Mel Brooks’ story is that of the US and Jews and American Jewish comedy. He was born on the kitchen table of a tenement in Brooklyn a century ago in the same month Marilyn Monroe made her own entrance on the opposite coast. The son of European immigrants, Brooks was brought up by his mother after his father died when Melvin was just two years old. He was a small, sickly child and the youngest of four brothers, perhaps an explanation for an almost pathological desire for attention. In the words of his colleague Larry Gelbart: “Mel thought when he got slapped in the ass by the doctor who delivered him that was applause, and he has not stopped performing since.”
In his youth, Brooks’ preferred method of making a noise was playing the drums and he was actually taught the instrument by Buddy Rich. Neither could possibly have known at the time that they would both go on to have seismic effects on the two great American artforms: comedy and jazz. That youth, like so many others, was interrupted by Adolf Hitler. The teenage Brooks joined the army and participated in the Battle of the Bulge. If one is looking to understand the artist’s fearlessness or his utter commitment to mocking Nazis for the remainder of his days, those war years provide ample explanation. It may also explain his assertion that “comedy is the opposite of death”.
On returning home, Brooks took tentative steps into the world of show business by drumming at Borscht Belt resorts in the Catskills for audiences almost exclusively comprised of fellow Jews. When the regular comic was ill, he filled in and discovered the unique joy of getting laughs from an audience. It was not long before he was recruited to write on Your Show of Shows, the iconic Sid Caesar sketch show that is generally regarded to have assembled the greatest comedy writing team in television history. It was on this series that Brooks met Carl Reiner and formed a personal and professional relationship that would last until the latter’s death in 2020 at the age of 98.
The pair began improvising comedy routines for the amusement of friends and, during one, Reiner asked what it had been like to be present at the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. Thus was the 2,000 Year Old Man born, perhaps the single greatest premise for a recurring sketch comedy character. The routines would appear on five albums recorded between 1960 and 1997 but performances of it began in the 1950s, just a few years after the end of the second world war. The humour and Brooks’ accent for the character were unashamedly Jewish, at the very historical moment one might expect him to keep such a thing well-hidden. The double act’s only real concern was that gentiles would be baffled – but such fears were allayed when Cary Grant told Brooks he’d played the record at Buckingham Palace to the obvious delight of the queen mother. In Brooks’ words: “If the biggest shiksa in the world loves it, we’re home free.”
If the 2,000 Year Old Man was a risk within spitting distance of the war, then Brooks’ first feature film, The Producers, was positively dangerous. It would be tempting to suggest a comedic conceit like the aforementioned character comes about once in a lifetime but Brooks’ is no ordinary lifetime and he followed it up with a film about a pair of Broadway producers who discover they could make more money with a flop than a hit, eventually settling on Springtime for Hitler: A Gay Romp with Adolf and Eva at Berchtesgaden. Larry David, who built an entire season of Curb Your Enthusiasm in tribute to The Producers, has called it “possibly the greatest comedic premise that anybody has ever dreamed up”. The film came out in 1967, and some felt the horrors were too fresh in the memory. One punter berated Brooks with the words: “I was in world war two.” The reply? “So was I, I didn’t see you there.”
Brooks’ second effort, The Twelve Chairs, is perhaps the most underrated film in his oeuvre and one that showcases a love of Russian literature that began when colleague Mel Tolkin lent him Nikolai Gogol’s Dead Souls during the Your Show of Shows years. But his next two films, Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein, ensured 1974 was a banner year for Brooks, and effectively ushered in the golden age of parody movies. It is telling that these masterpieces became more popular than the films they were spoofing: the former was the highest grossing western in history until Dances With Wolves in 1990.
Brooks continued to make parodies in the 1980s and 1990s with undeniably diminishing returns. At times in the last half century, however, it has felt as though his true calling has simply been being Mel Brooks. This avuncular figure has never ceased to break the fourth wall and embrace chaos, whether it was being honoured by Barack Obama and pretending to pull down his trousers, wearing a prosthetic eleventh finger while adding his handprint to the Hollywood Walk of Fame, or having the audacity to point out the madness of the BBC’s The One Show in his 90s. The latter incident saw the presenters attempt to segue from lighthearted chat to a story about a woman attempting to trace her long lost father. “What a crazy show this is,” Brooks remarked.
He produced The Elephant Man, selected David Lynch as director and took his own name off the credits lest anyone assume this was a comedy. When executives asked for changes, Brooks replied: “We are involved in a business venture. We screened the film for you, to bring you up to date as to the status of that venture. Do not misconstrue this as our soliciting the input of raging primitives.” One cannot blame him for trusting his instincts: Brooks is one of only 22 people in history to win an Oscar, Emmy, Grammy and Tony. Not bad for a man synonymous with fart jokes.
With Brooks, it all feels like instinct and a defiance of death forged from a traumatic youth. A friend of mine once met a taxi driver who boasted about having his hero in the back of his cab en route to a speaking engagement in London. When Brooks discovered this cabby was a fan, he proceeded to perform the entire speech for an audience of precisely one. Has any single figure ever been so resolutely committed to spreading joy and making people laugh?
He is the son of immigrants who fought the Nazis and ultimately triumphed in every area of showbusiness. He is the American dream made flesh. Brooks might not live to be 2,000, but 100 years looked equally implausible when he served in the 78th Infantry division. When asked the secret to a long life after a screening of Blazing Saddles I attended in London years ago, this icon of American entertainment offered some sage advice he has evidently lived by: “Don’t die.”