Judy Garland, née Frances Gumm, had been with MGM since she was in her teens. The Wizard of Oz had made her a star when she was just fifteen. She had become so popular that the studio put her in movie after movie, giving her no chance to rest. She made nineteen movies in nine years.
To keep up her energy, she began taking barbiturates and became addicted, taking uppers in the daytime and sleeping pills at night. She had tried to commit suicide and, unbeknownst to me, had just come from the Menninger Clinic when I met her.
Her first words were, “Hello, Sidney. I loved your screenplay.”
For a moment, I was stunned. Then I began to grin like an idiot. “Thank you.”
“It was good, wasn’t it?” Arthur Freed said. It was the first comment I had heard him make about my screenplay.
The door opened and Gene Kelly came in. By now I began to relax. Gene Kelly was another familiar face. I had seen him in Thousands Cheer, Cover Girl, and Anchors Aweigh. He felt like an old friend.
He greeted Judy and Arthur, and then turned to me. “Author author,” he said, “you did a damn fine job.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Arthur Freed said.
I was filled with a sudden sense of euphoria. All that worrying for nothing.
“Any suggestions you have—” I began.
“It’s just right for me,” Judy said.
Gene Kelly added, “Me, too. It’s perfect.”
Arthur Freed smiled. “It looks like it’s going to be a short meeting. We’re all set to go. We start shooting Monday.”
After the meeting, I went back to my office and started unpacking.
My secretary was watching, puzzled. “May I ask what’s going on?”
“I changed my mind.”
On Friday, Arthur Freed called me into his office.
“We have a problem,” he said.
I stopped breathing. “Something wrong with the script?”
“No, it’s Gene Kelly. He broke his ankle playing volleyball over the weekend.”
I swallowed. “So, we’re going to postpone the picture?”
“I sent your script to Fred Astaire. He retired last year but if he likes your script, he’ll do it.”
I shook my head. “Fred Astaire is forty-eight years old. Judy is twenty-five. The audience is going to be rooting for them not to get together. That will never work.”
He said, tolerantly, “Let’s see what Fred has to say.”
Fred Astaire said yes. I met him in Arthur Freed’s office the next day and he said, “Thank you for a wonderful script. It’s going to be exciting to make.”
Looking at him, my misgivings about the casting disappeared. He looked young and alert and energetic. He had the reputation of being a perfectionist. On a picture he did with Ginger Rogers, he kept rehearsing a new routine with her until her feet were bleeding.
I was on the soundstage on Monday, the first day of shooting Easter Parade. Fred Astaire was at the far end of the stage where they were setting up the first shot. I was at the other end of the stage, telling a story to Judy. In the middle of it, the assistant director hurried over. “We’re ready for you, Miss Garland.”
I started to get up.
“No,” Judy said, “finish the story.”
“All right.” I started talking faster because I knew how expensive it was to keep a shooting company waiting. I looked over at the other end of the stage where they were set up and waiting, and I said, “Judy, I’ll finish the story later. It’s really not important—”
“No,” she insisted. “Finish it now.” She seemed upset.
“Judy, don’t you want to do this scene?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Why not?”
She hesitated a moment, then blurted out, “I have to kiss Mr. Astaire in this scene, and I’ve never met him.”
Everyone had just assumed that these two superstars knew each other. I felt then a deep sense of how vulnerable Judy Garland was.
“Come on,” I said. I took her hand and led her over to the other end of the stage where they were all impatient to get started.
“Fred,” I said, “this is Judy Garland.”
He smiled. “It certainly is. I’m a big fan of yours.”