Fresh Air - A Mel Brooks Appreciation!

Episode Date: January 23, 2026

He’s the subject of a new two-part HBO documentary by Judd Apatow and Michael Bonfiglio called ‘Mel Brooks: The 99 Year Old Man!’ It looks at his origins in Brooklyn, his service in WWII, his EGOT-winning comedy career and lifelong friendship with Carl Reiner. We’re returning to our 1991 and 2001 interviews with Brooks. He told Terry Gross about why he loves mixing bad taste and high production value. Also, film critic Justin Chang reviews the Oscar-nominated German film ‘Sound of Falling.’ Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

This is Fresh Air. I'm TV critic David B. and Cooley. Today, we're celebrating Mel Brooks, one of the few EGOTs in show business. EGOT is a clunky acronym that's shorthand for the four major popular arts awards. The Emmy for Television, the Grammy for the recording industry, the Oscar for Motion Pictures, and the Tony for the Broadway stage. Mel Brooks has won them all. For television, he won one Emmy as a writer for a Sid-Cesar TV special, and three others as a guest actor on the sitcom Mad About You. He won Grammys for one of his 2,000-year-old man comedy records with Carl Reiner, and for his

original cast recording for Broadway's The Producers. For the movies, he won an Oscar for his screenplay for his original 1967 version of the producers, and before that, another one for his work on the Oscar-winning 1963 animated short, The Critic. And finally, on Broadway, he won a show. three personal Tonys for his musical version of the producers. Best Musical, Best Original Score, and Best Book of a Musical. In 2021, at age 95, he finally wrote his very funny memoir, titled All About Me,

and featured prominently in a documentary about one of his many passions, The Automat. Mel Brooks turned 99 years old on June 28th. Half a year later, HBO is noting the occasion by presenting, a new two-part four-hour documentary called Mel Brooks, the 99-year-old man. Part one premiered last night, part two premieres tonight, and both parts will stream afterward on HBO Max. Today on Fresh Air, we'll note that occasion by listening back to two vintage interviews Terry Gross conducted with Mel Brooks, and we'll begin with my review of the new HBO biographical documentary. Mel Brooks, the 99-year-old man, is co-directed by Judd Apatow and Michael Bonfiglio,

the team that also directed a similar biography about another pioneering comic mind, George Carlin's American Dream. In the same documentary genre, Apatow also directed the Zen Diaries of Gary Shandling. As a young teenager working for his high school radio station, Apatow recorded interviews with Steve Allen, Jerry Seinfeld, Martin Short and others, then went on to write and direct such classic comedies as the Larry Sanders show, Freaks and Geeks, The 40-year-old Virgin, and This Is 40. And now, with this string of comedy-focused documentaries, he's exploring that early passion all over again. When Apatow interviews Mel Brooks

for this two-part HBO special, he asks some very frank questions. About Mel's late wife Anne Bancroft, Apatow asks, what do you miss the most about Anne? And it isn't just the two of them talking. The 99-year-old man rounds up lots of family members, as well as an absolute who's who of comedy, talking about the output and influence of Mel Brooks. Jerry Seinfeld, Dave Chappelle, Sarah Silverman, Ben Stiller, Jimmy Kimmel, Conan O'Brien, and others. And in vintage interviews, we hear from people whose careers Mel Brooks affected enormously, from David Lynch to Gene Wilder. Some of the stories we hear are familiar, but they're treated like greatest hits. Little gems polished to perfection and edited together performed on a variety of stages.

Other stories are more fresh and surprising, as when Mel talks about going to Sid Caesar, star of the popular 1950s live TV comedy, Your Show of Shows, begging Caesar to quit a few years. into the show's run. What was your vision for your career? Movies. I'm going to write movies. I'm going to write movies. And you tried to get Sid to make movies with you?

