All about Me!: My Remarkable Life in Show Business

by Mel Brooks

My uncles and aunts also adored me, as I was the youngest. I was always in the air, hurled up and kissed and thrown in the air again. Until I was five, I don’t remember my feet touching the ground.

But what I particularly remember was that on cold winter mornings my mother would lay out my school clothes on top of our apartment radiator so they were nice and toasty. Then, she would take the heated clothes and dress me under the covers so that when I popped out of bed I was completely warm. No greater love.

Being a Broadway songwriter, I decided, would be even better than playing shortstop for the Brooklyn Dodgers, which up until then had been my most fantastic dream.

I didn’t have to learn about pathos, loyalty, and a family that stuck together in order to weave that into my stories. I was raised and taught by my own childhood.

I explained the difference between comedy and tragedy: If I cut my finger, that’s tragedy. Comedy is if you walk into an open sewer and die.

Laughter is a protest scream against death, against the long goodbye. It’s a defense against unhappiness and depression.

Under “goal” in the yearbook I put “To be President of the U.S.” No lack of chutzpah there.

I think it’s important to fail, especially between the ages of twenty and thirty. Success is like sugar. It’s too good. It’s too sweet. It’s too wonderful and it burns up very quickly. Failure is like corned beef hash. It takes a while to eat. It takes a while to digest. But it stays with you. Failure may not feel good when it happens, but it will always sharpen your mind.

If you don’t get killed in the Army you can learn a lot.

He made believe he was besieged by screaming autograph hunters. He would push his way through the imaginary throng screaming, “Please! This is too much! Let me breathe! I’m an ordinary human being just like you! Please let me through.”

If you don’t have anyone in your life like Carl Reiner, stop reading this right now and go find someone!

Even though she was already a very successful actress and used to going to the best places, she’d join me anywhere that I could afford. I remember one night she said, “Don’t worry. I believe in you. You’re talented. You’re gonna go places…you won’t always be poor.”

Max was Secret Agent 86. I came up with using the number 86 because when I worked as a busboy whenever we were out of anything that was ordered, somebody in the kitchen would yell, “Eighty-six on the rye bread; eighty-six on the cream cheese, and eighty-six pickled herring.”

That axiomatic way of rehearsing stayed with me through all of my movies: fun, insanity, creativity, total chaos during rehearsal, but total discipline during shooting.

I began directing by shouting “Cut!” Everybody broke up. I said, “Oh! That’s right. First I say ‘action,’ and then I say ‘cut.’ ” But it worked. Everybody on the set relaxed. Even I relaxed. And then we began shooting.

I remember one day when we were out shooting on location, I said to him, “Slim, you’ve made a thousand movies. I’ve only made two. Give me some advice.” He said, “Well, Mel, whenever you get a chance—sit down. Directing takes a lot out of you and you’re too busy to notice how tired you are.” He was absolutely right.

Like I’ve said before, as far as movie executives are concerned, always agree with them, but never do a thing they say.

And I can also honestly say that 1974 was a much better year for Mel Brooks than it was for Richard Nixon.

When people would later ask him, “Why on earth would you call Mel Brooks when you think you’re having a stroke?” He responded, “Maybe I was just looking for one last laugh on the way out.”

I hired a great ice skater, slapped on a Hitler mustache and a swastika armband, played some waltzy Germanic music, and had him do beautiful jumps and loops around the ice. At one screening I actually heard somebody whisper, “Wow! I had no idea that Hitler was such a great skater.”

In a lucky break for us, Jeff had a girlfriend who was an actress. He asked us to screen-test her for the female lead in The Fly. We tested her, and we loved her. Her name was Geena Davis. It was her first real starring role.

He spoke in a crazy, loopy German accent. I remember Steve saying to me about Bassermann, “Maybe English was his second language, but he spoke it as if it was his fourteenth.”

I realized I had my work cut out for me. I naïvely asked Tom, “How does one know where to stop the show and start a song?” Tom said simply, “When you are so overcome with emotion that you can’t talk anymore…you start singing.”

When you write a song for a Broadway musical, the song not only has to work as a song but also has to move the story forward.

He said, “This show is a disgrace. How could you sing about Hitler! I was a soldier. I fought in World War II!” I said, “I also fought in World War II. I don’t remember seeing you there.”

There were more awards to come and I was drunk with hubris and joy on our momentum, so I ended my second acceptance speech with: “…I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.” That got another big laugh, but I wasn’t far off the mark.

I didn’t want to be honored by Bush because as a veteran I was very unhappy about Americans being sent to war in Iraq. But in 2009, when Barack Obama was in the White House, I was delighted to once again be offered the Kennedy Center Honors.

(I never realized how short my whole family is until we took pictures beside the Obamas. They were like redwood trees next to us!)

I have had a great second act and I’m enjoying a pretty good third act too. If I were a Shakespearean play, I’d be rooting for five acts!