by Anne Edwards
Her health now took a dramatic turn. She contracted the flu, and her frail and undernourished body had great trouble fighting it off. Then the medication the doctor prescribed for the flu conflicted with her other pills and a near-toxic condition arose. This was Thursday, January 23, and as luck would have it, she was scheduled to appear that Sunday night as the star on the television variety series Sunday Night at the Palladium.
Her performances Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights were poor. Rhodes realized she was ill, but as he was conducting the orchestra for her for the Palladium, he still pressed her to work with him on the numbers she planned to sing (he did not even know which these were to be). She grew unreasonably angry at him. (There was a piece of business they did every night. She would come out onstage and take a drink from the piano and ask Rhodes to test it. “Oh, it’s fine,” he would reply “you can drink that. It’s Bitter Lemon.” And she would counter, “Oh no! not Bitter Lemon again!” But that Friday night she turned to him and answered sharply, “Himmler!”)
Sunday night she stepped unsteadily from the car at the Palladium stage door with Deans on one side of her and the doctor on the other. Rhodes ran out to meet her and asked her legitimately and with concern, “What numbers do you want to do?”
“Go play the overture,” Judy replied.
“You can’t put a three-and-a-half-minute overture in the middle of a television program,” he warned her.
“You’ll have to,” she told him tersely. “Then I’ll do ‘London’ and ‘For Once in My Life.’ ”
The Palladium show was live, and Judy’s appearance was only minutes away. Rhodes consulted the two men, Alex Fine and Bill Ward, who were in charge of the show and asked what he should do. It was agreed that no one had a choice. Rhodes, therefore, after the half-time break, led the orchestra in the overture.
The head cameraman was confused. Assuming Judy would be stepping out onstage right away, he held the camera on the empty stage with only a backdrop which spelled J U D Y in neon lights, giving the fourteen million people in the television audience the impression that Judy might not show. As soon as the overture ended and “London” began, Judy stumbled onto the stage, overly drugged, but appearing drunk and having trouble remembering lyrics. Somehow she got through the show.
That next afternoon, interviewer Pamela Foster-Williams came to see her at the Ritz and found her looking “pathetically tiny, vulnerable, and sick”; but she noted that Judy’s mind was sharp and her wit intact, and that there was a moment of radiance in her face when Deans entered the suite with Brandy, their dog. When Miss Foster-Williams asked about the “forgotten” lyrics, Judy replied, “Oh, that was part of the act.”
By that following Friday she was still ill but had managed (though some evenings disastrously) to get through all the performances but one—that night having to walk offstage after her fourth number. Friday night, she did not feel she could make it. She began crying when Vivian Martyne stepped in to help her dress. “I can’t go on,” she confessed miserably.
Deans insisted she go on. They had an argument about it. He forced the issue. “Please, don’t make me go on,” she begged. Deans kept insisting. Judy finally complied. She took extra medication. Tears had spoiled her makeup, and Miss Martyne repaired it. She was one hour and forty-five minutes late. The audience was hostile. She looked drunk, and they had been kept waiting a long time. She began to sing, but her voice failed her. She stood terrified not far from the piano. She began again, but halfway through the opener her voice faded. Members of the audience began to shout, and then someone at a ringside table hurled empty cigarette packets and rubbish from ashtrays at her.
Judy, in a numbed state, near tears, and unable to account for her actions, got down on her hands and knees and began to pick up the debris, muttering, “Oh dear, Oh dear,” as she did. Before she could even get to her feet, a man had jumped onto the stage, demanding an apology as he grabbed the microphone from her, almost sending her, off balance, to the floor. “If you can’t turn up on time, why turn up at all?” he sneered.
At that moment, someone from the same party threw some hard-lump sugar at her. It struck the glass of Bitter Lemon on the piano, and the glass shattered. Judy was shaking, but as she stood there facing that angry mob, no one at all coming to her assistance or stepping in to stop the show, she must have recalled the times Ethel and her sisters had suffered the same insults. She straightened, her head back, grasping the microphone tightly between both hands. “I’m at least a lady,” she said with all the power she could muster, and then, putting the microphone back, she fought her tears and stumbled off the stage.
