Judy and I

by Sid Luft

  “Obviously, you don’t want my baby.”

  I found myself saying, “Of course I want your baby, but we’ve got a show to do.” But if she intended to go forward with the Palace, she had to recognize the bad timing. “How the hell can you have a baby?” It didn’t occur to me she was intent on marriage. I wasn’t thinking in that direction as much as I was just in love, but having a baby was one way to bring the subject up.

  Because of my negative reaction to the pregnancy Judy didn’t confide in me where and when she was going to have the abortion, so I didn’t go with her. I wasn’t attentive. I didn’t send flowers.

  I was under stress, and one morning I awakened with an infection, a kind of ugly boil near my left eye, on the temple. It got bigger and bigger, but I tried to ignore it. That night I appeared at the rehearsal studio. Judy was not about to give me the time of day. She avoided my glances. She was very heavy into some number and I thought, well, I’ll just wave good-bye and wait for her at the Ready Room, where we usually met after rehearsal. Judy didn’t show up. I was well aware that when Judy rehearsed she tended to exclude the outer world to guard her concentration. But this time she went too far. I was feeling left out on the ledge. Estranged. Where was the relationship going?

  The following day the cyst was worse. My doctor chose not to lance it, as it was too near the eye. Instead, he prescribed medication that knocked me out for several days. Fortunately, it began to shrink. Judy never called. This threw me off. Maybe, I thought, she couldn’t tolerate any sign of weakness on my part. At the same time, I sensed that she was retaliating.

  I was aggravated that I had not heard from Judy, so I decided to go over to La Cienega. I looked in. Judy was working away. Not waiting for a response, I mentioned I’d be next door at the Ready Room. Sitting at the bar I thought, what if she doesn’t show up this time either? Foolishly, I threw back a few bourbons, which didn’t mix well with the medication.

  Earlier in the day I had called Tully inquiring how Judy was feeling. I couldn’t speak to Judy directly, as she never picked up the telephone, it was either Dottie or Tully. And Judy had refused to answer my calls.

  This time Judy showed up. She was cold to me, however—no warm greeting. I explained I regretted she had to go through such an ordeal. I thought she might ask after my health. In hindsight, I could see it was selfish. I was cutting myself off from her trauma of losing a child she wanted. But not hearing from her those past few days had put me on guard. “Maybe,” I said, in an attempt to pull things in the open, “you can’t be around illness unless it’s your own.”

  She wasn’t going to respond to the psychological approach. I told her I was going home. She sat enigmatically, across from me, still in her rehearsal clothes. It was clear she was feeling knocked out. I was not looking for sympathy, but I still felt she should have at least called to inform me how she was feeling. Obviously, she had remained angry.

  It was around two in the morning, and I was beginning to feel dizzy from the booze and pills. I said good night and went to my car. I promptly pulled out onto La Cienega Boulevard and drove into a young student’s car, which hit another vehicle. Luckily, nobody was hurt in the collision. The sound of the crash brought Judy running out of the Ready Room and to my side. Unfortunately, a fight ensued. Judy took my side and joined in the fisticuffs.

  Dr. Larson, a dentist, had stopped at the scene of the accident. He was a Good Samaritan who, unfortunately, got in my way. I punched Dr. Larson while Judy slapped one of the boys. It was a silly melee for which I was responsible. Judy, who had been giving me a hard time in the restaurant, was now rushing to my defense, and even willing to punch out the enemy. It struck me as hilarious. If I had doubted Judy’s loyalty, here she was showing her colors.

  Within the hour, Judy and Bob Agins met me at the Wilshire police precinct and paid my bail of $100. In this way Judy and I were reconciled in a traffic accident melodrama.

  Lynn used this incident to play up my drinking habits, to try to prove that I was an unfit father. She had Judy subpoenaed as well. The idea was to determine if my drinking would endanger our son, Johnny, in my presence.

  It was toward the end of the Los Angeles rehearsals that I read in one of the papers that Jock Whitney and David O. Selznick were breaking up their partnership. One of their properties had been auctioned off: A Star Is Born. Eddie Alperson, who was known for having sold the first talking film, The Jazz Singer starring Al Jolson, to the national theater owners, had bought the rights and all the prints.

