Mickey in motion.
PHOTO COURTESY OF ROBERT EASTON.
Mickey in motion.
PHOTO COURTESY OF ROBERT EASTON.
Even before Mickey divorced Ava, he had gone back full speed to his vices of booze, women, and gambling. But the divorce put him into high gear. Gambling, especially, had become a serious addiction by this point. Mickey’s quip that he lost his first two dollars at Santa Anita and spent millions trying to get it back is not far off the mark. He was clearly chasing something, even if he didn’t know what it was. The thrill of gambling truly consumed his life right up until his death.
Did Mickey inherit an addiction gene from his mother, Nell? Ava Gardner’s characterization of Nell Pankey at their first meeting was more than revealing. She described “Ma” with the Racing Form spread across her lap as she was handicapping horses while holding a big glass of bourbon in the other hand. Similarly, Mickey’s father, according to Sidney Miller, was “a hard drinking, whore chasing, compulsive gambler.” Mickey Rooney, therefore, was a textbook example of someone with a genetic predisposition to addictive self-destructive behaviors. Given the stimuli he had from an early age, he was just like one of Francis Pottenger’s epigenetically predetermined cats, manifesting the addictions of its parents, only worse.1
Typical of most addicts, Mickey loved both the highs and lows of gambling. The flow of the neurochemical dopamine, stimulating the brain’s reward center, triggered for Mickey (as it likely did for his parents and hundreds of thousands of other biologically addicted people) an exhilarating thrill. In Mickey’s case, the thrill of winning on a long shot and the low of losing both led to overextending himself financially, as he tried, vainly, to square himself with his bookies. Author Roger Kahn told us, “When I was assigned to write his ‘autobiography,’ it was nearly impossible as he was consumed by the ponies. He even still owes me money I lent him to bet on some races.”
In a meeting with Mayer after the success of the second Andy Hardy film, You’re Only Young Once, released in 1937, Mayer wanted to reward him for his contribution. Mickey requested a direct telephone line installed on the set so he could call his bookies at his whim. “Poor baby, Mick was hooked on the horses,” recalled Ava. . . . “Installing that phone on the set for him was fatal. I’m surprised the studio would do it, but I guess they’d do anything for him as long as he was making money for them. . . . Those Andy Hardy pictures paid for MGM’s great movies, Ninotchka, Camille, Two-Faced Woman, all those other Garbo movies that were a bust at the box office. Mickey’s movies kept the studio running.”2
Rooney admitted to us, “No matter what I did, Mayer would see me and pat me on the head and tell me I was a good little fella. He made about ten million dollars a pat at the box office.”3
Meanwhile, Rooney and his gang of hangers-on, a dissolute entourage, were drinking insatiably, chasing every starlet on the Metro lot and elsewhere, and frequenting the racetrack on an almost daily basis. This was all under the watchful eye of Mickey’s minder, Les Peterson. Mickey’s buddies, including the ever-faithful Sig Frohlich, Sidney Miller, Dick Paxton, Dick Crockett, Andy McIntyre, and Dick Quine, were his constant companions as he immersed himself in whatever vices he could. Dick Paxton, a stand-in for Rooney on films such as Huckleberry Finn and Babes in Arms, even lived at his Encino house.
Of Paxton, Rooney recalled, “I was shooting Huck Finn and I was supposed to go in this stream. I mean it was fucking cold, so I said, ‘Oh, Dick . . .’ and Paxton did the shot. The director was not happy.”4
Wherever Rooney went, his band of merry men followed his every step. Why wouldn’t they have been merry? Mickey paid for everything, from the drinks to the girls, and made sure they were set up even when they made their visits to the MGM-funded brothel Mickey called the T&M Studios.
“[Milton] Berle first took me there. It was amazing. Every girl looked like a film star. Clara Bow, Jean Harlow, Greta Garbo, Norma Shearer. They were dead ringers,” Mickey recalled of Billie Bennett’s establishment, which had become notorious in Hollywood, a must-visit for not only Metro talent but also some of the politicians and city officials in Los Angeles.5
While Mickey played hard, he also worked hard. MGM suspected that Mickey might not be able to duck the war indefinitely. Thus, claiming that Mickey was a vital asset they couldn’t afford to lose, they plunged him into one film after another. They didn’t fear overexposure, because of his intense popularity and the revenue stream his films generated.