For two days she did not leave her bed at the Ritz. Brandy stood guard, refusing to leave his post at the foot of the massive bed. The doctor fought to get her to eat, fearing her worst danger to be malnutrition. Then, miraculously, she snapped back to life.
The last week of her engagement at The Talk of The Town, Burt Rhodes was quoted as saying, “The lady was absolutely incredible.” She was in good humor, and most of the performances were excellent. One night she couldn’t quite make the end note of “Over The Rainbow,” and a young girl in the audience with a soprano voice finished it for her. Judy laughed delightedly and applauded her. Her closing performance was on a Saturday night, February 1, 1969. It was a very emotional evening, and after a particularly good show there was a queue of people both at the stage door and up the stairs, waiting to see her. At two in the morning when she left, the queue was still there, jamming the sidewalk when she got into the car. Standing for a brief moment, she smiled and waved to them.
39On February 11 shortly after her engagement at The Talk of The Town ended, Judy received the following telegram from Godfrey Isaac:
FINAL JUDGEMENT HERRON VERSUS HERRON ENTERED FEBRUARY 11, 1969, IN JUDGEMENT BOOK 6308, PAGE 11 AND SIGNED BY COURT JUDGE WILLIAM E. MACFADDEN. COURT WILL NOT SEND WIRE, BUT ENTRY MAY BE VERIFIED BY TELEPHONE DIRECTLY TO LOS ANGELES COUNTY SUPERIOR COURT CLERK.
BEST REGARDS—GODFREY ISAAC.
Judy and Deans had just moved into a small mews house in Chelsea.Like most mews houses, it was built on two floors, one partially over a garage; it was located in a short cul-de-sac backing Sloane Square. (Mews “houses” were originally built to accommodate the staffs of the mansion houses facing the main streets and were always in alleys or cul-de-sacs, where first carriages, then cars were kept. They have been especially attractive to Americans in London over the years.) It was, certainly, the most modest house Judy had lived in since childhood. Downstairs consisted of a living room that led directly off the cul-de-sac, a tiny kitchen, small dining room, and toilet. Upstairs, there were three small bedrooms and a bath. One of these Judy designated as her dressing room; one as a den for Deans to work in (having just been fired from Arthur, he was now functioning as her manager); the largest bedroom (still no more than ten by twelve feet), with the bathroom close at hand, becoming their “suite.” Brandy’s size presented something of a problem, as the staircase was so narrow that it was difficult for him to navigate. The house was furnished, but left a good deal to be desired. They had a small rehearsal piano, rented for them by The Talk of The Town when they were at the Ritz; a leased television set; and dozens of salt shakers and porcelain pieces that Judy collected.
Now that they were at last able to legally wed, Deans decided first to go to New York on business. His plans were to keep him away two weeks. Judy finally agreed to remain in London. They set the date of their wedding as March 15, giving them a three-day honeymoon before they were to leave on a preset Scandinavian concert tour. (She was to appear in concert with Johnnie Ray in Stockholm on March 19, Goteborg March 21, Malmo March 23, and Copenhagen March 25.)
Designer Beatrice (“Bumbles”) Dawson was attentive. However, Judy had few other close friends. After Deans left, Judy would take walks with Brandy. At the corner of her cul-de-sac there was a beauty salon owned by two young men, Emil Ab-delnour and John Francis. One day Abdelnour look
ed up and saw this very thin, pale face in an enormous hat, peering in his front window, eyes wide trying to see inside. The wind was ready to take her hat from her grasp, and she was holding a huge dog on a leash with her other hand. Abdelnour recognized her, opened the door, and asked her inside. Pleased, she sat down, telling him they were neighbors. They talked for a long time. She asked him back to the house for dinner that night. He insisted he bring the food. From that time on, Judy would see Abdelnour daily. Generally slow in revealing herself to people (covering by superficial conversation, either witty or wry), she found a kindred soul in Abdelnour. A large, soft-spoken young man, intelligent, very well read, he would discuss history, politics, and religion with her.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked her one day.
“Of course I believe in God. I’m very, very religious,” she replied.
“Do you read the Bible?” he pressed.
