Judy and I

by Sid Luft

  Judy had aspired to play more sophisticated parts; she’d look in the mirror and see a fully grown woman. She worshipped Kate Hepburn and would attempt to copy her style. Nevertheless, MGM insisted on keeping Judy an ingenue.

  I kept up a racing stable—no longer Walfarms, now Rainbow Farms—and other ventures: real estate, personal investments. But essentially I was managing Judy. She was my primary interest, an extremely potent enterprise.

  Judy began to move some of her closets from her and Vincente’s former home in Evanview. This effort would not be completed until we bought our first home. She kept everything. Judy had period costumes, a collection of old lace, coats and hats from the ’40s—an accumulation that belonged in a museum. Eventually she’d build a special closet to accommodate her shoe collection. Inside were hundreds of different shapes and colors of footwear. Actually, she preferred a soft leather moccasin style to wear around the house. The moccasins were flat, unlike the near four-inch heels she wore onstage to give her the height she missed (which she would often kick off to “get down”).

  The shoe, of course, is a symbol of magic in fairy tales, especially in The Wizard of Oz. Although Judy’s public persona generally is linked to Dorothy, her private life most resembled Cinderella. When the prince placed the glass slipper on Cinderella her world changed, transforming her from lowly maid to princess. In the more modern tale, Dorothy gets to wear the ruby-red, Technicolor shoes, a gift of power to transform her world.

  Judy was the Cinderella of her family. Susie and Jimmie, Judy’s sisters, were sympathetic but homely young girls compared to Judy. Their mother was fat and dumpy. One daughter had an outsized nose, the other an enormous behind. Judy had the face of an angel and a magic voice. All she had to do was say “hi” and sing a note, and everyone fell over.

  With little Judy Garland, the studio had caught the golden butterfly. “Whatever you want, darling.” “You want a house in Bel Air?” “Your mother wants money?” “Your sisters want a job?” “The studio will take care of it.”

  Baum’s Dorothy may have longed to return from Oz—“There’s no place like home . . .”—but Judy would always find a way to reject the idea. She never really longed to go home.

  The magic that transformed Judy’s life was not a shoe but her voice, the “love magnet” that could enchant with song. The first wizard to guard the little princess was Louis B. Mayer. She escaped from his kingdom in debt and with no security. The lion had roared and roared, chewed her up and spat her out. I was the next wizard, in the form of Prince Charming, the knight in shining armor. I saved her, worshipped her, guarded the kingdom. But this was not sufficient to happily end the story. There would be further adventures and more wizards to come as Judy, on a subconscious level, switched from Cinderella to Dorothy and back again. But Judy’s life did not end “happily ever after.”

  On April 21, 1952, Judy opened at the Los Angeles Philharmonic Auditorium. She played to raves: “The Comeback Kid,” “Audience witness to one of Hollywood’s greatest comebacks,” “Garland scintillates,” “Rousing ovation . . .” In the audiences sat her mentors: producer Arthur Freed, now white-haired; Louis B. Mayer, who never allowed his eyes to leave Judy. The men wept openly, watching their little lost minstrel girl make her comeback.

  She had wowed them at the Palladium and brought the house down twice a day at the Palace Theatre. Now at the Philharmonic sat not only her peers but the people who had shaped her career. The old wizards were present, but here was a script they had no control over, so they simply sat in awe.

  The Goldwyns, the Mayers, the Goetzes, the Coopers, Spyro Skouras, Clark Gable, Frank Sinatra, Cole Porter, Jack Warner Sr., the “crème de la crème” (a phrase journalists favored in that era)—all were Judy’s devotees. And somewhere sitting ignominiously among the crowd was Ethel Gumm Gilmore, Judy’s mother.

  Ethel had found me in the theater one afternoon. She had not been in touch with Judy since her own divorce from her second husband, Will Gilmore, in 1948. And the last time she had seen her daughter was during the highly publicized “Garland suspended from MGM” period in 1950, when Judy nicked her throat, a scratch for attention, as she had once done with her wrists. There wasn’t a scar on her neck. However, there were those fine lines around her wrists.