The years 1942 to 1944, war years in Europe and the South Pacific, saw Mickey starring in The Courtship of Andy Hardy, Andy Hardy’s Double Life, A Yank at Eton, The Human Comedy, Thousands Cheer, Girl Crazy, Andy Hardy’s Blonde Trouble, and National Velvet. He appeared in ten films, released in approximately eighteen months. And in these films Mickey stretched his talents from musicals, where he excelled at song and dance, to comedy, and even drama. It was an enormous achievement for a twenty-four-year-old.
“Today you’re lucky if you see the top actor do a film every year or two. He was churning them out like McDonald’s hamburgers,” remarked film historian Lou Sabini. “There is no doubt that this type of saturation would erode his box office. He was truly a shooting star, but eventually the audiences tired of the repetitiveness of the films and his character.”6
In most cases, Mickey was the Andy Hardy character whether the film was a Hardy movie, Young Tom Edison, or Thousands Cheer. There were a couple of exceptions, as he gave more restrained performances in William Saroyan’s The Human Comedy and in National Velvet, which were both directed by Mayer and Rooney favorite Clarence Brown. The Human Comedy, Mayer later said, was his favorite film of all time. Meanwhile, even though Rooney was the titled star of National Velvet, it was the teenage and devastatingly beautiful starlet Elizabeth Taylor who shot to fame from that film. Mickey was not the teenage heartthrob he had been even five years earlier, and it was apparent both to MGM and to audiences that there had definitely been an erosion in his popularity, something that was becoming clear by the time he appeared in National Velvet. But that didn’t stop the assembly line of films.
The studio was returning millions on his every film, but Mickey was still being paid his weekly salary of $2,500 and scheduled bonuses. Back then, an actor receiving a percentage of the box office grosses, nets, or “points” on a picture was unheard of. Today, under the auspices of the major agencies, first or second gross or even net has become a standard deal point in most artists’ agreements. But Mickey was a contract player, and whether the film returned five hundred thousand or five million, his salary remained the same. Whether he was nominated for a Best Actor Oscar, as he was for The Human Comedy (though he lost to Paul Lukas for Watch on the Rhine) or won the Motion Picture Herald’s Top Money Making Film Actor award, there was absolutely no added bonus. Thus, given Mickey’s exorbitant life style, his staggering expenses for gambling, and all his other forms of entertainment, he simply couldn’t keep up.
To add to his growing financial woes, Mickey was also indebted to the studio for the expenses he incurred. With the per-film bonuses included, Mickey was being paid $125,000 per year as the number one box office attraction. After he paid his income taxes and his agents at William Morris, and after two-thirds of his income went into trust, he and Nell were left with $40,000 to spend. Yet every haircut, his clothing allowance, every visit to the T&M Studio, every dinner at the studio commissary, and any other studio ancillary expense he incurred was also charged to Mickey. When Les Peterson picked up the tab at nightclubs for Mickey or loaned him money for bookies, this was also deducted.
When his stepfather, Fred Pankey, sat Mickey down to discuss his future, he told Mickey that he had to take better care of his money, which wouldn’t be rolling in forever. Mickey resented Fred, who both lived in the home Mickey had purchased and worked at a job Mickey had helped him acquire. Arthur Marx told us, “It put a real chink in their relationship. Mickey was furious at Fred and called him a spoilsport. He later realized that Fred was dead on the money.”7 The bottom line, as stepfather Fred explained, was that Mickey was quickly owing his soul to the company store, as Tennessee Ernie Ford would sing fifteen years later in “Sixteen Tons.”
