by Sid Luft
Henry’s current wife sent a limo to the Carlyle Hotel to take Judy and me out to Southampton, where we were put up in a suite at the charming Southampton Colgate, a small, elegant hotel. Anne Ford was docile, sweet, and accommodating. She never countered Henry in public. The night before his birthday party, the four of us were having dinner at their house. Henry, who was a drinker, enjoyed brawling and fooling around like a big kid. We were having cocktails in the living room before dinner was served. Our host was boisterous, and as we were talking about boxing he asked if I would show him how to throw a punch. He got so worked up his face turned beet red. I managed to change the subject and took him up on an earlier offer to show me his custom-made dune buggy, painted pink and green. We scooped up our martinis and off we went to the beach for a predinner ride in the sunset. At the beach I gave Henry a few pointers on how to spar.
At dinner he said, “Anne, I want to show you something.” He turned to me, “Sid, can I throw a punch at you?” I said, “Of course.” He was a difficult person to spar with, because he was so overweight. I didn’t want to cripple him, either. He made a motion of throwing a punch, and I caught his arm, sparred a little and encouraged him to try again. Fortunately, there was something in my reflexes that cracked through his martini miasma and brought everything to an abrupt stop. We happily returned to our turtle soup.
The next afternoon, we had drinks with Anne’s sister, who was married to a VP at Grace Shipping. She was a lovely woman, recently recuperated from an illness. Judy spoke to her about the possibility of Henry backing a film for us. The woman’s immediate reaction was “Don’t trust him—he won’t come through. He’s a blowhard.” Apparently she hated her brother-in-law, but we never knew precisely why. I’d long ago put to bed the idea Henry would be financing Born in Wedlock, but I would go through the motions for Judy.
Henry was a control freak, a master puppeteer, and he had been brutal with his brother. He was a stern ruler, and now his sister-in-law was telling us he had a vicious and selfish nature. At Hollywood parties I’d noticed Anne seemed frightened of him when he was drunk. He could be abusive and insulting, with a reputation of beware.
The day came when I met Henry at his posh, elegant apartment at the Hotel Pierre. He was very different from the Henry around the dinner table or the Henry having drinks at the Riviera golf club. He was a cool stranger, all business: “Sid, I want you to meet my board.” I knew how to play hunches, and I agreed with Jock that Henry never appeared to be someone interested in the film business. I was, however, curious to meet this board of movers and shakers, the industrial heads dictating the play of the national economy, dealing the life and death of workers—creating American lifestyle, making millions in profit to put behind the politician of choice. I still wasn’t betting, but it would be interesting.
The meeting was arranged for the following day. I arrived at a building on Madison Avenue in the Fifties. I made my way to the conference room, where I was faced with a dozen executives sitting at a round table with Henry at the head. A scene right out of Paddy Chayefsky’s Network. It was chilling, each man a more frightening mask of Anglo-Saxon business acumen than the last. I made my speech, step one, two, three, etc., how much a film costs, how to make distribution, how much is needed to finance. I completed my pitch to an unearthly hush. Not one fellow had interrupted or asked me a question. Henry finally broke the silence: “Thanks, Sid. We’ll talk soon.”
I felt foolish. I was angry. I couldn’t get to the humor of it. I had to let my humility cool on the flight back to Los Angeles. Why, it wasn’t even a long shot.
34
BOGIE WAS GONE, and the high spirit of the neighborhood had left with him. But we were still living an extravagant lifestyle that I had to keep balancing. I needed to devise original schemes to make money; consequently I was immersed in promoting and financing Judy’s performances. Judy’s irritability about where she worked presented severe problems. She was uninsurable, and we had to put up our own money in advance.
If Judy was stoned and didn’t feel like performing, one of her popular ruses was to complain of a “stomach flu.” Generally the migraines and the laryngitis were real, due to the ingesting of certain pills. Sorting out what was authentic and what was bullshit was tricky. Now Judy gradually descended into a diet of uppers and downers, which left her malnourished, and she’d scream out in agony with intense migraine headaches.
