by Lorna Luft
An offer came from CBS—$100,000 for a ninety-minute prime-time spectacular. The resultant broadcast, on September 24, 1955, drew 44 million viewers to their televisions. Three more specials were contracted, but just one live broadcast (on April 8, 1956) materialized, due to disputes over content and issues with Mama’s ever-fluctuating weight. My parents set their sights on Las Vegas, where her show at the New Frontier set a box office record of $55,000 per week. The hotel management encouraged her to stay longer, but Mama moved on, with renewed confidence, to the Palace in New York, where Dad marveled at her elevated mood. But a second Vegas appearance at the Flamingo at the end of 1957 went badly, and Mama forfeited $100,000 by cutting short the three-week engagement. And so it went—disaster always following closely on the heels of triumph. The Lufts lived an itinerant showbiz life. They were away more than at home, and in search of the next lucrative deal as their lavish lifestyle had them constantly in debt.
Tensions mounted in this marriage between a free-spirited star and her hustling husband. Starting at age ten, Liza would tightly cover her ears to block out the vitriol hurled from both sides in my parents’ titanic wrangles. I remember when everything started to unravel at home. They would fight, separate, then reunite in an ongoing pattern. After a life-threatening health crisis put Mama in the Doctors Hospital in Manhattan for seven weeks in late 1959 (she was suffering from cirrhosis of the liver but it was explained to the press at the time as hepatitis) she decided that, in the summer of 1960, we would move to London, where she could enjoy a lucrative concert career there and in Europe. England made my mother feel safe because they loved her so much and it was a new beginning. We lived in a lovely house on King’s Road in the Chelsea neighborhood of West London that belonged to British film director Carol Reed. It was a magical period for the entire family because we were chasing a dream of “Let’s start all over again.” Mama kept an eye on American politics from abroad, as a new young candidate, John F. Kennedy, emerged to lead the pack. Mama supported his campaign, considering him a friend and, over time, a confidante.
The following year, Mama was in New York City and my parents were separated frequently. One of my father’s favorite memories during this period involves A Star Is Born. On February 25, 1961, the first New York City television broadcast of the film took place on WROC-TV. At 11:15 p.m., when the film ended, Dad—alone in his hotel—received a phone call from the hotel lobby. It was Mama’s chauffeur. “This is Miss Garland’s chauffeur,” the man said. “Miss Garland is here, in her car, and she would like to see you.”
Dad went downstairs and outside, in the back of the limousine, was Mama with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket with two glasses. “Hi, darling,” she said. “You watched the picture?” He nodded that he had. “Wasn’t it great?” she asked. “You produced a great picture, Sid.” My father replied, “Judy, it was your picture and you were great in it and it’s great to see you again.” Her voice breaking with emotion, she said, “Let’s celebrate.” The two of them did just that, at the El Morocco nightclub in New York City.39
Dad took leave of his management duties when Freddie Fields, until recently at MCA, promised Mama a career, not just one-shot jobs. A gentleman with a plan, he secured for her a U.S. concert tour, a new CBS television special, and a role in Judgment at Nuremberg, Stanley Kramer’s message picture, heavy with prestige. Mama would be part of a large all-star ensemble, playing a victim of Nazi persecution. Her three scenes, comprising just fifteen minutes of screen time, packed a punch, landing her another Oscar nomination, this time for Best Supporting Actress. Although she didn’t win, the Academy Award nomination meant a great deal to her as it was a dramatic role in an important film. The concert tour was a stellar success, with two performances at Carnegie Hall being the highlights of Mama’s concert bookings that year, the recording of which held the number-one position for thirteen weeks and remained on Billboard’s top 40 for seventy-three weeks. Judy at Carnegie Hall later won four Grammy Awards, including Best Female Vocalist and Album of the Year. The CBS television special, with Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, was a ratings smash, solidly besting its direct competition, NBC’s Bonanza. These singular victories solidified, even magnified, the legend that Judy Garland began to embody: the lady down for the count, arising, not just to fight on, but to win. She was back on top again.