Whereas Mickey tended to reject Fred Pankey’s advice (mainly regarding his financial concerns), he did seek advice on his problems and concerns from actor Lewis Stone, Judge Hardy in the Andy films. It was as if, because of Mickey’s ability to immerse himself completely in the Andy role, the Hardy family had become his real-life family, at least during the life of the series. On the set, Lewis Stone would listen to Rooney’s concerns and offer advice on matters ranging from financial problems to the young actor’s self-image. Mickey had a deep respect for Stone, as did Louis Mayer, who was a close friend. When Rooney once told Stone that it depressed him when he was teased about his size, Stone told Mickey that some of the great men in the world stood less than five foot three, including Napoleon Bonaparte and New York City’s mayor Fiorello La Guardia. Mickey later placed a portrait of Napoleon in his Encino home, to remind himself of that. When he became engaged to Ava, he immediately took her to the set and introduced her to Lewis Stone, as if Stone were his real father. Mickey would spend most of his life looking for a father figure.
SO DESPITE HIS LOFTY position as king of the box office, Mickey was sinking deep into the red. The loans he took from MGM to cover the shortfall were accruing interest, though he was probably unaware of the tab he was running up. He didn’t have a team of business advisers or accountants, as many of today’s performers do. As a show business financial manager once said, you put a third away for taxes, a third away for investment purposes, and a third for life’s necessities. Mickey, though—who had very little education and came from a background of itinerant performers who lived from paycheck to paycheck—lived in the moment, for the moment. He saw no end in sight to his prosperity, even though that prosperity was only an illusion. If one compares Mickey’s earning power to that of young stars today (who will never come close to the impact that Rooney had on his generation), the scales are tipped wildly in their favor.
Mickey, ultimately, was acutely aware of this inequity when he wrote:
For all of our work on “Girl Crazy” . . . a film that grossed [in 1943] $5,866,000, we just got our salaries. . . . [N]either of us [he or Garland] got a dime’s worth of royalties from all those great songs we recorded; MGM took all the profits through their records division. In reality, I think, “Girl Crazy” grossed more than $47 million worldwide. The thieves were still at work. You must remember that at this point in my life the peak of my earning pyramid, I had yet to earn my first million. This should lay to rest all the bullshit people write how Rooney has pissed away hundreds of millions. Oh, I’ve earned more than a billion bucks. But, I never saw very much of it.8
Rooney claimed to us that Jimmy Cagney told him he went on strike from Warner Bros. and Jack Warner for a payment of ten million dollars. Jack Warner had kept Cagney out of work for one year, refusing to pay him that fee and to teach him a lesson. Mickey said, “When Warner went to a board meeting in New York, he almost lost control of the company. The majority of the board was shocked to find out why Cagney hadn’t made a picture in a year. ‘You know how much money we’ve lost because of your fucking move? You’re costing us hundreds of millions. Pay the son of a bitch the ten million.’ ” Mickey followed with: “[I]t’s just too bad that I never made that kind of threat to Metro. Judy and I could have stood together against him. But we were no match for Mayer. We were vaudeville kids. How could we stand up to a man like L.B., who was the highest-paid executive in the land? Better for us to stick to what we knew best: singing and dancing.”9 Although we did not find any evidence to substantiate Mickey’s story about Cagney, Cagney did go on a work stoppage from Warners for a higher salary, which he received, and later formed his own production company.
Even when adjusting for 1943 dollars, there is just no comparison between today’s media and the impact Mickey Rooney had on audiences in 1940–44. Yet his impact, great as it was, still left him living on the edge, hemorrhaging money as his popularity with audiences slowly, but perceptibly, began to erode.
Mickey’s vulnerability was acute in September 1943. His divorce was pending, he was working nonstop at the MGM factory, and he was barely keeping his head above water due to his mounting debt. At just twenty-four years old he was shouldering the responsibility of being the key source of profits at MGM while becoming aware that he was accumulating debt. The $25,000 divorce payment and new car he’d bought for Ava came from a loan from Metro. He owed countless bookies thousands of dollars. Worse than that, future military service was looming.
