Monty Python’s survey of human existence is uneven and frequently filthy, but its strongest sketches earn the wait. We recommend it for the musical impudence and the office rebellion, with patience required for some of the war material.
Terry Jones directs Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life as though the title were a reasonable item for a comedy troupe to put on the agenda. It is a good, erratic comedy whose finest passages justify sitting through some rather aimless ones. Birth, religion and war are all up for discussion, and the treatment frequently goes out of its way to be offensive. The sketches move between stages of life without following a single central character.
The insurance clerks’ mutiny establishes how well this comedy can work when an absurd idea is allowed to develop. Their building becomes a ship, and the clerks’ revolt becomes a pirate adventure. We laughed aloud at that transformation, because an office rebellion is treated seriously enough to deserve its own ship. The episode feels detached from the surrounding sketches, but it establishes a scale and confidence that the rest of the film sometimes struggles to match.
Every Sperm Is Sacred makes equally good use of doing something ridiculous with complete conviction. The scale of the musical number is part of the joke, making its title sound suitable for the most respectable occasion. The performers give it enough discipline that the rudeness becomes funnier for being presented so properly, without any embarrassed rush towards the next gag. Its elaborate presentation sustains a joke that could easily have been exhausted in a few seconds.
Cinematographers Peter Hannan and Roger Pratt give the extravagant passages a solidity that helps the comedy: the ship needs to look as though it belongs in an adventure. The photography lets us enjoy the spectacle without constantly insisting that we admire how peculiar it is. Harry Lange’s production design is similarly unembarrassed by the grand treatment of silly material, particularly around the musical spectacle. Occasionally, though, the elaborate presentation draws attention to how little is happening in a sketch.
The less successful choices are largely about duration. Julian Doyle’s editing gives the individual sketches room to develop, but too often preserves the pauses after the idea has stopped producing fresh laughs. John Du Prez’s score helps maintain the exaggerated dignity, treating the material with a musical formality that makes the bad behaviour funnier. That cannot rescue the passages that simply repeat themselves, and some of the war material is particularly short of worthwhile jokes.
Across the ensemble, Cleese, Chapman, Idle, Palin, Gilliam and Jones understand the value of treating absurdity as routine. The delivery stays controlled even when the material has abandoned good manners, which gives us something to enjoy beyond the offence itself. Some of the gross-out comedy does mistake the audience’s endurance for an endlessly renewable resource. The occasional satisfaction at having disgusted us feels lazy, especially beside the care taken over the musical number and the clerks’ rebellion.
The useful test for a sketch film is how often it earns back the attention lost during a weak passage. This one does so often enough to be worth an evening for anyone sympathetic to its thoroughly undignified view of human behaviour. The abrupt changes of subject help, allowing a fresh joke to get started without having to repair the previous one. Do not make it the compromise choice for a squeamish household.
