10 Classic Hollywood Stars Who Died Broke HT

On June 22nd, 1969, Judy Garland died in London in the bathroom of a rented house. A prestigious address, a modest home, and crushing debt. So, why was she so far from home at the end and in such desperate financial trouble? You’ll see why in a moment. Today, 10 stories of stars who died broke. Judy Garland.

At the peak of her career, Judy Garland earned serious money. [music] For The Wizard of Oz, her pay is often reported at about $9,600. [music] By the mid1940s at MGM, her weekly salary could reach $5,000. And yet, that income rarely became savings. [music] Two powerful figures sat close to her business life, David Begelman and Freddy Fields.

Later accounts described their influence in blunt terms, accusing them of serious financial mismanagement that kept her chronically short of cash. And all the while, taxes were grinding her down. In the summer of 1967, Garland performed 27 shows at the Palace Theater in New York. Her 75% share brought in more than $200,000. On paper, it looked like a reset.

In reality, much of it went straight to old debts, especially tax bills. After that, her health gave out. She stopped and saw the pattern. In the United States, big money came in and it went right back out. So, she chose predictability, a London contract, a fixed weekly fee, a chance to stay afloat, 5 weeks at talk of the town, £2,500 [music] a week.

At the time of her death, her estate was widely reported at around $40,000. Not a fortune, just what was left after years of debts that kept eating everything. Baya Losi. Baya Losi, the iconic Dracula, died at 73 in his Los Angeles apartment, and almost immediately, two neat legends appeared. Both are myths.

The first says he died clutching a script for a future film. The second says Frank Sinatra paid for the funeral. [music] Reports said the bills were covered by people close to him. His former wife, Lillian, paid for the cemetery plot and the headstone. His widow, Hope, paid for the casket and the funeral service.

The viewing was held at Utter McKinley Mortuary in Hollywood. Losi was buried at Holy Cross Cemetery in Culver City. He really was buried in Dracula’s costume, cape, ring, the full image. But it wasn’t his request. The decision was made by his son and his former wife, Lillian Arch. Lossi was never a wealthy man.

Even in 1931, after Dracula, his fee was only $3,500 for the entire film. His will listed $1,000 in cash, and even that had to be shared with his widow, Hope. Veronica Lake. Veronica Lake was one of the faces of the 1940s. [music] The icy stare, the peekaboo hairstyle, roles that made her recognizable in a single shot.

At her peak, she was earning about $4500 a week. For an actress of her era, that was top tier. But the fall came fast. After the high point of the 1940s, work and private life collapsed at the same time. She gained a reputation for being difficult on set. Drinking got worse. By the end of the decade, the damage was obvious.

Fewer roles, weaker offers, and no real way back to the top tier. Then the money pressure turned public. Her mother sued her for failure to provide support, saying she had spent everything on her daughter’s career and was left with nothing. Lake herself reportedly began pawning or selling jewelry to keep up appearances.

And in 1951, when her marriage to director Andre Deto and her career were both cracking, they filed for bankruptcy together. Then came the moment that turned her story into a national sensation. It was 1962, Manhattan. A New York Post reporter found her at the Martha Washington, not as a movie star, but working as a cocktail waitress.

She’d even changed her name, introducing herself as Connie Deto. The article exploded. People sent donations, but Lake sent them back out of pride and refused the label of a beggar. She said she paid $190 a month for her room and insisted that was far from broke. For a brief moment, the industry noticed her again.

In 1963, she appeared in an off Broadway revival of Best Foot Forward, but her film career was already hanging by a thread. Footsteps [music] in the Snow and her final film, Flesh Feast. After that, the slide continued. Cheap hotels, arrests for public drunkenness, odd jobs, short failed attempts to stabilize.

Her last attempt to earn money was her autobiography, Veronica, published in 1969. The book didn’t soften anything. alcoholism, affairs, broken relationships, and most painfully, her own admission that she had been a bad mother and was barely present in her children’s lives. Four years later, she was dead of acute hepatitis with kidney failure after years of heavy drinking.

