Pirate Booty

Upon its initial release, The Pirate (1948) divided critics, alienated most audiences, lost money, and became a project that all involved -- stars Judy Garland and Gene Kelly, director Vincente Minnelli, and composer Cole Porter -- preferred to forget. Porter, in fact, decried the fantastical mistaken identity farce as "unspeakably wretched, the worst that money could buy." Today, half a century later, it's still often described as the most controversial film in the Garland canon.

Judy Garland as Manuela in The Pirate (1948, MGM)

The fact that Garland missed 99 of the 135 days of shooting speaks to her deteriorating mental and physical state, and undoubtedly contributed to the film's uneven, awkward pacing; she was reportedly smoking four packs of cigarettes a day, and hallucinating from her drug use -- sometimes requiring the crew to literally carry her off the set in hysterics. As a vehicle for Metro's brightest musical talent, The Pirate fails miserably -- although its top-billed star looks splendid and displays a wry comedic touch, her dazzling singing talents are barely tapped. Garland's two ballads, "You Can Do No Wrong" and "Love of My Life," are pleasant, but not up to her usual high standard -- in fact, the latter song is only seen as a reprise in the final act of the film; its full rendition was deemed unworthy and was cut.


As a potential stepping stone in the possibility of Garland and co-star Gene Kelly becoming another Judy-and-Mickey box office super-duo (they had been successfully paired in 1942's For Me and My Gal), the film barely passes muster: their undeniable chemistry is undercut by a screenplay (and subsequent editing) which has the two go from adversaries to eternal lovebirds in a matter of seconds. But as a showcase for Gene Kelly's white-hot sex appeal, The Pirate has no equal.


In spite of his physical handsomeness, athletic dancing ability, and easy charm, Gene Kelly's screen persona was, and is, curiously asexual. As gorgeous and talented as he is in On the Town (1949), An American in Paris (1951), or Singin' in the Rain (1952), Kelly's glib style and mannered acting don't incite audiences to swoonful passion. But in The Pirate, Kelly's dancing was never more erotic or (literally) in-your-face: his first solo, "Nina," finds him introducing male pole dancing (take that, Steven Retchless!); being memorably kinky with a cigarette (fast forward to 3:19 in the clip below); and effortlessly getting the entire female population of the Caribbean to fall at his feet -- and we don't blame them.

Even more eye-popping and jaw-dropping is The Pirate's ballet sequence, in which a tanned, taut, toned Kelly cavorts in what can only be described as hot pants and an arm band, leaping amidst licking flames and a scarlet background. Frankly, it reminds us of a mash-up between the infamous Querelle (1982) and David "The Construction Worker" Hodo's "I Love You to Death" production number in the Village People epic, Can't Stop the Music (1980).

Gene Kelly in The Pirate (1948, MGM)

Brad Davis in Querelle (1982, Planet)

David Hodo in Can't Stop the Music (1980, Associated)

Perhaps due to her illnesses and absences, Garland doesn't have very much to do in The Pirate, aside from her wild "Mack the Black," which, if not exactly a high point in her career, is definitely the most uninhibited and sexually-charged production number she ever committed to film. Her acting is also jarring, almost raw and slightly unhinged; yet, at the same time, she's very, very funny, with razor sharp timing and brilliant use of subtle body language -- a raised eyebrow here, a discreet double take there. Indeed, in a movie often called far ahead of its time, MGM-era Judy is foreshadowing loopy, zany, witty 1960's talk show Judy by over a decade.

Judy Garland and Gene Kelly behind the scenes of The Pirate, 1948

Judy Garland on The Jack Paar Show, 1962

One cause for Garland's concern during the tense filming period was her suspicion that her director (and husband), Vincente Minnelli, was throwing all the good bits to Kelly, collaborating with the brilliant dancer/choreographer on extra bits of business, fleshing out Kelly's role at the expense of Garland's. There may have even been a lingering uneasiness that Minnelli's interest in the virile star wasn't purely professional; and, judging by the lingering eroticism which Minnelli's camera lavishes upon Kelly (akin to the palpable romanticism with which Minnelli framed Garland in Meet Me in St. Louis [1944], their first project together before marrying), Garland couldn't be blamed for feeling put out.

