Judy and I

by Sid Luft

  I took refuge in sports and horses. Judy was not contrary to any of my activities. She was engrossed in her career and Liza. She seemed to prefer time to herself, as much as she wanted to ensure that I was there for her when she needed or desired me. My interests were in no way a threat to Judy. Rather than poison our relationship, these differences were nourishing. The poison come along much later in the marriage.

  Toward the end of the Palace engagement various celebrities would try to take bows with Judy. Occasionally Judy would invite someone onstage to join her to share the tumultuous applause. Walter Winchell, devoted fan, began to show up nightly. He was stimulated by the atmosphere, having worked as a straight man in vaudeville as a kid. He took to coming up onstage for Judy’s curtain calls. He’d arranged for masses of orchids to be delivered precisely at the moment when he would turn to Judy to pronounce his signature phrase, “Orchids to you.” But Judy got annoyed as Winchell cut in on her ovations.

  Winchell’s fifteen-minute Sunday night radio broadcast was equal in popularity to today’s Sixty Minutes on TV. He opened with the speedy announcement: “Good evening Mr. and Mrs. North and South America and all the ships at sea. This is Walter Winchell and the Jergens Journal, let’s go to press . . .” His broadcast and his national columns made him powerful in an era when the print media could heavily influence an artist’s career. Judy held off as long as she could; finally, she asked me to call Winchell on this.

  I had to play the heavy, so I rang Winchell’s office. I thought I might soften him up. “Walter, Sid Luft here. Remember, Mr. Olympus?” He laughed. I could tell he didn’t know where the conversation was going. “What’s up,” he said, which for Winchell was friendly. “Walter,” I said, “Judy is so exhausted. You mind not coming onstage?” There was a pause, and then his wacky voice said abruptly, “Yeah. OK.” I knew he was not about to suffer a pause. I jumped in. “Thanks, Walter, and we look forward to seeing you at the Palace.”

  Winchell actually stopped coming around, though he was welcome, including backstage. He certainly never wrote anything negative about Judy, unlike other columnists—like Hedda Hopper, who often ripped Judy apart. Judy would not talk to Hedda. Louella Parsons had been a friend since the MGM days, when she was a pal of Louis B. Mayer. She’d never written anything scathing about Judy while she was at MGM, so Judy frequently gave Louella scoops. Judy also liked journalist Dorothy Kilgallen. She felt Dorothy understood her. Whenever we ran into Dorothy at 21, she was welcome at our table.

  We were not always clubbing or going to midnight supper parties. When the smoke cleared and the laughter died down, we’d willingly return to our apartment near the Hotel Carlyle, where we were very well adjusted to one another. I’d found out Judy’s taste was very feminine, preferring frills and lace, and that she was genuinely shy on an intimate level. She had a passion for antiques and carved wood, no doubt Vincente’s influence. She discovered my penchant for made-to-order shirts and suits.

  On February 24, 1952, Judy closed the Palace engagement, which had extended itself in triplicate. Sol had a gold plaque engraved to honor Judy:

  This was the dressing room of

  JUDY GARLAND

  who set the all-time long run record

  Oct. 16th, 1951 to Feb. 24th, 1952

  RKO PALACE THEATRE

  Earl Wilson referred to the Sunday night closing as “tingling,”’ and it was intense. After singing for well over an hour Judy asked the audience, “What’ll I sing now?” And someone called out, “Auld Lang Syne.” She quickly responded, “I’m tired. You sing it to me.” It was a brilliant move. The audience eagerly stood up and sang to their favorite little minstrel girl, who sat at the edge of the stage dressed in a crazy wig, floppy shoes, and clown makeup.

  I was in the first row, and behind me stood Phil Silvers, Shelley Winters, Faye Emerson, and Skitch Henderson, singing to Judy, with love. She was visibly moved; tears were falling down her sooted cheeks. Then Judy called out my name—she wanted to introduce me to the audience. I thought, Oh Christ no. I should have stayed in the back of the theater next to Finklehoffe, but I knew her performance would be exceptional that final night, and I wanted to be as near to her as possible. I stood up and reluctantly took a bow. I was never very good in crowds unless I was cheering a horse at the racetrack.

