Mel Brooks built his empire on laughter. But at 98, as he cracks open the vault of his memories, fans discover that the comedy legend’s journey was anything but easy. Behind every punchline was chaos, heartbreak, and the kind of creative tension that only comes when you work with the very best—and the very wildest.

For nearly a century, Mel Brooks has been the architect of American slapstick, the master of irreverence, and the king of on-set mayhem. His films—Blazing Saddles, Young Frankenstein, Spaceballs, History of the World, Part I—are more than just comedy classics; they are monuments to the unpredictable brilliance of Hollywood’s biggest personalities.

Now, as Brooks reflects on his career, he’s pulling back the curtain on the legends who shaped his world. And what’s inside isn’t just punchlines. It’s Dom DeLuise laughing uncontrollably before “Action!” even gets called. It’s Gene Hackman treating a gag like Shakespeare. It’s Madeline Kahn rewriting scenes in full costume, and Richard Pryor penning fire without ever starring. It’s Cloris Leachman refusing every note and Anne Bancroft, the love of his life, looking him dead in the eye and saying, “Really?”

These were legends. And they nearly broke him.

Dom DeLuise: The Man Who Laughed Too Hard

If Mel Brooks was the architect of chaos, Dom DeLuise was the living embodiment. Their collaborations—Silent Movie, History of the World, Part I, Spaceballs, Robin Hood: Men in Tights—are legendary. But behind the laughter, Brooks admits, he was slowly being driven mad.

Dom’s problem wasn’t ego, laziness, or artistic differences. It was laughter—his own. DeLuise couldn’t stay in character for more than a few seconds without cracking up, sometimes before the cameras even rolled. Brooks once described directing him as “like wrangling a ticklish toddler.” You’d say “Action!” and Dom would already be gasping for air, hiding behind his hands, shoulders shaking.

Scenes had to be reshot five, ten, fifteen times just to get one clean take. The worst—or maybe the most unforgettable—moment came during History of the World, Part I. Dom had a single line. But Madeline Kahn, ever the silent saboteur, raised an eyebrow from across the room. Dom collapsed. He laughed for 45 minutes while the crew stood around, exhausted. Brooks never forgot that day. He never forgave it, either.

But he also never stopped hiring Dom. Because once you pushed past the laughter, once Dom finally got through a take, it was gold. His timing was instinctual, his presence magnetic. He wasn’t acting so much as existing in a world built entirely from comedic impulse.

Off-set, their friendship was just as chaotic. Dom would show up with homemade pasta, feed the crew, tell stories, make jokes. He was impossible to manage, but impossible not to love. Brooks, with his love of precision and rhythm, could never understand how someone so disorganized could be so perfect on screen. He resented it, but respected it more.

Years later, Brooks didn’t hesitate when asked who drove him the most insane on set. “Dom,” he said. “I hated working with him, and I miss him every day.” It wasn’t hate in the way we think of it. It was frustration rooted in deep affection—a kind of creative suffering that only happens when you love someone too much to fire them. Dom ruined scenes, but he saved the films.

Madeline Kahn: The Genius Who Challenged Everything

If Dom DeLuise was the clown who couldn’t keep a straight face, Madeline Kahn was the storm disguised as elegance. From Blazing Saddles to Young Frankenstein, High Anxiety, and History of the World, Part I, she was the core of Brooks’s most beloved films.

But she didn’t just act—she dissected. She came to set not to follow direction but to challenge it. She picked apart lines, questioned blocking, debated camera angles. If something didn’t sit right, she demanded a rewrite. Not suggested—demanded.

Brooks, used to being the center of chaos, suddenly found himself surrounded by it, with Madeline holding the match. She was often late. Brooks would be ready, the crew waiting, lights burning hot, and Madeline would stroll in, calm and unbothered. Never an apology, just a serene smile, as if time bent around her. It drove him crazy.

But then the camera rolled and she was untouchable. Her performance as Lily von Shtupp in Blazing Saddles remains iconic. Behind every moment was a string of arguments and reworks. She wanted to rehearse it differently. She wanted to change the punchline. She questioned the set dressing. Brooks wanted to move fast. Madeline wanted to get it right.

During Young Frankenstein, her role as Elizabeth required her to play up vanity and melodrama. But Madeline didn’t just play for laughs—she wanted character motivation. She asked Brooks questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. She debated the psychology of every facial twitch. The result: some of the most unforgettable comedy of the 1970s.

Brooks described working with her as “wrestling a cat in a thunderstorm.” And yet, he kept going back. She was hard to please, but her instincts were sharp. She didn’t trust anyone’s vision more than her own. For Brooks, that was infuriating, but it was also what made her great. “She questioned everything. She made me feel like I didn’t know what I was doing. And half the time, she was right.”

