The Life and Times of Mickey Rooney

by Richard A. Lertzman

  Meanwhile, Judge Wilson was drilling down on Mickey’s financial records. While Rooney had actually lived with Betty Jane for only about 120 days, he had been married to her for almost two years, albeit being at war and in Europe for almost 18 months; they also had one child, with one on the way. Because California is a community property state, by computing all the revenue that was flowing into Mickey’s 50 percent of Rooney Inc., the money he was ostensibly making from MGM, and the money going into any trusts, Betty Jane would be entitled to one half of that, in addition to child support. Given Mickey’s debt to Stiefel, including advances to Nell and Fred, and money’s advanced to him by MGM, he would be even deeper in the hole than he already was.

  Mickey’s off-and-on business manager, Nick Sevano, who also managed Frank Sinatra, said, “He was never a good husband. He only married for the sex part of it. He never went home. I could tell you the minute he was bored with a wife. He’d say to me, ‘What are you doing tonight, Nickeroo? I thought we’d have dinner . . .’ You see,” Sevano continued, “he was always on the make. A beautiful woman would drive him up the wall. Nutty lots of times, he couldn’t lay the girl of his dreams unless he married her first. The man had deep insecurities because of his size. He was the Huckleberry Finn of America. Every kid wanted to be like him, but no dame wanted to be married to him. Because he wasn’t handsome. To them, he was a crazy little kid. But a lot of dames used him as a stepping stone to movie careers. That’s why he had to get married so many times.18

  For Mickey, this tour had to have been a trip down memory lane. He played many of the same theaters he had played with his parents, and later as a solo. Though he dreaded putting on a smiling face while greeting fans, he was a performer and knew how much money was riding on his appearances. He said years later, “You are literally a slab of meat. They don’t care about you. They just want a piece of you. You say the wrong thing or you don’t smile right, they blast you in the papers. I can’t enjoy a meal in a restaurant or even take a shit without being watched. You live in a fishbowl. I know it’s a trade-off, but it gets tiring . . . sometimes I just grin and bear it.”19

  Countless people who have met Mickey have found his behavior reprehensible. He could be not only crude and vulgar, but also a quarrelsome drunk; a shameless womanizer, especially when he was chasing underage girls; and a reprobate who spent too much time on the phone with his bookies. Almost worse was a cruel streak in him, an insensitivity toward others that often broke the bounds of all social discourse. Author and television producer Geoffrey Mark Fidelman, who was at a 1999 I Love Lucy convention in Jamestown, New York, to sign copies of his book on Lucille Ball, recalled his meeting with Mickey, who also appeared at the convention: “Mickey was totally obnoxious. He was rude to fans, drinking, and a real prick. He was even cruel to a child from the Make-A-Wish Foundation who wanted to meet him.”

  Mickey was on the road throughout the Christmas season, living out of a suitcase. He earned over four hundred thousand dollars on his twenty-week tour. However, when he returned to Los Angeles in February, Stiefel informed him that he still was in the red. Stiefel had taken 50 percent off the top for his share and for “overhead,” comprising office space, staff, road crew, hotels, food, drink, and the money Mickey borrowed for other expenses, such as gambling. Stiefel was still fronting money for Nell and Fred’s upkeep and for the divorce: Judge Wilson’s legal team was overwhelming Rooney’s attorneys with a blizzard of discovery motions, all of which was led to mounting legal fees.

  On January 4, 1947, while Mickey was still on the road, Betty gave birth to Timothy Hayes Yule in Birmingham, Alabama. Later, when in a deposition Betty Jane testified that Mickey deserted her, Mickey responded, “She left against my wishes and pleading for Birmingham [sic] to have her second baby. She has never returned or offered to return, although I admit such an offer would be meaningless. I naturally wished to be available when my baby was born. There exists [sic] insurmountable barriers between us which made our separation inevitable, and further marital relations, impossible.”20

  Strickling and Stiefel remained silent on the separation until it leaked out on January 27, 1947, in the Los Angeles Evening Herald Express:

  Long-rumored in Hollywood, the separation of Rooney and his Birmingham, Ala., wife was confirmed by the actor’s business manager and associate, Sam Stiefel, and by Mrs. Rooney’s mother. “There is serious trouble between Mickey and his wife,” Stiefel said. “They are both very young and Mrs. Rooney knows nothing about the picture business. Hence they can’t find a level of mutual interest.” Mrs. Rooney’s mother, Mrs. Rase said, “Nothing has been settled and no legal action has been taken. Property settlement discussions are underway.”

