by Anne Edwards
She got up to leave his office. There was that long walk across the thick carpet, and she was not yet steady on her feet. He came quickly from behind his massive white, carved desk and took her by the arm. He had bought her her first wrist-watch; masterminded her career; controlled her love life, weight, and appearance; arranged her abortion and her divorce. He offered her a “personal” loan. She could not do other than accept. They grasped hands tightly at the door to his outer office. Later she confessed to feeling a great terror come over her. She was saying goodbye to her Hollywood years.
She walked out of the MGM Administration Building into the blinding California sun. Her eyes teared and she adjusted her sunglasses as she hurried to her waiting car, never glancing up at the people she passed. A floppy hat was pulled down around her face as she settled far back in the rear seat. Then she closed her eyes as the driver headed out the front gate of the studio.
Part Three
I played the stage, the Capitol,
And people said, “Don’t stop”;
Until you’ve played the Palace
You haven’t played the top.
For years I had it preached to me,
And drummed into my head;
Unless you played the Palace,
You might as well be dead.
... it became the Hall of Fame—
The mecca of the trade;
When you had played the Palace,
You knew that you were made.
So I hope you’ll understand
My wondrous thrill;
‘Cause Vaudeville’s back at the Palace,
And I’m on the bill.
—Roger Edens
23At the beginning of her severance from Mayer and the studio, Judy felt like a displaced refugee. There seemed no place for her to go. Her film career appeared to be behind her. Summer Stock was yet to be released, and she knew her performance had been creditable; but word had passed from studio to studio; rumor spread by mouth to press—Garland was an untouchable. At her own studio she had been replaced by Leslie Caron, Jane Powell, and Debbie Reynolds. At Twentieth Century-Fox, Marilyn Monroe had startled audiences and awakened studio executives in The Asphalt Jungle and All About Eve.
Mayer’s loan was little more than what recently had constituted a week’s salary. Admittedly, that amount was above the national yearly income for a family of four, but that had to be placed in its proper perspective. Judy had never handled her own money—had no conception of the cost of things. Since achieving stardom at MGM, she had lived in the manner of royalty. Houses were showcases; clothes were specially designed, cars and chauffeurs ordered on demand; secretaries answered mail; maids cleaned; cooks commanded kitchens; children were in the hands of nursemaids; bills were paid by accountants; and you never saw the money you earned. What she knew was that in order to keep all these things in running order, she must perform nonstop. Now the mechanism had ground to a heavy halt.
Panic set in. She was broke. In a similar situation average people would, perhaps, move to a small apartment, tend house themselves, take any kind of job to tide them over. But Judy had no idea how to accomplish such a foreign way of living.
Instead, she moved into the Beverly Hills Hotel—possibly one of the most luxurious hotels in the world, but the one she was accustomed to visiting when close friends and business associates came to California. Her suite (she had Liza and a nursemaid with her) cost over $150 a day. She never thought to ask, however, how much it was costing her; and had she, it is doubtful that she would have known what else to do. One thing was obvious, though: Mayer’s loan would not last long with such a high standard of living.
Louella Parsons (in her book Tell It to Louella) stated: “I have heard it said that much that happened to Judy was the fault of Hollywood. I can’t agree. I can only say, however, that it could only have happened in Hollywood.”
Hollywood citizenry is not notable for a sense of loyalty. Riven, at the time, by mushrooming clouds of McCarthyism, Hollywood trembled in fear. Pink subpoenae were being received at the most famous houses, commanding their occupants to appear before The Committee. But those who did not receive subpoenae were not free and clear; they could be guilty by association. It was an economic condition that the Hollywood elite had always had to survive. To be connected with a film that failed, a falling star, a has-been director could mean the taint would rub off on anyone too close. That is why there were during those years so many “comebacks” in Hollywood. One bad film and you were reduced to the status of “has-been.”