  By this time the stage was covered with roses. James Stewart, along with the famous tenor Lauritz Melchior, who was due to follow Judy at the Palace, went onstage to join her. Melchior, with his giant arms around Judy, looked like King Kong embracing Fay Wray. He made a marvelous speech about how wonderful Judy was, and how he hoped he could achieve a small amount of her success. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house. The curtain fell and I rushed backstage to congratulate and compliment Judy. I took her in my arms. “Darling, you were stunning.” She held me in a warm embrace and whispered, “Thanks to you.”

  Judy had played 184 performances, and nearly a million people had come to see her, cheering her on in emotional and appreciative outbursts.

  It was the beginning of the cult of Garland.

  24

  “The Silver Shoes,” said the Good Witch, “have wonderful powers. And one of the most curious things about them is that they can carry you to any place in the world in three steps, and each step will be made in the wink of an eye. All you have to do is to knock the heels together three times and command the shoes to carry you wherever you wish to go.”

  —L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

  THE PALACE WAS a phenomenon that turned both our lives around. My goal had been to give Judy a new public image, one of stability, to overcome her MGM reputation, and we had accomplished this in a relatively short period of time. We were also able to pay Judy’s $80,000 debt to the government. And we were finally on our way to starring Judy in the musical remake of A Star Is Born, having formed Transcona Enterprises, a company that included Judy, myself, Eddie Alperson, and Ted Law. There were considerable negotiations ahead, but I was as determined to bring this off as I had been to reopen the Palace.

  While Judy played Broadway, Frank Sinatra, an adored friend, reached out to her. He was going through a period of negative career action. His show in Tahoe drew an audience of less than twenty, and further, he was in bad voice because he was depressed over his marriage to Ava Gardner. He’d been dumped by his agents, MCA. There was no recent hit Sinatra record; he’d been under contract to RCA and let go. After a brilliant career, he thought he was washed up. Frank was driving a Ford.

  It was a moment in his life when no offers were coming in. And not because he had been undependable. Frank’s career was simply at a nadir, and he was in need of some kind of stimulation. Hank Sanicola, Sinatra’s manager, called me and asked if Judy would appear with Frank on a TV series he’d signed for. Judy would have done anything for Frank, but there was no way she could leave the Palace; her contract was legally tight, not allowing for other appearances. She wasn’t happy about this. She was aware of Frank’s despair. In the end, Sinatra’s TV show got canceled, which made Judy feel worse about not being able to pitch in.

  It was then we started to think about the possibility of Sinatra playing the male lead, Norman Maine, in A Star Is Born. Judy and Frank had magnificent chemistry together, and we agreed Frank had talents that were not yet tapped. Judy was so excited she wanted to call Frank right away. I calmed her down: “Darling, we haven’t even got a studio. Let’s wait until a deal is made. We can’t offer something which is still unformed. Let the baby get born.” She made a funny face as if to say so it’ll never happen.

  Then the day came when Judy’s divorce from Vincente was final. We were both free at last from marital contracts. Business, however, continued. Judy had agreed to perform at the Philharmonic Auditorium in Los Angeles. The prospect of Garland, the toast of Broadway, returning to Hollywood, her hometown, was news. But first we agreed it was necessary to take a much-needed week’s vacation, and we followed Charlie Cushing’s suggestion to visit Palm Be
ach.

  We arrived by train and were met by Charlie and another gentleman. The two bald gents wore Palm Beach attire: straw hats, open neck shirts, and bright-colored trousers. Invitations for every night of the week began to flood our suite at the Colony Hotel. We alternated our evenings between Henry and Ann Ford, the Wrightsmans, and the McLeans, among others.

  The Duke and Duchess of Windsor were the excessive focus of Palm Beach society; still, Judy was given the celebrity treatment. The Duke adored noodling at the piano with Judy, and he knew most of her songs word for word. Judy was another small-boned, elegant, if not fragile person, like Wallis and himself. They belonged to the same world of fame and finesse. Generally Judy was not expected to sing at those soirees, although the ambiance was musical enough, the Duke spontaneously harmonizing with Judy at the piano. I preferred chatting with the Duchess, whom, I confess, I found witty and charming. I knew she’d been married to an American Jew, an Anglophile who denied his heritage, and now here she was married to the former king of England. I enjoyed her more than her husband. The Palm Beach crowd had always struck me as basically anti-Jewish. Nevertheless, I felt our hosts had to know my origins. I never covered anything up.

