September 29, 1954—In Los Angeles’s Pantages Theater, the world’s first televised film premiere was held for A Star Is Born, a drama with music featuring a now-classic torch song, “The Man That Got Away.”
But for Judy Garland, making a comeback on the silver screen after too many pills, a suicide attempt and termination by long-time employer MGM, what “got away” was an Oscar for her magnificent, gutsy, career-defining performance.
By general agreement, the film is the best of the four basic treatments of the same story stretching from 1932 to 1976.
By general agreement, the film is the best of the four basic treatments of the same story stretching from 1932 to 1976.
But for nearly 30 years after its release, most people did not realize just how classic it was, because Warner Brothers deleted nearly 30 minutes from the running time after the premiere to boost the number of showings per day and its box-office receipts.
The minutes cut were not just any minutes, either. Maybe if director George Cukor were around, he’d either have been able to plead his case or, at least, snip out the least essential portions from the original 181 minutes.
The minutes cut were not just any minutes, either. Maybe if director George Cukor were around, he’d either have been able to plead his case or, at least, snip out the least essential portions from the original 181 minutes.
But, like Orson Welles during the cutting of The Magnificent Ambersons, he was far away on location with another project. He could do nothing but howl as the studio took a meat cleaver to a film as much a landmark to him (his first musical and color film) as it was to Garland.
Notice that I wrote it was as much a landmark to Cukor as to Garland, not that it was as important. Give the lady credit: Even while still a 20-year-old studio ingénue, not a worn-out veteran dismissed as a shaky has-been by many in the industry, Frances Gumm/Judy Garland sensed an affinity with Esther Blodgett/Vicki Lester.
On December 28, 1942, she played the role for a 60-minute straight-drama version on the Lux Radio Theater. Shortly thereafter, she began advocating to MGM the idea of a movie musical based on the story.
The studio, understandably eyeing musicals as an escapist genre, pooh-poohed the idea—and, even given the talents enlisted for the project a decade later (not just Garland and Cukor, but also costar James Mason, screenwriter Moss Hart, lyricist Ira Gershwin and composer Harold Arlen), they were right to wonder if they’d see any money from this.
Making something artistic—even truthful—was another matter entirely.
The cut footage in the ’54 version testifies to the filmmakers’ complicated, uncompromising version. As good as the numbers are, I wasn’t as upset by the loss of "Here's What I'm Here For" and "Lose That Long Face" as by the straight dramatic portion.
Notice that I wrote it was as much a landmark to Cukor as to Garland, not that it was as important. Give the lady credit: Even while still a 20-year-old studio ingénue, not a worn-out veteran dismissed as a shaky has-been by many in the industry, Frances Gumm/Judy Garland sensed an affinity with Esther Blodgett/Vicki Lester.
On December 28, 1942, she played the role for a 60-minute straight-drama version on the Lux Radio Theater. Shortly thereafter, she began advocating to MGM the idea of a movie musical based on the story.
The studio, understandably eyeing musicals as an escapist genre, pooh-poohed the idea—and, even given the talents enlisted for the project a decade later (not just Garland and Cukor, but also costar James Mason, screenwriter Moss Hart, lyricist Ira Gershwin and composer Harold Arlen), they were right to wonder if they’d see any money from this.
Making something artistic—even truthful—was another matter entirely.
The cut footage in the ’54 version testifies to the filmmakers’ complicated, uncompromising version. As good as the numbers are, I wasn’t as upset by the loss of "Here's What I'm Here For" and "Lose That Long Face" as by the straight dramatic portion.
Some of the latter lost scenes neatly foreshadow how much Vicki Lester and alcoholic star-in-decline Norman Maine (played by Mason) will risk. More important, they make viewers realize why they’re so devoted to each other.
I’m going to play devil’s advocate just for a second: Warner Brothers was right in claiming the scenes didn’t really advance the plot.
I’m going to play devil’s advocate just for a second: Warner Brothers was right in claiming the scenes didn’t really advance the plot.
And God knows that modern filmmakers could learn a thing or two from notably unsentimental studio production heads about the virtue of economy.
But overall, Cukor was right: less really was less in this case. Cukor subscribed, at least here, to Frank Capra’s contention that every film needs one scene that doesn’t advance the plot but makes you care about the characters.
