Judy Garland: A Biography Page 4

  She had actually not spoken to Mayer in their first meeting. Not yet knowing his power over her life, she had not feared him. Ethel immediately delineated his importance. As well, the other employees on the lot were graphic in their fear and their opinion of L.B. Judy began to think of the man as one would of a school principal.

  He wanted all of his subjects to regard him as an all-holy father figure, but Judy had Frank to greet her at the end of each day. They would share stories or watch films together in his theater, and Frank would mimic the action on the screen, pretending he was all the players—women and children as well as the men. Judy would join in. They shared more laughter than they had ever been able to before. The child was happier than she had ever been. Ethel was satisfied and relaxed for the moment, knowing her Baby was signed to the biggest studio of them all; the girls were relieved that they would no longer be expected to perform; and Judy had her dream clutched tightly in her fist. She would never again have to leave her father.

  It was decided that she should be given as many chances to perform as possible. That did not mean that Metro was ready to put her before the cameras. Instead, the studio sent her to sing at parties given by Metro stars and executives. Singing at Norma Shearer and Irving Thalberg’s home, or at Gable’s home, she felt awkward and ill at ease. She was later to say she felt like hired help—singing, eating in the kitchen, and returning to her own modest home at the end of each grand and sumptuous party.

  The leading night club at that time was The Trocadero, owned by Billy Wilkerson (who also owned the trade paper The Hollywood Reporter). Wilkerson had set up a series of Sunday-afternoon auditions. Studios would send over new players and they would test themselves before a professional audience, gratis. Judy’s appearance at The Troc, as it was called, one Sunday afternoon, is thought by many to have firmly convinced Mayer and Metro that the awkward little girl might be worth top material.

  It was almost three months to the day from the date of that first audition that her world crashed. Frank died suddenly and unexpectedly of spinal meningitis. When she left for the studio in the morning he was taken to the hospital. In the evening she appeared on a radio show with A1 Jolson. A call came that her father’s condition was very critical. It was a cruel blow that he died before she was able to see him. Through the years Judy said over and over again, “My father’s death was the most terrible thing that ever happened to me in my life.”

  She was never to overcome his loss and sought his image in every man she met, but she was incapable of crying at his funeral. She was so ashamed of this that she feigned it. The following eight days and nights she was inconsolable, melancholy and tearless. Ethel was beside herself, certain that the girl’s attitude and listlessness would reach Mayer’s ears and be met with great displeasure.

  On the ninth day, the dam broke. Locking herself in the bathroom at home, she cried and vomited for fourteen hours. None of Ethel’s pleas moved her. When she emerged, she was exhausted, sick, and weak. Ethel demanded she clean up and go straight to the studio, where she was long overdue.

  Upon her arrival, they were told that Louis B. Mayer wanted to see them. It was the first time she had an audience with him, but she was never able to discuss that initial confrontation. She did say he gave her some consolation and then went into his now-familiar lecture—“I am your father and whenever you have trouble and whenever you need anything, come to me and I will help you.”

  No substitute for Frank, he did supply the devastated young girl with a figure of authority—half Satan, half God. Ethel regarded him in the same light. For once, her mother’s word would not be the last.

  6It must always remain in the area of speculation whether or not Mayer’s intentions toward Judy were honorable and paternal, or either. It is a widely accepted fact that he had a penchant for very young girls and that he was possessed of an acute God complex which made the young women he felt he had created the most attractive to him. Before, during, and after the time Judy was on the lot, “below-stairs” gossip linked Mayer with many of the very young female players. Further, such gossip intimated that Mayer never promised stardom if the young girl did comply but that he threatened destruction if she did not. There was no need to doubt his power to do so.

  The talk “belowstairs” involving Judy and Mayer began when she was not yet fifteen. It persisted during most of her MGM contract years. For most of her life Judy denied any such liaison. But certainly Mayer’s influence over Judy’s life while she was at MGM was more powerful and God-like than over that of any other player. For nearly seventeen years she worked, slept, ate, appeared in public, dated, married, and divorced at his command. He even exerted supreme authority over any medical crisis in her life.

