Judy and I

by Sid Luft

  At the table, Peter and Judy got caught up in an exclusive conversation about the late Robert Walker, whom I’d also known when he was married to Jennifer Jones. Peter and Judy were speaking lovingly about Bobby. He’d costarred with Judy in The Clock, and Peter hung out with him in those days; they were close friends. Walker was a pill-taker like Judy, and he mixed it with booze. Friends would have to call the police to break down his door to see if he was OK, and in the end he wasn’t.

  After the show Judy partied with Noël and friends; she was adored, and her acerbic wit was encouraged. For my part, I was not that relaxed; I was eager to return to Los Angeles. Everybody we were with loved Noël; but he was not going to attract an audience in Vegas. It was altogether the wrong environment for his talents. A mistake.

  Back in Los Angeles, the Bogarts threw a bountiful western barbeque for the very British Coward; there was much mayhem and fun. Little did we suspect that within two years, Bogie, my magnanimous host, would be dead at age fifty-seven.

  32

  JUDY BECAME EXCITED by a new offer. In fact, she set her heart on it: a thirty-three-city train tour MCA was going to book for her. MCA had sent Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin out the year before, and though their tour lost money, everyone believed it would be different with Judy Garland. The notion of her on a private train, barreling through America à la Sarah Bernhardt with her “family,” was like celebrating Christmas every day.

  Unfortunately, the thirty-three-city tour by train fell through, and we were contractually obligated to either perform for film or television or suffer a lawsuit. MCA had secured only eight contracts from St. Louis to Cleveland, and we needed twenty-five plus a specified minimum of money in advance to go forward. Judy was disappointed, and I had to get out of the canceled contract debt.

  MCA came up with a ninety-minute TV special, Ford Star Jubilee, CBS’s first color telecast, and they wanted Judy Garland. Judy was nervous—she was not camera slim, and hadn’t even thought about cameras since Star. Now I was suddenly under unexpected stress: Judy’s anxiety about her appearance in front of cameras and my concern about her state of mind. She would want to reduce, and she wasn’t going to accomplish this by diet alone. What’s more, CBS put up an insufficient amount of money to pull off such an extravaganza. I immediately told the network it was impossible to bring the show together on what they were willing to put up. We argued and I held my breath, as there wasn’t an out clause in our contract. We had a forty-five-day period to decide. I had to tough CBS out. I was sweating. On the forty-first day I heard from CBS: they agreed to a larger budget. I met with their writers, who were a conscientious team but inexperienced in putting across a talent like Judy Garland. The script was bad and Judy hated it. I was desperate. I told my Riviera golfing buddy Charlie Lederer my problems, whereupon he offered to redo the entire show with his writing partner, Ben Hecht. Their fee was a new kitchen stove for Charlie and a small sailboat for Ben.

  Charlie Lederer was the nephew of Marion Davies. A congenial man, Charlie inherited Marion’s estate when she died. At one point, he owned the Cartier Building on Fifth Avenue. I knew Charlie from card games and golf courses. His house was open, he wasn’t a snob, and he was very funny. Charlie’s second wife was actress Anne Shirley. However, his first wife had been married to Orson Welles, and she and Charlie used to fight like cats and dogs. One of their fights was a famous Hollywood inside story. His wife said she was moving out of the house, and she asked him for some money. Charlie wrote her a check. That night she moved into the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. She gave the check to the night manager with the request that it be cashed in the morning. She proceeded to the elevators when the manager called after her, “Mrs. Lederer, do you mind identifying the signature on the check?”

  “Of course, it’s my husband’s.”

  “Oh? Can I show you the signature?”

  She returned to the desk, where she read the check. It was signed “Peter Rabbit.”

  Charlie and I played golf regularly at the Riviera. His golfing togs were unconventional: white pants, a blue sleeveless shirt, and an inverted sailor cap on his head. He was not fashionable. There were ongoing gin games at Charlie’s house; more often than not he’d be out while his friends played. Charlie begged the card players to dump their ashes in ashtrays, but his request went unheeded and the ashes piled up on the rugs. So Charlie got ten large helium balloons and attached ashtrays to them. He suspended the balloons and ashtrays throughout the house. The carpets were still covered with ashes.

