As far as Hollywood horror stories, few match Judy Garland’s (save for Marilyn Monroe’s, also a relier on barbiturate use to function non-functionally). Plucked from an early age by MGM, then helmed by the ruthless and faux paternal Louis B. “LB” Mayer, Garland’s pure love and talent for singing was quickly quashed by the capitalistic bent of filmmaking. And the obsession with her looks that came with it. Constantly ridiculed and belittled by Mayer for her frumpiness (which is why she was billed with an “average girl next door” image), Judy was never allowed to eat the same things as her frequent co-star of the same age, Mickey Rooney. In fact, one flashback in Rupert Goold’s Judy (adapted by Tom Edge from Peter Quilter’s Broadway play, End of the Rainbow) finds her acting in a diner scene with Rooney (a man whose name she would mention frequently in the interviews of her adulthood), one in which he is allowed to actually eat his hamburger, and she is not. Instead the “handler” of the scenario–yet another tentacled extension of Mayer–provides her with some amphetamines to “take off the edge.” Judy begs not to take them, she can’t sleep when she does. The handler assures she’ll be given something else to help her go to sleep later. So would begin a lifelong dependency on the upper and downer combination of drugs for survival.
Renee Zellweger, who takes on the part of Garland with “which is which?” ease, renders this trauma from an early age with the same child-like fragility Garland seemed to possess her entire life. Something about her innocence frozen in time perhaps because she never really got through any real childhood, ergo making her a permanent child in some respects, one that would forever exhibit reservations about eating food (as exhibited in a scene in which a man enjoys the perks of room service and she does not). As Judy follows the events of the last year of Garland’s life, we’re given insight into her psychosis via these constant flashbacks–these hauntings–that still pertain to how she’s treated in the present. Which is to say, like someone who can be propped up to perform even in her most emotionally fraught state. Even at the height of physical exhaustion. And oh, how exhausted Judy is. Indeed, an alternate title for the film could have been Judy: Beyond the Valley of the Dolls in reference to just how much she relied on her pills to sleep and to wake. Tired of the schedules and the demands while still aware that when an audience is good, she remembers why she can’t seem to stay away from the stage. This time, the one in London called Talk of the Town, where she’s been forced to sign on for a string of performances as interest in her work and working with her has considerably waned in the U.S. (for all true artists must surrender to Europe in the end). Determined to make enough money to find a home for her and her young children, Joey and Lorna (from her marriage to Sidney Luft [Rufus Sewell]), Judy reluctantly agrees to the only place where she’s still appreciated, which, in her estimation, is because “the English are insane.”
Assigned an assistant–but really just another handler–named Rosalyn (Jessie Buckley), Judy’s enthusiasm for being forced to “earn again” (despite none of the money ever making a dent in her bottomless pit of debt) is non-present. The only glimmer in her dark existence is a loyal gay couple who shows up to see her perform every night. Taking liberties with history, Judy’s once assured status as a gay icon (which has since waned in the twenty-first century thanks to how little gays seem to appreciate tragedy now that it’s not a struggle or source of shame to bang a fellow man) and the dynamic she has with that demographic is highlighted through the lens of this rapport. Touched by their devotion, she suggests they get dinner together. Alas, after midnight in London, nothing is open, and she ends up back in their apartment where she is presented with something that’s supposed to be an omelet. An apologetic Dan (Andy Nyman) plays her a song on his piano after explaining to her that he and his partner had missed her show back in ‘64 because the latter had been forced to serve time in jail for being homosexual. An empathetic Judy consoles him that all they want to do in this life is tear anyone down who is different. And as she sings “Get Happy” to him, he starts to cry. It is this and a later moment of tenderness between the two involving singing that speaks to just how much gay men understood and supported her through the tumultuousness of her career. And life. One that was never much of any fun despite her contribution to pop culture iconography.
One flashback to another instance of verbal abuse from Mayer, who punishes her for holding up production by jumping into the set’s pool, gives insight into just how her low self-esteem could be so firmly established. As her handlers try to take her back to the dressing room to get back into hair and makeup immediately, Mayer catches her, taking her aside to chastise her in the scariest way of all: calmly. Judy tries to defend her right to have a little fun by noting, “I rehearsed so much I almost forgot my own name.” He returns, “You’re Frances Gumm from Grand Rapids. Your father was a fag and your mother only cares what I think of you.” The severity is almost as stunning as the Harvey Weinstein gesture of touching her chest and saying she can come swim in his pool anytime.
Considering her first rejection by Mickey Rooney (who tells her he would have to ask Mayer if he wants them to be dating or not, but otherwise no) at such a young age, it’s no wonder Judy’s head turns at the slightest bit of (straight) male adulation. Thus, she becomes smitten with nightclub worker and “businessman” Mickey Deans (Finn Wittrock), who visits her while she’s in London after encountering her at a party in L.A. that her daughter, Liza (Gemma-Leah Devereux), invited her to. The brief exchange Judy has with her own eventual icon of a daughter speaks to the difficulty of getting her outright approval, to an inherent competitiveness between a mother and daughter that would both serves as beacons to the gay community. Minnelli, incidentally, has publicly declared her disapproval of the film’s existence. Maybe Judy would have, too. Or maybe she would have appreciated the gentleness of the portrayal of a final year so harsh in implications.
Some, mainly men in the film industry, have decried Judy’s commitment to martyrdom as her own fault. She squandered chance after chance as her career went increasingly kaput, surrendering to the effortless popping of pills for her sustenance and will to go on. This is something Mickey finally snaps at her for and something that even her beloved Mickey Rooney betrayed her on, stating in real life, “Judy Garland was never given any drugs by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Mr. Mayer didn’t sanction anything for Judy. No one on that lot was responsible for Judy Garland’s death. Unfortunately, Judy chose that path.” Rooney’s cruel dismissal of the effect Mayer’s abuse had on her aside, the fact that she could still perform and draw in crowds in such a state was a testament to just how good she was, just how much of a natural performer. Of course, there are some brutal scenes of her collapsing on stage or getting heckled by an audience member that prompts her to fight back, snapping that she’d like to see him get up onstage and do what she does. Some element of it briefly reminds one of Madonna on her Madame X Tour, with those who came expecting to see her parrot “Like A Virgin” or any such song from that era of her catalogue growing belligerent in such an intimate setting. One in which she takes the stage even later than Garland without the excuse of drunkenness.
As things get bleaker and bleaker for Judy, even after the momentary excitement of getting married for the fifth time, there is one song, of course, that must be sung to prove that even in the darkness, there is always that hope for a rainbow at the end of it all. Judy’s, ultimately, was being transformed into the stuff of legend. Entering that Emerald City in the sky that the yellow brick road seemed preordained to take her to much too early on in her life. One in which financial ruin didn’t even allow her to enjoy the fruits of her labor. It was only in death, when they could no longer prop up the canary to make it sing, that people finally stepped in to help raise funds for her Estate. Her heirs wanted to pluck something out of the old bird one last time, after all.
