16

Mickey Rooney, 99.99% Perfect

While writing the screenplay for The Comic, my friend and collaborator Aaron Rubin and I often remarked how lucky we were that Dick Van Dyke, who in the history of television, was the finest all-around performer to ever grace a situation comedy, signed on to play the role of Billy Bright. It was not just that Dick Van Dyke was the perfect actor to play the part of a fictional silent-movie comedian, he was the only actor for it. Dick so admired the great silent movie comedians Buster Keaton, Stan Laurel, Oliver Hardy, and Charles Chaplin that he bemoaned the fact that he was born forty years too late to be a part of their era. I heard Dick voicing this wish often during the time we spent together in the ’60s. I believe, if Mephistopheles popped in on Dick and offered him a chance to sell his soul for the chance to work in those old black-and-white comedies, he would think long and hard before refusing.

Without resorting to satanic help, our good luck continued. The brilliant Mickey Rooney agreed to play the role of Billy Bright’s best friend, Cockeye. In the late ’30s and early ’40s Mickey Rooney was the number-one box-office draw for three consecutive years and was considered to be Hollywood’s most versatile and bankable star. There was nothing he couldn’t do, and whatever he did, he did brilliantly. He could sing, dance, compose songs, play the piano, perform flamboyant drum solos, strum a mean banjo, and effectively play both comedic and dramatic roles. Never has there been a happier pair of producer-writers than Aaron and I. We had our dream cast, Dick Van Dyke, Mickey Rooney, and the beautiful and vivacious Broadway singing star Michelle Lee as Dick’s co-star. This would be my second film-directing job. Being responsible for a major motion picture that was budgeted for $3 million, three times the amount I had spent on my first film, Enter Laughing, was a little unsettling. I was also concerned about how a bona-fide film legend would take to being directed by a nervous, insecure neophyte. Why would he do what I suggested? Why should he? Well, he didn’t! On our first day of rehearsal, my film legend balked at doing a simple thing that I politely asked him to do.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Reiner,” he demurred, “but I’m afraid I can’t do what you’re asking!”

At first, I assumed he was joking as he had a big grin on his face—and his addressing me as Mr. Reiner had a playful ring to it. Now, as I’ve said, Mr. Rooney was contracted to play a character called Cockeye, loosely based on the silent film comedian Ben Turpin. Mr. Turpin, besides being a very able comedian, was also very cross-eyed. Today you do see women with Bette Davis eyes, but thanks to modern surgical procedures, you will rarely see anyone with Ben Turpin eyes. In the days of political incorrectness, it was not uncommon to hear some cruel kid yell out, “Hey, Cockeye, why don’t ya look where yer goin’?”

Back then, laughing at physical afflictions was not only acceptable but profitable to the studio and the afflicted one. Ben Turpin was paid handsomely to produce and star in dozens of silent comedies. Oh, to be young, talented, and cross-eyed!

“Mickey,” I explained, “I am aware how difficult it is to act with your eyes crossed! That’s why I asked how long you can keep them crossed before it becomes uncomfortable.”

I went on to assure him that I was planning for him not to have to cross his eyes for the long shots or the over-the-shoulder shots, and I would be very judicious about the angles I chose for scenes he was in. I impressed on him that tight close-ups were a must to establish his crossed eyes. I promised to be very solicitous of his comfort and would not require him to keep them crossed longer than absolutely necessary.

Mickey listened and then calmly explained why he balked.

“Carl, I cannot cross my eyes,” he said, apologetically, “I have never been able to cross my eyes. I wish I could, but I can’t! I don’t know why—maybe it’s because my mother told me that if I cross my eyes, they’ll stay that way—sorry.”

I didn’t know how to react. I looked to Aaron and Dick and breathed a sigh of relief, they had big, smiles on their faces. Those funsters were in on the big practical joke Mickey was playing on his director!

“Okay, you got me, Mickey,” I said, “you are such a damn good actor that, for a second, I believed you. You son-of-gun, you scared the shit out of me!”

Mickey quickly convinced us that he wasn’t trying to scare the shit out of me but really could not cross his eyes. Now, this was something I would not accept, and I did not panic. I have nowhere near the talent or versatility of this great actor, but I do have the ability to cross my eyes, and, more importantly, to teach others how to cross theirs. In my time I have successfully taught my son the Director, my daughter the Poet, and my son the Artist, (i.e Rob, Annie, and Lucas) how to cross their beautiful blue eyes. I have even instructed my Academy Award–winning friend, Anne Bancroft, who was able to cross her eyes beautifully but wanted to learn how to uncross them one eye at a time, a technique developed by the master comic Harry Ritz and appropriated by me when I was sixteen. Using this Ritz refinement, Ms. Bancroft got a huge laugh uncrossing her crossed eyes in Mel Brooks’s film The Silent Movie. I felt confident that I would be able to teach the most coordinated human being on earth how to cross his eyes. I made it clear to him that, in order to play Cockeye, it was absolutely essential for him to master this technique.

“Hey, to make it easy on everyone,” he suggested, excitedly, “why don’t we just change the character’s name? Instead of Cockeye, we call him Cocky—I’ll play him cocky, like Jack Oakie! He gets big laugh playing cocky—cocky’s good for comedy—or Shorty! How about Shorty? Acting short is a snap for me—best thing I do. Let’s go with Shorty!”

I explained that having a cross-eyed comic in the film was a quick brushstroke that would evoke the silent movie era.

