by Lorna Luft
My mother’s conviction to the lyric of a song was one of her great gifts. In a two-part autobiographical essay for McCall’s magazine in 1964, my mother wrote:
There’s something about my voice that makes them see all the sadness and humor they’ve experienced. It makes them know that they aren’t too different; they aren’t apart. That’s the only reason I can give for people’s liking to hear me sing, because I’m not that fine a singer. Sometimes my vibrato is too fast or too slow, although I’ve got good pitch. I have good diction, and I read a song much more than I sing it.
I try to bring the audience’s own drama—tears and laughter they know about—to them. I try to match my lifelong experiences with theirs, and they match their own sadness and happiness to mine. I think that’s it. Both men and women connect me with Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, and they have a protective attitude toward me, which is rather sweet.2
One of the finest assessments of my mother’s singing voice was provided by critic and author Henry Pleasants in his 1974 text The Great American Popular Singers. Pleasants describes her voice as follows:
She had the most utterly natural vocal production of any singer I had ever heard. Probably because she sang so much as a child, and learned to appreciate the appeal of her child’s voice, she made no effort as she grew older to produce her voice in any other way. It was an open-throated, almost birdlike vocal production, clear, pure, resonant, innocent. One keeps coming back to that word innocent, again and again. It was not just an innocent sound. More importantly, it was a sound innocent of anything that smacked of artful management.3
Though just a young girl, my mother had the capability to tap into the emotional content of words wrapped in a melody. The Judy Garland of Kansas and Oz, at sixteen, turned an “I wish” song into a meditation on loneliness and longing. Before The Wizard of Oz, Mama was star-struck, in love from afar in “You Made Me Love You.” After it, she pined for “The Boy Next Door” in Meet Me in St. Louis. She headed out West “On the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe,” in The Harvey Girls, and took the stage to “Be a Clown” for The Pirate. In Summer Stock, she urged everyone to “Get Happy” with a conviction that implied she was trying to convince herself as well. And then, suddenly, she was older and wiser, thanks to having her heart broken by “The Man That Got Away.” Her life and personality can be found in her music. She was, by her own admission, most alive and her true self when she was singing. This personal truth even made it into A Star Is Born: “I somehow feel most alive when I’m singing,” Esther Blodgett tells Norman Maine early in their relationship. As Roger Edens composed in his lyric of special material for my mother’s first appearance at the Palace Theatre, and reworked for the “Born in the Trunk” sequence of A Star Is Born, “The history of my life is in my songs.”
As the longing in her voice indicates, Mama was a searcher. She was always looking—looking for the right time to be a mother, for the right audience to appreciate how much she had to share, for the right man to be her partner in whatever came next, and for the right place to call home. She was still searching when she died.
Beyond the initial New York City television broadcast in 1961, my mother refused to watch A Star Is Born after the 1954 premieres in Los Angeles, New York City, and Chicago. Once the film had been butchered, it was difficult for her to sit and relive the making of this scene or that, that number or this, knowing what had been on the screen and could never be again, knowing what so many viewers had missed. It was too painful for her. George Cukor felt the same way. In a letter to production designer Gene Allen in 1979, Cukor revealed that he refused to see the shortened version. Although he had never seen it, he was aware of all the cuts and what scenes were lost. He wrote Allen that the film’s final edit was “Jack Warner’s last crime! I’ve been used to cuts in pictures that I’ve done but this one strikes me as irreparable and tragic. Maybe tragic is too pompous a word—but it was awfully sad and unnecessary.”4
I agree. It was sad, and I thought, as Mr. Cukor said, “irreparable.” There was nothing to be done, too much time had passed. I had to let it go. When I first saw the film, I remember my favorite scene—very short, but sweet. Within the movie-studio gates, the Southern California sun shines brightly. Esther, in a cute little dress and perky hat, gets in line at the payroll booth, at the “A through K” window, but is told to go the next one, where she repeats her name, “Blodgett.” The clerk finds her under L, then spells out the name: “V-i-c-k-i L-e-s-t-e-r.” Esther is at first perplexed, then thoughtful, then resigned, then pleased, speaking the name aloud, as she walks away with her paycheck. My mother, I think, did that many times, both inside and outside the studio gates. Blindsided by circumstance, she would gather herself and move on.
