by Sid Luft
I would be seated next to Wallis while Judy was at the Duke’s side. The Duchess was quite talky herself, usually about world affairs. Socially she had an extremely positive kind of personality. I was used to her dialogue, clipped and witty. The Duke in his thin voice equally enjoyed conversation. His eyes were a pale, slightly watery blue. He enjoyed champagne; however, he never drank in excess. The Duke would not be caught off his guard, nor would the Duchess.
One evening at the table, Wallis wore a simple red dress and black satin low-heeled pumps. Pinned to her shoulder was one of her bejeweled tigers. The women were pale, unlike the California types. Judy fit in. We were about to be served a soufflé for dessert. So Judy dredged up a story about a soufflé. The gist of it was how producer Arthur Hornblow Jr. and his wife were invited to composer Johnny Green’s house for dinner. Both men were gourmets and competitive about cooking. Hornblow was rather pretentious, wanting to appear aristocratic, while Green kept his Academy Awards lined up in the hall, hitting you in the face the moment you entered the house. Judy set the scene, how Johnny had prepared this lush chocolate soufflé for dessert, topped with an elaborate marshmallow meringue. At the appropriate moment, Green, about to serve the confection from a highly polished silver tureen, tripped. Judy got up to demonstrate how the soufflé whooshed all over Arthur Hornblow’s face and shoulders.
The only person I’ve known who could upstage Judy was Maurice Chevalier. But he was also her devoted fan (“The Queen of Song”), so she never felt topped. She respected his work and was a master at imitating him. She’d find a bowl in the kitchen to mimic Chevalier’s straw hat, shrug her shoulders in an exaggerated manner, throw out her lower lip and sing, “Every little breeze seems to whisper ‘Louise’ . . .” She was a very funny Maurice Chevalier. Judy knew all the vaudeville turns. She loved to drop her eyelid over an open eye and look directly at me, particularly at formal dinner parties. Judy could make ordinary events seem funny. In this sense she was never boring.
We left the bluebloods for another kind of thoroughbred, the kind I preferred. We settled in comfortably at the Circle M, and later in the afternoon Judy rehearsed with an orchestra in preparation for Judy Garland Day. The following night at the Louisville stadium, Judy performed for over an hour. The concert was a tremendous success. After the performance, Judy declined invitations to various parties. We returned to the ranch, where we had a wonderful supper and went to bed. Judy slept well. It didn’t occur to me until much later there had not been a specific party to honor Judy. After all, the event was called Judy Garland Day.
The next morning was Kentucky Derby Day. I got up early to look at Pug’s yearlings. When I returned to our room Judy announced, “Darling, I don’t want to go out to Churchill Downs. Forgive me.”
Judy convinced me she was eager to rest far from the crowd, to enjoy a bucolic day. This certainly was in character, so I didn’t try to persuade her to come along.
There were twenty people aboard Pug’s chartered bus. Ted Law arrived just in time. It was going to be one hell of a day. We’d made our bets in advance of arriving at the Derby. Everyone aboard the bus had their programs ready. I sat with my friend Charlie Wacker, who bred racehorses, and we talked horses and drank. I didn’t think about Judy; I wasn’t worried.
It was the first Saturday in May, and the Derby, an event for three-year-old thoroughbreds, was the eighth race out of ten at Churchill Downs. I noticed a horse called Witch’s Brew trained by Horatio Luro in the last race. At the track I ran into a fellow from L.A. and commented, “I see the program has a horse owned by a Charles Walker. Isn’t that Wacker?” The man said, “You discovered it!” It was actually an error. I figured it out: Charlie came down to bet on his horse. He didn’t let it slip while we were riding the bus that in fact he’d shipped Witch’s Brew from New York to Kentucky to run on Derby Day.
It was a simple mistake that I figured Charlie must be ecstatic over—an opportunity to pull off an enormous betting coup. I was now looking excitedly to that race rather than the actual Derby. I bet $700 on Witch’s Brew.
The Derby favorite was Native Dancer, a horse owned by Al Vanderbilt. Native Dancer was a star. He had become a household name as the great TV public curiously enjoyed watching him race on television.