  Curiously, the Lederer home was the very house where I’d spent so many days and nights in my early Hollywood years as the guest of Eleanor Powell: 727 North Bedford Drive, Beverly Hills. Eleanor had originally rented the house from Charlie’s mother.

  There was a camaraderie at Charlie’s you couldn’t find anywhere else in Hollywood. His holiday parties were famous—five hundred people, all feeling good.

  Out of friendship, Charlie and Ben wrote a great show. There was, however, one more hurdle to overcome: Judy. She’d lost some pounds by taking pills. Her behavior had been normal, and I was unconcerned until the morning of the first day of shooting, when I couldn’t rouse her from sleep. I’d been occupied with work and had hired an assistant to be at Judy’s side when I wasn’t available. Judy was to be up at 6:00 AM in time for the dress rehearsal at the studio. I tried to wake her but she was in a semiconscious state. I was stunned. I went to the kitchen, where the companion told me she’d come down to make a cup of tea. I said, “She’s virtually unconscious!” And the woman said, “Oh, she’s sound asleep.”

  “Sound asleep?” I repeated, “She’s unconscious!” I sat on the edge of the bed. “Judy, can you hear me?” There was a groan and saliva coming out of her mouth. She was punchy. I got her into a cold shower, dressed, and moving.

  “Hnnn, I’m depressed,” she said. She wasn’t secure about her looks or how she would perform in front of the camera. Her speech was thick tongued. There was no time for me to speculate on what she’d taken. I thought, Judy can’t be left for an instant. Then I worried that her voice was off. At the studio I ordered in Chinese food, her favorite, in the hopes of sobering her up, to give her strength—let the soy sauce absorb the chemicals! When she went out on the sound stage I heard her announce, “I can’t sing. I’m saving my throat for tonight.” I thought, Brilliant.

  The night of the show, Judy was hurriedly dressed in a costume from Star to save funds. She knew she looked ridiculous, and we began to laugh, and soon we were doubled up. I began to think, Que sera, sera, whatever came out of her mouth. But Judy had sobered up. By the time she got to “Over the Rainbow,” the grips, ushers, audience, everybody present—myself included—was magnetized by her performance.

  We had a big party back at the house to celebrate. Surrounded by her peers and close friends, she was effervescent, happy, the perfect hostess. Any attempt I made to communicate with Judy about her earlier behavior was rejected. Once again I was not permitted to cross over the invisible line. If I became her psychiatrist, I could never function as her husband/lover/producer. The morning’s incident was forgotten.

  Freddie Finklehoffe was the sort of guy who had always been hovering. At our home, on the set of A Star Is Born, wherever it was, he was on the scene in his rumpled fedora, creased Ivy League drag, and shades—primarily in the hope of picking up a betting tip. He must have lost a half a million dollars in bogus tips. He was a racetrack freak who traveled the horse world from Aqueduct to Belmont to Hollywood Park and back. He’d listen to everyone and everybody, which is how he lost his money. Though around this time, when I advised him to bet on one of my horses, Ozbeg, Freddie struck pay dirt.

  Freddie had delusions of grandeur more than most of us. A colorful aspect of his character, it was also his downfall. At one point he bought a secondhand Rolls-Royce, which ran for about two months and wound up a landmark permanently parked in front of his farm in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. He respected me because I was close t
o the world of racehorses but was not a compulsive bettor. This mystified Freddie. Fred’s marriage to Ella Logan had ended due to his obsessive gambling. For some reason Freddie considered himself a ladies’ man, and while he was married to Ella he met a young, pretty woman, Carolyn. He dumped his other tootsies and took up exclusively with Carolyn. Their relationship was serious, and after he and Ella divorced, Freddie was looking to marry her, but he didn’t have the money.

  Freddie came to think of our house as a castle of magic where anything was possible—Carl Reiner breaking up everyone with his humor, Judy, of course, singing and cracking jokes, Sinatra, Peter and Pat, Charlie and Peg Whittingham, our crazy staff, Harry, Miro, Marvin-Schmarvin. Freddie loved the circus and knew he’d never be turned away.

