A merchant banker is perhaps the ultimate market participant, and the Pythons choose this role to explore the mindset that the market promotes. In the “Merchant Banker” sketch (Monty Python’s Flying Circus, Episode 30, “Blood, Devastation, Death, War and Horror”) a man enters the merchant banker’s office to request a pound to help the orphan’s home. The merchant banker is quite puzzled—is this a loan? Is he buying a stock? Once the idea of a charitable donation is clarified, he frowns and says, “I don’t want to seem stupid, but it looks to me as though I’m a pound down on the whole deal.” Here we see the first important limitation of the marketplace—there are important social needs which it simply cannot meet. The marketplace can only work when all the participants have something to exchange. To handle the social problems associated with poverty, a utilitarian who wants to promote overall happiness will have to turn to some other institution, whether it be private charity or the government.
Limitations of the marketplace show up even when we have something to trade. There are some interactions that the market does not seem suitable for. This point is brought out vividly in the “Job Hunter” sketch (Episode 24, “How Not to Be Seen”). A man enters an office to apply for a job as an assistant editor. Before he can even get started, however, the interviewer starts bargaining with him for his briefcase and umbrella. The interviewer says, “take a seat” and then says “I see you chose the canvas chair with the aluminum frame. I’ll throw that in. That, and the fiver, for the briefcase and the umbrella.” In frustration the job hunter says that his briefcase and umbrella are not for sale. The interviewer replies “‘Not for sale’, what does that mean?” We laugh at this scene because we recognize that some interactions cannot be understood as market transactions. Unlike charity, which is logically incompatible with market exchange, these interactions are at least compatible with the market. However, to treat every interaction as a negotiation is to lose important dimensions of human relationships. Some parts of our lives, such as family relations, friendship, and even many of the daily interactions we have with fellow members of our community, cannot be treated in market terms without a loss of value.
Important criticisms of the marketplace have come from Marxist thought, and the Pythons show a serious interest in the critical resources Marxism makes available. They draw particular attention to market ideology—the various ways that the capitalistic system shapes the very beliefs and desires that we form. A particularly ironic illustration is provided in the “Communist Quiz” sketch (Episode 25, “Spam”). We see Karl Marx and a collection of famous Marxist leaders (Mao, Lenin, Castro, and Che Guevara) on a talk show. We assume that it is a standard, BBC-style serious discussion. Instead, the various thinkers are asked sports trivia questions about British football. As in many game shows, the contestants are battling for living-room furniture—a traditional object of bourgeois consumer ambition. The skit draws a sharp contrast between the seriousness of the leaders and the triviality of cultural obsessions with sports and consumer goods. This contrast highlights the way that our desires are shaped by market ideology even as it reveals the sometimes troubling conflict between the market ideology and our non-commercial beliefs and values.
The Marxist theme of alienation is another subject that the Pythons frequently explore. A common theme in the sketches is the longing for a job with greater significance. The head of the Careers Advisory Board says, “I wanted to be a doctor, but there we are, I’m Head of the Careers Advisory Board. Or a sculptor, something artistic, or an engineer, with all those dams, but there we are. . . . I’m the Head of this lousy Board” (Episode 5, “Man’s Crisis of Identity in the Latter Half of the Twentieth Century”). A chartered accountant takes a series of tests that indicate the job he is perfectly suited for is, naturally, chartered accountancy (Episode 10, untitled). But he really wants to be a lion tamer (and he has the hat). Perhaps the best illustration of this theme is found in the “Homicidal Barber” sketch (Episode 9, “The Ant, an Introduction”). A barber (who is simply pretending to cut his customer’s hair), reports that he did not want to be a barber. He wanted to be something more striking—a lumberjack! He breaks into song, joined by the Mounties. The humor of all of these sketches draws on the fact that a modern, highly specialized economy is extremely efficient, but does not necessarily provide employment that feels meaningful and worthwhile. The capitalistic economy can provide the resources we need to survive, but may fall short of providing the requirements of a fulfilling life.
