By Jef With One F
By Rocks Off
By Chris Lane
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
But Sinatra isn't merely putting on a one-man show. He adjusts persuasively when Machine moves between two women, acting wary and solicitous with the antihero's agitated, wheelchair-bound wife (Eleanor Parker); naked and yearning with his sympathetic downstairs neighbor (Kim Novak). The movie rests on Sinatra's ability to pull off the terrifying cold-turkey sequence, in which he alternates adrenalized frenzy with physical collapse.
Simply put, in The Man with the Golden Arm, Sinatra taps the same raw power that fueled (but rarely entered so directly into) his musical genius. On record, he was The Voice; in movies, he was often The Spark. Watch him again as the goodhearted, high-spirited Maggio in 1953's From Here to Eternity, and there's no mystery why it spurred his first comeback. As he goes from saloon buddyhood to chair-breaking brawling in a half-second, he's like an emotional quick-change artist, except his hallmark is honesty, not trickery: You believe in his every altered mood.
Sinatra's next movie was Suddenly (1954); his enactment of a presidential assassin who starts out happily sadistic and then blows his cool is the most sudden thing about it. No screen idol sweated more eloquently than he did in The Manchurian Candidate (1962). In the subsequent downward slide of his movie career, when his insistence on speedy, convenient shoots took irrevocable tolls on his productions, he was still a master of low-key charisma. His last box-office smash, 1965's Von Ryan's Express, was accurately reviewed as a canny Sinatra-ized knock-off of The Great Escape. See it today, and what's appealing is how magnetic Sinatra can be as an action hero without special effects or a Body by Jake. It's understandable that the singer who revolutionized phrasing would be a virtuoso of line-readings, but Sinatra is also able to inflect his eyes; his dynamism generates more energy than muscle-flexing and cuts deeper than lasers.
Frank Sinatra has been such a pervasive influence in pop culture that his long-past work keeps producing pleasurable surprises. Thirty-one years ago, in her first New Yorker essay, Pauline Kael wrote about "the small discoveries or rediscoveries we make" watching movies on television; she compared them to "putting on a record of Ray Charles singing 'Georgia on My Mind' or Frank Sinatra singing 'Bim Bam Baby' or Elisabeth Schwarzkopf singing operetta, and feeling again the elation we felt the first time." Ever since I read that sentence I've scoured the bins for the obscure "Bim Bam Baby."
But when Columbia released the boxed set The Voice in 1986, "Bim Bam Baby" wasn't there. It also didn't show up in 1990 on either The Capitol Years or The Reprise Collection. Then, finally, in 1993, on the next-to-last track of 12-disc The Columbia Years, 19431952: The Complete Recordings, Sinatra growls out: Hey now / Take a mip-map-mop and a brim-bram-broom / And clim-clam-clean up your rim-ram-room / Because your bim-bam-baby's coming home tonight....
In the guidebook to The Columbia Years, music critic Will Friedwald dismisses Sinatra's "aggressively nasty sound" on that number, which encapsulates what's wrong with the swelling pool of literature on Sinatra -- including the pamphlets and treatises accompanying each reissued set of albums. Sinatra may have had genius, but it was the kind that communicated -- still communicates -- with a smacklike immediacy, without the need of interpreters who get in the way.
The level of connoisseurship that's sprung up around the performer has become ridiculous, and much of the critique tends to be swamped in scholarship or nostalgia or both. The most useful Sinatra book I've read -- one that, despite many flaws, matches his eclecticism with an apt mixed-bag quality of its own -- is The Frank Sinatra Reader (Oxford University Press). Edited by Penn State academics Leonard Mustazza and Steven Petkov, it avoids drowning in minutiae and sentimentality simply by paddling fast. With entries dated from 1944 to 1995, it draws on articles and books on Sinatra, as well as popular song; the newspaper and magazine accounts give the collection a "you are there" provocative edge often missing from commemorative tomes.
In 1986, Wilfrid Sheed counted five acts in Sinatra's real-life epic. Now, at the epic's close, seven acts seems more like it. Act I: The Hoboken boy, determined to break through like Bing Crosby, apprentices with Harry James and Tommy Dorsey (who teaches him breath control and complicated phrasing), then makes the gutsy split from Dorsey to become his own performer. Act II: The performer arouses Frankie-mania with cunning eye contact, an unprecedented intimate sound and shrewd publicity. Act III: In Hollywood, his philandering upsets his supposedly picture-book marriage with Nancy, while his movie tally sheet registers more downs than ups. Act IV: Frank becomes torturously obsessed with soon-to-be-second wife Ava Gardner; his throat hemorrhages at the Copacabana, and when he's beset by trashy material and weary vocal cords, Columbia Records dumps him. Act V: From Here to Eternity triumphs. At Capitol Records, he develops a throatier delivery that wows audiences and critics. He inherits Bogey's Rat Pack with Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr., becomes the uncrowned czar of Las Vegas, complete with enigmatic Mob friendships, and helps elect JFK, only to be ultimately snubbed by Camelot. Act VI: Frank upscales into tycoonhood, marries and then divorces Mia Farrow, lets his movie career slide into oblivion, but also jazzes up his elder statesman image with "Strangers in the Night," "That's Life" and "My Way." Act VII: He retires in 1971 but quickly resurfaces. He bops in and out of the public eye, punctuating road trips with new and recycled recording events (the Trilogy album in 1980, Duets and Duets II in '93 and '94, respectively), gathering accolades and, increasingly, entreaties to keep his aging voice in the recording studio and out of live, unprotected venues.