In the late fall of 1943, he and Les Peterson prepared for a tour of the East Coast to promote the first Andy Hardy film in over a year, Andy Hardy’s Blonde Trouble. The series was seemingly running out of gas. After all, how many films could Mickey make with the same character, same arc, and only minor plot twists? Worse, how could Andy Hardy, a throwback to the 1920s and ’30s remain relevant in a world at war, especially when men of his age were being drafted into the service? This would become a quandary for MGM. Mickey was allowed to age slightly for this film—he was now going to college—but the critics, such as Harrison Carroll, writing in the Los Angeles Evening Herald Express on May 22, 1944, felt that “[H]is sex life remains at the gee-whiz-she-kissed-me stage.” With a world war raging and with millions of deaths worldwide, the Pollyanna/Louis Mayer naïve world of Andy Hardy and small-town Carvel were becoming passé.
Mickey was aware of this shift. He’d started receiving negative reviews he’d never experienced before. A Yank at Eton, for instance, was savaged in a general review carrying no byline in the New York Times on October 16, 1942: “Draw a deep breath, ladies and gentlemen, and check your sensibilities at the door . . . Andy Hardy at Eton is a fearful thing to see . . .” The next year, for the musical Thousands Cheer, the New York Times wrote, “Mickey’s stint is not exactly a show stopper.” The film was a huge moneymaker, however. So it was full steam ahead.
Mickey remarked to us, “It didn’t take a genius to realize that the studio wasn’t going to let Andy Hardy grow up. . . . If the people at Metro had their way, I’d have remained a teenager for forty years.”10
Peterson recalled, “I thought it was a good time to get Mickey out of town. He was still agonizing over Ava and spending his waking hours trying to devise ways to win her back.”11
In 1943, Mickey had slipped from first to ninth position in the Showmen’s Trade Review polling of the nation’s exhibitors, behind Abbott and Costello and Bob Hope. Both Mayer and Strickling thought it would help Rooney’s standing to do a media tour of the East Coast. The plan was to visit Cleveland, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Baltimore, New York City, and Detroit. While the turnout was still strong, it wasn’t the major event he had experienced the prior year, when he toured with Ava. “There was certainly a slight diminishing of his drawing power. The luster was sort of wearing off,” noted Sid Miller.12
At this point, Mickey was far more concerned about Ava than his career. She was doing films on her own, such as Three Men in White, which were bringing her some attention. She was now on the radar. Ava was rushed into the film Masie Goes to Reno, playing a rich divorcée, which many joked did not require much acting. Before Mickey left on tour, he was spotted with her by a Los Angeles Examiner reporter. Mickey talked with the reporter about a possible reconciliation, and Ava concurred.13 However, the fact was, with each acting role, Ava was feeling far more independent.
Mickey was upset at being apart from her due to the tour, however Strickling said the tour was necessary to bolster his standing It was a seminal time in Mickey’s life, for it was during the tour that he met a man who would significantly alter his career (not necessarily in a good way). That man was theater impresario Sam Stiefel.
Samuel H. Stiefel was an interesting character, described by Time magazine in his 1958 obituary as the “Father of Negro Show Business.” Born in 1897 to a hardworking Jewish immigrant family in New Jersey, Stiefel, along with his brothers, built a chain of theaters known as the Chitlin’ Circuit that catered to the black audiences. He owned three of the five theaters that showcased great African American performers such as legendary vocalist Billie Holiday, jazz great Duke Ellington, iconic band leader and cutting-edge performer Cab Calloway—who recorded the role of Sportin’ Life in Gershwin’s folk opera Porgy and Bess, but is probably best known for his unbelievable rendition of “Minnie the Moocher”—singer Billy Eckstine, and Moms Mabley—these and other black performers who were blocked from appearing in all-white theaters at the time. Show business in the 1930s and ’40s, like baseball and even the armed services, was segregated. The Chitlin’ Circuit included the Apollo Theater in New York City; the Uptown in Philadelphia; the Howard in Washington, DC; and the Royal Theatre in Baltimore. Stiefel owned the Roxy in Philadelphia and other theaters that featured both burlesque and movies. He also ran a talent management company with agent Eddie Sherman that managed Abbott and Costello, actor Peter Lorre, singer Andy Russell, and several others.
The last stop of the Metro-sponsored East Coast tour was in Pittsburgh. “I don’t think Mickey will ever forget that stop,” Les Peterson told Arthur Marx, “because that is where he met Sam Stiefel. If it hadn’t been for his influence, Mickey might never have left MGM, which was one of the worst tactical errors of his life.”