Yeah, I said, Sid, you do a show on Saturday night, and by Monday, it's forgotten. You can't just do television, because television evaporates. And I pitched this. pitched this idea. I quit, you quit. We don't do the third year of the show of shows. We do the first year of a picture starring

Sid Caesar, a never-to-be-forgotten comedy by that incredible comedy writer Mel Brooks. And I convinced him. A month goes by. He said, I got bad news. They offered me something I couldn't refused. A million dollars a season. I'm big, but I'm not that big that I can say no to that.

He said, and I can get you a raise. I said, I don't want a raise. I want movies. Mel Brooks, the 99-year-old man, by covering everything from blazing saddles to space balls, is full of laughs. It would have to be. But it's also quite serious. And that's what I love about it the most, because behind all the antics and anarchy, Mel Brooks is serious, too. The documentary shows scenes from Seinfeld's comedians in cars getting coffee, featuring Mel, hanging out at the house of his best friend Carl Reiner, enjoying their nightly takeout dinner on TV trays while watching television. Then the subject shifts to Reiner's death in 2020.

And that sequence begins with an interview with Carl's son, Rob Reiner, who spoke with Apatow before his own recent tragic death. What Rob Reiner says is sad, and it's made even sadder by Rob's subsequent murder. Mel was there when my dad died. My dad was in the bathroom, and he just collapsed in the bathroom, and Mel came back and realized, uh-oh, something's wrong,

and my dad died, like, right after that. For months, months, months, he would come to the house after my father died. He would come to the house, sit there, watch television, and have dinner. And he did that for months.

And he told us, the family, he said, you don't let me know when you're going to sell the house. I mean, you know, at some point we're going to sell the house. And I said, yeah, yeah. And I said, and then I said, well, maybe it's better you just,

you know, we'll stage the house with you in it, you know. Maybe it'll up the value. Apatow even asks Mel Brooks how he keeps going after the deaths of Anne and Carl. And for once, unlike other TV interviews earlier in his career shown here, the comic genius doesn't deflect the question with a quick one-liner. But his joy of love and life and comedy are obvious touchstones. He says as much to his granddaughter Samantha in a wonderful and tender segment in part two.

His overall life lesson and advice turns out to be the same as that of Kurt Vonnegut. Be kind. And at age 99, Mel Brooks still is working, on Spaceballs 2, and on very young Frankenstein. Happy belated birthday, Mel, and you're already halfway to another one. Now we're going to listen to portions of a couple of interviews Terry Gross did with Mel Brooks. In 1991, she asked him about his film The Producers, starring Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder, which was later made into a hit Broadway musical and movie musical starring Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick. The original 1967 film, like the other versions, is about two Broadway producers who come up with a convoluted scheme to get rich quick by producing the worst musical ever made, springtime for Hitler. It included this song.

Germany was having trouble. What a sad, sad story. Needed a new leader to restore its former glory. Where, oh, where was he? Where could that man be? We looked around, and then we found the man for you and me. Time for Hitler and Germany. Each land is here marching to a faster face. Look out.

Here come asteret in Germany. You know, some of my very favorite Mel Brooks moments are your big production numbers, your Broadway showstoppers with big choruses for grim and totally inappropriate subjects like Springtime for Hitler and the producers or The Inquisition, What a Show and History of the World, Part 1.

Did you want to be on Broadway for real when you were growing up? Or did you want to be a song and dance, man? To be perfectly frank, yes. The answer to all those questions is, yes, yes! I wanted more than anything. I wanted to sing and dance and jump up and down.

on Broadway and even more than that on the big silver screen. And my heroes when I was young were, of course, Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly. And I loved all those great old black and white musicals like The Gay D'Vorce and Top Hat and the Color movies that MGM made with Gene Kelly. You know, fantastic. I loved singing in the rain. I mean, who doesn't love a great musical? And in all of my movies, whether it's... Proper or not, I squeeze in a number, you know.