  I’d bought Freddie’s lucky horse, Ozbeg, from Aly Khan. Aly and I’d had an ongoing correspondence, essentially about horses, but once in a while he’d inquire if I’d heard anything of Gene Tierney. Judy and I had believed Aly was going to marry Gene, but their relationship had fizzled out. Aly’s inquiries as to Gene’s whereabouts were tacked onto the horse business but held a plaintive air. Judy and I thought Aly had cared more for Gene than he’d been willing to admit.

  Aly wrote me that his horse Poona had run “a wonderful race” in the 2000 Guineas Stakes, finishing third. He was pleased, as Poona was now worth three times his original cost. He was selling Poona and two other horses, Ozbeg and Nechao. I bought Ozbeg. He advised in one letter to run Ozbeg in blinkers for best results, as he was a tremendously fast horse. He suggested Ozbeg be jumped out of the gate to make his way for home. There were several recommendations in that letter on certain horses good to bet on. Ozbeg, in his opinion, should be allowed to win a small race in “good style” and then be passed on at a profit. According to Aly there were more horses of equal caliber at the right price. Ozbeg was not a partnership; he belonged to me, unlike Sienna II, the successful stake horse I’d bought with Eddie Alperson.

  Freddie was a close friend of Kentucky Derby jockey Conn McCreary. Conn was an educated, literate man. He was racing in Florida and he rang Freddie to fly out. “You might win a bet or two during the week.” Conn enjoyed Freddie’s company, and Freddie, dreaming of the big win, boarded a plane for Florida right away and proceeded to bet a huge amount of money. It was Finklehoffe’s luck that the horse ran off the track. Freddie blew his money and was absolutely furious. He rushed into the jockey’s room and angrily stared at Conn as though he were personally responsible, “What in hell happened?”

  Conn stared him back. “It’s a good thing we weren’t betting fingers.”

  Ozbeg ran under Rainbow Farm colors. Our colors had been black with slashes of red, green, blue, and pink. Then we switched to a white background—not that it seemed to affect our chances for winning; it was more an aesthetic change.

  Ozbeg had won several races, but he had a bad ankle and I was finally going to sell him. We decided to bring jockey Basil James back to win one more race. Nobody would bet on James, who’d long retired into the restaurant business. I knew he could pull it off, especially after shedding thirty pounds. I told Freddie he’d better get his hands on some money, as we were going to win a bet. Freddie complained he was busted; when I encouraged him to borrow, he knew I was serious. “Call your mother, call your brother, call somebody.”

  The first day Ozbeg ran I recommended Freddie not bet. It was an easy race. I didn’t want Ozbeg to run. Freddie bet anyway, and he lost. The horse was beaten by seven lengths and ran fourth. Basil insisted, “I could’ve been right there at the wire, if I let him run!” When we did cut Ozbeg loose, Freddie won enough to buy a Mercedes-Benz, marry Carolyn in our house on Mapleton, and disappear into Mexico for a long time.

  Easter 1956 came and we threw a lovely party. Judy was grateful but not entirely sober. She left me a note with great flourishes of script, especially the ys and js:

  Darling,

  You were so sound asleep, I was afraid to kiss you for fear of waking you. But I kiss you with my heart.

  Thank you for giving your family such a lovely Easter. Your love surrounded each of us, and made us feel so warm and wanted and secure.

  God bless your big fat heart.

  I really adore you,

  Judy

  Judy’s flowing script, well punctuated and girlish, never failed to touch me. I imagined her at MGM putting in the obligatory hours with the tutor honing her writing skills.

