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The tragedy of Garland’s childhood was exacerbated by the woman who should have been her greatest protector: her mother, Ethel Gumm. Described by Garland in later years as the “real Wicked Witch of the West,” Ethel was the quintessential stage mother, driven by a relentless ambition that left no room for her daughter’s well-being. The stories that emerged from this period are harrowing. Ethel reportedly used threats of physical violence to ensure the young girl performed, famously telling her that she would break her “off short” if she didn’t get out and sing. More devastatingly, Garland would later claim that her mother had attempted to terminate the pregnancy while carrying her, a fact she recounted with a dark, defensive humor, joking that her mother must have rolled down nineteen thousand flights of stairs to achieve the task. This sense of being an unwanted burden followed her into her professional life, where she was traded from the control of an abusive mother to the control of an indifferent studio.
When Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) signed her in 1935, the exploitation moved from the domestic sphere to the corporate one. The studio, led by the formidable Louis B. Mayer, immediately began to dismantle her self-esteem to ensure she remained compliant. Despite her obvious beauty and world-class talent, she was labeled the “ugly duckling” of the lot. Surrounded by more conventional “glamour girls” like Lana Turner and Elizabeth Taylor, Garland was made to feel physically inferior. Mayer himself allegedly referred to her as his “little hunchback.”2 To keep her productive and thin, the studio implemented a regime that would be considered criminal today. She was placed on a diet of black coffee, chicken soup, and a constant rotation of pills. Amphetamines were administered to keep her awake through grueling eighteen-hour workdays, and barbiturates were given to force her into sleep so she could repeat the cycle the following morning. This chemical leash created a dependency that would haunt her until her final breath.
Throughout the 1940s and 50s, Garland delivered some of the most iconic performances in cinematic history. From the nostalgic charm of “Meet Me in St. Louis” to the sophisticated brilliance of “Easter Parade,” she proved herself to be a versatile and unmatched entertainer. Her partnership with Mickey Rooney became a staple of American cinema, but behind the “let’s put on a show” enthusiasm was a woman spiraling into exhaustion. By the time she filmed “A Star Is Born” in 1954, the parallels between her life and the tragic narrative of the film were impossible to ignore. She played Vicki Lester, a rising star, but she deeply identified with the character of Norman Maine—a brilliant artist destroyed by the very industry that once celebrated him.
As she entered her thirties and forties, the industry that had raised her began to turn its back on her. Her “difficult” reputation—largely a byproduct of the health issues and addictions the studio had caused—led to her being fired from projects and labeled a liability. Yet, Garland possessed a resilient spirit. She transitioned into a legendary concert performer, breaking records at the Palace Theatre and the Hollywood Bowl. She often joked about her constant “comebacks,” famously stating that she was getting tired of having to come back so often. It was a line that masked a profound weariness. She had been working for forty years by the time most people were reaching the midpoint of their careers.
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