Even in Life Stinks, you have one. Yeah, even in Life Stinks, which is a story of rich and poor. Somehow we're doing this salute to the 40s, you know, with Gene Kelly and a rag factory. So when you were growing up and you really wanted to be on Broadway or to be a song and dance man, how far did you get with that or how far did you think you could get singing and dancing? Did you have... Oh, I did it. But I did it in the sour cream factories of the Borshams.

belt and the cat skills just outside of New York. There were these resort hotels. And you started by just tending the rowboats or being a bus boy, and you prayed to end up on stage in a variety show on Saturday night. And I became a drummer, and I got onto the stage because the comic got sick. So the boss, Pinkus Cohen, redundant name. He didn't need both Pinkison and Cohen. One would have been, it would have covered. It would have covered. It would have covered. It said, used to call me Melbourne, M-E-L-B-M-N-N-N. He'd say, Melbourne,

the comic is sick, and we know you're cute and funny, so jump on the stage, and I'm used to guests. So that night I went on the stage and I never went back to the drums. What'd you do that night? Well, that night,

I did a different... It's a good question, Terry. I like you, Terry Gross. This is going to be a great show because I like you and I like me, so when I listen to this, I'm going to be in heaven, you know. What did I do?

That night I did a different kind of comedy because there was a maid who was locked in the closet that day. She had somehow locked herself in a room closet in a storeroom closet and she couldn't get out. And she was pounding on the door and screaming in Yiddish, Loss me a raise! Loz me a raise! And screaming, and finally somebody heard her, opened the door and let her out. So they let Sophie out and she had a little attack of tears and nerves and then went back to taking care of the rooms. So everybody at the place knew it. It was like a scandal.

Poor Sophie. Aye, aye, aye. So the first thing I did that night, I said, Good evening, ladies and Jews. You know, I did my wife. And I said, Loss be a rice! And the place was pandemonium, you know,

because they knew about it. And I decided to do like real comedy, people's comedy, or comedy that everybody knew instead of making up, quote, jokes. and I've been doing that kind of comedy ever since. I want to get back to your big lavish production numbers, like Springtime for Hitler.

What possessed you the first time you did one of those? Like Springtime for Hitler, for instance. It's such a wonderful and really funny number, and I'm sure a lot of people thought it was just in horrible taste. It was in horrible taste. It was an excruable taste. I'm ashamed of it to this day, but... But I do like that juxtaposition of those two textures.

You know, let me tell you, the song itself composed, nobody knows I wrote the music as well as made up those words. So I wrote the words in the music to Springtime for Hitler. The song is beautiful. People listen to it even today, and they don't know it's Springtime for Hitler. They listen to the orchestration, or they listen to the non-vocal version of it,

In many cities. I was just in Chicago. There is an elevator playing springtime for Hitler. Really? And there are people going up and down, but it just goes, da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da. They don't know it's springtime for Hitler and Germany. They don't know that. They just hear the music, and they sway until they get to the 22nd floor, you know.

And it's amazing. And so the melody is almost like a Richard Rogers melody. And that's why when you hear these crazy words against it, it all falls into place beautifully. What do you think your most misunderstood scene is in any of your movies? I think it's a good question, Terry Gross. That's a very good question. What is my most misunderstood or misinterpreted theme?

Vulgarity or bad taste. I use it, therefore I'm painted with it. that brush. The critics in a lot of people don't understand that bad taste is a wonderful device for unearthing truth that is all around us and evoking laughter. So that is the bane of my existence is that I'm continually accused like the overhead shot of the swastika in springtime for Hitler. I mean, it was a very important point in a very important musical, in a very important story. So I don't think they just single out, you know, something that they feel is in horrible taste, but they don't know that it's used to illuminate something.

What kind of roles do you think you would have gotten if you weren't writing your own? Oh, my favorite role would be the King of Germany, the Kaiser role. That would be, no, two demerits for that. I can't help. Look, when you work in the mountains, it never leaves you. You know, cheap jokes, cheap jokes. I mean, I'm a purveyor of cheap jokes. Now, what kind of roles would I say again, Terry? What kind of roles do you think you would have gotten in movies if you weren't writing your own? Well, in the 30s, I probably would have been a bellboy in hotel movies. And then I guess in the 40s, I would have been, you know, like a good-natured soldier from Brooklyn. I know the roles they would have given me. They would have called me Brooklyn.