The design of Churchill Downs requires a horse to run through a tunnel of noise in the homestretch, and this can shatter the nerves of the most stoic horses. That day, I was to witness an upset similar to the one Man O’ War lost that I’d tried to simulate in Saratoga. It was a horse called Dark Star who wore the winner’s blanket of roses in this most prestigious race, and not the country’s favorite, Native Dancer.
But the final race went to Witch’s Brew. I returned to Circle M elated. It was my first Kentucky Derby and I’d won big. Everyone was celebrating by drinking Kentucky’s famous mint juleps: eight-year-old bourbon with fresh mint picked at dawn.
The first thing Judy greeted me with was that she didn’t feel like going out that evening either. Our moods were quite the opposite. I said, “Darling, not feeling so hot?”
“I’ll stay here. Better.”
“Baby, look, they were wrong—you deserved a party.” I thought she might acknowledge Governor Wetherby’s oversight—maybe let off some steam.
“I hadn’t thought of that” was her cool, rather annoyed reply. I was determined not to let her off, so I continued to talk her into going out with me, and she began to weaken. Finally she said, “OK. All right” and excused herself to dress. I changed my clothes and poured myself a drink. I was beginning to relax, looking forward to the evening, when Judy made an extraordinary entrance: she’d covered her face with grotesque and crazy painted makeup. After the initial shock I realized she looked hilariously funny. Not sad. We fell down laughing until our sides ached.
“You really don’t want to go out!” We laughed some more.
“Darling, go ahead,” she urged, giving me permission. “Celebrate.” So off I went to the party with my pals.
I got back to the farm around two in the morning. Pug was waiting for me.
“Sid, we’ve had a time with Judy. We had to call a doctor.” Pug explained that Judy was hysterical, that the doctor sedated her. “She’d been sobbing and screaming. We didn’t know what to do. We didn’t know where to find you. She’s sleeping now.”
A chill ran through my body. I rushed to see Judy. Pug had said she was deep asleep. The term “sedated” left me no peace. I stayed at Judy’s side, awake for the night, watching, guarding. I’d never experienced Judy sobbing profusely as Pug described. In fact, she had said, “uncontrollably, burying her head repeatedly in the pillow.” I thought maybe it was some sort of delayed reaction to her mother’s death. It couldn’t be the Wetherby letdown? Then again it was hard for Judy to overcome slights. And in this case she might have felt she’d been used. It was becoming clearer, but not very encouraging.
Judy awakened the next day extremely depressed, a predictable reaction to certain medications. I decided to pack up and leave. When we arrived at the railway station Judy started to weep. I was as tender as possible. Judy admitted she didn’t know what it was, and the tears continued. We were without a reservation for a compartment, and the coach was packed. We sat with everyone else in the two seats assigned to us. This proved to be disastrous. I didn’t know what was going on with Judy. She continued to sob. I was bewildered. Nor was I able to see her calming down or getting a grip on herself. Now I was totally cut off, unable to reach her. I held her close, and every so often she’d emit a yell. I began to rack my brain. I thought her voice had sounded kind of raspy at the Louisville stadium. I attributed it to a slight case of laryngitis. It occurred to me she may have needed something, a boost to get out onstage, and taken something behind my back. She sang well, but there hadn’t been the usual pristine clarity to her voice. How and where did she hide those pills?
I sat holding her and I thought, this is still my learning process about Judy. It was odd: she was no
t mad at me, she did not push me away, she just kept sobbing.
Winfrey, Al Vanderbilt’s trainer’s sister, happened to be on the train, in a private compartment with a friend. She came and offered us her compartment. Once we got inside, Judy said, “Get me a drink. Something. I’m so low. I’ve got to come out of this.” Luckily, Winfrey had a flask and generously offered up her whiskey. Within an hour, Judy’s condition disappeared. By nine o’clock her behavior had changed. We easily got off the train in Chicago to make the connection home.
During the ride back to California, however, the “Judy wall” was up and heavily guarded. I couldn’t ask her where she hid the pills. It bothered me that I didn’t see them. Judy’s hidden stash must have interacted with the “sedation” given by Pug’s physician, thus creating the nightmare.
