Frank_ The Voice Part 29

Puzo, who was of southern-Italian ancestry, was steeped in his subject. Yet he was also a writer of considerable imagination, a novelist, not a journalist. And while the lecherous and tyrannical Woltz bore a strong similarity to Harry Cohn, comparisons could also be drawn to other studio heads and producers.

But strong narratives seduce us: we want them to be true. And while The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather was a powerful novel, the movie version (whose screenplay Puzo also wrote) was even stronger. The sum of the film's parts-the dark and haunting beauty of Gordon Willis's cinematography, Nino Rota's score, and Dean Tavoularis's production design; the majesty of Francis Ford Coppola's direction and the actors' performances-all the components, taken together, had a great and somber force that made the world feel absolute faith in its truth, whatever the messy and ambiguous facts of real life. was a powerful novel, the movie version (whose screenplay Puzo also wrote) was even stronger. The sum of the film's parts-the dark and haunting beauty of Gordon Willis's cinematography, Nino Rota's score, and Dean Tavoularis's production design; the majesty of Francis Ford Coppola's direction and the actors' performances-all the components, taken together, had a great and somber force that made the world feel absolute faith in its truth, whatever the messy and ambiguous facts of real life.

Numerous writers and would-be authorities have put considerable effort into cobbling up a case that the Mob really was behind Frank Sinatra's getting the role of Maggio. Various commentators have constructed elaborate scenarios based on the second-and third-and fourth-hand testimony of unreliable witnesses, many of them definitively unreliable career crooks. And all the ma.s.s of speculation rests on two simple a.s.sumptions, as neatly expressed in All American Mafioso: The Johnny Rosselli Story All American Mafioso: The Johnny Rosselli Story, a work taken as gospel by many in the Mob-conspiracy-hunting business: "Cohn hated Sinatra, and felt he was wrong for the part to boot."

Or, as fictionally expressed by Jack Woltz (as played by John Marley) to Don Corleone's consigliere Tom Hagen (Robert Duvall) in The G.o.dfather: The G.o.dfather: "Now listen to me, you smooth-talking son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h! Let me lay it on the line for you and your boss, whoever he is. Johnny Fontane will never get that movie! I don't care how many dago guinea wop greaseball gumbahs come out of the woodwork!" "Now listen to me, you smooth-talking son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h! Let me lay it on the line for you and your boss, whoever he is. Johnny Fontane will never get that movie! I don't care how many dago guinea wop greaseball gumbahs come out of the woodwork!"2 Harry Cohn, no shrinking violet, was certainly capable of such an explosion. But Jack Woltz is a fictional character and Harry Cohn was not. And Harry Cohn did not hate Sinatra. In fact, as Cohn's biographer Bob Thomas wrote, "Frank Sinatra and Harry Cohn became good friends during the years when Sinatra was enjoying his initial burst of fame in Hollywood." And the friends.h.i.+p had legs. In the fall of 1949, after Frank allowed the premiere of Miss Grant Takes Richmond Miss Grant Takes Richmond to occur during his stint at the Capitol, Sinatra came down with strep throat so severe that an oxygen tent had to be set up in Manie Sacks's apartment. "It was the first time since his rise to fame that he had been seriously ill, and he was surprised to learn how few of his so-called friends responded with offers of sympathy and aid," Thomas writes. to occur during his stint at the Capitol, Sinatra came down with strep throat so severe that an oxygen tent had to be set up in Manie Sacks's apartment. "It was the first time since his rise to fame that he had been seriously ill, and he was surprised to learn how few of his so-called friends responded with offers of sympathy and aid," Thomas writes.

A singular exception was Harry Cohn. Cohn flew to New York and spent the morning with Sinatra from 10 o'clock to 1:30. Cohn went off to business appointments and returned at 5 in the afternoon. He remained with Sinatra until his time for sleep at 9:30. Cohn read to the patient, reminisced of his early days in films, told jokes, and delivered numbers recalled from his early days as a song plugger. Cohn continued the daily routine until Sinatra recovered.Cohn's parting remark was in character: "You tell anybody about this, you son of a b.i.t.c.h, and I'll kill you!"

Cohn was a businessman with a soft heart and a hard head. He had flown to New York on business, and gone to Frank's bedside less out of love than grat.i.tude: Sinatra's box office at the Capitol had buoyed the take of Columbia's minor comedy to such an extent that Cohn was able to take out an ad in the trade papers bragging about it. He certainly didn't hate Sinatra-quite the opposite. But in 1949 and now in 1953, the studio chief was nothing if not a pragmatist. From Here to Eternity From Here to Eternity was a big-budget production, to be shot on location with a star-heavy cast. The budget was creeping up. All the parts had been set except Maggio, and Eli Wallach's agent was digging in his heels on the actor's high fee. was a big-budget production, to be shot on location with a star-heavy cast. The budget was creeping up. All the parts had been set except Maggio, and Eli Wallach's agent was digging in his heels on the actor's high fee.

