Judy and I

by Sid Luft

  As the performance continued, all of Judy’s vaudeville savvy came into play. She spoke to the audience to make herself comfortable. Her audience was a friend whom she might like to kiss. She was chatty, seductive (her specialty), the timing right. I watched as she kicked off her four-inch heels to “get down” with the audience. They cheered. She sang a medley of songs associated with her films: “The Boy Next Door,” “The Trolley Song.” I heard Judy announce, “This is the greatest night of my life.” More cheering.

  Judy had completely captured every heart in the audience. Her strong legs had held up, but when she put her heels back on for her exit she tripped over the microphone wires. To my horror, she plummeted to the stage like a fallen sunflower.

  Buddy Pepper, her pianist, got up to assist her. Judy immediately introduced him, and in a cryptic voice added, “That’s probably one of the most ungraceful exits ever made.”

  She was answered with whistles and screams and offers of love. The audience spoke to her, responded, and she talked back. Everyone had been involved in the performance. And Judy had held nothing back. By the time the performance ended she was ringing wet. She was not concerned about maintaining a look of elegance, and the audience, too, would be drenched. It was that intense. She would get to the audience with that tear in her voice. She knew how to manipulate on a stage, and privately, in a room: when she laughed, you laughed, when she cried, you cried. (Our “special” song, “Danny Boy,” was delivered in the privacy of our bedroom. Judy really never stopped singing.) The next day, Val Parnell, the manager of the Palladium, told me Judy’s ovation was the biggest he’d experienced there.

  The Daily Express was both critical and literary: “What if the final cheers are for the Wizard of Oz child who trod the yellow brick road for us in the darkest days of the war? It was sincere.” She was a big hit, as Fanny Brice predicted. She continued to draw rave reviews and capacity audiences. It remained that way for each show, twice a night, one at 6:00 PM and one at 8:00.

  I had a return ticket on TWA. I thought I’d be in London for a week. Judy, out of the States, her ties to MGM permanently severed, free at last. And then our feelings took over, and the sparks really began to fly.

  In the course of the four-week tour, I didn’t spend all my nights in the wings waiting for the star. I’d take care of my business during the day, very often meeting friends in the evening. Then I would go around to the Palladium after the performance, pick up Judy, and we’d go out on the town.

  London had not fully recovered from Hitler’s bombs, and it was eerie walking around the great city with evidence of devastation everywhere. There were entire blocks razed to the ground. In spite of this disaster the general mood in London was one of cheerfulness; people were happy to be alive. Judy and I fit right in.

  Judy, the symbol of cheerfulness through strife, America’s national asset, was finally allowed to be exported. Londoners were claiming Judy for their own. This was altogether a new experience: a country relating to “Dorothy” as a political symbol. She’d been on war bond tours, entertained servicemen, visited ailing soldiers, but she had never fully understood the power of her public image. Now, she was the toast of London, cutting down the media focus on Princess Margaret, who was unconventional for a royal and currently the darling of the press. The princess’s exploits had captured the world’s eye and the local papers were obsessional on the subject of “Meg.” But here was Dorothy in the flesh, the movie queen eclipsing the real-life princess.

  We were unabashedly caught up in the vortex of her success and wallowing in it. Judy’s English press had always been sensational. What was printed in the States was generally rougher in England—as much as they worshipped their idols, they could tear them asunder. Now the American profiles of Judy as an unstable mess were being disproved night after night.

  The British press, however, couldn’t resist commenting on the fact that she was plump. She wasn’t “camera slim,” and she didn’t have to be. She was not the anorexic tiny teen from her film roles. But Judy was so petite every bit of flesh was exaggerated. I thought she looked simply marvelous.

  A steady stream of well-wishers went backstage: Betty Bacall, Bogie, Kate Hepburn (returning from Africa, where they’d shot John Huston’s The African Queen), Orson Welles, the Oliviers, Judy’s old boyfriend Tyrone Power. Every night it was the who’s who of international show business queuing up to pay their respects. Quite an impressive lot.

