Monty Python and the Holy Grail | The English Literary Canon, but More Specifically Arthurian Literature

‘On second thoughts, let’s not go to Camelot’

I know what you’re thinking. Surely, there’s no possible prong of meaning or thought behind a film that opens with the clacking of coconuts as a man pretends to ride a horse through thick Scottish fog. In which, the Knights of the Round Table dance whene’er they’re able, with chorus scenes and foot routines in the halls of Camelot. Or where a killer rabbit decimates King Arthur’s fellowship. But that’s where you’re wrong, and don’t call me Shirley. 

Relative to the rest of history, originating soon after the creation of film cameras in the late 1880s, cinema is a young idea. Even more so, is the perception of cinema as an art form. Whilst today we marvel and applaud at the montage of Eisenstein, the shadows of Murnau or the somersaults of Keaton - they were contemporarily enjoyed, but dismissed as little more than entertainment. To be seen, and then forgotten; the popular but pulp of the roaring twenties. Though, any debate in support of the concept of ‘high art’, and subsequently the opposing force of ‘low art’, seems to neglect how the perception of art changes upon the passing of time. Take the prevalence of both Shakespeare and Geoffrey Chaucer for example, who were both able to garner mass appeal whilst mingling within high society. In Willy’s case, the playwright began in the Globe theatre which was able to fuse the lower and upper classes by seating them… that’s right, in the lower and upper sections respectively, with the ‘groundlings’ paying a penny to stand and watch front-row whilst guests willing and able to pay more enjoyed a balcony view of the stage. Shakespeare’s blending of raunchy humour, the supernatural, romance and often high octane action sequences appealed to the average early 17th century Cockney, whilst the tailored drama and detailed characters entertained the gentry. 

Perhaps what has earned Shakespeare his eternal place in the British canon however is his perfect balance of populist appeal and royal endorsement; the transformation of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men to the King’s Men in 1603 when James I ascended to the throne is an example of a ‘low to high’ trajectory that could’ve easily removed Shakespeare from ‘low’ cultural spaces entirely but his dual audience prevailed and so have his works. On the contrary, whilst Chaucer also bridged the gap between popular and the elitist, the 14th century writer did so as a member of the upper class. Chaucer was a court official, a diplomat and a civil servant; writing for and about the nobility who were literate and multilingual. Interestingly, at the time, the dominant literary languages in England were Latin and French and so Chaucer’s decision to write The Canterbury Tales in Middle English was significant, as it was the language of the people rather than that of the court. Hence, The Canterbury Tales became a brilliant fusion of high and low culture; featuring saintly legends, bawdy fabliaux, chivalric romance and philosophical reflection - capturing the full social spectrum of contemporary England. Similar to Shakespeare, this duality, although from the other end of the spectrum, has afforded Chaucer a staying power in the English literary canon. 

But what is the English literary canon? I could cite Orwell, Austen or Wilde. However, for the sake of all things Python, let’s turn to the Anglo-Norman variety. In 1485, Sir Thomas Malory reworked in Middle English, the Arthurian tales of the Knights of the Round Table - telling a complete story of King Arthur from birth to death and compiling, interpreting and modifying the tales of Arthur, Lancelot, Guinevere and Merlin. Hilariously, and finally the very point of this article, so too does Monty Python and The Holy Grail. To subvert the tales of Arthur, bringing them into the 20th century fold and hence, to the general populace - akin to Chaucer or Shakespeare - is to revolutionise the British canon, which the six Pythons do so in the manner of hilarity. Culled so too is the narrative expectations of the genre - take the brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Robin for example, who lends Eric Idle’s face. Whilst not a direct spoof of any particular Arthurian knight, Sir Robin and his titular bravery borrows from the folklore of knightly valour, and the fact Idle’s character is a cowardly pretender only serves to subvert the typical Round Table representation. After all, ‘Brave Sir Robin turned about and gallantly chickened out’ sings the minstrel and the ensuing band that follows the Knight. Even in cowardice, the bard of the classical narrative still sings of heroes. 

No stranger to spoof also, is King Arthur upon his arrival at Camelot. In the tales of old, such a moment is one of triumph and grandeur, a highpoint in the narrative, but in Gilliam and Jones’ film, it is routinely ridiculed. Gazing at the castle before them, Arthur and each Knight exclaim their admiration for Camelot, before a servant endowed with supplies double his height, mutters - ‘it’s only a model’. Akin to many other scenes in The Holy Grail, this juxtaposition illustrates not only the humongous class divide between the central and fringe characters, but also, interestingly and in line with the subversion, their difference in intelligence. Though with tattered clothes and a miserable expression, the accurately named Patsy can call a spade to spade whilst the delusion of the King and his Knights would perhaps be fooled by a painted sky. The sheer acknowledgment of this budgetary limitation within the script is also a hallmark of postmodern genius, unabashedly presenting the film as the manufactured reality that it is. Hilariously, the halls of Camelot are home to, song and dance? A memorable tune, and perhaps the inspiration for Idle and Du Prez’s Spamalot, but also another wonderful subversion of Arthurian literary narrative conventions, in which music is far and few between and never as silly as Monty Python would suggest.

The Holy Grail ends at a point of no return. Made on just under three hundred thousand pounds, how could a film with such a limited budget conclude with an all out assault on a castle on a nearby island, with hundreds of men following King Arthur and Bedevere into battle? Well, it doesn’t, with one final delicious twist that sees British police officers arrest the medieval men for a murder of a television historian earlier in the film. Baffling, I know and I’m sure I don’t have to explain how such a situation defies the conventions of Arthurian literature, though such a scene does something else entirely. Through the juxtaposition of Graham Chapman’s King Arthur being apprehended by a contemporary mid-1970s British constable,  the medieval tales are brought into the 20th century which bridges a multi-generational gap, akin to the class-crossing works of Chaucer and Shakespeare. Suddenly, key elements of the English literary canon are not only accessible and available to the modern public, but are also translated in language and in tone to the contemporary style. King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table are far easier to digest as a comedy, rather than as medieval poetry in a language of old. Subsequently, as a reworking of the canon, does Monty Python and The Holy Grail become part of it? 

To the surprise of no-one, bar those expecting the Spanish Inquisition, the work of Cleese, Idle, Palin, Chapman, Jones and Gilliam have made a sizeable footprint in the echelons of British culture and pushed forward our little island in it’s comedic capital. It’s difficult to imagine the sketch scene without Monty Python, or the 2012 Olympics without Idle’s rendition of Always Look on the Bright Side of Life, and so their enduring prevalence must surely etch them into history by Joseph of Arimathea himself. 

If not, then it’s only a matter of time.

No it isn’t. Yes it is. But it isn’t. It sure is. Nobody thinks it is. I do. But you can’t! Oh but I can.

Written By Harry J. Wormald | IG: @harryjwormald