Negative reviews notwithstanding, the film transported Mickey Rooney from the ranks of second-rate kid actors and into the forefront of child stars. He was talked about in every column, appeared on countless radio shows, and was now in demand for the choice roles at his home studio.
Did the film transform Jack Warner, as he had probably wished, from the “12th son of a Russian Jewish refugee to cultured English gentility”? Not at all. (However, it did vindicate Harry Warner’s outrage over the oversize budget.) Yet Jack Warner’s decision to open his wallet for what was surely going to be a money-losing proposition, and Max Reinhardt’s acquiescence to the demands of a studio production populated by song-and-dance men and a teenage ingénue, Olivia de Havilland, who barely understood their lines at first, became a great Hollywood moment. The film brought the breadth and egalitarian optimism of Shakespeare’s sylvan vision of a topsy-turvy society to an audience of everyday folk struggling to make a buck under the grinding weight of the Great Depression. And the magic of Mickey Rooney’s Puck was at its center as, laughing like a mischievous child, he spouted to an audience of modern-day groundlings, “Oh, Lord, what fools these mortals be.”
6
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The Gates of Hell
Mickey holding his special Academy Juvenile Award.
PHOTO COURTESY OF ROBERT EASTON.
In his memoir i.e., Mickey Rooney writes, “MGM was this vast factory, the General Motors of the movie business, dedicated to Mr. Mayer’s views of morality, and to mass entertainment. For along with his public view of virtue, Mayer believed, publicly, privately, profoundly, in profit.”1
Indeed, MGM’s studio head, Louis B. Mayer, was a moneyman first and foremost, and he would do almost anything for the stuff. In fact, Mayer was once quoted as saying, “There’s only one way to succeed in this business, step on those guys. Gouge their eyes out. Trample on them. Kick them in the balls. You’ll be a smash.”2 Helen Hayes characterized Mayer as “an untalented, mean, vicious, vindictive person.”3 And that, more than anything, was what it was like working with L. B. Mayer. His unpalatable character shaped not only his business model as a studio head, but also his social relationships, especially the way he handled the talent in the studio star system he helped create—and it would shape Mickey Rooney’s perception of the man who would turn him into the highest-grossing actor at MGM in the 1930s.4
“We will take care of you like family,” a dissembling Louis Mayer once said to Mickey Rooney, addressing him like a father to a son.5
On August 2, 1934, riding the wave of success from the stage version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Mickey strode triumphantly through the Culver City gates on his first day on the lot as an MGM contract player, when he was scheduled to meet with the great and powerful Louis B. Mayer. He had casually met L.B at tennis matches and other events, and they had had some polite conversations. Nobody or nothing intimidated Mickey. At fourteen-plus years, he had seen pretty much everything, and had met every type of character, from his drunken and abusive father Joe, to the loud and surly burlesque performer Pat White, to his mother’s late-night dates in their living room, to the obnoxious bottom-feeding schlepper Larry Darmour, to the great auteur Max Reinhardt. He had seen every type of megalomaniac and had suffered the humiliating derision of narcissistic burlesque comedians before he was even five years old. He had also worked under directors and producers who were demanding and crude, flogging him to perform athletically in scene after scene even when he was so weary from a day’s shooting that he could barely stand upright. He had lived no childhood, had inhabited no bubble of innocent bliss.
Louis Burt Mayer, however—who was born Lazar Meir in 1884 in Dymer, in the Kiev Governate of the Russian Empire, now Ukraine—was a completely different beast. He had earned his stake as a scrap metal dealer in the Boston area after his family emigrated from Russia to St. John in New Brunswick, Canada, driven out by the czar’s pogroms. Mayer worked his hands bloody from the time he was a child and invested his savings from his scrap metal business into a small burlesque house, where he began showing motion pictures. Even then, he kept to the mantra of buying low and selling high—and that’s how he ran his studio.
