Judy and I

by Sid Luft

  Instead of the gay evening we’d anticipated, we were a dour gathering around the dinner table of the Lear home. We’d look at one another, wondering just whose golf ball was responsible for the tragedy. I was a good golfer, and Bill Jr. was pretty good, but Bill Sr. was erratic.

  Bill complained to me that the mountains were too quiet for him. In a wooded area in the back of their house, he had installed eight speakers in the trees. His tapes played bird sounds and cricket noise to fill up the silence. I told Bill I’d had a Lear radio in my Monocoupe, so I’d been aware of him for some time. When I described Aerophonics to Bill he immediately expressed an interest in the hardware.

  The following week in London we met over lunch, along with several men from Lockheed. I brought them back to the house, where I demonstrated my four-channel cartridge. I later remarked to Judy that I didn’t think Bill was likely to invest, as he was in the process of moving his operation from Switzerland to Wichita, Kansas. There it would be cheaper and easier to perfect his Lear jet, which he was very close to doing.

  I was to discover that Bill was a person with outstanding vigor. He had two mistresses that I knew of, one who lived in Los Angeles in a luxurious high rise, another in New York. So here were three different establishments on the Lear payroll. Bill not only successfully manufactured the Lear jet, but he also went to Japan and developed an eight-track cartridge for use in the automobile.

  During our stay in Europe we were not exempt from the American media, which was periodically upon us: Were we going to remain in London? Were we returning to Los Angeles? In general, what were our plans? The truth was, we didn’t know. Around this time Pat Lawford called Judy and asked if she would entertain the troops on American bases in England and Germany to promote the absentee vote for Jack. Judy, of course, wasn’t working, but she would do anything for Jack. She was gung-ho to perform on his behalf. Hadn’t she predicted he’d be in the White House one day? She desired nothing more than to feel she’d contributed something toward that end.

  I was supportive of Judy’s desire to work, but certainly more as a hobby than a career. I’d effectively ruled career out, having taken Uncle Israel’s words literally. I had prepared myself for the professional demise of my partner, Judy Garland. When Judy earlier had indicated she was going to do some recording and work at some minor studio gigs, I considered this nothing more than a distraction. Now she was asking if she could do just a little live performing. “Darling, I’d like to do a concert somewhere. Nothing heavy.”

  “You really think you’re up to it?”

  “Yes, I’d love to. I’d really love to, darling.”

  I was cautious, and Judy agreed she would first have another complete physical checkup with our doctor, Phil Lebon, a young physician who’d deftly removed Lorna’s appendix recently in an emergency operation. I had a lot of confidence in Lebon, and when he issued Judy a clean bill of health, I arranged through Val Parnell at the London Palladium for a Sunday night concert.

  Judy sang very well. So she performed another concert at the Palladium. The month of October found Judy begging for work. She asked if I could book her in Paris.

  I arranged two venues with some difficulty, largely due to our lack of cash flow. Of the two appearances, the one at the Olympia was the more successful. The audiences for the shows at the Palais de Chaillot were not at capacity. Judy basically wasn’t at home performing in front of the French. It wasn’t her turf. She adored the British, and she was secure with them. She knew she could always pull them out of their seats. Nevertheless, the first night audience at the Olympia was filled with supportive peers, and the rooting section was headed by Chevalier in the first row. And she sang her heart out for them.

  While we were in Paris, Gloria Guinness gave Judy a marvelous party at her penthouse. Tout-Paris was there, including our old pals the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, who were now living outside the city in the Bois de Boulogne. I thought Gloria, a socialite and fashion icon, was wildly intelligent and extremely beautiful that night. She made us feel wonderful.

  The following evening Wallis and the Duke arranged a sit-down affair for ten couples. Judy and I sat at the hosts’ table. Judy was next to the Duke, and I was to the right of Wallis. Like old times, Wallis could relax with me. We were in formal attire, and the Duchess, of course, wore her famous jewelry. Perhaps it was my absence of funds that inspired me to focus on the jewels that night. Her diamond ring was large enough to choke a cow, and the previous night she’d worn an elaborate emerald necklace with earrings to match. The emerald choker was accented with ravishing diamonds, and I couldn’t help laughing inwardly and thinking someone could live well for the rest of his life off her neck and earlobes.