  This scoop blew the lid off the story, and the newspapers were ablaze with daily updates, mostly negative toward Mickey. Erskine Johnson, in the Los Angeles Daily News, wrote on February 1, 1947, “Explaining Mickey Rooney’s separation from his wife, his business manager, Sam Stiefel said, ‘They had no common interests.’ Apparently two sons are not enough to interest the Mick.”

  Lloyd Sloan, in the Hollywood Citizen-News, wrote on February 11, “On top of all the adverse criticism about the way he handled the separation from his wife, Mickey Rooney will not meet with too many smiles at Metro for doing those Florida nightclub dates.” Louella Parsons wrote for the Hearst syndicate on March 10, 1947, “You can make a good-size wager that Mickey Rooney is permanently out of the Andy Hardys. Mick has outgrown the adolescent role. The series is tottering . . . when Mickey returns from an appearance tour he needs a change of pace.”

  Mickey, meanwhile, returned to the road on February 27. He replaced Danny Kaye at the Copacabana in Miami, at a weekly salary of fifteen thousand dollars. The newspapers were still hot on his trail, with Harrison Carroll writing on February 6, 1947, “With Mickey in Florida, do you suppose he will see his new son for the first time? Alabama isn’t far away.”

  In January, a basic agreement was drawn up for Mickey to pay Betty Jane alimony of fifteen thousand dollars per year for ten years, give her the house in Encino, and provide her with twelve thousand dollars to cover medical and attorney costs. Leonard Wilson flew down to Birmingham to get Betty Jane’s signature. Her parents signed as witnesses. Once again, Mickey moved back to El Ranchita with Nell and Fred. However, by the May 28 court date for the divorce, Betty Jane decided to rescind the agreement because her attorney said that he had “discovered” that Mickey was “fraudulently hiding his real income and assets behind a phony firm.” Wilson also accused Mickey of “playing around with other women.” That, too, made the gossip headlines.

  The Hollywood Citizen-News of June 6, 1947, under the headline “Mickey Rooney Denies Fraud in Settlement with Wife,” read, “Mickey Rooney denied today that he used fraud in reaching a $15,000-a-year property settlement with his estranged wife, ‘Miss Birmingham of 1944’. . . . He said he owned only 20% of ‘Rooney Inc’ and denied that the corporation was formed to keep his assets from his wife.” Accordingly, Mickey, through Sam Stiefel, had to come up with twenty-five thousand dollars in cash to settle that dispute and an additional five thousand for B.J.’s attorney, Leonard Wilson. Also, B.J. would get full custody of the two boys.

  Despite all the bad blood between them, Mickey attempted a reconciliation with Betty Jane, according to the Hearst syndicate’s Louella Parsons, who wrote on July 28, 1947, “Mrs. Rooney arrived in Hollywood a few days ago and has been the houseguest of her lawyer, former Judge Leonard Wilson and Mrs. Wilson . . . Judge Wilson, in an answer to my questions said, ‘Yes it is true, Mickey and Betty Jane have decided to try it again.’ Sam Stiefel, the fabulous Hollywood character who represents Mickey, said that Mrs. Rooney ‘didn’t understand Hollywood and the requirements of being a famous actor’s wife.’ ” The Hollywood Citizen-News, on September 9, 1947, under the headline “Mickey Rooney Reconciliation Becomes Official,” wrote, “Judge Wilson said the couple is looking for a home in Benedict Canyon.”

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bsp; Mickey, meanwhile, maintained a separate bachelor pad with his army buddy Jimmy Cook at the Argyle Apartments in West Hollywood. Cook recalled, “He said he’d never marry again. He never got over Ava, I don’t think. I think that’s why he got married so many times. He was always looking for another Ava . . . [W]e had the same in common—we liked girls, booze and carousing.”21

  IN THE SPRING OF 1947 Mickey was back at work at the studio, on a noir-type film called Killer McCoy, which was about as different from the all-American Andy Hardy as a movie could be. It was a new genre for Mickey, one that would take him through the late 1940s and into the early ’50s. Summer Holiday, which he filmed the previous year, sat on the shelves awaiting a distribution date. The next year would prove to be a watershed year for him: he would begin his descent into the background.