  I was genuinely happy to meet Ethel. She was small, plump, with cute dancing eyes, younger in appearance than her fifty-eight years. Her voice, like Judy’s, was a melodic singsong: “Do you think I could see Judy?” A familiar pixie quality. Inwardly my heart sank. It was the wrong time for Ethel to be here. I explained Judy was rehearsing, but I would make an exception and interrupt this sacred period of time.

  I’d never understood how Judy could sweep her mother under the carpet. It bothered me. I approached her backstage. “Darling, your ma’s out there. She’d love to say hello.” Judy didn’t answer me. I repeated, “Ethel has popped by.” Judy gave her don’t interfere look, her this is my affair look, her don’t try to be peacemaker look.

  She said, “Please, darling, don’t disturb me. I’m rehearsing.” It was clear there was no room for her mother then, or ever. In a cold, rejecting moment, Judy turned. Here things were good, everything coming up roses. I thought, Not one ounce of forgiveness, baby? I was in a mild state of shock.

  I reported back to Ethel: “Judy is tied up in rehearsals.” I wanted to make it as soft as possible by reassuring Ethel, saying that I’d work on it. “Judy is so damn busy,” I echoed, offering her tickets to the show.

  “All right.” Ethel accepted the rejection without argument. But she walked away with tears in her eyes.

  I sympathized with Ethel, regardless of the stories Judy had told me in bits and pieces: how her mother was paid by MGM to spy on her as a teenager, how Ethel had betrayed her, how Ethel’s small business deals always fell through—and didn’t Ethel have “Little Miss Leather Lungs” placed in the evil hands of MGM, any stage mother’s dream? In Judy Garland’s case, the dream surpassed itself.

  Judy’s later perception of events leading to her birth in many ways provided an explanation for her adamant rejection of her mother. She had this to say:

  There was a great deal of time taken to convince me that from the time Mother found out she was going to have this unplanned third baby, that was sort of the beginning of the downfall, because I was not scheduled. I was really unwanted: my mother didn’t want to have any more children.

  From the day I was born until the last time I saw her, she always took great delight in telling rooms full of people at her house (whichever house she’d be in) how difficult it was for her. She did everything to get rid of me. She must have rolled down nineteen thousand flights of stairs, jumped off of tables, and for some reason I was a very stubborn child and was not about to be shaken loose. Eventually, when she found that out and it became too cumbersome for her to roll down any more stairs, she was eight and a half months pregnant and got a bit roly-poly, so she more or less became resolved, because she knew that she was going to have a little boy, having had two daughters. The only way she could possibly accept this ghastly thing that had happened was that she’d have a son, and when I turned out to be just another girl, after they had already named me Frank—that was my father’s name—it didn’t work out too well for anybody.

  Whatever was roiling in Judy’s psyche, I was not going to disperse it. In the end I chose to respect her wishes, reminding myself that many a parent and child do not have a lifelong relationship. It was in that frame of mind that I temporarily forgot the issue.

  The Philharmonic was a smaller version of the Palace. The same kind of pandemonium: fans were lined up around the block. The adulation from the media was more poignant perhaps, as it was Judy’s “hometown.” I wanted everyone to see and meet a healthy, vibrant Judy, who but a year ago had been thrown out of Hollywood. She couldn’t have performed or sung any better, and she looked fabulous.

  We gave the opening night party at Romanoff’s. We’d hired press agents to
organize the affair, part of our hype. It was a huge after-dinner party, attended by the A-list. We invited Darryl Zanuck, L. B. Mayer, Arthur Freed, Jack Warner, Bogart, Cary Grant, Louella Parsons, and Hedda Hopper. People who hated each other filled that room at Romanoff’s and danced their hearts out to the orchestra we’d hired. Everyone was there. Judy had made her comeback—and then she made her entrance.

  Judy wanted everything perfect to the last detail, including having a seamstress labor over her gown for the party. It was finished seconds before she made her entrance. The party started around ten o’clock, and when Judy showed up around midnight she was greeted with a standing ovation. Judy was at her happiest; it was as though her mother didn’t exist. I watched L. B. Mayer and Judy embrace, a warm, affectionate reunion. Mayer, the serious-mannered man, was beaming at Judy’s success. Later, he came up to me: “Sid, I think you’re the right medicine.”