A modest memorial service in Manhattan was paid for by her friend Donald Bane. Even her ashes didn’t make it smoothly to rest. According to later accounts, her ashes were held at a Vermont funeral home because of a payment dispute and Bane covered the storage bill about $200. The ending was blunt.

No estate and debts even after her death. Louise Brooks in the late 1920s. Louise Brooks was not a one-hit wonder. She had paramount leading roles and a real studio status and looked like a clear path to steady money. By her own calculations, her entire professional career brought in exactly $124,600. $14,500 from film, $10,100 from theater, and $10,000 from everything else.

Brooks later wrote that even that total surprised her because, [music] in her words, she never paid attention to money. After her movie career ended, she spent years in West Hollywood. Her rent was $55 a month and she worked as a magazine copywriter. On June 15th, [music] 1940, the Los Angeles Times reported that Brooks had been caught in a stock [music] promotion scam.

She lost $2,000. At her level, that was not a small hit. [music] It could have kept her afloat for months. A few years later, she moved to New York. She took ordinary jobs at public relations firms and was fired quickly. Her standard of living dropped fast. In a 1979 New Yorker interview, Louise Brooks tells all she described being forced to move from a respectable hotel into what she called a grubby hole on 1st Avenue.

She never truly stabilized in New York. In July 1946, she took a job as a sales girl at Saks Fth Avenue. The pay was about $40 a week. And it wasn’t only her career. Her personal life didn’t hold either. Brooks called herself a kept woman for a time. Three wealthy men supported her, but her own summary was bleak. No cash, no valuables, nothing.

Eventually, she tried the classic move, turning her life into a book. She started writing an autobiography. Then, [music] in a breakdown moment, she threw the unfinished manuscript into an incinerator and burned it. No comeback came. In later years, biographical accounts say she survived on a modest regular stipen from William Paley, the founder of CBS.

On August 8th, 1985, Louise Brooks [music] died in a small apartment in Rochester, New York. The cause was a heart attack. Bill Bojangles Robinson. In the first half of the 20th century, [music] Bill Bojangles Robinson was described as one of the highest paid black entertainers in America. PBS notes that in 1937, Robinson was earning about $6,600 a week.

Some sources add that over his lifetime, he made more than $2 million. And yet, many accounts end with the same blunt line, he died penniless. Why? Most explanations come down to two reasons. First, generosity. Back in his hometown of Richmond, he reportedly saw a dangerous intersection and paid to install traffic lights himself.

The New Yorker gives the exact amount, $1,240.70, [music] and even notes that he kept a detailed receipt. Second, big spending and gambling. He was often described as someone who blew it all on craps. Robinson died on November 25th, 1949 in New York of heart failure. After his death, his estate was reportedly valued at less than $25,000, but there was little real cash.

It was mostly possessions and whatever property remained with bills still waiting. His funeral was organized and paid for by Ed Sullivan. His casket lay in state at the 369th Infantry Regiment Armory in Harlem, and estimates say roughly 32,000 people filed past. Francis Farmer in 1935.

Franc’s farmer signed a 7-year contract with Paramount, about $100 a week. In the middle of the Great Depression, that was steady money. By 1936, she was appearing alongside Bing Crosby in Rhythm on the Range. From the outside, it looked like a studio fast track, roles, visibility, momentum. But Farmer was never an easy studio figure.

In 1937, she stepped away from studio films and returned to the theater. On stage, she had applause and control. Offstage, alcohol and depression began to chip away at her stability, [music] and her career followed. Then came a date that became a turning point. On October 19th, 1942, police in Santa Monica arrested Franc’s farmer on suspicion of driving under the influence.

The court imposed a $500 fine and 180 days of probation. She paid $250. The remaining balance became a debt and a lever. In early January 1943, the court issued a warrant over the unpaid balance. On January 21st, 1943, she was transferred to the psychiatric ward at Los Angeles County General Hospital under a court-ordered commitment, effectively treated as an alternative to serving jail time.