  Igor Cassini, brother of Jacqueline Kennedy’s official dress designer, Oleg Cassini, was a regular on the Palm Beach circuit. Igor wrote a popular syndicated society column in which our current hosts were prominently featured. He eventually married Charlene Wrightsman, one of four wives. Igor and Oleg presented themselves as Russian aristocracy, by way of Italy. The brothers were each smart and creative in their own way, making a splash everywhere they went.

  Occasionally a hostess would come right up to Judy and ask if she would sing. Sometimes she wouldn’t be up to answering requests. One night at the Fords’ Ann asked Judy to sing. Judy simply wasn’t in the mood. She discussed it with me privately. She said, “No, no.” I was unable to dig out the reasons, and I let it drop. Just as the business of autographs had been turned over to me, it was understood the path to Judy was through me. Judy would smile and say, “Ask Sid.” Everyone experienced an awkwardness except Judy.

  I said, “Darling, you don’t have to give me something to do.”

  Judy would give me her childlike seductive pout, “You really don’t mind, Sid, do you?”

  Eventually I thought it was neurotic: Judy’s being-protected game.

  The afternoons were spent on the green with the Duke of Windsor, Henry Ford II, and Charles Wrightsman. I was briefed that you do not win in a game of golf with a king. This protocol did not easily fit my vision of the gentlemen’s sport of betting. I had the impression Henry was an overgrown baby, always trying to control the situation. He had a coldness about him—an edge of arrogance. He was, of course, polite and “old boy” with me. Nevertheless, I found it difficult to relax with Henry. This, later on in our marriage, was to become a bone of contention.

  On a splendid, sun-drenched day by the sparkling ocean, Wallis persuaded me to accompany her while she shopped and Judy rested at the hotel. Wallis said it would be good for me to miss an afternoon of golf. She was flirting. The Duchess threw her pugs into the back of the limo and off we went to Worth Avenue with the dogs. I found her magnetic, but I was removed from feeling anything beyond a smile. We made our way in and out of the fashionable stores, Wallis remarking, “Not like Paris but close.” We returned to the limo when she exclaimed, “I forgot Saks Fifth Avenue!” The pugs hung on her every word. I said, “Should I come along?” “Noooo!” came her playful reply. “Not where I’m going—brassieres, dear.” While Wallis shopped for bras, I remained in the limo.

  The Duke and Duchess were the guests that season of the Wrightsmans. Peter Lawford, my old buddy, had dated one of the Wrightsman girls. The young couple was going hot and heavy when Lawford made the mistake of using Mr. Wrightsman’s telephone for a long distance call without paying up. For his lack of manners, Peter was barred from the house and the daughter. This casual oversight convinced Mr. Wrightsman that Peter must only be interested in their money. I’d forgotten that Palm Beach was hardball. Neddie and Jock McLean were certainly goofy about money matters.

  Judy and I were invited to the Wrightsmans’ elaborate dinner party honoring the Windsors. Later everyone went to a local nightclub. That night Judy was in the mood to sing and could hardly wait to get up and join the Mary Kaye Trio. We were high, it was great fun, and our crowd couldn’t have been more entertained if they’d won the Kentucky Derby.

  The kid from Bronxville had jumped right into high society, no doubt inflaming my ex-wives: Why isn’t he dead or in the gutter?

  On our return to Los Angeles we stopped back in New York long enough for Judy to pick up something she’d earned during her Palace run. Wined and dined, tan and fit, I sat in the audience at the Waldorf Astoria watching the presentation of the Antoinette Perry Awards for Excellence in Theatre—the Tony Awards. The musical awards included Gertrude Lawrence for Best Actress (The King and I); Phil Silvers for Best Actor (Top Banana); Yul Brynner for Best Supporting Actor (The King and I); Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein for Best Musical (The King and I); and Judy Garland for “An important contribution to the revival of vaudeville.”

  Judy looked radiant. It was hard to believe that just the day before we had traveled rough terrain with her period. She’d been depressed, feeling awful, and she warned me, “Darling, bear with me these few days. I’ll get over it.” She managed to pull herself out of her discomfort, and without any apparent use of medication.