Mickey, when he strode through the gates in Culver City, did not realize they were actually the gates of hell. Mayer was the Mephistopheles to whom Mickey had sold his soul. The studio head ran an amoral enterprise, one completely detached from any form of human decency and devoid of anything but the projection of his power and his (and his board’s) obsession with the bottom line. Mayer’s morality was money, and his money derived from his control over his assets (the talent), control that was near fanatical. If rejection of any other morality was an affirmative act, then the “kingdom” of Louis B. Mayer was absolute in its amorality. For example, his control over the lives of his contract players was complete, from getting Clark Gable out of hot water after he ran over a pedestrian with his car, to obtaining abortions for young women who had been impregnated by MGM actors and executives. No one at MGM made any decisions for him- or herself unless Mayer approved. As Mickey would see firsthand, Mayer did not run a studio; he ran a feudal state in which he controlled the lives of his contract players, and a brothel for his employees and guests. (He even made sure the unfortunate starlets who became pregnant out of wedlock would get safe medical abortions.)
Author Scott Eyman sets forth a different view of Mayer in his book Lion of Hollywood, the Life and Legend of Louis B. Mayer.6 In an interview for our book, Eyman, who did extensive research on Mayer’s life and tenure at MGM, disputes many of the allegations leveled by E. J. Fleming in his book The Fixers: Eddie Mannix, Howard Strickling, and the MGM Publicity Machine.7 Eyman has said that claims such as those raised by Helen Hayes, Ava Gardner, and Mickey Rooney about the evil nature of Louis Mayer are baseless.
Eyman writes that it was only business. “Mayer was first and foremost a businessperson. He would do nothing to damage any actor who was making a profit for his company based on spite or vindictiveness. The claims against Mayer destroying John Gilbert or any of his contract players is simply not true. Mickey Rooney, Judy Garland, John Gilbert, and the others whose careers spiraled downward were the victims of their own self-destruction. It happened by their own hand and was really not to be blamed on Mayer. They created their own problems.”
Mayer, Mannix, Strickling, and their executives were just seeking to run a profitable company, Eyman attests. “Mickey’s downfall occurred after he left the employ of MGM,” Eyman remarked. “Even his later films at MGM were turning a profit. He left while Mayer was still in control of the studio, not [Dore] Schary. Mickey was his own worst enemy.”8 However, some of Mayer’s actions do speak for themselves: for example, the doping with uppers and downers of Mickey and Judy, as film historian E. J. Fleming documents and as Mickey and Judy attested to in interviews over the years.9
In 1932, Mayer and Mannix decided to open up a company brothel to accommodate visiting exhibitors, overseas representatives, sales reps, and assorted actors. It was placed in a Victorian-era former boardinghouse located north of the Sunset Strip. They installed silent film actress Billie Bennett, who had appeared in fifty-two films between 1913 and 1930 to act as the “madame.” Fleming claims in his book that when she ceased making films at the end of the silent era, Bennett ran this high-class bordello in this exclusive part of Los Angeles. Her girls were made up to look like movie stars of the period, even undergoing surgical alterations to achieve the illusion.10 Charles Higham, in Merchant of Dreams, wrote, “One MGM executive veteran recalls that when a Mexican executive arrived [he had already placed his order] he wanted to bed a blond movie-star actress—any actress. Since it was impossible to organize a guaranteed night of sex, Billie Bennett arranged for a very pretty girl, the dyed-blond double of Jean Harlow, to become her for the night. Billie told the MGM veteran, ‘It’s all set up. But remember when he goes down on her, he’s going to end up with a mouthful of peroxide.’�
�”11
Mickey would soon, through the courtesy of fatherly Mr. Mayer, visit this MGM-designed fun house. In our interview with Fleming, he stated, “It was actually Groucho Marx who introduced him to this studio-sponsored whorehouse.”12
MAYER WAS AIDED AND abetted in his machinations by the person who became his director of security and wound up as studio vice president, Joseph Edgar Allen John “Eddie” Mannix. Eddie Mannix started as a maintenance worker and bouncer at the Palisades Amusement Park, in New Jersey, owned by Nicholas Schenck, who early on noticed Mannix’s ability to resolve problems and his toughness in handling crises. Mannix was also brilliant financially. Schenck promoted him to treasurer within a short period and relied on his unique skills in settling differences and handling people. When Schenck and his Loews Inc. created Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, he sent Mannix to watch over L. B. Mayer, whom he did not trust. However, Mayer and Mannix were simpatico. They were both street guys who did whatever it took to succeed. Mayer appreciated the skills Mannix had to fix issues. They were both amoral and Machiavellian in every sense. Much to Schenck’s displeasure, Mannix worked hand in hand with Mayer to build a kingdom that set its own rules, on its own terms. Mannix became the general manager and executive vice president of MGM. As Peter Evans writes in Ava Gardner: The Secret Conversations—in what was supposed to be a memoir but wound up as a series of interviews with his coauthor, Ava Gardner—Gardner claims that “Mickey said [Mannix] did Mayer’s dirty work for him and Frank [Sinatra] later told me that he had Irish Mafia connections in New Jersey.”