  Frank’s death made Ethel financially dependent upon Judy’s earnings. He had not provided for the years ahead; the estate was small; and she had Jimmy and Sue to feed, clothe, and educate. Judy was earning $150 a week, less A1 Rosen’s 10 percent. No king’s ransom, but in 1934 it was a sizable salary. Ethel now employed a new tactic if Judy misbehaved or threatened any small rebellion: “I’ll tell Mr. Mayer!” she would yell. From the very inception of their three-sided relationship—Judy, Ethel, and Mayer—Judy never doubted that Ethel was on Mayer’s side. In her younger years, therefore, she was much too fearful to do anything but comply.

  In 1934 there was no provision made by law to protect a child actor’s earnings. Legally, these earnings belonged to the parents, but morally one would expect some future protection for the minor. Judy signed her checks over to Ethel without question. She continued to do so for the next five years as the checks and her career rose to stellar heights. But no part of those moneys was ever put aside for Judy.

  At the time Judy signed at MGM, Jackie Coogan was a star on the lot. Though nearing twenty-one, he still commanded $1,300 a week. During his long career as a child star, he had earned over $4 million. Publicly, his parents had declared they were protecting a large slice of those earnings by putting it into a trust fund for him to receive when he reached twenty-one. Arriving at that age, Coogan found there was no trust fund. His father had died and his mother had married their business manager, Arthur L. Bernstein. Claiming disapproval of young Coogan’s conduct, they forced him to leave the house his earnings had bought. With the haunting vision of his lost millions, Jackie Coogan went to court to try to salvage what he could. By 1935, his contract had ended at MGM. He was jobless, homeless, and broke.

  It was not until May 4, 1939, that a committee of the State Assembly at Sacramento was to recommend passage of “The Coogan Act”—or the Child Actor’s Bill, Through this bill, the court had the power to set aside 50 percent of the child’s earnings in a trust fund or other form of savings. For Coogan it was a Pyrrhic victory. He managed to retrieve $126,000 from the Bernsteins, but five years of court battles almost entirely devoured the amount.

  During those years (1934-39), Judy never concerned herself about money. Once the cameras began to roll for her, she had no time for anything outside the studio. Her financial needs were small. Ethel had sold the house in Silver Lake, and they moved closer to the studio. She was driven to the lot early in the morning and returned home late at night. Later, when she and Mickey were making films together, they often slept in the studio hospital rather than return home for the few hours allotted them.

  Having Mickey on the lot was Judy’s one great compensation after her father’s death. Together with Deanna Durbin, they attended the studio school daily from nine to twelve. All three were still waiting for the big chance. Math was Judy’s weakest subject, as it was Mickey’s. They had much in common. Returning to memories of their days together at Mrs. Lawlor’s, Mickey says: “At Ma Lawlor’s, during math lessons, Judy and I swapped mash notes. The notes said such bright and original things as ’I love you’ and ‘I’ll always love you’ and ‘You look beautiful this morning.’ The passion was counterfeit and we both knew it. Only our love of fun was real.”

  Years later, Roone
y’s mother was to ask him why he didn’t marry Judy, and he was to reply, “I couldn’t do it. It would have been like marrying my sister.”

  Mayer had signed her without any role in mind. He also had not insisted on a screen test, which was unusual. He had hired her by instinct; his comment to Ida Koverman had been to the effect that she had a very special charisma that he sensed he could channel to star quality if she did as he said.

  His manifesto went out: “Groom that girl and slim her.”

  Orders were issued to the commissary that she was not to be served anything but chicken soup no matter what she ordered, and no matter how hungry or hard-worked she was. After her four-hour session, she attended exercise classes, dance classes, and song-styling sessions with Roger Edens, who was her one studio support. This routine continued for almost a year. Judy—still chubby, but not fat—had learned how to walk gracefully, and talk and sing without distorting her face. It was time, the studio felt, to see how she looked on camera.

  The short, Every Sunday (also known as The Sunday Afternoon and Every Sunday Afternoon) was ostensibly made as a screen test for Judy and Deanna. It was a two-reel short subject directed by Felix Feist, and in it Deanna sang a classical song while Judy sang swing. (Judy was later to sing a similar duet—“I Like Opera and I Like Swing”—in Babes in Arms with Betty Jaynes.) Sid Silvers appeared in the film with the two girls.

