Jack was called one of the “Sons of the Pioneers,” a walking testimonial to the fact that it never hurt to be somebody’s relative at Metro. “A producer produces relations” was a stock gag. Later on, however, in pictures like Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Jack proved that he could fly when they gave him wings.
Long before that, he made a picture with a young girl named Liz Taylor and a collie dog: Lassie Come Home. The picture was sweet, sentimental, and I went all out in praise of it. A loyal friend in Metro’s New York office wired me after reading the review: YOU SURE STUCK YOUR NECK OUT THIS TIME HOPPER STOP IT’S NOTHING BUT A POTBOILER. But the picture made a fortune, got Lassie a lifetime contract, helped get Liz National Velvet.
Cummings could see the potential appeal of Judy, a roly-poly girl with eyes like saucers and a voice as clear as a gold trumpet “This kid’s got it,” he told Ida. “Let’s sign her up.” While he went off to set the legal wheels in motion, Ida took Judy to the commissary for some ice cream.
She tried to introduce her there to Rufus Le Maire, head of casting, but she got the brush-off. Mr. Mayer hadn’t given the little new girl the nod, so she wouldn’t receive any favors. He was starry-eyed over another schoolgirl MGM had signed. Deanna Durbin was the real talent, in his book. The two children made a musical short together, Every Sunday Afternoon, but Deanna was the one given the big build-up. After that, Judy had nothing to do but hang around the lot—and get some education at the school Ida had established with academically qualified teachers to meet the requirements of California law.
Mayer had decided to let Judy go and keep Deanna, but the plan turned sour. Universal, looking for a youngster to play in Three Smart Girls, wanted Deanna. By a fluke, Metro had let her contract lapse. Mayer was away on one of his many trips to Europe. He knew nothing of this until he returned and found his prize pigeon had been allowed to fly the coop. He went berserk.
For days he ranted and raged at everybody in sight until some anonymous prankster won revenge. In Mayer’s exclusive, private bathroom one morning, Louis found that on every sheet of toilet paper the face of Deanna had been printed overnight.
Deanna got stardom and the royal treatment from Universal with One Hundred Men and a Girl, which followed Three Smart Girls. There was a fancy premiere, and she planted her footprints in wet cement in the forecourt of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, a pastime which was one of the glorious bits of nonsense in those days. Deanna is now quite plump and leading a happy married life with husband and children in Paris. Once a year newspapermen descend upon her home, but she won’t receive them or allow photographs to be taken. She’s had her fill of Hollywood and you couldn’t lure her back for a million dollars. The only singing she does is with her children.
Judy was living in a little rented house with her mother. Her father, Frank Gumm, was not in Hollywood. Judy’s mother telephoned Ida the morning after Deanna’s big show: “I can’t do a thing with Judy. She’s been crying all night. What shall I do?”
“Bring her right over,” said Ida. With no children of her own, she was a mother hen to everyone who needed her. Judy was as close to her as a daughter. She fell into Ida’s lap and buried her head on her shoulder, sobbing: “I’ve been in show business ten years, and Deanna’s starred in a picture and I’m nothing.”
Frustrated ambition has to be treated gently. “You’ll get your feet in cement, too,” Ida soothed her. “You’ll be starred, you’ll see. Don’t forget, I’ve told you so.”