  Judy also looked up Deanna Durbin, her old costar, who lived with her French doctor husband and family in a semirural setting near Paris. Judy returned after the visit with a soft, melancholy glint to her eye. She related how happy Deanna appeared, so unpretentious, slightly overweight. We thought maybe we’d missed the boat somewhere.

  I wanted to test the waters and Judy’s stamina, so in between the Paris shows, I booked a night in Leeds and one night in Birmingham. Judy came up smiling, healthy and vigorous, but I was still skeptical. I wasn’t about to send her on the road or look for time-consuming engagements. I was immersed in Aerophonics; on the side I was booking Judy. We also flew to Wiesbaden, Germany, where Judy performed a “Koncert for Kennedy” for the absentee vote.

  Whenever we had played regional concerts, even with Judy sober, it was dicey. I walked on eggshells just in case Judy might decide it was beneath her, or in case she’d pick a fight with me for booking her “down.” Nothing erupted this time around.

  I booked Judy for one night in Manchester, and we decided to hire a limo and drive there for the concert. We drove up in the early evening, the night before the event. It was again romantic. Eventually the chauffeur got tired and I took the wheel. We drove all night. It was the first time I’d driven up north, and I was tired myself. Around five in the morning I was approaching Manchester; Judy was sound asleep, and so was the chauffeur. There was a wide fork in the road with three different paths; a truck was coming toward me on one road, and a motorcycle was coming toward me on another. The two vehicles seemed to converge on me. I nearly went off the road. Judy felt the swerve of the limo and awakened, anxious. “What happened?” Fortunately, the cycle and the truck avoided us, and I said, “A rabbit in the road, baby, nothing happened.”

  Actually, I was terrified. I’d thought I was going to hit both vehicles. A few miles outside of Manchester I gave the limo over to the chauffeur. Judy had gone right back to sleep, indicative of the profound change in her behavior. She was less phobic, more robust, not as fragile, not as changeable. It was indeed a stunning transformation.

  We stopped somewhere and had a bite to eat. I experienced a tremendous sense of love and freedom. I was convinced I’d returned this creature to the world, this wisp of a hummingbird whose fragility was to be honored and protected. My devotion had taken the form of a pledge. I was going to be the hero, and for all appearances it looked like we’d been to Lourdes and the miracle had happened: Judy was cured.

  On our return to London we were greeted by a hefty leprechaun by the name of O’Brien who wore a derby and represented the Kennedys. He asked if Judy would make an appearance on Jack’s behalf in Frankfurt. We flew there and back, and I was impressed by Judy’s apparent lack of phobias while flying. Here was the born-again Judy boarding airplanes without the help of a pill or a drink, striding on and off, sober—the dependencies conquered along with the symptoms: no claustrophobia, no insomnia. She’d come a long way. And everything about her behavior was the living realization of my belief in her. She was proving herself capable of living her life sober, which was enough for me despite her reluctance to acknowledge that she’d ever had a problem.

  Judy’s liver had miraculously healed, and now she was expressing the desire to officially go back to work. I was lee
ry. I still believed what my uncle had told me regarding the fragility of her health and the profoundly toxic effect of chemicals on her system. I also recognized the twinges of restlessness and her need to be busy. I thought perhaps the bucolic days were over, but that it would not be destructive if Judy had the proper kind of bookings, the right kind of booking agent who would suit her and not destroy her health. I certainly did not have the funds available to develop shows for her. Soon I’d be traveling, doing demonstrations for Aerophonics. Meanwhile, I learned British Overseas Airways was not interested in our hardware. They’d developed a rather primitive device using an earplug. It was not stereophonic like our product, but they were satisfied.