The songs she sang onstage were personal metaphors, enriching her story: “Over the Rainbow,” “Get Happy,” “The Man That Got Away.” The Judy juggernaut was a phenomenon from 1961 through mid-1963. She was everywhere: in the movies, on television, on records, touring the country. It seemed she had finally found her sweet spot in material, medium, and audience. However, the veneer of good fortune and high spirits was beginning to crack.
Mama loaned her golden voice to Mewsette, an animated Parisian cat, singing five new songs by Harold Arlen and E. Y. Harburg in Gay Purr-ee (1962), a charming feature-length animated musical. Mewsette and company had only minor box-office success, with Newsweek observing the film was targeting “a hitherto undiscovered audience—the fey four-year-old of recherché taste.”40 Another Stanley Kramer production, A Child Is Waiting (1963), this one directed by John Cassavetes, was a trial for everyone involved. Even with Burt Lancaster costarring, audiences stayed away from the small picture with a big message about children with intellectual disabilities.
Before leaving New York for London to make I Could Go on Singing, my parents had an ultimate confrontation at the Stanhope Hotel on Fifth Avenue. Mama would insist that the dispute involved a physical assault, which is untrue. Their verbal attacks on each other were often vicious, but my father rarely laid a hand on my mother. She, Liza, Joey, and I were tucked into two limousines at the time, about to be whisked to the airport. Mama hated the script waiting for her in London, telling the story of a brilliant, yet very troubled singer—art was cuddling up too close to life. Friend and costar Dirk Bogarde was her protector, acting as a liaison between Mama and the producers and director Ronald Neame. But after one day on the set, armed with her ever-present pills, my mother attempted suicide. As with all her suicide attempts, it was a cry for help in a moment of dark despair. Mama’s lows were very low, just as her highs were higher than anyone’s. Mama was the most positive human being I’ve ever known. She always looked at the glass as being half-full. When at her lowest, she would pick herself up, dust herself off, and start all over again. She always looked for the silver lining. The problem was that silver has a tendency to tarnish.
Once filming resumed on I Could Go on Singing, the recovering star and Bogarde tried their hand at improvising, an especially effective strategy for the famous scene in the hospital where the singer is backed into a corner. Bogarde later wrote that Mama, in one long take, had gone “from black farce right through to black tragedy, a cadenza of pain and suffering, of bald, unvarnished truth.”41 This sequence is the breakdown-in-the-dressing-room scene in A Star Is Born all over again, minus the straw hat and freckles. Mama, of course, sang the title song by Arlen and Harburg, but even that did little to help the film find an audience. After this project, she found herself once again strapped financially and damaged professionally. Returning to the concert stage and the nightclub circuit was her best option. The Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas, making her feel respected and supported, adjusted her show time to 2:30 a.m. to accommodate her night-owl habits. Mama still sold out the house.
Mama with Dirk Bogarde in the famous hospital sequence from I Could Go on Singing (1963). The sequence was inspired by the breakdown scene in A Star Is Born and was captured in one take.
She also became a favorite talk-show guest, not only singing, but telling bawdy, raucous stories from her vaudeville days and her tenure at MGM, casually dropping the names of Mickey Rooney, Lana Turner, or Orson Welles. She was proving herself to be one of classic Hollywood’s most entertaining raconteurs, her quick wit matched by her gifts for physical comedy—she would often stand up to deliver her punch lines. Audiences adored her.
Her very first television talk-show appearance was on The Jack Paar Program, broadcast December 7, 1962, when she was promoting Gay Pur-ee. She sang “Little Drops of Rain” and “Paris Is a Lonely Town” before sitting with Paar for a hilarious chat. This lady was approaching the status of national treasure, if one who carried the baggage of her not-so-secret problems everywhere she landed.
Mama with guest Barbra Streisand sing a “Hooray for Love” medley on the The Judy Garland Show (1963). The show, the ninth episode of the series, was recorded and aired in October 1963.
