The Life and Times of Mickey Rooney

by Richard A. Lertzman

  My father [Charles Robert Allen Jr.] was a world-famous venture capitalist [and founder of the investment bank Allen and Company]. . . . He had Mickey set up a trust for investment, where he could collect his dividends but never, ever touch the principal. He was emphatic to Mickey that you can never, ever touch the principal, and he’ll have that forever. Eventually, he goes behind my father[’s back] and tries to take out the principal. My father read him the riot act, but Mickey would not listen. Eventually, my father just threw up his hands and gave up trying to help Mickey.

  During the run of the play, Mickey would blow his money on ridiculous investments. Oh, he had all these hangers-on around him. He paid a fortune and bought this restaurant in Fort Lee, where he lived. He asked me for my advice before he bought it. I . . . pointed to the empty parking lot and said, “Mickey, don’t you dare buy this. The shopping center is dead.” Regardless, he bought it and it went bust. Later on, he decided to start a chain, in Los Angeles, called Rooney’s Weenie World of Hot Dogs. I invested ten thousand dollars in it. I remember I went to the opening and it must have been a hundred ten degrees and the air-conditioning wasn’t working. They sold square hot dogs in a bun. Square hot dogs. I think that says it all. Obviously, I lost my investment.

  Donald Trump, Mickey’s friend for years, remarked to us, “Over the years I tried to help him, but he did as he pleased. He was a brilliant and talented artist. He just had no sense of business.” Robert Malcolm said, “You could not talk him out of these crazy ideas. He always thought his next idea would be the big winner. That never happened.”

  His sister-in-law Ronna Riley said, “Mickey was the Midas touch in reverse.”

  Regardless of advice from some of the great financial gurus of our times—Donald Trump; Charles Robert Allen Jr.; Terry Allen Kramer and her husband, financier Irwin Kramer—Mickey was tone-deaf to their advice. He’d rather invest in Rooney’s Weenie World than safe dividend-bearing investments recommended by Charles Robert Allen Jr. or Trump. With his crazy investments, his gambling addiction, and a lifestyle in which he spent without restraint, paying for things he couldn’t afford while going shy on the IRS and the State of California, one can see how the scores of millions he earned could be gone at the end of the day.

  Gambling wasn’t the only vice Mickey continued to indulge in during his later years. Though he had now entered into his eighth marriage, and had claimed to have rediscovered God, according to Terry Allen Kramer, his womanizing ways continued. “Mickey constantly had girls up in his dressing room, and it wasn’t just to visit,” she said. “On one occasion, I needed to talk with Mickey and went into his dressing room where he was in the middle of a tryst with this girl. When I walked in, he stopped and in his boxers he held out his hand to me and said, ‘Let us pray.’ He said he had found God. I said to him, ‘Mickey, you’re so little in this world, how did God find you? Did he come through the window?’ Mickey was not the least bit embarrassed to be caught.”13

  His stepson Chris told us that a steady stream of ladies made themselves available to Mickey, up until his late eighties. Although it may seem shocking that this went on while Chris’s mother was Mickey’s wife, Chris was not bothered, saying to us, “No, I think she realized that is part of the business. The girls were always available, and Mickey would be available.”

  TERRY ALLEN KRAMER BELIEVES that Sugar Babies struck gold largely due to Mickey Rooney. She recalled, “He was impossible to replace. I really have attempted to revisit Sugar Babies on Broadway, but I don’t think it would succeed. First, I don’t think that I could find anyone who could take Mickey’s place today. Name me someone who could do what he did in a burlesque way? Secondly, I think the material is too clean for today’s audiences.”14

  To Kramer’s point: during Mickey’s breaks, when he was shooting a film or when the show was on the road, his understudies for Sugar Babies were ineffective because they couldn’t inhabit the role that Mickey had created playing his own father. After all, who could play Joe Yule Sr. better than Joe Yule Jr.? During the three-year run on Broadway, Mickey took three vacations, and his replacements included comic Rip Taylor, Joey Bishop, understudy and choreographer Rudy Tronto, Eddie Bracken, Phil Ford, and Robert Morse from How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. None of them could draw the audience that Mickey did. For example, when Joey Bishop substituted for Mickey for four weeks in February 1981, “the grosses dipped to practically nothing. It was a disaster,” Kramer said.