With that fear always hanging over their heads, members of the industry who had a free choice, could not afford the risk of hiring a star who might crack up at any moment and throw their budget or film into chaos. Judy was fully aware of her position. In some ways, she accepted this harsh truth with a sense of relief. Appearing before the cameras was unthinkable. She was sick and exhausted. For days she never got out of her hotel room. Then she was presented with her first weekly bill. The same anxieties and terrors as when she had seen her hospital bills grasped her, and Mayer’s loan was running out.
To further complicate her situation, she was without representation. She had, the last few years, been represented by the Berg-Allenberg Agency, but Phil Berg and Burt Allenberg had split. Berg, whose private client she was, no longer had an association with the office. Had she been a winner at that time, there is no question that Allenberg would have held tenaciously on to her agency commitment. It would seem, however, that no matter how reluctant he was in moral attitude to walk away from her, his business acumen won out.
Most plaudits have gone to Sid Luft, who was to be her future husband, and Abe Lastfogel, of the William Morris Agency, who would finally come to represent her, for starting Judy out on a new career—the concert stage. But in fact, it was Ethel who was responsible for the second phenomenon of stardom in her daughter’s life.
Now divorced from Gilmore, Ethel rushed to Judy’s side. Whatever her motive, whatever enmity had been between them, however complex Ethel’s reappearance in Judy’s life and Judy’s acceptance of that presence—each now desperately needed the other, and neither had anyone else to turn to. True, Ethel had two other daughters, but they had gone their own ways: Sue marrying bandleader Jack Cathcart and living in Las Vegas; Jimmy now married to Thomas Thompson and residing in Dallas. One of Ethel’s sisters, Norma, did live in Hollywood and was, in fact, struggling to make a career for herself as a singer. Married to a stunt man and fighting Judy’s image (her voice had a distinct Garland ring to it), Norma did not seem to Ethel to have a real future. Except for one brother, Frank Milne, the other close members of her large family were not part of the entertainment world, and as Frank was a gambler, Ethel did not approve of him and was always angry when Judy advanced him money. Ethel, not prepared yet to go it alone, turned to Judy.
It seemed perfectly clear to Ethel that since Judy had started on a stage with a live audience, she could begin again there. Convincing Judy that cabaret or theater exposure would not be as demanding as films, Ethel then had to set about, as she once had, to find an engagement. She never had to persuade Judy of the financial necessity of her working. Judy was almost too much aware of the fact, and it pained her gravely. Minnelli was not inclined, nor could he afford, to maintain a standard of accustomed living for them both individually.
Having been out of the business for years, Ethel could only hope to tap familiar and old haunts. She went to the Cal-Neva Lodge; and though the terms of that contract aren’t known, the fee Ethel was to receive was reported as fair and satisfactory. The two women then went to Roger Edens, who helped them put together an act. (This was fundamentally the same act that Judy later took to the Palladium.)
By the time Judy arrived at Cal-Neva Lodge, Summer Stock had previewed. After viewing it at a private showing, Billy Rose was prompted to write her an open letter in his syndicated column, Pitching Horseshoes, titling the letter “Love Letter to a National Asset” and addressing it t
o Judy at the Cal-Neva Lodge, Lake Tahoe, California. Rose (who had once been married to Fanny Brice) wrote in part:
I found your portrayal of a farm girl in “Summer Stock” as convincing as a twenty-dollar gold piece, and when you leveled on Harold Arlen’s old song, “Get Happy”—well, it was Al Jolson in lace panties, Maurice Chevalier in opera pumps! . . . Naturally you’re wondering why I’m taking heart in ball-pen and writing you this love-and-kudos letter right out in the open. Well, like everyone else, I read the front-page stories about you a couple of months back, and from the lines between the lines I sensed that you had been having a bout with the jim-jams yourself, and that you no longer cared much whether school kept or not. . . .
This letter—and I know it’s plenty presumptuous—is to point out, in case you haven’t thought of it yourself, how important it is to millions of people in this country that school continue to keep for Judy Garland. ... It gets down to this, Judy: In an oblique and daffy sort of way, you are as much a national asset as our coal reserves—both of you help warm up our insides.