  Mayer was in Europe when the short was finished. Coincidentally, Deanna’s option renewal arose at the same time. Though it has never been determined whose decision it was, Deanna was dropped.

  Joe Pasternak was producing for Universal, and he had a script that was written for a young hot or swing singer. Having heard about Judy, he asked the executives at MGM if Universal could see the short. Studios often lent out players for large fees to other studios. A request of this nature was not unique.

  Pasternak could not get over how both the young girls belted out their songs or the tremendous screen presence each had. But the script was for a swing singer. Pasternak went back to MGM and asked to borrow Judy for the film to be called Three Smart Girls.

  By this time Mayer had returned from Europe. According to Arthur Freed (who later produced many of Judy’s films), he was responsible for Judy’s not being dropped at the same time as Deanna. Ida Koverman claimed there was an edict that no decision regarding Judy Garland was to be made without Mayer’s authorization. Whichever is the truth, or if both are, Pasternak’s request revived Mayer’s attention. He ran the film, refused to lend Judy—and at the same time was furious that Deanna Durbin had been dropped. But Pasternak never forgot Judy, or his belief in her.

  What was MGM’s loss was Universal’s gain. Rewriting the script to suit a classical girl singer, Universal signed Deanna. The film was to make her an international star overnight and one of her studio’s biggest money-makers.

  The year that followed was a difficult one for Judy. Mickey had made his Metro debut in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and having also broken his leg while tobogganing, he had little time to spare. Immediately after the preview of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he was put under special wraps. Freddie Bartholomew was the leading child star at Metro, having just made David Copperfield. But Mickey was being groomed. He was earning the comfortable salary of $500 a week in mid-Depression. (By the end of the decade he would be making close to $5,000 a week.) Several strong roles were immediately set up for him. He went straight into Aft, Wildernessl and then Riff-Raff (with Tracy and Harlow), The Devil Is a Sissy, and Little Lord Fauntleroy (Bartholomew still the star attraction) without much time between. Judy had lost much of her old friend’s companionship. The acceleration of his career and Deanna’s sudden stardom pointed up the fact that she was marking time. By the end of the year, Darryl Zanuck, now at Fox (he had been at Metro but could not get along with Mayer), asked Mayer to lend Judy for Pigskin Parade, which he was producing. Mayer, perhaps remembering that he might have had a star on his hands if he had lent Judy to Pasternak at Universal for Three Smart Girls, consented.

  Pigskin Parade was a run-of-the-mill film, with a formula plot but The New York Times did single out Judy, after noting first the Fox debut of a pretty blonde in the cast—Betty Grable: “also in the newcomer category is Judy Garland, about twelve or thirteen now, about whom the West Coast has been enthusing as a vocal find . . . She’s cute, not too pretty, but a pleasingly fetching personality, who certainly knows how to sell a pop.”

  7Across the nation, while millions were starving, a crime wave machine-gunned itself to an ominous din. G-men were matched against Public Enemies. War was declared, and among others of the criminal elite, Pretty Boy Floyd and Bonnie and Clyde were shot down. It was apparent that Mayer’s decision was to let them (film audiences) “eat cake.” MGM began a twenty-year cycle of what Mayer considered clean and wholesome entertainment.

  Films, since their earliest inception, have been a tremendous social force, whose control in the day of the movie moguls gave these men power to mold opinion and attitude. Mayer’s intimates were William Randolph Hearst and Herbert Hoover. (Ida Koverman, Mayer’s secretary, had once been Hoover’s secretary and had brought the two men together.)

  Mayer’s friendship with Hearst went back to 1919, when Paramount had let Marion Davies (Hearst’s girlfriend) go as a flop and Mayer, needing money for his new studio, had sold himself to Hearst on the proviso that he make and continue to make films starring Miss Davies. In all the years Marion Davies was at MGM, only one film ever made back its cost—Little Old New York. But Mayer held up his end of the bargain. Hearst, for his part, and with his gargantuan power, aligned himself with Mayer whenever called upon.