Hey, Brooklyn, you know. And then in the 50s, I would have been the band boy with a rock and roll group, you know, touring this. I know, that's why I wrote these movies, you know, or else I would have been stuck with all these parts. I would have been called Blinky and Winky and Not. Before you started writing for the Sid Caesar Show, did you have any outwardly Jewish people to see yourself in outside of the Catskill comics, but people who were not only Jewish and show business, but were doing sketches about being Jewish or who were writing stories. or who were writing stories about being Jewish or who were Jewish in any outward way?

Good question, no. The only role models had gone away, and that was Yiddish theater. You know, the Yiddish Theater of Second Avenue in New York, and that was long gone by the time I had made my way into show business. I had only seen one play. The second act of the Yiddish theater was an incredible device. It was great.

It was the most emotional point in the play. This is the second act curtain I'm talking about before you went into the third act. This is the hold the audience so they would sit for the third act. And the daughter would come home to them. She was missing and she would come home. And she would enter stage left and the mother was stage right looking at her. And she would open her coat and she would show this big belly. And the mother would scream in Yiddish,

Erich Schengen! And she'd faint and the curtain would come down. And that is the mother would say, she's pregnant. And they always had, or a soldier would come home and the mother would say, it is blint. He's blind. And then the curtain would come.

I mean, they always had this. They had these tragically emotional moments. And I learned that somehow, at the end of the second act, and I do that in all my movies, you've got to hook the people. So they're excited about at least a day no more. I mean, the rush to the end, you know? Your parents were Eastern European immigrants.

Was mostly Yiddish spoken in your house? No, no. My grandmother did. My mother, as a matter of fact, said, Earl and Burrell. She was a New Yorker. You know, she came in when she was three years old. She learned English from, as most immigrants did when they came here as little kids. They learned English from Irish teachers.

Irish teachers in New York. and they were the Irish got all the jobs, so therefore all the teachers were Irish, and everybody was talking like this in Jewish households. Hey, hey, Mershey, would you pass to Kasha? Thank you very much, Mersh. I mean, of course, I'm overdoing it, but my mother did say, actually did say Turlet.

She never said toilet. She said turlet. Melbrook spoke to Terry Gross in 1991. We'll hear more after a break. And Justin Chang reviews a new film from Germany, Sound of Falling. I'm David B. and Cooley, and this is Fresh Air. This colleague, me of Chegra, Ratshia, Bain.

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data bricks. AI agents grounded in your data and built for your goals. Mel Brooks, the 99-year-old man, is the name and subject of a new two-part HBO documentary, concluding tonight and streaming on HBO Max. It's co-directed by Judd Apatow and Michael Bonfiglio. And today, to note this wonderful new work, We're listening back to portions of some of our interviews with Mel Brooks. Let's continue with Terry's 1991 interview with him. Can I hear about what your bar mitzvah was like? It was fast and short. In those days, they were not...

Today, I just went to a bar mitzvah, and it could have fed all of Kiev, where my mother came from. It's an amazing difference. My bar mitzvah took 15 minutes, and the kids threw heart candy, and a couple of them hit me with it. And it was all over. And, of course, I'll never forget the breath of my Rebbe. I mean, Rebbe breaths is famous.

I mean, they eat garlics and onions, and then they try to teach you Hebrew. And they would breathe in your face and say, no, Khaw, not Khu, not. And it was quite an experience. And ask any little Jewish kiddos bar mitzvah about Rebby Breath. A lot of your movies are parodies of genre films. When did you fall in love with movies?

