Before proceeding, it is important to remember that Joseph Yule, Jr., known to the faithful as Mickey Rooney, was married eight times. Additionally, he dated and/or slept with Ava Gardner, Elizabeth Taylor, Betty Grable, and Lana Turner. Yes, that Lana Turner, as if there was ever another in the history of motion pictures. His marriages were the epitome of rocky, as old Mick fucked everyone and everything both on and off set. He fornicated in bars, cars, restaurants, hotels, motels, hostels, and the occasional bathroom stall. In fact, it’s fair to say that from about 1937 forward, until his death in 2014, he rarely, if ever, experienced flaccidity. I say all this as a precursor to the most alarming fact of all: Mickey Rooney was 5’2”. On a good day. Take away his tap shoes, he may not have escaped technical midgetry.
So yes, Mr. Rooney was always and forever a man-child in the promised land, but what he never lacked was nerve. Appalling, grating nerve, to be frank, and the insistence that if there was anything worth doing, he’d be the one to do it. Moreover, he’d be just as happy to do all the things not worth doing. With equal fervor, naturally. Acting, dancing, singing, piano playing, even conducting; he’d master every last craft of stage and screen. What’s more, he’d dare you not to be entertained. Blown away. Pounded into a rare-meat submission no mere spectator could resist. Rooney never once dialed it down in nearly 80 years of huffing and puffing before roaring crowds, but in many ways, it all started here, with Babes in Arms. Sure, he gnashed his teeth and into our hearts the year before with Boys Town, but this is where the legend fully took hold. And the world should never stop hating him for it.
If there’s a plot to Babes in Arms – and there isn’t, despite the rumor of a screenplay – it’s the old chestnut, “The Show Must Go On.” You see, vaudeville is dead, killed off by the madness of talking pictures, and Rooney (as Mickey Moran) is not having it, given that his entire family, including every friend and acquaintance he’s ever known, has heretofore made a living with unfunny jokes and even worse repartee. But there’s talk of a revival, so the Moran clan puts together what remains of their empire for a farewell tour. Only the kids aren’t invited. Given that every last one of them has embraced the fever dream that to perform is to live, they will show the snooty adults and put on a show of their own. And if Mick has to act as writer, director, actor, and choreographer, so much the better. Randomly, and quite shockingly, the production is called Babes in Arms.
From there it’s simply a free-for-all. Here’s Mickey playing a bass with such gusto, it all but doubles as an epileptic fit. Then he sings. With Judy Garland, naturally, though she’s around for no other reason than to pout and stomp her feet when Mickey kisses the new girl. Wait a few more minutes, and there’s Mickey impersonating Clark Gable. And Lionel Barrymore. Cue the bedroom scene where he cranks out hit after hit of undeniably unlistenable tunes. Add some fundraising. A dash of concern that the show won’t see the light of day, only to be rescued at the last minute by what feels like hours of unseemly mugging. Then there’s the title tune, where the whole thing ends like a scene from Triumph of the Will, complete with a book-burning bonfire. In the end, though, all is but a distraction. A detour. For what we’ve been building to has to be seen to be believed, even if the worst of us hardly deserves such a fate.
Yes, dear readers, because it is 1939, we must have a minstrel show. A long one. A real fucking long one. If it was a minute, it was 135, with Judy and Mickey both doing the sorts of things we rightly believe the Constitution now prohibits. Racism aside – and of course, it can’t be put aside – it remains of the universe’s most elusive mysteries as to why anyone of any age found blackface entertaining. Why did American life insist on it so? It’s as if folks were compelled to end each and every fair, Broadway show, or musical extravaganza with embarrassing ridicule. I’d say it was the Confederacy’s last stand, but this shit was just as ubiquitous in the North. Likely more so. And here he is, Hollywood’s box office champion three years running, insisting on his own superiority. Again and again, over and over, at the top of his shrill little voice.
Ten thousand biographies and sociological analyses may never get to the bottom of Mickey Rooney’s appeal, but in the end, it doesn’t really matter. He lived, he breathed, and he woke up every single day determined to capture your attention. I’d say he’s the original narcissist, but even that understates the matter. His Mickey Moran is a black hole unto himself; a soul-stripping, flesh-eating bacteria so virulent that it reduces penicillin to a laughable afterthought. He’s the kind of guy who throws a party solely to offer yet another opportunity to get in your face. If he’s dating, it’s only to hear himself talk. If he dares leave a room, everyone on the other side of the door better lay still until he returns. He’s the ultimate bully. A typically pint-sized dictator with ambitions to bludgeon the world. If he’d only toured Europe, he could have spared us another war.
Speaking of which, on September 1st, 1939, Hitler invaded Poland. Two weeks later, the first American audiences screened Babes in Arms. Historians are still debating what caused the greater damage.
Leave a Reply