A game followed. Abdelnour would name a passage in the Bible and to his amazement, Judy would repeat it from memory. (She particularly loved the Psalms and Corinthians.) They discussed the poets Shelley and Keats. Abdelnour, who had studied the poets at University, was surprised at her knowledge (which, of course, went back to her teen-age poetry writing). She had memorized many of Shelley’s poems, favored “The Skylark,” and would repeat it often. She spoke a lot about the Kennedys, being greatly attracted by dynasties and by men and women of power. She was reading a book about Hearst and asked Abdelnour if he had ever read a book by Taylor Caldwell called Dynasty of Death (he had not).
The rest after the closing of the show at The Talk of The Town seemed to have done her much good. And she loved the feeling of being a “housewife” that she had in the little mews cottage. Deans returned from New York to find her at peace with herself and very much excited about the impending marriage.
The plan was to have a civil service at the Chelsea Registry Office, then to go to the Reverend Delaney’s St. Maryle-bone Parish Church for another blessing. Deans wanted a reception, and Judy turned the arrangements over to him and to her new English public relations office, Southcombe and West; but two days before the event, when she heard Deans and West discussing the guest list, reading off names like “Diana Dors, James Mason, Ginger Rogers,” etc., she was beside herself.
“I don’t know why they’re inviting all those people,” she told Bumbles Dawson. “I’ve been through too many weddings. I don’t want a Hollywood premiere. I just want a marriage.”
Deans did not agree, feeling she should have a proper wedding befitting her “star status.” By now it was too late to backtrack, as he had released the guest list to the press and sent out invitations by telegram.
Wearing a blue chiffon dress abounding in boa—too short and too sheer—and wearing as a hat a matching blue band with a pearl from the earrings Tony Bennett had given her dangling from it onto her forehead (John Francis having made it from her own design), she was a very unusual-looking bride. With Bumbles and Ray, both West and Southcombe, the London doctor who had been treating Judy and a young invalid girl (a fan whom Judy had befriended), Deans and Judy were married by M. A. Laurence, a charming little man in Chelsea Registry. Judy seemed especially thin and frail, and the doctor was very much concerned about her; he felt she had never actually recovered from her illness during the Talk of The Town engagement. She was in a very nervous state, appearing feverish, and—unusual for Judy—she lost her temper at reporters outside the registry.
The grand ballroom at Quaglino’s, the final choice for the reception, was a bizarre sight. Only fifty of the several hundred invited guests came, and the room selected was tremendous—large enough to comfortably accommodate several hundred guests; therefore, the fifty who came seemed lost in its vastness. One side of the room was completely lined with tables bearing large ice statues, huge floral displays and laden with food for an enormous crowd, at least thirty stiffly uniformed waiters standing close by. Of the fifty guests, half were from the press, and they unmercifully shot questions at the wedding couple, photographers’ flashbulbs constantly exploding. Mounting the podium for the express purpose of giving the photographers a good shot of them, Judy and Deans posed to cut the cake.
Judy was now legally Mrs. Michael DeVinko. Clinging tightly to Deans, she beamed down at the army of press photographers. They asked her to kiss Deans. The lovers obliged. She laughed like a teen-ager when her short dress rode up a bit too indiscreetly. Deans helped her down off the bandstand. Her doctor remained close at one side of her, Johnnie Ray at the other as Deans mingled with the guests. There was a long line of reception chairs, and finally, she sat down. Having known Judy and being a neighbor, I had been invited to the reception, and Judy saw me standing a short distance from her and smiled. I went over to speak with her.
It will haunt me forever. Judy, with a desperate giggle like a distortion on a sound track of one of her old Rooney MGM films, grabbed my hand, her nails cutting into my flesh, not letting go long after she had said, “I’m so grateful you came. Please stay long.” There was no wonder left in those wide brown eyes. “Don’t leave,” she said a short time later. “Don’t leave.” Again she grasped my hand.
We talked about writing. I told her about a Hollywood book I was working on dealing with the McCarthy period and the blacklist, and how since it was so close to me, it was not an easy task. She spoke about writing the truth about herself. I advised her to do so and suggested she tape what she could if longhand was difficult.