  Judy and I finished our travels for the absentee vote, and I had to go to Los Angeles to head off foreclosure on Mapleton and raise some cash. I immediately borrowed money for Judy from my sister, Peri, and had it wired directly to London. While I was in L.A., Arthur Jacobs came over with Freddie Fields. Arthur was a PR person before he became a producer at 20th. He’d contacted me in London and mentioned that Freddie had left MCA and was in the process of establishing his own talent agency in New York. Apparently Fields was only going to handle a few clients, and he was interested in Judy. I remembered Freddie from Judy’s second Palace engagement, when he’d come to us with Sonny Werblin and suggested multiple bands as a background for a Judy Garland TV special on CBS. Freddie had been a junior VP and had sold his shares in MCA for $300,000 when the agency broke up. My impression of him at the time was that he was a typical New Yorker: quick on his feet, cunning, and driven by ambition. He was wiry, well dressed, and sported a mustache. Freddie spoke in a rapid, nasal voice, the kind I associated with some New Yorkers.

  I thought it might not be a bad idea. After all, Freddie was trained by the best, Jules Stein. Always immaculately dressed, Stein would listen in a meeting as though you had the key to eternal life, while writing copious notes on his Cartier pad. Artie explained that Freddie had tried to shop his little company around with people at the Charles Feldman Agency. Nobody seemed to be interested. On the good side, he had few clients—Hank Fonda, currently on Broadway, and Phil Silvers. He’d be able to give Judy a great deal of attention. This appealed to me. If she seriously wanted to perform again, this might be an excellent representation for her.

  But when I’d told Judy in London that Artie Jacobs had inquired if she was interested in meeting Fields, her reaction was absolutely not. “What do I want to do that for?” Now Artie was bringing Freddie over to the Mapleton house to meet me again. This time I saw a streetwise, calm, and in-control Freddie who wanted to be the best manager the business had ever known. The one unusual characteristic in the otherwise impressive package was that his hands struck me as unusually small and gnarled for someone so young.

  On November 8, 1960, Jack Kennedy, age forty-three, became president-elect John F. Kennedy, ushering in the “New Frontier.” What was banned in print in the early 1960s would be featured everywhere by the end of the decade. While Judy and I tangoed, people would be twisting at the Peppermint Lounge. An explosive, dangerous decade lay ahead of us on many different levels. However, Judy and I were stuck in the cocoon of our relationship and our economic pressures, not thinking much of the country’s future.

  Judy did several more concerts in England; she performed for the Royal Variety Gala and was presented to the Queen for the third time. Once I returned to London, Freddie Fields popped up in town and rang the house asking to meet Judy for lunch. I explained to Judy that in the next few months the Aerophonics hardware would be finished and I’d have to be on the road. Lately, she’d been talking about returning to the States. I said I thought it might be a good idea to get a manager. To which she replied, “I don’t like Freddie Fields. Leave it alone. I don’t want anybody. We’ll be fine.”

  But I persuaded her to accept the invitation to lunch, and when she did she came home having made a one hundred percent switch: “He’s bright, very bright, and he’s got some wonderful ideas. He kinda sold me a bill of goods, darling. I think it’d be good for me.” And so Judy was to sign a management agreement with Freddie Fields Associates, 410 Park Avenue, New York, New York.

  I had not been successful in raising enough money to pay the mortgage. It was not a huge amount of money, but it was difficult finding the cash. We decided to give up our lease on the Chelsea house and return to New York, where Judy could work more directly with her new agent and I would be nearer to Florida and important business contacts.

  We arrived in New York close to New Year’s Eve. The family checked into the Stanhope Hotel near the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue. It was one of those winters that hadn’t kicked in yet and I could move around Manhattan without a coat.

  The following day, we went over to Freddie’s apartment. In the course of the evening Freddie’s wife, the actress/singer Polly Bergen, filed and polished her nails. I thought it odd: she’s polishing her nails and Freddie is asking Judy what she’d like to do. So casual. The new decade, the new style. It seemed kind of goofy. I had intended to impart necessary information, my professional knowledge of Judy to Fields. It was crucial he understand that she didn’t read contracts and that she was unable to work a demanding schedule. However, Freddie wasn’t allowing any gaps in his attention to Judy. I sat there uncomfortably while they spoke, taking a backseat. I was used to MCA, as I had been used to the William Morris Agency, and I expected to work with Fields regarding Judy’s new career. I rationalized that perhaps it wasn’t the right time. We said our good-byes with Freddie’s voice ringing in my ears: “Whatever you want Judy, you’ve got it.”

