Judy & Liza & Robert & Freddie & David & Sue & Me... (17 page)

I don't discount that some choices were beyond her control, like the “monster bed” at MGM where she, Deanna Durbin, and other young players climbed in with company executives. If it's true, could I possibly feel sorrier for her? Then I ask myself: Wuz you there, Charlie? The answer is no. It's possible that the story was made up, told just to shock me, or maybe it was simply the ravings of a deranged mind. Judy knew how to lie, and exaggeration was her long suit.

*   *   *

The Judy I knew never wanted to die. But whether or not someone responded on that tragic night or not, her body could no longer withstand the abuse. Many celebrities who, like Judy, have died young remain young in our memories. For most Judy was old, perhaps because she had been around for so long, or perhaps because she looked so old when she died. She was only forty-seven. That still shocks me. And sometimes when I mention to someone else that she was only forty-seven when she died, it shocks them too.

*   *   *

There are many people whom I owe. I owe Judy the most. She was the start of my start, and largely the reason I am a survivor. Sometimes I think I miss her, but in truth what I'm missing is that incredible time in my life, which was exciting, fun, scary, sad, tragic—somewhat in that order. One of the things I learned at Al-Anon, many years after Judy died, is that we're satisfied with happy endings, even if the outcome is different than we intended. They leave us with good memories. But when things don't work out well, we want a do-over. We may even create similar situations in order to try for a better result. So sometimes what I really want is to go back to that incredible time in my life, grab it by the throat, and change the ending. But only sometimes!

 

Part 2

Success

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Liza Start-up

I began representing Liza in 1962. But I must start with Judy. Everything starts with Judy, who went to LA in 1962 to do the first of two television specials for CBS, leaving Liza alone in New York. I also remained in New York to start the rest of my life. But when an invitation was tendered to me to fly first class to the coast for the taping of the show starring Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, I decided to put off the start of the rest of my life for a few days.

I was excited to see Judy back on top, working with the top performers in the industry, many of whom were now clamoring to be in the show, to shine in her reflected light. In the glare of that light I had another opportunity to see that top performers don't always do top-drawer things. Panic, a mode I was used to, had taken over the stage floor; Judy was rehearsing alone and had been all week because Frank and Dean could not be found. They were supposed to start work on Monday; it was now Friday, and the show was about to go on camera. I was so happy to be only an observer as I watched people ready for the dress rehearsal scurrying around trying to find substitutes, writers rewriting. George Schlatter, the producer, who had everyone in Southern California looking for the two superstars, was certifiable. I was on the stage talking to Judy when the two stars nonchalantly strolled in. Mouths could be seen dropping open in unison all over the stage. Frank took a beat and said to the awestruck group, “If you wanted someone reliable, you should've hired Eddie Albert!” (There should be a rim shot here.) Dean Martin did nothing except stand there looking beautiful. Frank and Dean then hit their marks, gave wonderful performances, and the show was nominated for four Emmy Awards.

*   *   *

There was a second special, and the success of both led to discussions for a series. Selling a television series is a windfall for any agency. A big-budget musical variety series with a star headlining it was, in the early sixties, the cherry on the sundae. For Freddie's little start-up, a sale like this would put the company into the same conversation as William Morris. Negotiations raged on for months, going at times from bad to worse. It was heavily rumored that James Aubrey, then president of the CBS network, was not a Judy Garland fan, which probably had something to do with his fight with Sid Luft years before. (Sid fought with everyone.)

However, finally Freddie prevailed and on December 28, 1962, Judy signed a deal for twenty-four million dollars, one of the largest in television history, not only in terms of money but also because it gave her full say as to whether she wanted to continue past the first thirteen shows (one season), and CBS could not cancel. Unfortunately, the show never found as big an audience as had been hoped, and it also became more than Judy could handle. There were endless problems getting her to the stage on time, if she could be gotten there at all. Imitating the wonderful set for
The Wizard of Oz,
the CBS crew painted a charming little yellow brick road lined with flowers that led to and from her trailer to the stage. But she could no longer meander down that path as she once had. I knew exactly what that was about, and I was relieved those problems weren't mine. That old bugaboo, “reliability factor,” had reared its ugly head once again.

