New York, 1959. Max Bialystock was once the king of Broadway, but now all his shows close on opening night. Things turn around when he's visited by the neurotic accountant Leo Bloom, who proposes a scheme tailor-made for producers who can only make flops: raise far more money than you need, then make sure the show is despised. No one will be interested in it, so you can pocket the surplus. To this end, they produce a musical called Springtime for Hitler written by escaped Nazi Franz Liebken. Then they get the insanely flamboyant Roger De Bris to direct. Finally, they hire as a lead actress the loopy Swedish bombshell Ulla (whose last name has over 15 syllables). As opening night draws near, what can go wrong? Well, there's no accounting for taste... Written by
When Max opens the safe the first time to show that it's empty, it is gray on the inside. After Ulla paints the office and everything in it white, the inside of the safe has been painted white also, even though Ulla did not have the combination. See more »
Brazilian Samba Performer:
You'll find your happiness in Rio! The beaches there are strewn with pearls! The latin breezes always blow there! And so, we hear, do the girls!
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Showgirls from Bloom's dream sequence during the accounting office number dance around some of the closing credits. See more »
Nothing is more arrogant than a film that assumes it's going to be a hit before it even goes into production. Such a disaster is this musical remake of "The Producers." Stagebound, presentational instead of reactive, and more leaden than an Iron Cross, it betrays everything about the 1968 classic -- not to mention raising questions how anything this klunky could ever work, must less be a hit, on the Broadway stage. Reportedly, Mel Brooks was distracted during filming by his wife's illness and death, and that director Susan Stroman didn't have the clout to override his in absentia presence. Never mind that the new third act ending betrays the first two. Never mind that Lane and Broderick never develop the father-son relationship that Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder did, and which drove the story. Never mind that the musical numbers are not only forgettable, but extraneous. Never mind that the 11 o'clock number is over by 10:59. Never mind that Nathan Lane is made up to look like a Hirschfeld drawing. Never mind that Matthew Broderick is a human marshmallow. Mever mind that Uma Thurman sucks the energy out of movies that she's not even in. Never mind that -- oh, never mind. Like a dumb horror movie where the girl heads up to the attic and you know the monster's there waiting for her but she goes up anyway, "The Producers" is its own train wreck, devoid of any sense of self-awareness, let alone the major one: that it needs an audience.
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