  Judy was on the watch for her childhood crush, the distinguished actor Robert Donat. She was really looking forward to meeting him. Judy recalled:

  When I was about eleven years old I worked in a movie house in Detroit where they were running The Count of Monte Cristo. I used to sit in the wings and watch movies. I fell madly in love with Robert Donat. I’ve never written a fan letter in my life, but I wrote a long letter to him in England and I cut out every picture I could find in every movie magazine and he was all over the walls of my room. He sent me a picture with a note from his secretary. I compared the signature on the picture and the note and it was the same handwriting. I wept because I knew he hadn’t signed it himself. I still slept with it under my pillow for a long time. I worshipped him and it killed me to have to sing to Clark Gable, because I was in love with Robert Donat.

  All these years elapsed and I went to the Palladium. I kept wondering if Robert Donat would come to see me. If I would by any chance get to meet him.

  I was in my dressing room. I’d been at the Palladium for maybe a week and there was a knock on the door. I went to the door and there was a liveried chauffeur with a note for me, and a huge bouquet of roses. I took the letter and it said MISS GARLAND on the front of it and ROBERT DONAT on the back. I thought, oh, my God, I’ve finally heard from the man of my dreams.

  I rushed into the little private room in my dressing suite and locked the door. I was sure he’d seen the show and was going to tell me he liked it, or that he wanted to come see it, or something. I opened the envelope: “Dear Miss Garland, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you but I wanted to tell you that there’s a very good psychiatrist at 212 Harley Street. And he will be available to you anytime you want him.” . . . He had written in the letter that he was working on a movie.

  He thought I was absolutely nuts. And had arranged for me to have help. The chauffeur said, he was waiting for an answer. I didn’t know what to say so I went back in and I said, thank Mr. Donat for me very much. I didn’t have the guts to write a note and say “How dare you.” I was too in love with him. I went back to the hotel and about two days later, I was asleep in the morning and the phone rang. I very sleepily said hello, and I heard this voice that I’d been hypnotized by, for all of my life practically. “Miss Garland there?” I said, “Yes.” The voice said, “Mr. Donat here.” I went to pieces hearing his voice. I said, “Oh, hello.” He said, “Well, I’m rather worried because I have to go out of town on location until Thursday. Do you think you can hold on until then?” And I said, “Well, I hope so, but I’m not sure.” I didn’t want to disappoint him and have him think I was sane. He was being so helpful. And so sweet, and so convinced that I was a real case that I think it would have depressed him had he realized what he’d done.

  Eventually he left word at the theater, had his secretary call my man in the dressing room that he was back from location. I never talked to him after that. How to meet the man of your dreams. Later I found out at the time when he wrote me, he was really desperately sick, so actually it was very kind. It was just that it wasn’t what I had pictured at the age of eleven. . . .

  Although Judy recalls the incident with compassion, at the time it struck her as hilarious.

  From the moment I arrived in England Judy pushed me in the forefront. “I’d like you to know Sid Luft.” At times we would be in the dressing room and she’d come over and put an arm around my waist: “This is the guy I’m in love with.” She made no bones about her feelings toward me. She was precise, not ambivalent. She was also
solicitous: “What would you like to do, darling?” “Would you like to go to so-and-so’s for dinner, might be fun?” She did everything to make me comfortable. At the same time, she was relying on me more and more. When we were dancing or dining at a nightclub and a fan came up to ask her for an autograph, Judy got in the habit of referring them to me. “If he says it’s OK.”

  The River Club was one of our favorite spots to go to after Judy’s performances. A sedate, private emporium overlooking the Thames, the River Club happened to be Princess Margaret’s favorite as well. The club’s owner was an American in the liquor business who was a friend of mine from Los Angeles. Very often Princess Margaret would be at the club when we were there. She’d be enjoying herself, carousing with friends, but she’d never acknowledge Judy’s presence. “Very peculiar lady,” Judy said. “She knows I’m here.” And it was true there was no shaking of hands, no exchange of toasts.