Harry Cohn had agonized over the decision. He had met with Wallach, had even provoked him in order to test his mettle. ("He doesn't look like an Italian-he looks like a Hebe," Cohn said when the actor entered his office. Understandably, Wallach exploded, and Cohn was impressed: the man had fire and presence.) What's more, Wallach had done a terrific screen test-as had Frank. Cohn kept running the two back-to-back, feeling uncustomarily indecisive. Finally he asked his wife's advice. Joan Cohn watched the two tests and said of Wallach, "He's a brilliant actor, no question about it. But he looks too good. He's not skinny and he's not pathetic and he's not Italian. Frank is just Maggio to me."

Cohn nodded. He had to admit it: the little putz really could act. And (just as important) Sinatra could save the studio some serious money. But there was one more practical consideration. If Frank's name went above the t.i.tle along with the other stars', would people a.s.sume Eternity Eternity was a musical? was a musical?

f.u.c.k it. Time was wasting. Leave it to the lawyers to hash out the billing. Cohn told Adler to call Sinatra's agent, then patted himself on the back.

"Frank Sinatra has been notified to report to Columbia in ten days to start 'From Here to Eternity,'" Louella Parsons noted in her February 2 column. Two days later, Parsons elaborated: "Talked to Frank Sinatra, who arrived in New York from Boston. He told me Ava Gardner has been in Rome and goes on to London to make another picture.

"'This separation,' he said, 'is difficult for both of us. I go to California in ten days for 'From Here to Eternity,' so I won't be able to see Ava for at least two months.'"

Frank had been ordered to report to Columbia in ten days; opportunity of a lifetime or not, however, he would take a good deal longer to get there. He was booked in Montreal from February 6 to 15; rehearsals for Eternity Eternity were set to start on the twenty-third. During the intervening week, a nervous Harry Cohn wanted his least experienced and most temperamental star doing everything necessary to prepare-but mostly showing he was ready to be a good soldier. Frank had every intention of complying. Then he received an even more urgent summons. were set to start on the twenty-third. During the intervening week, a nervous Harry Cohn wanted his least experienced and most temperamental star doing everything necessary to prepare-but mostly showing he was ready to be a good soldier. Frank had every intention of complying. Then he received an even more urgent summons.

Louella had been wrong about Ava's new picture. That movie, a Robert Taylor historical clunker called Knights of the Round Table Knights of the Round Table, wouldn't start shooting till June. In fact, Mogambo Mogambo was still in process: location work had wound up at the end of January, but there were still interiors to film, at MGM's Boreham Wood Studios northwest of London. Before that, however, she had some crucial personal business to attend to. was still in process: location work had wound up at the end of January, but there were still interiors to film, at MGM's Boreham Wood Studios northwest of London. Before that, however, she had some crucial personal business to attend to.

After closing in Montreal, Frank made a flying visit to London, a trip so abrupt that he had to phone in a last-minute cancellation of an appearance on Martha Raye's TV show, infuriating the writers and producers, who had to rip up the script and start from scratch. Some of the columns snickered that Sinatra was up to his old high-handed tricks, but Dorothy Kilgallen seemed to understand that this trip was necessary. "Chums say Frankie flew to London," Kilgallen wrote on the twentieth, "because he hadn't heard from Ava for a week."

He'd finally tracked her down in Rome, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Clark Gable, for all Frank knew.3 In truth, Ava being Ava, she was brothel-crawling with her new gal pal Grace Kelly. When Frank asked anxiously how she was feeling, her voice was husky from fatigue and edgy. It was a bad conversation. Just when he needed her by his side to share in his good fortune, she was a million miles away physically and emotionally. In truth, Ava being Ava, she was brothel-crawling with her new gal pal Grace Kelly. When Frank asked anxiously how she was feeling, her voice was husky from fatigue and edgy. It was a bad conversation. Just when he needed her by his side to share in his good fortune, she was a million miles away physically and emotionally.

Then she'd gone off the radar screen.

She had checked out of the Grand in Rome; Reenie Jordan and Benton Cole were vague about her whereabouts. Frank had Sanicola phone Metro's production department in Culver City and extract her drop-dead date for arriving at Boreham Wood.

But she still sounded remote when he reached her at the Savoy-all she would say was that there was some kind of medical problem. That was when he got on a plane.

The newspaper accounts tell how Ava met Frank at Heathrow, minus her customary sungla.s.ses, and didn't recognize him at first because he was wearing a hat. The man whose icon status in the 1950s would be synonymous with a fedora clearly hadn't worn one up to this point. The simple reason for the change was that his baldness was accelerating. And while Frank had begun wearing a hairpiece on film at least as early as 1948's The Kissing Bandit The Kissing Bandit, he wasn't yet solvent (or shameless) enough to sport a toup in civilian life.