The letter was signed “Your devoted fan, Billy Rose.”
All the principals in the Cal-Neva plan to present Judy Garland for the first time in a supper club are now dead, and with them died the explanation of why Judy never did honor that contract. She remained at the Lodge for several weeks at their expense and worked on musical arrangements with Roger Edens. But then she abruptly left and returned to the Beverly Hills Hotel, now checking into a seven-room suite, which included connecting rooms for Ethel; for a secretary, Myrtle Tully; and for Liza and her nursemaid. Judy then proceeded to indulge herself in an eating binge that within a very short time added an additional thirty pounds to her five-foot-two-inch frame.
Now, answerable only to herself, she was flaunting Hollywood and all the demands and restrictions being a film star had imposed. When her hair once again began to fall out, she clipped it short and wore it in a boyish style; and taking what little money remained, she bought an air ticket to New York, moving Liza and the nursemaid back to Minnelli’s care and sending Ethel to stay with Norma. The hotel was told to send the bill to her agents, Berg and Allenberg, although they no longer represented her.
In New York she checked into a luxury hotel, devoured almost every dish on the Room Service menu, walked all over Manhattan, and cheered New York to win over Philadelphia in the 1950 World Series. Friends extended her loans which enabled her to survive, but it was her exposure to the crowds of people who grasped her hands, the contact with fans who appeared to love and care for her that kept her alive.
She became exceptionally heavy. The joy, the ecstasy of her new personal freedom faded fast. The hotel bill was ballooning as quickly as she was. Anxiety riddled her body, stirring her into constant wakefulness; and there was not the pill availability she had had in California.
Plump, matronly-looking, on edge, she attended a cocktail party and at it met Michael Sidney Luft. Later she claimed it was love at first sight. Perhaps, but it is more likely that she simply responded to his flattering male attention, which had not been coming her way for a long time. Always a romantic, Judy needed romance in her life now more than ever before to help her reestablish her sense of “womanliness”; it is therefore, not difficult to understand Luft’s appeal for her.
He did not stand in judgment of anything she did. He was a rebellious spirit, rootless, and without any specific talent or trade. Born in New Rochelle, Luft had grown up in Bronxville, New York, and had attended the Hun School in Princeton, the University of Pennsylvania, and the University of Miami. Athletically inclined as a young man, he had always been a glib talker and a bit of a show-off. He came from a small middle-class Jewish family, and he seemed able to break ties quite early. At the age of nineteen he was living on his own in Ottawa, Canada, where he was involved in the production of an Aquacade. It was his first taste of professional show business, and it made a strong impression on him. On future records he claimed that in 1940 he had joined the Royal Canadian Air Force and that once discharged, he had traveled to Hollywood. In Hollywood he looked up an old schoolmate from Bronxville, dancer Eleanor Powell, who was then a star, and for a time was her secretary.
After that, records state he was a Douglas test pilot and a technical adviser on the flying sequences of a low-budget film called Charter Pilot The film was what was then called a “programmer”—meaning it was to be booked as the bottom half of a double feature. In it was actress Lynn Bari, known at the time as the Queen of the “B’s.” Luft married her and immediately stepped in to take over her career. His intention was to promote an independent film with himself as producer and Miss Bari as star. A lovely-looking lady, a reliable performer, and a popular supporting player, Miss Bari, unfortunately, did not have the charisma on which stars and independent films are banked, and so for eight years Luft floundered through a marriage in which his wife was the bigger wage earner—but through no business acumen attributable to him.
Broad-shouldered, bedroom-eyed, easy-mannered, Luft had a freewheeling, unrestrained attitude that had a special charm for Judy. It was new; it was exciting; and there was a sense of surprise at her own attraction to him. He was not at all like her previous husbands.