Dashing Gene Kelly as Serafin in The Pirate

Fifty-plus years later, audiences are still scratching their heads over The Pirate, so left-field are Garland and Kelly's characterizations, so stylized is Minnelli's vision. Surely, he intended The Pirate as a spoof? Garland and the other fair maidens of the Caribbean island of Calvados look and sound like well-scrubbed, all American debutantes, dressed for a costume ball in their mantillas and lace. The wonderful Gladys Cooper plays her role of a Spanish aristocrat like a grand dowager of the Main Line. And Kelly's always self-consciously hammy approach is taken to the nth degree, devastatingly sexy on a completely satirical level: he's Gene Kelly imitating John Barrymore imitating Douglas Fairbanks imitating Gene Kelly doing an imitation of John Barrymore imitating Douglas Fairbanks, with a side dollop of Errol Flynn and Gilbert Roland for good measure.

John Barrymore in Don Juan (1926, Warner Bros.)

Douglas Fairbanks in The Black Pirate (1926, United Artists)

Errol Flynn in The Master of Ballantrae (1953, Warner Bros.)

Gilbert Roland, ca. 1940's

So, is The Pirate a great film? Yes and no -- the high points are marvelous, and its flaws are glaringly obvious. As Liza Minnelli, the star and director's daughter, put it so succinctly in a featurette about her parents' grand failure, "There's nothing you can really criticize about the picture -- unless you don't like it!" We like it; and if nothing else, as the only MGM musical to ever get us hot and bothered, it stands alone.

Pirate Booty

Upon its initial release, The Pirate (1948) divided critics, alienated most audiences, lost money, and became a project that all involved -- stars Judy Garland and Gene Kelly, director Vincente Minnelli, and composer Cole Porter -- preferred to forget. Porter, in fact, decried the fantastical mistaken identity farce as "unspeakably wretched, the worst that money could buy." Today, half a century later, it's still often described as the most controversial film in the Garland canon.

Judy Garland as Manuela in The Pirate (1948, MGM)

The fact that Garland missed 99 of the 135 days of shooting speaks to her deteriorating mental and physical state, and undoubtedly contributed to the film's uneven, awkward pacing; she was reportedly smoking four packs of cigarettes a day, and hallucinating from her drug use -- sometimes requiring the crew to literally carry her off the set in hysterics. As a vehicle for Metro's brightest musical talent, The Pirate fails miserably -- although its top-billed star looks splendid and displays a wry comedic touch, her dazzling singing talents are barely tapped. Garland's two ballads, "You Can Do No Wrong" and "Love of My Life," are pleasant, but not up to her usual high standard -- in fact, the latter song is only seen as a reprise in the final act of the film; its full rendition was deemed unworthy and was cut.


As a potential stepping stone in the possibility of Garland and co-star Gene Kelly becoming another Judy-and-Mickey box office super-duo (they had been successfully paired in 1942's For Me and My Gal), the film barely passes muster: their undeniable chemistry is undercut by a screenplay (and subsequent editing) which has the two go from adversaries to eternal lovebirds in a matter of seconds. But as a showcase for Gene Kelly's white-hot sex appeal, The Pirate has no equal.


In spite of his physical handsomeness, athletic dancing ability, and easy charm, Gene Kelly's screen persona was, and is, curiously asexual. As gorgeous and talented as he is in On the Town (1949), An American in Paris (1951), or Singin' in the Rain (1952), Kelly's glib style and mannered acting don't incite audiences to swoonful passion. But in The Pirate, Kelly's dancing was never more erotic or (literally) in-your-face: his first solo, "Nina," finds him introducing male pole dancing (take that, Steven Retchless!); being memorably kinky with a cigarette (fast forward to 3:19 in the clip below); and effortlessly getting the entire female population of the Caribbean to fall at his feet -- and we don't blame them.

Even more eye-popping and jaw-dropping is The Pirate's ballet sequence, in which a tanned, taut, toned Kelly cavorts in what can only be described as hot pants and an arm band, leaping amidst licking flames and a scarlet background. Frankly, it reminds us of a mash-up between the infamous Querelle (1982) and David "The Construction Worker" Hodo's "I Love You to Death" production number in the Village People epic, Can't Stop the Music (1980).

Gene Kelly in The Pirate (1948, MGM)

Brad Davis in Querelle (1982, Planet)

David Hodo in Can't Stop the Music (1980, Associated)

Perhaps due to her illnesses and absences, Garland doesn't have very much to do in The Pirate, aside from her wild "Mack the Black," which, if not exactly a high point in her career, is definitely the most uninhibited and sexually-charged production number she ever committed to film. Her acting is also jarring, almost raw and slightly unhinged; yet, at the same time, she's very, very funny, with razor sharp timing and brilliant use of subtle body language -- a raised eyebrow here, a discreet double take there. Indeed, in a movie often called far ahead of its time, MGM-era Judy is foreshadowing loopy, zany, witty 1960's talk show Judy by over a decade.