If his wife didn't recognize him, the public wouldn't either: Sinatra's trip to London was not only abrupt but furtive. He told one of the few reporters who tracked him down that he had come to make arrangements for a European tour he'd be doing in the late spring and early summer. This might have been true, but what he was mainly there for (he finally discovered after he landed) was to try to talk Ava out of having another abortion.

Unsurprisingly, her memoir glosses the episode over. "I didn't think that big expensive clinic [where she'd had the first abortion in November] was prepared for a second round of someone responding to their ever-so-correct questions with my incorrect answers," she wrote, so I was checked into a small nursing home near Wimbledon where they didn't ask any questions at all. I knew Frank was coming across to London to start a singing tour through Europe, but I wasn't sure exactly when. But clearly someone told him about what I was doing, because as long as I live I'll never forget waking up after the operation and seeing Frank sitting next to the bed with tears in his eyes.

She'd probably avoided the big expensive clinic for secrecy's sake-and because she could scarcely ask MGM, which had picked up the tab for the first procedure, to pay for another one three months later.

And the procedure was in February, not in May as some accounts have it, and as Ava's red herring about Frank's coming over to start his European tour would indicate. A May abortion could have made the baby Frank's for sure, but she can't have it both ways. If her tender story about his singing to her as they b.u.mped across the African plain in a jeep is true-and her memory in this instance has a solid ring of truth-then that second (or third4) pregnancy had commenced while she was still on location, which means no later than January, and specifically no later than mid-January, because that's when Sinatra left for his Latin Quarter gig. (Nor could the jeep-b.u.mping-over-the-plain story refer to the first African pregnancy: Frank had departed for his screen test in November before he knew she was with child.) She meets him at Heathrow; the next thing we know, he's sitting by her bedside in tears after the procedure. Sometime after he took off his hat, Ava told him where she was going and what she was going for. He can't have been happy about it. To put it mildly. Coming so soon after the November abortion, this one would have been unacceptable, unimaginable. And yet she was adamant-and of course could never, ever tell him the real reason: not only did she not want a child-not now, not ever-but she also wasn't sure whose baby this was. (If one dalliance with a bullfighter had driven Frank crazy, an out-of-wedlock child would have ended the marriage for good.) The collision between them, irresistible force and immovable object, must have been terrible. And the tears on his face were surely from fury as much as sadness. Starting with Nancy's 1947 abortion, this would have been (by his reckoning, anyway) the fourth child he had lost. "He never got over it, he never discussed it," Hank Sanicola recalled. "The only thing he ever said to me about it was, 'I shoulda beaten her f.u.c.kin' brains out for what she did to me and the baby, but I loved her too much.'"

Amid the angry bl.u.s.ter, he couldn't admit to Sanicola that there had been two babies.

Frank and Ava made it up somehow-it can't have been the usual way-and flew to Paris for a few gloomy days. The cable from Harry Cohn, even with its where-the-h.e.l.l-are-you subtext, could only have come as a relief: MONTGOMERY CLIFT ALREADY PROFICIENT IN ARMY DRILL STOP SINCE YOU MUST DO SAME ROUTINE, SUGGEST YOU GET BACK FEW DAYS EARLY STOP HARRY.

Excited now, Frank dashed off an answer: DEAR HARRY, WILL COMPLY WITH REQUEST STOP DRILLING WITH FRENCH ARMY OVER WEEKEND STOP EVERYTHING OK STOP MAGGIO.

Then, with the best possible excuse, he dashed off, period. They had spent a little over a week together, most of it fighting or in an abortion clinic. The marriage had become a travesty.

Army drill was just the beginning of Montgomery Clift's proficiency. Like Sinatra, he had been galvanized by From Here to Eternity From Here to Eternity from the moment the novel came out, knowing at once that he was born to play the role of Robert E. Lee Prewitt, Angelo Maggio's best friend in G Company. It was almost as if James Jones had been thinking specifically of the actor when he described Prewitt: "a kind of intensity in the face...a sort of deep tragic fire in the eyes." Also like Sinatra, Clift was not the first choice for his role: Harry Cohn wanted the Columbia contract player Aldo Ray-a raspy-voiced, muscle-bound former Navy frogman, whose slight air of vulnerability stemmed mainly from his inexperience as an actor. Ray hadn't worked for a couple of months, his salary was mounting up, and as far as Cohn was concerned, that was that. But Fred Zinnemann, to his great credit, was firm on Clift-so firm that the director threatened to quit unless Clift was cast. Taken aback by the soft-voiced Austrian's vehemence, the studio chief asked him why. from the moment the novel came out, knowing at once that he was born to play the role of Robert E. Lee Prewitt, Angelo Maggio's best friend in G Company. It was almost as if James Jones had been thinking specifically of the actor when he described Prewitt: "a kind of intensity in the face...a sort of deep tragic fire in the eyes." Also like Sinatra, Clift was not the first choice for his role: Harry Cohn wanted the Columbia contract player Aldo Ray-a raspy-voiced, muscle-bound former Navy frogman, whose slight air of vulnerability stemmed mainly from his inexperience as an actor. Ray hadn't worked for a couple of months, his salary was mounting up, and as far as Cohn was concerned, that was that. But Fred Zinnemann, to his great credit, was firm on Clift-so firm that the director threatened to quit unless Clift was cast. Taken aback by the soft-voiced Austrian's vehemence, the studio chief asked him why.