Did you go a lot when you were young? I went a lot and I didn't have a lot of money so the way I used to get into movies was when the audience when the movie would break and the audience would walk out I would join them and I would walk backwards

until I was in the theater Oh so it looked like you were exiting And then when the new audience came in I mean I would watch the movie And that was the only way I could get to see movies because I couldn't afford whatever it was the 15 cents to get in to see them And my mother used to search

for me in the movies because I would see the same movie if it was top hat or the gay divorce forget about it. I'd see it 16 times I knew every step. I know every nuance, every lilt, every note, every fill. I mean, I mean, I just... I was addicted. I was addicted to movies. I want to get back to something we were talking about before.

You know how you were saying if you weren't writing your own roles? You'd be like the billboy in the movie or whatever. When you realized that as much as you loved song and dance and Broadway shows and musical comedy movies, when you realized that you probably weren't going to be a leading man, you weren't going to be cast as a leading man. Well, eventually you started casting yourself as a leading man

in parodies of those kinds of movies. But were you ever really heartbroken knowing that you wouldn't be in the serious versions of those movies? That's a good question, yeah. And my heart of hearts, I always wanted to be Arrow Flynn. Yeah, I was heartbroken. And I always wanted the most beautiful, long-wasted, long-laced, long-legged women in the world

to fall on the knees and pray to me. But as life and God would have it, it was the other way around. Every time I see a tall, beautiful woman, I just crashed away and I prayed to her. I say, please, just give me a slap in the face, something. Show me that you know I'm alive to.

I made myself a leading man in high anxiety because I always wanted to imitate Frank Sinatra. So here was a chance to write a, song called High Anxiety and sing it at a bar, which was a dream of mine. And I made myself, I guess I made myself a leading man because in real life I knew I could never be a leading man. I'm going to play some of High Anxiety. Oh, thanks, Ter. High anxiety whenever you're near. high anxiety

it's you that I feel my heart's afraid to fly it's crashed before but then you take my hand my heart starts to soar for it's more anxiety It's always the same anxiety

It's you That I blame It's very clear to me I've got to give anxiety Mill Brooks, I want to get to a different side of what you do And that's the movies that you produce Because, you know, Brooks films Has done movies like The Elephant Man

and you had David Lynch direct that, and The Fly, David Cronenberg directed that. What I'm interested in here is that it seems to me you produce these serious, moody films that are so different from the kinds of films you direct and write and star in. It seems like it's another part of you, but it's one that I guess you feel more comfortable in the position of producer rather than writer or director or star. True. So because I have not been allowed to do, quote, serious things, you know, allowed by my image, you do something, and then the public, and then the critics, too, want you to do it until you're dead.

And they won't allow you to change your shape or form or express yourself in a different manner because, you know, hey, pal, you know, we're paying for vanilla, you know, don't give us chocolate. And so I formed this kind of sub-rosa under the table. table in the closet company called Brooks Films. And I kept my name, the Mel. I keep the Mel away, I said. But are these films that you would like to be making yourself in a way? Well, in a way, I've kind of put it together in Life Stinks. And it's kind of the first time I've stepped out of the closet. So here I am Mel Brooks and Brooks films all in one movie. And I'm very happy with it. You know, I'm very happy I was allowed to do it. And, and, uh, and, um, It was a great experience.

But I've never been allowed to fuse the quiet, dark, serious elements in me, and a happy-go-lucky silly comic. So many of your movies seem to be about, isn't it absurd that I would be in this position here? Or isn't it absurd that a Jew like me would be in this position here? I'm wondering about the circumstances in your life where you felt like the Jew. Were there instances where you felt that way? or did you grow up in a neighborhood where just about everybody was Jewish and came from families and background like you did? Actually, I felt I had great compassion and pity for the few Catholic people that were living in our ghetto in Williamsburg and Brooklyn because I felt these poor people, these Christians, I mean, they're in the minority.

We should help them. We should be kind to them. You know, I never thought that we, you know, and then I was drafted and I was in the army and I said, wait a minute. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. I mean, there are 10,000 guys here and I'm the only Jew. What's happened? I began to realize that maybe we weren't the majority and, you know.