As Judy never permitted me to call Fred Pobirs, I’d wait out her episodes feeling uneasy and hoping she’d call him. He might come by on his way home after work to take a blood count, give her a vitamin shot—and the “vitamin B” shots could well have been Dr. Feelgood shots. She’d feel better . . . but it wasn’t going to last. Pobirs would force himself out of his bed at three or four in the morning to give her a shot—sometimes it was Thorazine, sometimes a placebo, depending on what he thought was needed. I had to trust his judgment. “The Needle in the Night” was there for her.
Judy’s protocol regarding the doctor’s visits never flagged. I wasn’t permitted in the room with Pobirs. I’d wait downstairs to thank him. In the beginning I’d say, “How do you cure her, stop the pain?” And Pobirs, who could be cocky, would answer “There’s no cure.” Other times he’d say, “Try AA” or “Take her away” or “Total abstinence.” Other nights I’d express myself: “Jesus Christ, when is this going to end!”—more an exclamation than a question. Fred would reply laconically, “She’s your wife, you have to take care of her.” Which was precisely my thought, and once I said to Fred, “You must love her, just like I do.” He didn’t respond.
One night I escorted Pobirs out of the house around daybreak, and as I thanked him I said, “I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”
Pobirs countered, “Did you ever ask yourself why you married someone like this?” Adrenalin shot through me, and I considered maybe this was going nowhere, a dead end—maybe Judy would never make it, that there was no hope. Then I’d go up to see her in the bedroom and she’d be sleeping at last, all tension out of her face, and once again, the alluring, devilish child was at peace. I’d lie next to her, exhausted, fully clothed, and go to sleep. There was definitely hope.
As the current bender progressed, however, it presented the possibility of self-mutilation, as in her postpartum depression after Lorna’s birth. Judy, stoned on pills, was not only an indication of the need to escape but something darker, a hidden vein of depression so deep and private no one was permitted entry. I had to concern myself with her impulses to harm herself physically when the pills locked in.
My worry was the exact intake of pills, what she was putting in her system, for by now I understood that some pills were more toxic than others, and the combining of certain drugs was next to deadly. Judy might have resisted the effects of one particular drug, but not in combination with others. I became rather proficient in detecting what mood was the result of what drug or drugs. Mind altering drugs left her paranoid, imperious, and without humor. When she challenged and weighed every word I spoke, I called it her neurotic jeweler’s loupe syndrome: she was coming off speed. I wasn’t living on guard, exactly, just testing the waters. There’d be evenings when I’d say, “Darling, what’ve you been doing?” And the response would be “Hnnn, nothing.” I’d notice her chocolate glazed eyes, dulled by something. Sober, her eyes were like clear candy drops. If I tried getting tough with her she’d withdraw until there’d be an argument: “Mind your own fucking business.”
But my monitoring would very often save her life, and our marriage. During these bouts she had contact with the children for only short periods of time. And the children were pacified, they were going to school, they had two nurses. We weren’t sleeping together, but if I wasn’t in the den I’d be in another room not far from the master bedroom.
She’d be locked in, either sleeping or watching television, cut off. Several days of sheer hell would pass. I’d be waiting for the moment when she’d admit to Pobirs, “Christ, I’m s
o sick,” and he’d tell her it was time to withdraw. I knew she’d have to hit bottom, holding her head in her hands before she was compelled to give in. She’d go for seventy-two hours with no food, suffering intolerable migraines.
Pleading never worked. “You’re killing yourself.”
“So, hnnn, I’m going to kill myself.”
I was desperate to bring her out of her misery. “We’re miles and miles apart, darling. You’ve got to get back on the track.”
“We’ll get back on the track.”
More time would pass and she’d be unbearably ill. “Hnnn, I’m sick, baby, help me.”
There was no communication in her twilight state. And when she came down, detoxed, it was forgotten. “Hi, darling.”
As this cycle repeated, Judy was building up a tremendous tolerance to pills. One sleeping pill wasn’t going to put her to sleep. She’d have to take three. One Dexedrine wasn’t enough of a lift—she needed four. If I’d taken ten I might have died; Judy would take twenty and fall asleep for hours and not die. Her collection mounted, three from here and three from there.