But overall, Cukor was right: less really was less in this case. Cukor subscribed, at least here, to Frank Capra’s contention that every film needs one scene that doesn’t advance the plot but makes you care about the characters.
The missing scenes from A Star Is Born do precisely that.
In one crucial sequence, Maine convinces Esther to quit the jazz band and come to Hollywood for a screen test he’ll arrange.
But the actor has been whisked away to shoot on location, and Esther has to battle unemployment and unsympathetic film personnel to find him.
Instead of becoming an overnight sensation, we now see, Vicki has had to pay her dues. And, despite the generosity he’s displayed, we see enough hints of Norman’s unreliability to know that there will be significant trouble in this relationship.
One can see why Norman loves Vicki, all right—in the three-minute sequence (still in the butchered version of the film) where she belts out “The Man That Got Away,” she invests the intimate setting of a smoky after-hours nightclub with enough passion to fill an arena. She may be young, but she has heart.
But why Vicki would be interested in him is another matter.
One can see why Norman loves Vicki, all right—in the three-minute sequence (still in the butchered version of the film) where she belts out “The Man That Got Away,” she invests the intimate setting of a smoky after-hours nightclub with enough passion to fill an arena. She may be young, but she has heart.
But why Vicki would be interested in him is another matter.
His downward trajectory has already been well established in the opening sequence, when the drunken actor misbehaves at a charity event and is only saved from worse embarrassment by Vicki’s adept improvisation of getting him into her act. Getting together with him, then, is already stupid, and might well be crazy.
The missing minutes supply her motivation. At first glance, they would seem to be the polar opposite of the “Man That Got Away” sequence—an extended montage in several locations, rather than one, continuous take in a single tightly controlled frame, as with the song. But I would argue that they combine to create a common metaphor.
With the small jazz combo backing her in the song, Vicki feels comfortable enough to cut loose, to let her emotions out and take chance. It’s an absolute necessity in the entertainment world, we’re about to discover.
Beneath the love story of A Star Is Born is a savage dissection of Hollywood—a community, we’ll soon find out, that does not, unlike its boast at the opening charitable event, “look after its own.”
The missing minutes supply her motivation. At first glance, they would seem to be the polar opposite of the “Man That Got Away” sequence—an extended montage in several locations, rather than one, continuous take in a single tightly controlled frame, as with the song. But I would argue that they combine to create a common metaphor.
With the small jazz combo backing her in the song, Vicki feels comfortable enough to cut loose, to let her emotions out and take chance. It’s an absolute necessity in the entertainment world, we’re about to discover.
Beneath the love story of A Star Is Born is a savage dissection of Hollywood—a community, we’ll soon find out, that does not, unlike its boast at the opening charitable event, “look after its own.”
It’s capricious in evaluating raw young talent, then unforgiving of veterans' mistakes. To preserve your career, your ego, even your sanity in this environment, you need a cocoon.
Vicki finds it—briefly—in a creative way among the supportive jazzmen that night, but she needs it in her personal life. That’s what Norman tries to provide, and that’s why, when his world shatters, viewer sympathy is on his side.
Twenty-nine years later, film historian-detective Ronald Haver tracked down all but five of the missing minutes. With a largely complete audio track but only some footage, he used stills to flesh out the story.
We now have at least a bit of a sense what the audience in the Pantages saw in Garland’s performance: not only that this magical voice remained intact from her MGM days, but that she was an actress of power and depth.
In the scene where she asks the sympathetic studio boss played by Charles Bickford why Norman is so intent on destroying himself, her delivery is informed by her own experiences. She is really channeling why she felt so intent on wrecking her life.
Warner Brothers ended up damaging only themselves by deleting the footage from the film.
True, the movie ended up more than doubling its initial $2.5 million budget, but the studio might have been able to recoup more—and preserve intact a classic, in the bargain—if they hadn’t trimmed these scenes that showcased Garland’s acting talent.
Instead, the Academy Award for Best Actress that year went to Grace Kelly for The Country Girl. Kelly would go on to deliver better, more luminous performances (e.g., Rear Window) in her short career. But that ended up being Garland’s last best chance at the Oscar.
Groucho Marx spoke for many when he sent her a telegram saying it was “the greatest robbery since Brink’s.”
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