There goes my ZOG cheque.
The comments will be obviously “JOOOOO!!!!”-y and “Women shouldn’t be allowed to write.” And, I suspect, plentiful.
We’ve already established that I’m a persnickety cinematic party pooper. But come on—at the risk of getting all “Horse With No Name” on you, you must admit that the entire conceit of The Producers doesn’t withstand a moment’s scrutiny:
You’ve purchased a ticket to a musical called Springtime for Hitler.
The theater marquee says Springtime for Hitler.
So when the curtain goes up and a bunch of chorus boys in SS uniforms start singing, “Springtime for Hitler in Germany…” WHY ARE YOU SHOCKED AND DISGUSTED?
Brooks always counters anti-Producers critics (no, Imm isn’t the first) by pointing out the obvious: that he was making fun of Hitler.
But what’s brave about that? Hitler managed to look pretty stupid without much help, and when it mattered, neither The Great Dictator nor (the far superior) That Nazty Nuisance accomplished sweet eff-all.
In fact, Chaplin’s wrongheaded paean to commie pacifism during the former’s finale retains its toxicity.