Though I was concerned about how and where she was accumulating them, there wasn’t time for me to play sleuth. I had to tend to business, and my business wasn’t in working order. Judy’s voice, of course, was at issue. Chemicals dried out her larynx. Sober, her speaking voice was lilting; under the influence, she sounded husky and raspy, impeding the singing voice.
Once, she’d been on pills that found her easy but up all night in her private room, drawing pictures and reading. I could put my arms around her, and sometimes she’d say, “Hold me, baby.”
The next day I found a note, the familiar circles dotting the is, her apology:
Darling,
I was really sick all goddamn night—It’s now 7:20 and I’m going to take a crack at lying down and try to sleep.—Anyway don’t wake me for “nuttin.”
In spite of all my pukiness—I loved you all through the night. Not an attractive thing to tell you—but when you adore your husband—what are you gonna do. God bless you my Sid for having so much class. See you sometime today. All my devoted love, forever—Judy
By the summer of 1957 Judy was touring, and we had bigger plans for our return to L.A. The Greek Theatre in Los Angeles was in a class of its own. It was home turf, and Judy was looking forward to working in front of her supportive peers. We’d begun working on the opening night party guest list on the road in Dallas. Our assistant Vern Alves had already received many acceptances:
DEAN MARTIN
ROGER EDENS
ALAN KING
LENNY GERSHE
AMIN BROS.
GEORGE BURNS
IRA GERSHWINS
COLE PORTER
JIMMY MCHUGH
RAY STARKS
LOUELLA PARSONS
CHUCK NORTHROP
GEORGE CUKORS
MONA FREEMAN
BETTY BOGART
LEE SIEGELS
FRED FINKLEHOFFE
JACK CATHCARTS
GEORGE RAFT
ARMY ARCHERDS
ARTHUR LOEW AND DATE
VERN ALVES
BETTY FURNESS
JOHNNY DUGANS
DON LOPER
BOB MITCHUMS
JEAN NEGULESCOS
MR. AND MRS. LUNN
JACK WARNER
HAROLD HECHTS
ART LINKLETTERS
HENRY GINSBERG AND DATE
GEO AXELRODS
GORDON JENKINS
DR. AND MRS. POBIRS
MRS. ROCK HUDSON
MIKE CONNOLLY AND DATE
MINNA WALLIS
JERRY WALD
PANDRO BERMAN AND DATE
SAMMY CAHNS
LOU SCHREIBERS
GENE BYRAMS
DESI AND LUCY
BILL GOETZS
GEORGE ROSENBERGS
OSCAR LEVANTS
Opening night at the Greek, Judy made up a story for the press: she told them in the last chorus of “Over the Rainbow” a moth flew into her mouth, and she had to keep it there until the end, when it was able to fly out. This amused the columnists, and we got a lot of free PR. We had several parties, one at the house and one at Romanoff’s. Ronald and Nancy Reagan were having a good time at Romanoff’s, where most men wore dark blue suits. I was bemused by Ronnie’s sartorial choice of color: Who wears brown suits? President Reagan does.
35
NOW THAT Born in Wedlock was out of the question, Judy’s focus turned to England. One day, Judy came to me: “I’d like to play the Palladium.” I thought, terrific! She was so edgy around the house, in and out of benders, Pobirs arriving in the middle of the night to knock her out. She had anxiety about her career; she didn’t have the confidence in herself that I had in her. I found out the Palladium wasn’t available, but I flew to London and arranged to have her play the Dominion, one of the Rank theaters. A month’s engagement. Judy was thrilled. “We’ll open the Dominion like we opened the Palace!”
