by Sid Luft
The following day the lavish ball was documented in all the appropriate columns. Judy had sung brilliantly and was appreciated accordingly, except for one peculiar element: Ann Warner reneged her mink coat offering. Instead of the golden carrot, Ann’s secretary sent over a little note with two lines of thanks, accompanied by a small, square silver compact. Judy looked at it without emotion and said, “I’m going to give this to Judaline,” sister Jimmie’s daughter.
It was January 6, 1953. Judy was preparing to rehearse at the Starlight Roof when the tragic news reached us that Judy’s mother had been found dead the previous day in the parking lot at Douglas Aircraft in Santa Monica. She had suffered a fatal heart attack as she stepped from her automobile on the way to work.
Cynically, I thought, my hothouse flower will need medication to fly back to Los Angeles for the funeral, where Susie and Jimmie awaited Baby Gumm. There wasn’t time to take the train. I could only hope, whatever she took, it wouldn’t trigger any episodes of depression. Judy opted for booze, and we flew home.
When it was revealed how her mother died, she felt exposed. She was not the daughter everyone thought she was, and Judy was concerned about her public image. The subject of “Mother” continued to be verboten between us. I had the job of seeding quotes to the press to diffuse the “cruel daughter” image: “It’s true we did have some disagreements, but we were working out a trust fund for Mother” or “Mother didn’t want to depend on me.” Then came the articles: “Judy’s Love for Mother Known Fact?” They said things like “What is not generally known is that Judy bought her mother a $40,000 home, in which she lived in L.A.” The stories went on about how Judy sent Ethel a weekly check, how she bought her mother a new car, which her mother turned in for a secondhand jalopy. “Ethel’s taking a job which she didn’t need.” A will was invented in which everything was left to Judy. “Judy always loved her mother.”
All lies.
Susie had also tried to soften Judy on the subject of their mother. She never got anywhere. Judy may have worn dark glasses at her mother’s funeral, but she did not shed a tear. I found her coldness mysterious. I was not about to trespass, but once again it struck me as severe. Inwardly, I thought, Suppose everything Judy said about her mother was true. Is that enough to close Ethel out of her heart in such a consummate way?
After about a year in Beverly Hills, we were fortunate to purchase a wonderful Tudor-style house on Mapleton Drive in the Bel Air–Holmby Hills area of Los Angeles. Our neighbors were Bogie and Betty Bacall, and Lana Turner with varying husbands. At the time she was married to Lex Barker, who I thought was a big wimp.
Charlie Wick, who later became Ronald Reagan’s communications expert, lived between the Bogarts and us. Bing Crosby, with his three boys, the holy terrors of Mapleton, was also our neighbor, but Crosby was very much a loner; he walked his black Labradors in the morning and the evening on schedule. Producer Aaron Spelling much later bought that property.
Joan Bennett and her husband Walter Wanger were down on the other side of Mapleton. Wanger was a fiery little guy who actually did time for shooting a man in the balls whom he suspected was after Joan. Art Linkletter and family lived opposite the Bogarts, but they rarely socialized. Some of our other neighbors were Hoagy Carmichael, Jane Withers, who had also been a child star, and the woman who owned the Broadway department stores, a large, lucrative chain in the Southwest. There was also Horace Dodge, the Chrysler heir who had married a chorus girl.
We were going to have drinks with Lana and Lex one evening when I ran into Lex in the late afternoon in the backyard. He leaned over the fence. “I understand we’re coming over for cocktails?”
“Six thirty, Lex.”
“I see Judy drives a Ford.” He’d noticed the car in our garage. Lex went on to say how much Lana really wanted a new Cadillac. He thought a Chevy would be fine for running around the city, since he owned a custom-made Ferrari. “One expensive car is enough for the Barker family.” I thought, that doesn’t mesh with the Lana I know.
Later on, Lex and Lana marched over very happy. It seemed they’d recently returned from a wonderful trip to Italy and they were filled with travel stories. We were exchanging brisk small talk when I heard Lex say to Judy, “Do you like your Ford?”
“I don’t drive it,” Judy crisply answered.
Lana was quick to say, “Boy, I don’t like Fords, I like Cadillacs.” We knew what was on Lex’s mind. A few days passed and we noticed Lana was driving a handsome blue four-door Seville.
