by Lorna Luft
My mother is escorted from the Little Church of the Flowers by my father and Vernon Alves after attending the private funeral service for her mother, Ethel, at Forest Lawn Memorial Park, Glendale, January 1953. Alves was a close friend of my father’s and served as associate producer of A Star Is Born.
My mother appears with my father at his alimony hearing, 1953. My father had been married previously, to actress Lynn Bari from 1943 to 1950.
Warner Bros. started as a minor studio with four brother/entrepreneurs (Albert, Sam, Harry, and Jack) and the canine Rin Tin Tin as its first star. The studio became a major force in the industry with The Jazz Singer (1927) and the advent of “talkies.” Warner Bros. was famous for gangster pictures, such as Little Caesar (1931) and The Public Enemy (1931), and gritty, realistic films like I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang (1932). The studio later produced some of the greatest movies of all time, including The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), Casablanca (1942), Now, Voyager (1942), Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942), Mildred Pierce (1945), and The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948), to name just a few.
“[T]he picture had to be the greatest… it couldn’t be merely very good. I had too much at stake… I had to prove things.”—JUDY GARLAND
Warner had experience with independent-minded stars, such as Errol Flynn, Humphrey Bogart, Bette Davis, and James Cagney and recently enjoyed a pleasant and profitable experience with Elia Kazan’s A Streetcar Named Desire (1951), financed and distributed by Warner Bros. with artistic decisions made by producer Charles K. Feldman and director Kazan. Warner was willing to gamble on Garland.
“[T]he picture had to be the greatest… it couldn’t be merely very good. I had too much at stake… I had to prove things,” Mama recalled during this period.5 The financial risk was tremendous, but overriding that was the dream: a comeback in a perfect, tailored-to-fit star part in a major Hollywood movie. Just as important, the deal with Warner Bros. promised her a level of control she had never had before while making a film. My father assured her that she would feel safe, be supported by top talent in the industry, and that she was to make key creative decisions as the film’s de facto producer. As Dad had shown at the racetrack, he was a natural gambler. In his eyes, Mama’s motion picture comeback was a long shot horse that just might finish in the money.
IN THE MOST UNIVERSAL OF TERMS, A STAR IS BORN IS A HUMAN SEESAW story of a young woman and a slightly older man. She begins to grow and blossom under his guidance as he withers and fades away. In order to enlarge the basic tale—even beyond its respected 1937 telling—and allow it to sing, Mama (and Dad) turned to friends and former colleagues to work with her once more on the ultimate showcase for Miss Judy Garland.
Jack M. Warner (son of J. L. Warner), Warner Bros. executive Steve Trilling, casting director William Orr, my father, my mother, Jack L. Warner, director George Cukor, and cinematographer Winton Hoch during preproduction.
The consummate Broadway professional, and arbiter of taste, writer/director Moss Hart is best remembered, in collaboration with George S. Kaufman, as the playwright of the immortal theatrical works You Can’t Take It With You (1936) and The Man Who Came to Dinner (1939). The writer had met Mama when she and Minnelli, Hart’s great friend, honeymooned in Manhattan in 1945 and she had admired Hart’s work, particularly his book and direction for Lady in the Dark (composer Kurt Weill’s 1941 Broadway musical, with lyrics by Ira Gershwin and starring Gertrude Lawrence). Hart had long been an admirer of Mama’s intuitive artistry before the movie camera, a directness that had nothing to do with screen technique. The great English theater actress Ellen Terry described this star quality as that “little something extra” that makes a great star, and Hart quoted this idea in the A Star Is Born screenplay to apply to Garland’s character. So when my parents presented him with the 1937 script, he didn’t need persuading to take on its rewrite. The 1937 Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright and screenwriter for the Best Picture–winning Gentleman’s Agreement (1947) adapted the script in a swift and expert manner.
Mama confers with screenwriter Moss Hart and director George Cukor.