Now that we’d been booked in London, we had to get there. Judy was insisting on taking twelve dancing boys, Liza, Lorna, Joey, a nanny, a stage manager, a hairdresser. It was the one time I persuaded our business manager, Morgan Maree, to come to the house and explain to Judy why it was not feasible without her going on the road beforehand to raise some cash. I was counting on Morgan’s straightforward approach, the fact that he was bona fide and there weren’t any personal tugs of war. Judy, of course, laughed and threw her seductive gaze in Morgan’s face, not budging from the theme of performing, en troupe, in England. Finally, Morgan laid it out: perform here first for the money to take the show abroad. But Judy didn’t want to just work, she wanted to perform. She longed to recapture the Palladium, to be the artiste playing to adoring audiences, especially her supportive peers, and nothing less. I said, “Be a sport, darling. What happened to the trouper in you?”
The economics were unimportant; the significant factor, to Judy, was the applause. But because she longed for the British audiences, she did agree to work. I booked her for Washington, DC, and Philadelphia; the fees would just cover our expenses for the English tour. Her attitude on the road was evident: I want to get this over with, to get to London with my troupe, to see those people standing and cheering. I need to see the rave reviews of my performances, and I want to keep reliving New York and Los Angeles. Now she had a reason to indulge in a sequence of pill-taking to get her through something she didn’t want to do.
Her disdain was not mitigated by her trademark wit. Judy could laugh at herself—but not about present miseries. Episodes and anecdotes from the past were given a theatrical treatment, satirical, comic. She’d make fun of herself, but it was always past history.
Judy arrived in Washington complaining of a sore throat. She found a doctor to “treat” her. The result of that private consultation was twenty Seconal instead of three. She also needed Dexamyl to get going the next day, ten instead of two. She had to fortify herself against the drudgery of playing Washington and Philadelphia.
She played four nights in DC. On the fifth morning her breakfast sat waiting for her to come out of the bathroom, where she’d been lingering. When Judy came out in her short white lace negligee, her arms were in front of her and she said, “Look, darling, what I’ve done!” Her wrists had been slashed and she was bleeding profusely. Within minutes, I managed to put tourniquets on both arms and call the house doctor. We got her to a doctor’s office without the press’s knowledge. She awakened from the anesthetic: “Darling, what time is it?”
“It’s five o’clock.”
“I’ve got to get to the theater.”
“Darling, we had to cancel the show.”
“Oh, goodness!”
We drove directly to Philadelphia from the wrist stitching. Judy wore a collection of pearl bracelets on her arms.
In Philadelphia Judy fell and twisted her ankle and had to perform with her ankle strapped. Now we were canceling two shows i
n Philadelphia.
Instead of making $100,000 as anticipated, the available cash was dispensed for living expenses and salaries. The writing was on the wall: there wasn’t going to be sufficient money for the English tour. I racked my brain as to how to raise funds. Judy was counting on leaving the country, whereas I was in the frame of mind where I felt it would be better if she checked into a clinic.
Judy had hated Washington and Philadelphia. It was the living moment she couldn’t get through, and she got back at me by showing me her bleeding wrists. She had to live and perform in an exalted manner, otherwise there’d be hell to pay. At the time, after two weeks of failure, I didn’t have the luxury to think about the psychological aspect of Judy’s behavior. There were twelve dancing boys, the children, the nurse, a stage manager, and a hotel bill that was running up. I left Philadelphia early and went to New York to raise money for the Judy Garland traveling circus.
I checked into the Hotel Pierre and started to work on raising funds. The McLeans refused to loan me a cent; they told me, “That’s the way the cookie crumbles.” Peter Lawford wired me money, and so did Charlie Whittingham. I was also forced to sell my share in the racehorse Sienna II. I didn’t want to lose her. She was a bay mare, with black legs. I’d paid $18,000 for her, and I won the biggest bet of my life when she was a four-year-old. Sienna II beat Bubbly and King’s Mistake, mares of the year. I sold her to Mrs. Touron, Nicky Du Pont’s cousin, who owned Sienna II’s half brother. It was painful, but the show had to go on!
I’d thrown all my personal cash into Judy’s shows and lost. As I was cursing my situation, in sailed Freddie Finklehoffe from out of the blue. “Just like Mary Poppins, Freddie.” He sashayed over to one of the Pierre’s well-upholstered lounge chairs and sunk down while picking up a telephone to order himself a big double martini. “You might like one. Do you own a horse called Roman II?”