  Jack Warner also introduced himself to me. We chatted, with Judy present, but made no mention of A Star Is Born. However, it was then that Eddie Alperson and I concluded: Warner was the man for us.

  25

  AS JUDY’S CAREER SOARED, my ex was twisting the screws tighter. Lynn continued in her attempt to deny me the visiting rights I desired. Her attorney, Sammy Hahn, was known as the “Wild West lawyer,” famous for passing out gold and silver ten-dollar pieces to clerks and judges. Hahn had a lot of clout in the courts downtown. In that era there was Jerry Giesler for criminal problems and Sammy Hahn for marital problems—the show biz lawyers of their day. Hahn was a publicity hound, and he began to hover over my life.

  Judy brought Liza to the Hotel Bel-Air to meet my son, Johnny. It was wonderful to watch the new playmates: Liza with her shiny black hair and Johnny, freckled and redheaded. They had so much fun playing together, I brought Johnny up to Evanview to spend time with Liza there. They were exactly the same age and got on so well, we were knocked out. However, if I wanted to see Johnny, I had first to call Sammy Hahn. The lawyer would warn, “Don’t be late; if you’re late she’ll slam the door in your face.” Or he’d say, “Be on time, and bring him back on time,” as though I weren’t capable.

  The engagement at the Philharmonic proceeded without a hitch. Ethel had been sloughed off, and Judy was riding high. The four-week run was dancing in paradise, nothing but well wishes and good luck. Hollywood had witnessed Judy’s success and saw a healthy and vital woman. It was another major triumph for Judy Garland. People were after her; “check with Sid” syndrome was heavily operative. We were escorted by the maître d’s to the best tables at the best restaurants; we received invitations to dinner parties, openings, and premieres. The A-list was not complete without us. We were part of the glamour, glitz, and “in” crowd. It never occurred to us that there might be something else in life.

  Judy’s next engagement, at the Curran Theatre in San Francisco, was to be a bright echo of the previous appearance. The owner, Louis Lurie, a dapper, short man with steely gray hair, was a pal of Louis B. Mayer who owned many theaters, and he was a big fan of Judy. He offered to pave the streets in gold for us. Mr. Lurie outdid me in his signs of appreciation. He’d visit the theater nightly, and every day he sent masses of flowers to Judy at the Clift Hotel, where we stayed, as well as backstage.

  After the show we could slip away from the crowd and actually walk around the streets of San Francisco without being harassed. We would take off for Chinatown, where Judy devoured her favorite menu. In the afternoon Judy would shop, in person, at Gump’s, her favorite store. She would order outfits made out of Japanese silk, trousers, and jackets. San Francisco was so relaxed, we felt we were on a honeymoon. The bistros were low-key and romantic. Some evenings we’d walk around different sections of town with Jack and Susie. Tully stayed with Judy backstage, and Vern Alves, who had assisted up in New York, was now part of the family and dealt with the press.

  One night the two of us were on our own having dinner in a favored Italian restaurant when Judy casually announced she was pregnant—this time over three months pregnant. I looked at her challenging chocolate-drop eyes shining in the candlelight, and I said, “Darling, will you marry me?”

  To which Judy replied, “You and me—we’re some kind of team.”

  I called Ted and told him we were getting married. He was happy for me and congratulated us. Then he said, “Call my brother Bob, and get married on the ranch. That way it’ll be kept quiet for a while.” I thought, what a good idea. Bob Law and his wife raised cattle on an impressive ten-thousand-acre ranch in Hollister, a couple hours south of San Francisco. He wasn’t interested in show business, but his wife came to the Curran with a group of fans anyhow and loved the show.

  We arranged for a minister to marry us on June 8, 1952. My old friend Bobby Heasley, who would be working with us on A Star Is Born, drove the wedding party in a large station wagon down to the ranch, where at long last Judy and I were to be pronounced man and wife. Judy gave her name as Frances Ethel Gumm, and I gave my name as Michael Sidney Luft. Judy looked beautiful, very much the bride at the lovely ceremony and homey celebratory dinner. We returned to San Francisco that evening, and minutes later the press hit. There was no respite from the media, and there never would be.