  As I had to come up with the mortgage payment by early January, I went to Fields and asked him to loan us the money. I was surprised to find him very cold, a turnabout from the last time we’d met. He said, “Sid, I’ll sign if you put the house in Judy’s name.” I told him I was not willing to do that. I’d find the money elsewhere.

  I left Freddie’s two-room offices on Park Avenue and walked slowly back up Fifth Avenue to the Stanhope, past the zoo, the old Brokaw mansion, every once in a while looking at the barren trees in Central Park, their branches and trunks like inky brush strokes against a peculiarly warm evening sky.

  There was no doubt we were temporarily trapped by low finances, and it may have appeared that this was the way we generally lived.

  And I wondered what in the hell Fields really thought of me . . .

  PART VI

  Leopold and Loeb

  41

  “WITH FREDDIE SOMETHING CLICKED,” Judy told Life magazine. “He seemed to know how to do exactly what I could not do: channel my work.” Although Freddie ran the office, he needed someone to do the legwork with the clients coming aboard, especially Judy Garland. He needed a “runner,” a high-powered go-getter with a mouth, and that mouth was David Begelman. Begelman’s career began as an insurance agent in New York. Freddie got him a job at MCA in the mail office, and then, with his knack for bullshit, Begelman became an agent there. Together the two would take Freddie Fields Associates to the next level and form CMA, Creative Management Associates.

  Fields and Begelman were both smart dressers, but Begelman was the more elegant and sophisticated of the two. He was always impeccably outfitted in an expensive tailor-made suit, and he was known to wear a pale blue shirt every day then change into a white shirt each evening. Both men were witty, vivacious, and full of energy. “Leopold and Loeb.” That’s the name Judy came up with for them. She had a name for everybody. Well, almost everybody. I didn’t have a nickname that I know of. I was just “darling” or “that bastard.”

  Fields and Begelman wasted no time in laying out their game plan for Judy’s career. They set out to prove to the industry that she was reliable, eager, and willing to work. They would begin her concert tour in smaller markets and later graduate to major cities, then make her the most important act in the Vegas and Tahoe nightclub circuits. Finally they planned to reestablish her as an
important actress in motion pictures.

  In January 1961, following a seven-year hiatus from making movies, it was announced that Judy would return to the screen in Stanley Kramer’s upcoming film Judgment at Nuremberg. Kramer had originally considered Julie Harris for the part and agonized over the decision for some time before Freddie Fields convinced him to give it to Judy. She was to be paid $50,000 to play the small but important role of a German hausfrau named Irene Hoffman Wallner.

  The first confrontation I had with Judy relating to Fields and Begelman occurred when the three of them formed a corporation called Kingsrow Enterprises. “Darling, isn’t it great?” Judy said to me. “I’m gonna have my own little corporation.”

  “Who are the officers?” I asked her.

  “Well, I’m the president,” she said. She was the president of this company, but there were no officers. They issued all the stock, but the only stockholder was Judy. It was comical!

  I made a suggestion. “You know, what we should do is have this company be between us.”

  She wouldn’t consider it. “Oh no, darling, just let me have this little thing by myself.”

  “It’s not a very good idea in a family,” I told her. “It’ll raise hell with us eventually.”

  “Well, let’s try it.”

  So naive. All I saw was doom. What we later learned was that they formed a company that would double-tax Judy, meaning Kingsrow would be taxed and Judy Garland would be taxed. Field and Begelman didn’t care, though. They took theirs off the top—and the bottom!

  Judy and I couldn’t agree on anything. It was around this time that she took the children and checked out of the suite at the Stanhope where we’d been staying, and moved into the legendary Dakota Hotel on Central Park West. That split began a series of separations and reconciliations between us that went on for most of that year. I went back to California with Eddie Alperson and stayed busy with Aerophonics. I tried to keep my sanity while dealing with huge corporations like American Airlines, Pan Am, and so on.