"Because I want to make a good picture, and Montgomery Clift is the only actor who can play Prewitt," Zinnemann said.

He knew what he was talking about. Zinnemann had directed Clift in the actor's second movie, The Search The Search, in 1948, and was well aware of his gifts. The two had collaborated closely, the director even allowing the actor to rewrite his lines, much to the chagrin of the film's producer. "His scenes bristled with life," Zinnemann remembered. "And he filled the screen with reverberations above and beyond the movie itself." The role of Prewitt-a sensitive outsider, a boxer who quit fighting because he accidentally blinded a friend in an Army boxing match-required an actor of depth and mystery, one who was himself a sensitive outsider. Montgomery Clift, a tortured h.o.m.os.e.xual and alcoholic, filled the bill in every respect.

Clift was a brilliantly intuitive, groundbreaking actor, with a gift for vanis.h.i.+ng into his roles. He believed in the souls of his characters more than the words they spoke. "Good dialogue simply isn't enough to explain all the infinite gradations of a character," he said. "It's behavior-it's what's going on behind the lines." And as one who instinctively looked beyond surface appearances, he understood Frank Sinatra's potential. As early as the fall of 1952, when Sinatra was still a dark horse, Clift told a friend that Frank would be perfect to play Maggio.

Sinatra hit the ground running from the moment he landed in California. First came the week of rehearsals at the end of February, then five weeks of shooting interiors at Columbia. And remarkably, during this intense month and a half, the company and crew of From Here to Eternity From Here to Eternity saw not a trace of One-Take Charlie, the movie-set prima donna. Frank was thoroughly in gear, heeding Zinnemann and, especially, Clift as though his life depended on it. Which, in a real way, it did. saw not a trace of One-Take Charlie, the movie-set prima donna. Frank was thoroughly in gear, heeding Zinnemann and, especially, Clift as though his life depended on it. Which, in a real way, it did.

The two actors. .h.i.t it off instantly. Each man stared into the other's remarkable blue eyes, recognizing not just the other's brilliance but also the wounds. "We had a mutual admiration thing going on," Frank said later, deflecting with characteristically tough talk his attraction to Clift's looks and obvious cla.s.siness (the actor was related to Abraham Lincoln's postmaster general and a secretary of the Treasury under Andrew Jackson)-not to mention the instant meeting of minds and sensibilities between Sinatra, the secretly sensitive genius, and Clift, the equally brilliant artist with the troubling s.e.xuality. On the set of Clift's first movie, Red River Red River, John Wayne had ostracized the young actor, and burst into laughter when the director, Howard Hawks, first tried to rehea.r.s.e the climactic fistfight between the two men. But remarkably, despite all Sinatra's swaggering, no evidence exists that, even in the hypermasculine atmosphere of his coterie, he ever made a belittling remark about Clift. Rather, Frank seems to have understood at once that as deeply as he understood Maggio, he would need acting instruction from Clift on the order of the dancing instruction he'd received from Gene Kelly.

"Monty really coached Sinatra in the part of Maggio," said Clift's close friend Jack Larson. "He spelled out every beat, every moment, and Sinatra was grateful." The process began during rehearsals and continued throughout the shoot. After work was over for the day, the two men often went to the Naples Restaurant up the block, continuing their shoptalk over dinner.

"By his intensity," Zinnemann recalled, "[Clift] forced the other actors to come up to his standard of performance." And he forced Sinatra to raise his game as an actor. As Frank later explained: As a singer...I rehea.r.s.e and plan exactly where I'm going. But as an actor, no, I can't do that. To me, acting is reacting. If you set it up right, you can almost go without knowing every line...If I rehea.r.s.e to death, I lose the spontaneity I think works for me...With Montgomery, though, I had to be patient because I knew that if I watched this guy, I'd learn something.

In his singing career Frank had gotten huge mileage out of communicating vulnerability, and in Montgomery Clift he recognized a fellow artist. Screen acting, though, involved considerably more than looking soulful and putting a catch in your voice. There was an intense subtlety to it, a poetry of minute gestures. It was Sinatra's brilliance to understand this, and to observe, minutely, every move Clift made.

As Tom Santopietro wrote: Sinatra here took on Clift's hunched posture, allowing it to emphasize his own vulnerable, frail physique. It's a physical approach that aided Sinatra immensely in conveying Maggio's "doomed gaiety." Maggio may have been a supporting role, but it made Frank Sinatra a top-drawer movie star. By blending small parts of Cagney's toughness with Bogart's jaded but vulnerable wiseguy, and overlaying the mix with his own distinctly Italian-American physicality-a lovable underdog with a chip on his shoulder-Sinatra arrived at an entirely original screen persona.

