by Lorna Luft
Mama in a studio recording session with musical director Ray Heindorf. “Working with Garland was just magnificent,” Heindorf later recalled. “It was the first time she’d sung in some time, and she was fresh. She knew those songs backward and didn’t have to use any music, ever.” Photo by Sanford Roth.
Mama recording a musical number. Photo by Sanford Roth.
Vicki Lester acts out a movie scene in the “Someone at Last” musical number.
With no opening number, the first song is for the Glenn Williams Orchestra, a late-model swing band, and its vocalist Esther Blodgett, with backup from two chorus boys: the catchy “Gotta Have Me Go With You.” The strong patter and rhythm distract Norman Maine from his backstage blunder, drawing him to join, uninvited, into the song and dance. Esther saves Maine, and the day, by cleverly making the sodden star part of the act, ending in a jazz-hand strut that wins laughter and applause from the crowd.
Cinematographer Harry Stradling, my mother’s original choice as the film’s cinematographer, visits Mama during a break in the filming of the “Someone at Last” sequence while hairstylist Helen Young attends to my mother on an adjacent ladder. Photo by Bob Willoughby.
Mama with Cukor during production of the “Someone at Last” musical number. Photo by Bob Willoughby.
Mama consults with Cukor during a break in the production of the “Someone at Last” sequence. Dance director Richard Barstow leans on the edge of the sofa. Photo by Bob Willoughby.
The melodic torch number “The Man That Got Away” is the song most closely identified with A Star Is Born. It is modern, urban blues, referred to by Gershwin before it had a title as the “Dive Song” that Esther sings for herself and the band. She is unaware that she is captivating, in the dark, the man she rescued earlier in the evening. The ballad is considered one of the great songs composed for the movies, confounding people who care about such injustices that it lost the Academy Award to Sammy Cahn and Jule Styne for “Three Coins in the Fountain”—a sweet, sentimental favorite, but a banal tune compared to the haunting “The Man That Got Away.” The losing song is a powerful lament, a dazzling pop aria in plain clothes, one Mama tucked into with all her vocal variety, drive, and brass. Her interpretation actually displeased the film’s vocal arranger and coach, Hugh Martin, who wanted to hear a hushed, smoky, understated rendition, so acutely that he left the film and returned to New York City. Curiously, she had previously collaborated with Hugh Martin on “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” written by Martin and Ralph Blane for Meet Me in St. Louis, when she determined the original lyric was too downbeat. Mama insisted on alterations and the song, once altered, went on to become a holiday standard. Here, my mother’s instinctive musical delivery drowns out any objections. Her voice seems to express the heartache and regret of every love-affair-gone-bad since the beginning of time. It is a stellar example of her ability to channel the emotions of the masses. “The Man That Got Away” and “Here’s What I’m Here For” were released in 1954 by Columbia as 45 rpm and 78 rpm records.
The film score is performed as musical presentations: onstage, in a club, on record or radio, on-screen, in rehearsal, on set. However, the songs still push the story along, without hitting the nail on the head. One of the Warner Bros. recording soundstages was used for Mama as Esther to lay down a track, with a large orchestra and chorus, for “Here’s What I’m Here For,” a song for a Vicki Lester movie. The simple lyric rides the smooth melody in a way that allows an important moment to play out over it. Norman asks Esther to marry him; her hesitation surfaces as she lightly improvises, just for their private moment, a little phrase to the tune in the background: “You drink too much,” and then, “Yes.” The romance is official when the playback reveals their conversation to all the musicians and crewmembers in the studio.
“It’s a New World” is a sweetly direct declaration of love, sung along with the radio to begin, then segueing to a cappella, the orchestra sneaking back in midway. The rendition takes place in a small honeymoon hideaway and is performed just for Norman. The lyric, “though we’re in a tiny room…” maybe hits the mark too closely, but in the first verse we hear the hint of “Over the Rainbow”: “How wonderful that I’m beholding/A never-never land unfolding/Where we polish up the stars.” (This song is my favorite from the film, although my mother favored “The Man That Got Away.”) The scene is lovely—the momentary calm before the storm.
