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She’s high, she’s low, she’s Judy Garland, who “just dies” until a picture pays off and just lives for dreams that never quite come true
BY MAXINE ARNOLD
Hits ill hit parade: Judy and Astaire in “Easter Parade”
i'^HE LIVES in a little pink stucco house with a black A roof. It sits triumphantly on a Hollywood hilltop high above a glittering blanket of lights of every hue. She’s Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer’s queen of the box office, her every picture a pot of gold. But you feel that Judy Garland, of the haunting brown eyes, sensitive face and the voice with that heart-catching quality, has never relaxed. And certain it is that the very emotional intensity that has contributed to her success as an actress has been a jinx in her personal quest for happiness.
One day Judy is loaded with enthusiasm. The next, tight and tense, moody and distrait, she will go home weeping over some small incident; a scene she feels she could have done better, a scene she wasn’t up to doing. Or she may arrive at the studio prepared to knock ’em over at 6: 45 a.m., as she did recently, and — surprised at seeing the studio lot uninhabited — ask of the cop at the gate, “Hey, where is everybody?”
She has “opening d&y” jitters on every picture she makes. On the night of any preview she’s just as nervous as though taking her first screen test. Her butterflies beget butterflies. She changes her mind a dozen times about attending. As in the case of the smash hit “Easter Parade.” (Continued on page 98)
Little Liza Minnelli has her own special song for Judy