Freddie Fields and his associate, David Begelman, capitalizing on the impressive ratings for Mama’s special, put together a package for all three networks to consider: a Judy Garland television variety series of twenty-six one-hour shows. CBS got on board swiftly, agreeing to pay the star $25,000 to $30,000 per show. After the network had made its target profit, they would allow her to take full ownership of the tapes and any further profits from their syndication. The show would be rehearsed and taped at CBS Television City in Hollywood. Mama was thrilled; she could rent or buy a house for her family to live in, and be home to tuck us in at night (except on evenings of taping). She could finally leave the hotels to the tourists, and make some real money. Plus, she could welcome and work with the biggest stars and the newest talents. She could be funny, be charming, and sing, sing, sing.
The Judy Garland Show first aired on September 29, 1963, in the deadly 9:00 p.m. slot against Bonanza. The series started promisingly. Mama, slimmer than she had been in years, attractive, and glamorous, clearly enjoyed hosting her friends, appreciating their talents, and sharing hers. Her first guest was none other than her closest MGM colleague and friend, Mickey Rooney, although the first episode to air was the seventh show, featuring her good friend Donald O’Connor. Unfortunately, CBS president James Aubrey was not a Judy Garland fan; the deal was made just before he assumed his position. Instead of supporting The Judy Garland Show and nurturing its success, Aubrey lost interest when it became clear it was not going to beat Bonanza in the Nielsen ratings. The show went through three different producers (George Schlatter, Norman Jewison, and Bill Colleran) and format changes. Mama tried to stay above the fray, saying, when questioned about her struggling show, that television was completely new to her, and that she would leave the tinkering to the experts. Her skills would have been better suited to a less scripted, more improvisational format, instead of being put in the position of ringmaster. A favorite segment was “Born in a Trunk,” a reference to A Star Is Born, where she would reminisce from her showbiz past as the springboard for a solo.
One episode, however, remains an example of what was right about the show at its best. A new sensation named Barbra Streisand was the guest, and she not only sang two beautiful solos—“Bewitched” and “Down with Love”—but made beautiful music with my mother. Barbra performed one of her signature songs, “Happy Days Are Here Again” in counterpoint to Mama’s “Get Happy.” In the footage, it’s clear to see that Mama was a “toucher,” placing a hand frequently on Barbra’s arm, or leaning in close, shoulder to shoulder, as if trying to make contact, express affection, or just plain hold on for security and assurance. The drop-by of Ethel Merman was an inspiration: three generations in admiration, sizing each other up. My mother’s solo spot at the show’s end capped the episode with a simple communion between artist and audience.
John F. Kennedy’s assassination occurred during a hiatus in the show’s production. Upon returning to the studio, Mama and her producer decided that a song in tribute to the late president would serve as the climactic moment of the next show that aired. In heartfelt pain over the nation’s loss, as well as her personal loss of a friend, Mama delivered a touching rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
The series limped along through the season, but Aubrey seemed determined to see it fail. In January 1964, he publicly announced the cancellation of The Judy Garland Show, leaving Mama and her team to finish their commitment with a black cloud hanging over them. The sudden, publicized axing was uncalled for, even vicious, but Mama soldiered on, turning the final show (broadcast on March 29) into a solo concert of her favorite crowd-pleasers, new and old. As she so often did, my mother put on a brave public face. But, like the box-office failure of A Star Is Born, she never fully recovered from this high-profile and costly setback. Just like the film, Mama was told what she wanted to hear: She was to be safe. This was her new creative home and it led down the yellow brick road. She was going to be great. This would provide her financial independence.
Mama, flanked by me and my brother Joe, as she prepares to open her third and final engagement at the Palace Theatre, New York City, July 1967.
