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Young Frankenstein.
Mel Brooks has made some stinkers in his time, and some pretty good films, and some very good ones (I leave the categorisation to you), but with this film he scaled the heights of greatness and planted his flag there for the ages, and the reason is that it is so much more than a comedy, and so much more than a spoof. All the little gag details, the zipper in the neck, the kiddie's kite, the door handle that comes to pieces, they're good, but in the end they are a distraction, an irrelevancy, because this is first and foremost a love letter to a genre of films whose like we can never see again. (What, a love letter can't have jokes?)
Watch Gene Wilder's character, from the outset identified as "Doctor Fronkonsteen" in a desperate attempt to escape his background (an attempt belied by the fact that he could have changed his name completely had he wished) go through the stages from rigid scepticism to dream-haunted terror to insatiable curiosity...as he gradually comes to believe in the possibilities, drives himself and his assistants to the edge of exhaustion in the pursuit of his grandfather's dream, sinks into despair when the process seems to have failed...this is a true portrayal by Wilder, a brilliant depiction without one iota of self-mockery. And the proof is in the scene in the dungeon under the castle, when Fronkonsteen confronts his creation in an effort to "convince him that he is loved." Again, there are the jokes, the old "no-matter-what-I-say" switcheroo, the Monster's reaction when F says "Hello, handsome!", and it's all very funny, and then Inga calls through the door, "Doctor Fronkonsteen! Are you all right?"
Say it with me now.
"MY NAME...IS FRANKENSTEIN!!!"
If that moment doesn't do it for you, then I don't know what will. Thank you, Mel. You put a smile on my face.