  The story of A Star Is Born was originally produced in 1932 under the title What Price Hollywood? The plot was based on an actual Hollywood tragedy: unknown talent marries famous alcoholic actor on the decline; their marriage enhances her career, not his. The 1937 version of Star with Janet Gaynor and Fredric March was written by Dorothy Parker, Alan Campbell, and Robert Carson. It ends with the female lead, “Vicki Lester,” accepting an Oscar as “Mrs. Norman Maine,” the name of her husband who has committed suicide. Our concept was to make a musical version of the same tragic story.

  Judy had coveted the role of Esther Blodgett/Vicki Lester ever since she played the part in that 1942 Lux Radio Theatre broadcast, with Walter Pidgeon in the role of Norman Maine. Though Louis B. Mayer had rejected Judy’s suggestion that she be cast as the star of a remake, I made a mental note: as soon as Judy was established on Broadway, as I knew she would be, I was going to hit Lastfogel with this concept.

  Meanwhile, Judy traveled by train to New York with Chuck Walters, joining the ensemble and eight dancing boys. The acts continued to practice outside of the Palace, as rehearsals were not allowed inside the theater while it was being renovated.

  Very quickly, though, the RKO Palace lived up to its name. The refurbished theater was transformed, as if in a fairy tale, into regal splendor fit for a princess. The crystal chandeliers sparkled with their diamond-like radiance. The Keith-Albee art collection had been returned and hung, the damask walls were trimmed with gilded moldings, and a plush red carpet was spread from the curb through the theater onto the stage. It was grand.

  22

  AT THE NEW GRAND . . . .

  SPECIAL FOR CHRISTMAS, “Through the Back Door” with MARY PICKFORD, America’s Sweetheart, in the leading role. One of the nicest pictures Miss Pickford has appeared in. You will enjoy every bit of it. A two-reel comedy “Motor Mad” will also be shown. Added attraction for Friday evening: the three Gumm girls will entertain in songs and dances featuring Baby Frances, two years old, Virginia seven and Mary Jane nine. The little girls will appear between the shows at 9 o’clock.

  —Grand Rapids Independent, 1924

  ON OPENING NIGHT of Judy’s return to the vaudeville stage, October 16, 1951, the line went around the block. All future shows were sold out. Wooden barricades had been placed outside the Palace Theatre, and police and fans alike had stood waiting night and day. Every luminary imaginable was trying to get in: Fred Allen, Sophie Tucker, Jimmy Durante, Jane Froman, Ralph Bellamy, all previous stars of old-time vaudeville, sat in the star-packed opening night audience. The atmosphere was explosive, more glorious than the Palladium. Judy was now a symbol of victorious America.

  Backstage in her dressing room, Judy quietly, meditatively applied her makeup. A wall of green and white print drapes were covered with telegrams and congratulatory notes. I looked in occasionally, until she was dressed in her elegant black Irene Sharaff gown for the opening number. She was eager to know who was in the audience. I told her: everyone who existed.

  There were five acts of vaudeville to go through before the star attraction would, in true vaudevillian tradition, enter onstage at the top of the second act. Time seemed interminable as we listened to the audience’s robust response to each act, including comedian Max Bygraves, whom Abe Lastfogel was very much against when I suggested bringing him over from England. We had enjoyed him on our tour, and although he was English and not well known here, we thought he would be a little different and fun. It
certainly was a break for Max. He returned home after the Palace and became famous in his country.

  Finally it was time for Judy to make her appearance. She took a sip of white wine and, unlike at the Palladium, sailed out onstage without hesitation. The special lyrics and musical arrangements that Chuck and Roger had written would be put to the test. Hugh Martin, who wrote the score for Meet Me in St. Louis, was actually accompanying Judy on the piano. The show had all the appearances of a live MGM musical. When Judy slipped out from behind the eight “boyfriends” singing Edens’s lyrics to Comden and Green’s music for On the Town in a recitative: “Call the Mirror, call the News. You can say I’ve still got ninety pounds to lose . . .” she brought down the house, and would do so every night thereafter. The momentum never flagged for the rest of the evening, leaving the audience on their feet cheering.

