Back in the Fifties, three gifted madmen could be found toiling (at one time or another) on Your Show of Shows for the incomparable Sid Caesar: Neil Simon, Woody Allen, and Mel Brooks. Today, separately, they hold a virtual monopoly on American stage and film comedy; one almost expects the government to file an antitrust suit. Of the three, Brooks probably remains closest to the Caesar standard. His films abound in lovingly precise dialect humor, a near-balletic control of physical comedy, and whirlwind pacing that begins in chaos and ends in sweet lunacy.
    Superficially, Brooks' movies (THE PRODUCERS, THE TWELVE CHAIRS, BLAZING SADDLES, and the current YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN) seem less careful than carefree. But Brooks says he does not believe in chance: his films are the result of meticulous construction, especially in the scriptwriting stage. On the set, he is in complete control, often acting out the slightest inflection of voice or gesture. He can recall verbatim various scripting and editing sessions on all his films, and gives the impression that -- at least while he's refining his gags and footage into the funniest possible whole -- comedy is no laughing manner.
    At their core, his films come surprisingly close to being "male" love stories. You can see it in the sadomasochistic friendship in THE PRODUCERS (with Zero Mostel as the S., and Gene Wilder as the M.), the love-hate relationship of Frank Langella and Ron Moody in THE TWELVE CHAIRS, the easy warmth between Wilder and Cleavon Little in BLAZING SADDLES, even the sympathetic if hysterical bond established between Wilder as Dr. Frankenstein and Peter Boyle as the Creature. Brooks admits to writing only one male-female love story, about a marriage and divorce, in the middle Fifties -- a script he says he might now be interested in filming.
    YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN continues the association Brooks formed with Gene Wilder during the filming of THE PRODUCERS: they wrote the new film together, from an idea of Wilder's. Today they are the closest of friends, completely in tune with one another. They finish each other's sentences, set each other up for gags, even run through nightclub routines without a hitch. Wilder, who is completing a screenplay called SHERLOCK HOLMES' SMARTER BROTHER, shares an office with Brooks at the Fox studios, and interrupts Brooks' interviews with bits of business the two create for real and imagined movies.
    Despite the public's belated vindication of his work and the loyalty of his actors and crew, Brooks does not seem completely at ease with his directorial status. There's an obvious contradiction between Brooks the banana-peel funnyman and Brooks the passionate cinephile, whose favorite filmmakers are the Italian neo-realists. Whenever the conversation strayed too close to introspection, whenever he felt it lingered too long on the role of art in society, Brooks would break into a comic routine, as if to prove that serious discussion hadn't diluted his ability to get a laugh. It gave the impression that, if Mel Brooks is vulnerable, it is to the sound of no mouth laughing.

    This interview took place during the shooting of YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN, before the film won near unanimous raves -- even from the New York Times.

J.A: You have a great deal of fan mail there. Is most of it from kids?

M.B.: I get a lot now for BLAZING SADDLES. about one-third of it from kids. Let's see the Press Club of San Francisco, they're not kids; it says "Dear genius. . ." Here's another one, this is crazy, it says `Dear Mr Brooks, this is my 499th letter." And here it says, "Dear Mr. Brooks, this is my 498th letter." They're very freaky, they're almost as crazy as I am. And I get letters from Gene [Wilder] too, so I won't forget him when a good part comes along. "Dear Mr. Brooks, I loved THE PRODUCERS, especially the blond one in the corner who was wet and said 'I'm hysterical, I'm hysterical'... whatever his name was." At the bottom -- I m not supposed to know who sent it -- there's a little GW.

J.A.: Do you pay attention to reviews?

