The year is 1979. The theater (or “theatre”-- we’re in Blighty now), Her Majesty’s Theatre, in London. The event is billed as “The Secret Policeman’s Ball”, a fundraiser for Amnesty International. The goal– Laughter! And money.
“The Secret Policeman’s Ball” is a reference to the common practice of bribery– if a cop pulls you over, you give them cash and say it’s for the Policeman’s Ball, a charitable event. “Secret” might refer to the secret police, as in the ones who torture dissidents. (Amnesty International is a human-rights anti-torture organization.)That feels a bit dark, however. Another possibility is that “secret” means underground, not sanctioned by authority, illicit– a comedic speakeasy.
This is the third “Secret Policeman” show, although this is the first time the title is used. The original titles were “A Poke in the Eye” (Show #1, released in 1976 as a movie under the name “At Her Majesty’s Pleasure”, which was a euphemism for incarceration, as well as “Monty Python Meets Beyond the Fringe”), and “The Mermaid Frolics” (Show #2, 1977, a.k.a “An Evening Without Sir Bernard Miles”). While the prior two shows were collections of sketch comedy and monologues, this show would introduce music into the proceedings rather spectacularly.
John Cleese created this series with Amnesty International Assistant Director Peter Luff and industry insider Martin Lewis. While the worthy work of Amnesty International was the rationale, it’s also clear that the comedy performers, mostly British TV performers past their peaks of popularity, truly enjoyed getting their material back on its feet and in front of a live audience. The musicians, on the other hand, look like they do this sort of thing all the time.
There were four shows overall, and the released film boiled down the highlights. You can stream it on YouTube here. But if you enjoy the utter boredom of having jokes explained to you, I’ll do a not-brief-enough recap…
The movie starts with the Secret Policeman, a cartoon cut-out, playing peek-a-boo with the audience from around the stage right curtain. The cartoon, a creation of Colin Wheeler, is a furtive, frowning, fedora-d figure in a trenchcoat, but the audience seems to enjoy him. As they laugh and hoot, the credits roll, with a “staged and (slightly) directed” credit for Cleese.
The first sketch is Cleese on a park bench being assailed with useless facts and observations by Peter Cook from a tiny book he carries. “Did you know you’ve got four miles of tubing in your stomach?” “If the giraffe could leap, pound for pound, as high as the grasshopper– they’d avoid a lot of trouble” That sort of thing. The interplay between them is hysterical, and at one point, Cleese nearly loses his composure. Cleese abides this parade of nonsense until the end, when he long-windedly insults Cook. Cook replies “Is that a fact?” and writes it in his book. Blackout.
Next, Clive James, a writer and TV critic, takes the stage to read telegrams from stars who couldn’t be there. He throws some shade at Kate Bush, but mostly it’s one-note and a bit mean. Of course, I like Kate Bush, and although James died in 2019, Bush lives on, so… karma?
Next, a short bit with Eleanor Bron and Peter Cook playing a couple arguing about whether she is pregnant. When Cook is forced to (literally) burst her balloon, she snipes “Prick!” Get it? Cook is the straight man to Eleanor Bron, who is so grounded in her insane insistence that the balloon is their bundle of joy. “I’m going to have a bay-bee,” she blissfully intones like a female Forrest Gump. A wonderfully simple sketch with a spot-on performance.
In the first musical segment of the show, Pete Townsend plays an acoustic version of “Pinball Wizard”. It’s amazing to see how fast and furiously he mad-strums those chords. He finishes the song with a demented yet endearing flourish to the crowd, which responds in kind.
Rowan Atkinson appears next with an English comedy mainstay– the funny monologue. Even more British, it’s a headmaster monologue. Priests and headmasters (and as we’ll see later, judges), are a huge part of British comedy. Headmasters in particular were low-hanging fruit– many of these men were sent to schools with stern and pompous headmasters. The funny students got very good at mocking them, thereby entertaining and avoiding getting beat up by the other students. The headmaster could still beat them, however, so they had to be discreet. Thus, at a “secret” ball, out come the headmaster impersonations.
The sketch is simple– roll call, with ridiculous names such as Hemoglobin and Undermanager, then teaching said class. He speaks the names with Atkinson’s trademark rubber-faced grimaces of contempt. “Babcock… Sediment…” But the really fun part is when he uses the names to then teach and berate the class. “Dint, your answer was unreadable, put it away, Plectrum.” Despite Atkinson’s masterful performance, it’s a very British sketch, hilarious to the English and just kind of silly to Americans.
Speaking of silly, Cleese and Palin emerge for the wonderful Cheese Shop sketch. If you’re a Monty Python fan, you are very familiar with this sketch, but it’s fun to see Cleese and Palin play it before a live audience. The only surprise for me was what a cathartic release we get when Cleese abruptly screams at the Turkish dancers. Cleese seems a bit hoarse as he plays to the gallery. After he shoots Palin through the head, as promised, he gives the last line to the audience; “What a senseless waste of human life,”, and then throws in a bow and a “Thenkyew.” That’s entertainment!