Tradition and Traits: Virtue Theory and The Holy Grail
If we are seeking a fulfilling and meaningful life, a natural institution to turn to is our cultural tradition. We draw on this tradition for role models to emulate, such as a hero contributing to a noble cause. Indeed, the barber who wanted to be lumberjack might just as easily have broken into song to express a desire to become one of King Arthur’s Knights on a quest for the Holy Grail. What goal could be more worthwhile, what life more worth living?
The appeal of this approach can be understood in terms of an alternative approach to morality known as virtue theory. The heroic individual is the person who possesses the virtues, which are admirable character traits such as courage, temperance, and wisdom. The hero is a moral individual who lives up to and indeed exemplifies the moral standards of her community. In Monty Python and the Holy Grail much of the humor involves the misapplication of heroic virtues.
Sir Robin shows us precisely how to lack a virtue. Despite the fact that he is called “Brave Sir Robin,” when faced with danger he runs away. Sir Robin is not brave, but cowardly. A more subtle failure is represented by Sir Lancelot, who, in contrast to Sir Robin, appears to be brave. He charges into situations without fear, swinging his sword. In one particularly dramatic scene, Sir Lancelot dashes into a wedding party, where he hacks and chops away at the guests and guards before storming the tower stairs. Lancelot’s case, however, reveals another limitation. While his actions (and background theme music) map more clearly onto our sense of the heroic, Lancelot has not displayed bravery either; he is rash. Aristotle (384-322 B.C.E.), perhaps the most influential thinker on the topic of the virtues, argues that most virtues can be placed between two vices in this way; this view is called the doctrine of the mean. Thus, Sir Robin and Sir Lancelot represent the two extremes that allow us to focus on the Aristotelian mean: Sir Robin runs away when it is not appropriate, and Sir Lancelot attacks in an equally inappropriate fashion. The mean that Aristotle describes is not simply a mathematical average. As Aristotle says in Book II, Section 6 of his Nicomachean Ethics (W.D. Ross translation), “both fear and confidence . . . may be felt both too much and too little, and in both cases not well; but to feel them at the right times, with reference to the right objects, towards the right people, with the right motive, and in the right way, is what is both intermediate and best, and this is characteristic of virtue.” Sir Lancelot’s invasion of the wedding party starkly demonstrates the importance of having the relevant feeling at the right time and towards the right people.
Sir Galahad the Chaste provides another interesting illustration of failed virtue. Galahad appears to be pursuing the right goal as he follows the image of the Grail into Castle Anthrax. However, Castle Anthrax turns out to be perfectly designed to challenge Galahad’s virtue, chastity. As Zoot, the mistress of the castle, explains: “We are but eight score young blondes and brunettes, all between sixteen and nineteen-and-a-half, cut off in this castle, with no one to protect us. Oooh. It is a lonely life . . . bathing . . . dressing . . . undressing . . . making exciting underwear. . . .” Galahad is about to yield when Lancelot intervenes and drags him away. Galahad, meanwhile, argues that “it’s my duty as a knight to sample as much peril as I can.” Galahad’s virtue has failed because he has been misled by his desires. Aristotle focuses on the importance of judgment in the application of the mean, and it is precisely this judgment that is distorted in Galahad’s case.
It is important, however, that we not confu
se judgment with reason or the attempt to reason; good judgment is something more. Sir Bedevere the Wise can help us to understand this point. In a demonstration of unanchored reasoning gone wild, Sir Bedevere assists a group of villagers trying to determine whether a woman is a witch. He gradually helps them to see that since witches burn because they are made of wood, and wood floats, as do ducks, if the woman weighs the same as a duck, then she must be a witch. Throughout the film we are treated to other instances of Sir Bedevere’s peculiar reasoning. The large wooden rabbit is his idea. After it is successfully wheeled into the French castle, Bedevere sits outside with the other knights and explains how the plan will be completed: “Well, now, Lancelot, Galahad, and I wait until nightfall and then leap out of the rabbit and take the French by surprise, not only by surprise but totally unarmed!” It slowly dawns on him that although the rabbit is in the castle, he and the others are still outside. Bedevere represents an effective illustration of the difference between unanchored reasoning and genuine good judgment. Judgment requires a grasp of the larger context and significance of a choice.