M.B.: To an extent. With the New York Times for instance, well, I've never gotten them. THE PRODUCERS, which many people consider a very fine American comedy was reviewed by Renata Adler. She had some problems in the beginning, her review's were very neurotic. And she said she didn't know whether to sit there and laugh or leave. She said she didn't like Zero Mostel because he was fat. It crushed me. It was The New York Times! When you're in high school you read everything, particularly the entertainment section. I used to devour it. I was very hurt. Then I heard Vincent Canby liked THE PRODUCERS. Then I heard Vincent Canby was taking over reviewing. He loved me; so I thougnt I'd finally get The Times! TWELVE CHAIRS comes out, Vincent Canby says no, its no good; THE PRODUCERS was good, TWELVE CHAIRS no good. Then BLAZING SADDLES comes out. Vincent Canby says no good, but TWELVE CHAIRS wasn't bad. Why wasn't it good? Well, the story was thin.
    How could I explain to Canby that I was satirizing the non-story-line Western, where if they ended up with their horse it was a big story. When you make fun of the typical Western you make fun of the plot. When you satirize you have to be careful to know what the cliches are, and use them. As a matter of fact there is a moment when Harvy Korman looks at the camera and says, " Why am I telling you this? You already know it." It was satirizing the whole thing.
    Actually with the new album, "2013," we got a good Times review. When the first album came out called "2000 Years with Reiner and Brooks," the Times didn't like. They thought it was too ethnic. Instead of saluting the absolute verite of the accent -- an accent that within fifty years will be extinct in our world -- instead of saying "Thank God, we have a recording impeccably produced," they said it's another schlock Jew record. But maybe the reviewer was an old guy with an accent, so maybe he didn't appreciate how wonderful it was.
    I have a vendetta against The New York Times . They never liked Your Show of Shows, they never liked Sid Caesar, but now everything is a classic.
    I think in ten years, and I'm tooting my own horn now, BLAZING SADDLES will be recognized as the funniest film ever made. Just funny -- I'm not talking about other faults or virtues, I'm just talking about the amount of laughter evoked. I think it's funnier than other movies, even Mae West and W. C. Fields, or Buster Keaton or the Marx Brothers, all of whom I love. The only thing that might compete with it for the amount of laughter are the Three Stooges shorts.

J.A.: Is it easier to make people laugh through a physical joke or through dialogue?

M.B.: I think people laugh more at physical things than at dialogue. I have to be careful with so-called witty dialogue, because there's always the show-off who laughs anticipating the end of the joke. In BLAZING SADDLES there are no real jokes; every laugh comes out of the characters or the achon. But if you don't like something, if you don't think something is funny, three seconds later they'll be another laugh. So wait, the next train will be along any minute.
    BLAZING SADDLES plays a lot in one. In one and past one. In one means the apron of the stage, that's where the limelights are and that's where the monologuist is; so when you work in depth, you work with two or more people and you're working with character relahonships, story, and a deeper meaning. BLAZING SADDLES works in one, or minus one, because it gets so abstract in the end, jumping from 1874 to 1974.

J.A.: On the set, you seem very tempted to act out the parts for your actors....

M.B.: Yes, I have to watch that. There's a bit of an actor in me. I like to act, and you have to be careful because you don't want actors mimicking you. With someone like Gene Wilder, I'm not going to teach him to act. I'm not going to give him readings. I'll just tell him the emotional character of a scene and where it should go -- although he always knows where it should go. We may differ a little on timing. My rhythms are a little too quick and somehmes that's a conflict.

J.A.: How was BLAZING SADDLES written?

M.B.: It was written very much like the old Show of Shows. I didn't have time to write it myself, so I asked Wamer Bros. if I could hire a black writer, two Jews, and the original writer. And they said, why do you want the original writer when we have his script? And I said I'm sure there's more in his head since we liked his idea so much. So we got the original writer, Andrew Bergman; two Jews, Norman Steinberg and Alan Unger; and a black writer, Richard Pryor. And we all wailed. We sat in a room and wrote it like the Show of Shows. Everybody fighting to make the best joke. There was a secretary in with us on every session going crazy trying to take everything down. We didn't use a tape recorder because it inhibits writers, they start editing and playing to the recorder.

J.A.: Wasn't Richard Pryor originally going to play the Cleavon Little role?

M.B.: No, but I asked WB on bended knee to let Richie do it and they said, "Absolutely not. We like Cleavon's looks and they said if you want to do the picture, it's with Cleavon." It wasn't as if they suggested someone totally wrong for the part, Cleavon has that magic blending of performer and actor that's very rare. I had seen him in Scuba Duba and Purlie Victorious. He was very good. I wanted Richie because we had been working together, and he had acted so much of the role out when we were writing. It was glorious. But there were some things which Cleavon did that were inaedible.