The rhythms of Maggio's Brooklynese were music to Frank's ears: when Sinatra spoke Maggio's lines, he might as well have been talking himself. He moved into the dialogue just as he inhabited the lyrics of a song, only in this case the words fit like a glove: This outfit they can give back to Custer.

Or: Man, what I would not give to have this character in the corner poolroom in my hometown.

That's "would not," not " wouldn't." The difference is tiny but crucial: it instantly and sharply denotes the wised-up street-corner character, circa early-to-mid-twentieth-century Greater New YorkNew Jersey area, that Damon Runyon immortalized, James Jones humanized, and Frank Sinatra was and would ever more publicly show himself to be. There's a poetry to this breaking up of contractions into their const.i.tuent parts that Sinatra would carry to the end of his life.5 Maggio freed him to become himself. Maggio freed him to become himself.

As a singer, Frank seemed to have understood from the beginning that he could be n.o.body but himself. As awed as he might have been by Bing Crosby and Billie Holiday, he was remarkably free from influences. His voice, and the personality behind it, were unique. With acting it was a different story-he'd come to the art late. Singing is a form of acting, but a limited one. And the only persona Sinatra could come up with in his first films was a version of his early stage persona, which emphasized only his better angels-boyish charm, shy modesty.

Now he wasn't a boy anymore. The world had gotten more complicated, and so had he. His face and hair had thinned; his spirit had darkened. Wanting to update his image in 1948, he'd tried for the delinquent role in Knock on Any Door Knock on Any Door, but he was clearly too old to play a juvenile. Three years later, he'd attempted to bring somber tones to his performance in Meet Danny Wilson Meet Danny Wilson, but the movie came and went too fast for anyone to notice.

From Here to Eternity was his big chance, in every possible way: not only because of the distinguished material and company and the huge conspicuousness of the project, but also because of where Frank was in his life. His first legitimate shot at a big dramatic role had arrived at a moment when he was truly old enough, and experienced enough, to give a complicated performance. The paradox was that he had come to dramatic acting late enough in the game that he needed to get up to speed very quickly. "He was scared," said Ernest Borgnine, who played Fatso. "He had to prove himself again because he was right down to nothing." But he was also canny enough (and humbled enough) to realize his great good fortune at playing opposite a master. was his big chance, in every possible way: not only because of the distinguished material and company and the huge conspicuousness of the project, but also because of where Frank was in his life. His first legitimate shot at a big dramatic role had arrived at a moment when he was truly old enough, and experienced enough, to give a complicated performance. The paradox was that he had come to dramatic acting late enough in the game that he needed to get up to speed very quickly. "He was scared," said Ernest Borgnine, who played Fatso. "He had to prove himself again because he was right down to nothing." But he was also canny enough (and humbled enough) to realize his great good fortune at playing opposite a master.

An immediate bond between Frank and Monty was alcohol, though both were punctilious about not drinking during working hours. After hours was a different story. The author of From Here to Eternity From Here to Eternity, James Jones, a constant, starstruck presence on the shoot, was the third leg of the triangle. A little man with a big head and a tough scowl, Jones, like Sinatra and Clift, and like the author's fictional surrogate, Prewitt, was a sufferer: a hypersensitive former boxer and combat soldier battling his own demons of conflicted s.e.xuality and alcoholism. Jones was strongly attracted to Clift, and though the feeling wasn't mutual, the actor, who was obsessed with dragging every possible bit of information about the military and his character out of the writer, stayed close. Frank, for his part, was awed to meet the author of a great book, and charmed to hear Jones's stories about the real Maggio.

"The three of them became inseparable during the filming of From Here to Eternity From Here to Eternity," wrote Clift's biographer Patricia Bosworth.

"They were a motley trio," a press agent said. "Jones looked like a nightclub bouncer with his thick neck and broken face. And there's this edgy c.o.c.ky little wop Sinatra always spoilin' for a fight, and then Monty who managed to radiate cla.s.s and high standards even when p.i.s.sing in the gutter...""We would get very, very loaded," Jones said. "After dinner and a lot more drinks we would weave outside into the night and all sit down on the curb next to a lamppost. It became our lamppost and we'd mumble more nonsense to each other. We felt very close."

While Burt Lancaster rolled in the surf (and, off camera, the hay) with Deborah Kerr, and other company members engaged in the usual occupational amours, Sinatra, Clift, and Jones behaved like a trio of moony frat boys on spring break-the worst thing any of them got accused of was dropping beer cans out the windows of the Roosevelt Hotel. Lancaster, wrote his biographer Kate Buford, "got so used to carrying Sinatra and Clift, dead drunk, to their rooms each night, undressing them, and putting them to bed, that on his birthday for years afterward he would get a telegram from Sinatra with the message 'Happy Birthday, Mom.'"