“Right,” Mickey argued, “but short is a better brushstroke—lots of shorties in silent films. Charlie Chaplin, the Little Tramp! Can’t beat that for a brushstroke—you know he and I are about the same size. Or how about Fatty, like Fatty Arbuckle! I’ll wear a fat suit, it’ll be hilarious,” he rattled on, “and his once being tried on a morals charge for the thing he did with that girl in a hotel room—it’ll add dimension to his character—or maybe not—naw, you’re right, too depressing for a comedy.”

After talking himself in and out of alternate nicknames, he reluctantly agreed to let me try teaching him how to cross his eyes.

“Just relax and look straight ahead,” I instructed, “now, without moving your head—look up at the ceiling.”

Mickey followed my two directions perfectly, and I was heartened.

“Good, good,” I encouraged, “now, without moving, look at the bridge of your nose.”

Mickey tried looking at the bridge of his nose—but his eyes, instead of turning inward, looked in the same direction.

“I told you I couldn’t do it,” he moaned.

“You will,” I promised, “I have never failed.”

“Until you met the Mick!” he warned. “Sorry to ruin your record!”

“I won’t let you. Now, just relax and watch me. First, I open my eyes wide,” I said, demonstrating, “then I take my index finger and point it at my forehead. Notice how I keep my finger at a right angle to my face. Now, I am staring at the tip of my finger and I keep staring at it as I bring it closer and closer to the bridge of my nose until it touches! And … voilà, my eyes are crossed! I now see two Mickey Rooneys, and both of you are out of focus.”

Mickey applauded my effort and agreed to try again. He crossed his fingers and said he hoped his eyes would too, but after struggling mightily and failing, he gave up. He apologized for his ineptitude and suggested that we look for another actor. Neither Aaron nor I nor Mike Frankovich, the studio head, would hear of it. There was no other actor who could bring to the role and to the project what Mickey could.

At a high-level production meeting, someone suggested something that we all jumped at. The perfect solution—a prosthesis! A thin glass right eye with the pupil set in the left corner and placed over Mickey’s right eye. All Mickey had to do to get the cross-eyed effect, would be to look to the right when talking to someone. We had two weeks of rehearsals before starting principal photography, and we were assured by people who knew, that there was ample time to get the impression of Mickey’s right eye and create the glass one. The day before the filming started, an artisan named Maurice unveiled his creation. We ooohed and ahhhed as if we were viewing the Kohinoor diamond.

That first time Mickey Rooney walked onto the set wearing his “eye” we burst into applause. The Cockeye character we all had envisioned stood there glaring at us. We were all heartened to see how natural the eye looked and, a moment later, completely disheartened.

“Maurice, you sonovabitch,” Mickey exploded, “get this friggin’ boulder out of my eye! Now!!”

That is when we learned about Mickey Rooney’s sensitivities and allergies. Putting any foreign substance in his eye caused him great pain and serious eye inflammation. What should have been a joyous first day of work with the great Mickey Rooney turned out to be a nightmare for all, especially the Mick. We rescheduled the day’s work and devised a special routine for the days that Mickey was required to put “the boulder” in his eye. An eye doctor was hired to be on the set anytime Mickey worked, and the doctor never put in the prosthetic eye until the camera and sound were rolling and the scene number slated. As soon as the scene was over and I yelled “Cut,” the doctor rushed in and removed the eye while the pained, tortured star cursed the doctor, the eye, Columbia Pictures, and all of us who worked for the company. This routine would be repeated for every take of every scene that Cockeye was in. Every night Mickey would go home with a headache but happy to be where no one would be putting their fingers in his eyes.

Midway in the filming, Mickey started to have fun. His right eye was still inflamed and paining him but being the superb actor he was, he acted as if it weren’t. Between takes, Mickey would make up elaborate story lines for imaginary film projects he claimed to be developing. He ad-libbed dozens of these stories and he would keep talking right up to the time the doctor popped in his cocked eye and I yelled “Action!” Once, while waiting for a scene to start, I saw Mickey pantomiming a jockey in the final stretch, whipping his horse and making vocal sound effects of hoofbeats while imitating the excited delivery of the track announcer describing “the race of the century.” Stanislavski, who wrote An Actor Prepares, advised actors, before starting a scene, to ask the director for a minute or two to get into character. After I shouted “Action!” it took a nanosecond for Mickey to stop his rapid-fire track announcing and morph into a slow-speaking, caring Cockeye who tearfully exhorts his drunken friend Billy to “lay off the booze!”

Mickey Rooney became so fond of the cast and crew that he often paid visits to the set even when he was not scheduled to work. But work he did. In between takes, he entertained everyone, inventing new and wilder screenplays, doing dozens of characters and vocal sound effects. It was hard for any of us to tell this sweet madman that he had to stop because we were ready to shoot. Often we didn’t tell him, thus penalizing ourselves for our timidity by losing time and money. I did manage to come up with a solution. Mickey once told me that he loved marching to band music. Whenever he heard a marching band, he could not resist strutting and prancing about like a drum major. He demonstrated it once by singing “Stars and Stripes Forever,” strutting about the stage, and then marching right out the studio door. The following day, I hired a three-piece band, a drum, a trumpet, and a saxophone, and I made a deal with Mickey. I told him that he was welcome to entertain the cast and crew between takes, but when he heard the marching band play, he was to start marching and strut his way out of the studio. We kept the three-piece marching band on salary and thereby managed to finish The Comic on time and on budget.

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The Comic was what many consider a succès d’estime, a French term for “classy, but it won’t make a lot of money.” They were right!