J.A.: Is there much improvisation on the set while you're shooting?

M.B.: No, we followed the BLAZING SADDLES script word for word. THE PRODUCERS was word for word. TWELVE CHAIRS a little less. You can improvise with rhythms and motions during rehearsals, but not with lines.

J.A.: How did YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN come about?

M.B.: It was an idea in Gene Wilder's head, and then we started working on it, very slowly. YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN took about nine months to write, about the same as BLAZING SADDLES. I take a long time on scripts; there's nothing casual up on the screen.

J.A.: Are you ever afraid of losing your audience by being too outrageous?

M.B.: I'm always afraid of losing my audience because I'm never sure I have one. What I do is write to please myself. If it makes me laugh, then I think it's good. From there the next thing is pleasing the actors you're working with, and then it's the crew. You get a general sense of what's going on through the reactions of people on the set. You ask everybody. A sandwich girl comes by and you play a scene for her; she's totally uninterested, and if you get a laugh from her, you know you're doing well. Then the editing room and finally the screening. I believe in showing the rough cuts and re-working a film. I can change a picture right up until the end, I have that in my contract. And that means the sound track as well.
    My principle of cutting is you start with a scalpel and end with a blunt axe. Everyone usually does it the other way around. You know, knocking out whole scenes and ending by refining. But I start by taking out an "and" an "if," or a "but." I play with a scene. Then when you have the rough cut, you start eliminating scenes. In BLAZING SADDLES I cut out lots of scenes with the Governor; my whole performance was on the cutting room floor. It slowed up the picture where it could not be slowed up. In the final third of a picture you have to accelerate the pace; it has to gather speed and go over the top.
    I'd like to re-cut all my films, even now. For instance in THE PRODUCERS it should end about four minutes after the "Springtime for Hitler" number; all that stuff that comes after the number in the film should have come before. I'd like to change it now. I can never let a picture go, I think I could work on TWELVE CHAIRS for the rest of my life. I spent a year of my life making that picture, I thought it was going to be my masterpiece.

J.A.: Can you define what people respond to in your films?

M.B.: I'm a people's director: I hate people. No, I think I have a minority rhythm; that helps a bit. Why would I be such a fan of foreign films, why should I love LES ENFANTS DE PARADIS as I do? I don't understand French except to order a ham sandwich; but without knowing the language, that film is so effective. When I said minority rhythms I was kidding, but in another sense I do think that there are international rhythms that belong to people, and transcend language. We all get them.
    I love De Sica and Fellini; I think De Sica is a great master. Fellini has put him in the shadows but I think film for film, De Sica would stand out. There is no picture in the world like BICYCLE THIEF. It's the best Italian film ever made. 8 l/2, comes close, but not quite. BICYCLE THIEF is simple, no bullshit. Just a salute to people. I saw it in '47, '48, I couldn't believe it. It was so rich it tore me to pieces. UMBERTO D. is a glorious picture too. And GOLD OF NAPLES. De Sica really knew what he was doing. He understands people. Fellini's made more losers for me than De Sica, but his winners have been pretty wonderful. THE WHITE SHEIK -- when I saw that I couldn't believe it: Fellini knew what he was doing. I said, my God, he's as smart as I am. 8 1/2 fantastic, LA DOLCE VITA fair; JULIET OF THE SPIRITS no; SATYRICON no; then ROMA yes. He came back with a smashing winner. But DeSica, very few losers. MIRACLE IN MILANO is a masterpiece, a Chagall.
    When I was little, there was a big argument about who was a better clarinet player, Benny Goodman or Artie Shawl. And a friend of mine said, "Go to Harlem, throw a stick in the air and whoever catches it is a better player than either Goodman or Shawl" And I say, go to Italy and throw an Artflex in the air and whoever catches it is a better filmmaker than most directors in other countries. They don't louse up films. They don't announce themselves. The only thing I have against Bergman, one of my gods, is that he's obtrusive. He's always telling you, it's a Bergman film, a Bergman shot. Well I saw it, OK, Ingmar, we heard you. We all know you're there.

J.A.: Have you ever been tempted to work the way the neo-realists worked, going out into the streets, working with non- actors?

