by Joan Kramer
DH That story felt too good to be true. But if it was true, we certainly would want to use it in our program. We knew that Judy had campaigned for Kennedy and the families were friends. She had even rented a summer house in Hyannisport near the Kennedy compound. But did she really pick up the phone and call The White House just to chat and let off steam? And did the President always ask her to sing “Over the Rainbow” at the end of each call? The various parts of that story needed to be confirmed, despite the authorized nature of Frank’s book.
This research was a task tailor-made for Joan, and she loved every minute of it.
JK I wrote a letter to Jacqueline Onassis on WNET letterhead and sent it to her apartment on Fifth Avenue. I told her we were producing a documentary about Judy Garland and, because there were so many myths and exaggerations surrounding her life, we wanted to fact-check a story we’d heard. I did not tell her where it came from or that Liza Minnelli was the original source. I simply asked her to confirm the basic details.
A few days later, I received a phone call from Nancy Tuckerman, formerly Mrs. Kennedy’s social secretary in the White House, and now her assistant at Doubleday, where Jackie was an editor.
“Hello. This is Nancy Tuckerman for Mrs. Onassis. She asked me to call you in reply to the letter you sent her. She wants you to know that the story you asked her about is not true.”
I was shocked and for a few seconds weighed whether or not I should take this a step further. Then I realized I had nothing to lose.
I said, “Mrs. Tuckerman, I think it’s important for you to know where that story originated. It’s in the only authorized biography of Judy Garland and was told to the author by Judy’s daughter, Liza Minnelli. If Mrs. Onassis is now saying that the story isn’t true, then it means that Liza made it up. I must admit I’m rather flabbergasted that she would create a story that involved not just her mother, but also the President of the United States. Can you tell me, Mrs. Tuckerman, what exactly did Mrs. Onassis say? Did she deny every detail of that story, or perhaps just that those calls didn’t take place ‘often,’ as I had mentioned in my letter?”
There was a silence and then she said, “I didn’t actually speak to her about it. She received the letter at home, and sent it to me at the office with a note at the top: ‘Call Joan Kramer. Story not true.’” Then she added, “But if Liza Minnelli is the source, perhaps Mrs. Onassis just wasn’t in the room when Judy called the President.”
I replied in a voice that, in retrospect, must have sounded as though I was giving a lecture. “Mrs. Tuckerman, please correct me if I have my facts wrong. Mrs. Onassis started her career as a reporter/photographer and was married to a Senator who became the President of the United States. Then she was the wife of a world statesman and now she’s an editor at a major publishing house. I’m certain she understands how important it is to fact-check a story. And she also clearly knows the difference between ‘Story not true’ and ‘I don’t know.’ If she wasn’t in the room during the President’s conversations with Judy Garland, shouldn’t her reply have been ‘I don’t know’?”
“Of course, she knows the difference. Therefore the story must really not be true.”
I finished by asking if she’d speak to Mrs. Onassis about it again and call me back. I knew I’d never hear from her again.
DH I thought that was the end of it. But I should have known better.
JK The next day I called Senator Edward Kennedy’s office in Washington, DC. I spoke to his press secretary, who said, “I’ll ask the senator, but I doubt he would know.” Of course, I never told him about my letter to, and response from, Jackie Onassis.
Senator Kennedy indeed didn’t know. But he suggested that I call Evelyn Lincoln, who was President Kennedy’s secretary, and even gave me her number.
“The story is absolutely true,” she said.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because whenever a call from a well-known personality came in, no matter what time of day or night it was, it was always put through to me first. And sometimes I was still on the line when I heard the President ask her to sing ‘Over the Rainbow.’”
So now it was an even balance: one denial and one confirmation. I had to find a way to break the tie.
At that time, Caroline Kennedy was working for the Film and Television department of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Most of the films with which she was involved eventually were acquired by WNET for broadcast on public television. And I was often assigned to “package” them, adding the WNET and PBS logos, etc. So she and I spent many hours together in edit rooms and she had an office near mine.