Liza came to Mapleton to live with us—Judy would not request alimony—and so did my son Johnny for a brief period of time. I was “Dad” to Johnny and “Papa” to Liza. Dottie was gone, and now so was Tully; I organized outside staff to work for us instead of live-in help. Judy looked wonderful. She got her figure back and had returned to her vivacious and witty mode.
We were frequent guests now in the house that Jack built. Warner lived in a magnificent estate in the hills of Beverly Hills. Judy was Jack’s star attraction at these sit-down dinners, expertly arranged by his majordomo, Richard Gully. Ann was never present at any of Jack’s backstreet affairs. He always presented himself as a very married man, but the subtext was: the wife lived elsewhere.
As preparation continued on A Star Is Born, Judy had hoped E. Y. “Yip” Harburg, the writer of “Over the Rainbow,” would write the lyrics for the film. To our dismay, he was blacklisted, and it wasn’t going to be possible. This was a disappointment—Judy would have liked Yip to join the Star family. She settled for her old “relatives” Ira Gershwin and Harold Arlen. Judy was personally friendly with Cole Porter. She admired Cole but she didn’t feel his music suited her style. She’d lean toward Ira but prefer Johnny Mercer. She adored Noël Coward and she selectively enjoyed singing his songs; she was entirely at home with Irving Berlin. She loved Berlin’s lyrics, and the romance in Arlen’s music, but her devotion was primarily to the song itself, rather than to the lyricist and/or the composer.
Life was full. We were invited to spend weekends with Jack and Mary Benny in Palm Springs. One weekend Jack invited golfer Ben Hogan and his wife to join us. Naturally, we spent the afternoon on the green. But Ben didn’t schmooze. I was fascinated to see that he wasn’t so competitive anymore, that his game had leveled off. Jack, as always, was funny and amusing. Ben held his silence. On about the sixteenth hole Jack got off his best drive. He wasn’t that strong so the ball didn’t go far, but it was a good shot. He looked at me and said, “What d’ya think of that?”
I said, “That’s your best shot today, Jack.”
He looked down the fairway and it was a long par five. He threw out his chest and said, “Ben, what’ll get me home?” (Meaning, what club should I use for the shot?) We didn’t expect Ben to say anything, but, speaking for the first time that day, he drawled, “Well, where d’ya live?” It was so corny both Jack and I fell down on the fairway laughing.
Judy was back at the house lounging around the pool with Mary and Gracie Allen and whomever else Mary had invited. Sometimes Claudette Colbert and her husband, who were close friends of the Bennys, would be there. Gracie was educated, politically savvy, as was Mary. Judy could always entertain them with her stories. She was an expert at certain kinds of shtick.
Judy presented herself as a very lighthearted, extroverted woman, and she did one bit better than anyone in Hollywood. She played two parts, alternating back and forth: the typical Hollywood starlet and the film producer. She’d mime, “You look like you might be another Marilyn Monroe?” and the starlet would answer, “I’m glad you think so,” and the producer would say, “I hate Marilyn Monroe,” and the starlet would answer, “I do too, I hate her,” and the producer would say, “There are lot of other types you could be,” and the starlet would say, “Yes, yes I know.” And the producer would say, “I can’t think of any of them,” and the starlet would say, “I can’t either.” She’d perform this fast and furiously in different voices. She said, “That’s Holly
wood for you: nobody has an opinion.” She loved that joke.
After our golf game with Hogan, George and Gracie, lifelong pals of the Bennys, joined us for dinner. A mere “hello” from George Burns could break Benny up. Jack told us a story about a trip they’d taken to New England with George and Gracie. The intimate group got up at the crack of dawn to see Vermont in an open touring car. The driver couldn’t manage to pass a farmer driving a wagon with a load of hay—the road was a narrow one and the farmer refused to acknowledge he was blocking them. Finally, after many frustrated attempts and after trailing the wagon for what seemed like hours, the driver was able to maneuver the car out in front. The farmer looked down from his haystack just as they passed and said, “Good morning,” to which George looked up and said, “Go fuck yourself.”
Ed Sullivan was also a friend of the Bennys, and Jack would invite me to play golf with Ed whenever he visited California. Later Ed asked me to book Judy on his hit TV variety program. I made the decision that Judy would not appear on the show. I had a false idea about class, which may not have been professionally wise.