Classical guitarist John Williams is next, with a classical guitar song that I can’t identify. Chime in, Python Heads! But his fingers are all over those frets, and it’s a very pretty song.
Oh, what to say about this next bit? It’s like the theater version of Jackasses. Billed as the Ken Campbell Road Show, it consists of a balding impresario, Ken Campbell, in a tux and t-shirt, MC-ing and narrating an anarchical series of stunts performed (mostly) by Sylveste McCoy. First, McCoy walks out into the audience, leaping onto the armchairs Roberto Begnini-style, grabbing a guy, and promising to perform the “Indian Shirt Trick”. McCoy wears a kilt with tux jacket, smeared with bangles and medals, and a brown Napoleonic hat. (At least, that’s what he wears for now.) The guy is an audience plant named Phil, and McCoy grabs Phil’s shirt and pulls it off of him, without removing Phil’s jacket. Then he grabs someone else from the audience, not a plant this time, and does it again (with more difficulty.) The look on the man’s face as he is physically mauled by these people is almost too good to be true. Maybe it is? (Why is this the “Indian” short trick? Racism.)
By now, McCoy has been joined by David Rappaport, an actor and little person who will play Randall, lead thief, two years from this show in Gilliam’s “Time Bandits”. Here, Rappaport mostly functions in a support capacity, cheering McCoy on and holding down the audience “volunteer” as McCoy performs the shirt trick. McCoy then hammers a nail into his septum. Live theater, folks– nothing like it! More stunts follow, as they are joined by Marcel Steiner, a tall, bearded, prophet-looking dude reminiscent of Richard Libertini. (Steiner will be excellently cast in the last sketch, as we’ll see.) Now, it’s a model train aimed at McCoy’s testicles, which are very vulnerable indeed as McCoy has shed the kilt and the jacket and is walking around in his tidy whiteys, as Campbell nasally growls at the audience “Here we are, sensation seekers!” Finally, a giant elephant balloon gets knocked out into the “sensation seekers” by Rappaport, and the Road Show hits the road.
It’s a wild ride, to be sure. I’m not sure how funny it is. The laughs that they get from the crowd are laced with anxiety. “Please don’t pick me for the shirt trick!” There is a hostility to this whole scene that betrays us. Nobody wants a sanitized theater experience, but the lowbrow county fair sadism feels like they’re breaking the bonds of creative faith. Despite all that, the audience cheers when the elephant bounds out at them– perhaps in relief that they survived.
Following that is a young Jesus-y Billy Connolly, back in his folk-singer phase. He plays a silly country song (“My Granny is a cripple in Nashville…”), complete with yodeling and a lonesome whistle “Woo-hooo”. He tosses in asides and jokes, keeping the audience eating out of his hand as they join him in the yodel-y chorus. It’s a sweet, if slightly foul-mouthed, reconnection with the audience, after the tension of the previous entertainment.
The spotlight finds Eleanour Bron, a housewife and mother in the midst of a confession. No priest interlocutor, she’s asking penance of the all-knowing God himself. And things get difficult as she tries to parse what she needs to say, what He already knows, and what the purpose is of confessing when he already knows. The monologue doesn’t build much, but the conceit itself is sweet. “... And Janice turned around and gave me one of those looks of hers– well, of course, thou sawest the whole incident.” She finally expresses confusion– if thinking of herself too often is a sin, then isn’t confession a sin?-- but throws it all to God. “Whichever it is, I’m really and truly sorry about it– aren’t I?” Smart, introspective, and well-delivered. I’m becoming a fan of Eleanor Bron.
Rowan Atkinson next, in a tux with white gloves, mimes playing a Beethoven sonata. His expressions are hilarious, and he gets a few causal jokes in– checking his watch as the tempo picks up, making mocking face on the point and counterpoint sections. It’s all reminiscent of the Jerry Lewis “Typewriter Song” bit, only more mime than slapstick.
Cleese comes out next with a game show spoof, “The Name’s The Game”, wherein players from the audience, in this case, Terry Jones as ratbag pepperpot Simon YetiGooseCreature, must guess the name of the celebrity guest beating the crap out of them. Once he explains the rules, Cleese gives a ridiculously thirsty little softshoe to an organ fanfare, getting applause from the audience– but the sketch hasn’t even begun yet.
British TV actress Suzanne Church plays Vanna White to Cleese’s Regis, ushering Jones out. After some getting-to-know-you banter, they blindfold Jones and bring out a celebrity– Anna Ford, a TV news anchor, who starts to pummel Jones, kneeing him in the groin and kicking him to the floor. I don’t know why I was so surprised– Cleese told us exactly what would happen. The star of the show is Jones, who screams out the names of various celebrities while taking a pretty good fake beating. (I hope it was fake– these cameo performers are not trained stunt people. I’m sure was some substantial bruising going on.) After Jones guesses the name, he (she) curls up on the stage. Cleese kicks him over– “Would you like to come back next week?”