Judy Garland and Gene Kelly behind the scenes of The Pirate, 1948

Judy Garland on The Jack Paar Show, 1962

One cause for Garland's concern during the tense filming period was her suspicion that her director (and husband), Vincente Minnelli, was throwing all the good bits to Kelly, collaborating with the brilliant dancer/choreographer on extra bits of business, fleshing out Kelly's role at the expense of Garland's. There may have even been a lingering uneasiness that Minnelli's interest in the virile star wasn't purely professional; and, judging by the lingering eroticism which Minnelli's camera lavishes upon Kelly (akin to the palpable romanticism with which Minnelli framed Garland in Meet Me in St. Louis [1944], their first project together before marrying), Garland couldn't be blamed for feeling put out.

Dashing Gene Kelly as Serafin in The Pirate

Fifty-plus years later, audiences are still scratching their heads over The Pirate, so left-field are Garland and Kelly's characterizations, so stylized is Minnelli's vision. Surely, he intended The Pirate as a spoof? Garland and the other fair maidens of the Caribbean island of Calvados look and sound like well-scrubbed, all American debutantes, dressed for a costume ball in their mantillas and lace. The wonderful Gladys Cooper plays her role of a Spanish aristocrat like a grand dowager of the Main Line. And Kelly's always self-consciously hammy approach is taken to the nth degree, devastatingly sexy on a completely satirical level: he's Gene Kelly imitating John Barrymore imitating Douglas Fairbanks imitating Gene Kelly doing an imitation of John Barrymore imitating Douglas Fairbanks, with a side dollop of Errol Flynn and Gilbert Roland for good measure.

John Barrymore in Don Juan (1926, Warner Bros.)

Douglas Fairbanks in The Black Pirate (1926, United Artists)

Errol Flynn in The Master of Ballantrae (1953, Warner Bros.)

Gilbert Roland, ca. 1940's

So, is The Pirate a great film? Yes and no -- the high points are marvelous, and its flaws are glaringly obvious. As Liza Minnelli, the star and director's daughter, put it so succinctly in a featurette about her parents' grand failure, "There's nothing you can really criticize about the picture -- unless you don't like it!" We like it; and if nothing else, as the only MGM musical to ever get us hot and bothered, it stands alone.

The Comeback Kid

"Every time I go to the powder room," Judy Garland once quipped, "I have to make a comeback."

By 1955, the 33 year old legend had witnessed enough career ups and downs to fell a dozen other, lesser stars. A very public firing from MGM in 1950 after a dozen years, followed by a suicide attempt, caused nearly everyone to declare Judy Garland's career all but dead. Instead, she won some of the greatest reviews of her life by taking her show on the road and knocking 'em dead at the Palladium in London and the Palace in New York.

Program from the historic 1951 Palladium show

Judy was back at the top, professionally, and with husband Sid Luft, formed a production company with the intent of bringing a musical remake of the warhorse A Star is Born to fruition. Warner Brothers agreed to finance the film, and yet another comeback was underway. But, as with nearly everything in Judy Garland's life, nothing came easy, and certainly not without a price. A Star is Born (1954) earned Garland the finest acting reviews of her career, and despite its mammoth length (over three hours!), the film was doing excellent business. In an almost inexplicable move, then, Warners unceremoniously sliced and diced the film -- which had already been released and reviewed -- leaving gaping holes in the plot. Garland and director George Cukor were devastated; and in spite of her Oscar nomination for the film, Warners' essential disemboweling of Star almost guaranteed its ultimate financial failure. Yet, once again, Judy was handed most of the blame: she and Sid were reckless with money, Warners charged; Judy held up production with her illnesses and insecurities. But even with its infamously chaotic backstage dramas, A Star is Born could have been a profitable film for Warners, had it left well enough alone.

Judy Garland and Marlene Dietrich at the premiere of A Star is Born (1954) -- one of the few times an audience saw the film as originally intended.

It was against this backdrop of uncertainty for the future that Judy Garland made her live television debut in 1955. (Technically, it was her second live appearance: the celebrity-studded premiere of A Star is Born had been broadcast live from Hollywood; Judy made a very quick appearance at the microphone to murmur her thanks and gratitude, her sweetly off-center behavior no doubt the result of the bottle of vodka hidden inside her fur muff -- which she had instructed designer Michael Woulfe to make big enough precisely for that purpose!) Judy didn't want to do live television; the idea terrified her. But when CBS offered $100,000 for a single special (the highest salary ever paid to a television performer to date), she and Sid couldn't turn it down. As she would be until the end of her life, Judy Garland was severely financially strapped, and CBS's virtual bag of gold was a godsend.