One sunny afternoon in Palm Springs we ran into Harold Arlen on the eighteenth tee whistling a tune he was working on for A Star Is Born. Judy piped up: “What’s that?” As soon as we located the nearest piano Hal played the first eight bars of “The Man That Got Away.” Judy knew it was right. She returned to Los Angeles really excited, and she became more and more enthusiastic about the project as we wound our way to the finish of preproduction. Moss Hart was the writer, George Cukor the director. Mary Ann Nyberg for costumes. The film was nearly cast, with the glaring exception of the male lead.
Around this time, Sinatra, absent a wife, returned to the States and to a great victory, one that turned his life around. He proved his talent by winning an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor in From Here to Eternity. He was reborn, and Judy and I were thrilled to see the transformation. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to change Jack Warner’s mind, despite the fact that Frank had shown he wasn’t “finished.” In hindsight, Sinatra would have been ideal. The chemistry between Frank and Judy on camera and onstage was brilliant.
Frank wanted the part and took to bringing us gifts. One was an oil painting of a bullfighter, a beautiful rendering. I told Judy maybe it reminded him of his defunct marriage to Ava. He gifted me with a solid gold Cartier money clip.
Frank lived in the same building as his friend Swifty Lazar, the agent. These bachelors were impeccable! Their apartments were super clean. The bathrooms like operating amphitheaters, doilies everywhere. Frank hung out at our house a lot, frequently sleeping off the night on the couch. We introduced him to Bogie and Betty, and subsequently they became fast friends.
Judy envisioned Cary Grant playing the part of Norman Maine in Star. He was her preferred costar. Cary was as handsome offscreen as he was on. His looks were not a trick of the camera. He was a charming person who was intensely interested in the workings of the mind. He was fascinated by Judy’s apparent rehabilitation. She had survived so much publicized emotional chaos. He would have liked it to be a result of psychiatry; alas, it was not. He was especially involved with modes of psychiatric therapies, especially LSD therapy, which he later discussed in articles. He read a great deal on the subject in his Benedict Canyon home, the one he lived in until his death. It must have amused Cary that when the property costs escalated in the 1970s, with his love of economy—you could say “lust” for it—he found himself sitting on millions. Cary, a mild-mannered, unpretentious person, never had to leave his nest: the birds came to him.
We earnestly began to romance Cary and his wife, Betsy Drake. We saw a great deal of one another. The four of us went out for supper several times a week. Of course, Cary knew we were wooing him. In the afternoon, Cary and I would visit the Hollywood Park racetrack. We alternated driving.
One day he merrily appeared at Mapleton in a brand-new Ford station wagon, announcing, “Henry [Ford] gave it to me for cost.” He told me Henry had generously thrown in some extra chrome-plated exhausts. Cary was so ecstatic he offered to pay for the gas out to the track. I couldn’t tell if he was conscious of his parsimonious nature and/or its effect on others. In any case, he was consistently good natured. That day he also asked to pay for lunch. He was insisting. Usually I picked up the tab—but I recognized how good these two chrome-plated exhausts made him feel, somehow permitting him to be generous. Cary confided that when he was married to Barbara Hutton, the Woolworth heiress, she never allowed him to drive a station wagon—“too suburban for her tastes.”
Cary, true to his character, never bet more than $10 per race. One time I bet $600 on a particular filly that was a 13:l shot. When Cary saw that I won a lot of money, around $12,000, he was stunned. It was not real to him, almost sinful. I told him, “Cary I’m gonna bet this horse, Alleycat.” It was 50:l. “You ought to place a bet.” Cary, who had finished with his eight races, said, “Sid, don’t bet anymore. If you bet, I won’t do your picture.” It was said half in jest. I laughed and went to the window to bet $50 on Alleycat. I actually won the race but told Cary I didn’t bet as I pocketed the profits.
The day came when it was my turn to drive out to the racetrack and pay for the gas. At the end of the day I took Cary home. He said, “Come in Sid, have a drink, say hello to Betsy.” Once inside the house, he said, “We only have tequila.” I said, “Fine, I like tequila.” Cary explained tequila was the only liquor besides wine that was kept in the house. I thought, There’s a story here, and sure enough it unfolded. We were seated around their kitchen table, drinking. Cary said, “My gardener has relatives in Tijuana. When he visits he brings me back cases of tequila at thirty-six cents a case. Isn’t that wonderful?” He was just too excited about saving money. I thought maybe it made him feel like a regular joe.