For Norman’s personal entertainment at home, Esther, all second-wind energized after a long day at the studio, reenacts to the practice record the huge production number from her next film. Merging her speaking voice with her singing, a skill at which she was unmatched—Frank Sinatra being the only exception—Esther takes Norman through a full-scale performance. Explaining that the camera will pan in for a “big, fat close-up,” Mama as Esther pulls her hands in to frame her face, her fingers splayed, and smiles—an iconic image that has been used to promote A Star Is Born on the original 1954 movie poster and in print advertisements, reissue posters, and home video artwork. After her close-up, Esther zips around the world: to Paris, to China, to Africa, to Brazil, in search of “Someone at Last.” With a wide variety of Arlen rhythms and a minimum of Gershwin rhyme, Mama/Esther/Vicki is a force of nature, giving Norman his “surge of pleasure” after a humbling day as Mr. Lester. The film’s last song, “Lose That Long Face,” is placed to contrast Esther’s breakdown in her dressing room to the cheer-up number she is shooting on the soundstage. In despair over Norman’s decline, Esther lays her soul bare for Oliver Niles. The scene is a masterpiece of writing and performance. Vicki confesses:
The most iconic image from A Star Is Born is this famous scene still of Vicki Lester describing her “big, fat close-up.”
You don’t know what it’s like to watch somebody you love just crumble away, bit by bit, day by day, in front of your eyes and stand there helpless. Love isn’t enough. I thought it was. I thought I was the answer for Norman. But love isn’t enough for him, and I’m afraid of what’s beginning to happen. Within me. Because sometimes I hate him. I hate his promises to stop, and then the watching and waiting to see it begin again. I hate to go home to him at night and listen to his lies. Well, my heart goes out to him because he tries. He does try. But I hate him for failing. I hate me too. I hate me because I failed too. I have. I don’t know what’s going to happen to us, Oliver. No matter how much you love somebody, how do you live out the days? How?
Moss Hart understood when he wrote the sequence that Mama was both Norman Maine and Vicki Lester, that she would be speaking of her own failures and drug dependency. Cukor allowed Judy Garland the performer to be fully herself, thus creating such a moment of intensity and raw emotion that it is heartbreaking to watch. This release of unfiltered pain, probably more than any other scene in the film, confirmed Mama’s gifts as not only as a singer and dancer, but as one of the great dramatic talents of her time as well.
Three images depicting the harrowing scene in which Vicki Lester shares her fears with Oliver Niles about Norman’s addiction. Garland was describing her own problems. Mama was making a movie about addiction, but the characters were reversed. Cukor was quite the taskmaster on the set and there were many takes. Makeup artist Del Armstrong remembers driving Mama home at 9:00 p.m. after filming had completed. At one point, Mama was so overcome that Armstrong had to pull over and Mama threw up. Armstrong recalled, “It was just emotions—it wasn’t from drinking—it was just an upheaval, a nervous disorder, like ulcers or something. I don’t think she came to work the next day, either.”
Mama being attended to by wardrobe and makeup during the production of “Lose That Long Face.” Photo by Sanford Roth.
To contrast this moment, and to display her supremacy as a performer, as Vicki Lester she then shuffles to her mark to conclude the take. “Action!” is called; grinning Vicki the professional emerges to finish the shot. The tune is bouncy, suited for a tap dance, and Gershwin’s words are amusing, the rhyming del
iberately odd: “glum/vacu-um, panacea/idea, Peter Pan/sweeter pan, can see vacancy.” (A discarded verse includes the oddity “critical/Pollyannalytical.”) The whole of it is intended silliness that promotes the smilin’ through, show-must-go-on inevitability that must be faced, no matter what. Esther needs to “turn that frown upside down.” (How often did my mother do that? How many times did she fail?)
As musical director and conductor, Ray Heindorf was responsible for all the incidental and background music. However, the unsung hero was Skip Martin, the sole arranger and orchestrator credited on the film. He took the Arlen tunes, masterfully adapting them to situation and character without intrusive bombast or complication. Relying on Heindorf to be his ears, George Cukor pulled off the incredible feat of helming his first movie musical after nearly twenty-five years of directing films.
Mama’s fatigue as both star and producer is shown in this image of her asleep on the set during production. Photo by Sanford Roth.