The Ford Star Jubilee was conceived as a monthly spectacular, featuring the biggest names in show business. Certainly, even with her controversies, there was no bigger name than Judy Garland; and it didn't hurt that Henry Ford, the sponsor, was such a huge fan, he would take his private jet around the country to see Judy's concerts. So it was only natural that Judy would inaugurate the 90 minute color extravaganza. It seemed simple enough: the script was based around Judy's famous concert at the Palace, with mostly-familiar songs from her repertoire, many of which she had just recorded for her debut album with Capitol, Miss Show Business. She would be supported by "Judy's Eight Boyfriends" (her male chorus), Broadway and Hollywood star David Wayne, and most bafflingly, a twelve year old Japanese singer, Mitsuko Sawamura, who guested here, and in MGM's Meet Me in Las Vegas (1956), then all but vanished.

Judy Garland, David Wayne and Mitsuko Sawamura in rehearsals for the Ford Star Jubilee special

As so often happened in her life and career, though, Judy skirted dangerously on the precipice of disaster. Nervous about appearing live before millions of people, Judy was unable to sleep the night before taping. Desperate for rest, in the early morning hours of September 24, the day of the broadcast, Judy overdosed on sleeping pills. When she was finally revived, Judy was not only groggy, but devoid of voice. For the dress rehearsal, Judy hit her marks and went through her paces -- without once ever uttering a note. Cue music, raise the curtain: and, miraculously, as Ford Star Jubilee made its national debut, the famous Garland voice issued forth: admittedly raspy at times, but growing in strength, power and nuance with each number.

Viewing the surviving kinescope today, the flaws are glaringly obvious: Judy is clearly ill at ease in the beginning, and slightly lethargic; still carrying extra weight from giving birth to son Joe a few months earlier, her gowns are uniformly unflattering (one wonders what grudge designer Irene Sharaff was holding against her); appearing "boxed in" by the staging, and without her beloved microphone -- and cord! -- to keep her hands busy, Judy seems unsure of what to do with them: at one point, she starts whipping the panels and scarf on her gown in the same manner she would have with a microphone cord, if she'd had one. (Note: only 60 black and white minutes of the original 90 minute color production survive; according to Garland historian John Fricke, this constitutes all of Judy's musical numbers. What was lost is what Fricke refers to as "the dead weight": guest comedians and sketches.)

David Wayne, who had performed so brilliantly on stage (Mister Roberts) and in film (Adam's Rib), has the thankless job of acting as quasi-emcee for the evening; he's stiff and unprepared beyond belief. On the plus side, he's touchingly tender and gentle with Judy, and in their musical moments together, he shines. The other guest, Mitsuko Sawamura, performs an atonal Japanese folk song and, more humorously, a threeway rendition of "It's Delovely" with Judy and David Wayne. It's inconsequential, but charming, and at least Judy seems to be having a good time.

Actually, considering the near-disaster which preceded the broadcast, Judy is in remarkably high spirits. Overcoming her initial jitters and unease, she's loose and relaxed and displays her legendary sense of humor -- much of it self-deprecating. At one point in their scripted banter, the slightly-built Wayne says it's a relief to be performing with someone shorter than he; in what appears to be an ad-lib, judging by Wayne's delighted reaction, Judy wryly raises an eyebrow, slaps a slightly expanded waistline, and cracks, "I'm just glad you didn't say 'wider' than you!" And during a recreation of the "Get Happy" production number from Summer Stock (1950), Judy stumbles slightly as she dances over the prone body of one of her chorus boys. Seizing the comic moment, she grimaces and then makes an intentionally ungraceful leap over the next dancer.

Judy's voice also grows stronger throughout the program. Some of the numbers were pre-recorded because of the movement and dancing involved ("Get Happy," for instance), but the majority were performed live, and the improvement in Judy's instrument is noticeable, particularly in her rip-roaring rendition of "Rock-a-Bye Your Baby with a Dixie Melody." By the time she sat at the lip of the stage, still dressed in her hobo costume from "A Couple of Swells" (with David Wayne a more than passable replacement for Fred Astaire), and began to tremulously sing "Over the Rainbow," Judy had the audience where they always ended up: in the palm of her hand.

