The unique Mickey Rooney provided one last entertainment — a sobering one — in his long life. When he died last week at 93, he reportedly left only $18,000.
Let's hope that was a joke because you couldn't help a guilty little smile reading it.
Rooney surely made millions, yet managed to make most of it disappear, a lesson for us in the seats. Even a star has to put 10 percent away in the good earning years.
In Rooney's case, getting married eight times couldn't have helped. Eight times is just too much for retirement planning. Even three or four times. Economically, the optimum is once. Then there's no alimony, no child support for little innocents living under other roofs with grievances against Dad. Rooney had nine scattered kids.
Which also is a surprise, because he always seemed a kid himself. More exactly a boy. With a shock of unruly hair, quick, mischievous and eager to grow up. Fated never to rise above 5 feet 3, Rooney way into his 20s was still a boy way on screen.
And in person. He played Pittsburgh sensationally in the 1940s. The ticket line snaked around the block at the old Stanley Theater (now the Benedum).
He sang, he danced, told jokes, played instruments on stage (to an orchestra in the pit), an instinctive, energetic drummer especially, tossing and catching the sticks. He wore a sweater, slacks and saddle shoes like his Andy Hardy high school character in the movies. The stage barely held him. He tapped from one side to the other in the spotlight, even did tumbles and flips if memory serves, while a full house cheered so much talent in one young fellow. He surely did two stage shows a day between the Stanley's movies, probably three at ticket prices didn't exceed $1 for adults, 50 cents for kids.
Right there might have been his income problem. Too low admission prices in his best years. And too high taxes. If he cleared $2,000 or $3,000 at the Stanley, it would have been fabulous in those days, peanuts of course now.
He had more than a child's talent. Later decades brought him juicy film parts, character roles that called for a shrewd little guy: “Shorty,” the corner man for a boxer or a jockey graduated to trainer. The way he mimed riding a winner was a memorable touch in “The Black Stallion.” A long run in the nostalgic Broadway review “Sugar Babies” brought paydays way past his 70th birthday.
But he wasn't done yet. Still doing nightclub shows, he played a hotel dining room in Pittsburgh's South Hills. Bald and paunchy by then, but still with the instinctive timing of a pro, he stood in the spotlight for a long moment to the cheers of a mostly elderly crowd saluting a hero of their own boyhoods and girlhoods. He milked it for one more moment more of suspense, then said hoarsely, mock-solemnly, “Folks, this is what became of Mickey Rooney.” They loved it.
But what a role model if he'd had fewer wives and more more mutual funds.
Jack Markowitz is a columnist for Trib Total Media. Email him at jmarkowitz@tribweb.com.