What about King Arthur himself? Arthur displays numerous virtues throughout the film. In addition, he does not appear to be misguided in the way that Galahad is, and he shows sound judgment in numerous instances. However, Arthur fails to obtain the Grail. In fact, he is arrested and taken into custody as the two timelines of the movie (the medieval and the contemporary) collapse into one another. What went wrong?
The problem, I would suggest, is one of legitimacy. King Arthur’s quest for the Grail is only legitimate if his claim to leadership is legitimate. We are given reason to doubt that claim early in the film. A peasant woman asks how he came to be king. Arthur explains: “The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water signifying by Divine Providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur. That is why I am your king!” Another peasant argues, reasonably enough, that “strange women lying in ponds handing out swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony.”
A hero, in short, can only serve as a model for us to emulate if his cause is justified. While Arthur claims divine support, the basis for his claim is, on reflection, disturbingly mythical in character. Tyrants who do not posses genuine grounds for their power often appeal to such mythic claims to maintain their power. The troublesome character of Arthur’s ambitions is starkly demonstrated by his decision to declare war on the French in an effort to take “his” grail from them by force.
Religion and Rules: Deontology and Monty Python’s Life of Brian
If genuine divine support could serve as the basis for a good life, perhaps we should consider religion as the source of guidelines for this purpose. Religion appears to provide absolute rules that we can follow in our effort to be moral. The appeal to rules rather than overall happiness or virtuous character is associated with yet another basic approach to morality, one called deontology. Deontology asserts that what makes an action right or wrong is solely whether it conforms, or fits, to one’s duty. One challenging aspect of deontology is determining what duties we have. Religion supplies a possible answer to this question.
Monty Python’s Life of Brian has religion as a central topic, so it is not surprising that it can provide us with illustrations of the difficulties involved in drawing on religious rules. It’s worth noting that, while this film is certainly critical of religion, several scenes suggest that we are not to understand Brian as Christ—for example, when Brian is born, the three wise men leave his cradle to visit another newly born child. In contrast to Brian’s stable, this other child’s stable is lit by a holy light. The primary target of the movie is religious dogmatism rather than the figure of Christ.
Early in the film, Brian and his mother are at the back of a crowd listening to a sermon. It is reasonable to assume that this sermon is being given by Christ (another clear case of separation between Christ and Brian). At this great distance, it’s difficult to hear, and a member of the crowd reports that the speaker has just said, “blessed are the cheesemakers.” This example brings out the fact that before we can apply a moral rule we must have the right rule in mind. Even if a moral rule has a divine source, there is room for error right from the beginning—there are many ways for the text to be corrupted. Moreover, trying to fix a corrupted text can lead to its own problems. One of the crowd members confidently clarifies the rule by saying, “Well, obviously it’s not meant to be taken literally; it refers to any manufacturers of dairy products.” We cannot simply rely on the words, even if we do not take them literally. We have to develop an interpretation of the words.
Later in the film, Brian needs to escape from the Roman guards and literally drops into a group of prophets. To disguise himself, he needs to pretend to be a prophet. With this goal in mind, Brian attempts to reproduce a parable we assume he has heard from Christ. The crowd does not respond well.
BRIAN: Consider the lilies . . .
WOMAN: Consider the lilies?
BRIAN: Oh, well, the birds, then.
FIRST MAN: What birds?
BRIAN: Any birds.
SECOND MAN: Why?