Was Cary going to portray Norman Maine? He never discussed the issue with me. I was hoping to catch him off the record, even postponing the time we’d say good-bye, hoping to find more opportunity to influence him. He was too busy talking about saving pennies. Now Cary was explaining how he’d invite me for dinner but . . . “Sid, Betsy ordered only two shad roe. Next time—please forgive.”
We had another day at the racetrack, and it was my turn to pick up the lunch tab. I could never go wrong here. Cary was too careful an eater. He was focused on diet and longevity way before it became a national fad.
Maybe I shouldn’t have lied to Cary when I bet on Alleycat, because in the end Cary did not play the part of Norman Maine. George Chasin, Cary’s agent at MCA, demanded $300,000 against 10 percent of the gross. Grant was one of the few actors who worked outside of the studio system, something unheard of in Hollywood. And Cary always got what Chasin asked for. Jack Warner, who perceived actors as robots/slaves, gave his familiar laugh of contempt to Chasin’s request; he agreed to raise his fee from $300,000 to $400,000, but the percentage was out of the question. Chasin insisted on the original fee arrangement. Jack would not acquiesce, and once again I entertained thoughts of Bogie, or to find a way to convince Jack about Frank.
I lost touch with Cary over the years, and then four months before he died, he came up to my table at Matteo’s, a popular, long-standing Hollywood eatery on Westwood Boulevard. He was his usual polite, charming, unassuming self. He embraced me; he was warm, genuine. No mention of economies.
27
MOSS HART WAS IN NEW YORK writing A Star Is Born. Judy would ring him to ask how the work was going. Writers are usually bugged by people inquiring after their work in progress, but Moss was continually gracious to Judy’s nudges. “Just you wait,” would be his enthusiastic response. Judy kept to her positive outlook. There was, of course, no mention of her mother’s death. She immersed herself in the anticipation of Star, domestic affairs—the children and me.
Principal photography was scheduled for the fall of 1953. By the end of April, I’d been working nonstop. I knew it was time for a break. Governor Lawrence Wetherby’s invitation was just the ticke
t. I was looking forward to visiting the renowned breeding farms in Kentucky’s lush bluegrass country so favorable to thoroughbreds. The limestone soil provided ideal pastures, enhancing the animals’ bones. Judy and I were invited to stay at the Circle M stud farm owned by Pug Moore, whose husband had died—she continued breeding the horses. As far as I was concerned, it was a horseman’s dream. But we would first make a stopover in West Virginia, where, coincidentally, Charlie Cushing had invited Judy and me to join the Duke and Duchess of Windsor and friends at the posh White Sulphur Springs resort.
Once again we rode the railways in a state of benign suspension. We talked, watched the scenery, played cards, Judy still in her wholesome mode, her personality bright. We chugged along, happy to be together away from work and household. The bathroom was right in our bedroom compartment, so it was easy to monitor Judy for pills. I relaxed. Judy was playful, charming, as though the darkness had never occurred. We were traveling on a rail line owned by Robert R. Young, one of the Windsors’ pals, who later stuck a double-barrel shotgun in his mouth and blew his head off when he was down to his “last $18 million.” A small, charming man, Young would be among the crowd we were meeting in White Sulphur Springs. His wife was Anita O’Keefe Young, painter Georgia O’Keefe’s sister. Anita styled herself after the Duchess of Windsor—the jewels, the hair, the clothes. Wallis had many imitators.
At White Sulphur Springs we stayed in an elegant suite. Judy wanted me to guide her in the fashion department. Every night we dined in formal wear. Designer Hattie Carnegie had her dress form, and Judy would order something simple in black or dark blue to show off her luminous skin. So Judy was elegantly robed, with her trusty three-string pearl choker securely fastened around her neck. I played golf daily, while Judy read or took walks with Wallis and Anita Young. The women would encourage Judy to tell anecdotes about Hollywood. These people were starstruck. And Judy was a superb storyteller. In this way she continued to be center stage. At dinner Judy held court with movie and vaudeville stories, and her preferred fans could not get enough. I’d get turned on by watching Judy exaggerate a little here, put out a bit more there. She was, in fact, giving a marvelous performance that seemed to be just a chat.