  Poet Emily Dickinson wrote, “Fame is a fickle food, / Upon a shifting plate.” In 1948, Mickey would live these very lines.

  16

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  The Lion Strikes Back

  LB, Mickey, Mrs. Thomas Edison, and Harvey Firestone after Mickey’s performance in Young Tom Edison.

  PHOTO COURTESY OF THE MONTE KLAUS COLLECTION.

  Mickey had a long love-hate relationship with Uncle L.B. On the one hand, he had a deep respect for L.B. It was Mayer who, once convinced of Mickey’s box office appeal, had turned him into one of the biggest attractions in Hollywood. But it was also Mayer who leased him out like a car, earning huge returns on his investment—and fighting Mickey’s representatives tooth and nail every time they asked for more money, even as Mayer recouped expenses incurred by Mickey for his extravagant lifestyle. By the end of their relationship, Mickey owed Metro a lot of money.

  Mickey resented that MGM was making a fortune from his films while he was struggling just to stay afloat, and he complained about it to his dying day. He was a horrid businessman, clueless in basic financial matters. Still, almost instinctively, he was aware of the inequity between the hundreds of millions of dollars the studio had grossed from his work and the pittance of a salary he received in return. In one ear, he had Sam Stiefel reminding him of this, and putting out the carrot for independent production. (His stepfather, Fred Pankey, who was now the unofficial bookkeeper for Rooney Inc., reinforced Sam’s vision.) In his other ear were Mayer and his College of Cardinals, advancing him money and shepherding what was left of his “teenage” career.

  Typical of most addicts, whether alcoholics, sex addicts, or inveterate gamblers, Mickey lacked not only impulse control, but any skill at managing his finances; he also suffered from poor judgment and had very little common sense, primarily because he was never taught to develop it, by either parent. Given that his parents split early on, depriving him of a father figure, and that his mother engaged in the oldest profession other than show business, Mickey had been raised in a de facto no-parent household. He spent the rest of his life burning through eight marriages looking for a mother figure, and went through a succession of surrogate father figures, looking for what he’d never had: parents to take care of him. This made him easy pickings for anyone with a good sales pitch.

  Mickey was a pure, genetically programmed performer whose near-perfect skills were reinforced by experience. As remarkably talented as he was, though, he paid a price for it. Every attempt Mickey made to create an enterprise was met with complete and utter failure. The eternal optimist, Mickey lacked an important skill set that successful entrepreneurs have: a healthy paranoia, along with a jaundiced eye for perceiving the downside of business deals. Also his ego, and his need to protect it, blinded him to the pitfalls of life.

  It’s one thing to be optimistic in the face of opportunities that seem promising, but quite another to be able to see beyond the glow of future benefits to the pitfalls of a deal. And at that, Mickey was sorely challenged. He trusted his friends completely, living in a cloud of oblivion when it came to believing the promises they made. Like a rock off a cliff, he fell for Stiefel’s brand of confidence, as he would with others who followed. Typically, savvy businesspeople are a rarity among entertainers. For every Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, Art Linkletter, Fred MacMurray, Steven Spielberg, Oprah Winfrey, Joan Rivers, and George Lucas—who became entrepreneurs through building businesses in real estate, orange juice, television networks and studios, or lines of cosmetics or jewelry—there are far more celebrities who have experienced bankruptcy and financial ruin despite the millions they’ve earned. Even in today’s heavily managed entertainment industry, many talented artists are inept when it comes to handling their finances. And with his utter lack of financial prudence, Mickey was the poster child for this disease.

  Sam Stiefel, the first in line of those who exploited Mickey’s vulnerability, embarked on a campaign to extricate Mickey from MGM’s control, ultimately for his own benefit and to Mickey’s detriment. When Mickey returned from his personal appearances, he was put back on the MGM payroll (at $5,000 per week). He was also in line to begin drawing from his MGM pension fund, which would have paid him $49,000 per year, guaranteed by Loews Inc., for the rest of his life. Even if his star power dimmed, he would undoubtedly still have continued in films, and therefore would have been in a secure position.

