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Vol.
I No. 8 A Pig in a Tuxedo The Rumpled Critic
Max Bialystock (Nathan Lane) is a aging gigolo for blue haired clones of Irene Ryan (Beverly Hillbillies TV series) overselling stock into his tasteless Broadway shows. When auditor Leo Bloom (Matthew Broderick) nonchalantly points out that it might actually be more profitable to stage a overpriced failure, Max hatches a plan in which the two will mount the worst stage production in history, thus bilking their investors out of two million dollars. After a lengthy night of neurosis and pursuing a mountain of scripts, Max has an epiphany and chooses a script written by the worst playwright (Will Ferrell), the worst director (Gary Beach), and the worst actress, Ulla (Uma Thurman).
The acting was, well, Vaudevillian, and played to the absurdity of the plot. Only in New York do these cartoon like characters have any credibility. I say this not to put down the New Yorkers, as I have roots there myself. But, the truth of the matter is New Yorkers are a breed apart from the rest of the country, just as Californians are, in there own special way. For some odd reason there is always a competition between the two in the entertainment industry and it’s consumers. Us and them, the song remains the same. But I digress. Lets get back to the film: Lots of outlandish musical numbers, over acting, archaic special effects with neon signs and super impositions, and a very drawn out ending, unlike the original, but perhaps more akin to the stage adaptation. Mathew Broderick did some fine impressions of Gene Wilder, but aside from that his acting was very stiff and might as well have been Wilders. Nathan lane was just the opposite, a zany tribute to Zero Mostel, one of the greatest comedy actors of the last century. Uma Thurman proved that she actually can sing, but is overshadowed by the gay flippancy of Gary Beach. Golden boy Will Ferrell did a funny Nazi, which seems to be a long running gag for Brooks, but isn’t enough to save this sleeper. Even a cameo from Michael Mckean wasn’t worthy, but they got him nonetheless. Originally, Dick Shawn portrayed Adolph as a hippie bohemian, but, as it is un-PC to do drug humor, they turned him into a flamer. Ha ha! Lets all laugh at the funny gay man! How PC is that? His assistant and crew were like a cavalcade of Village People clones. I am sorry, but if I were a gay man, I would be offended by the stereotypes. But, hey, it’s Mel Brooks, right? Brooks has gambled on this overdone plot. Liked it better when it was called The Birdcage. Sorry Mel, but this just didn’t do it for me. Your sophomoric humor only proves to me that you never grew up, much like Woody Allen, stuck in arrested development. You can dress a pig in a tuxedo, but he’ll still be a swine. Grade: D
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Copyright © 2005-06, Humboldt Sentinel. All rights reserved. |
I
went to see the newest remake movie, The Producers, with much
hesitation as I generally don’t enjoy outlandishly over-produced
musicals. Chicago was an exception to my rule, being as it had a surreal
quality to it much reminiscent of All that Jazz, but this one had my interest.
Can a 85 year old shtick writer remake a great movie into a Broadway stage
production, then transfer that onto film? When Mel Brooks directed the
original 1968 film starring Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder, I doubt that
he intended it to become another boring musical, much less this extravagance
directed by Susan Stroman. This was a time when Comedy was King, and Brooks
was on his way to a long run of biting and whimsical comedies (Young Frankenstein,
Blazing Saddles, High Anxiety, Space Balls). Brooks has always been a
producer of topical parodies reflecting the absurdity of the entertainment
industry. 
They
proceed to stage a musical that celebrates the Third Reich called “Springtime
for Hitler.” The opening number is like Zigfield Follies, with scantily
dressed Nazi girls and a blue eyed blond tenor singing the praises of
the Nazi Party (“Don’t be dumb, be a smarty. Come and join
the Nazi Party!”). This unsettles the more conservative audience
members, causing an exodus for the lobby. Before the stiffs can get back
to the morgue, a flaming Adolf comes up through an elevator platform to
swish the production into comedy status. It's taken as tongue-in-cheek
and becomes the talk of the town. 