If, in 1939, a 16 year old Judy Garland sang "Over the Rainbow" with all the innocent, wistful yearning of a young girl, then her 1955 rendition could only be described as opera set to popular music. Hope, despair, rage, longing -- all of these emotions burst to the fore. It was, as one astute critic wrote, the blurring of the line between entertainment and fine art.

Ford Star Jubilee's debut with Judy Garland drew a whopping 40 million viewers. But, as other performers before and since have asked (or wailed), Who can follow Judy Garland? The next Ford Star Jubilee special, starring Mary Martin and Noel Coward, drew a significantly lower audience. After only a year, CBS decided not to go forward with the expensive show -- but they ended it the way they began, with Judy Garland: The Wizard of Oz had its first television airing on November 3, 1956. Who can follow Judy Garland? No one; except Judy Garland herself.

The Paley Center in New York City is hosting a month-long screening of Judy Garland television appearances. Ford Star Jubilee was one of the shows which opened the event on July 20. For a complete schedule, please click here.

The Comeback Kid

"Every time I go to the powder room," Judy Garland once quipped, "I have to make a comeback."

By 1955, the 33 year old legend had witnessed enough career ups and downs to fell a dozen other, lesser stars. A very public firing from MGM in 1950 after a dozen years, followed by a suicide attempt, caused nearly everyone to declare Judy Garland's career all but dead. Instead, she won some of the greatest reviews of her life by taking her show on the road and knocking 'em dead at the Palladium in London and the Palace in New York.

Program from the historic 1951 Palladium show

Judy was back at the top, professionally, and with husband Sid Luft, formed a production company with the intent of bringing a musical remake of the warhorse A Star is Born to fruition. Warner Brothers agreed to finance the film, and yet another comeback was underway. But, as with nearly everything in Judy Garland's life, nothing came easy, and certainly not without a price. A Star is Born (1954) earned Garland the finest acting reviews of her career, and despite its mammoth length (over three hours!), the film was doing excellent business. In an almost inexplicable move, then, Warners unceremoniously sliced and diced the film -- which had already been released and reviewed -- leaving gaping holes in the plot. Garland and director George Cukor were devastated; and in spite of her Oscar nomination for the film, Warners' essential disemboweling of Star almost guaranteed its ultimate financial failure. Yet, once again, Judy was handed most of the blame: she and Sid were reckless with money, Warners charged; Judy held up production with her illnesses and insecurities. But even with its infamously chaotic backstage dramas, A Star is Born could have been a profitable film for Warners, had it left well enough alone.

Judy Garland and Marlene Dietrich at the premiere of A Star is Born (1954) -- one of the few times an audience saw the film as originally intended.

It was against this backdrop of uncertainty for the future that Judy Garland made her live television debut in 1955. (Technically, it was her second live appearance: the celebrity-studded premiere of A Star is Born had been broadcast live from Hollywood; Judy made a very quick appearance at the microphone to murmur her thanks and gratitude, her sweetly off-center behavior no doubt the result of the bottle of vodka hidden inside her fur muff -- which she had instructed designer Michael Woulfe to make big enough precisely for that purpose!) Judy didn't want to do live television; the idea terrified her. But when CBS offered $100,000 for a single special (the highest salary ever paid to a television performer to date), she and Sid couldn't turn it down. As she would be until the end of her life, Judy Garland was severely financially strapped, and CBS's virtual bag of gold was a godsend.

The Ford Star Jubilee was conceived as a monthly spectacular, featuring the biggest names in show business. Certainly, even with her controversies, there was no bigger name than Judy Garland; and it didn't hurt that Henry Ford, the sponsor, was such a huge fan, he would take his private jet around the country to see Judy's concerts. So it was only natural that Judy would inaugurate the 90 minute color extravaganza. It seemed simple enough: the script was based around Judy's famous concert at the Palace, with mostly-familiar songs from her repertoire, many of which she had just recorded for her debut album with Capitol, Miss Show Business. She would be supported by "Judy's Eight Boyfriends" (her male chorus), Broadway and Hollywood star David Wayne, and most bafflingly, a twelve year old Japanese singer, Mitsuko Sawamura, who guested here, and in MGM's Meet Me in Las Vegas (1956), then all but vanished.