Judy looked so well, her figure had come back, she was so pretty. I kept thinking, How can this happen? She can’t be under constant surveillance, yet the situation seemed to call for it. In the back of my mind I began to feel like Mr. In Charge was not so in control. I wished so much for Judy to make it. Somewhere in Kansas, while “Dorothy” slept, lulled by the steady motion of the train, I allowed myself a tear.
As I watched the dark and light flatlands roll by under a low, starry sky, I reached back into childhood and made a wish. “Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”
28
OUR HOUSE ON MAPLETON DRIVE was originally built by producer Hunt Stromberg Sr. The home was constructed of gray and yellow stone, a two-story, five-bath, five-bedroom palatial Tudor spread that cried out for elaborate furnishings. We didn’t have the funds yet to decorate accordingly. I began building retaining walls in our 330-foot-long backyard, which disappeared over a narrow decline. The yard had to be leveled to install a swimming pool.
I often felt like a ship’s captain, with a crew of thirteen plus my family: Johnny, who was frequently with us, Judy, Liza, and Lorna. Our house was a castle, fit for a princess and her consort. There were two dens; I appropriated the one in the front of the house off the large sunporch for a home office. The living room was a grand space with a vaulted ceiling and fireplaces. I had purchased a gleaming black enameled Steinway concert grand for Judy. I was told Vladimir Horowitz had played this piano in concert when he visited Los Angeles. Other than the piano, the room was near empty, with Johnny’s trains in one corner on top of a Ping-Pong table, a few formal chairs, and a rug. The dining room was decorated. For our table I’d found a magnificent bronze base with turquoise patina in San Francisco and ordered a black-and-green-granite slab for the tabletop, large enough to comfortably seat twelve. The chairs were upholstered Mediterranean Italian renaissance style, and the rug was a rich gold. Venetian blackamoor statues stood at attention. We were living in a god’s realm with delusions of grandeur. We’d laugh and blame it on the house: “The house cries out for opulence!” “We can’t let the house down.”
The next significant Fred in my life was Fred Pobirs, the doctor who had ordered the shock treatments for Judy at MGM during preproduction for Annie Get Your Gun. At that time, Judy had been sinking into a depression as a result of her substance abuse, and unfortunately, she was perceived as having other kinds of psychological problems not necessarily related to drugs. Experimentation with electroshock was fashionable, and Judy, disturbed and deeply unhappy, had allowed herself to undergo shock therapy. I came to believe that these treatments had physiologically harmed her. She was not able to pull herself together, and in fact, they were the prelude to the Peter Bent Brigham hospitalization and Judy leaving MGM in 1950. Pobirs, nonetheless, was part of the old showbiz family. He was a familiar face, and he lived near Mapleton Drive.
After we returned from Kentucky, Judy periodically experienced intense migraine headaches. She had been prescribed the barbiturates Seconal and Nembutal, but sometimes these were not effective, in which case she’d make an emergency call around 3:00 AM to Dr. Pobirs for help. Pobirs walked in quick steps. He would arrive in his bathrobe and slippers, carrying his medical bag. He would closet himself with Judy, give her an injection, and she’d be knocked out. Judy appeared to have recovered from the depression she suffered in Louisville—but not completely. There were nights she would be unable to sleep and she’d retire alone to the bed-sitting-room. I would sleep in a guest room.
I was out of the house most of the time working on preproduction. Star was scheduled to start shooting in October 1953. As much as Judy wanted the film, she craved ongoing attention from me, and this devotion was tested: phone calls to the office not to exchange jokes but to challenge my punctuality—“What time will you be home?” There were no harsh words, and Judy busied herself with the children, but the occasional bouts with headaches and the PMS episodes had Pobirs in our house more than I would have desired. Fred was a small, slender man, with a pleasant face, kind eyes, and an impressive moustache, but he was basically humorless, matter of fact. In all the years he administered to Judy, he would never send a bill. Both he and his wife attended our parties and seemed to enjoy the company of celebrities. He’d enjoyed a highly successful practice for years, so he didn’t need to meet anyone; he had a good time mixing with his patients. Sadly, he was to end his life by suicide.
