Behind the glitter – The dark childhood of a Hollywood icon! – Story Of The Day!

By 1935, the “machine” of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) took over where Ethel left off. Louis B. Mayer, the studio’s tyrannical patriarch, recognized Judy’s transcendent vocal talent but harbored a deep disdain for her physical appearance. In a studio filled with the statuesque, conventional beauty of stars like Lana Turner and Elizabeth Taylor, Judy was cruelly labeled the “ugly duckling.” Mayer allegedly referred to her as his “little hunchback,” a psychological blow that fostered a lifetime of body dysmorphia and chronic insecurity. To ensure she fit the studio’s narrow aesthetic of a “girl next door,” she was placed on a draconian diet consisting primarily of cottage cheese and black coffee, supplemented by even more amphetamines to suppress her appetite and boost her energy for eighteen-hour workdays.

The workload was staggering. Judy was often required to rehearse one film during the day while shooting another at night, her life a blur of costume changes and soundstages. Despite the death of her father from spinal meningitis—a loss that left her emotionally shattered—the studio permitted no time for mourning. The show, as the industry mantra dictated, had to go on. It was during this period of relentless pressure that she was paired with Mickey Rooney, creating a box-office duo that charmed America. Yet, behind their cheerful “let’s put on a show” personas, Judy was a teenager struggling to stay upright under the weight of a chemical cocktail prescribed by studio doctors who valued production schedules over human life.

In 1939, The Wizard of Oz catapulted Judy into the stratosphere of immortality. Her portrayal of Dorothy Gale, a girl searching for a place where “troubles melt like lemon drops,” resonated with a world on the brink of war. She won a juvenile Oscar and became the studio’s greatest asset. But the ruby slippers were a heavy burden. As she transitioned into adult roles in masterpieces like Meet Me in St. Louis and Easter Parade, the chasm between her public brilliance and private agony widened. She became the “Queen of the Comeback,” a title she wore with a mixture of wit and weariness. She was a woman who could move an entire auditorium to tears with a single note, yet she frequently returned to a lonely room where she felt utterly unwanted unless she was performing.