On May 21st, 1945, after a sanity hearing, [music] the court ordered that Farmer be recommitted to Western State Hospital in Steelakum, Washington. She remained there until March 1950, about 5 years. By the early 1950s, [music] she was out, but freedom did not restore a career. She started from zero.

She worked in a hotel in Seattle doing laundry. That became her life for years. In the mid 1950s, she headed south looking for any kind of stability as far as her money could take her. One stop mentioned in accounts was Eureka, California. Quiet clerical work, no movie checks. After her mother died in 1955, farmer inherited the family home in Seattle and sold it for about $5,500.

It was the last asset she could turn into cash when there was nothing else left. From 1958 to 1964, [music] she found steady but local income in television in Indianapolis. In 1964, she was fired and the regular paycheck disappeared again. After that, she lived outside the industry, [music] a small decor business with a friend, then an investment in a cosmetics venture.

The project failed. She lost what money she had left. There was no cushion. From there, [music] she lived from rental to rental. And for a while she stayed in a farmhouse outside Indianapolis. In the spring of 1970, doctors diagnosed esophageal cancer. On August 1st, 1970, Francis Farmer died in Indianapolis.

No property, no savings, a life that began with a stable contract ended with the money already gone. Barbara Payton. In 1949, Universal signed Barbara Payton at a starting rate of about $100 a week. Then her career rose fast. At her peak, she was reportedly earning around $5,000 a week during production, but the success collapsed just as [music] quickly.

In September 1951, a scandal exploded involving Fro Tone and Tom Neil. At Payton’s home, Neil [music] assaulted Tone. The story ran nationwide. After that, her career never returned to the same level and the money began to disappear. Payton tried to turn tabloid attention into income by touring with Tom Neil, but in film, she slid into bee movies.

[music] By 1953, she was working in England. Low-budget films, four-sided triangle, The Flanigan Boy, released in the US [music] as Bad Blonde. In 1963, she published her memoir I am not ashamed, as a way to earn money when roles had nearly dried up. It did not bring a comeback.

The work faded, the cash ran out. In biographical retellings of her final years, the picture turns even darker. Some accounts claim she fell into extreme desperation, including reports that she resorted to sex work for as little as $5. The ending is bleak. In February 1967, Payton was found unconscious near a trash container in the parking lot of a thrifty drugstore on Sunset Boulevard.

After that, she was taken to her parents in San Diego. On May 8th, 1967, Barbara Payton died, broke [music] with only the echo of yesterday’s fame. Harry Langden. In the second half of the 1920s, Harry Langden was spoken of in the same breath as Chaplain, Keaton, and Harold Lloyd, the so-called fourth face of silent comedy.

At his peak, he could earn up to $7,500 a week. Then came a fast collapse. His strongest films were directed by Frank Capra, The Strong Man and Long Pants. After that, Langden fired Capra. [music] He wanted to run his own pictures. It was a disastrous decision. The box office vanished. Under his control, one film after another failed.

The studio ended his contract, and with it went the one thing that matters in a crisis, regular [music] checks. But debts and taxes did not disappear. In early 1931, Langden filed for bankruptcy for $62,000. He stated that he earned about $2,500 only when there was work. Sometimes there was no work at all. At the same time, court-ordered payments kept crushing his cash flow.

He owed $25 a week in alimony to his ex-wife. By 1941, he was about $1,100 behind. >> [music] >> He also owed $11,500 to Tom O’Brien in an alienation of affection case. Newspapers of the time reported that he owed the government $30,000 in taxes and in his bankruptcy papers, he listed just $700 in assets against the total debt load.

After that, Langden never returned to the top league. He survived on whatever work he could still get. Sometimes it was a roll here and there, like a noticeable bit in Hallelujah, I’m a Bum. The fee was said to be around $20,000, but about twothirds of it went straight to Alimony. So, he grabbed any cash he could find, even outside film.