Anyway, I think that I learned a lot. I learned a lot because there were people who hated me in the Army just because they found that I was a Jew. And then I made sure that they got to know me and not just what, you know, you know, you know. They thought I was. And usually I could make sense to them about who I was and what I was, you know. It was really interesting. I mean, the Army was a very interesting experience.

Of course, war is very loud, and it's, you know, people are trying to kill you. I mean, don't even know your last name, and they're shooting at you, you know. So it's very, very disturbing. I mean, it's not, you know, it's not what I want to do for the rest of my life. I knew that. after my first combat where these Germans were trying to kill me, I said, I'm going to get into show business. I knew that that's what I wanted to do.

Singing and dancing was going to be a lot better than this. War is heck. Well, Mel Brooks, I want to thank you a lot for talking with us. Okay, Terry Gross, keep in touch. Don't be strange. And keep up the great work. I love your stuff. Say a lot of Philadelphia for me.

Bye-bye. Mel Brooks, talking with Terry Gross in 1991. We'll hear a portion of their later conversation from 2001 after a break. This is fresh air. We're listening to Terry's 2001 interview with Mel Brooks. He's the subject of a new HBO documentary by Judd Apatow and Michael Bunfiglio. Terry spoke with Mel Brooks on the occasion of the hit Broadway musical version of his 1967 film, The Producers.

That production won 12 Tony Awards, which still holds the record as the most wins ever by a Broadway musical. Let's start at the beginning. When you were first coming up with the movie, the producers, how did you come up with the scam that's at the center of the movie and the show, which is that a producer can make more money with a flop than a hit? A hundred years ago, I was working for a producer in New York, who was right around here, right around.

We're broadcasting from Carnegie Hall, actually, in the building. He wore an alpaca. coat, winter, summer, fall, and spring. He wore a black, produces hat with the brim down on both sides. He wore a cape. He made love to little old ladies, and for that, they invested in his shows. And his leather couch in his office always had a little old lady in it, on it, around it, about it. He never stopped making love to these little old ladies.

they never stopped giving him checks. And the dialogue was often like this. What's the name of the play? And he would say, cash. They'd say, gee, that's a funny name for a play. And the quid pro quo was terrific for both of them. The little old ladies were happy because once again they were adored and kissed

and held passionately in a man's arms. And he got his little green, blue, in yellow checks, you know, so he could put on his flops. But did he have a scam like that of thinking he could make more money from a flop than a hit? Everything he touched was doomed. He never knew. You know, he always hoped for a hit. He was my model for Biala Stalk.

But once I wrote it, I thought I added that, I added that, that Leo Bloom, the accountant, would come up with this simple little scheme that if you raise more money than you needed, you could. And you're sure, sure. sure that you had a flop, then you could keep the money because no one would be asking you for money because they knew it was a flop, and so their investment went down the tubes. Now, when you came up with the idea of springtime for Hitler, did that idea precede your concept that you had to come up with the worst show ever written, or did you know you had to come up with the worst show ever written, and that's how you came up with springtime for Hitler?

Which came first? I knew they had to have a flop. Right. And then I searched for six months. I was writing morning, noon, and night. I couldn't find the right flop. Just like they read. Right.

Just like Biala stuck in Bloom, you know, reading the little office filled, filled with... Yeah, they're searching for the worst play ever written. Right. But you had to create the worst play ever written. I had to create the worst play. I couldn't find the worst play ever written. So I created it.

Now, when did you come up with the idea that a musical about Hitler with dancing and singing Hitler's and dancing and singing Nazis would be just the thing. That would be the worst play ever written. Well, in those days, it was pretty dangerous. Yeah. You know, because, I mean, the war was only over for 19 or 20 years, you know. And here we were taking, you know, making Hitler, taking Hitler to task in a funny way, you know,

and Hitler wasn't to a lot of people. I mean, Holocaust victims and, you know, and World War II horrors and, you know, and, you know, this was not such a funny subject, you know. It was a pretty, you know. But I was always a tasteless fool, and I always felt that being politically correct would only be the death of comedy. That comedy had to explore every vein that should be explored,

that there should be no boundaries. You go where you have to go, and you do what you have to do in comedy. And if they hate you, they hate you, but, you know, that's what you got to do. So for me, Hitler was fine. A lot of people, who saw the movie were very much like the people in the movie

who were gobsmacked and a guest at seeing a swastika on stage, you know. I had one incident, by the way, here, right, and here in New York. Only one. Thousands of people have already seen the show on Broadway, but there was one person, and my heart went out to him, and I was angry at the time, of course. He found me, I was sitting in the back of the third, theater during previews.