Before the series was shut down, my parents made an attempt at a reconciliation—more Dad’s doing than hers as David Begelman, the ambitious but duplicitous associate of Freddie Fields, was attempting to control her life. Begelman had been largely responsible for developing the series, but my suspicious father arranged an audit of the books and discovered that Begelman had embezzled nearly $300,000 from his wife’s accounts and left her income tax unpaid. She placed the blame on the wrong man, however, excusing the loss as minor (it wasn’t) and closing the door on Sid Luft. Mama was in debt once again, hopes for security dashed, and facing an uncertain future.
Never, it seems, was Mama very long without a male companion. She focused for a while on thirty-five-year-old actor Mark Herron, whom she met at a New Year’s Eve party as 1963 made way for 1964. By this time, my mother had added Tuinal to her pharmaceutical inventory. When landing at the Sydney airport for a minitour in Australia, her entire stash was confiscated, causing a mad dash by Herron to replace it. The tour itself was an ordeal: the love that was showered on her in Sydney was eclipsed by derision in Melbourne, when the concert began extremely late. She overdosed in Hong Kong (on Tuinal), leaving her comatose in the hospital. Premature reporting claimed that she had died. Herron at her side, Mama continued pushing herself on from concert to concert, bouncing back after crashing flat.
My parents’ divorce was final on May 19, 1965, leaving my mother free to marry Mark Herron in November at the Little Church of the West in Las Vegas. The couple were separated a year later. Herron maintained that he still loved her. I was thirteen at this tumultuous time, when our family life was crumbling to pieces. The burden fell to Liza, in New York City, to become a mother to her own mother, seeing her through the worst, and hoping for the best. Joey and I were also on high alert, loving our mother but fearing her next self-destructive cycle. One day, I whispered to my father, “Daddy, I’ve got Mama right here. Right here in the throat.” I had an inkling that I possessed something of Mama’s great talent, but I was fearful of the monster that might come with it. Did being her daughter doom me to the unhappiness she faced?
The hoopla surrounding the film version of Jacqueline Susann’s best-selling 1966 novel Valley of the Dolls (1967) included the announcement that Judy Garland had been cast as Helen Lawson, the Broadway musical star, tough-as-nails broad, and ultimate survivor. For the juicy role, Mama would be paid $75,000 for ten days’ work and ten minutes of screen time. Twentieth Century Fox rolled out the red carpet, but Mama, a hellion of few equals when feeling insecure, couldn’t summon up the same cruel fire before the camera, and was let go. The studio permitted her to take one outfit and paid half of her salary. She chose a Travilla-designed pantsuit, heavily encrusted with beads and sequins, which she put to frequent use in concerts and personal appearances. Susan Hayward replaced her in the movie and wore the suit, exactly re-created.
Mama made the rounds of the 1960s television guest circuit, appearing on The Hollywood Palace, The Ed Sullivan Show, The Merv Griffin Show, and The Mike Douglas Show. On The Dick Cavett Show for the first time, on December 16, 1968, she looked like an abused doll, tiny and a bit raggedy next to the large and robust Lee Marvin. Six months before, on The Tonight Show, she had conversed brightly with Johnny Carson, and looked slim and vital
; even somehow taller.
Fortunately, at this critical juncture, Mama secured an engagement at The Talk of the Town, the nightclub in the old London Hippodrome, at $6,000 per week. But before she left New York City for England, she happened to strike up a close friendship with Mickey Deans, the night manager of the Manhattan discotheque Arthur. Mama impulsively spoke of love as they flew to London in December 1968. They wed on March 15, 1969, in a quick civil ceremony not unlike the one that united Esther Blodgett and Ernest Sidney Gubbins. She was counting on Deans (born DeVinko) to tell her what to do, to fix her, since he seemed to be proficient at many things, one of them attaining access to the medication to which she was now deeply addicted. He was her miracle guy. He bolstered her enough to engage in a successful Scandinavian tour with Johnnie Ray that followed the Talk of the Town appearances. The dates in Stockholm, Malmo, and Copenhagen were applauded and praised extravagantly. As unhealthy as Mama was at this phase of her life, she still had what it took to wow a crowd.
