Others tell me it is unfair to suggest The Producers (2005) means something more than the base humor it champions.  For them the juvenile sex jokes, blue security blanket, gay humor, gleeful money swindling, and ballet-dancing Nazi storm troopers are not only enough, but all there is.  Admittedly, those bits really are enough to make one of the funniest films ever made.  But to suggest that’s all there is or needs to be, I simply answer with the question “Haben Sie gehort das Deutsche band?”

And yes, I am referring to the 2005 Susan Stroman movie musical, which is strange for me.  I am not a fan of musicals, though I humbly recognize their popularity.  I can admire how well made any movie is, but that does not mean I have to like it.  Just ask me someday about Dances with Wolves (1990).  Still, I know my place and it’s in the minority on this issue.  So before you avert your eyes from this discussion, please at least let me explain.

When I see a musical, and the actors begin a song and dance, I immediately fall out of the suspense and land on disbelief.  The artifice becomes too obvious.  All dramatic or comedic tension falls away giving priority to performance over story.

And yet…musical songs are awfully catchy, and I periodically find myself humming “If I only had a Brain,” “Tomorrow,” “All That Jazz,” or even, God help me, “Climb Every Mountain.”  Nearly everyone knows “White Christmas.”  So credit the songwriters for memorable songs, but it’s more than just memory.  More often than not when a song begins a seemingly unstoppable loop in my mind, it is a tune from a musical.

The grand spectacle, the lyrical music of hope and love, and the overall pageantry of musicals can combine to make a thrilling and emotional experience.

Adolf Hitler knew how easily music evokes human emotion.  Images of the Nuremburg rallies with the book burnings, banner marches, and lengthy speeches are practically Human Racial memories.  There is something seductive about such pageantry, and when one combines it with music it becomes harder to resist.

Which leads back to The Producers, a film that shows us anything put to song and dance can become not only palatable, but even praise-worthy.  It’s a simple story.  After a string of Broadway failures, Max Bialystok (Nathan Lane) enlists the help of anxious accountant Leo Bloom (Matthew Broderick) in order to deliberately stage a flop, steal millions of dollars from lonely old ladies, and flee to Rio de Janeiro.  Put another way, the main characters manipulate other humans into following their lead so that they can gain just enough power to become wealthy and then flee to South America.  The joy of blatant sin has never been better captured on film.

Max and Leo are the heroes of the story and the reason we cheer for them is because they are not trying to be successful, and therein is the real brilliance of Mel Brooks’ story.  They accidentally create something wonderful (“Where did we go right?”).  They do not want to be criminals, they just want to be rich and, I think, know they can get away with it.  Think Leopold and Loeb without the Nietzsche.

As criminals they lack imagination.  If they had instead decided to rob a bank for the money, I envision them still hiring Roger DeBris (Gary Beach) and Carmen Ghia (Roger Bart) to choreograph the heist (which actually might be a funny movie).  What Roger and Carmen do create, with Leo and Max, is satire, farce and parody wrapped in sarcasm, all done with unintentional brilliance.  This is serendipity on a grand scale.  “Springtime for Hitler” is as catchy as anything else in any other musical but, like all things film, its purpose is what matters.

They all used music and pageantry to try and manipulate a selfish end, but while Hitler built his rallies to create an army of hateful sycophants, Bialystok and Bloom produced their play in order to have it fail and then keep the surplus money.  Hitler understood and deliberately manipulated his audience; Max and Leo were not even thinking about the audience and simply assumed a mass reaction of indignant disgust.  There’s a naive sweetness in that difference.

Finally, and briefly, I am not comparing the two film versions of The Producers.  Each is classic in its own way.  The 1968 film is dated, especially with Dick Shawn’s hippy character, LSD.  But that’s its only questionable point.  I would never deny its place in film history, and I still uncontrollably laugh at Gene Wilder’s hysterics (“I’m in pain.  I’m wet.  And I’m still hysterical!”).  Mel Brooks’ simple and brilliant story just lends itself to being a musical.  When I learned of the plan to stage it on Broadway, and remember I do not like musicals, I smiled and thought “of course.”

And when I’m feeling a little down, I hum my way through my favorite lyrics, as sung by Hitler, and somehow feel better:

“It ain’t no mystery
If it’s politics or history;
The thing you’ve got to know is
Everything is showbiz!”