Sept. 03--Dean Jones died Tuesday at 84 in Los Angeles, of complications from Parkinson's disease. For a few key years when American culture was hit by one earthquake after another, the actor was the unlikely symbol of parallel times, the times that weren't a-changing. Jones became the beleaguered, bewildered, pop-eyed leading man of choice for millions of rabid preteen Walt Disney fans and their parents.
Jones served as the nominal male protagonist of "That Darn Cat!" (1965), "The Ugly Dachshund" (1966), "Monkeys, Go Home!" (1967) and many more cranked out by the Disney studio. When I was 9, I saw "The Love Bug" four times. (A major cinematic year for me: "The Love Bug," plus the second run of "2001: A Space Odyssey," which did not star Dean Jones.)
In "The Love Bug" he played a washed-up racer with a sour, self-loathing streak, a yen for Michelle Lee (who is introduced in a memorably inappropriate fashion by way of a close-up of her long Broadway-trained legs) and a magical VW bug with a mind of its own. Like its driver, Herbie had a manic-depressive streak. At one point in "The Love Bug," the VW tries to commit suicide by driving off the Golden Gate bridge. A strange fantasy indeed, though I suppose I kept going back for the stunts and the jokes. And something in Jones' eager-beaver, 110 percent attack appealed to lots and lots of movie fans.
The most revealing performance Jones ever gave? D.A. Pennebaker's riveting documentary "Original Cast Album: Company" (1970) chronicles the late-night recording of the landmark Stephen Sondheim/George Furth musical's cast album. The film's dominated by the tortures of the damned that are experienced (and inflicted) by Elaine Stritch, who originated the song "The Ladies Who Lunch." But Jones, who played Bobby in tryouts and on Broadway for the show's first few months, undergoes his own crises of confidence during the recording session. The game performer, soon to return to Disney for "The Million Dollar Duck," struggles mightily with the soul-searching emotional intricacies of Sondheim's "Being Alive," a song about commitment and sacrifice. It's riveting viewing.
Underneath the bright smile and lanky adorability, Jones sometimes revealed a hint of neuroses and a layer of tension beneath the Disney-ready exterior. In other words, he seemed human, an adult coping with fantasies made for kids. He never dogged an assignment. Dean Jones did not slum it, ever, whether he was sharing the screen with a cat, a wiener dog, a duck or a VW beetle.