Addended to the contract signed by Transcona Enterprises and Warner Bros. was a tentative list of directors acceptable to both parties: John Ford, Daniel Mann, Henry Koster, Charles Vidor, Michael Curtiz, and George Cukor. However, Mama was determined to secure Cukor. He had gained considerable status as a great director of actresses: Greta Garbo in Camille (1936), A Woman’s Face (1941) starring Joan Crawford, Gaslight (1944) starring Ingrid Bergman, Born Yesterday (1950) with Judy Holliday, and a collaboration with Katharine Hepburn, whom he directed in ten films from 1932 to 1979, including A Bill of Divorcement (1932) and The Philadelphia Story (1940). In addition, there was Vivien Leigh, whom he guided in Gone With the Wind (1939) until replaced by director Victor Fleming when producer David O. Selznick determined that Cukor wasn’t making the film quickly enough. (Clark Gable, who feared the director was handing the epic to Leigh and turning it into a women’s picture, was delighted that his old friend Fleming took over.) He had also directed What Price Hollywood? After turning down A Star Is Born (1937) (not wanting to dip too soon back in the same well), his interest was piqued by the idea of transforming not only the material, but Judy Garland, in high-production-value style.
George Cukor’s expressive hands and intense style are demonstrated in this artistic image of Cukor directing Mama during production.
Cinematographer Sam Leavitt (left), Mama, and director George Cukor during production.
Years earlier, Cukor had even been responsible for reining in the MGM artisans during preproduction of The Wizard of Oz, which Mama reported in a magazine interview. Her retelling sounds eerily similar to the process inflicted upon Esther Blodgett as a new starlet. “They tried to convert me into another person,” she said. “They put a blonde wig on me and tried to change my nose, because it dipped too much, and they put caps all over my teeth. I looked like a male Mary Pickford by the time they got through with all the alterations.”7 My mother had remained grateful for Cukor’s good taste and good sense; he was largely responsible for the final Dorothy look and performance, even though he did not direct the picture. As for Cukor, Judy Garland was someone he had wanted to direct ever since she attended a seventieth birthday party for Ethel Barrymore at his home. Garland sang an a cappella “Happy Birthday” that moved him and everyone at the party to tears.
The final bound script for A Star Is Born, Cukor’s thirty-seventh film, dated October 7, 1953, ran 110 pages and totaled 119 scenes, excluding the lyrics to the musical numbers. The director was under contract to Loew’s Incorporated (the parent company of MGM).Leow’s had loaned him to Warner Bros. at a cost of $6,250 per week (Cukor received $4,000 per week for his services, the rest being pocketed by Loew’s) with a twenty-week guarantee. With his team of designers and technicians, Cukor began work not only on his first musical, but his first color film and his first in widescreen. He familiarized himself with all three matters at once by testing CinemaScope and Technicolor versus WarnerColor during the challenging number “The Man That Got Away.” The scene was shot in multiple takes over several days in three iterations with many adjustments to the set and lighting, and to Mama’s simple costume, as well. She not only lip-synced to her own recording, but my mother also sang along with it, full-out for every take, while never moving or gesturing the same way twice. She was reacting naturally to the mood of the music, allowing the story of the song to guide her vocal and physical performance.
Cukor, an actress’s best friend, firmly guided Mama through the rigors of Esther’s emotional breakdown near the end of the picture.
For the opening sequence, Cukor made effective, even startling use of the wide screen: the limo-to-limo traffic, the sweep and buzz of the klieg lights, the snap, click, and flash of the press cameras, seen from above and in the glare of headlights. Up close, there are the arrivals of the celebrities to “Night of the Stars.” It’s 1954, but the vibe is very modern, the quick-cutting lending an urgency that energizes this updated Hollywood fable. Cukor handles the showbiz backstage with the jerk and surprise associated with a handheld camera. The chaos is organized, until Norman Maine shows up, drunk and ready to take on all comers: cowboys and horses, buskers and ballerinas. It is alarming to witness but fascinating to experience as Cukor’s cameraman grabs it all with his very responsive lens, cutting between the pros onstage and the bedlam in the wings.
Cukor, an actress’s best friend, firmly guided Mama through the rigors of Esther’s emotional breakdown near the end of the picture. Her trust in him paid off. As production designer Gene Allen recalled, “The breakdown scene held a special interest for George from the very start. There were many takes for that scene.… It fascinated him because it was so close to the real Judy Garland.”8
Mama in conference with Cukor during production. Photo by Bob Willoughby.