“Yes, please, Brian,” she responds.
That’s the pattern, and in standard “rule-of-three” fashion, they do it three times. The last time, soccer star Michael Brearly not only mauls Jones but (in a poorly timed felony), shoots her in the head. (The second headshot of the evening, both starring Cleese as a co-conspirator at least.) It’s a funny, angry, vicious little sketch, but it gives the guest celebrities a way to be funny without having to be funny.
Next, another musical interlude with folksinger Tom Robinson singing an angry satirical song, “Sing If You’re Glad to be Gay”. It effectively captures the burgeoning pride and outrage of the moment– pre-AIDS, pre-Clause 8– but it feels dated in the current times. That could change with the next election, of course, but we probably have a less “on-the-nose” way of pointing out injustice done to non-heteronormative people in today’s post-modern world. The song’s chord structure reminds me of Elvis Costello’s God’s Comic– minor chords that resolve into major chords– but not as funny. It feels like an uncomfortable sermon. I’m glad it’s over, because–
Next we get Peter Cook in a classic monologue, portraying a pompous and very biased judge summing up his case to the jury. It’s an instructive sketch. I had no idea “playing the pink oboe” meant masturbation. The gist seems to be that a highly placed politician took out a contract on somebody to have them whacked. There are witnesses, a money trail, and apparently the plot failed. (With a hit man named Olivia Newton John, I’m very surprised– she had a lot of hits.) But the judge throws shade on all of the evidence, calling one of the witnesses someone “with a criminal past, but no criminal future.” “You may choose, if you wish, to believe the transparent tissue of odious lies which streamed on and on from his disgusting, reedy, slavering lips,” he instructs, “That is entirely a matter for you.” It hit big with the crowd, and even Peter Cook seemed to fight cracking up as he referred to the hitman’s “pagan limbo dancing.”
Billy Connolly returns with some straight-forward stand-up, telling a story about two Glasgow men chugging creme de menthe because that’s what the Pope drinks. It’s fun and engaging, with Connolly’s shaggy dog style as he breaks from his joke to tell other jokes. Not particularly memorable. Between Cook’s rigid but brilliant material and Connolly’s more improvisational style, we get the meeting of two different eras of comedy. I prefer the heady brand of Cook’s satire, but I also appreciate the breath of fresh air from Connolly. Not every moment has to be a classic.
Speaking of classics– Monty Python takes the stage with their favorite non-Monty Python bits, the Four Yorkshiremen. Hawaiian luau music sets us up, and the four Yorkshiremen take the stage in white dinner jackets and black tie, smoking cigars. Representing our heroes are three Monty Python alums– Cleese, Jones, and Palin– and standing in for one of the absent three, Rowan Atkinson, ably disappearing into the role of the entitled millionaire trying to establish his superiority over the other wealthy bastards with his tales of childhood abject poverty. It’s a standard “one-upsmanship” sketch, brilliantly sending up the self-mythologizing upper-class twits who need to remind anyone who will listen that they deserve their privilege. Great exchanges like:
“You were lucky to have a room. We used to live in a corridor.” “Oh, we used to dream of living in a corridor! Would have been a palace to us.”
And on and on until finally, they are bragging about working 28 hours a day, being killed by their parents for their trouble, and grateful for the treatment, of course. It’s a solid crowd-pleaser sketch marred only by how Cleese strains to shout out his last monologue. The poor man seems to be the resident bellower in this show, and it’s starting to cost him vocally.
Next, we get the real benefit of a concert film– the unexpected duet. In this case, it’s Pete Townsend performing an acoustic “Don’t Get Fooled Again” with classical guitarist John Williams backing him up. Townsend’s vocals seem prayer-like, with a soft falsetto on the chorus. When he sings “We know that the hypnotized never lie,” he tosses out a jaunty challenge to the crowd: “...do you?”
Finally– The End. Most of the cast take the stage as a bunch of penitent monks carrying placards that read “The End is Night” etc. They surround Peter Cook, the prophet of this sad group. For a long time, they stare at him expectantly as the winds whip around them. Finally, he is asked by one of his followers what the fast-approaching End will be like. The setup is a platform for Cook’s understated responses, juxtaposed with his followers’ turgidly portentous questions. It’s fairly reminiscent of Life of Brian, where the followers are the objects of ridicule, and not the leader. A hilarious exchange between Cook and Atkinson takes the sketch to the heights of absurdity. In a slow waltz-like cadence, Atkinson asks in a voice reminiscent of the Muppet Show “Will the wind… be so mighty… as to lay low… the mountains… of the Earth?”
“You’re speaking too softly for the human ear,” Cook replies, “which is what I’m equipped with.” The back and forth goes on a bit as the Follower tries to get his question out in the face of Cook’s impatience. Finally, he manages and gets his answer. “No.”
When the time for the End passes and everyone is still there, they resolve to try again tomorrow. They leave the stage in a muddle, leaving one sign– “The End if Night”. Someone tears the bottom off the sign. It’s “The End”.