  As at the Palladium, Judy sang a medley of tunes from her films, including “You Made Me Love You,” “The Boy Next Door,” and “The Trolley Song.” She went on to perform “Get Happy,” the hit tune from Summer Stock, and, of course, Irving Berlin’s “A Couple of Swells” from Easter Parade, with Chuck Walters assuming Fred Astaire’s role. Judy sang and performed for forty minutes. Characteristically, she would toss the mike wire over her shoulder in a cavalier fashion as she sang and chatted with the audience about some of the artists who preceded her at the Palace: Fanny Brice, Eva Tanguay, Nora Bayes, Helen Morgan, and Sophie Tucker. There she was, her hair disheveled, perspiring through her Sharaff designer gowns, unaware she was wringing wet. She was not concerned with maintaining a look of elegance while she worked. Judy performed without cosmetic regard for herself.

  I was never certain that the general audience understood how distinguished the cast was that Judy worked with. She would, of course, introduce them, but here was Hugh Martin playing the piano for her because he wanted to, and Chuck Walters dancing the tramp number with her because he wanted to—out of love for Judy. In the conclusion, dressed in her beloved tramp outfit, her teeth blacked out, soot rubbed on her cheeks, the little minstrel girl sat on the edge of the extended stage. Whereas the first night at the Palladium she opened with “Over the Rainbow,” here she closed with it, singing without a mike. (This detail had been my suggestion.) Her eyes seemed to radiate all the emotions a person could feel as far away as the balcony.

  I stood in the back of the theater, and as my eyes swept over the orchestra audience I watched Lastfogel and Sol Schwartz openly weep. They could have been crying with joy over Judy’s obvious commercial success, but I prefer to think they joined the rest of us in a shared emotional reaction to an emotional and brilliant performance. This was a happening, not an opening! Judy had related to the throng intimately, as though the enormous RKO Palace was just a room full of friends. And night after night, that’s what the audience became: Judy’s friends. Whereas actor-singers transform themselves with different numbers, Judy’s genius was that she could transform the audience by the content and sound of whatever she sang, coming from the depth of her character. They cheered themselves hoarse. The stage was blanketed with flowers before she was able to get back to her dressing room.

  The Duke and Duchess of Windsor were among the opening night audience. Elizabeth Taylor, Monty Clift, Marlene Dietrich, Jack Benny, Irving Berlin, Joan Crawford, and Tallulah Bankhead were among her well-wishers and devotees in the dressing room. In the after-show crush backstage, Ethel Merman brought along the Windsors’ business manager and friend Charlie Cushing, and the Windsors themselves would join us later at 21 for the opening night review party.

  Ethel Merman adored Judy, and Judy loved Ethel. She was a close friend whom we saw over the years either in Los Angeles or New York. She initiated the nickname ‘‘Circles” for me, after noticing that every time we met, the shadows under my eyes got larger. I was unable to get proper rest because of Judy’s insomnia. In those days I would often stay up with her. I told Ethel I felt like Vanya, the character played by Felix Bressart in the film Comrade X with Hedy Lamarr and Clark Gable. After struggling to escape from Stalinist Russia Vanya remarks, “I’d like to get some sleep before I die.” I shared the sentiments.

  It was already clear to me that Judy was a hit by the crowds fanning out over Broadway. It had been Judy’s idea to leave the theater by way of the front lobby rather than taking the limo waiting in the back alley. She wanted to walk out and greet her fans. Wearing an elegant blue tulle off-the-shoulder gown, she cheerily made her way through the channel of fans (in the thousands) milling about in Duffy Square, waiting for her exit.

  The gigantic letters spelling out JUDY GARLAND rose magically from the marquee. I took a big swallow, squeezed Judy’s hand. It looked like New Year’s Eve. We spent the night at 21 waiting for the reviews, and on arrival they proved a great victory for Judy. She was the “toast of Broadway.”

  We allowed ourselves to feel triumphant, and this reflected and spilled over into our personal relationship. Her happiest moments would always be performing in New York or London. Now the media was pouring out accolades: “Judy owns Broadway.” The Hollywood Reporter wrote, “Judy came in like an atom bomb,” a phrase my pal Jock McLean would confer on her as a nickname: “Little Miss Atom Bomb.”