  And Bishop was not without his burlesque bona fides: “The funny thing was that when I was just starting out in Philadelphia in the late 1930s,” he said, “I was part of a vaudeville act called the Bishop Boys, which is where I got my name. We were booked into the old Trocadero, which was a burlesque house, and I had a chance to see the world of striptease and baggy-pants comics at close range.”15

  When director Harry Rigby attempted an ill-fated road production of Babies during the original Broadway run, which starred Carol Channing and Robert Morse, and ran from August through November 1980, the show folded in Boston—and Kramer and Rigby took a million-dollar bath. “Channing did not fill Ann Miller’s shoes, and Bobby Morse was not Mickey Rooney,” Kramer recalled.

  As Mickey and Ann Miller embarked on a national road show of Sugar Babies in 1984, Rooney was still enjoying himself as top banana. He loved coming up with new ad libs, pieces of business, and sometimes a jab from something he saw in the news. In effect, he was updating the dialogue in small ways as he went along. Thus, the show always seemed fresh, even though it was ostensibly the same script every night.

  Mickey’s former manager Bullets Durgom recalled that “when Sugar Babies was playing at the Pantages, I went to see him. Knowing I was in the audience, he started calling the people in the show not by their character names, but by the names of people we used to know and deal with when I was managing him: Sam Stiefel, Maurice Duke, Red Doff. That night he kept referring to Ann as Sam Stiefel. ‘Hey, Sam,’ he’d say to her. ‘Come over here, Sam.’ The audience was completely confused. But he was getting a kick out of it for my sake.”16

  Even Ava Gardner came to watch the show, and stopped backstage to visit Mickey in his dressing room and congratulate him. She told her coauthor Peter Evans, “He is still the same beautiful clown. I’m very proud of him.” Their crossing paths again was a very poignant moment: Mickey’s career was on an upswing while Ava was on her long, painful slide into alcohol-laced oblivion.17

  It was much the same with his longtime childhood friend Richard Quine, who directed Mickey in his films after MGM and in his television show, and later gave him parts when nobody else would. Quine had once been one of Hollywood’s hottest talents, but in 1984 he was living in obscurity. He visited Mickey’s dressing room in Los Angeles, which may have been their last meeting. Quine remarked, “Mickey has the uncanny ability to always bounce back from whatever was thrown at him.”18 Quine, however, couldn’t seem to bounce back, and he sadly took his own life in 1989.

  BY 1985, SUGAR BABIES had become a classic, having been on the stage for many years. It played at the Westbury Music Fair on Long Island rather than Broadway, and the Music Fair Theater in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, outside Philladelphia. Ann Miller was replaced by Jane Summerhays; and Mickey Deems, Jay Stuart, Rudy Tronto, and Lucianne Buchanan took the place of Peter Leeds, Ann Jillian, and others. Juliet Prowse replaced Ann Miller, and in road shows, Eddie Bracken and Anita Morris took Mickey’s and Ann’s places. A national tour had Carol Channing and Robert Morse taking Ann’s and Mickey’s places in August to November of 1980, and Eddie Bracken and Jaye P. Morgan stepping in in 1982. Yet, as Terry Allen Kramer told us, none of the replacements was as powerful in his or her role as the original cast, particularly Mickey Rooney. And on July 7, 1985, the New York Times wrote, “Most importantly, ‘Sugar Babies’ has a national treasure in Mickey Rooney, who is truly, as a banner over the stage proclaims at the end, ‘The Ambassador of Good Will.’ ”

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  Mickey’s Back: The Oscars, and the Emmys, and Bill

  Mickey and Bill Sackter, subject of the film Bill.

  PHOTO COURTESY OF BARRY MORROW.

  Even throughout the run of Sugar Babies, Mickey continued to work in both film and television. Two of them were The Black Stallion (1979), which some film historians believe is the finest performance of his career, and the television movie Bill (1981). These films garnered Mickey his greatest notices in over thirty years, including the recognition of an Academy Award nomination and an Emmy Award.

