by Sid Luft
Lou never cracked. He’d say, “I’m going to have lunch now,” meaning he wanted to be left alone. By the time he died he was a very dark color, nearly black. It was hard just to be there. As much as I was inwardly shaken, I was also overwhelmed by this man’s courage. In the future I’d return over and over again to Lou’s courage as a reference.
My mother, who’d been living with my sister in Florida, also came to Los Angeles and was back in our lives. She fell in love with L.A., took her own apartment on Beverly Glen, and found work in Beverly Hills in a dress shop.
While Judy played the New Frontier, her “family” was extended and as cozy as ever. The club was packed night after night. Judy had no interest in craps, and twenty-one held her attention for five minutes, but poker was a great relaxation for her. She could hold her own; she knew how to bluff. On our return to Los Angeles, we would begin to play poker with the Lawfords and the Gershwins on a regular basis. Judy loved poker, she loved to kibitz, and she loved to win, although she was a poor loser. She had no stomach for rejection in games or work—the least slight from someone important threw her into a panic. She experienced working only as the “star”; anything less was in fact a crisis. In this sense she was no longer a journeyman performer, like she’d been as a child.
Every night at the New Frontier was a Saturday night audience, and I thought Judy gave too much of herself. She received nightly standing ovations. “Darling, you’re bustin’ your chops. Hold back, conserve energy.” But she wanted to give her all. Judy couldn’t hold back; she was secure and she wanted to perform. Judy missed only two nights due to a raw throat during the entire six-week engagement at the New Frontier. Dr. Lester Coleman, an ear, nose, and throat doctor from New York who was vacationing with his wife, Felicia, treated Judy. We all fell in love with one another and subsequently became very close friends.
One of the nights when Judy lost her voice, I asked Jerry Lewis to sub for her. I thought she could go out onstage with Jerry and kibitz with the crowd. And so she came out dressed in her beloved at-home Chinese silk jacket, trousers, and slippers. The crowd went crazy. The emcee explained to the audience that Judy’s voice was gone temporarily, but she was with a friend, and then Jerry walked out. The audience yelled, “We want Judy.” Very quickly they calmed down. Judy apologized for not being able to sing but promised to make it up to them, and she did. Jerry and Judy told jokes and cavorted; Judy whispered the lyrics to her songs in his ear while Jerry sang. It turned out to be a great show, and later Jerry recorded her arrangement of “Rock-a-Bye Your Baby” and it was a big hit.
The last night at the New Frontier I noticed a crowd around one of the gambling tables. The young man with the dice was a good-looking kid who was rolling the dice for an oilman, a big gambler who later got blown up in a car. That night he had the entire front of the table lined with black chips. I started out with two hundred dollars. The kid held the dice for nearly twenty minutes. I was never a Vegas-style gambler, favoring the horses; I felt relatively in control betting on a horse I ran, or if a trainer I knew convinced me the horse had a shot to win. But that night my money was on the longest ride it would ever take at a craps table: I won $18,000.
When we got back to Los Angeles I had a diamond bracelet designed for Judy’s birthday. It was delicate yet opulent. We celebrated with the Bogarts at Romanoff’s with supper, cake, and champagne. Judy placed a note on my bedside table. It was written on her monogrammed JLG stationery:
My wonderfully attractive Sid—
Thank you for giving me the happiest birthday of my whole life. To coin a phrase, “I’m with you,” Thank God.
Judy had approved of the New Frontier, and she was equally ecstatic when I signed with Sol Schwartz for a second engagement at the Palace Theatre. Judy back on Broadway! There was a problem, though: Judy was on another bender.
Judy sober, in her natural state of mind, was not combative. But one pill could send her off in the wrong direction. “I have stomach flu” or “My throat is sore” were sure signs that she was taking pills. I was patient with her, and I understood her complaints of extreme tension and uneasiness before her period. Ordinarily the moment would pass, but if it escalated into “I’m bleeding profusely,” “I’m depressed as hell,” and “Jesus, either give me a drink or bring me up,” then I knew there was a crisis at hand. If it was the middle of the night and Fred Pobirs needed to be summoned, it was Judy who would do the telephoning. I could never interfere. I had to prepare myself that she might get too high and come down too low.