  In Los Angeles, Liza joyously met her mother. Judy was thrilled to be with her daughter again. The love she had for her children was always Judy’s most genuine quality. She wanted to be with her adorable, dark-eyed daughter, and the plan was for little Liza to move in with us as soon as possible.

  We no longer had to duck the press, so we checked into several suites at the Hotel Bel-Air while I arranged for us to lease a pleasant house on Maple Drive in the flats of Beverly Hills. Dorothy Fields, a songwriter, owned the house and leased it, along with a couple who worked as butler and cook. Louella Parsons lived nearby. So did George Burns and Gracie Allen; Judy’s childhood friend Dr. Marcus Rabwin and his wife, Marcella; and Dr. Lee Siegel, my gambling buddy from the early years of Hollywood. What could be more perfect, surrounded by old friends, and doctors!

  Marcus Rabwin was a medical student at the University of Minnesota when he entered the Gumm family life in the summer of 1920 as a traveling film salesman. Frank Gumm would rent westerns from Marcus for his theater, the New Grand. It was to be the beginning of a lifelong friendship. Ethel was unhappy at this time. She was pregnant and considering having an abortion. There was another factor, one she was never able to discuss with Judy: according to what Dr. Rabwin said years later, Frank had “transgressed” by acting on his homosexual impulses. When her husband’s tendencies became apparent, heated arguments followed. But it was 1921 and not only would an abortion have been a scandal, it would undoubtedly cast a shadow of shame over the entire Gumm family.

  Frank and Ethel sought out Rabwin, a friend but not yet a doctor, for consultation on this serious matter. He advised them to go home and have their third child. And so Frances Ethel Gumm was born, baptized in the local Episcopalian church, and brought to the New Grand Theater, where she slept peacefully backstage in a box. It was Rabwin’s opinion that Frank sincerely believed the family was the answer to his woes. However, after ten years of marriage, in this late thirties, he became the subject of rumor and gossip. In later years, Judy became preoccupied with the memory of Frank and inquired of his friends about him. Maurice Kusell, who had trained Judy as a dancer from 1931 to 1934, knew the family well and was aware of Frank’s propensity, but he, like others, could not bring himself to discuss the issue with Judy.

  In 1968, the year before Judy died, she came to Rabwin and asked him if her father had been a homosexual. Rabwin did not tell her the truth: “I didn’t see what sense it would have made to tell her.”

&nb
sp; While we waited to move into our new home, we were also looking for a studio to partner with the newly formed Transcona Enterprises. We wanted to make it a three-film deal, throwing in Man o’ War (though the script was still terrible and needed work) and Snow Covered Wagons, a book Eddie had bought. Eddie had been skilled at making exploitation films, and he reasoned that The Covered Wagon had been such a great hit that some of its glory would trickle over due to the similarity of titles. Snow Covered Wagons was an epic written in poetic prose by a woman who was an academic, about the tragic fate of the Donner Party.

  I opened an office on Canon Drive and got to work. Carlton Alsop called me one day and said he wanted me to settle the money account he’d had with Judy. I was pleased to be able to do so. When I attempted to discuss this matter with Judy she turned away; the details of business seemed to pain her, even bore her. Anything to do with the creative end of a project, the actual work, was acceptable, but not the contractual side. This aspect of our partnership was entirely up to me.

  Paradoxically, it was Judy who really apprised me about the film business. She had known everyone and understood their artistic and professional value. She talked about the methods Busby Berkeley employed to get performances out of the actors. He used drugs a great deal to put in the time and energy necessary to endure and complete his concepts. As the young stars of several of Berkeley’s films, Judy and Mickey Rooney were always exhausted, receiving just a few minutes to nap briefly as the crew changed light setups. By law, they had to attend school, which was an added burden in their lives, and certainly no fun. Judy experienced her life on the lot as nothing but a series of pressures: mother, the executives, “Keep your weight down,” “Don’t go to the commissary,” “Go rest.” Indeed, MGM provided a glamorous dressing room decorated in Wedgewood blue silk conducive to lounging. But Judy’s energies away from the set were otherwise taken up by the choreographer, rehearsals, voice coaches, arrangements, and costumes, everything accomplished at a rapid speed. She worked eight hours at a stretch and was then shipped home or to the dressing room to sleep. And there were recordings, publicity tours, radio broadcasts . . .