*   *   *

Back in New York Liza was alone. Judy took her two small children and was gone, seemingly permanently. Judy, who shed all her belongings but for the few framed pictures that she traveled with, was now shedding her daughter. So here is sixteen-year-old Liza, who adores her mother, in the big city. She doesn't have any money at all. Think about it. I certainly did. I know how much Liza wanted to stay in New York. She was mad for theater and hanging with all the gypsies on Broadway. I don't know if she had to plead with Judy to stay behind, but I know that if I wanted to leave home at sixteen, and I had neither money nor a place to stay, there would have been a mighty struggle, and I would have lost. Although Judy had no home, to Liza at sixteen, “home” meant being with her mother. Liza was now homeless.

I knew I had to make it work for Liza, or it would become an unmitigated disaster. I had helped to keep Judy alive; perhaps Judy figured I could now keep her big girl alive. Or maybe she didn't think about it at all. Still, without a word to me, she was in effect handing me the greatest responsibility of my early life, one that F&D wanted no part of. And I'll tell you why. Liza was a mess. Her waist-length hair often looked as if it might have been home to both animate and inanimate things. (The gamine haircut that became her signature style was still a few years away.)

Dirty and unkempt, she would come and hang out in my new office almost every day. F&D—to whom image was everything—weren't happy about it, but that was too bad. I felt so sorry for her. She was a sweet kid, modest, and very polite. I didn't have the heart to ask her to leave or even cut back her visits. She dropped out of school and didn't have anywhere else to go. And all she ever wanted, all she ever talked about, was getting into show business. Most days she would give me a pep talk about how she was going to make it. She had enormous ambition, stars in her eyes, and determination in her pleas, but nothing in her pockets. I doubt she got an allowance from her mother once Judy was gone. It would have come in the mail, and there was none. Nor did I ask Judy for any money for Liza. That was not up to me. I gave Li what she needed, which wasn't much. You could buy her off with a burger and a quarter to get to wherever she was going to hang out next. Trust me, it was better not to ask. It didn't matter to Liza where she slept.

Nothing mattered to Liza as much as performing. She was sure that all she needed was for me to represent her. In spite of F&D, I was flattered. Finally one day I screwed my courage to the sticking place, went to them and said I wanted to help her. “Get papers with her, and get her some work so that she has someplace else to go,” David ordered. Liza remained a nuisance to them until she started earning big money. (Then, indeed, they did come calling.) Liza was both vulnerable and sensitive, and she sensed how the guys felt about her. She steered clear of them, although she was always polite and enthusiastic when she saw them. She had a don't-make-enemies instinct that has always served her well. I suspect she developed it because of the need to tiptoe around Judy.

I can't claim that my earliest involvement in Liza's professional life was based solely on an appreciation of her talent. I didn't know whether or not she had any. I had only seen her kick up her heels to Gershwin's “Swanee” for a few minutes during a couple of Judy's concerts to allow her mother to catch her breath, and I'd seen her perform the leading role in a school production of
The Diary of Anne Frank.
It was a Scarsdale High School Drama Club presentation that so impressed a sponsor he paid for the students to tour Israel, Greece, and Italy with the play. Liza was especially good, but so was everyone, and that was school.

But now school was over for Liza, and this was real life. My two bosses thought that she was a waste of time and I was crazy. Nevertheless I signed contracts with her just in case there could be something there—and to shut David up. But it was mostly a sympathetic gesture. I knew what her life with Judy could be like from time to time because I knew what mine was like. But if I felt sorry for her, I can assure you she didn't feel sorry for herself. What was for me her parents' questionable behavior was for her her “normal.”