  We were aware of the English royals’ genuine love for musical revue, so the princess’s behavior baffled us. Maybe she was loyal to Danny? Kaye’s career had been helped immeasurably by playing the Palladium. His tremendous publicity had leaked back to the States about his huge success with the royal family, how he was frequently seen in the company of Princess Margaret. Judy’s audiences were not all that royal, nor were they upper class, more just regular folk who sought some escape from worldly worries, from a limited material life. A crowd that needed to be cheered and, in exchange, they cheered. That had been the deal: you lift our spirits and we’ll make you a star.

  For the hell of it I showed up at the theater wearing a derby and a white silk scarf and sporting a cane. For laughs . . . the dude goes to England. Judy was amused, so was I, but others thought I was foolish. We didn’t care—we were so entrenched in our romance.

  One night we accepted an invitation from Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier, the reigning king and queen of British drama. They were extoled for their performances in Antony and Cleopatra and Caesar and Cleopatra. We arrived at the Olivier house, where I was asked to wait in an antechamber while Judy was escorted to meet His and Her Highness. It was dark as though the Blitz were still on. I couldn’t tell who was sitting around. People were led individually to the room where Larry and Vivien waited to receive their guests. Perhaps they’d heard Judy’s beau was an ass, that I made a fool of myself dressing up like an Englishman. Years later I was introduced to Sir Laurence when I was briefly managing my daughter, Lorna Luft, on an overseas tour. She was singing at the Top of the Town. Olivier could not have been warmer, more down-to-earth.

  Back at the hotel, Judy and I came to the conclusion that perhaps they’d had some loyalty to Minnelli. She managed to take my focus off the slight over a bottle of Dom Perignon and by telling me a story about the Munchkins.

  The Wizard of Oz was in production for eight grueling months. The Munchkins came to Hollywood from all over the world. Club Munchkin. Some of them were foreign born. Married, single, they arrived in Oz among the palm trees in Culver City. The men were naughty. They thought they could get away with anything because they were so small. An assistant director had been specially assigned to the Munchkins, and to be sure they made their calls they had a lieutenant as boss. Apparently many of them would wind up in jail and have to be bailed out. “You couldn’t lock them up for long because they were needed on the set.”

  With their makeup on, the Munchkins frequented Culver City bars, and after a long day of work, they drank. They were disorderly as hell, yelling and screaming. The next day, on the set, hung over, they would make Judy’s life miserable by putting their hands under her dress. Judy would break herself up demonstrating the situation: she pinched her ass, laughing, “What are you doing?”

  She had been sixteen playing the role of Dorothy, a child. The Munchkins, of course, were close to her size and couldn’t resist teasing her, making her life a misery. The men were forty or more years old, and there was Judy with boyfriends, and feeling sophisticated at sixteen. The little girl/woman dilemma would subtly emerge in so many of Judy’s stories, and as I was to experience, in her very behavior as well.

  The British affiliate of the William Morris office had arranged for Judy to tour in Scotland and Ireland after the run at the Palladium. Judy was not enthusiastic about delaying her return to the screen. Bing Crosby had sent her a script with the working title Famous. I thought she wasn’t ready for cameras. “Four weeks at the Palladium, darling—you should keep going.” So I was expressing an opinion. In fact, I prevailed upon Judy that she wasn’t ready to return to the States. She had ideas for her career that I believed were not workable. “If you don’t want me to do Famous with Bing, and you don’t think I should do this, what should I do?”

  “Tour the provinces.”

  Now she was insisting the Morris office speak to me. I went along with it, because I seriously believed she should tour and not have to worry about her weight in front of a camera. “You’re a genius at what you do with a live audience, why not develop that?”

  We were immersed in our feelings for one another. Nevertheless, I thought this was going to get sticky; she was depending on me.

