August 17, 1939—For a day, Hollywood’s moviemaking factory turned into a movie promotional factory. With its musical extravaganza of the season, The Wizard of Oz, having already exceeded its $2 million budget by 50%, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer—the studio that trumpeted in its motto that it had “more stars than there are in Heaven”—decided to use two of its younger ones to pump up sales.
The Wizard of Oz already had its “unofficial premiere” at the Strand Theatre in Oconomowoc, Wisc., on August 12, and its “world” premiere at Grauman's Chinese Theater in Hollywood three days later. Now, MGM had flown Mickey Rooney, the star of its popular “Andy Hardy” series, and Judy Garland, the 17-year-old ingénue with the amazing voice, playing Dorothy on film, to plug The Wizard of Oz in the Big Apple.
I hadn’t realized just how huge an event this premiere was till I read Horatia Harrod’s piece in Britain’s Daily Telegraph nearly two weeks ago. I’ve always thought that the line I stood on for Star Wars when it came out was the most interminable I ever encountered, but that pales next to the details that Harrod unearthed about the one at Loew’s Capitol Theatre in New York for The Wizard of Oz:
* Lines were already forming at 5:30 a.m. outside the theater.
* On the sidewalk outside the 5,230-seat theater, 15,000 people were waiting for the box office to open at 8:30 am.
* Sixty cops exercised crowd control outside MGM’s flagship theater throughout the day.
* By the last performance that evening, 37,000 people had witnessed the movie in that one spot.
MGM wasn’t taking any chances with a movie that, during production, looked snake-bitten (Margaret Hamilton had been sidelined for six weeks because of severe burns from an onset accident, and Buddy Ebsen suffered such a severe reaction to his Tin Man makeup that he’d been forced to withdraw from the role). The double-teaming of Garland and Rooney highlighted two of the studio’s most winning (though not to directors) stars.
With Babes in Arms, the third (out of eight) collaboration between Garland and Rooney, set for release in several weeks, you could almost see the wheels spin in studio honcho Louis B. Mayer’s head: Why not, in effect, beat the publicity drum for two flicks?
A great idea—on the surface. Problem was, the studio was about to demonstrate that the title of a prior Garland-Rooney film, Thoroughbreds Don’t Cry, was mistaken.
Maybe the most famous exchange from Babes in Arms came when Rooney’s singer-musician character had a brainstorm: “Hey, kids, let’s put on a show!”
“We can use my Dad’s barn!” Judy says, matching him every step of the way.
On the set was a bit different.
Rooney wasn’t the problem. The man, then as now, was a force of nature.
But Garland needed special handling—precisely what she wasn’t getting. Keeping up with Rooney during the Babes in Arms shooting had severely taxed her physical resources. Only starting the second year of her career, she was already receiving strong hints from the studio brass that she try diet pills to maintain weight consistency throughout production.
Garland did as she was told, as she now did when MGM wanted her and Rooney to introduce each screening—and perform energetic song-and-dance routines—before each one. The Lowe’s audiences ate it up.
Garland’s run was extended for a third week. It proved too much for the star, who at one point collapsed from exhaustion.
Think this taught MGM a lesson? Think again.
If you want graphic visual evidence of how the studio ran its most valuable female musical-comedy star into the ground, then rent the DVD of Annie Get Your Gun, made a decade later. Betty Hutton was handed the role of Annie Oakley when Garland’s diet-pills-and-amphetamines regimen led to a physical collapse and her withdrawal from the Irving Berlin musical.
Special features of the DVD include Garland’s three outtakes (she’d recorded the vocals in their entirety for the soundtrack already). They’re painful to watch. Time and again, the star attempted another take, but she looked utterly wan, spent and bewildered.
By 1950, five studio doctors were plying her with pills. But Garland’s body could no longer take the stress.
Her refusal to film Royal Wedding led the studio to suspend her for unreliability. The next day, she attempted suicide. Within 24 hours, with the exquisite tact it had shown throughout her tenure at the studio, MGM cited her suicide attempt as a violation of the “morals clause” in her contract and severed the relationship permanently.
Garland would complete only three more films before her death, from an accidental overdose of sleeping pills, in 1969.
Babes in Arms, on a budget of $600,000, made its money back and then some, grossing $2 million domestically. The Wizard of Oz did so, too—a decade later. As with It’s a Wonderful Life, it took TV to make the film a permanent part of the American cultural experience.
Like other youngsters in the Sixties and Seventies, I sat transfixed in front of my family’s color TV set for the annual showing of The Wizard of Oz. Much of the time, I peeked through my fingers whenever the Wicked Witch of the West terrified poor Dorothy and Toto. (In real life, Margaret Hamilton was a former kindergarten teacher who adored kids and pets.)
I haven’t seen the film all the way through in at least 35 years. I suspect if I were to do so now, my dominant emotion would not be horror at the Wicked Witch but a sweet-sad feeling of nostalgia over Dorothy’s lost Kansas.
From the first, audiences welcomed “Over the Rainbow” rapturously, along with the line that, in effect, echoes it: “There’s no place like home.”