Hart remained involved during production, consulting with the film’s other major creative force, veteran director George Cukor, who always deferred to Hart when cuts or alterations were needed. The two men had an excellent rapport, which had been formed when Cukor directed Winged Victory (1944), based on a play of the same name by Hart, who also wrote the screenplay. The two men had known each other since their Broadway theater days in the 1920s. For his rapid and masterful rewrite, Hart was paid $101,000 (a symbolic sum, granting him $1,000 more than the star of the film).6
My father’s thirty-eighth birthday was celebrated during production on November 2, 1953.
Hart’s expert touch with incident and dialogue yielded a screenplay that hewed closely to the William A. Wellman/Robert Carson original story of A Star Is Born, yet boasted some brilliant resets for the film’s first act. Instead of a private party, Esther Blodgett and Norman Maine have their initial electric encounter at “Night of the Stars,” an annual glittery benefit gala at Los Angeles’s Shrine Auditorium. He is belligerently drunk, about to embarrass himself onstage until rescued by Esther’s quick thinking during her performance. Later, backstage, Maine apologizes by commandeering her lipstick to draw on the painted concrete wall: a big valentine heart, pierced with a ragged arrow, that encircles “E.B. + N.M.” As he leaves, Esther thinks aloud to Danny McGuire, her friend and piano player, “You know, drunk or not… he’s nice.” This is a master-class reimagining of the first crossing of the paths of idol and novice.
Hart continues to reinvent as the sleepless Maine goes in search of “the little dark girl” at the famous Cocoanut Grove. He has an exchange with the maître d’, who has evidently assisted the actor with similar early-morning hunts. Bruno discreetly indicates a pretty blonde seated with her companion under the droop of a faux palm tree. Maine: “Too young. I had a very young week, last week.” Bruno: (pointing out another) “Miss Sheldon? She’s very beautiful tonight.” Maine: “No. She hit me over the head with a bottle. They only hit me once. The girl in the green dress…” Bruno: “No, Mr. Maine. Pasadena. Leave it alone.” That last line has two interpretations. One is that the girl is off-limits: Maine should “Pass-adena,” in code. In the other, Bruno is suggesting a type of girl, a virgin from Pasadena, once seen as a haven for “good girls,” as opposed to the supposedly looser women one might encounter in den-of-iniquity Hollywood. The dialogue feels authentic, an inside peek at swanky La La Land after hours in the 1950s.
Mama on the stage of the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles for the “Gotta Have Me Go with You” number. Actor Tommy Noonan is standing at left.
“The Man That Got Away” musical number was filmed three times before everyone was pleased with the cinematography, lighting, composition, and costume. The first version was abandoned because it was filmed in standard screen width and Technicolor. This photograph records the second attempt, filmed in CinemaScope and Eastmancolor, but the costume (by Mary Ann Nyberg) and hair required further changes. Photo by Sanford Roth.
The Downbeat Club, a boîte on Sunset Boulevard, is another of Hart’s inspirations. It is where musicians gather in the wee hours to wind down and riff for each other, and where Bruno believes Maine might find the girl he came looking for. He enters the smoky darkness, hearing Esther’s singing voice rising from the depths, accompanied by Danny McGuire on piano and assorted musicians. Maine is jolted by what he hears, mesmerized by a “surge of pleasure,” and tells her so at the club and as he drives her home. Esther, surprised by such unvarnished praise, relates her modest girl–singer story in a foreshadowing of the big “Born in a Trunk” sequence. She even speaks of a low point, when she had to work as a waitress—as Mary Evans and Blodgett #1 both did—and how she would never do it again.
Before they part at the Oleander Arms, Norman urges her to remain in Hollywood, promising to get her a screen test. And, in a Moss Hart monologue,
waxes poetic on the subject of dreams and opportunity. Norman states, “A career is a curious thing. Talent isn’t always enough. You need a sense of timing—an eye for seeing the turning point, of recognizing the big chance when it comes along and grabbing it. A career can rest on a trifle, like us sitting here tonight. Or it can turn on somebody seeing something in you that nobody else ever saw and saying, ‘You’re better than that, you’re better than you know.’ Don’t settle for the little dream. Go on to the big one.” The big star and the little singer, so fated to connect, lose track of each other before anything can happen. Esther is forced to work as a carhop at a drive-in, shuttling hamburgers, breaking the vow she had made to herself. Maine locates her in a series of scenes that were considered expendable in the flurry of bad decisions that led to the truncated A Star Is Born being put into general release.