In April 1933, he tried writing a pop song, Calling All Cars. And in Hollywood, he increasingly [music] worked in the shadows. He became a gag man, a script freelancer, a man paid to punch up jokes and scenes for other comedians. Those were checks for survival, not for a comeback and not for old age. Unfortunately, old age never arrived.

On December 22nd, 1944, Langden died at 60. Accounts say his old friend Vernon Dent handled the funeral, and the summary in reference works is blunt. He died broke. Florence Lawrence. Florence Lawrence is often called the first true movie [music] star. In 1910, Carl Lemley publicly sold her name to audiences.

[music] That is how the star system was being born. In 1912, she moved to the Victor Film Company. Documents site a rate of $500 a week. Then came the disaster. In 1915, during the filming of Pawns of Destiny, a staged fire reportedly got out of control. Lawrence was badly burned. Her hair caught fire.

[music] In the panic, she fell and seriously injured her spine. After that came relapses and in some periods, paralysis. Recovery dragged on for years. And the crulest detail in this, later accounts say Universal refused to pay for her treatment. After the injury, her career was never the same.

In the 1920s, it became small parts, often uncredited, and a slow disappearance. Two decades passed. In 1936, she returned, not as a star, but as an extra and bit player. MGM gave her work at $75 a week for the first movie star. That was not a salary. It was survival money. She did not live much longer.

On December 28th, 1938, Florence Lawrence died. Biographical summaries put it plainly. She died with no money. Her funeral on December 30th was paid for by the Motion Picture Relief Fund, today’s motion picture and television fund, not by a studio, not by a contract, not by the industry that once made her famous.

Her grave remained without a headstone for 53 years. Only in 1991 did a memorial marker appear. >> [music] >> It was paid for by actor Rody McDow. Mickey Rooney. Mickey Rooney was one of the biggest faces of his era, and that usually means big money. Before he even turned 20, he could be earning around $250,000 a year.

In 1939, he was ranked number one at the box office. Later on Broadway in the hit Sugar Babies, his income was reported as high as $65,000 a week. And yet when he died in 2014, the figure that circulated for his estate was shocking, about $18,000. So where did the money go? Bankruptcies, gambling, court battles. In June 1962, [music] Rooney went to federal court in Los Angeles and filed for bankruptcy after he had already earned an estimated $12 million over his career.

In the paperwork, he listed almost no assets, just $500 in personal items. [music] His debts were listed at $464,914. That included $116,512 in unpaid [music] taxes and $22,950 in overdue support payments to three ex-wives. That was only one part of the story. The second was gambling [music] and horses. Rooney loved horse racing.

He would visit a stable owner, pick a horse, and ask to be listed as a part owner. The logic was simple. If the horse won, [music] he would get a share of the prize money. Rooney would say, “Put the share in my name. My manager will pay.” And then the payment problems would start.

He even suggested another system, a $500 bet every time their horse ran. The stable owner refused because that is not a strategy. That is a road into debt. And it wasn’t only the track. Rooney also gambled in Las Vegas. One night at the Riviera, he reportedly lost $50,000. He showed up, he played, he lost. In 1996, he filed for bankruptcy again.

And by then, a big comeback could not save him. The golden era was gone. At 85, Rooney gave an interview saying he was living with almost no money. Around that time, he toured with a small review show, not for glory, but for the Bills. In 2011, Rooney went to court again, not long before his death.

He alleged that his stepson, Christopher Aber, and Abber’s wife, Christina, had pressured him for years, [music] and that he had effectively lost control of what money he had left. The case ended with a legal outcome. In 2013, there was a stipulated judgment for $2.8 million. A court recorded obligation, but a court judgment does not always mean money in your hands.

In Rooney’s [music] case, it didn’t. That’s where Mickey Rooney’s money went. These are only a few of the stories. If I missed someone, leave their name in the comments. The most striking cases will be in part two.