As these patterns seemed to intensify, affecting our quality of life, I was concerned that Judy was scoring dope from not just her doctors or her girlfriends but someone in the house, the staff. Judy detested my questioning her and my careful scrutiny of her quarters. I couldn’t be casual when it was clear she was out of it most of the day and night, and we were virtually living separate lives, Judy roaming about the house during the night and sleeping through the day. If I were to show concern she’d abruptly tell me to “fuck off.” She was on speed and probably drinking as well. She wasn’t eating.
She kept her desk locked; the poems she’d written for her mother as a teenager and her privately bound letters were off limits. The mirrored wardrobe room, built specially to accommodate her growing collection of clothing, was treated with respect: Judy’s vaults. My attempt to keep her from herself, to seek out the hidden stashes of pills, the culprits who were aiding and abetting my wife’s dependencies, were, most of the time, futile. Judy would eventually break down and ask to go to a clinic, or sober up as a result of sleeping off whatever she’d been ingesting. After an enormous breakfast, I’d be seduced into believing nothing was wrong—with a dreamy, “Hi, darling.”
But as the Palace engagement approached, I knew something had to be done about her condition. I confronted her: “Baby, you’re always looking for pills.”
“You’re always acting like a flatfoot.”
“I love you. I’d like to see you around.”
“Well, you don’t trust me. And that’s not fair. I’m not Marylou with society credentials, and I’m not Lynn Bari, Queen of the Bs. I’ve worked every waking moment of my life, and I do what I want to do. I wasn’t born with, hnnn, a sliver spoon in my mouth. Custom-made shirts, custom-made shoes.” She was on a roll, and there was something comedic in her doped-up misery. “Don’t fuck with it, Sidney”—she lowered her voice as far down as possible. I’d have to laugh.
The next morning, she left me a note:
Darling,
Let me tell you again—what an angel you were last night. Your patience and kindness and deep understanding meant so much to me, that I’ll never forget them. Those things make a great human being—and you’re a great man. I’m a helluva lucky woman to be married to you—the only thing I can give in return is my everlasting love.
God bless you,
Judy
33
I miss the East Side, the West Side,
The North Side, and the South Side.
So, take me back to Manhattan,
That dear old dirty town.
—Cole Porter
JUDY’S NEW SHOW at the Palace Theatre followed the same program as her Vegas run, with a few minor changes. Instead of the “tramp” number, Roger Edens wrote a clown number. There was a new opening number, a medley of “New York” tunes, but after a few weeks Judy would replace it with “This Is a Party” by Roger Edens and Leonard Gershe, which she had performed in Vegas to great success. Roger continued to write special material and vocal arrangements for Judy. He’d written “This Is the Time of the Evening” with Leonard Gershe for Ford Star Jubilee and the Seven City Tour. The “This Is a Party” production included sparkle and glitter on outsized placards that spelled out J*U*D*Y G*A*R*L*A*N*D. The audience would burst into thunderous applause each time.
Judy and I had attended a huge benefit at the Biltmore in downtown Los Angeles; Tony Martin was one of the entertainers, and he had introduced
a young comedian, Alan King. I thought Alan was hilarious, more a monologist than a mimic. So I remembered him a few years later when I was booking the second Palace show. I called his agent in New York, who was also a friend of Sol Schwartz, and I made the deal over the telephone without having met him. Alan was placed in the first act, but he wanted to close the show. I’d booked Kovach & Rabovsky, a dance team that was receiving publicity for having been aboard the Andrea Doria, to close the first half of the show. Alan appeared before K&R, and he was not pleased. I explained I was booking the show my way! There was also a family of Spanish clowns, a wonderful act, and of course the superb dancing boys.