Years after Judy and Mickey put on their show, the original fans of the movie (and their children, such as myself) grew up to learn that “home” is not only a point in space but a point in time, when the people we have loved were not just here but physically and emotionally whole—and, for that reason, the concept exists now only as a gulp in the throat.
The Wizard of Oz already had its “unofficial premiere” at the Strand Theatre in Oconomowoc, Wisc., on August 12, and its “world” premiere at Grauman's Chinese Theater in Hollywood three days later. Now, MGM had flown Mickey Rooney, the star of its popular “Andy Hardy” series, and Judy Garland, the 17-year-old ingénue with the amazing voice, playing Dorothy on film, to plug The Wizard of Oz in the Big Apple.
I hadn’t realized just how huge an event this premiere was till I read Horatia Harrod’s piece in Britain’s Daily Telegraph nearly two weeks ago. I’ve always thought that the line I stood on for Star Wars when it came out was the most interminable I ever encountered, but that pales next to the details that Harrod unearthed about the one at Loew’s Capitol Theatre in New York for The Wizard of Oz:
* Lines were already forming at 5:30 a.m. outside the theater.
* On the sidewalk outside the 5,230-seat theater, 15,000 people were waiting for the box office to open at 8:30 am.
* Sixty cops exercised crowd control outside MGM’s flagship theater throughout the day.
* By the last performance that evening, 37,000 people had witnessed the movie in that one spot.
MGM wasn’t taking any chances with a movie that, during production, looked snake-bitten (Margaret Hamilton had been sidelined for six weeks because of severe burns from an onset accident, and Buddy Ebsen suffered such a severe reaction to his Tin Man makeup that he’d been forced to withdraw from the role). The double-teaming of Garland and Rooney highlighted two of the studio’s most winning (though not to directors) stars.
With Babes in Arms, the third (out of eight) collaboration between Garland and Rooney, set for release in several weeks, you could almost see the wheels spin in studio honcho Louis B. Mayer’s head: Why not, in effect, beat the publicity drum for two flicks?
A great idea—on the surface. Problem was, the studio was about to demonstrate that the title of a prior Garland-Rooney film, Thoroughbreds Don’t Cry, was mistaken.
Maybe the most famous exchange from Babes in Arms came when Rooney’s singer-musician character had a brainstorm: “Hey, kids, let’s put on a show!”
“We can use my Dad’s barn!” Judy says, matching him every step of the way.
On the set was a bit different.
Rooney wasn’t the problem. The man, then as now, was a force of nature.
But Garland needed special handling—precisely what she wasn’t getting. Keeping up with Rooney during the Babes in Arms shooting had severely taxed her physical resources. Only starting the second year of her career, she was already receiving strong hints from the studio brass that she try diet pills to maintain weight consistency throughout production.
Garland did as she was told, as she now did when MGM wanted her and Rooney to introduce each screening—and perform energetic song-and-dance routines—before each one. The Lowe’s audiences ate it up.
Garland’s run was extended for a third week. It proved too much for the star, who at one point collapsed from exhaustion.
Think this taught MGM a lesson? Think again.
If you want graphic visual evidence of how the studio ran its most valuable female musical-comedy star into the ground, then rent the DVD of Annie Get Your Gun, made a decade later. Betty Hutton was handed the role of Annie Oakley when Garland’s diet-pills-and-amphetamines regimen led to a physical collapse and her withdrawal from the Irving Berlin musical.
Special features of the DVD include Garland’s three outtakes (she’d recorded the vocals in their entirety for the soundtrack already). They’re painful to watch. Time and again, the star attempted another take, but she looked utterly wan, spent and bewildered.
By 1950, five studio doctors were plying her with pills. But Garland’s body could no longer take the stress.
Her refusal to film Royal Wedding led the studio to suspend her for unreliability. The next day, she attempted suicide. Within 24 hours, with the exquisite tact it had shown throughout her tenure at the studio, MGM cited her suicide attempt as a violation of the “morals clause” in her contract and severed the relationship permanently.
Garland would complete only three more films before her death, from an accidental overdose of sleeping pills, in 1969.
Babes in Arms, on a budget of $600,000, made its money back and then some, grossing $2 million domestically. The Wizard of Oz did so, too—a decade later. As with It’s a Wonderful Life, it took TV to make the film a permanent part of the American cultural experience.
Like other youngsters in the Sixties and Seventies, I sat transfixed in front of my family’s color TV set for the annual showing of The Wizard of Oz. Much of the time, I peeked through my fingers whenever the Wicked Witch of the West terrified poor Dorothy and Toto. (In real life, Margaret Hamilton was a former kindergarten teacher who adored kids and pets.)
I haven’t seen the film all the way through in at least 35 years. I suspect if I were to do so now, my dominant emotion would not be horror at the Wicked Witch but a sweet-sad feeling of nostalgia over Dorothy’s lost Kansas.
From the first, audiences welcomed “Over the Rainbow” rapturously, along with the line that, in effect, echoes it: “There’s no place like home.”
Years after Judy and Mickey put on their show, the original fans of the movie (and their children, such as myself) grew up to learn that “home” is not only a point in space but a point in time, when the people we have loved were not just here but physically and emotionally whole—and, for that reason, the concept exists now only as a gulp in the throat.
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