I didn’t tell her anything about my letter to her mother, but I did say that I’d called her uncle’s office and he’d suggested that I speak to Evelyn Lincoln, who’d confirmed the story.
Caroline said, “Evelyn Lincoln is a lovely person, but she’s getting a bit old now, and sometimes her memory isn’t what it used to be. So I don’t think you should take her word for it.”
“Did you ever hear about the calls from Judy to your father as you were growing up?”
“No. I did know Judy Garland and her husband, Sid Luft, because they and their family were our neighbors in Hyannisport during the summer. But I was much younger than her children, so they were closer to some of my cousins than they were to me.
“I have an idea though. Why don’t you call Dave Powers at the Kennedy Library in Massachusetts and ask him? He was one of my father’s closest aides at The White House, so he might be able to help. Tell him I told you to call.”
Caroline was then Vice Chair of the Board of the John F. Kennedy Library Foundation. (Now she is Honorary President of the John F. Kennedy Library Foundation and a member of the John F. Kennedy Profile in Courage Award Committee.)
I went back into my office and dialed the number.
David Powers came on the line immediately and said, “Oh yes, I just heard from Caroline who told me to expect your call.” I hadn’t asked her to do that and she didn’t tell me she was going to pave the way for me.
As soon as I started to tell the story, he interrupted me and said, “Oh, sure I remember. I was usually with the President in the Oval Office when Judy called and he never would let her off the phone without asking her to sing a few bars of ‘Over the Rainbow.’ In fact, he would hold the phone out so that I could hear her sing too.”
That was good enough for me. Story confirmed.
Even today, so many years later, I’m disappointed at Mrs. Onassis’ dismissive and erroneous reply. If I were from The National Enquirer I could understand her not caring about the question. But from public television?
And I’m also still grateful to Caroline Kennedy for her help. Thanks to her, I received two confirmations that day: one for the story about Judy Garland and President Kennedy; the other cementing my already-existing opinion that Caroline is kind and considerate and completely unaffected by her fame.
DH Our program does include that story, which is told over stills followed by news footage of Judy Garland singing for President and Mrs. Kennedy at a fundraiser. The sequence lasts fifteen seconds in an eighty-seven minute show. Confirming the facts took over two weeks.
Judy Garland with John F. Kennedy.
1960. Authors’ collection.
Johnny Carson and James Stewart on the Universal backlot.
Universal City, CA, 1986. Authors’ collection.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jimmy and Johnny—Maybe
There was no doubt about it. At some point every major project hit a stumbling block that had the potential of causing it to collapse completely. After it happened with two or three shows, we came to expect a crisis on every one of them.
For James Stewart: A Wonderful Life, it was not long after we started pre-production. Stewart had agreed to participate in the program and we were several weeks into research and development, watching his movies, looking for news footage, and beginning the process of lining up interviews. In fact, we
’d already sent a letter to President and Mrs. Reagan at the White House, since they and the Stewarts had been friends for over forty years.
DH It was about 7 pm on a Friday evening; I’d just arrived home when my phone rang. Our summer intern, Rachel Dretzin, was still in the office, and the moment I heard her voice, I knew she had bad news. Jimmy Stewart’s long-time publicist, John Strauss, had called to tell us that Jimmy didn’t want to do the show.
Usually, when a problem occurs on a Friday, I give myself the weekend to think it through. But this news spelled disaster and we had to find out quickly what was going on. I also knew that I was not the one who should call John. Joan had been his main contact and, in her usual way, had already developed a rapport with him.
JK I was lucky; he answered his own phone. He apologized for the bombshell he’d just delivered, and then explained: “Stewart’s agent, Herman Citron, is trying to negotiate a lucrative deal for Jim to write his autobiography. When he heard what you were doing, he told Jim to back out of it because he thinks the program will scoop the book. I’m really sorry.”