Alan did his “suburban” routine in front of the urban Manhattan audience. He was filled with trepidation but it worked out, because of his innate gift with monologue. Judy was fascinated by the young comedian and watched from the wings in her backstage funky terry cloth robe, the collar smeared with makeup. She thought he had something. Alan came off the stage angry. He had not played in the spot he desired. He walked up the stairs to his dressing room in Siberia thinking he’d like to quit. Just before Judy was due onstage, she climbed up the three flights of stairs, beautifully attired in her Norman Norell gown, knocked on his door, and said, “You can close my fucking show anytime.” It was the start of a marvelous relationship.
Alan broke Judy up on and off stage. However, he remained at the Palace in the spot we originally agreed upon; in later productions he would perform before Judy closed. After King finished his act he’d immediately go into the audience, find an aisle seat (like Judy, he was claustrophobic), and watch Judy work. Eventually she taught Alan the Fred Astaire part in the “Couple of Swells” routine.
I’d tell Alan I thought he was a “charming rogue,” a “rough and tumble guy from the streets of New York.” This would get a certain reaction.
“Sid, I’ll take your head off,” he’d challenge. Alan began to hang out and drink with us. He’d be around during the backstage squabbles, and the good times as well.
Judy couldn’t breathe in the outfits designed for her show—the Norells and other fantastic gowns were restrictive suits of armor. Judy was best in a short, handsome silk jacket and tapered pants, which would become her 1960s uniform. She’d gained a little weight, and I watched her like a hawk, because if the weight gain was the reason she was so uncomfortable in those gowns, she’d have to lose some pounds. And once again this presented a big obstacle: the personality changes, the mood shifts.
She tried to cut back on her appetite, and this left her irritable. She’d lock herself in her dressing room and not come out. I’d reason with her and she’d complain, “Nobody wants to listen to me.” At times she’d smash a glass in anger at the thought of getting into those outfits. It was too late to redesign the show. If I suggested she cut back on her appetite, we’d argue. “It’s too late to change anything.” She’d sneak a pill and a drink and then suddenly not want to go out onstage, overcome with fear. I’d have to hold her, give her a swat on her ass to get her out onstage. Then she’d glide out there, take a breath, and bring the house down. Every night there were celebrities in the audience, and this motivated Judy to get into her uncomfortable clothes. Alan would prep Judy by listing the stars in the crowd: Julie Andrews, Cary Grant, Lana Turner with Johnny Stompanato, neighbors from Mapleton, and so on.
The eight-week run was extended to seventeen weeks, and we brought the children to New York. My mother had been staying with the children on Mapleton before they came east. She ran the house and looked after our domestic affairs.
Judy was capable of handling everything. She was performing one show a night, eight shows per week, so she wasn’t overworked. The children were with us, and she was very attentive to them. We were living our lives, together in the same apartment; there was no separation. I’d take Lorna and Joey to Lindy’s deli. It didn’t feel like a delicate balance.
Offers were coming in, as Judy had proved herself yet again. She was asked to do Funny Girl, among other prime projects, but she wasn’t ready to take on another major film. Judy was getting tired as she wound down the last weeks at the Palace. One night Sonny Werblin, a man I respected who worked at MCA, New York, came backstage and said he wanted to talk to me. We spoke on the telephone the following day. Sonny asked if I thought Judy would be able to do a show sponsored by Buick. We were under contract to CBS to deliver one special a year. I was interested, but I needed to discuss it with Judy. And I was not eager to disturb her at the moment, because I knew she was exhausted—and touchy to deal with. However, I told Sonny it might be possible. Sonny rang me again to announce, “Sid, you’re on! We want the show delivered six weeks from the closing date of the Palace.” Just weeks to produce a special with Judy!
We needed to go back to Los Angeles. We’d received news that Bogie had died, and this upset both of us and depressed the hell out of Judy. Before we left, Sonny came over to see us at the Carlyle Hotel with Freddie Fields, a young agent I’d not met before. When Judy announced to them she was not prepared to do a show right away, Freddie piped up, “How about a show with five bands?” He was thinking about his brother, Shep Fields, and a few other bandleaders. Judy softened and said, “It’s not a bad idea.” But it wasn’t a yes, and Judy wasn’t really ready.