  Once Judy was the “diva” of Broadway, she was a magnet for society—everyone gathered, the rich and famous. In the weeks to come she would receive statesman Bernard Baruch, General Douglas MacArthur, and many others. Some rushed to be photographed next to the star. The fans were satisfied to collect and mill about Duffy Square hoping for a glimpse.

  The Windsors became very much a part of our inner circle. They were an amusing couple whose fame preceded any biased thought one might have had. I certainly doubt very many Americans were aware of their sympathies, which have since been discussed as fascist. In 1951, they were lovey-dovey with one another and in all the society and gossip columns. No Eastern Seaboard party was complete without the Windsors’ presence—in fact, it ensured the success of an evening. In Palm Beach, where we were to holiday after the Palace, society matrons were fighting to entertain the royal couple and, it was uncovered later, paying them to attend the social events. We were unaware of these machinations. Judy was flattered by their attention, and I was amused to be hobnobbing with a former king of England. As long as Judy continued to be in the spotlight the Windsors were our friends. It never occurred to me that the freshness of Judy’s success, the very American fabric of her image, helped their image, seeding in the public mind the rare-bred royals’ association with the spirit of Democracy. Their interest in us seemed genuine at the time.

  Judy wasn’t shy about the glory. She was the “star” in public. Judy, at least when she was sober, was the opposite in private, an easy person to be around, charming and loving. However, her secret self was well guarded. I respected her privacy. Judy’s more profound psychological areas were closed off, and at the time this did not present itself as a detriment but more as a style, a personality trait.

  Every newspaper in the country carried stories of the one-woman show that was breaking records on Broadway. It had made Judy the biggest show business sensation in America—and given me the opportunity to prove my own abilities. Whenever an individual showed surprise that I had produced the Palace, Ted Law would say he’d always believed in me, from the moment we formed Walfarms. In effect, the Palace was the fruition of an impulse that had begun with the pool show I organized in Ottawa way back when. Judy was the genius; I was the creative carpenter.

  In our leisure hours, we picked up where we’d left off when we first met: three nights a week we ate exotic food at El Morocco, alone or with a group. New friends like the Duke or Duchess of Windsor and Charlie Cushing, or old friends like Ethel Merman, Ted Law, the Berksons (with whom we resumed our friendship), or Freddie Finklehoffe, who was in a state of awe. Nothing could diffuse what we had accomplished, so Freddie had to eat his hat. Now he was a different Fred with the greatest respect for me, and he joined a lot of people who wer
e around kissing ass.

  We went dancing at the Stork Club, appeared at the Colony, but preferred 21. Lüchow’s, downtown on Fourteenth Street, was an extravagant emporium with a band that struck up “Over the Rainbow” when we walked in. The nights we didn’t go clubbing and spent alone in our suite at the Carlyle Hotel, the owner of P. J. Clarke’s, Danny Lavezzo, would send over chili, cheeseburgers—the dishes Judy loved and I wanted her to stay away from. Charlie Cushing also lived at the Carlyle. I found him interesting to be around. Cushing was divorced and his children were already mature. He was close to the Windsors and the Wrightsmans and other powerful names and seemed to arrange social evenings for them.

  Quite often we would say our good-byes and make our way over to P.J.’s at three in the morning. Finklehoffe would be at the bar throwing down Cutty Sark, Ethel Merman would join us, and there we would sit laughing, talking, until early morning, the doors closed to the public.

  For three weeks Judy had been performing to capacity audiences, standing room only, fans queued around the block. She was flourishing. She loved to go to work; she couldn’t wait. We’d leave in the late afternoon for the theater, where a police escort met us for the jaunt from the back alley into her dressing room. Judy would inhale the smell of the greasepaint—more thrilling for her than making a movie. But I kept thinking: What was this unprecedented success going to bring to Judy? I was looking to the future, and my conviction was that she belonged back in film.

  Word was out in Hollywood of Judy’s triumph at the Palace. She was the subject of articles in the New Yorker, Look, Life. Media was going berserk over Garland’s rebirth, how a year ago she was down and out, suicidal, and now she was miraculously back at the top of her career. I was the man of the hour. The Morris office listened; show business was opening up to me, and I was thinking about A Star is Born.