James Mason, my mother, my father, George Cukor, and production designer Gene Allen on location during production.
Mama was physically ill before and during much of the filming of A Star Is Born. In addition to her constant struggles with her prescription medication and her fluctuating weight, my mother suffered from a severe premenstrual syndrome during this time, and endured a painful impacted wisdom tooth. Though she had Dr. Fred Pobirs to oversee her medication and Margaret Gundy as nurse and companion on the set to look after her, Mama was far from their ideal patient. She smoked Spud menthol cigarettes and sipped on vodka mixed with grape juice or Canadian Club whiskey with ginger ale throughout the production to settle her nerves. The pressures of the production were enormous for her.
Taskmaster George Cukor didn’t coddle his star; he asked for take after take, pressing her further into her own emotional troubles to ground her performance—a Method acting approach before the Method was popular. Some takes left Mama sobbing uncontrollably. Cukor wrote to his friend, Katharine Hepburn, expressing his dismay in February 1954 as production was nearing its end. “About three weeks ago, strange, sinister and sad things began happening to Judy.” She was always late, on the verge of derailing her own comeback. “This is the behavior of someone unhinged, but there is an arrogance and a ruthless selfishness that eventually alienates one’s sympathy,” Cukor wrote.9 Both star and director were well aware that Judy/Esther was also Judy/Norman, one dynamic feeding and bleeding into the other. This duality informs the entire second half of the film. Mama identified with both main characters—a great, promising young talent brought low by addiction, self-loathing, and self-destruction.
In spite of what she may have put Cukor through—manic highs, incapacitating lows—his admiration for her rare gifts and his trust in her extraordinary instincts never wavered. He maintained that her qualities of warmth and vulnerability reminded him of the legendary Laurette Taylor, who gave one of the most lavishly praised performances of the twentieth century in Tennessee Williams’s original Broadway production of The Glass Menagerie in 1945–1946.10 Placing Mama on that same pedestal was an ultimate professional compliment. Furthermore, my mother had seen Taylor in The Glass Menagerie and met the great actress backs
tage after the performance. In spite of her reign of terror, what ended up on the screen demonstrated a new maturity in my mother’s work, a breakout performance. A Star Is Born was intended—along with her new husband and me—a turning point to a new career for Judy Garland. My mother told journalist Bob Thomas in November 1953:
I know it sounds awful to say, but I never really liked myself on the screen before. But now I go to the rushes and I actually enjoy them. I even cry a little at the sad scenes. The four years have done me a lot of good. I got out and met the people and sang before live audiences. It improved my timing, and my voice is better, too. I think I look better. I don’t have that “little girl” look anymore.11
James Mason, Mama, and George Cukor enjoy a laugh during production.
From the outset, my parents really wanted Cary Grant as Norman Maine. They wined and dined him: lunches, dinners, golf games, and days at the racetrack. They did everything they could to talk him into doing this. The be-all, end-all matinee idol was intrigued, even spending time with Cukor rehearsing the part, but then demurred. Although Cukor had elevated Grant with such films as Sylvia Scarlett (1935), Holiday (1938), and The Philadelphia Story (1940), he was uncertain. The idea of unflattering self-commentary and the issue of alcoholism were obstacles he couldn’t or wouldn’t overcome. Mama herself was a factor in his decision: the trouble at MGM, the firing, and the attempted suicide had all been well documented. Grant appreciated her talent, but couldn’t handle the baggage that came with it. His fee of $300,000 against 10 percent of the gross profits was also a deterrent. My parents were disappointed, and Mama, in retelling the story years later, remarked with her famous sense of humor, “God, I wish I could get back some of those dinners!” After Grant, the short list for one of the male roles of the year was odd in its diversity of age, experience, and temperament. The other approved actors were Laurence Olivier, Richard Burton, Tyrone Power, James Stewart, Gregory Peck, Ray Milland, Stewart Granger, Robert Taylor, and Glenn Ford. Two of my parents’ friends were considered, but rejected by Warner: Humphrey Bogart was judged too old and Frank Sinatra was, incredibly, not considered a bankable talent in the early 1950s. Warner was keen to get Marlon Brando for the role, but he too declined.