Peterson recalled to Arthur Marx, “We were at the theater one Saturday afternoon, when a man came to the stage door and asked the manager if he could meet Mickey Rooney. His name was Sam Stiefel, a name we were not familiar with, but it turned out he had money, owned a number of movie theaters in Baltimore and Philadelphia, and also had a string of racehorses on the West Coast. Anyway, we agreed to see him, so the stage manager sent him back to our dressing room. Stiefel was a short, squarely built man who wore suits with wide lapels and flashy silk ties and looked about as trustworthy as a pit boss in Las Vegas [in the 1940s].”14
Attorney Murray Lertzman recalled, “He certainly was part of the Jewish Mafia. He had this rough, gravely voice. He was right out of Central Casting. He had the mannerisms of a Eugene Pallette crossed with Sheldon Leonard. He carried a wad of bills that would have choked a horse. He was very flashy and quite persuasive. He knew every wise guy from Benny Siegel to Mickey Cohen. I think he even backed Cohen in a retail men’s store. He lived in a beautiful house in Bel Air that was once owned by Jack Warner. He tried to set up production deals at every studio. Mickey Cohen was originally his calling card.” He booked many of his clients at mob-related clubs.15
Stiefel told Mickey that he was his biggest fan and that he even had bought a pair of the drumsticks in an auction that Mickey had used to play with the Tommy Dorsey Band. He told Mickey about the theaters he owned, how he managed talent like Abbott and Costello and his racehorses. He had a limo pick-up Mickey and Les on Sunday, their day off.
“We were in Pittsburgh, where everything was closed on Sunday. So he took us to the Oasis Club, which was a mob joint in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, which was a long ways off [more than three hundred miles],” recalled Peterson.16 On the way down to the club, Stiefel expressed sympathy for all the trouble Mickey had had with Ava. Then he pumped Mickey about his contract with Metro. When he found out Rooney, at this point, was still making only $1,750 a week for forty weeks and bonuses, he told Mickey that he was being stiffed. Peterson remembered:
He told Mickey, “You should have your own production company and make your own pictures.” When Mickey admitted that he was an actor and not much of a businessman, Stiefel offered to manage Mickey and run the company for him. What he didn’t tell Mickey was that he wanted to get into movie production in the worst way and was using Mickey as a stepping-stone to that goal. You see, his former partner was a fellow named Eddie Sherman, who had gone to the West Coast and was managing Abbott and Costello, and Stiefel was jealous of him. He wanted to be in the more glamorous end of show business, too. Anyways, he spent the evening painting a glowing picture of what Mickey’s career would be like if only he’d let Stiefel manage him. Mickey was intrigued, especially when Stiefel mentioned he owned racehorses. Before the evening was over he had Mickey thoroughly convinced they ought to go in business together and form their own production company.”17
Basically, Stiefel was a nonentity in Hollywood, while his ex-partner Eddie Sherman had become an important manager. Lou Costello’s youngest daughter, Chris Costello, told us she could not remember Stiefel’s presence, “I clearly remember Eddie Sherman controlling the team, just not Stiefel.”18 Nephew Jay Robert Stiefel recalled,“He clearly had aspirations to be in the film business, and he bought a beautiful house in Bel Air to stake his claim. He told us about the parties he hosted and the stars who attended. He definitely wanted to make his mark there”19—but he could do that only through owning talent, and that talent was Mickey Rooney.
Stiefel told Rooney about his proposal and his plans for him unabashedly, in the presence of Peterson, who was an MGM company man through and through. You could be sure that Mayer and Mannix were fully aware of every detail of this meeting. Stiefel certainly was keenly aware that forming a partnership with one of the world’s biggest film stars would be his entrée into the film business. Mickey, although he had grown up in the industry, was simply talent and not a savvy business guy. He’d never negotiated his own deals. He was twenty-four years old and no match for a streetwise, successful entrepreneur such as Stiefel. An astute businessman, Sam could sniff the desperation on Rooney.
