Monty Python and Philosophy by Gary Hardcastle (best novels for beginners .TXT) 📗

wiles, like projecting a Grail-shaped beacon, to capture “prey,” or unsuspecting knights, like Sir Galahad the Chaste.

True, Galahad resists Launcelot’s efforts to save him. “Oh, let me go and have a bit of peril,” Galahad pleads. No, Launcelot insists, “It’s unhealthy!” “I bet you’re gay,” Galahad responds, as he adds one more layer of meaning to the scene and the film. In Arthurian legend, Launcelot saves Guinevere after she is abducted by the lord of an enchanted castle. Yet Launcelot, Arthur’s greatest knight, is also a fool for love and embarks upon a passionate affair with Guenivere following her rescue. The story makes use of a typical medieval hero-trial, what Campbell calls, in his Transformations of Myth through Time, the “Trial of the Perilous Bed” (p. 235). The trial always entails a treacherous bed that the knight must dominate in full armor. With Launcelot, the dangers of the bed involve being pelted by arrows (symbolic of a reverse-rape) and attacked by a ferocious lion. Yet with Cleese and Palin, the “Trial of the Perilous Bed” becomes the women of Castle Anthrax (indeed, Cleese uses the words “peril” and “perilous” throughout their exchange). Launcelot, moreover, is anything but a fool for love (unless it’s love for Galahad himself). Why else would he drag Galahad away from the beautiful women demanding his services?

Er, Well . . . the Thing Is . . . I Thought Your Son Was a Lady

Parzival was a knight of the Round Table. His Grail adventure speaks to individuals about seeking the truth from within. As Campbell notes, Parzival’s failure was due to his listening to others rather than himself. Finding the true self is what the Grail represents. During the twelfth century marrying for love was not common. Marriages were arranged based on social class, material possessions, and money—not love. Listening to one’s heart was not particularly popular in the shame culture of the twelfth century, where honor took priority over the self. The Pythons, of course, knew this cultural and literary history well when they introduced their audience to Prince Herbert, played by Terry Jones.

Prince Herbert is sorrowfully sitting in his tower room awaiting his wedding to Princess Lucky, whose father owns large tracts of land in Britain (much to the joy of Prince Herbert’s father, played by Michael Palin). Prince Herbert’s father, the “King of the Swamp Castle,” has arranged the marriage despite Herbert’s protestations. Perverse as always, the Pythons cleverly present the reverse of what was typical in the twelfth century, where a woman would be forced into a loveless marriage. The feminine Prince Herbert despairingly writes a note describing his distress and appealing for rescue, which he fastens to an arrow and launches in a romantic gesture from his tower window to find its destiny. Well, at least the arrow comes close to finding its destiny. First it finds the chest of Concorde, the coconut-clacking servant of Sir Launcelot, played by Eric Idle. As Launcelot reads the note from the arrow, still stuck in Concorde’s chest, his eyes “light up with holy inspiration.” A sub-quest! There is nothing quite like a damsel in distress to provide the necessary heterosexual matrix for masculine display. Prince Herbert, though he enjoys musicals and notices curtains, is no damsel. The note only indicates a need for a rescue from the “Tall Tower of Swamp Castle” and nothing more. Launcelot is about to enter his “idiom” as he leaves the wounded Concorde, and rides off into the sunset to save . . . well, he doesn’t quite know who yet—hopefully, the distress is attached to some fair damsel and Launcelot’s own masculinity will be saved (especially after that scene with Sir Galahad at Castle Anthrax).

“The whole sense of the courtly idea was pain of love,” Campbell states (Transformations of Myth through Time, p. 213), and in fact the Pythons plan on plenty of pain in the upcoming scenes. Launcelot, now in his idiom, ferociously makes his way through the guards at the door and the wedding guests—even kicking the bride in the chest! He slashes his way to the tower in a masculine frenzy of swords and bloodied bodies—anything for a damsel in distress. And there she is, sitting at the window. He kneels, presenting himself while averting his eyes. “Oh, fair one,” he says, “behold your humble servant, Sir Launcelot, from the Court of Camelot. I have come to take you…”—at this point he looks up and his voice tails off—“ . . . away . . . I’m terribly sorry. . . .” Prince Herbert responds with glee, “You’ve come to rescue me?” Launcelot reluctantly replies, “Well . . . yes . . . but I hadn’t realized. . . .”

Poor Launcelot! The harder he tries to be a patriarchal paragon of masculinity, the more he appears to be just the opposite. Not to worry. Just as Prince Herbert is about to launch into song, the swamp king, a hairy, bearded man in a beastly fur coat, interrupts. Homo-social bonding ensues as the king and Launcelot decide to descend the stairs for a drink. Yes, the Pythons take the pain of courtly love in a deadly serious manner.

The action continues with Launcelot once again striking out at guests before the king of Swamp Castle announces, much to Launcelot’s dismay, that since Prince Herbert is dead and Princess Lucky’s father is also dead, Launcelot and Lucky will be tying the proverbial knot. Launcelot is saved from this profusely heterosexual act, however; Concorde arrives suddenly carrying an injured but living Prince Herbert, who fell from the tower window (with his father’s help). Launcelot’s sword proves impotent after all, as the more feminine characters of Herbert and Concorde usher in a musical number affirming their presence. Launcelot moves toward a swashbuckling escape by attempting to swing from a rope through a glass window. Once again, Launcelot proves impotent, stopping short of the window while swinging pathetically in mid-air, “Excuse me . .