  “An absolutely breathtaking performance. Flawless,” recalled film professor Lou Sabini, describing Mickey in The Black Stallion.1

  The Black Stallion is based on the classic children’s tale written in 1941 by Walter Farley. Despite the book’s wide popularity and that of its sixteen sequels, it wasn’t adapted for the screen until Francis Ford Coppola purchased the rights. He planned to release the film as the first in a series of children’s films. Coppola called on his former UCLA classmate Carroll Ballard to direct the first installment, making The Black Stallion Ballard’s dramatic feature film debut. (His first movie is a documentary entitled Harvest, in 1967, which was nominated for an Academy Award.)

  Mickey had just married Jan when he got a call from Coppola telling him that he “had a part in it for me, a former jockey called out of retirement by a little boy with a beautiful black Arabian horse and a dream about winning a race. Did I think I could play a former jockey? ‘Gee,’ I said, ‘I don’t know. I never played a jockey before.’ ”2 Rooney was cheekily referring to his roles as a jockey in Down the Stretch (1936), Thoroughbreds Don’t Cry (1937), and of course National Velvet (1944).

  In the tradition of National Velvet, The Black Stallion, an exotic and often magical tale of a young boy and his horse, is a blend of fascination and childhood innocence. When the film opens, a boy and his father are traveling by ship when a fire breaks out, and the boy finds himself adrift in the rough seas with an Arabian horse he saw on board. Both the boy and the stallion are washed ashore on a deserted island, where they overcome an initial mistrust to form a strong bond. Soon the two are rescued and return to the United States, but the horse runs away. The boy eventually traces the animal to a farm owned by an ex-jockey, played by a now-aging Mickey Rooney. In time, the boy learns from the former pro how to be a first-rate rider and trains the stallion for a championship race.

  In our interview with director Carroll Ballard, he recalled:

  The studio [MGM] did not want Rooney. They thought he would distract and that the part was just an old man and was rather insignificant. What they didn’t recognize was that this character was central to the story. I personally thought he was typecast, but I quickly recognized that he had far more dimension and skills in that he really could undertake any part. He was one of the greatest talents I have ever worked with. He has incredible artistry. When I cast Rooney, I was told by the studio that it was suicide. They told me, “He will eat you alive.” As it turned out, Mickey is one of the most professional and hardworking actors. A real trouper. A great example is when we were shooting a scene at four in the morning in a horrible rainstorm. The cast and the crew wanted to go home. Mickey realized that the scene was perfect to capture in these conditions. He talked them into staying by telling them how important this was. They trusted him and they stayed and persevered.

  Mickey was a huge asset to me and the film. He helped Kelly Reno [the young star of the film] with tricks on riding the horse and tricks of the camera. He carefully taught him how to turn to the camera. Mickey was absolutely amazing and has great improvisational skills. While I allowed him to improvise, he got in the moment and the character. He inhabits his character. I could not write what Mickey brought to his character. He knew his character and what and how he would say it. Without a doubt, he deserved the Academy Award. It was a shame what happened to him. I believe his talents were underutilized and he was typecast in thankless roles playing old guys. He was denigrated those last years.

  We were so lucky. The studio suits were far more concerned with Francis’s Apocalypse Now and did not pay attention to us. We were able to create the film without them breathing down our necks and analyzing daily rushes. They left us alone and we were able to create our vision without interference. There is no way to make a film like that today.3

  Clarence Brown, who directed Mickey in several films, including National Velvet and his Oscar-nominated performance in Saroyan’s The Human Comedy, told us in our interview, “Mickey Rooney, to me, is the closest thing to a genius I have ever worked with,” echoing the praise of many directors who worked with Rooney over the years.

  Mickey’s Midas touch may never have worked in business ventures, but in movies it was pure gold, and it rubbed off on The Black Stallion in both the glorious reviews it received and the $40 million it garnered in its run (which more than made up for its $4.5 million budget), turning a handsome profit for Ballard and for Coppola’s at-the-time financially struggling American Zoetrope studio. With the onset of home video, the movie turned into a bonanza for United Artists/MGM and Coppola, and for Ballard, who owned a piece.

  The Black Stallion brought Mickey the professional recognition he had sought both at MGM and during his nomadic travels from studio to studio. For thirty years he had harbored resentment against the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences for embarrassing him by withdrawing their offer to have him as presenter in 1950. Now, thirty years later, he received the nomination for Best Supporting Actor for his role as Henry Dailey.