  In 1935, Mayer was known to a wide circle of Hollywood “society” as “Trocadero Lou.” His wife, Margaret, was bedridden in their home in Malibu. He was now making $800,000 a year, and his power to sway opinion was second only to that of one man—Hearst.

  He was also Hollywood’s leading host, throwing Lucullan banquets for his friends and visiting dignitaries that rivaled any kingly affair.

  “Troubadors greet the guests as they enter,” Joel Faith reported in a 1935 issue of Theatre. “Splendid food is served. The honor guest is usually surrounded by a bevy of film cuties. Sometimes the ultimate in juxtaposition is reached, as when Miss Harlow is placed next to Bishop Cantwell and Miss Crawford is beside Rabbi Magnin. When George Bernard Shaw toured America he was the guest of Mayer and Hearst. He sat at table beside Miss Marion Davies. When he rose from his chair to view the studio, Miss Davies clung to his arm with a grip of iron. Nor would she let go until news photographers snapped their shutters. Next morning pictures of these intellectuals graced the pages of all the Hearst newspapers.”

  It was obvious that Mayer both identified with and envied Hearst. In his office, throughout his life, was a larger-than-life-size portrait of Hearst. It was to be expected that the Hearst philosophies would be the message of Metro films. Bank presidents and politicians always fared well. The true condition of the country was never shown. Young men fought and died in historical wars for Mom, the family back home, and the American flag. Contemporary dramas and comedies had the hero fighting for the same causes.

  But as powerful as Hearst was, he was not a match for the gangsterism of Al Capone. From Chicago, Capone viewed the golden rooftops of Hollywood and sent his emissaries out to shake down the film industry for a cut of the take. A man named Willie Bioff arrived in Hollywood along with George E. Browne. Both men immediately took over the IATSE (International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees). In this position they could threaten a strike which would stop the cameras from rolling on any lot. For six years they blackmailed the majors in this fashion. MGM was not exempt, and even Hearst could not squash men like Frank “The Enforcer” Nitti, Paul “The Waiter” Ricca, Louis “Little New York” Campagna, Charles “Cherry Nose” Giou, and Francis “Frank Diamond” Maritote, who were Capone henchmen.

  Bioff demanded $2 million from Mayer, pared it down to
$1 million, and settled for $200,000 plus a yearly stipend to guarantee the safe production of Metro films.*

  Mayer was forced to listen to Bioff brag how he had everyone in the industry toeing the mark; how men like Mayer, Schenck, the Warner brothers, and Austin C. Keough, the vice-president of Paramount, were at his beck and call; how he blasphemed them when they did not respond quickly enough to his demands; that in five years’ time he would be running all the studios in Hollywood; that he was the big power and that Mayer, like the rest, had better play ball.

  A man now caught between two awesome powers—Hearst and the Chicago syndicate—Mayer exerted his own form of ego power on his lot. He was “king” of Metro, and if now not entirely in control of his studio, he held his subjects in an iron fist.*

  Each year on July 4, Mayer would throw himself a birthday party that lacked only a twenty-one-gun salute in its royal pretensions. For the event he took over the commissary, and all of Metro’s star performers, directors, producers, and supporting players were commanded to attend, and those who could sing or dance to perform. Judy’s first performance under her Metro contract was at one of these parties, and for many subsequent years she was expected to sing at them.

  “We all had to assemble at L. B. Mayer’s birthday party in the commissary,” Elizabeth Taylor, giving her impressions on the David Frost show, related, “and everybody—the writers, the directors, the stars, everyone—and he would sort of stand up and have a ‘Happy Birthday’ sung to him. And the little kid stars like Margaret O’Brien and Butch Jenkins, and one year I was with them and I felt kind of awkward, stiff; for we had to sort of sit around him and pay homage to this man who was obviously slightly crazy. Anyway, at one of these huge things, Perry Como got up and sang, ‘Happy Birthday, dear L.B. and fuck you!’ [Bleeped out in final T.V. cut.] It was like a death toll all over the huge commissary, because he had done the unforgivable. He had broken the sacred bond and he had told the old man what everybody else in their own hearts were dying to tell him, and he finally came out and said it; and it was glorious; and it was joyous; and it was one of the happiest moments of my life and I was only fourteen.”