Gene Hackman: One Scene, Infinite Tension

Brooks didn’t often work with actors like Gene Hackman—serious, trained, Oscar-winning. In 1974, during Young Frankenstein, Hackman asked directly (through his friend Gene Wilder) to be in the film. He wanted to try comedy, even if just once.

The result was a single unforgettable scene. Hackman played the blind hermit who offers soup and cigars to Frankenstein’s monster. On paper, it was a throwaway gag. But Hackman approached it like Shakespeare. He memorized every beat, wanted rehearsal time, wanted to discuss motivation. Meanwhile, the rest of the cast was riffing, laughing, changing lines mid-take.

Brooks, who lived off that energy, suddenly had to switch gears. Hackman’s performance was flawless. But getting there wasn’t easy. Brooks recalled how Hackman stood silently when others broke character. Not amused, just patient. Every ruined take earned a look—not angry, but firm. “Some of us came to work.”

Directing Hackman was “like trying to play jazz with someone who brought a metronome.” No yelling, no tantrums, just two professionals with completely different approaches trying to meet in the middle. They never worked together again—not out of bitterness, but understanding. Brooks needed actors who thrived in disorder. Hackman needed a plan.

Still, Brooks never forgot that scene. “We were different animals. But that day, in that scene, it worked.”

Cloris Leachman: The Woman Who Refused to Obey

Cloris Leachman wasn’t rebellious in the loud way. She didn’t scream or storm off set, but she had her own kind of defiance—quiet, relentless, impossible to ignore.

Brooks called her one of the most talented actors he ever directed, and one who gave him more headaches than almost anyone else. Their first major collaboration was Young Frankenstein, where she played Frau Blücher, the housekeeper whose very name made horses shriek.

Behind the scenes, Cloris pushed back on almost everything. Brooks would give direction and Cloris would stare at him, silent. Then she’d ask why—not with attitude, just genuine conviction. If she didn’t believe it, she wouldn’t do it.

She’d question line readings, suggest rewrites, sometimes ignore notes altogether and do it her own way. Annoying? Yes. But the takes often turned out better.

During High Anxiety, where she played Nurse Diesel, the same thing happened. Brooks envisioned the character as exaggerated and unhinged. Cloris brought subtle menace, calculating precision. It wasn’t what he asked for, but it worked.

She drained him. Brooks said that after a full day of filming with Cloris, he needed a nap just to recover. But she never phoned it in. She was exhausting, Brooks admitted, but she made him better.

Richard Pryor: The Genius Who Never Made It On Screen

Richard Pryor never appeared in Blazing Saddles—not in the credits as an actor, not on the screen as the sheriff. But his spirit is burned into every frame.

Brooks wrote the role of Bart for Pryor. At the time, Pryor was emerging as a comedic force, weaponizing wit against American hypocrisy. But Warner Brothers saw Pryor as a liability, not a visionary. His reputation for erratic behavior and drug use made the studio nervous.

Brooks fought for him, but the answer was final: no Pryor. Instead, Pryor became an uncredited co-writer. The writing sessions became legendary. Pryor pushed the jokes further, challenged everyone’s comfort zone, brought a level of racial commentary never seen in mainstream comedy.

The infamous scene where Bart holds a gun to his own head and says, “Nobody move, or the n-word gets it”—that was pure Pryor. Dark, daring, and somehow funny.

Working with Pryor wasn’t easy. Brooks described it as “waiting for lightning.” Pryor might come in ready, explosive, brilliant—or not show up at all. He battled addiction, insecurity, and pressure. One day, he’d write five pages of genius; the next, he’d vanish for three.

Still, Brooks kept him close. He knew that without Pryor’s voice, Blazing Saddles would lose its bite. The character of Bart was played by Cleavon Little, but the soul of Bart was Richard Pryor.

Years later, Brooks admitted the regret never fully left him. “I still wonder what that movie would have been if Richard had starred. We lost something not having him on camera, but we kept his fire in the script.”

Anne Bancroft: The One Who Knew Him Too Well

With Anne Bancroft, there was no pretending. She was Brooks’s wife and the only actor who truly knew when he was full of it. That made her the hardest person he ever worked with.

On set, she didn’t treat him like Mel Brooks, the director. She treated him like Mel, the man who forgot to take out the garbage. She questioned everything. If a line didn’t ring true, she said so. If his direction felt vague, she called him on it—in front of everyone.

They fought, not with shouting, but with intellect and deep mutual respect. Every argument led to something better. Anne brought elegance, gravity, and raw clarity to every scene. Brooks admitted she could break him with a sentence, but that same sentence often saved the scene.

“She didn’t let me off the hook. Not once. That’s why I loved her and why directing her nearly killed me.”

She was the toughest actor he ever worked with—and the one he trusted the most.

The Genius of Chaos

So, who shocked you the most? Was it Richard Pryor never getting the role or Anne Bancroft never letting her husband win?

Drop your answer below, hit subscribe, and remember: If Mel Brooks ever said he hated working with you, it probably meant you were brilliant.