After Judy had owned Broadway for the second time, the journalist Marie Torre came out with a piece that said a CBS executive told her Judy’s special was not going forward because Judy was overweight, which was untrue. Judy was incensed; the issue of her weight was an open wound. She’d been working night after night to great acclaim, offers were coming in, and now a major New York columnist was telling the world she was fat and not getting work because of it. Judy made up her mind that she was not going to be attacked, and she went to her lawyer, who agreed it was libel. I thought it was frivolous, but Judy didn’t agree, and I wasn’t going to interfere. To Judy a few extra pounds meant the difference between getting a part or not. It was a sensitive issue, and this time the report was totally inaccurate. Judy was adamant. “What the fuck is going on, seventeen weeks at the Palace. I look the best I’ve ever looked and this dame is putting me down to the public.”
Torre could have written an apology but she did not, and the case went forward after we returned to Los Angeles. Torre would not reveal her source, and the judge held her in contempt.
The strenuous run at the Palace and the Torre/CBS incident irked Judy and gave her some cause to fall back on pills. We had a few run-ins at the house. Then Judy was booked to perform at the Riviera in Detroit, and she was insistent that I approach Henry Ford II about putting up preproduction money for the adaptation of a novel we owned, Born in Wedlock. I wasn’t racing to talk to Henry about the movie business. I thought I understood Ford’s character: he was a hard-driving businessman who was not about to gamble change on a Hollywood film. After the performance at the Riviera we met Henry and a young, good-looking man who was his assistant at the popular restaurant the London Chop House in downtown Detroit. Judy was in good form, telling anecdotes about old Hollywood. She told Henry about the making of the 1946 film Till the Clouds Roll By, the life story of composer Jerome Kern (my mother’s old customer from Bronxville). Judy had appeared as Broadway star Marilyn Miller; Robert Walker portrayed Kern opposite Lucille Bremer (who later married Rod Rodriguez, my old buddy from Douglas Aircraft) as Mrs. Kern. Lucille, who was Arthur Freed’s mistress at the time, had her eyes on the prize—she aspired to stardom but had never quite made it. The movie was a series of production numbers; Sinatra starred in the finale singing “Ol’ Man River.” Judy explained to Henry how Sinatra wasn’t convinced he could give the song the proper interpretation. To his surprise Kern said to Frank, “Sing it your way,” and it was a smash. When Kern died, Sinatra asked to sing “Ol’ Man River” at his funeral. Henry was captivated by the story. When Judy mentioned Born in Wedlock, explaining it was a story about a turn-of-the-century traveling vaudeville family, Henry smiled and ordered another round
of cocktails.
Back in Los Angeles, I was having breakfast at the Riviera golf club with Neddie and Jock McLean and Dan Topping, co-owner of the New York Yankees. I mentioned to Jock that Judy was hot and heavy about Henry putting up preproduction money for Born in Wedlock. Neddie was also after him—for an oil deal in Oklahoma that Ford did eventually support. Jock thought it unlikely Henry would put money in film.
Jock had a nervous tic that took some getting used to when he spoke. His jaw would drop in a nervous spasm for a few seconds and then he’d resume speaking. He was recalling the time when his mother, Evalyn, was financing the reward for the return of the Lindberg baby and he got stuck on the first syllable of “reward.” Jock was basically a warmhearted person himself, and he indulged Judy and loved her for herself.
We’d been invited to Henry’s birthday party in Southampton, New York. Anne, Henry’s wife, had asked if Judy would sing at the birthday party, and I mentioned to Topping, “Judy doesn’t sing at birthday parties. She sings when she feels like it.” He thought I was foolish to take that position at the moment. So we changed our minds about that and Judy agreed to sing at the event, even though I was convinced it was a waste of time.
Neddie and Jock and I frequently played golf together, but our lunches and breakfasts were taken up with conversations about how to get Henry to invest. Generally I had nothing in mind for him, but the McLeans had lists. They were close friends with Henry, and Jock would find women to introduce to him. I was amazed when he later married his second wife, Cristina, a warm, earthy woman, not his type. He must have suffered a lapse.