BRIAN: Well, have they got jobs?
THIRD MAN: Who?
BRIAN: The birds.
SECOND MAN: Have the birds got jobs?!
FOURTH MAN: What’s the matter with him?
THIRD MAN: He says the birds are scrounging!
BRIAN: Oh, no, no, the point is: the birds, they do all right, don’t they?
FOURTH MAN: Well, and good luck to them!
SECOND MAN: Yeah, they’re very pretty.
BRIAN: Okay. And you’re much more important than they are, right? So what do you worry about? There you are! See?
Even if we have the right rule and are attempting to interpret it, we can still go awry. Brian’s failure to communicate a meaningful message to the crowd reflects his limited understanding of the parable. Interpretation is a challenging process, and simplistic understandings of the rule will not be sufficient to provide us with guidance. It is worth noting that the problem of interpretation is not restricted to parables or metaphors—even the most straightforward rules pose challenges, as the priest supervising the stoning of the blasphemer discovers. The blasphemer chants ‘Jehovah’ repeatedly, leading the priest to say “If you say ‘Jehovah’ once more . . .” at which point the priest himself is stoned by the crowd. The priest and the crowd have different interpretations of just what the rule against blasphemy entails, and there is no obvious way to adjudicate between them.
The dangers of blind obedience to authority are illustrated when Brian unintentionally gains a collection of followers. He tries to convince them that he is not the Messiah, but they do not listen. “Only the true Messiah denies his divinity,” a woman explains, typifying the way that the crowd reinterprets everything he says to support the conclusion they want to hear. This response reaches its peak when, in frustration, Brian says, “All right. I am the Messiah.” The crowd is relieved. “Now, fuck off !” says Brian. The crowd is quiet. Finally, one man asks, “How shall we fuck off, O Lord?” Their desperate desire to have rules to follow prevents them from critically assessing the commands they receive.
Brian highlights this point in a later scene where his followers have grown tremendously in numbers. After accidentally exposing himself (in one of the best uses of male full-frontal nudity in film history), Brian tells the huge crowd “Look, you’ve got it all wrong! You don’t need to follow me! You don’t need to follow anybody! You’ve got to think for yourselves! You’re all individuals!” The crowd replies, reverently, “Yes, we’re all individuals!” The one rule we cannot follow blindly is the rule that requires us to think for ourselves. The influential eighteenth-century philosopher Immanuel Kant (1724-1804), a devout Christian, made the injunction to think for ourselves—autonomy—the basis of his version of deontology
. Even a divinely inspired set of rules must be thought through carefully and critically to serve as an appropriate guideline for living our lives.
Knowledge and Nihilism: Science and Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life
If we want to think critically, we may be tempted to turn to science to provide answers. However, unlike the other institutions that we have considered, science does not provide any particular advice for living a good life. The great power of science is that it aims simply to describe the world, not to determine what ought to be. Scientific work, unfortunately, often threatens to undermine traditional sources of meaning and value. The result is nihilism, the destruction of all values. The German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900), famous for declaring that “God is dead,” put it this way in Book 1, Section 1 of his Will to Power: “What does nihilism mean? That the highest values devaluate themselves. The aim is lacking; ‘why?’ finds no answer.” The challenge that science poses for value is an important theme in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life. Some of the most powerful points are made, in typical Python fashion, in song.
Consider our sense that our individual lives are significant, that the projects we engage in are meaningful. Listen to “The Galaxy Song,” following along in your imagination. We start on earth, looking down at a revolving planet, then back away and to see our sun, then our galaxy, the Milky Way (with its “hundred billion stars”). We aren’t even in the center of our own galaxy—“We’re thirty thousand light years from galactic central point.” Our entire galaxy itself is just part of a much larger universe (though “millions of billions” of galaxies is probably excessive.) Our best understanding of the universe, in short, is that it is unimaginably vast in both space and time, and we play a role in it that is beneath trivial.
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