  Judy respected Bing and she enjoyed working with him. But for a comeback film, Famous was awful. I told her, “Judy, this is a piece of shit. Trust me, you can’t do it.” I was aware she was eager to ensure her next career move, but this could not be it. I argued that there’d be more appropriate offers. Judy considered my advice.

  A month passed and I was still in London, styling her hair and clothes and suggesting what career moves to make. I had other obligations, and when I discussed them with Judy she didn’t want to hear about them. Soon she was saying, “Darling, if you feel I shouldn’t do the film, I won’t.” Subsequently, it was made with Jane Wyman, an excellent actress, and released under the title Just for You, but it flopped anyway.

  Nonetheless, Judy was determined to return to film. She brought up her interest in a remake of A Star Is Born. She’d acted the part of Esther/Vicki as far back as 1942 in a Lux radio drama costarring Walter Pidgeon. She went to Louis B. Mayer requesting that MGM consider a remake starring her, but Mayer was not about to take the risk of presenting Judy as a mature leading lady.

  So she accepted the rest of my advice and agreed to the British stage tour. “OK, OK. I’ll play the boonies.” The ball was in my court.

  The Empire chain, which owned the Palladium, had many theaters throughout Britain. Edinburgh was not part of the itinerary. I hankered to play golf on the greens at Gleneagles, and so I insisted she stop at Edinburgh. Abe Lastfogel called me. “Sid, what’re you doing interfering with Judy’s career? The boyfriend doesn’t try to interfere with our management!”

  She was booked one week at each theater: Edinburgh, Glasgow, Manchester, Dublin, Liverpool, Blackpool. She was alone, professionally in transition with an agency, two women as attendants, an estranged husband. Carlton Alsop was out of her life. She was needy.

  I’d anticipated a more complex individual, but out on the road I discovered her to be what friends of mine would tag “a no-bullshit dame.” Judy smoked mentholated cigarettes, but in moderation. She always took a sip of wine before going onstage, but she didn’t need a drink to go to a party. For me, it wasn’t easy to hit a room full of people sober; I’d have to throw down a few first. Judy was a hyper person with boundless energy and no doubt had been this way since childhood, but she was forthright with me, and we began to relax with one another. We were away from the crowd, and simmering down.

  20

  IN SCOTLAND WE HAD ten days between Glasgow and Edinburgh. We went to Turnberry, where I taught Judy the game of golf. Sometimes I’d back off, inwardly alarmed by the depth of my involvement. I had a fantasy that I was a martyr, that I was the only one to save this creature, if indeed there proved any saving to be done.

  In Edinburgh the weather was dreary and we were unable to play golf, so we visited an old castle. Then, back at the hotel, there was some tension between us. Judy
had asked me to become her personal manager. What was I willing to give up for this woman? What was I not willing to let go of?

  “You have the experience to manage me, darling.”

  “I can’t hang around managing you—Judy Garland’s sweetheart/pimp. Not my style.” Judy was in tears by the French doors in the sumptuous period-decorated suite. I took her in my arms. “Darling, if I managed you, really managed you, you’d have to listen to me, you’d have to take my advice—”

  “But I would, I would . . .” she assured me through her tears, as though she were talking to Auntie Em in The Wizard of Oz.

  “Darling,” I said, “Let’s listen to music, let’s make love. We can’t without a career. Career is so we can do all this. If I’m your lover, your companion, and your manager, I must earn a proper living.” It was late afternoon and raining. I was looking out at a huge black cloud hanging over a distant hill. Judy needed to be sure of me in some form. “I’m not a manager, darling. I’m trying to produce a picture.”

  “But you’ve got to stay with me, Sid. I don’t want to go to Liverpool, and I don’t want to go to Dublin without you.”

  “I don’t think I’ve experience enough for you, darling.”

  “But you do, you do.” And so it went.

  Three people were in the audience the night Judy opened in Edinburgh. I was mortified. I’d made an ass of myself arguing with the Morris office over the booking, and Judy wanted me for her manager?

  I quickly located the theater manager. “What’s going on?”

  He said, “Oh, Mr. Looft, you must understand—”