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Greed
Is Good
By
Bill Ketzer
Eric Idle
The
Egg, Oct. 22
‘Good
evening, I’m Eric Idle, and I’ll be your greedy bastard for
the evening,” said the Monty Python legend, introducing himself
to the audience last Wednesday at the Egg. “If you are here
hoping to see Billy Idol, you can fuck off now.” With that,
he picked up a hollow-body and promptly delivered a rousing
version of The Meaning of Life’s “Penis Song,” explaining
afterward that he often wonders why his songs are so filthy.
“Then I look out at you lot,” he quipped, resplendent in a
Prada silk smoking jacket. He unabashedly placed a garbage
can, or “encore bucket” at the edge of the stage, explaining
that encores are no longer free in this day and age. His
age, it seems: “I wanted to call the show ‘The Angina Monologues,’”
he claimed, “but greed prevailed.”
Greedy bastardism seems fairly rampant in the new millennium
(with or without shameless references to genitalia), so why
shouldn’t this celebrated actor-comedian join the ranks
of our Wall Street market-timers, Congress and my wedding
photographer in the pursuit of the almighty dollar on the
backs of middle-class debtors?
In fact, I am beginning to suspect that even the concept of
National Security is nothing but a clever, sequined marketing
ploy, one that trickles down into even the most innocent acts
of commerce. I say this because there was only one parking
garage open beneath the Empire State Plaza for this event,
where a team of either OGS or corrections personnel checked
the credentials of each passenger in each vehicle with the
dexterity of Frankenstein’s monster. Hence, fields of brake
lights peppered the highway all the way back to I-787, causing
the Hart Theatre to be practically empty at showtime—but that
didn’t stop the promoter from dimming the lights and urging
all the earlybirds to slam and cram their overpriced snack
items and make toward the seats. Hell, no.
Once we were seated, said promoter appeared with his hands
in a knot and furtively announced that the curtain would be
delayed for about a half-hour due to poor time-management
skills on behalf of ticket purchasers. He blamed the audience!
So the lights came back on and all were urged back out into
the lobby to buy more fattening, expensive baked goods and
heavily salted snack treats. This inadvertently (or not) benefits
the Greedy Bastard as well, because the audience also gets
another prolonged crack at the merchandise table. In fact,
Idle himself concedes in his daily online journal that the
debacle boosted their sales. Ah-ha!
But now for something completely relevant. Flying solo presented
an interesting structural challenge for Idle, but the seasoned
master handily struck a suitable balance between old Python
favorites and his newer material, tying it all together mightily
with stand-up monologue and historical anecdotes from his
childhood and bits from Python’s humble beginnings at Cambridge,
Edinburgh and the BBC. His post-World War II experience at
Wolverhampton Boys School in particular (“Not the end of the
world, but you can see it from there,” he claimed) still fuels
his need for laughter, for the almost nihilistic silliness
that shines in older musical numbers (“I Like Chinese” and
“The Lumberjack Song”), and classic slapstick (“Nudge, Nudge,
Know What I Mean?” and “The Bruces”). It is as if Catholicism
itself burned a hole in him that he must continuously pack
with the salve of levity to this very day. While Maurice Blanchot
“came out of the muddy pit with the strength of maturity,”
Idle has transcended his experience of youth with immaturity,
which at times is arguably much more effective against your
oppressors.
Wednesday marked the first time on this tour that “The Getty
Song” was performed, an acerbic platitude penned for an appearance
at the posh Los Angeles museum after being prevented from
singing the aforementioned “Penis Song”—in a gallery full
of paintings of naked men and their penises. False modesty
has always been a traditional Python target along with religion,
nationalism and fascism, each still ripe for the picking in
Idle’s realm. Newer material like “National Anthem” and “Killing
for God” (here Idle dons a 10-gallon hat—we get it) remains
appealing in its silliness rather than slipping into that
smelly crevice of bitterness and disgust that tends to make
ticket sales flounder. I mean, these are the guys who are
supposed to take us out of that funk, and Idle still understands
that, as does his supporting cast, particularly Jennifer Julian
and screenwriter Peter Crabbe. Crabbe did a bang-up job opposite
his boss, filling John Cleese’s big, silly shoes as Mr. Vibrating
(“The Argument Clinic”) and the Holy Grail’s French
Taunter with venomous confidence. He also confirmed my homeland-security
paranoia with a satirical military general’s diatribe on the
systematic elimination of tourists from upstate New York.
Clearly the outfit does its homework on each region, as Crabbe
accuses Manhattan residents and “those French frogs” from
Montreal of infiltrating the plaza, Indian Ladder Farms, Lark
Street, and the Adirondacks to ogle the beautiful foliage.
(“You sick bastards!” he cries. “The leaves aren’t beautiful,
they’re dying!”) Hard to believe they’re only a few dates
into the tour. That said, there were inevitably a few miscues
and some less-than-perfectly-timed sketches, but nothing really
detrimental to the performance as a whole. Idle remains quick,
cutting and daftly hilarious.
At once perceptive and sarcastic, Idle’s challenge in getting
the audience laughing was about as formidable as can-hunting
tortoises in someone’s swimming pool. Despite his claim that
Monty Python is a “bit of a curse from a good natured fairy,”
it is obvious that this association has ultimately prepped
a brilliant mind for longevity. So let him be greedy. At least
the man delivers an actual service for his fee.
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