Evans continues: “But in all likelihood, Sinatra was right.”13
Actor Roddy McDowall once described Mayer as “a very tough, able, responsible, energetic, and sometimes demoniacal creature. The figure of such tremendous theatricality. All those scenes he put on to accomplish his ends. Weeping and wailing. That was his way . . . So, there Mr. Mayer was Daddy, and so on and so on. Mr. Mayer was a very shrewd guy.”14
Esther Williams wrote about Mayer, “MGM, as far as L. B. Mayer was concerned, was one big happy family. Well, he used the word “happy.” A lot of people weren’t happy. He thought he was our father. First of all, he was the son of a pushcart junk dealer, and here he has all this power. What does he come up with so that he can get by with it and his lack of education and culture? Intimidation! That was his number one tool. He was such an actor; the biggest ham on the lot. Oh, he’d throw himself on the floor and foam at the mouth. I always wondered what he would put in his mouth so he could do that.”15
“It was almost feudal in the way it was so self-contained,” remembered actress Janet Leigh to author Scott Eyman.16 “Everything was grown inside. It was a complete city. There were doctors and dentists, there were people to teach you acting and singing and dancing. There were people to help you with your finances. You could live there. And the people were like family, because everybody was under contract, not just the actors and producers, but the electricians. If I finished one picture, I might find a different crew on the next one, but the one after that would probably have the same crew from the first picture. You had a sense of being surrounded by friendly, familiar faces; you had great continuity.17
“MGM functioned like General Motors,” remembered actor Ricardo Montalban. “It was run with such efficiency that it was a marvel. It was done by teamwork. They could project the product, and the product was not any individual movie, it was the actor. They created a persona that they thought the public would like; they tailor-made the publicity to create a persona throughout the world. It was amazing.”18
Ava Gardner remembered Mayer as “not an attractive-looking man, which wasn’t his fault, but he made me uncomfortable the way he looked at me through his small, round, gold glasses.”
Evans writes, “[H]e had a mottled-pink face, a thin, hard mouth, and a large head of thinning white hair. But neither his expensive suits nor the rose-colored polish on his manicured fingernails could detract from the power of his body.”
“[H]e was very sure of himself,” said Ava.19
When Mickey signed his agreement in August 1934, Irving Thalberg was still the head of production. Until Thalberg’s untimely death in September 1937, Mayer bowed to Thalberg’s choices of product. However, L.B. still oversaw every aspect of the studio and was very particular as to what talent would become part of the MGM family. He told producer Sam Marx that Mickey had the “perfect Goyim look.”20
Mayer’s vision for MGM’s films was quite different from Thalberg’s. Mayer believed that MGM should be the “ultimate creator of cinematic fantasies,” writes blogger Chris Whiteley, “and the maker of many classic movies of all genres, which painted for world consumption Mayer’s rosy, idealized picture of an innocent and wholesome America, which never, in fact, existed. With great energy, skill and determination he built MGM into the most financially successful motion picture studio in the world.”21
Upon his first “official” meeting with young Rooney, Mayer wanted both to establish trust and to leave Mickey with the complete understanding that he, Mayer, was in control. He had heard tales of Mickey’s mischievousness and his tendancy to improvise in scenes, disregarding the written word, which Mayer might have regarded as simple adolescent behavior that had to squelched at the outset. Their meeting was scheduled for the early morning—the first on L.B.’s calendar that day. Nell wanted Harry Weber to attend it, but Mayer forbade that. He wanted to talk to Mickey one on one, father to son, if you will.
