Obviously, she likes the guy. After Elizabeth falls in love with the monster, we modeled her look after Elsa Lanchester’s character in The Bride of Frankenstein, right down to the bizarre hairdo with white streaks up the sides.
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And talk about luck—Gene Wilder used to play tennis every Saturday with another Gene, called Gene Hackman. One Saturday Hackman asked Wilder what he was working on. Wilder explained the premise of Young Frankenstein.
Hackman said, “Is there anything in it for me? I’m dying to do some comedy.”
Wilder said, “As a matter of fact, there is.”
And he explained the role of the blind man.
He said, “It’s just a cameo, but if you really wanted to do it, I’m sure Mel would—”
Hackman cut him off. “It’s perfect! Count me in.”
When Gene Wilder told me about his conversation, I was over the moon. I knew what a consummate actor Hackman was, as he had just won an Oscar for his memorable performance as “Popeye” Doyle in The French Connection （1971）。 We could never have paid Gene Hackman his current salary in those days. He was gracious, did the movie anyway as a favor, and took minor billing.
He was so wonderful as the lonely blind hermit. He almost destroys the monster with his kindness. In the original film the creature is drawn by violin music in the woods and encounters a kind blind hermit, who shows him hospitality and lets him spend the night. In our version the blind man’s attempts at hospitality result in hot soup in the monster’s crotch and the monster’s thumb lit on fire. Peter’s creature runs out and Gene Hackman gets one of the biggest laughs in the movie with his superbly delivered, “Where are you going? I was gonna make espresso!”
When people saw Young Frankenstein in the theater, nobody knew the blind man was Gene Hackman until they saw his name at the end of the credits. The monk’s costume and the beard made him unrecognizable. His line readings were hysterical, but he never pushed it. He got it just right. I will always be eternally grateful to Gene Hackman for that gift of a performance.
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Gene Wilder had only one favor to ask of me before we began filming the movie. With a big smile on his face he said, “I’ll do it as long as you’re not in it. I don’t want you to act in it.”
I said, “Why?”
He said, “Because I don’t want a minute of your concentration to be split between your acting and your directing.”
“Done,” I said. We shook on it.
I had three weeks of rehearsals before we began shooting. I like rehearsals, because it gives the actors an opportunity to get comfortable with one another.
I told the cast, “We’re making a riotous comedy here but you don’t know it. At times it’s gotta be touching and at other times really scary. And it’s got to be very real—no heightened acting. When it’s funny, your character doesn’t know it’s funny. You’re just doing your job. The audience knows when it’s funny. But you don’t. So don’t you ever play funny.”
When writing for other comedians, someone once told me, “I want to make it my own.”
I’d say, “Look, the jokes are written. The relationships are written. First, do it as written. Later you can make it your own.”
A lot of people don’t realize that without a valley, there is no peak. Without information, there is no joke. You’ve got to set things up. With my Young Frankenstein cast, this was never an issue. These were actors who respected what was on the page and yet knew how to improvise. It was the best of both worlds. During those three weeks I had a wonderful feeling that the picture was going to work because the actors blended with one another so beautifully.
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Laddie was right, Stage Five at Fox was enormous and could house all the castle interiors we needed for filming. Our production designer, Dale Hennesey, had just done Dirty Harry （1971） and two Woody Allen films. His Frankenstein’s castle looked like it was made of sweating stone, like it was in the mountains where a mist had settled on the surface, leaving it all wet. It was fifteen thousand square feet and thirty-five feet high. When he constructed the laboratory, it was even grander than James Whale’s set. Set decorator Robert De Vestel complemented each set with period chandeliers, drapes, tapestries, pewter platters, goblets, candelabras, and ancient stone stairs and floors. In the laboratory set he filled in all the little empty spaces with turn-of-the-century test tubes, beakers, and Bunsen burners.