Shirley Temple

Yesterday I heard that Shirley Temple had died. She was married, of course, and her name was Shirley Temple Black but I only think of her as the little girl named Shirley Temple. I've always liked the movies she made in the 1930s. I remember seeing them on TV when I was about the age she was when they were made. I would have been 10 years old when I saw her first in Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. I wasn't in love with her because I didn't like girls at that age. But I did admire her. She seemed, to me, to be the perfect child. She was bright, happy, talented and helpful. And very resourceful. In many ways, she seemed much more capable than some of the adults around her. And people were all over themselves trying to help her. Maybe that's why young children liked her films. She was the center of attention and always knew what to do.


Shirley always seemed to be in a tough situation but she made the best of it. As part of my "Working for the Man" post back in 2009, though, I wrote about the film Our Little Girl where I don't think that she made a very good decision. She tried to get her parents back together after their divorce by running away. I can see why this film wasn't shown often on Sunday afternoons when I saw her other movies. I've not seen this movie all the way through yet, and I'm glad I didn't see it as a child. Looking at it with adult eyes, I can appreciate the desperation a child might feel in that situation but to think that a young girl would use that sort of a desperate measure to solve a problem is a little scary. But as I often argue about other movies that I like in spite of their story, it's just a movie. What she said and did was written by a team of writers and helped along by an adult director. It was not meant as a blueprint for children's behavior. But that is not how I looked at Shirley Temple's movies when I was around 10 years old. I thought she was the brightest and most wonderful child I knew. She brought the writers' words come to life and I tried my best to be like her. And I still do. I will miss you, Shirley.