And he said, he came screaming. How dare you? There was a Holocaust. Hitler was a terrible. You're making fun with Hitler. And he's screaming at me at the back of the house. It was during the bowels. People were applauding, so they really didn't hear him.

But he was shouting in my face. He was red-faced. He was a guy about 84, 85 years old. So screaming at me, and he said, I was in World War II. Well, I was angry, very angry at him. I shouldn't have been, but I was at the moment. So I said, I was in World War II also. I, too, was in World War II.

Where the hell were you? I didn't see you anywhere. I said, I was in the combat engineers. Where were you? You know, and I was screaming back at him. And anyway, but I could see that he didn't get it. Now, why he didn't work out in the first act, when the plot revealed that we were going to do springtime for Hitler,

when we met Franz Liebkin, when, you know, I don't know why he didn't. He was the only one. And in the end, you know, I felt, you know, I apologize because he just didn't get it, you know. And just like the people in the movie that didn't get it, they were outraged, you know. But by now everybody knows that we're using the Hitler thing to make it the worst play in the world. So they get it. Yeah.

And I really think that it's because you feel so strongly, about what Hitler did, that you're able to make something this funny. Do you know what I mean? It's because it matters to you so much, you're able to really do something that that's funny. Well, I've always said, yeah. Yeah, true.

I've always said that, you know, these guys are brilliant orators. They are. All despots have the gift of persuasive speech. And if you get on the soapbox and try to argue with them, finished. These guys will win. But if you can somehow ridicule them and make them laughable, then you'll always succeed. And their legacy will not triumph. So one of my jobs has always been

to make fun of Hitler in the Third Reich. And I've done a very good job at it. I made them pretty ridiculous guys. Did you ever say to yourself, maybe I'm going too far? Never. I've always said to myself, have I gone far enough? Right. Push it more. I mean, that's my, you know, that's my mantra. That's my flag.

My flag is you can never go too far. Mel Brooks spoke with Terry Gross in 2001. Mel Brooks, the 99-year-old man, concludes tonight on HBO and will stream in its entirety on HBO Max. Boom, with a bing bang, bang, bong, boom. Ah, have you seen heard the German band? With the bang, bang, bang, boom.

Russian folk songs and French, Lala, can't compare. This is German, and puff, have you seen, have you heard, the German band. With a set, with a zack, with sing. Polish polkas,

And don't mean that Schweig and liking shown as Schutzen Smuts and Sauer Bratton. Keychanged. Coming up, Justin Chang reviews the new German film Sound of Falling. This is fresh air. One of the best movies our film critic Justin Chang saw in 2025 is now in theaters. It's a German film called Sound of Falling, and it won a jury prize at the Cannes Film Festival, and has been shortlisted for the Oscar for Broadway.

best international feature. It was directed by Masha Shalinski, and it follows the experience of four generations of women living in the same rural stretch of northern Germany. Here is Justin's review. I wouldn't call the mesmerizing German drama Sound of Falling, a horror film, exactly, but it does feature one of the greatest haunted houses that I've ever seen. The setting is a remote farmstead in northern Germany, and while there are no jump scares or bumps in the night, The director, Masha Shalinski, is a master at conjuring ghostly atmosphere. Her camera, wielded by the brilliant cinematographer Fabian Gompter, has the eerie ability to slit the bonds of time and space,

and perhaps even of life and death. The movie follows several different characters, most of them girls and young women, who have lived on this farm over the course of a century. A lot of mysteries and secrets have accumulated over that time, and Shilinsky, working with the co-writer Louise Peter, is determined to bring them into the open. Sound of Falling has many intricate stories to tell,

and an unusual means of telling them. The movie jumps around in time convulsively, to the point where you often wonder not just where you are, but when you are. Yet the disorientation isn't off-putting. It's thrilling. Watching this film is like getting lost in a labyrinth, and gradually feeling your way out.

