In the Company of Legends

by Joan Kramer

  I went to the closet for my tuxedo jacket, and that’s when I realized it wasn’t there. I looked on the floor, in my suitcase, in the drawers. Now it was my turn to panic. Here I was, telling everyone to relax, that there was time to spare, and now I didn’t have a jacket. I actually remember thinking, “What other jacket did I bring that might work?” The only two hanging there were light tan and denim blue.

  I called the front desk, thinking, “This is The Beverly Hills Hotel. Someone here must have a tux jacket I can borrow.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the concierge. “We don’t have tux jackets here. Why don’t you rent one?”

  I flipped through the phone book and found a tuxedo rental place not far from the hotel. “What size do you wear?” asked the person who answered the phone.

  “What size do you have? I’ll take anything at this point.”

  He finally convinced me that that wouldn’t work, and I gave my size.

  “Sorry sir. We don’t have any jacket left in that size. It’s Emmy weekend.”

  I called another rental store, which did have my size in stock.

  “Can you deliver?” I asked. If I could get it in time, no one would know that I’d forgotten to pack my own.

  “When do you need it?” asked the clerk.

  “In the next two minutes.”

  “I’m sorry sir, but that won’t be possible. You’ll have to come here to pick it up.”

  I was done for.

  I headed to the lobby, where George was pacing and smoking. The two limousines were already waiting outside. He took one look at me and realized that I wasn’t wearing a jacket. Actually, it was the best thing that could have happened to him. He suddenly took control. “Get in the car. We’re going to get you a jacket.”

  JK I was about to go down to the lobby when my phone rang. It was John Miller. “Joan, are you ready? The car is here and George and David have already left with Carol and Dennis.”

  I said, “What’s going on? You and Carol and George and Dennis were supposed to be in that car. David and I were supposed to be in the other one and pick up Susie Tracy and her friend, Susan Moon.”

  “Well, David doesn’t have a tux jacket, so they went to rent one.”

  We all met up on the steps outside the Pasadena Civic Auditorium. When I saw David, I said, “Nice tux. Don’t you have something to tell me?”

  He replied, “Not now, Joan.”

  David won the Emmy for directing, and John won for writing. George and I went home empty-handed.

  John L. Miller, Joan Kramer, and David Heeley at a party after winning Emmys for The Spencer Tracy Legacy: A Tribute by Katharine Hepburn.

  Sherman Oaks, CA, 1986. Authors’ collection.

  Through the years, I’ve told the events of that weekend to several people. David usually tries to stop me by saying, “If you’re lucky, Joan will tell you the story about my tux jacket.” It’s his way of saying, director-style, “Cut.”

  But it’s too delicious not to repeat one more time.

  JK and DH It sometimes feels as though Emmy weekends in Los Angeles result in strange happenings. Maybe not for everyone, but certainly for us.

  Six years earlier, in 1980, we’d been nominated for the two Fred Astaire specials. Our executive producers for those programs were George Page and Jac Venza. We all stayed at the Beverly Hilton Hotel and the night before the ceremony, George and Jac invited us to have dinner with them at the famous restaurant, Chasen’s.

  They told us, “We thought it would be a treat for you kids.”

  DH Joan and I arrived in California on Friday, rented a car, and decided to spend Saturday afternoon at Disneyland. It was about a ninety-minute drive, so I’d worked out what time we’d have to leave in order to get back to our hotel, change clothes and be at Chasen’s in time for the 6:30 reservation. We headed for the Disneyland parking lot at about 3:30, and found ourselves lost in a sea of cars. We couldn’t remember where we’d parked ours, or even what color it was.

  JK David tried hard to hide his concern. “We can’t be the first to lose a car here. Maybe we’ll have to wait until everyone else leaves. And we’ll never make it to the restaurant on time.” We found a pay-phone and left messages for George and Jac, explaining our predicament and promising to get to Chasen’s as soon as we could. Then, by some miracle, David found the license plate matching the number on the key ring.

  DH George and Jac were already seated in a booth sipping drinks when we arrived about fifteen minutes late. George was at one end and Jac opposite him. So Jac got up and Joan and I slid into the bench between them.

  I’d known George for many years by then and recognized immediately that the vodka in front of him was not his first that evening. And when we ordered drinks for ourselves, he asked for a refill. We decided what we wanted to eat, gave our menus to the waiter, and George passed out. He did so dramatically, falling forward, his head hitting his empty plate, which caused two of the crystal water glasses to crash to the floor in pieces.

  Suddenly, all eyes in that restaurant were on us. And being a Saturday evening, it was packed.

  JK Jac was clearly appalled. He told David, “Take him back to the hotel. I’ll help you get him to the car.” As both of them were trying to get George on his feet, I heard Jac say to him, “If you can’t take responsibility for your end of the table, you’ll have to leave.”

  I was now sitting there alone, with waiters mopping up and removing the shattered glass. It felt as though everyone was still staring in my direction.

  When Jac returned, the room was calming down. He said, “By the time George got here, he was already a bit tipsy. How was Disneyland? I wish you’d told me you were going. I would have come along.”