  “Timmy called Mickey with the news that he was nominated. Mickey, for a rare occasion, was speechless. He was in tears. This was vindication for him,” recalled Jan, who flew from New York with Mickey to attend the April 14, 1980, Academy Awards ceremony, held at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion (with Johnny Carson as host).4 In the Best Actor in a Supporting Role category, Mickey faced Robert Duvall (Apocalypse Now), Justin Henry (Kramer vs. Kramer), Frederic Forrest (The Rose), and Melvyn Douglas (Being There). While Mickey was certainly the sentimental favorite, Douglas won, honored for his long career. Mickey said that despite the 1950 snub, he attended the ceremony to “heal the deep wounds in my soul.”5 He had also reached the point of looking at his potential legacy. What would his history be?

  After the Black Stallion triumph, Rooney received a flood of offers—which he was financially constrained from accepting. With the great success of Sugar Babies, he could not afford to do a film that required a long on-location shooting schedule. And now that he was in demand again, he was also looking to get out of doing some of the junk he had had to struggle through for over twenty-four years. He was being offered more “family-friendly” pictures, which he accepted (where the schedule allowed), as they were consistent with his newly professed Christian beliefs, and he liked to take breaks from Sugar Babies for film projects. He’d filmed Disney’s Donovan’s Kid, with Darren McGavin, just before the start of Sugar Babies. He followed this up in 1980 with Arabian Adventure, which starred Christopher Lee on loan from Columbia Pictures. He then filmed a television movie, My Kidnapper, My Love, directed by Sam Wanamaker and costarring James Stacy and Glynnis O’Connor. His next film, in 1981, was another TV movie, called Leave ’Em Laughing, directed by his childhood buddy Jackie Cooper. It was another dramatic part that allowed Mickey (as a failed clown who becomes a surrogate parent to thirty-seven orphaned children) to display his gift of pathos—and to chew the hell out of the scenery. He acts so well and uses the camera frame so completely that he seems to be the only person in the scene. Later that year he participated in the popular Disney animated film The Fox and the Hound, doing the voice for Tod, the fox. That same year, he flew to Toronto almost daily to film The Emperor of Peru, flying back at night to appear in Sugar Babies.

  It was a grueling schedule, but he needed to work wherever he could. Mickey knew that he had to reap his harvest before the sun set, and he aggressiv
ely did that very thing. He did the voice of Santa Claus once again for Rankin/Bass, for the Christmas special Rudolph and Frosty, which followed his earlier work on the classic specials Santa Claus Is Coming to Town and The Year without a Santa Claus. All three specials continue to charm children today.

  Just prior to his turn in Sugar Babies, Mickey had filmed a pilot for the same Norman Lear who in 1969 had offered him the part of Archie Bunker in All in the Family. This project, called A Year at the Top, in 1977, starred Mickey’s old friend, Dead End Kid Gabe Dell, David Letterman’s future bandleader Paul Shaffer, and Greg Evigan. Mickey played their uncle on the pilot but was written out of the short-lived series. Still, this role led him to another TV opportunity: In 1982 he was offered his own series on NBC, by Fred Silverman, called One of the Boys. It would be Mickey’s last attempt at a situation comedy, and the network accommodated by agreeing to film the show in New York. The series’ backstory has “Grandfather” Mickey leaving his nursing home and moving into his grandson’s college dorm room. The series was created by the veteran team of Saul Turteltaub and Bernie Orenstein, who were hot commodities from their recent work as the showrunners for Sanford and Son (starring the sometimes difficult-to-direct Redd Foxx.). They had a long history of successful work on That Girl, Love American Style, and later Kate and Allie. The series signed up three very young stars, Dana Carvey, Nathan Lane, and Meg Ryan, along with Scatman Crothers—a dream cast.

  “We had to uproot ourselves to shoot the program in New York City,” executive producer/creator/writer Saul Turteltaub told us from his Idaho home. “However, we were looking forward to the challenge. We were thrilled to be working with Mickey. We were warned that he could be difficult to work with, but we did produce a show with Redd Foxx. They were wrong. He was terrific. He did not disappoint us. He is a pro’s pro, offered some solid advice. I think it was Bernie and I that maybe didn’t quite grab the situation. What a cast, with Dana, Nathan, Meg, and Scatman. We really had great hopes for the show.”6