I was very touched by the ending of A Star Is Born, but I was struck by how strange it was that Esther didn’t sing. This was a musical disguised as a drama, with no grand finale. I was entranced by the scene in the little motel room, where Esther sings, partly a cappella, to Norman Maine, “It’s a New World.” It’s a lovely ballad, tender and optimistic. It’s my favorite song in the film.
The movie also left me pondering very personal questions. I was startled by the scenes in which Esther/Vicki desperately attempts to care for and save her addict husband. The sequence in the dressing room, where she’s dressed in the costume of a freckled, ragamuffin newsboy, was devastating to me. Esther is confiding to her friend (and Norman’s), the head of the studio, and holding back tears, venting her frustration and desperation. Explaining how much she loves him, yet sometimes hates him for failing. Then she goes on, “But… I hate me, too.” She feels a sense of shame for failing, for not being enough for the man she loves. Esther breaks down in an emotional spiral that was very familiar to me. I had been a similar caregiver for my mother in her later years. I knew exactly what had driven Esther to tears.
After watching A Star Is Born for the first time, I immediately called my father in Los Angeles to inquire about this particular scene. “Did she know what she was saying?” I asked. “Did she know she was talking about herself?” Without a pause, he responded, “You bet she did. That’s why it’s so good.” I realized at that moment that in real life, my mother was Esther Blodgett and Vicki Lester, but there were traits in her—especially her drug dependency—that strongly echoed the character of Norman Maine.
My father agreed with me. My mother was an unpredictable woman. He came to know her after her MGM contract was cancelled and the subject of Hollywood gossip, rumors, and blind items published in the magazines and newspapers. After they met, my mother and father worked together to put the star back on her feet for some very successful concerts. These events raised her profile once again, sparked new interest in Judy Garland, and paved the way for a comeback in movies. It didn’t get past Dad that there was a twist here. The comeback, A Star Is Born, was filled with overtones—dark and light—that echoed my mother’s life.
My father knew the great risk they were both taking, but had confidence that his new wife could pull it off—even under the spell of drugs and alcohol. Dad admitted to ignoring the bottom line, the movie, as everyone in town knew. He allowed it to go way over budget. Then after premiering, the re-cut movie failed, and my mother failed, too, sending her careening into a downward spiral of depression and deeper drug dependency. My dad always said, “I know that I did the best I could do, and it still wasn’t enough.”5
As my mother’s sometimes-caregiver, I had experienced her at her worst. The Nembutal, the Seconal, and the Tuinal were supplemented at some point with Ritalin. She was taking fifty to one hundred milligrams per day—more than double the normal dose. With no turnaround in sight, she kept forging ahead, digging deeper ruts as she spun her wheels. At that time, there were only a few sanitariums and clinics for treatment, the kind Norman Maine is subjected to in the film. There was no Betty Ford Center, no comfortable private retreats. So, the story of A Star Is Born was a very personal, and unfortunately biographical, tale.
Once I saw the parallels between the movie and Mama’s life, I began to wonder: was there more to learn in the rumored missing pieces of the puzzle? The precise storytelling that I was used to seeing in a Hollywood movie was absent in the first half. It was confusing and disorienting. What happened between Esther’s trancelike walk up the stairs after informing Danny of her decision and the big jump to the makeup room at the studio? Where did the plot go, the logic, the motivations? Where was the love story? I was so close to the heart of the matter, I wondered if anyone else cared about this movie the way I did.