Stiefel followed Mickey’s trail, flying to the West Coast shortly after Mickey returned. He then began to work to win Rooney over, putting on a full-court press to gain his confidence in Stiefel’s ability to manage him and make him financially independent from MGM. He loaned Mickey money and became friendly with Nell and Fred Pankey, taking them out to the “swankiest bistros,” showering them with presents, and helping them out financially. Stiefel was a master manipulator, according to Les Peterson.20 He saw that Mickey was struggling to live on a straight salary, a situation that Stiefel said could be rectified by having his own production company, which would help him shelter his income. Along the way, he massaged Rooney’s ego, subsidized his losses at the racetrack, and even encouraged his gambling. He also helped out Mickey’s troupe of hangers-on with gifts and cash. In the end, Mickey was convinced, especially after Fred advised him to move forward with Stiefel’s proposal. Undue influence may have been attributed to Pankey’s recommendation, as Stiefel was also financing Fred in opening a new bar.
Mickey recalled, “In the months that followed, Sam would become the kind of friend who would lend me money without question. At Santa Anita, if I was tapped out, he’d offer me money without my having to ask. ‘Okay,’ I’d say. ‘Give me five hundred.’ ‘Here,’ he’d say, flashing a big roll of hundred dollar bills, ‘take a thousand.’ I took his offerings, with thanks.”21
When Stiefel relocated his family to Los Angeles, he bought a showcase home in Bel Air. “It was an amazing home that had the elegant screening room and this glassed-in room under the pool,” recalled Stiefel’s granddaughter Adrienne Callander.22 “Being a theater impresario and being involved in show business, it was a common practice to work in the business with the underworld types who ran the booking agencies, such as MCA, or owned the clubs, like Frank Costello. Once, Al Capone called my grandfather from prison. He wanted his help in building a stage at the prison. My grandfather was amused that he called him,” Callander recalled.23
She continued: “He had been running vaudeville in his theaters and discovered the niche of black entertainment. My father was always fascinated that their home was open to the legendary African American stars like Billie Holiday, and he got to know them. . . . And he became rather wealthy in the process.”24
Les Peterson recalled, “Stiefel’s pockets were always bulging with cash, which was available for a loan without collateral whenever Mickey ran into hard luck, but if there was one thing: Mickey was a schnook. It never occurred to him his new business partner might be keeping track of all the cash he laid out for Mickey.”25
Stiefel set up a California corporation called Rooney Incorporated, and held lavish networking parties, to set up the kinds of deals that an independent production company could make without the involvement of a studio. The corporation’s stockholders were Mickey Rooney, who was the president; Samuel E. Stiefel who was secretary/treasurer; and attorney Mort Briskin who was vice president. Once the corporation was certified as able to do business, Briskin sent a memo to MGM’s accounting department, on March 21, 1944, demanding that all checks for Mickey Rooney be made payable to the order of Rooney Incorporated. Once Rooney Inc. had the capital to work with, Stiefel, through corporate counsel Briskin, began work on renegotiating Mickey’s contract so he would have the right to make additional films outside MGM.
Briskin, who had been Johnny Carson’s attorney, was a producer in his own right, of Stiefel-financed Mickey Rooney movies The Big Wheel and Quicksand. He recalled to Arthur Marx “Mayer agreed to give it to us, without much argument.”
Rooney Inc.’s initial function was to book personal appearances; merchandise Mickey’s likeness and name, particularly for a comic book line from Taffy comics; collect his salary; and invest his income. One of the investments was a stable of horses. Stiefel sweetened the pot by throwing in some of his own horses, which together with Mickey’s money became part of the company’s assets.
Meanwhile, Uncle Sam was beckoning Mickey to military service once again, and this time he wasn’t in the mood to grant the actor any deferments. Mickey was reclassified 1A in March 1944. Eddie Mannix continued to write letters of appeal, but there was seemingly no other delay possible. On May 4 the draft board sent a very curt letter advising Mannix that Mickey Rooney “WILL be inducted sometime in May 1944.”
Mannix sent in another plea, in response to which the draft board informed him that Mickey would be wearing army khaki in thirty days. Mannix instructed Pandro Berman, who was producing the film National Velvet, with the notoriously slow and deliberate director Clarence Brown, to “Shoot all remaining Rooney scenes first, no matter how it messes up the schedule.”