She returned to Los Angeles, and Luft followed. Neither had a job, and both were involved in divorce actions. They saw each other constantly, and what he said, coupled with Ethel’s initial push, nagged at her. In essence, it was “The hell with films—why not the stage?” And if the stage—why not the Palace? He also suggested he manage her career. But Judy still had too much respect for the Hollywood “system” and was inclined to believe she needed a strong and well-established Hollywood agency. She went to Phil Berg, who was now with Abe Last-fogel at William Morris. Berg discussed it with Abe and they met with Judy. The next day the new alliance was announced in Variety:
Hollywood, October 10 [1950]:
Judy Garland signed an agency deal with the William Morris office, which will function hereafter as her representatives [sic] in all phases of show business. First move will be to set up guest shots on radio, but the star will not be available for T.V. work “for the time being.”
In the same issue of Variety was an announcement that “finally free” from her Metro contract, Judy Garland was “back in harness.” There was mention of the possibility of her replacing Mary Martin in South Pacific, recording two Decca albums, and/or doing a film or stage musical version of Booth Tarkington’s Alice Adams for Jerry Wald and Norman Krasna at RKO. But the most significant item in the short article mentioned talk of a late-January European trip.
Judy discussed the idea of her giving a concert at the Palace with Abe Lastfogel. Lastfogel did not laugh at her—which she was afraid he might. He did, however, discuss the advisability of trying out the act first before reaching New York. He asked, “Why not the Palladium in London?” Judy replied, “Why not?” but she never gave it serious consideration.
All talk of film and stage activity soon faded. She did record an album and appear on eight radio shows with Bing Crosby and in a Lux Radio Theatre adaptation of Easter Parade. It was just enough work to keep the wolves away from their door —“their” implying Luft and herself. Luft was now acting as her business manager and handling all incoming revenue. It could not have been an easy task, for Judy still had a mountain of debts, including moneys owed the Government for back taxes.
During her CBS radio performance of Easter Parade, there was an incident that on the surface might have seemed rather unspectacular in the life of a famous person. She met a devoted fan, a man named Wayne Martin who for fourteen years had submerged his own personal life into a total and vicarious absorption in Judy’s life and career. A thoughtful, quiet, semi-scholarly man, he had been a loner much of his life, living in a Hollywood apartment that was a jumble of Garland “artifacts": records; clippings; pictures; a few letters from Judy, signed to him in “her left-handed longhand.” Wayne Martin was no teen-ager, romantic boy, or shy Rom
eo. Asked to define his fanatic dedication, which persisted and was constant through the years that followed that first meeting, Martin was quoted as saying, “As soon as the overture starts, a feeling comes over the whole audience—the anticipation and the love. When she sings, there’s a cry from her being. People want to help her.”
The Garland Cult had surfaced.
24Liza, speaking to a Time interviewer from the floor of her apartment as she hugged her dog and smoked cigarettes, talked about the years with Luft and her mother. “We started moving around a lot from one house to another. Usually we moved in the night. That was probably because Mama was so broke and maybe she owed money to landlords. Anyway, every time we moved, I’d find myself in a different school. Private, if we could afford it; public, if we couldn’t. As a result, I hated school.”
And speaking to Stephen K. Oberbeck of Good Housekeeping magazine, she recalls, “When Mama was down in the dumps, I’d say, ‘Come on, Mama, let’s go to the park and ride the roller coaster.’“
This wasn’t the life Judy had wanted for Liza. She would have had it another way if it were possible. Money always seemed the key. She had worked all her life, and there wasn’t anything there for Liza’s security and future. Luft promised her he could change all this, and she believed him because she wanted desperately to do so.
On March 23, 1951, she went into court to obtain her divorce from Minnelli, charging mental cruelty and telling Judge McKay from the witness stand in a slow, deliberate voice, “He [Minnelli] secluded himself and he wouldn’t explain why he left me alone so much.”
Even for Hollywood, the provisions for Liza were most unusual. Judy was to have legal custody, but the child would spend six months each year with each parent. However, in the words of the pact, “.. . The child will be given utmost ‘freedom of locomotion’ and changes from one home to the other will be irregular to avoid the child developing a feeling of regimentation.”