You’d be forgiven for thinking Hollywood has run out of ideas when it recycles a Broadway musical that recycles an old film. Or you could say that Mel Brooks knows when he’s on to a good thing. In 1968 The Producers signalled something big was our way coming - shortly after, Young Frankenstein became a masterpiece of creature craziness. Firstly, an absurd story about Broadway producers whose creative accounting will generate more money from a flop than from a success. Their choice is a love letter, Springtime for Hitler, a show so bad that it should close as it opens, guaranteeing our heroes a hefty windfall. Thirty three years later, Brooks dusts the story down, adds some tunes, signs up Nathan Laine and Matthew Broderick, and The Producers (Mk 2) is the biggest thing on Broadway. Shortly after, Uma Thurman and Will Ferrell join the cast, cameras start rolling and The Producers (Mk 3) is now the biggest thing in Hollywood.

With a history of severely diminished returns (Spaceballs anyone?), Brooks hands directorial reigns to choreographer Susan Stroman. Relying on staged success, she lets the material sing for itself. Brooks’ script doesn’t let her down, although her approach can be strangely inert – one appreciates the irony of complaining about unsubtlety in material like this – as if the camera has been left facing the proscenium arch. Yet this isn’t really about cinema, it’s about stage and showmanship, both of which are sung to the exceedingly camp rafters. While much of the satirical intent has been diluted from the original, they make up for it with overblown, bare-faced lunacy. The Producers starts loud and doesn’t let up with much of the outrageous comedy, like Springtime For Hitler, so shockingly off it’s amazingly on.

// COLIN FRASER