For the sake of clarity, I'll introduce the main characters in chronological order, even though the film doesn't. First, we get to know a solemn young girl named Alma, who's growing up in the early 1900s, shortly before World War I. Alma may be too young to fully understand what's going on, but she's smart enough to know that disturbing things are afoot,

like the mysterious act. accident that causes her older brother, Fritz, to lose part of his leg, which keeps him from having to fight. Later in the 1940s, we'll meet Alma and Fritz's niece, Erica, a curious, mischievous teenager, whose hard-scrabble life is cut short amid the horrors of World War II. In time, we'll meet Erica's niece, Angelica, a dark-haired teenager who's growing up in the 1980s, in what is now the German Democratic Republic. But Sound of Falling doesn't really delve into the politics of East and West Germany. Although history is always present, the movie wears that history lightly.

Shilinsky isn't interested in broad brushstrokes, as a more traditional European period filmmaker might be. She's after an intimate, fine-grained exploration of what it was like for women to grow up during times of great unrest, or even times of relative peace, as a young girl named Lanka experiences when her family moves into the farmstead in the 2020s. But even during moments of seeming stability, tragedy is seldom far away. As the film darts from one thread to the next, it shows us how people living in entirely different eras are nonetheless bound by common experiences.

Patriarchal oppression and sexual abuse are depressing constants. In one chilling passage during the 1910s, young Alma alludes to the forced sterilization of women's servants, a common practice to make them safe for the men. About seven decades later, Angelica fends off the advances of a creepy uncle, even as she undergoes her own sexual awakening. Nearly all the characters dream of escaping or running away. Some experience suicidal ideation, and Shilinsky plugs us right into their dark fantasies of death,

whether by getting run over by farming equipment or drowning in a nearby river. These women, for all their intense feelings of isolation and despair, are not as alone as they think. More than once, the 2015 song, Stranger, by the Swedish Ardalen. artist Ana von Hausuf, plays on the soundtrack, forming a hypnotic musical bridge between different characters and eras. The film's title, Sound of Falling, is one of its many mysteries. It reminded me of that old philosophical riddle about a tree falling in the forest and no one being around to hear it.

The similarly ambiguous German title, Indy Zonashawain, translates as looking into the sun. With both titles, I think, the film is trying to activate our senses, as the best movies do, and to get us to think about all the things that can escape our senses, all the strange, specific, yet utterly recognizable experiences that we might not notice if we don't look or listen more closely. Sound of Falling is only Masha Shalinski's second feature, and it shows the kind of deep human curiosity and exhilarating formal mastery

that makes me excited to see what she does next. Justin Chang is a film critic for the New Yorker. He reviewed Sound of Falling, now in theaters. On Monday's show, we talk about an incident in 1984 when a white man shot four black teenagers on a New York subway and became a hero. According to Pulitzer Prize-winning historian Heather Ann Thompson,

that moment and the fear that fueled it never ended. It led to Stand Your Ground Laws, tabloid crime coverage, and a politics we're still living with. Her new book is Fear and Fury. I hope you can join us. To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh Air. Fresh Air's executive producers are Danny Miller and Sam Brigger.

Our senior producer today is Roberta Chorock. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham, with additional engineering support by Joyce Lieberman, Julian Hertzfeld, and Deanna Martinez. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Anne Marie Baldinado, Lauren Crenzel, Teresa Madden, Monique Nazareth, Thea Chaliner, Susan Yucundi, Anna Bauman, and Nico Gonzalez Wiesler.

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