My husband joined me then and suggested that it was time for us to leave.
“It will be different now,” Judy said as she walked my husband and me toward the doors of the huge room. Deans was back at her side. “I have Mickey now.” She leaned against him, smiling up at him. Mickey was grinning broadly. He spoke about the fantastic Scandinavian tour he had set up for her. He planned to take over her career as Ethel and Mayer and Luft had done.
40March is a melancholy month in Copenhagen. The faces of the old, grand buildings appear haggard after a winter’s long abuse. The glorious greens of summer, the burning autumn colors, the safe and sterile white of the winter snows have disappeared; the trees are bare and unprotected in the March rains, and lovers move inside for shelter. Night comes early, its dark hands violating the day before afternoon teatime. The people of Copenhagen, though, are a marvelously patient lot, secure in their knowledge that summer will eventually arrive as it always does, with weekends filled with plush green, long sunlit days, country homes, and sailing on clear blue waters. But for Judy, who slept away most of the daytime hours and had been reared in the sun, Copenhagen was like a city besieged by the Ice Age.
With Johnnie Ray and Deans she had completed the Swedish part of the tour, being well received (in spite of one cancelled concert), but nonetheless ending the week in a state of nightmarish distraction. Deans, obviously believing he had done an astute thing, had contracted with a Swedish producer, Arne Stivell of Music Artists of Europe, for a documentary film to be shot of Judy while she was in Sweden. The film was to be called A Day in the Life of Judy Garland. There had been cameras installed everywhere—the dressing rooms, hotel suites, everywhere—and at all hours of the day. At first, unaware of them, Judy had dressed and undressed in her dressing room. She then found out about the cameras, which had caught her in the nude. It would have been enough to make a perfectly well-adjusted woman upset. In Judy’s case it sent her into a state that was on the narrow edge of paranoia, taking her back all those years to when she had been a girl at Metro and believed men looked through the windows of the bathroom at her; when she thought eyes peered out at her from the doors of the closets in her home.
There was an appreciable and noticeable difference in her appearance. She was nearly skeletal, and her eyes from time to time flashed a look that made one think of inmates at Dachau. Deans tried to soothe her, assuring her he would have the film confiscated if any objectionable footage was included. Stivell promised her everything would be all right. But the damage
had been done. She was beginning to doubt all those close to her, harboring some frightening suspicions that Deans might have sold her out.
When she stepped off the boat that had taken her from Sweden to Denmark, Deans, Ray, and Arne Stivell were still in her company. It was cold, raining; hotel reservations had been unsure, but a fortuitous circumstance brought them to the Kong Frederik Hotel. There had been no rooms available, the top floors, where the grand suites were located, being in the process of redecoration. But the hotel manager, Hans Jorgen Eriksen, had been a devoted Garland fan since childhood. Hearing it was his idol who was desperate for accommodations, Eriksen instantly agreed to find space and then had to move all incoming guests around to do so. He gave Judy Rooms 511 and 512—a charming suite decorated with antiques and lovely porcelain. Under the eaves, the rooms slanted and shaped themselves cosily. The bedroom was wood-paneled; the bed, an oversized old four-poster; the bathroom fully tiled, the dressing room completely mirrored. Another bathroom off the living room connected to the bedroom of Room 510. Since Judy was traveling with a great quantity of baggage and wardrobe, it was decided that she occupy both rooms. Grand theatrical history was attached to these rooms. Sammy Davis, Jr., and Marlene Dietrich had stayed in them before Judy.
The day was gray and showing very little promise as Eriksen stood waiting at the doors for Judy and Deans to arrive in their chauffeured car. He held in his arms a bright spring bouquet in the shape of a rainbow and presented it to Judy as she entered the hotel. He had written a card and read it to her: “To the only performer who can carry us all over the rainbow. Judy, we love you.” The sight of this tall, spare, handsome Dane with his blond hair graying impeccably and his finely boned face open and revealing a pair of deep blue eyes, bending over her (for she was more than a foot shorter than he), reciting a sentimental greeting and handing her a sentimental bouquet, must have been too much for Judy. She accepted the flowers with some embarrassment and mumbled an almost inaudible “Thank you.”