Terry Jones was a hero to me – and an inspirational friend too
Ifirst met Terry Jones when I was about to play King Arthur in the West End production of Spamalot – which, terrifyingly, I’d heard he didn’t much like. Eric Idle had adapted the show from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, which Terry had directed, and he wasn’t much of a fan of the result, denouncing it shortly after its Broadway premiere as “full of air”.
It was the day before my opening night in 2008 when we were introduced at a lunch at a mutual friend’s and I was desperate to find out his reasons, but didn’t dare ask him at first. We chatted for a while about his direction of Holy Grail – he could describe these things forensically, which for a film fan was manna from heaven – and then I felt the moment had arrived to broach the subject.
“You know, Terry, I’ve been wondering why it was that you took against Spamalot,” I said.
“Oh, you don’t want to know that,” he replied.
“I do, because I’m about to appear in it.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “And you can say whatever you like because I’ve signed a contract, so it’s too late for me to back out.” So he explained – and what he said was one of the most fantastic sets of actors’ notes I’ve ever received. He said that though he loved Eric Idle’s songs and the general tone of the show, what he’d truly enjoyed about Graham Chapman’s performance as Arthur in the film was its innocence and vulnerability – whereas in Spamalot, a show written for a world that already knew Holy Grail back to front, he was a little arch, a few sly steps back from the story at hand.
“You can either be in the world, or comment on it,” he said. “Not both.”
The stage directions in the script do give you that latitude to play Arthur archly. But I took Terry’s notes on board in full: every night I tried to portray him as if he was completely wrapped up in that onstage world. Terry came to see me in it, and can’t have been too appalled, because he came back twice more. The first time, he asked if I’d mind if he brought Michael Palin along – which for a Python fan is like being offered some drugs to go with your drugs.
Afterwards we went out for dinner and the two of them started reminiscing about the Holy Grail shoot, and then pulled apart some old sketches, discussing how the Ministry of Silly Walks had come together.
“We’re so sorry, this must be frightfully boring for you,” they said after a while. But I was mesmerised. It was like being embedded in a DVD extra.
In 2012, the Bristol Slapstick Festival put on a screening of Life of Brian, and Terry asked me to come along to provide the Qs to his As in the post-film onstage chat. Again, it was like living inside a director’s commentary. Terry was a compulsive sharer of secrets and explainer of techniques – I think he saw the creative process as essentially an exercise in solving problems until you reach that joyful point at which it’s suddenly right.
I remember him leaning over to me during those sweeping opening vistas of the crowds making their way to the Sermon on the
Mount, and telling me it was a shot he’d captured on the fly of the extras making their way to the catering tent just after he’d called time for lunch.
The Pythons are often described as the Beatles of comedy, and the resemblance runs deep. What they created together was lightning in a bottle – but it struck thanks to the particular combination of those six personalities. They were all capable of producing great work individually, but together they generated the same kind of creative tension that pushed John Lennon and Paul Mccartney – the strengths of each member somehow magnified those of the others, even when they were opposed.
As I understand it, the most passionate creative arguments were between Terry and John Cleese. They wrote separately: Terry with Michael Palin and John with Graham Chapman, while Terry Gilliam and Eric Idle worked alone for the most part on their own things. But when they came together, the clash
His forgetfulness would all but vanish on set. It was as if the creativity itself were keeping dementia at bay
of perspectives is what ultimately toughened the work, and led to it lasting as long as it has.
If you know the way they wrote, you can detect, or at least guess at, which bits were Terry’s. In Life of Brian, the opening sequence of Brian’s mother by the manger haranguing the wise men was pure Terry (“What are you doing creeping around a cow shed at two o’clock in the morning?”), just as the Roman centurion correcting the grammar in Brian’s Latin graffiti was John through and through. Terry’s signature was the subversion of expectations: he’d introduce a seemingly familiar idea then allow it to roll off-course, on a surreal tangent.
When we moved house, we ended up living around a 10-minute walk from Terry, so I saw a lot more of him then – we’d meet in the pub, often with one of his oldest friends Michael Palin, and also Terry Gilliam; he’d come round for dinner or a cup of tea. As he got older, he was an incredibly gentle soul, though if he had to argue his corner, he’d be tenacious.
We made Absolutely Anything, Terry’s last film, in 2014, before he’d been formally diagnosed with dementia. But there was a sense he was directing through it – even if the forgetfulness he’d experience in social
As he got older, he was an incredibly gentle soul, though if he had to argue his corner, he’d be tenacious
situations would all but vanish on set. He knew his way around the script; if any of us suggested changes, he’d be able to cogently argue for or against them. It was as if the creativity itself were keeping the dementia at bay.
I last saw him in October, during the Pythons’ 50th-anniversary celebrations. I was hosting a worldrecord attempt at the Roundhouse Theatre in Camden for the largest ever gathering of Gumbies, the iconic Monty Python characters, with Terry Gilliam, when we were told – much to our surprise – that Terry Jones had come too. I’d seen him previously at Christmas when he’d come round for tea and cake, and back then he’d still recognised me, even though his words had largely disappeared.
But that morning, he didn’t really recognise anyone – it was incredibly sad to see this vital, funny, warm person reduced to a shell of his former self. And yet it was also lovely to see him surrounded by the living legacy of his work. I feel fortunate to have known him, on a very selfish level. I got to be friends with one of my heroes.
When I was 14, I had the poster of the film he’d directed on my wall. Thinking back to my younger self looking up at that and never dreaming that I’d ever count him as a friend, I’m reminded of the adage, “Don’t weep for what you lost; smile for what you had.” And Terry gave us so many smiles.