Three images from the final version of “The Man That Got Away” as it appears in the final version with Mama wearing a costume designed by Jean Louis. Esther demonstrates her “star quality”; Norman Maine observes Esther from a distance; Esther belts out her torch song.
In a key scene, Norman Maine encourages Esther Blodgett, “A career is a curious thing. Talent isn’t always enough. You need a sense of timing—an eye for seeing the turning point—for recognizing the big chance when it comes and grabbing it.” Norman believes Esther possesses “that little something extra” required of great talent, which is star quality.
A rewarding spin on a scene from the 1937 version is Hart’s take on Esther being readied for her screen test. What Price Hollywood? and the earlier Star Is Born threw the moment away, while Hart revels in a before-and-after studio makeover lampoon. Esther is scrunched in the makeup chair, wrapped in white towels, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, as the experts poke and prod and speak of her as if she weren’t there. Next, we see her as a strawberry-blonde glamour gal in a garish pink and purple gown, dripping rhinestones from ears, neck, and bodice, her face an overvarnished kabuki mask. Norman, at first, does not recognize her, then roars with laughter, which sets Esther off. “I’ve been sitting in that chair since six o’clock this morning!” to which he responds with the quip, “You sat an hour too long, honey.” Norman drags her to his bungalow dressing room, where he proceeds to strip away the wig, the putty, and the paint. Esther protests tearfully, parroting the men in the makeup room, “But my nose is very bad, my eyes are all wrong, and my ears are too big… and I… I have no chin.” Norman restores the flawed-but-pretty Esther, and spins her around to look in the mirror at her fresh and lovely brunette self. Esther clutches his hand, leans into his shoulder, seeing herself anew through Norman’s eyes. She is already in love, and is soon under contract. It’s a wonderful scene, and I know it had special meaning to my mother and George Cukor as it echoes their past experience when Cukor worked one week directing The Wizard of Oz and eliminated the ridiculous wig and costume that were preventing my mother from being true to herself and becoming Dorothy.
Two stills depicting the screen test sequence. AT TOP: Norman laughs at the efforts by the studio makeup department experts to turn Esther into a conventional blonde screen beauty. AT BOTTOM: Norman removes the wig and makeup in order to find the true Esther and encourage her.
Norman restores the flawed but pretty Esther, and spins her around to look in the mirror at her fresh and lovely brunette self. Esther clutches his hand, leans into his shoulder, seeing herself anew through Norman’s eyes. This part of the film had a special meaning to my mother and George Cukor as it echoes their past experience when Cukor worked one week directing The Wizard of Oz fifteen years earlier and eliminated the blonde wig and heavy makeup that were preventing my mother from being true to herself and becoming the character of Dorothy Gale.
Mama and me during production of “The Man That Got Away” sequence. Photo by Sanford Roth.
Not satisfied with just that entertaining and moving sequence, Hart conjures up a three-minute playlet, skewering the factory efficiency of Hollywood star-making. Esther ascends the dark stairs to the publicity department, where a Miss Markham (Lotus Robb) palms her off on the wardrobe department, which sends her to the photo department, everyone chiming, “Glad to have you with us.” Esther meets the blunt Matt Libby (Jack Carson), the head of the publicity department, who escorts her to a flickering screening room to shake hands with studio chief Oliver Niles (Charles Bickford), who echoes, “Glad to have you with us.” He then shouts her out of the room as she’s blocking the screen. Blinking in the sunlight, she crosses a lofty catwalk with Libby’s standard send-off, “We’ll have a new name for you by the end of the week.” Entering the neighboring building, Esther then reappears and descends the stairs to find herself staring up at the sign for Publicity. She is right back where she started. Next, Esther is a bit player or less, plopped in the seat of a soundstage passenger train car, her arm sleeved in mink, her hand waving a filmy scarf out the window. “Cut!” the assistant director shouts. “We don’t want to see your face!” Esther was only cast, it seems, for the use of her hand. She is playing a waiting game.