I'm never sure what “normal” means, but I know for damn sure that what Liza was given, starting from the time I met her, was no warm and fuzzy home life. Not that either parent wasn't affectionate when they were with her; Judy certainly was, and I witnessed Vincente being affectionate in his way as well. I'm sorry I never got to know him better, because I was such a big fan of his movies, but whenever Liza and I stopped at his lovely house just off Sunset Boulevard—which happened only a few times—Vincente's wife, Denise, wore an expression that seemed unwelcoming to me, and my antennae were totally tuned in. She seemed to be treating unkempt Liza with a kind of disdain that, for me, translated into “Don't infect this house with your messy presence.” There was never an invitation to stay for lunch, never a question about whether or not we were hungry or thirsty.

So while I have no doubt that both parents were very fond of Liza, parental concern for Li's education, schedule, diet, and structure just plain didn't exist. Parenting didn't exist, not only in a nontraditional way, but in any way at all. It may have been there at some point earlier in her life, but I wasn't around then. I only saw what I saw from the day I met thirteen-year-old Liza, and it was awful or totally absent. In fact, once Judy left for the series in 1962, she was absent from both our lives—if only on a temporary basis; someone else was getting the calls at three or four in the morning. And I don't know when she and Liza spoke to each other during those long absences, if at all. Yet she adored them both.

*   *   *

Once the ink was dry on the contracts, I knew I had to find Liza work, and I did—in theater. She won raves in
Best Foot Forward
, which I made the booking for, my very first in theater. Playing Ethel Hofflinger—a high school sweetheart dumped by her boyfriend (a very young Christopher Walken) so he could take a Hollywood star to the prom—Liza was brilliant casting and so real in the role. I found myself, along with the audience, watching only her. Of course I was interested primarily in Li's performance, but then one gets caught up in the play itself—if the play is any good—and all the actors seamlessly become a part of it. Liza blended in nicely, but she also stood out, and not just to me. Her energy was higher, her immersion as an actress total. I could finally see she had talent, but since I was not yet at all sure of myself, it took the audience reaction to convince me that she was the real deal.

Although there were some rumors that Judy and Sid had missed their plane (and I hope they were merely rumors), Judy may have thoughtfully attended the performance on the second night, knowing that if she came on opening night, she would attract all the press attention. No one was more grateful than I for her gesture, nor was anyone more proud than Judy. Within the limits of her capability, it was clear that Judy cared. The play launched Li's professional stage career and led to her being honored with the Theater World Award as 1963's most promising young actress. She deserved it. She had broken her ankle in rehearsal, and nonetheless just kept putting one foot in front of the other. She was the living embodiment of the title—putting her best foot forward.

*   *   *

While in the show, Liza was fortunate to meet a lovely young woman in the cast, Paula Wayne. They became friends. Paula was older and married with kids. She had an apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and she generously took homeless Liza in. This situation worked until I started to hear some grumblings. So I went across town to find out what it was about. I met an unhappy husband who didn't want Liza sleeping on a bare mattress on his living room floor. “Please get her out of here,” he demanded. He was neither rude or even a tad impolite, merely (and justifiably) annoyed with an intolerable living situation that Liza wasn't able to see, and Paula was too kind to bring up. I told Liza to grab her things; I was taking her home with me. And it's not as if that took more than two minutes. She had no suitcases to pack.

And so Liza moved into the apartment I'd rented on East Fifty-fifth Street in Manhattan. It was a one bedroom and my first solo pad. She slept on the couch in my living room for the best part of a year. She co-opted my wardrobe, ate solid food from my fridge, and didn't have to struggle. With a lovely place of my own, I could easily share everything with her until she could afford her own apartment.

It was amusing what opposites we were. I was a day person; she thrived at night. When I left early in the morning to walk to work, she was fast asleep. When I came home at night from the office, she was gone. If I had to go out at night to cover theater or anything else, I would come home by midnight and she was still gone. Not my business. And I wasn't about to become a watchdog. I had no interest in assuming the role of nagging parent. I knew that wouldn't work because whenever I got on her case about anything (and I only ever did when it affected her career), it wasn't appreciated. I wanted to be helpful, and to give her a sense of security so that she could go out and do her job.