Mickey, meanwhile, began to panic. He was informed by Mannix that his MGM salary would be suspended while he served in the army. His $2,500 weekly income would therefore be reduced to a fifty-dollar-a-month buck private’s pay. His outlandish lifestyle would be interrupted, he would have to discontinue his pursuit of Ava, and his mother was going ballistic about her needs. Nell was worried about how she could keep El Ranchita, the house in Encino, and pay her expenses if Mickey went off salary at MGM. Fred Pankey seemed not to be capable of providing for her in the manner to which she had become accustomed, and any savings that Mickey had were tied up in an irrevocable trust.
It was Sam Stiefel to the rescue. Stiefel, after hearing from both Nell and Mickey about their plight, told them that there was nothing to worry about. If Nell ran short of cash, all she had to do was “holler,” and Stiefel would be there to bankroll her until Mickey’s return from the army.
In the midst of all this, Mickey was hearing rumors on the lot about the demise of the Hardy pictures. The bright light of his star was dimming. He was falling in the box office polls, and although his movies were still profitable, they had returned lower-than-expected grosses. Tastes were beginning to change with the impact of World War II. By 1944, MGM had produced fourteen Hardy films. Even successful series such as Sherlock Holmes, which starred Basil Rathbone, ended after fourteen films, mostly due to a repetitive plot and stagnant cast. In fact, only rarely did a movie series last beyond five years. A rare exception was the Blondie series, which starred Penny Singleton and Arthur Lake and ran for twenty-eight entries over twelve years (1938–50). The Andy Hardy films had lost their steam.
Bill Ludwig, an MGM screenwriter from 1938 to 1957 (the longest-serving), told us, “Those of us who wrote the Andy Hardy films were called the garbage man’s dream. The initial films turned a huge profit, and Louis Mayer loved those movies. While I started at Metro for thirty-five dollars a week, we had huge salary increases, as Mayer loved how we constructed the films. I once received a five-thousand-dollar bonus from Mayer to rush a Hardy script for production. Of course I had to fight Eddie Mannix later to collect it. By the end of the war, [the films] had run their course, and Mayer had reluctantly come to that conclusion, as well.”26
In addition to his job as an MGM screenwriter, Ludwig was a former attorney, and Rooney often went to him for advice. Ludwig found Mickey to be quite self-aware with an especially keen knowledge of his limitations due to his size and to audience perceptions. During this period in 1944, Mickey voiced his concerns to him. “What’s going to become of me?” he asked Ludwig.
“You’re a great talent. You’ll keep right on going,” Ludwig assured.27
“No, no. I’ll end up playing bad jockeys like Frankie Darro. I’d love to direct, but they’re never going to let me direct. They will never give a million-dollar film to a little Irish song-and-dance man,” Mickey pouted.
“Come on, Mick. You know how good you are? Cary Grant told me the other day that he thinks you’re the biggest talent in the business. You’ve got everything,” said Ludwig.
“You know, Bill, I’d give ten years of my life if I were just six inches taller,” Mickey said.28
As all this was unfolding, Mickey was still trying to reconcile with Ava. The newspapers carried countless stories of their attempts. The Los Angeles Examiner on June 16, 1944, wrote, “While the young couple were divorced in Las Vegas, Nevada, on September 15, 1943, they recently have been ‘very friendly’ and have been seen in each other’s company at Hollywood night spots. ‘I love Ava a great deal,’ he said. ‘We’re young yet, and both of us are glad that we caught our domestic error in time to correct it for a long and happy life together.’ Ava, whose hand Mickey held as the two talked, and her former husband’s remarks were mutual. ‘I couldn’t get along without Mickey,’ she said, ‘and I guess he couldn’t get along without me.’ ”
Meanwhile, Eddie Mannix continued to file appeals to keep Mickey out of the army. However, the appeals and medical records fell on deaf ears. In August 1942, Mickey was classified 1A, his number was called up, he got his “Greetings” letter, and was ordered to report to the army induction center in downtown Los Angeles for a physical. Andy Hardy was in the army now.