Monty Python and Philosophy (6 page)

It’s because the clown is marked as so ontologically different from us—especially in terms of his imperviousness to bodily harm—that we have no fear for his life and limb. We can laugh at the way in which his body with its incongruities taunts our concept of the human, because the mayhem the clown engages is nonthreatening. We need not fear for the clown; nor, in the standard case, need we fear clowns. They are, for the most part, benign. Thus, though monstrous, clowns and the other denizens of slapstick incur no horror, since no genuine harm will result in or from their shenanigans.

Mr. Creosote belongs to the same fantastic species as the clown. He is not precisely human, so we do not fear for him as we do for the characters in horror fictions. He is able to suffer through things that would incapacitate or destroy ordinary mortals, because he is marked as of a different ontological order. Because Creosote can neither harm nor can he be harmed, his monstrosity becomes an occasion for comic amusement rather than horror. This is one thing that Mr. Creosote shows us about laughter.

It has been established experimentally that children will laugh when confronted with something incongruous—like a “funny face”—if the face is offered by someone with whom they are familiar, but they will cringe if it is presented by a stranger. This suggests that our responses to incongruities, anomalies, unexpected deviations from norms and standing categories will vary in terms of certain conditions. If the incongruity occurs in a context where it is threatening, it will dispose us toward a fearful response. This is perhaps the origin of the horror genre. On the other hand, if the context is one that is marked as non-threatening—where the prospect of harm and danger has been subtracted—the circumstances are ripe for comedy. The Mr. Creosote scene illustrates this principle dramatically by getting as perilously close to the conditions that satisfy the horrific, but remaining on the side of amusement. In this it exemplifies a principle that makes much cruel humor possible: we need not fear for the victims of all the violence and malevolence done in darker shades of comedy, including slapstick, because they are not completely human. Punch and Judy can be beaten mercilessly but they will never come within an inch of their lives. Mr. Creosote never suffers
or dies. He is not precisely our kind of creature. Thus, we may laugh at him.

But this is not all that Mr. Creosote tells us about laughter. It’s true that in order to find a routine like his comically amusing we must not fear for him. And we do not, since he is not subject to human vulnerability. Instead we focus on his monstrous incongruity, his absurdity. But it’s not just that we do not feel concern about Creosote because we know he cannot be harmed. We also are encouraged to form a positive animus against Creosote. We do not just laugh at the ontological incongruity of Creosote and what befalls him. Part of our laughter, even if it is not pure comic laughter, originates in our sense that Creosote gets what he deserves. Part of our laughter is vindictive or, at least, retributive. What has happened to Creosote, or so we are invited to suppose, is just. Though Creosote is not completely human, he is human enough to engender our scorn morally and to merit punishment. Moreover, we cannot help but think that his punishment fits his crime ever so appropriately. Think of how often we describe the aftermath of our own gluttonous escapades in terms of a feeling that we are about to explode. Creosote gets his just desserts, one might say. On the one hand, Creosote is a despicable character. He treats others with contempt, presumably because he thinks his evident wealth entitles him to do so. He spits up on servants with no sense of shame; they are beneath his selfish concern. He has no inkling of decorum and is insensitive to the existence of other people and their rightful claims. He is an egoist of stupendous proportions. And, of course, he has abused himself immensely. His vast bulk appears to be his own fault. It is the height of self-indulgence to eat so far past the point of satiation that one continues to press on while one is still egesting the surplus of one’s last meal. Creosote has sown what he reaps. He has asked for what he has gotten. His own greedy appetite has backfired, so to speak. His explosion is poetic justice. The maitre d’s retribution was warranted. To repeat, Creosote’s predicament almost literally amounts to nothing more or less than his just desserts. The pun is intended by me, as it was also probably intended by the Pythons.

We laugh, but it is not precisely the laughter of comic amusement. It is the laughter that accompanies the apprehension that someone has “gotten what’s coming to them.” Thus, there should be no surprise that people laugh at the scene instead of being horrified by it. We are not repelled by the violence Creosote undergoes, in part because we believe that he has brought it upon himself; he invited it. Ours is the laughter of justice—the laughter that obtains when we perceive that the punishment suits the crime ever so neatly.