  In leaving MGM, Mickey was easy to convince, because he believed (falsely) that the studio and Mayer sought to sabotage him and not only extricate themselves from his contract, but also torpedo his career once they saw his box office revenues on a downward trend. He believed that he was never given, nor would he ever be given the roles that could challenge him and showcase his talent. He believed that Stiefel’s renegotiation of his contract and disrespectful attitude toward Mayer in their meeting had soured L.B. on Mickey. He wrote, “I thought I might be on my way to a second career as a character actor, but MGM disagreed. In retrospect, I think ‘Killer McCoy’ gave me a major clue about MGM’s plans for Mickey Rooney: the studio seemed to want me out. All they needed was an excuse, and I think that the director of ‘Killer McCoy,’ Roy Rowland, had been told to set me up.”1

  “That is absolute bullshit,” Scott Eyman told us. Eyman, who studied MGM for his book about Mayer, The Lion of Hollywood, absolutely disagreed with Rooney’s assessment. “In the first place, they were still making money with Rooney. Killer McCoy turned a profit, and it certainly did signal that he could do more character roles. His size didn’t hold him back or Alan Ladd or others. He had the talent. Rooney’s biggest enemy was Rooney. Mayer was a businessperson who looked at the bottom line. Rooney sabotaged Rooney.”2

  Mickey, in an animated interview with Robert Osborne for TCM’s Private Screenings on April 1, 1997, repeated the accusations: “They wanted to ruin my career, I was shooting ‘Killer McCoy’ and the director Roy Rowland tried to humiliate me on several occasions. Finally, I grabbed Rowland and told him to stop embarrassing me and went home. Eddie Mannix called me and told me to apologize to Rowland, which I did the next day. After the film, they started spreading the rumors that I was ‘too hard to handle’ and difficult to work with. I have known all my life that it isn’t easy living with Mickey Rooney. However I have always been a professional, and they tried to destroy me.”3 Bob Osborne gave us his reaction to the interview: “Mickey became so agitated while recounting a battle he had with one of his directors, I thought he was gonna hit me!”4

  It is true that moves that MGM was making behind the scenes fed Mickey’s suspicions that the studio was seeking to cut him free of his contract. However, much of what Mickey was seeing derived from Stiefel’s maneuvering rather than from Mayer’s. First, MGM was unsure what to do with Mickey. It felt that he had outgrown the juvenile parts they had placed him in after the war, such as those in Love Laughs at Andy Hardy, Summer Holiday, and Words and Music. He was now in his late twenties. Maturity had overtaken his features. Frankly, he was grosser than he was cute. If he was maturing into a character actor, as he believed, of course he would have been less of an asset to MGM, and certainly would not have justified the
huge contract Stiefel had negotiated with the studio. The MGM marketing department did a careful study of Rooney and was blunt in its assessment to Mayer that Rooney was on the downside as a leading man. The most recent Hardy film was a dud; Summer Holiday was a major flop; and the programmer Killer McCoy had turned only a minor profit.

  Mickey was now failing on all fronts. In the summer of 1947, Stiefel made a deal with CBS for Mickey to do a radio show later that year. The network took a while to find a concept for him, until it scheduled a show slated for January 1948, called Shorty Bell. CBS hired playwright Samuel Taylor (later an Academy Award–nominated screenwriter with Billy Wilder for Sabrina and with Alfred Hitchcock for Vertigo) to create the program, in which Mickey would play Shorty Bell, a truck driver for a newspaper and a wannabe reporter. The cast included William Conrad (later the star of TV’s Cannon), character actor Parley Baer, and actress Cara Williams. It also featured Mickey’s father, Joe Yule Sr., in various roles. Stiefel struck a deal in which Mickey was paid three thousand dollars per installment. With the initially far larger cast of name performers, Cy Feuer’s music direction and orchestra, and a high per-installment production cost, the budget for the subsequently revamped format (though pared down a bit later with staff actors and music direction) remained an expensive sustaining production for CBS. Soon, both formats for Shorty Bell had failed. By the tenth week, in one last major tweak, the network discarded the cub reporter format in favor of a totally reorganized variety format series called Hollywood Showcase, with Mickey as the emcee. Hollywood Showcase did indeed showcase up-and-coming talent, with Rooney providing the interstitial snappy patter, songs, and instrumentals. Yet on June 27, after thirteen weeks and a nosedive in ratings, it was canceled.