''I've worked too long and hard to get where I am -- and I am not going to wear swastikas on my tits,'' kvetched one ''Springtime for Hitler'' chorus girl while rehearsing for the musical centerpiece of Mel Brooks' directorial debut, The Producers. Very soon, the movie -- about two schemers (manic, ursine Zero Mostel and mousy, twitchy Gene Wilder) who discover an illegal way to profit off a deliberate Broadway flop -- would enter the realm of comic legend. But that day, on the cramped stage of the Playhouse Theatre, Brooks just sighed and replaced the offending pasties with black eagles: He accepted that the actress simply didn't get the joke.
At first, no one did: An early public screening was attended by Brooks, an unconscious bag lady, and few others. ''The bag lady woke up during 'Springtime for Hitler' and laughed her head off,'' he recalls in the featurette. ''Either she got it or she was crazy and drunk. I don't know. But it was a pleasure to hear her laugh.'' As in every comedy, things got brighter from there: Peter Sellers saw the movie, deemed it brilliant in a trade ad, and Mel Brooks went on to become Mel Brooks -- the same Mel Brooks who didn't record a commentary for this disc. No matter: The well-researched documentary is several cuts above the usual ''special features'' ballast, and the film itself shines in a gorgeous new print. And now that we all get the joke -- essentially, that the audience gets the entertainment it deserves -- it's a fine time to sit back, slap a couple of swastikas on our nipples, and laugh until we're hysterical, wet, and in pain.
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