King of Marvin Gardens, for the uninitiated (and there are many), is a wonderful and very bizarre film about two brothers--Jack Nicholson and Bruce Dern, here originating the psycho role Dern has used for the past six years--who spend a weekend in Atlantic City during the winter. Anyone who has ever been to Atlantic City in the winter knows that it's the most desolate, depressing place on the East Coast (not that it's all that great in summer). Brackman lived there for five years as a child, staying with a grandfather in the hotel business. The film is eerie, filled with grotesque scenes and odd vistas. It is also beautifully written. Brackman strikes again.

The King of Hearts project started three years ago, Brackman says. He takes a rather unconventional view of the theater; or rather he says what so few people inside the business are really willing to say: "It's far too political. A lot of the talent that's called for is not so much creative as forensic."

With King of Hearts, Brackman and his cohorts face not only the usual problems inherent in a Broadway-bound show (last week the truck carrying some of the sets up to Boston was fire-bombed by Molotov-happy kids, delaying the opening by a full week), but the special problem of transferring a beloved movie--a cult film, particularly in Cambridge, where it ran for five and a half years--into a popular musical. DeBroca's fable of lovable loonies running rampant in an abandoned French town during World War I has a dedicated following, may of whom aren't going to like the jazzed-up musical version, complete with German and America (not British) trenches rising from the orchestra pit, no matter how good it is.

"I'm sort of dreading reading the reviews that will talk mostly about the film," Brackman says. "King of Hearts is completely confection--King of Marvin Gardens is like a nightmare cartoon, and by comparison, this is like a Disney cartoon."

King of Hearts' secret may have been its genteel anti-war message, as well as the superb performances by Genevieve Bujold and Alan Bates. Brackman notes that the message may not be quite so forceful in the post-Vietnam musical version. "It's certainly not, as is, a Vietnam statement, but it is kind of a war statement, within the parameters of a musical. We did, for a while, try to inject a harder edge into it, but really, all of that has fallen by the wayside. It's a fairy tale."

"The musical is really a kind of razzle-dazzle--that kind of gossamer, pastel quality in the film isn't there... there's no point in doing something from another medium in the same way," he says, noting that he has written over 100 songs for the show--about 15 of which made it to the final product.

Curiously, Brackman is not one of the film version's devotees. "I never liked the film that much, but when it was suggested as a musical, I knew it was a great idea. The obstacle was to persuade deBroca, but he was persuaded that it was the young people of America who had made the film." Hmm. Forensic skill, eh?

He remains rather impassive about the prospects for his new baby. "If it's a hit, I'll feel great; if it isn't, I'll feel like a fool... but I'll come away with a few good songs," he says.

Brackman's future depends, in part, on the success of his current ventures. But even if they all fail, he will be able to bounce back. Witty personable, and clearly facile with a typewriter, he will be able to bounce into almost any kind of new project. And it is not until the end of the interview that he.unloads the precious secret of his avocation: "I became a writer so I could wear a sweater."