  Within a month, Judy was the only woman besides Sophie Tucker to be roasted at the Friars Club in Los Angeles. For the first time in its fifty-year history, women appeared on the speaker’s platform: Rosalind Russell, Olivia de Havilland, and Marie Wilson joined in the tribute to Judy Garland as the performer personally responsible for the rebirth of vaudeville. It was a formal bash. Judy’s close friend Jack Benny was in London, so George Jessel replaced him as toastmaster. Other speakers included Lieutenant Governor Goodwin Knight, Ezio Pinza, George Burns, and Ronald Reagan. They traced her film career from the age of fourteen to the present moment, and she was presented with a pearl necklace along with a pearl emblem of the Friars Club.

  Judy was officially titled “Little Miss Show Business.” Ezio Pinza sang a parody of “Some Enchanted Evening,” his hit song from the Broadway show South Pacific. The parody was written by Mort Greene, an ex-songwriter, currently an associate producer of Jessel’s at 20th Century Fox. I kept some of the lyrics in my journal; it brought down the house:

  Some enchanted evening,

  You may see a stranger,

  A ticket-selling stranger

  Across a crowded room.

  If you play your cards right and treat him just right,

  You may get two tickets to Judy some night.

  Some enchanted evening,

  You may see a mogul,

  Plead with Lastfogel

  Across a crowded room.

  A tear fills his eye as Abe shakes his head,

  We’re sold out for Garland for six months ahead . . .

  And so the parody went.

  The audience insisted on an encore. Pinza had to sing the number a second time. Judy concluded the evening by singing her “Palace Medley” and “Over the Rainbow.”

  That evening as the tributes were lavished on Judy by the most distinguished company Hollywood had to offer, her mother, Ethel Gilmore, was cooking herself dinner in a cheap room somewhere in town. She was preparing for the night shift at the Douglas Aircraft factory, where she earned sixty-one cents an hour as a purchasing clerk.

  We’d checked back into the Hotel Bel-Air. One day around lunchtime I was horsing around the pool with Johnny and Liza when someone with a charming foreign accent called out my name: “Seed!” I was surprised to see Genevieve, the beautiful blonde I’d had a fling with on the Riviera. In the background stood the well-dressed woman she had referred to as “Auntie,” patiently waiting. While we exchanged small talk Judy came out to the pool looking for me. I anticipated a sticky situation, but she was congenial, no hint of jealousy.

  Later that year Genevieve got her exquisite throat slit, having somehow gotten caught up with a mob. She had fingered thieves who stole a bundle of cash—coincidentally, from the Jack Warner
house on the Riviera. They had lifted the safe from his villa and stolen the money and jewels. For all I knew she was part of the ring. In any case, something had gone radically wrong.

  We finally moved into the rental home on Maple Drive, and Judy took advantage of her pregnancy. She lolled about the pool, ate whatever she craved, played with Liza and Johnny—in general, enjoyed the good life. The house was brimming with activity.

  The husband and wife team who ran the household were professionals who specialized in show business people. We perceived them as wonders, providing us with a beautifully run home. The following year we discovered that the cost for wine and whiskey had been doubled, and muffins were sixty dollars a day. They’d been ripping us off, so I let them go.

  We went out to dinner and dancing at all the restaurants and clubs that had been previously restricted to us. Judy and I especially loved to watch the Will Mastin Trio at Ciro’s on the strip. We thought the youngest member, Sammy Davis Jr., was a great talent. Sammy, along with his father and adopted uncle, sang and tap danced wearing straw hats, white jackets, and black trousers while twirling canes. The uncle and father were pretty ordinary, but the kid was great, with exceptional timing. Judy thought I should manage him. I wasn’t thinking management, but when Sammy (a dedicated camera buff) came around to a party at Maple Drive he not only snapped pictures but also performed. And again I was knocked out by his talent. I decided to approach his uncle, who was also his manager. I said, “Will, you should retire. Just feature Sammy.” Will, a short, squat fellow, wanted no part of me or what I was suggesting. Sammy’s old man was sweet-tempered, but Will was a tough piece of work, like an ex-cop.