Judy Garland, David Wayne and Mitsuko Sawamura in rehearsals for the Ford Star Jubilee special

As so often happened in her life and career, though, Judy skirted dangerously on the precipice of disaster. Nervous about appearing live before millions of people, Judy was unable to sleep the night before taping. Desperate for rest, in the early morning hours of September 24, the day of the broadcast, Judy overdosed on sleeping pills. When she was finally revived, Judy was not only groggy, but devoid of voice. For the dress rehearsal, Judy hit her marks and went through her paces -- without once ever uttering a note. Cue music, raise the curtain: and, miraculously, as Ford Star Jubilee made its national debut, the famous Garland voice issued forth: admittedly raspy at times, but growing in strength, power and nuance with each number.

Viewing the surviving kinescope today, the flaws are glaringly obvious: Judy is clearly ill at ease in the beginning, and slightly lethargic; still carrying extra weight from giving birth to son Joe a few months earlier, her gowns are uniformly unflattering (one wonders what grudge designer Irene Sharaff was holding against her); appearing "boxed in" by the staging, and without her beloved microphone -- and cord! -- to keep her hands busy, Judy seems unsure of what to do with them: at one point, she starts whipping the panels and scarf on her gown in the same manner she would have with a microphone cord, if she'd had one. (Note: only 60 black and white minutes of the original 90 minute color production survive; according to Garland historian John Fricke, this constitutes all of Judy's musical numbers. What was lost is what Fricke refers to as "the dead weight": guest comedians and sketches.)

David Wayne, who had performed so brilliantly on stage (Mister Roberts) and in film (Adam's Rib), has the thankless job of acting as quasi-emcee for the evening; he's stiff and unprepared beyond belief. On the plus side, he's touchingly tender and gentle with Judy, and in their musical moments together, he shines. The other guest, Mitsuko Sawamura, performs an atonal Japanese folk song and, more humorously, a threeway rendition of "It's Delovely" with Judy and David Wayne. It's inconsequential, but charming, and at least Judy seems to be having a good time.

Actually, considering the near-disaster which preceded the broadcast, Judy is in remarkably high spirits. Overcoming her initial jitters and unease, she's loose and relaxed and displays her legendary sense of humor -- much of it self-deprecating. At one point in their scripted banter, the slightly-built Wayne says it's a relief to be performing with someone shorter than he; in what appears to be an ad-lib, judging by Wayne's delighted reaction, Judy wryly raises an eyebrow, slaps a slightly expanded waistline, and cracks, "I'm just glad you didn't say 'wider' than you!" And during a recreation of the "Get Happy" production number from Summer Stock (1950), Judy stumbles slightly as she dances over the prone body of one of her chorus boys. Seizing the comic moment, she grimaces and then makes an intentionally ungraceful leap over the next dancer.

Judy's voice also grows stronger throughout the program. Some of the numbers were pre-recorded because of the movement and dancing involved ("Get Happy," for instance), but the majority were performed live, and the improvement in Judy's instrument is noticeable, particularly in her rip-roaring rendition of "Rock-a-Bye Your Baby with a Dixie Melody." By the time she sat at the lip of the stage, still dressed in her hobo costume from "A Couple of Swells" (with David Wayne a more than passable replacement for Fred Astaire), and began to tremulously sing "Over the Rainbow," Judy had the audience where they always ended up: in the palm of her hand.

If, in 1939, a 16 year old Judy Garland sang "Over the Rainbow" with all the innocent, wistful yearning of a young girl, then her 1955 rendition could only be described as opera set to popular music. Hope, despair, rage, longing -- all of these emotions burst to the fore. It was, as one astute critic wrote, the blurring of the line between entertainment and fine art.

Ford Star Jubilee's debut with Judy Garland drew a whopping 40 million viewers. But, as other performers before and since have asked (or wailed), Who can follow Judy Garland? The next Ford Star Jubilee special, starring Mary Martin and Noel Coward, drew a significantly lower audience. After only a year, CBS decided not to go forward with the expensive show -- but they ended it the way they began, with Judy Garland: The Wizard of Oz had its first television airing on November 3, 1956. Who can follow Judy Garland? No one; except Judy Garland herself.

The Paley Center in New York City is hosting a month-long screening of Judy Garland television appearances. Ford Star Jubilee was one of the shows which opened the event on July 20. For a complete schedule, please click here.

River of Cy's

CY COLEMAN
June 14, 1929 - November 18, 2004

River of Cy's

CY COLEMAN
June 14, 1929 - November 18, 2004

Doin' What Comes Naturally

Them There Eyes

Everyone's Invited...

...to a birthday party!

JUDY GARLAND
June 10, 1922 - June 22, 1969