I said, “John, I can’t believe Citron is so short-sighted. Doesn’t he realize that a television show can only cover a tiny fraction of what’s in a book? You’re a publicist; you know our show will be the perfect ‘teaser.’ It’ll actually boost sales of the book.”
“I tried to point that out to him, but it didn’t work,” he said.
“I assume he’s aware that if Jimmy does pull out, we can still do this program without him? He’s a public figure and we don’t need his consent. Of course, it won’t be as good a show, but we’ve been given the funding by PBS, so we’re going ahead with it.”
In truth, whether or not PBS would have continued to support the production without Stewart telling his own story was a big question. But it was the only stand I could take at the time.
I then pulled out my trump card. “And John, we’ve already written to President and Mrs. Reagan asking them for an interview. We told them that Jimmy has authorized the program and agreed to participate in it. I’m sure you can see how embarrassing it would be to tell them he’s changed his mind.”
That’s the kind of information that hits a publicist right between the eyes. And it had the impact I was hoping for.
“I don’t think anyone knew how far along you were,” he said. “I’m going to call Jim and tell him what you’ve just told me. Hang on. I’ll get back to you.”
I did not hear back from him that evening or Saturday or Sunday. The entire weekend felt like we were “hanging on” by a thread.
On Monday morning my phone rang: “Jimmy’s back on board. I spoke to him and Gloria (Mrs. Stewart), and just between us, I know that she went to bat for you. She told him that he’d already made a commitment to you and can’t go back on his word. I think she also called Herman. I haven’t heard from him, but I’d guess he’s not happy. I am, though.”
JK and DH It didn’t take long for us to discover just how angry Herman Citron was. He also represented the Estate of Alfred Hitchcock, and had control over many of Hitchcock’s films. Our next hurdle came when poor John Strauss called us to report that Citron would not give us permission to use excerpts from any of the films Stewart had made with Hitchcock, some of which were pivotal in Jimmy’s career.
JK I asked if Stewart knew.
“No,” said John. “I don’t think Herman would be foolish enough to tell him. And I don’t think it’s a good idea to pit Jim against his agent again.”
“But John, this show will have a glaring omission without any Hitchcock clips.”
“I know that, and so does Herman. But I think we should just let this cool off for a few days.”
And it was just a few days later, while still reeling from this news, that we received a call from Citron’s office asking when we’d be in LA. He wanted to meet us.
JK and DH We felt as though we were walking into a lion’s den, without any ammunition. He was on the phone when his secretary ushered us in. He shook our hands without smiling and indicated where he wanted us to sit. And we soon had another surprise: he was friendly and straightforward.
“I know I’ve given you trouble because I didn’t want to hurt the sale of Jim’s autobiography. But he’s decided he wants to do your program, so I’m going to let you use the Hitchcock films. However, you can’t have Rear Window; it’s legally entangled and can’t be shown at all.” (The argument over who owned what in Rear Window became a landmark Supreme Court case known as Stewart vs. Abend.)
It was hard to believe we’d actually won this battle without any unpleasant confrontation. What we didn’t know at the time was that it had taken a powerful force to make him change his mind: Gloria Stewart.
Once again, behind the scenes, she had come to the rescue. She never admitted it to us, but John Strauss told us it was she who’d called Citron and insisted he let us use the Hitchcock material. And although John never mentioned his own part in all this, we knew he was the one who’d alerted Gloria to the problem, knowing she wouldn’t just sit by and let this profile of her husband be sabotaged by his own agent.
We hoped that was the end of our obstacle course for this program. It wasn’t. But we had a breather.
DH Even now, it still amazes us that getting Johnny Carson to host the show was relatively simple.
