Hollywood has lost a true icon with the passing of June Lockhart, a star whose talent and tenacity shone across a century of life and a career that shaped American entertainment.
The New York Post reported that the cherished actress, known for her roles in “Lassie” and “Lost in Space,” died at 100 on Thursday, October 23, 2025, in Santa Monica, California, leaving behind a legacy of inspiration in film, television, and even space advocacy.
Born on June 25, 1925, in New York City, Lockhart stepped into the spotlight at just 8 years old, debuting in the 1933 stage production of “Peter Ibbetson” at the Metropolitan Opera House.
Her early start set the stage for a career that would span generations. It’s a reminder of a time when talent, not trendy social agendas, paved the way to stardom.
By 1938, Lockhart made her film debut as Belinda Cratchit in “A Christmas Carol,” acting alongside her parents, Gene and Kathleen Lockhart, at the tender age of 13. That family affair must have been a heartwarming launch, far from today’s Hollywood obsession with divisive narratives over wholesome storytelling.
Through the Golden Age of Hollywood, she graced screens in classics like “Meet Me in St. Louis” in 1944 and “She-Wolf of London” in 1946, proving her versatility.
Her roles in later films like “Troll” in 1986 and “One Night at McCool’s” in 2001 showed she could adapt to any era. It’s a shame modern cinema often prioritizes ideology over such timeless charm.
Lockhart’s Broadway debut in 1947 with “For Love or Money” earned her a Tony Award for outstanding newcomer, a trophy she generously donated to the Smithsonian. Returning to the stage in 1955 for “The Grand Prize,” she solidified her theatrical creds. That’s dedication to craft, not chasing clout on social media.
Television became her kingdom with iconic roles as Ruth in “Lassie” and Maureen Robinson in “Lost in Space” during the 1960s.
While some today might scoff at traditional family shows, Lockhart’s work resonated deeply, inspiring real-world impact beyond mere entertainment.
“I did ‘Lassie’ for six years, and I never had anybody come up to me and say, ‘It made me want to be a farmer,’” Lockhart quipped to NPR in 2004. Oh, the humor in pointing out the obvious—unlike certain progressive shows pushing lifestyles over relatable dreams, her roles stuck to storytelling, not sermons.
Her “Lost in Space” character inspired countless fans to pursue careers in science, a fact she cherished as a NASA spokesperson who earned the Exceptional Public Achievement Medal in 2013. That’s influence with purpose, not the empty virtue signaling we see too often today.
Lockhart’s interests weren’t confined to acting; her fascination with American politics bloomed after meeting President Harry Truman in 1948. A lifetime press pass from President Dwight Eisenhower’s press secretary allowed her to attend briefings for 47 years. Now, that’s access earned through genuine curiosity, not partisan pandering.
Guest-starring in beloved series like “Bewitched,” “Happy Days,” “Magnum P.I.,” and even “Grey’s Anatomy,” she remained a familiar face across decades. Add to that two Stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame for film and television, and her mark is undeniable. It’s a legacy built on merit, not manufactured controversies.
Even in voice acting, Lockhart showed her playful side with a part in “Ren and Stimpy,” a show she adored as a fan. “I am such a fan, I try never to miss an episode,” she gushed to the Chicago Tribune in 1994. Her enthusiasm for the quirky cartoon cuts against the grain of today’s overly sanitized content police.
Lockhart passed away surrounded by her daughter, June Elizabeth, and granddaughter, Christianna, a quiet, personal moment in a life so public. Funeral services will remain private, a choice respecting family over spectacle. It’s a dignified exit in an age often lacking such grace.
In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations to The Actors Fund, ProPublica, and International Hearing Dog, Inc., causes reflecting Lockhart’s generous spirit.
Her personal life, including her marriage to John F. Maloney in 1951 and raising two daughters before their 1959 divorce, showed resilience. Hollywood could learn from such quiet strength over loud activism.