M.B.: I am tempted to go into the streets, but it's really not my style -- although you've hit on a secret longing of mine to really do that. To really Super-8 it; to just go out and shoot. I'm very good at ad libbing, and I think people forget about the camera after the shock of it wears off.
    My ability is to con actors into forgetting about the camera. It's both good and bad; the camera can create a heightened mood. It emotionalizes the scene, knowing it's being filmed. When you have two opposite people, one who would be goosed by knowing it's being filmed and one who would be rattled by it, you have problems. For instance, Zero Mostel would always get the scene on the first take and it would be his best take. Gene would get better on every take. It creates problems. You know, Gene is the best actor in the world. He has confidence and grace, and you're never worried about him. Some actors worry an audience, you're never quite sure they're going to get through a scene. But Gene puts you at ease. Madeline Kahn is like that too.

J.A.: What's behind YOUNG FRANKEN5TEIN?

M.B.: It's complicated. In many ways we've gone back to the original thinking of Mary Shelley, if not her original story. I think she was the first person to discover womb envy. I think I'm the first person to call it that, but what it is is that most men get even with women for being able to have children by saying "I can paint, I can write," and women say, "You're full of shit. Look -- a baby." And of course, she's the winner. So here's this scientist and he says, "All right, so can I make a baby. I'll put a few rods in his neck and plug him in somewhere and we'll make a life." That's really it: to create life, like a woman.
    And it deals with the ignorant vs. the intelligent. The mob vs. the intelligent People. I think Watergate proves how serious gullibility is. Always mistrusting the intellectual. Any loud-mouth shithead they'll buy. But e=mc2, that's mysterious. The Story of Dr. Frankenstein addresses itself to the fear quotient. The monster is just symbolic of his mind, and the mob hates his mind, they hate his imagination.
    Someone asked me if there are sexual overtones. I don't think so. The only thing is the monster is very big: genitally speaking, he would be enormous. And Madeline Kahn plays Dr. Frankenstein's fiancee as a proper woman, who won't even kiss; when he goes to kiss her she says "no tongues." She is rendered unconscious when she sees the monster. He carries her away and she says "what are you going to do?" and you hear the sound of a zipper and you see her eyes staring and then she starts singing "Ah Sweet Mystery of Life" at the top of her lungs. It's a wonderful comment on the frigidity of women. The men she knew just weren't worth it to her; why should she go to bed with a man who wasn't worth it? It's a little bit of a female fantasy to have a big dumb, almost animal lover; she's never being watched and therefore she can never be criticized, because there's no element of criticism in the sexual act with a dope. That big dope is a wonderful female fantasy. He is incapable of that eye on the ceiling, ear on the wall, that women really hate.
    Fellini never understood female fantasies. Male fantasies yes, but female fantasies no.

J.A.: Will it disappoint you if audiences don't respond to the messages you're now talking about?

M.B.: If they never understand womb envy, that's fine, that's very private stuff in my own mind. If they want to join in that celebration, it's fine. But if they pay three dollars to forget about their problems and just want to laugh, that's fine too. You know, they could never pay me enough money to do what I do; it's a total joy, hearing people laugh. I can walk into the theatre where BLAZING SADDLES is playing and hear laughter and it's wonderful, it's thrilling. That's the best.

J.A.: Which is easier, to make people laugh or cry?

M.B.: I personally think, I humbly think, it's easier to make people cry. Laughter is the true test of your talent. Of course there are cheap jokes and then there are the more exquisite jokes. A story point laugh is worth its weight in gold. People can laugh wildly at a movie and then come out to say it wasn't any good, it was cheap laughter. In TWELVE CHAIRS I served them Jewish soul food, and got big laughs. In BLAZING SADDLES I made a conscious effort to be brilliant. If the story line doesn't work, the laughs won't work. In FRANKENSTEIN it's my first attempt at fifty-fifty, laughs and story. It's a love story, like THE PRODUCERS' it's an emotional give and take. When you leave YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN I want you to feel emotionally satisfied and have a lot of affection for the characters and not want to leave the theater. I don't think I'll get as many laughs as in BLAZING SADDLES. Instead of ten thousand laughs, maybe only eight thousand.