Mama with Jack Carson during production. Carson was a former Warner Bros. contract player who was known for his flair for comedy, even if his best remembered role is in the dark Mildred Pierce (1945). Mama had worked with Carson in vaudeville when she was still Baby Gumm of the Gumm Sisters and he was half of the comedy team of Willock and Carson. Mama thought him very funny and great company.
James Mason, Jack Carson, Charles Bickford, and Mama enjoy a laugh during production. Of the four main actors of A Star Is Born, Bickford was the most reserved. In fact, director Cukor privately referred to Bickford as “Old Ironpants” during production, as he was so serious-minded.
Vicki Lester and Norman Maine plan their Malibu dream house. This scene, filmed on location in Laguna, was cut after the film’s first preview. Photo by Bob Willoughby.
Norman schemes to put Niles’s and Esther’s singing voices in close proximity, as the producer has just lost the star of his next musical to a Broadway show. And Niles takes the bait. “Who is that singing?” Norman informs him casually that it’s Vicki Lester—and a star is born. The sneak preview of the picture that Niles casts her in, which ends with the show-stopping “Born in a Trunk,” the raves it receives from the preview audience, and the pans for Maine’s movie which preceded it, close the first act of the original A Star Is Born. Moss Hart significantly rewrote the first half of the 1937 screenplay, but the incidents in the second half are largely the same, from the post-preview party to the funeral hysteria. Hart did swap out the prizefight for a studio recording session as the site for the marriage proposal. He canceled the comical trailer honeymoon in favor of a plain and sentimental motel room. Also gone were the rustic North Dakota scenes and Grandmother Lettie. Both movies end with the heart-wrenching line “This is Mrs. Norman Maine.” But Hart envisioned a full-circle finale, with Esther alone on the enormous stage where she and Maine first met, at the same annual charity event, to close the film. There would be, however, no big closing number, no big finish. Judy Garland would not sing audiences out of the theater. Instead, they stuck to the original script.
Mama in a pensive moment during a rehearsal.
Hers is the only solo voice heard in the picture, making it a virtual one-woman concert held together by a dramatic narrative.
The gathering of the-best-of-the-best continued as Harold Arlen and Ira Gershwin were signed to provide Mama’s songs: Arlen was paid $35,000 for the music and Gershwin $42,500 for the lyrics. Hers is the only solo voice heard in the picture, making it a virtual one-woman concert held together by a dramatic narrative. Moss Hart had outlined the story for Arlen and Gershwin, noting seven suggested scenes for which songs could be written, and the psychological and emotional underpinnings for each. With lyricist E. Y. Harburg, Arlen had composed the score for The Wizard of Oz. They were the duo behind the magical “Over the Rainbow,” the Academy Award winner for Best Original Song at the Ac
ademy Awards held in 1940, which eventually became Mama’s signature song. Arlen also composed melodies for what are now referred to as American Songbook classics: “Stormy Weather,” “That Old Black Magic,” “Come Rain or Come Shine,” to name a few. Arlen was certainly one of Mama’s favorite composers, and she was sure he could create an entire score just for her—with the right collaborator. That musician would be Ira Gershwin, who gained fame and accolades as his big brother George’s lyricist, the two responsible for “I Got Rhythm,” “S’Wonderful,” and “But Not for Me.” Gershwin worked less after his brother’s passing, but did collaborate with Jerome Kern and Kurt Weill for the movies and for Broadway. The same agent, the legendary Irving “Swifty” Lazar, represented Gershwin, Arlen, and Hart; deals were made swiftly, accounting for how Lazar had acquired his nickname. With his help, Mama assembled her first choices from among her good friends and greatest supporters.