  I thought, “Jac Venza at Disneyland? It’s the last place I would imagine him wanting to go.”

  It seemed only a few minutes later that David came back.

  DH Joan looked surprised. “How did you get here so quickly? And how is George?”

  “I’m sure he’s okay. I drove him to the hotel and saw him to the elevator. He told me he could make it from there.”

  Joan said, “I hope he’s not slumped in the corner riding up and down. Why didn’t you take him to his room?”

  “I’d left the car in front and you can’t park there. So I put him in the elevator and by then he looked fine. I think a change of air helped.”

  The next morning, I called George and he was completely sober, but annoyed. “Would you believe that Jac called me a few minutes ago to give me a lecture? He said, ‘I hope you understand that the Emmy Awards tonight are part of our business. If you show up drunk, you’ll embarrass yourself, as well as me and the kids.’”

  But in the end George had the last word. Or to be more precise, made sure I had it. He not only told Jac that he was very well aware how important this day was, but then gave a short “lecture” of his own. He said, “And Jac, if we win, David is the only person who should speak. We’ll go up to the stage with him, but it’s his night. If you say something, then I’ll have to say something, and by then he won’t have any time left. So don’t open your mouth.”

  I was blown away. We all knew that Jac often made speeches about how difficult it was to raise money for public television. But I couldn’t have been the one to tell him not to talk; he was one of my bosses; George was his equal.

  JK and DH When our limo arrived at Pasadena there were, as usual, television news crews covering the event. But this year there was little jockeying for position by the cameramen, because the Screen Actors Guild had called a strike a few days before, and almost all performers had decided not to cross the picket lines.

  Fortunately the show did go on with last minute substitute hosts and presenters, and one of the Astaire programs did indeed win the Emmy.

  DH As we were heading for the stage, Jac whispered to me, “I’ve decided that you should be the one to accept.”

  I said, “Okay. Thank you.”

  The following
morning Joan and I watched the CBS Morning News coverage of the event, which bemoaned the lack of glamour resulting from the strike.

  “It was a night of producers, writers, directors, but no stars,” said the reporter.

  On the phrase “but no stars,” the video cut to a shot of Jac, George and the two of us walking up the steps to the auditorium.

  JK We had agreed that we wouldn’t tell anyone about George passing out at Chasen’s. But a few weeks later, at a party David gave for the premiere of the Nature series, we were astonished to hear George telling the story himself.

  He ended it with, “And it’s the only time I ever saw Joan completely undone.”

  George Page, Jac Venza, and David Heeley with Emmys for Fred Astaire: Change Partners and Dance.

  Pasadena, CA, 1980. Authors’ collection.

  Sid Luft in his apartment.

  Los Angeles, CA, 1984. Authors’ collection.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Boxer and A Singing Legend

  Sid Luft was a mixed bag. To anyone who knew him, that must seem like the epitome of an understatement. A former boxer, he met Judy Garland at the nadir of her career. She had just been fired by MGM after what felt like a lifetime there1, having started as a child performer in 1936, when she was only fourteen. Now approaching thirty, she didn’t know which way to turn. Sid was exactly the person she needed at that time. His charm swept her off her feet (they married in 1952), and his self-confidence and drive helped push her in a new direction. He persuaded her to start performing in live concerts, at which she excelled, produced one of her most important films, A Star Is Born, at Warner Bros., and also negotiated a deal with CBS which led to a television special and eventually a series, The Judy Garland Show.

  Long after their divorce, and Judy’s death, and following many court battles, Sid succeeded in winning the rights to those TV shows. In the early 1980s, he made a deal with Bill Lamb, the new head of programming at WNET, for a profile of Garland to be done, focusing on her concert career. Sid would make available—fully cleared for broadcast—all the material he owned; WNET would provide the funds for the production. In exchange, Luft could distribute the show after its PBS broadcast window, co-owning the copyright with WNET. We were assigned to produce the program for the Great Performances series.

  The prospect of creating a show about Judy Garland, with her singing some of the best songs ever written, was exciting, but we were wary of having to deal with Sid Luft. His reputation for being difficult, litigious, and crafty—perhaps even a scoundrel—was well-known. He was famous for claiming to own the rights to everything “Judy,” and whenever he was challenged for using materials he didn’t own, he’d launch a lawsuit. He believed that by the time each case was settled, enough time would have passed for the outcome to be irrelevant. In the meantime, he would continue using whatever he wanted. Many people in the business avoided him at all costs.

  DH We were understandably nervous when we first met Sid in his Los Angeles apartment. But we were immediately disarmed by his charm. However, he was well aware of his own reputation, and near the end of the visit told us casually that he had been recording our entire conversation. Seeing the looks of consternation on our faces, he laughed, and said he was “just kidding.” But we’re still not sure.

  He shared moving stories of his time with Judy, the ups and downs, the struggles to keep her drug free, and it was clear that he had loved her deeply and maybe still did. (When we arranged a private screening of the finished program, we could hear Sid sobbing when Judy sang “As Long As He Needs Me.”)