Usually, Joan and I would make a list of stars, directors and other personalities who had a connection to our subject, and then debate that list endlessly. But from the moment we began to produce this program we’d been preoccupied with just keeping it afloat. So even though the choice of host was crucial, it was a discussion that kept getting pushed aside by more pressing issues. In fact, it wasn’t until we were in Los Angeles driving to a meeting at MGM, that it struck us that the studio would undoubtedly be asking whom we had in mind as host and narrator. (MGM owned a large number of Stewart’s movies and was providing clips and stills in exchange for ancillary distribution rights in the program.) To this day, I find it almost inconceivable that we waited until we were in a car, only twenty minutes away from an important meeting, before realizing we’d better come up with some names.
And that’s when Johnny Carson popped into my head. Knowing how comfortable Jimmy Stewart was whenever he appeared as a guest on The Tonight Show, I felt the chemistry between him and Johnny could work just as well for us.
It was a no-brainer. Everyone loved the idea.
JK With a reconfirmed commitment from Stewart, I called John Strauss to ask how Jimmy would feel about Johnny as host, if—and it was a big IF—we could get him. John said he’d be thrilled.
It’s important to remember that Carson was the king of late night television, an enormous star, who seldom accepted offers to do anything outside his own show except, occasionally, to host the Oscars. So we knew this was a long shot.
John suggested we contact David Tebet, an NBC talent executive, whom Johnny considered a trusted friend. In fact, Tebet had been instrumental in Carson becoming the host of The Tonight Show back in 1962. When I reached him, he immediately offered his help.
“Send me a letter and I’ll give it to Johnny,” he said.
A few days later, Tebet called with exciting news: “Don’t tell him I told you this, but Johnny is going to do the show for you. He asked me to give you his home number and he’s expecting your call. But let him tell you himself.”
He answered his own phone, and I remember that first rush of excitement at hearing the voice of this talk show legend that I’d grown up watching as I tried to complete my homework. I thought his voice sounded slightly less baritone than it did on television, but it had the same clear quality. He said, “David Tebet gave me your letter. I’ll be happy to do this if it’s okay with Jim.”
That was it. Instead of weeks of writing letters, making phone calls, and dealing with layers of representatives, we’d landed Johnny Carson in a matter of days. This was a cinch. Or so it seemed.
DH A few weeks later, on a clear
California morning, Joan and I drove to Carson’s home in Malibu at the tip of Point Dume. He’d already told us that he and Stewart were good friends. Both from the Midwest, they’d grown up with similar values, and Jimmy reminded Johnny of his own father, who’d been hard of hearing, as Jimmy was now.
After the usual handshakes, he showed us around his beautiful property with its sweeping view of the ocean. We could feel how proud he was not only of the house itself, but also of the new tennis courts, complete with guest accommodations, which he was having built just across the road. He was an avid tennis player, who could be seen in the stands at Wimbledon almost every year.
Joan Kramer and view from the back of Johnny Carson’s home.
Point Dume, CA, 1986. Authors’ collection.
Following the tour, he took us downstairs to his den.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I’m the wrong person to host this show. You need Cary Grant.”
This couldn’t really be happening. Johnny was the perfect host and now he was backing out. Joan and I were both speechless. And he couldn’t be serious about Cary Grant, who never appeared on television. But he was indeed serious.
“And I’m a friend of Cary’s, so I’ll ask him for you.”
This was the sort of quandary few producers face. On the one hand, getting Johnny Carson was a major coup and we didn’t want to lose him. On the other, Cary Grant would have been an unsurpassable “catch.” But Grant was such a huge star he might overshadow Jimmy Stewart, the subject of the program.
We also wondered whether this was a test of sorts. If we leapt at the idea of Cary Grant, it might seem that we preferred him to Johnny. And even though he seemed down-to-earth and self-effacing, we knew that he, like most stars, had to have an ego and we didn’t want to say anything that might bruise it.
He elaborated: “After all, you just did a show about Spencer Tracy with Katharine Hepburn as host. They not only knew each other, but they also made films together. I’ve never worked with Jimmy Stewart in the movies. Cary Grant has.”