ideas are clearly woven into the intricate fabric of the historical, literary, cultural, philosophical, and mythological tapestry of this brilliantly funny Python film.

  Yes, but What About the Killer Rabbit?

  There’s no time here to examine the killer rabbit, brave, brave Sir Robin and his minstrels, or the uncompromising Knights who say “Ni!” Yet beneath the humor these sketches also bear the imprint of the struggles—involving philosophy, gender, and social politics—that make Monty Python and the Holy Grail as much a document of the 1970s as a satire of medieval life and culture.51

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  Against Transcendentalism: Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life and Buddhism

  STEPHEN T. ASMA

  John Cleese portrays a schoolmaster in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life. One of his Bible readings to his congregation of schoolboys goes like this:And spotteth twice they the camels before the third hour. And so the Midianites went forth to Ram Gilead in Kadesh Bilgemath by Shor Ethra Regalion, to the house of Gash-Bil-Betheul-Bazda, he who brought the butter dish to Balshazar and the tent peg to the house of Rashomon, and there slew they the goats, yea, and placed they the bits in little pots. Here endeth the lesson.

  Cleese then turns to his chaplain (Michael Palin) who rises to lead the congregation in prayer:Let us praise God. Oh Lord, oooh you are so big. So absolutely huge. Gosh, we’re all really impressed down here I can tell you. Forgive us, O Lord, for this dreadful toadying and barefaced flattery. But you are so strong and, well, just so super. Fantastic. Amen.

  Headmaster Cleese then addresses the schoolboys with a series of general announcements, including the importance of “Empire Day, when we try to remember the names of all those from the Sudbury area who gave their lives to keep China British.” Almost forgetting, and clearly resenting its intrusion on these more important matters, Clees
e turns to one boy, Jenkins, for just enough time to deliver a message from home: “Oh . . . and Jenkins . . . apparently your mother died this morning.” Over Jenkins’s tears, Palin briskly resumes business by leading a hymn to match his earlier prayer: “Oh Lord, please don’t burn us,” it goes. “Don’t grill or toast your flock, Don’t put us on the barbecue, Or simmer us in stock. . . .”

  This sketch is emblematic of a philosophical mood that one finds throughout Monty Python’s work. But it sparkles in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life. This movie is filled with reductio ad absurdum arguments that reduce traditional positions to absurdity by drawing out their logical conclusions or by juxtaposing them in the context of our deeper (usually ethical) convictions. Here, the complete insensitivity of the Headmaster and chaplain to one of the deepest injuries that can befall a young boy (the death of his mother) is compounded by the elaborately useless verbiage of religious orthodoxy. The thing that’s needed most in response to little Jenkins’s loss, some humane compassion, is completely truant in these rituals and authority figures. So it goes throughout Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life—not just the cruel humor but also the suggestion of a causal connection. The Headmaster and chaplain are not just insensitive people who happen to be running a religious boarding school. They are in fact insensitive because their religion has led them to lose perspective and compassion.

  Much of Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life is a critique of ridiculous and dangerous distractions that dehumanize us. Among them are religious ideology, class distinction, science, medicine, education, and corporate greed. The film displays the myriad ways that humans alienate each other and also alienate themselves from their own happiness. In the section titled “Birth,” for example, we see the way that modern medicine objectifies and abstracts a patient into a meaningless afterthought that gets significantly less consideration than the expensive equipment that fills the “fetusfrightening room.” The “machine that goes ‘ping’”—as the Python-doctors call it—is more valuable than the mother and newborn child. Their humanity has been crowded out by profit-driven corporate healthcare and sterile technology. As the Pythons’ depiction of life’s cycle continues (into the section titled “Growth and Learning”) we see institutional education deadening the spirit of young people. Even sex education, illustrated vividly by “teacher” Cleese and Patricia Quinn, becomes a dry pedantic exercise that simply affords the abusive tutor one more excuse to berate and scold his students. All these comments, moreover, come on the heels of the film’s surrealistic “short feature presentation” depicting a mutiny by the oppressed workers of the Crimson Permanent Assurance Corporation. Despite the transformation of their office building into a fierce, seaworthy battle-ship, and their swordfight victories over their corporate foes (including the Very Big Corporation of America), they meet an inglorious end as they sail off the edge of the earth into oblivion.