A Star Is Born was kept alive in a butchered form as late-night television programming and remembered fondly by those lucky few who had seen and remembered the film in its original full-length version.
I’ve always been clearheaded about the great highs and shattering lows that being Judy Garland’s daughter has brought with it. The responsibility I feel to my mother’s legacy is to always ensure that her talent and image are held in high regard, with respect, and with honor—for her work and what she gave as an actress, a singer, and an entertainer. One of the most extraordinary comebacks my mother ever made happened after her death. A Star Is Born was kept alive in a butchered form as late-night television programming and remembered fondly by those lucky few who had seen and remembered the film in its original full-length version. It was also revered by Judy Garland fans. By the 1970s, Mama’s A Star Is Born had become a cult classic rather than a great film.
Near the top of my list of things I wanted in life was to see A Star Is Born as my parents and George Cukor had crafted it and intended it to be seen. All the “shoulds” apply here. It should have been seen in its full 181-minute glory in its initial general release. It should not have been so harshly cut, and the resulting remnants scattered so carelessly. It should have been the high point of Act II of Judy Garland’s career, not the vast disappointment that shadowed Act III. I (and many others) also felt it should have been nominated for Best Picture. It should have won Mama the Best Actress Oscar, and, along with it, Hollywood’s approval. The movie should have confirmed in everyone’s eyes that, when my mother was good, she was the very best. Finally, in 1983, my wish came true: A Star Is Born was transformed and reborn into a treasured happy ending for me.
In the late 1970s and early 1980s, there was an evolving atmosphere of concern for the state of Hollywood classics. Cable television and the advent of home video began generating a greater interest in older films. Those who cared about film history were appalled to discover that old negatives and prints of some of the greatest films were often missing, uncatalogued, or sitting deteriorating in studio vaults and rented warehouses. Ronald Haver, at the time head of the Film Department at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA), thought he might have a chance to rescue one of his favorite films, A Star Is Born from 1954. He thought maybe he could restore the film that everyone knew was incomplete—“a vandalized masterpiece,” as Christopher Finch aptly described it in his 1975 critical biography Rainbow: The Stormy Life of Judy Garland.6 Haver suspected the 181-minute premiere version might be out there somewhere. This was a film preservationist’s golden opportunity to combine the love of his job with the love of this movie he had first seen when he was sixteen years old.
In 1974, Haver had already curated a George Cukor retrospective at LACMA. The director had declined his invitation to attend the screening of A Star Is Born. In October 1981, Haver was involved with a tribute evening to Ira Gershwin at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, the highlight being my mother’s superb interpretation of “The Man That Got Away” in an original 35mm four-track stereo print on Eastmancolor film stock. Also included was her audio recording of Gershwin and Harold Arlen’s jingle for the Trinidad Coconut Oil Shampoo commercial, unearthed by the singer and music revivalist Michael Feinstein (who at that time was working as the archivist of Ira Gershwin). This audio was from one of the scenes that had been cut and discarded. Although the sound quality was poor and missing the visual component, the discovery was significant, and led to further interest in the film’s restoration.
A photo depicting the editing of A Star Is Born. Film editor Folmar Blangsted is examining a strip of 35mm film while leaning on a Moviola. (The image on the screen is a still photograph of Norman Maine and Vicki Lester planning their Malibu beach home.)
Another catalyst to the project was the success of Barbra Streisand’s 1976 version; if Streisand’s interpretation could find such an enormous audience, then perhaps the time was right to revive Judy Garland’s. My friends knew I wanted to see the original cut of the film. Film critic Rex Reed was in touch with a man who claimed to have an uncut print of A Star Is Born from an uncle who had been a projectionist and refused to cut the film back in 1954. However, he was reluctant to show us the print for fear that it might be confiscated by Warner Bros. or even the FBI for theft of a film print he had no right to own. He kept making us communicate with him at various pay telephone booths in New York City until we convinced him we weren’t working with the authorities but simply wanted to see the uncut version of A Star Is Born. Rex arranged a screening room and we ordered champagne and caviar in celebration. We looked at the stack of film canisters that read A Star Is Born and my nerves were on edge. I was cautious, but consumed by curiosity and excitement. We sat back in our chairs and dimmed the lights and on came a black-and-white copy of the MGM musical Good News (1947), with “The French Lesson” number cut out. Kay Thompson, who was in the screening room, remarked, “Well, taken once again!” The film appeared cursed. So much for that caper.