As already suggested, there is something medieval about the Creosote episode; indeed, a medieval theme runs throughout the film, including dungeons and the Grim Reaper (perhaps this is a result of taking up, and then dismissing, Roman Catholicism as a source of the meaning of life). In many ways, the scene is the modern equivalent of a morality play, an allegory of gluttony and its consequences. If you eat to the point where you feel like exploding, you will. The scene culminates in a visual pun or verbal image—that is, it literalizes the way we describe ourselves when we’ve overindulged at the table gluttonously. Creosote’s
sentence
is the sentence “I’ve eaten so much that I’d burst if took another morsel.” He does and he does. It is a punishment befitting Dante’s
Inferno
or Kafka’s “The Penal Colony” in its diabolical ingenuity and appropriateness. Indeed, it provokes laughter for being
so
appropriate, so well-deserved.

The laughter engendered by Creosote’s predicament is, then, over-determined. Part of it is rooted in incongruity—the absurdities of the scene presented in a context bereft of any perceived danger to human life and limb. But there is also another route to laughter here: the sense that justice is served, that the punishment matches the crime perfectly. Moreover, with respect to this second source of joy, Mr. Creosote, I think, gives us additional insight into the springs of laughter. Much comedy, especially satire and even much of what is called black comedy, induces laughter because we feel that the objects of the indignities and violence suffered by its objects is deserved.
¹⁴
It is a different kind of laughter
than the laughter prompted by an innocent pun. And it is our sense of justice that makes such comic genres possible. This too is something that Mr. Creosote shows us about laughter.

Perhaps one thing that is so artistically effective about the Creosote episode is that it is able to weld these two sources of laughter so exquisitely. I suspect that it achieves this by the way in which the visual pun it articulates both comically amuses us with its absurdity—its violation of biological norms—while simultaneously satisfying our sense of justice in the most devilish manner. Like many medieval visions of hell, such as the punishments meted out in Dante’s
Inferno
, the travails of Creosote mix horror and humor in a way that seems natural. Whether the scene has the same pedagogical intent is doubtful. But it is not a parody of such extravaganzas. Rather it taps into the same emotional well by being an updated version of them. Horrific imagery and humor are often interlaced. Mr. Creosote shows us how these two ostensibly opposed elements can co-exist. They belong together because they both specialize in the incongruous and the impure—in violations of our standing cultural categories and norms. But the overall effect of these subversions of our cultural categories will not dispose us toward horror, unless they occur in the context of some clear and present danger. Where there is no danger to anything we would call human, there is no cause for horror, and there is an opening for laughter. That is Creosote. Moreover, Creosote is not just comically amusing for being a biological absurdity. He is also worthy of our derision for his sins (in his case, perhaps he is the sin itself personified). And this helps us to see that underlying the vitriol of humor is often a perception of justice.

KURT SMITH

A
working-class woman (Eric Idle) sits on a bench in the park. She is approached by another woman (Michael Palin), also working-class, who pushes a dolly on which sits a brand new automobile engine, wrapped in a red bow. “Morning Mrs. Gorilla,” says the woman sitting on the bench. “Morning Mrs. Non-Gorilla,” replies the woman with the dolly. She sits down on the bench. “You been shopping?” asks Mrs. Non-Gorilla. “No . . . been shopping,” replies Mrs. Gorilla. “Did you buy anything?” asks Mrs. Non-Gorilla, her eyes fixed on the dolly. “A piston engine,” says Mrs. Gorilla with some excitement. “What did you buy
that
for?” “Oohh,” Mrs. Gorilla sings with confidence, “. . . it was a bargain!” “Oohh,” sings Mrs. Non-Gorilla. “Oohh” Mrs. Gorilla adds, as the camera pans right.

We see another working-class woman (Terry Jones) sitting on a bench. She is luring birds towards her, “Chirp, chirp, chirp . . . come on little birdies; come and see what mommy’s got for you . . . tweetie, tweetie. Come on little birdies . . . .” She reaches into a grocery bag, takes out a pork roast, and heaves it violently at the birds. The satisfaction on her face reveals that she has pegged one of the buggers. She again calls nicely to the birds, “Come on little birdies . . . ,” reaches into the bag, this time pulling out a large
can of (diced?) pineapples, and heaves it at the birds. Again, her face reveals success. We are shown the scene from her point of view: dead birds and groceries are scattered about the pond’s bank.

