John Cleese packs it in review – Ex-Python goes on the road in sickness and in health | film

TMonty Python’s long and legendary history has now relegated to the footnotes and the age of afterthoughts. After years of personal feuds, multiple forays into the culture war and a very costly divorce, 85-year-old John Cleese goes solo on an 80-minute jaunt, doing a mini-European tour while suffering from ailments (partial deafness, bone spurs, vertigo) that seem at least as topical as his onstage material. In explaining his motivations, Cleese isn’t unusually blunt: “I need the money” is the closest thing this film finds to a running gag.

What do we offer in return? Relentless complaints and grievances intertwine Cleese’s recent media dossier, from endless repackaging to all-time photo ops. (This is perhaps understandable, given director Andy Caird’s often unflattering angles.) Also criticized: audiences who refuse to laugh at such routines as the one in which Cleese spends a small eternity chopping up phlegm. We get strangely little of the show itself, instead there’s a lot of stuffing at fish markets and cheese shops, and a not-so-pretty photo collage of the comics’ damaged big toe. (In fairness, he warns us: “If you just had a mouthful of popcorn, look away now.”)

Intermittently, the old silliness and joy emerge. Cleese is thrilled to have a lemur named after him, and a Buddhist temple reawakens his curiosity. (The most illuminating aspect of this is the archival aspect: footage from a comedic encounter with the Dalai Lama in 1991.) But sustainable inner peace seems elusive, and even his funniest asides have a crude edge. Michael Palin’s exasperated voice sounds far more sour than fond; Upon hearing the news of the death of one of her ex-wives, Cleese joked: “She was the wrong wife.”

Those with hazy memories of the good old days might be better off sticking to their Fawlty box sets, but this fun endeavor proves unintentionally revealing in one respect. This Cleese – still at the forefront, but fragile and weary – lives in a strange limbo: can no one now at all afford a long, happy, and comfortable retirement? Is it capitalism or just show business compulsions that haunt our former heroes in their twilight years?