Ron Haver was more fortunate. Academy president Fay Kanin and Gene Allen were enthusiastic about the idea of attempting to restore the original cut of the film. Allen contacted George Cukor, whose response was, “Very intriguing, by all means—go ahead with it.”7 The Academy then formally approached Robert Daly, chairman of Warner Bros., for the necessary permission and to finance Haver’s search. The assent was given, and Haver began to examine the Warner Bros. paper files and film storage on both East and West Coasts.
The proposal scene of Norman and Vicki on the soundstage. This was cut after the premiere. Photo by Sanford Roth.
Dave Strohmaier, an apprentice editor at Warner Bros., located the complete 181-minute monaural soundtrack in the studio sound library, but, unfortunately, not all of the camera footage to accompany it. Searches at the Technicolor laboratory, rummages at various film exchanges, and inquiries to private collectors consumed months of Haver’s time. In an unmarked can, Haver did find one complete scene—the proposal with Vicki Lester singing “Here’s What I’m Here For” and the microphone pickup of Norman and Vicki’s intimate conversation. At the studio stock footage library, Haver discovered fragments of outtakes from scenes included in the full-length version. Best of all, he located an alternate take of “Lose That Long Face.” Although he had the complete 181-minute soundtrack, and had found two cut musical numbers, over twenty minutes of camera footage remained missing. Haver decided to build a reconstruction of the film with a mint condition Technicolor negative of the shorter version as his main image source, the 154 minutes of stereo soundtrack on the studio’s reference print, and the 181 minutes of monaural soundtrack as the basis for his work. Haver thought that by using the footage he had located, supplemented by still photographs from the film, he could create animated photo montages paired with the surviving soundtrack.
Mama dressed as a carhop with director George Cukor on location at Robert’s Drive-In, Hollywood.
My mother and father during production of the carhop sequence.
Mama as a carhop in a scene deleted after the film’s premiere. Actor Chick Chandler is behind the wheel.
Mama flanked by child actors Patricia Rosamond and Bobby Sailes in the “Lose That Long Face” musical number. The entire number was cut shortly after the film’s premiere in 1954 and the footage remained lost for nearly thirty years. Photo by Bob Willoughby
Once it was
discovered that twenty minutes of the picture were permanently lost, the studio suggested a demonstration of how the still photos might be layered over the surviving soundtrack before investing $30,000 for the full reconstruction. Once a sample of Haver’s reconstruction work was ready, a private screening was arranged at the Academy for Robert Daly. George Cukor was invited as well and accepted the invitation. Sadly, he died of heart failure two days before the screening, on January 24, 1983, at the age of eighty-three. Nevertheless, the screening went on and everyone was pleased with the results. Cukor’s sudden death galvanized everyone into action: the film must be completed as a tribute to the late director and as a case study in the importance of preservation. The reconstruction was filled with high drama. For example, D. J. Ziegler of the Academy Film Department worked long hours on “Lose That Long Face,” in order to synchronize the sound to the silent outtake footage. After the reconstruction was completed and first shown, the original negative of “Lose That Long Face” surfaced among 1,200 film reels seized by the Los Angeles district attorney’s office from a Burbank storage facility. A private collector had spirited the reels of film away from the Warner Bros. studios. It was eventually inserted into Haver’s reconstruction. Although Cukor had died, Gene Allen served as advisor on the look and feel of the lost sequences when they were re-created using still photographs.
