New York Review of Books Review
FULL DISCLOSURE: My reverence for Monty Python is nearly boundless. After I was force-fed a diet of mediocrity and cringe-worthy catchphrases from "Saturday Night Live" during my youth, discovering Monty Python's freewheeling, surreal style felt like a revelation. You mean, sketches could just end? You mean, things didn't need to make sense? You mean, you didn't have to make fun of whatever celebrities were in the news right that very second? Why hadn't anybody told me this before? I began watching them only years after they disbanded, but their comedy still felt fresher than anything I'd been exposed to. Even the name of the show, "Monty Python's Flying Circus," felt wild and anarchic, a dipsy collision of unrelated words more akin to Lewis Carroll than Lorne Michaels. John Cleese always seemed to be, if not the group's leader, then at the very least its standard-bearer. Perhaps that's simply because he is the tallest Python, at 6-foot4. His galumphing turn as the Minister of Silly Walks perfectly encapsulates Python's best trick: skewering fatuousness with gleeful stupidity. Cleese made himself a fine post-Python career doing just that, first with the classic sitcom "Fawlty Towers," and then through a lengthy string of plum roles in films and television shows. Through it all, Cleese has retained a kind of benign patrician air, which only made him funnier when he allowed himself to appear so foolish. So it came as a shock to me, upon opening his new memoir, "So, Anyway ..." to discover that John Marwood Cleese is not the black sheep of some titled nobleman's stock, but rather the only child of a rather ordinary and loving lower-middle-class insurance salesman and his fearful wife, with whom young John had a difficult relationship. Cleese does not pull punches in describing his mother: After listening to his veteran father describe a wounded soldier in World War I calling out for his mother, he thought to himself, "Why on earth would he cry for her?" Befuddlement is Cleese's stock in trade, an attitude he carries with him to a series of public (what Americans call private) schools, and then onto Cambridge, where his comedy career begins. As a young law student, Cleese almost accidentally joins the Footlights, the Cambridge theatrical troupe, where he starts writing and performing short sketches, few of which ever see the light of day. That is, he says, because "it is exceedingly difficult to write really good comedy.... On the other hand, there exist vast hordes who can write bad comedy, and they do so in immense quantities." For those who do wish to pursue the comedic arts, he offers a tip: "Steal. Steal an idea that you know is good, and try to reproduce it in a setting that you know and understand." This seems like suspicious advice from one of comedy's most original minds, but I suppose thievery has served artists of all stripes well over the millenniums, so I will not quibble. Cleese's comedy career ramps up almost immediately, when his Cambridge troupe is invited to perform their revue first in the West End, then New Zealand ("The country was basically completely clueless"), and then while in New Zealand, the group is invited, somehow, to Broadway. "We were bewildered. Who in America knew about us? ... It made no sense, but then that seemed the normal state of affairs in New Zealand." His incipient law career is immediately scuttled, and Cleese is off and running. Soon he is back in Britain, writing for and appearing on television, and slowly gestating the ideas he will bring with him to his most famous creation. Those looking for a Monty Python tell-all will leave disappointed, as the book ends just as Monty Python is beginning, with only a postscript about the group following their recent, wildly successful reunion shows at the O2 arena in London. Along the way, though, there are plenty of snippets about the other Pythons, especially Graham Chapman, Cleese's writing partner of 20 years, who died in 1989. Cleese has often spoken about how the Pythons were not especially close personally, but that does not seem to be the case with "Gra," with whom he wrote and laughed and lunched, never suspecting that his dear friend was gay. "Graham always used to say that I was shocked when he came out. ... Untrue. I was not 'shocked,' I was very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very surprised." "So, Anyway..." ambles along in loose fashion, taking its time, stopping to admire the view here and there, dispensing a little social commentary ("The very group that was most disliked and belittled at Cambridge in the early '60s was running the country 30 years later. Or sort of running it"), and otherwise taking the scenic route through a mostly sunny landscape. The effect is a bit like having a long lunch with an amiable, slightly loony uncle. Who also happens to be John Cleese. MICHAEL IAN BLACK is an actor and the author, most recently, of "You're Not Doing It Right," a memoir, and "Naked!," a children's picture book.