  At one point he played a video of the end of that first CBS Ford Star Jubilee special from 1955, where Judy, who had just finished her famous “We’re a Couple of Swells” number, sat on the edge of the stage, still in her tramp outfit, and sang her signature song, “Over the Rainbow.” It was a powerful and wrenching performance, much darker than the way she sang it in the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz. We knew immediately that we had found the climax of our program.

  JK Sid and Judy had two children, Lorna and Joe, whom we filmed during one of our production trips to Los Angeles. Liza Minnelli, Judy’s first child (with director Vincente Minnelli), also agreed to be interviewed. The date was set, and we ordered a limousine to pick her up from her New York apartment and bring her to WNET, where we and a crew were waiting. That morning, her publicist called me and asked if Liza could keep the limo for an hour or so after the shoot so that she could run a few errands. “Of course,” I replied. Then, thirty minutes before she was due to arrive, the same publicist called again. “Liza won’t be able to make it. There’s a family emergency.” It appeared that she had stood us up. However, much later, we learned what had happened that day. She had only recently returned home from a rehabilitation facility (unfortunately, by her own admission, she inherited Judy’s “addiction gene”). And, although she had agreed to the interview, it was only as she was about to leave her apartment that she realized she was not emotionally ready to go on camera and talk about her mother. We had to respect that.

  Lorna Luft with David Heeley and Joan Kramer.

  Los Angeles, CA, 1984. Authors’ collection.

  JK and DH As the planning for the program continued, and we were trying to decide who should host it, we realized the obvious choice was Lorna. She came across very well in the interview we’d shot, was level-headed, and had a clear connection to our subject.

  We filmed her in the middle of an especially brutal New York winter (she was bundled up in furs for the few outdoor sequences—in Times Square and in front of Carnegie Hall), and the next day recorded her voice-over narration.

  In the meantime, Sid had called to tell us that we could not use the version of Judy singing “Over the Rainbow” that he had shown us when we first met him. “It’s my most prized possession,” was his only explanation.

  The program had to include her most famous song, and the only other version available to us was from The Judy Garland Show series, in a Christmas special that included all three children. Unfortunately, Joe, who was only seven at the time, kept interrupting. It was not one of Judy’s better performances.

  DH Lorna’s narration recording was going well, until she came to “Over the Rainbow.” She stopped in astonishment.

  “You can’t use that,” she said. “Joey never stops talking all through the song.”

  I explained that we had no choice because Sid wouldn’t let us use the number from the 1955 special.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Just before 2 o’clock,” I told her.

  “Good. Early enough for the next edition of The New York Post. The headline will be ‘Daughter Kills Father.’ Where’s the phone?”

  Moments later she was talking to him in LA.

  “Sidney,” she said. “You have only one grandchild, who is my son. If you ever want to see him again, get that ******* tape sent here by FedEx.”

  “Lorna, calm down.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down! Call right now and arrange for that tape to be here by tomorrow morning.”

  Sure enough, there was a FedEx delivery the next day. And that performance of “Over the Rainbow” does indeed end the show, as we had originally planned.

  JK and DH But the broadcast was not the end of the story. Despite being required to provide material that was fully cleared for us to use, Sid somehow “forgot” to deal with the American Federation of Musicians, the Directors Guild of America, and many others. The lawyers at WNET spent many years dealing with all the claims that came in.

  The program which aired had some elements which we had acquired from other sources, and which could not be cleared for home-video use. So we made a special version for Sid to distribute, which did not include those items. He ignored the tape we sent him, and used the broadcast version for all his releases. We don’t know whether the rights holders tried to stop him, but suspect they did not deem it worth the considerable trouble.

  Sid Luft passed away
in September, 2005, at the age of eighty-nine. There was a private celebration of his life, which unfortunately, we couldn’t attend. But we have to believe that it was more of a roast than a memorial—and he would have loved every minute of it.

  David Heeley, Joan Kramer, Lorna Luft and Sid Luft before Emmy awards ceremony.

  Beverly Hilton Hotel, Beverly Hills, CA, 1986. Authors’ collection.

  Judy Garland.

  1960s. Authors’ collection.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rainbow Over the White House

  The show we produced about Judy Garland started to take shape in the spring of 1984. There are plenty of fascinating tales that swirl around this legendary performer, only some of which have been proven true. We wanted to be sure we’d separated fact from fiction, and one story in particular grabbed our attention. Verifying it involved a cast of characters that extended beyond showbiz to include some famous names in the world of politics.

  At the time there was only one authorized biography of Garland: Judy, by Gerald Frank; and for it he interviewed every member of her family. Garland’s eldest daughter, Liza Minnelli, tells a story about her mother at the time she was making her television series in 1963 and ’64. As Liza explained, it was a grueling schedule and the production team was constantly changing. Judy would come to the studio to find new faces, different people to work with, and that, added to the stress of taping her shows before a live audience, left her exhausted and frustrated. At the end of the week, she would often come home and say to Liza, “What a week. I think I’ll call Jack”—referring to John F. Kennedy, then the President of the United States—and she’d pick up the phone and place a call to the White House. Each conversation ended the same way: Liza would hear her mother say, “Oh no, again? Do you really want me to do that again? All right…” And then Judy would sing the last eight bars of “Over the Rainbow” into the phone.