One morning around 5:00 AM I was awakened by the smell of smoke. I ran into the master bedroom and the place was ablaze. We had not yet redecorated and the old furnishings, the chaise lounge, and the silk drapes were on fire. Flames leaped from the French windows. I pulled Judy out of bed and called the fire department. Lorna, Liza, and the nurse were quickly taken out of the house. Judy had dozed off on the chaise, allowing her cigarette to fall, then made her way to the bed, where she’d passed out. The fire raged, leaving charred furniture, peeling paint, the blackout curtain a pile of embers. For Christ’s sake, our lives were in danger.
There were some absurd aspects to this crisis. Hunt Stromberg, the house’s previous owner, had a habit of lighting his tobacco with wooden kitchen matches. He’d had a few incidents in which he would cavalierly throw matches onto the floor, where they’d continued to burn. Consequently, the house was equipped with a fire hose, but it turned out to be useless. Stromberg was renowned for his carelessness, having once thrown a match onto the floor of his office during a meeting with Hedy Lamarr. While they talked, Hedy’s skirt caught on fire.
Judy was on bad pills. I’d been patient, hoping she’d stop on her own. The responsibility of preparing A Star Is Born had begun to intensify, and I needed to feel secure about Judy once we began principal photography. Now, the fire compelled me to act.
I hit on a plan. Judy loved the tango—it was one of the pleasures we shared. Whenever we walked into a club, if the orchestra didn’t strike up “Over the Rainbow,” the musicians played a tango. Judy would immediately say, “Come dance with me.” The tango can be so easily mocked if the dancer’s attitude is not exactly right, but Judy never turned it into a parody. For us it was romantic and serious. I asked Judy to dine at Romanoff’s with Cary and Betsy Grant. Judy was still intent on wooing Cary for the male lead in Star; here was an opportunity. “Prince” Mike Romanoff knew how to cater to the Hollywood socialites, who were for the most part also his personal friends. Mike and his charming wife Gloria became part of the Mapleton gang. His fabled restaurant was neatly tucked behind the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in Beverly Hills. Romanoff adored Judy and gave her the kind of ego attention she craved. “You’re some kind of dame!” was one of his best compliments.
Our dinner at Romanoff’s was splendid. Judy looked wonderful, and she was on her best behavior. Afterward we visited a nightclub that featured tango music. It was a glamorous, intimate evening, and when we returned to Mapleton, instead of immediately making love, we talked. It was the one of the very few times that Judy spoke directly to me about her dependency. I explained how we must protect ourselves during the shooting of Star, the importance of her work, and how everything depended on her
as the principal artist. Judy asked what I thought would be the best route for her to take. I loved her for that. I told her I was betting on Judy reaching into herself, discovering her weaknesses, and changing.
Judy’s ancient excuse, “What can you do when you get so exhausted you can’t sleep, but you know you’ve got to sleep to face that camera early in the morning?” had been put out to pasture when I arranged a late call for her in the contract. I’d outlined everything in her favor, and Jack had accepted our terms. However, he certainly wasn’t going to be understanding if she should fuck up. I had to find a fail-safe measure. So I came up with the idea to employ Pobirs. Judy listened intently.
I suggested a wonderful woman named Margaret Gundy to be Judy’s companion. Gundy was a nurse who was extremely intelligent and understanding. She had a sense of humor, and Judy had known her at MGM and respected her. “Gundy’ll come aboard,” I said, and I added, “So will Pobirs. Fred can oversee your medication needs, keep you on an even keel. No sleepless nights or any painful periods.” I was seducing her with maintenance doses, enabling her to keep her crutches. She wouldn’t have to walk on her two legs yet.
Again Judy said she wanted to do whatever was necessary to bring Star off. Whatever I asked, she’d cooperate. She was milk and honey. I genuinely believed I would bypass any toxic reaction if Pobirs monitored her intake. But she did add, “Darling, you know how well I want to look for you in front of the lens. I can’t be fat.”
