April 15, 2014
A Note of Respect and
Admiration
Mickey Rooney was born on September 23, 1920, and with his
passing, we have lost a bit more of our connection to the past and to the early
days of film. Mr. Rooney was 93, and he achieved fame fast enough to have been
part of the tail end of three of entertainment’s most under-appreciated genres,
Vaudeville, silent films, and short films. Imagine what it must have been like
for a kid that young to be performing in front of packed theatres and taking in
the applause of the crowd. His first film was Not to Be Trusted, released in 1926, just one year before Al Jolson
uttered, “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet!” He successfully transitioned to talking
pictures, voicing Walt Disney’s pre-Mickey Mouse creation, Oswald the Lucky
Rabbit, and appearing in 63 Mickey McGuire shorts. He beat the odds. The number
of people whose careers didn’t survive these transitions is staggering.
His career rose with the success of the musical, as well as
the Andy Hardy films, yet struggled as he entered adulthood and could no longer
play the babyface roles that had made him famous. However, he continued to make
films, altogether appearing in them in eight decades. In total, he amassed 338
screen credits, some for television, many for films, and he was still working
even at the advanced age of 93. In the works were Night at the Museum 3 and Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
There was controversy, of course. While he was there to see
the end of those regrettable practices known as blackface and yellowface, it
was not before he himself donned the latter to play Mr. Yunioshi in Blake
Edwards’ Breakfast at Tiffany’s. He
was not the only Caucasian actor to have played this kind of role, yet because
of the continued popularity of that film, it is his role that is often held up
as an example of Hollywood’s mistreatment and disrespect of both Asian roles
and Asian actors. It is a label he did not deserve.
Mickey Rooney was there for the enforcement of the Hayes
Code, as well as its eventual demise. He witnessed the explosions of creativity
and energy that the 1970s and the 1990s ushered in, and he was there to see –
perhaps with a shake of the head – the demise of the Hollywood musical and the
increasing dominance of the blockbuster. He witnessed the disappearance of the
singleplex theater and the emergence of the multiplex. He was there for the
introduction of IMAX and the resurgence of 3D. And through it all, he kept
working, kept plugging away at the craft he so dearly enjoyed. True, he made
films that are forgettable, yet he also made films that will stand the test of
time.
There’s more. He was born at a time when women’s suffrage
and prohibition were both in their infancy. The Great Depression hit when he
was nine years of age, and at just 21, he was there to watch the United States
enter the Second World War. He would live to see his country enter into five
other wars after going overseas in what he and his generation likely thought
would be the war to end all wars. His generation saw it all, from floods to
dust bowls, from recessions to political scandals, from moments of tragedy for
the nation to moments of incredible inspiration and hope.
He and the other members of the greatest generation there
has ever been saw all of this, and his passing provides us a moment to reflect
upon not simple the films and the accolades, but also the caliber of the generation
he was part of. Simple put, we may never see their kind again, and I remain in
awe of all they experienced and accomplished.
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