  MCA contacted me and told me they could get me $100,000 for a half-hour TV show with Judy for General Electric; did I have any ideas? Ronald Reagan would be the host. I came up with a concert-style show: Garland and Bernstein. Leonard Bernstein, or “Lenny,” as friends spoke of him, had been at the same New York parties as us, and he had played for Judy at the piano. I knew Judy loved being around him, as did many women, including Betty Bacall, who seemed to have an equally intense crush on Adlai Stevenson. It was the time before Bernstein became a household name, before his morning sessions with children or his conducting the New York Philharmonic, and before West Side Story. We knew he was a genius, but the country was not yet informed. In Garland and Bernstein, I proposed, Judy would sing eight songs with Lenny conducting a sixty-piece orchestra, and there would be a poster. Judy was ecstatic. This was no Seven City Tour! MCA was enthralled, said it was a great idea, as they also represented Lenny. Then a week passed and MCA notified us that General Electric didn’t want Leonard Bernstein. I had to go back to Judy with the news. “Why?” she demanded. We tried to get to the bottom of the rejection. Lenny was talented, he was handsome, and he was a charming presence. How could GE say no without an explanation? Lenny was known to be a liberal, outspoken, and he was Jewish. We analyzed the situation and came to the conclusion that GE was acting on some kind of extreme conservatism, which we detested. Judy wasn’t interested in working with anyone else, but MCA had trapped me and I had trapped her. I’d made the decision I’d never present anything to Judy that I didn’t believe in. Work for work’s sake was out of the question. Now the show was turning out to be another job, and in Judy’s view, one to be avoided.

  I came up with another concept that, fortunately, she agreed to: a Richard Avedon photographic session set to music in black and white. We’d hired a hot, young pianist who’d been praised, won a big award. Judy OK’d Avedon and the pianist, but it wasn’t easy: there were still roadblocks. At rehearsal Judy would complain about the pianist, “This guy’s putting me to sleep.” And he wasn’t right, as nice and cooperative as he was. Then I’d come home and it was clear Judy was back on pills. The original concept that had excited her so much just wasn’t happening. It wasn’t Lenny Bernstein, it was making do. I remembered another pianist Judy liked, Joey Bushkin. Since a piano player was not the star as Lenny would have been, along with his orchestra, I figured GE couldn’t object to the name Bushkin. I located Joey in Santa Barbara, where he was living. He must have roller-skated down to L.A. that night, because he was there bright and early the next day.

  Judy was slim as a result of her dope intake. She worked twenty minutes out of the half-hour slot in costumes designed by James Galanos. He created a new version of her tramp costume. It was hilarious: she wore trousers, a cutoff jacket, a white hat, and spats. She looked like Mickey Mouse. She was bleary eyed. Avedon was great with his camera, but Joey turned out to be completely inappropriate and Judy’s voice was way off due to pills. She got through it.

  Now Judy had a yen to play Las Vegas. I put out feelers. There were new hotels going up every day; I’d contacted a fellow regarding the opening of a big new hotel and he disappeared on me. Eventually the New Frontier Hotel called me and said they wanted Judy. I made a deal and booked Judy for two weeks, and the date was extended to a month.

  Once again, Judy was off pills and booze. She was joyous on and off the stage. It was her nightclub debut, and she was the highest-paid performer to date in Vegas. We stayed in a private cottage with Liza, Lorna, and Joey, and the nurse. My son Johnny
was spending less and less time with us. Judy’s sister Susie was there, with her husband, Jack Cathcart. My sister, Peri, came up to lend a hand and assist Judy in the dressing room, hang out, and join the family.

  A terrible blow had been dealt my sister. Not that much time had gone by since Peri called me from Florida to tell me her husband, Lou Fleishman, who was a doctor, had terminal leukemia. I caught a plane and arrived in Miami late in the afternoon. I went directly to the hospital. Lou had taken his own blood smear and diagnosed himself. My head was reeling: the diagnostician discovers his incurable disease! Lou’s cheerful demeanor belied his fate. Sitting up in his hospital bed he tried not to upset his family. “Hi, Sid.” He looked all right too, until he reached out and I saw his upper arms were discolored.

  Lou lasted five days. He called his lawyer, his accountant, his insurance broker. By Friday he’d methodically taken care of all his business on earth. Saturday around noon he said, “Sid, do me a favor and take Peri for a ride. We’ll visit later.”

  Peri and I drove up the coast to Fort Lauderdale and grabbed a sandwich along the way. It was a nadir for Peri, an awful wound. She’d found her niche in Florida, with a family she loved. They were happy. Two children—a son, Peter, an adopted daughter, Jane—and now she was losing her young husband. We talked about a medicine rumored to be available in Canada that had been effective on advanced leukemia patients. We both knew it was wishful thinking, but it filled up the sad silences. By midafternoon we returned to the hospital and were informed Lou had suffered a stroke. He died at one o’clock the next morning.