Frank was also apparently being faithful. (Or just careful. "After we filmed the knife fight between Montgomery Clift and myself," Ernest Borgnine recalled, "he said, 'Oh, h.e.l.l, you guys are going to get through early. Maybe I'll come by and we'll have a couple of drinks, and then some broads, and who knows?' And he never showed up.") The gossipmongers of the era must have felt keenly disappointed. They were watching him carefully for slipups-something with Lana Turner would have been nice, but Lana had gone to Spain on vacation. Marilyn Maxwell had finally given up on him. The only real piece of dirt that spring was his continuing tax problems, which were all over the newspapers, the IRS having just slapped a lien on his income. Never had that measly Eternity Eternity salary looked so good. The most striking item that March reveals is that sometime during the week of the ninth, while the company temporarily closed down so that Burt Lancaster (who'd been detained wrapping salary looked so good. The most striking item that March reveals is that sometime during the week of the ninth, while the company temporarily closed down so that Burt Lancaster (who'd been detained wrapping South Sea Woman South Sea Woman at Warner's) could rehea.r.s.e, Frank slipped off to New York-and shopped for matching nutria trench coats for himself and Ava. The height of devotion, if not fiscal responsibility. at Warner's) could rehea.r.s.e, Frank slipped off to New York-and shopped for matching nutria trench coats for himself and Ava. The height of devotion, if not fiscal responsibility.

The role of Maggio may have had Oscar written all over it, but Sinatra was going to have to work very hard to bring it off-and to convince the world he could. Frank felt defensive enough that March that he went even further into hock to buy full-page ads in the trade papers proclaiming himself "box office insurance." The ads trumpeted that he'd been "a smash success at Riviera, Fort Lee; Chez Paree, Chicago; French Casino, N.Y.; Latin Quarter, Boston; and Chez Paree, Montreal," and urged the public to "watch for him as Maggio in Columbia Pictures' forthcoming production, 'From Here to Eternity.'"

Sinatra was talking not just to Hedda and Louella but also to such second-stringers of the Hollywood press as Frank Morriss, who had less than earthshaking business in mind. "We concocted a little joke, which I hope will work," Morriss wrote in his column.

Next week, Frank Sinatra will be working in the picture, and I'm going to visit the set. We're going to show Frankie boy the Match the Stars pictures, including the one of Ava as a child. We'll just see if Frankie can recognize his own wife. If not there'll be an awful lot of razzing.

Frank and the papers were virtually collaborators at this point: he was working hard to try to convince them (and by extension the public) that he was behaving himself and up to the task of playing Maggio, and the press seems to have been trying to persuade itself. "Crooner Frank Sinatra Tuesday joined the ranks of film greats who have switched from song and dance roles to straight drama," proclaimed a wire-service report, mentioning Joan Crawford, Ginger Rogers, d.i.c.k Powell, and Jane Wyman.

Frankie flew 10,000 miles from Africa to Hollywood to try out for the role he coveted and finally won. His highest hope now is that his new impersonation will be well received by the public."I know how I feel about it, but how the public will feel is another thing," he said.

It sounded rather plaintive. In a way Frank was raising expectations, putting huge pressure on himself; at the same time, though, he was asking for what the public had always been reluctant to extend him: tolerance. It was a brilliant job of public relations, one that he couldn't possibly have brought off himself, and in fact he hadn't: Eternity Eternity's unit publicist, Walter Shenson (who would go on to produce A Hard Day's Night A Hard Day's Night and and Help! Help!), had taken over the latest Sinatra charm offensive and was stage-managing it in grand style. "I told him that I could do a lot for him if he'd just behave himself with the press," Shenson recalled.

He was a p.u.s.s.ycat. "Whatever you say, kid, whatever you say," he said. So I started bringing around news people to interview him. A couple of times he said, "I won't talk to that one. He was rude to Ava." Then I'd remind him of his promise to cooperate, and he'd be a charmer.One day I got a call from a press guy saying that the government had just released a statement that Frank owed $109,000 in back taxes. He wanted a comment from Sinatra, so I went to his trailer and told him. He looked at me very calmly and said, "You don't think this is news, do you? If you owe $109,000, you know about it." I explained that I was getting phone calls from the press wanting a statement. He said to tell them anything I wanted. If I do, I said, it will have to be a quote from you. "Go ahead," he said. "Tell them whatever you want.""Surely your lawyers and accountants are working with the government, aren't they?" I asked. Frank said they were, so I went back and called all the reporters. "Mr. Sinatra asked me to tell you the following: 'My lawyers and my accountants are working with the government lawyers and accountants, and if it takes From Here to Eternity From Here to Eternity, I'm going to pay it all back.'" I later told Frank that I had had to publicize the picture first and him second, but he thought that was brilliant. to publicize the picture first and him second, but he thought that was brilliant.

