8th
A Star Is Born
Judy Garland is my newest idol.
Once synonymous with Dorothy Gale, I never looked past the muffled whisperings about her life- a young death, a weight problem, a drug addiction. Like Garland who disregarded the role of Esther Smith (Meet Me In St. Louis) because it was too young for her, I disregarded her as “kid stuff.” She was nothing more or less than a bright ruby red spot in my childhood; the girl I wanted to be for Halloween (fire engine red patent leather tennis shoes made do for ruby slippers and Mom wouldn’t let me take Toto to school in my basket). Now, thanks to my American Musical class, I realize the real tragedy is in discounting Miss Garland’s contribution to American cinema.
I can’t believe I never realized the sheer power and mystery of her voice. She is spellbinding. I feel that in every film, in every song, she is really singing at the Blew Blew nightclub at two a.m. (A Star Is Born) for herself and only herself. Her eyes slide unfocused to the ceiling; her alto deepens and nearly spills over the brim. But it rests on the edge, teetering, yet entirely sure of itself. I’ve never heard anythng like it.
It takes only one listen to a Judy Garland song to be captured by it. Even in a film as silly as Girl Crazy, Judy lends substance to a frivolous and plotless story. Though I much prefer to see her in deeper films like Meet Me In St. Louis and A Star is Born, the backstage musical that I once saw as vapid gains a new weight during her performances. Judy Garland’s song is analogous to Fred Astaire’s dance- the context is irrelevant, it’s the performance you look for.
Now, I would align my relationship with Judy Garland with that of someone who has just found a photograph of a long-dead great-grandmother. There’s a jolt of recognition, of gratitude, but there’s a rift between what was and what is that cannot quite be fathomed. The photograph is resigned to a box in the attic, treasured but never loved.