A woman (Graham Chapman) approaches, also working-class, who pushes a dolly on which sits a brand new automobile engine (also wrapped in a red bow). “Hello Mrs. Smoker,” says the woman with the groceries. “Hello Mrs. Non-Smoker,” replies the woman with the dolly. She sits. “What . . . you been shopping then?” asks Mrs. Non-Smoker. “No,” replies Mrs. Smoker, “I’ve been shopping.” “Oh, what’d you buy?” asks Mrs. Non-Smoker, her eyes fixed on the dolly. “A piston engine,” says Mrs. Smoker with excitement. “What’d you buy
that
for?” asks Mrs. Non-Smoker. “It was a bargain!” replies Mrs. Smoker. “How much you want for it?” asks Mrs. Non-Smoker. “Three quid,” says Mrs. Smoker without hesitation. “Done,” replies Mrs. Non-Smoker. “Right,” replies Mrs. Smoker. Mrs. Non-Smoker counts an imaginary three quid and gives it to Mrs. Smoker. She looks at her newly purchased piston engine with delight. A subtle wave of confusion washes over her face. “How do you cook it?” she asks. “You can’t cook it,” replies Mrs. Smoker sternly. “You can’t eat that
raw
,” replies Mrs. Non-Smoker, even more sternly. “Oohh, . . .” ponders Mrs. Smoker, “I never thought of
that
.”

Both sit thinking about the present problem, when all of a sudden Mrs. Smoker matter-of-factly blurts out: “O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!” Without skipping a beat Mrs. Non-Smoker replies, “And therefore as a stranger welcome it. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Her face reveals that she is experiencing a profound state of confusion, for she does not know the origin of her words. Yet, she continues, “The time is out of joint: O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right! Nay, come, let’s go together.” The two women rise, looking about dazed and confused, and walk away—leaving the dolly and piston engine behind.

The above skit, “Piston Engine (a Bargain),” comes from Episode 43 (“Hamlet”) of
Monty Python’s Flying Circus
. Its absurdity makes it one of my favorites. “Been shopping?” asks one woman. “No, been shopping,” answers the other. A natural reaction to hearing this is to ask: Are they not listening to what the other is saying? Are they just going through the motions of a polite greeting? Perhaps. But what Mrs. Non-Gorilla says, namely,
“It is not the case that I’ve been shopping and I’ve being shopping” is a logical contradiction. This aside, what we really want to know is why these women are lugging around piston engines (gift-wrapped no less). They bought them? Why? As Mrs. Non-Gorilla says, “It was a bargain!” To be sure, this could be counted as a reason for buying the engine, but if this is the only reason it is certainly the wrong one. What’s with the one woman who kills birds? Has she gone insane? What are we to make of their sudden recital of
Hamlet
, Act I, Scene V? What are
they
to make of it? (That these women recite the play is surely connected to the fact that the episode is centered around
Hamlet
. Even so, knowing this will not answer the questions that I want to raise below.)

One wonders whether in the end it is best to accept the absurdity, as Mrs. Smoker and Mrs. Non-Smoker seem to do when they walk away, and laugh. For my part, I like this option. But, the editors of this book tell me that I had better opt for making something else of such skits. To clinch the deal, they recently sent out email letting contributors know that if the book were to sell, and I mean sell big, each author of a chapter would receive a couple of hundred bucks. That was certainly enough to motivate me to make something of the piston engine skit. What I am to make of it exactly, of course, is the rub.

I am a scholar of early modern philosophy by trade, or at least this is what I tell family, friends, students, and of late, police officers. Originally for this book I had worked up a scholarly piece on an eighteenth-century theory of humor, wit, raillery, satire, and ridicule, written by the British economist Corbyn Morris.
¹⁵
The idea behind the essay was to take a bunch of Monty Python skits set in the eighteenth century and apply Morris’s theory. The theory, of course, would tell us whether Monty Python was funny—at least, whether the skits would have been considered funny by eighteenth-century standards. I was secretly hoping that the theory would not find the skits to be funny, in which case I would be able to spin the piece as a study of comical irony. But, alas, an application of the theory showed that the goddamned pieces would have been a smashing success, as the Brits would put it. So, there went the irony angle.