Frank and Monty. The two men had enormous respect for each other. By example and through the advice Sinatra eagerly sought from him, Clift raised Frank's acting to a new level. (photo credit 33.2) (photo credit 33.2) Tax troubles and Ava troubles weren't his only distractions that month. "Isn't Frank Sinatra switching soon from Columbia records to RCA-Victor?" Earl Wilson wrote in early March. Not exactly, as it turned out.

34.

Nelson Riddle and Frank. The genius arranger and the genius singer had much in common: a New Jersey background, domineering mothers, solitary natures, restless s.e.xual drives. (photo credit 34.1) (photo credit 34.1) Of course, since Columbia had dropped him months earlier, Frank couldn't "switch" to any record label. And he especially wasn't switching to RCA Victor, where Manie Sacks, despite all his power and influence as head of A&R, had tried more than once, with no success, to sell the washed-up singer to his sales force.

William Morris, too, was trying to peddle Sinatra: What good was a singer who didn't record? (And what good was a client earning a mere thousand a week?) Sam Weisbord, the president of the agency and the man who'd sewn up the From Here to Eternity From Here to Eternity deal for Frank, rang every record company's phone off the hook until he finally reached Alan Livingston. deal for Frank, rang every record company's phone off the hook until he finally reached Alan Livingston.

Livingston, Capitol's vice president in charge of creative operations, had started at the fledgling label at the end of the war, fresh out of the Army and wet behind the ears. As low man on the totem pole, the boyish-looking ex-GI had been given the theoretically unenviable a.s.signment of creating a children's record library: he responded by inventing Bozo the Clown. Together with Livingston's other brainstorm, the read-along record, Bozo sold millions of units and brought in huge merchandising revenues. Almost overnight, Alan Livingston achieved boy-wonder status. Seven years later, still just in his mid-thirties, he was hungry for a grown-up coup.

"Alan, we've just taken on representation of Sinatra," Weisbord told him.

"Really?" Livingston said. The response was more than polite; the record man was actually intrigued by what sounded, at that point, like a contrarian notion.

"Yes," the agent said. "Would you be interested in signing him?"

"Yes," Livingston said at once.

"You would?" Weisbord said.

It had popped out involuntarily: not an att.i.tude that laid the foundation for a strong bargaining position. But bargaining wasn't the point at this stage of Sinatra's career; getting him a foothold was.

Capitol was more of a natural for Frank than Weisbord had imagined. The label had recently signed Axel Stordahl, who'd been telling everybody who would listen, "Frank's singing great again." A house producer named Dave Dexter, formerly a critic for Down Beat Down Beat, was similarly vocal about his enthusiasm for Sinatra.

Weisbord took Frank in to meet with Livingston. Livingston recalled: He was meek, a p.u.s.s.ycat, humble. He had been through terrible times. He was broke, he was in debt...I was told he had tried to kill himself on occasion. He was at the lowest ebb of his life...Everybody knew it.Frank and I talked, and I signed him to a seven-year contract, one year with six options, which is as long as you can sign anybody. I gave him a standard royalty of five percent and gave him a scale advance. He was glad to have a place to make records. And that's how I signed Sinatra.

Maybe Frank's humility was genuine; maybe he was employing some of the acting skills he was learning from Monty Clift. He knew that Capitol was hot, that Livingston was largely responsible, that the label had recently made a superstar out of Nat "King" Cole. No matter that the deal Livingston was offering was the kind that new artists, not superstars, got (the advance was in the low three figures). No matter that for the first time in his life, Sinatra would have to cover his own recording costs. He was glad to have a place to make records.

If he was superst.i.tious, he wasn't thinking about it when he agreed to meet Livingston for lunch on Friday, March 13, 1953, at Lucey's,1 a celebrity watering hole on Melrose, right across the street from the Paramount gate and Capitol's recording studios. The food smelled delicious, and Frank was in great good spirits-he felt hungry again. As his witness, Livingston had brought along his girlfriend, the actress Betty Hutton, a square-jawed blonde who liked to laugh: there were plenty of laughs. Sinatra had brought Sanicola and Frank Military, a music-publis.h.i.+ng pal who screened songs for him. Livingston waited till the drinks had arrived before unsnapping his briefcase and taking out the papers. He raised his gla.s.s to a great a.s.sociation. a celebrity watering hole on Melrose, right across the street from the Paramount gate and Capitol's recording studios. The food smelled delicious, and Frank was in great good spirits-he felt hungry again. As his witness, Livingston had brought along his girlfriend, the actress Betty Hutton, a square-jawed blonde who liked to laugh: there were plenty of laughs. Sinatra had brought Sanicola and Frank Military, a music-publis.h.i.+ng pal who screened songs for him. Livingston waited till the drinks had arrived before unsnapping his briefcase and taking out the papers. He raised his gla.s.s to a great a.s.sociation.

