Recently an advertisement for a new Broadway show by the name of Spamalot started appearing on the sides of city buses. I viewed said advertisement with some interest, as I'm a longtime Python fan. I doubt I'll go see the play, as I can't see how a bunch of American theatrical actors (or even Anglo ones) will be able to recreate the insane genius of Monsieurs Palin, Chapman, Gilliam, Idle, Cleese, and Jones. If they even come remotely close to being as funny as the aforementioned gentlemen, more power to them. I can only imagine it would be pretty tough to beat those guys for sheer insanity and madcap delivery. But more important than this play is what happened to a seven years old boy thirty years ago. The year was 1975, the movie was Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and the unwitting (and extremely reluctant) parents of this seven year old were my own. Badgered by countless requests to see The Holy Grail (spurred on by commercials about said movie that somehow managed to pique an interest in the film), my mother and father eventually relented to the wishes of this very strange seven year old boy. Off we went to the N0rth Babylon Theatre to see it. Needless to say, I enjoyed the movie immensely. But the same could not be said for my parents, who were quite unmoved by the humor of it all. I'm fairly certain that my mother was completely horrified by the scene with the Black Knight at the bridge. Seeing a man get all four limbs lopped off, with the obligatory shooting blood coming from all sockets, was just a bit too much. My father pretty much remained silent about the whole thing up until a few days ago, when he said (thirty years after the fact) that he did think it mildly amusing when the Black Knight, with all four limbs removed by King Arthur in a ridiculously lopsided sword fight, declared: "....okay....we'll call it a draw!" Thirty years hence, I think The Holy Grail is funnier now then when I saw it at the age of seven. I get the more subtle jokes now. Back then, I thought the lethal, flying rabbit was hysterical. Now I think the obnoxious French guy at the top of the ramparts (in French accent, "I burst my pimples at you and call your door opening request a silly thing!") takes the cake, followed by Dennis, the anti-establishment peasant who's behavior was strangely reminiscent of what you hear coming out of the mouths of the likes of Michael Moore, Noam Chomsky, and/or their acoloytes. ("Oh king, eh, very nice. An' how'd you get that, eh? By exploitin' the workers -- by 'angin' on to outdated imperialist dogma which perpetuates the economic an' social differences in our society! If there's ever going to be any progress...") Then there's this exchange between King Arthur and God:
GOD: Arthur! Arthur, King of the Britons...oh, don't grovel! If there's one thing I can't stand, it's people groveling.
ARTHUR: Sorry--
GOD: And don't apologize. Every time I try to talk to someone it's "sorry this" and "forgive me that" and "I'm not worthy". What are you doing now!?
ARTHUR: I'm averting my eyes, oh Lord.
GOD: Well, don't. It's like those miserable Psalms -- they're so depressing. Now knock it off!
Happy Mardis Gras.
Spitfire
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