Mickey entered L.B.’s plush inner office, which was custom-designed with white leather walls, a wraparound desk, and an adjoining soundproof telephone room where Mayer could consult with New York a half dozen times a day. At the end of the room, Scott Eyman writes, “behind a white-leather-sided crescent-shaped desk, sat the five and a half feet and 175 pounds of Louis (always pronounced Louie) Burt Mayer, who made the decisions that helped shape the parameters of the American Dream for twenty-five years of the twentieth century. He looked rather like a very small, very charming white penguin, and he had soft, silken hands that disguised the fact that he had done manual labor for years.”22
“Young man, we are all happy to have you join our family,” Mayer proclaimed as he slid an arm around Mickey’s shoulder, “You know I care deeply about each and every person here on the lot. We will watch after you,” so Mickey told us, imitating Mayer.
Ava Gardner claimed that Mayer’s speech pattern was carefully modulated. “I think he had voice lessons.”23 She also claimed that “Uncle L.B.” gave both Mickey and her the identical speech when they first met him. “He was very sure of himself, and he could be funny, too. I don’t know whether he meant to be, but he was. He said, ‘My whole life is making movie stars,’ ” as she mimicked his liturgical cadence, and he continued, ‘All the billboards in the world don’t make a movie star. Only Louis B. Mayer can make a somebody outta a nobody.’ Well, you couldn’t argue with that,” she laughed.”24
Mickey was impressed. He had never felt this type of acceptance in his young career. He had worked for Larry Darmour for six years and had been treated like any other of the children who could easily have been replaced. The Laemmles hired him and promptly sold off his services to the highest bidder. He was always chattel on the auction block with a lot number around his neck. Not anymore, it appeared. He liked this warm, almost father-like man, and he was encouraged to do his very best work for him.
Yet Mayer was a businessman first. Mickey’s contract with MGM is a strong example of this. While Mayer knew that, after the actor’s performance in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Mickey would be of great value to the studio, even if only in loan-out fees, he never offered him fair compensation.
His agreement was the last contract negotiated by Mickey’s longtime agent, Harry Weber. Weber was critically ill, and had not been at his best when he negotiated the deal. In fact, he retired shortly after getting Mickey set up at the studio, putting Mickey’s career in the hands of his assistant, David Todd. Mickey’s long-ter
m agreement with MGM gave him a starting salary of $150 per week, guaranteed for forty weeks per year, with the right to loan him out to other studios without his consent. If his option was picked up at the end of six months, his salary would be raised to $200 per week. After that, the options would be on a yearly basis, beginning with $300 a week, all the way to $1,000 per week, if all the options were exercised. Although this was a nice salary for a fourteen-year-old boy during the Depression, it didn’t take long for Harry Weber to realize that Mayer had gotten the better end of the deal by far.
Now that Mickey was employed full time at a studio, he was going to have to adhere to the State of California rules of education. In the summer of 1934 his mother enrolled him in the Pacific Military Academy, as it was in Culver City, near the MGM lot. She felt that maybe the school could teach him the discipline she couldn’t seem to instill in him, and that it would get him out of the house following her divorce from Wynn Brown. Mickey had respected and loved Wynn, and Wynn’s departure had left him quite hard to handle. Nell was bringing home dates, which angered Mickey. He was emphatic in his dislike of the men she was dating and got into rows with Nell about them. The academy, she felt, would give Nell time to find her next husband—which she did. As part of his enrollment contract, Mickey was ordered to live at the Academy. He’d work at nearby MGM in Culver City during the days and then return to Pacific Military, also in Culver City, at night.
However, the melding of Mickey Rooney and a military school was a bad fit, and it did not take. Mickey was quite unhappy at the academy. He didn’t like being forced to wear uniforms that made the boys look like “Hollywood’s notion of Russian Cossacks.” He was constantly getting into fights, and at night he had to listen to the “kids who cried in their sleep at night or smell their urine from wetting the beds.”25 The military academy experiment lasted only four weeks before he forced Nell to pull him out.
The Life and Times of Mickey Rooney Page 12