The toast was seconded by all. Frank clinked his gla.s.s with the executive's, then took a long pull of Jack Daniel's. Livingston handed him a fountain pen; Frank regarded the papers on the table. He knew well what Capitol's option clause specified: the label could drop him in a year if things didn't work out. March 1954. Who knew where anybody would be in March 1954? But things would work out, if he had anything to do with it. He scratched his signature on the contract.

It was a long, pleasant lunch, yet the proceedings were of little note to the outside world. The next morning, a tiny wire-service item on page two in many of the nation's papers carried the news, buried beneath articles about a UFO sighting over New Mexico's Kirtland Air Force Base and the illness of the president of Czechoslovakia. "Frank Sinatra was signed to a Capital [sic] recording contract today, terminating his long a.s.sociation with Columbia records," it read, not quite accurately.

The next week, Alan Livingston flew to Capitol's annual sales convention in Estes Park, Colorado. "We had every salesman in our distributing company there, every branch manager, every district manager, every promotion man," he recalled. "There must have been a couple of hundred people. And I got up and talked about future artists and recordings, and I announced that we had just signed Frank Sinatra."

Everyone in the room groaned.

Livingston raised his hands to quiet them. "Look," he told his sales force, "I can only judge on talent. I can't judge what people did in the past. I only know talent, and Frank is the best singer in the world. There's n.o.body who can touch him."

Still, that groan stayed with him. The past was exactly what Sinatra had to get away from.

"Hey, do me one favor and do yourself a favor," Livingston told Frank when he got back to town. The executive said he had a great young arranger he wanted to team Frank with. But Sinatra shook his head practically before the executive had finished speaking.

"I've worked with Axel for practically my whole career," he said. "I can't leave Axel."

Livingston asked Frank just to hear him out. The arranger was amazingly talented. His name was Nelson Riddle.

Frank shrugged-never heard of him. Practically n.o.body had. Riddle, a former trombonist and arranger with Tommy Dorsey in the post-Sinatra period, seemed to specialize in working anonymously. When Livingston told Sinatra about all the sides Riddle had arranged for Bing Crosby, Nat Cole, Mel Torme, and Billy Eckstine, Sinatra shook his head again. Why hadn't he heard of this guy?

They hit on an agreement: Frank would do a session with Stordahl, Capitol would put out the record, and they would see what ensued. If the cash registers rang, fine. If not, Frank would give what's-his-name a shot.

"All hair restorers having failed," Erskine Johnson confirmed on March 16, "Frank Sinatra has now taken to wearing hats."

A week or so later, Sinatra had yet another on-set visitor at Columbia: the syndicated columnist Harold Heffernan, whose prose style was as clunky as his byline. "Salient factors that keep the pugnacious Frank Sinatra's career from wallowing are a dogged tenacity and an enthusiasm about whatever he attempts," Heffernan thesaurused, in his April 2 column.

No one could be more hopeful about a movie role than the bean-pole singer is over his non-warbling, unromantic part in Columbia's "From Here to Eternity.""I play Montgomery Clift's pal," explained Frank on the set. "No girls for me. I just adore this fellow, and eventually give up my life, indirectly, for him. It's a complete change from anything I have ever done."

It would have occurred to nearly anyone who read Heffernan's piece that Thursday that Sinatra hadn't done much warbling in a while. This day was to be different. All morning and afternoon Frank worked hard on his scenes at the Columbia-Gower studios, then he showered and put on a dark suit and grabbed a quick bite with Monty at the Naples. At about 8:30 p.m., Sanicola picked him up, and they took the short drive over to Capitol's recording facility, KHJ studios, a former radio station next to Paramount.

Excited, Frank walked into Studio C, where Stordahl, Livingston, and a putty-faced, high-pantsed producer named Voyle Gilmore were waiting for him. Record producers ran the gamut from control freaks like Mitch Miller to mere k.n.o.b turners: the soft-spoken Gilmore fell somewhere in the middle. He knew how to get a good sound from a session, but also knew that Sinatra had a thorough understanding of what did and didn't work for him. Gilmore was also aware that Alan Livingston had originally picked Dave Dexter to run the control room that night, and that Frank had vetoed him. In fact, at the mention of Dexter's name, Frank had frozen, his phenomenal memory for slights and insults having instantly clicked onto a mildly critical review in Down Beat Down Beat that Dexter had written years before. that Dexter had written years before.2 Gilmore was an amiable and gentle man, as quiet and thoughtful as Stordahl. Frank saw other friendly faces there: the reedman Skeets Herfurt and the trumpeter Zeke Zarchy, old pals from the Dorsey days; Bill Miller at the piano. In fact, he knew almost every musician in the room, since most of them had worked on Hollywood sessions for Columbia. Total pros, all of them. He was in good hands.

Frank sang happily that night, recording four songs: "Lean Baby," an infectiously jivey Billy May blues about a skinny girlfriend; a sappy ballad called "I'm Walking Behind You" and an equally sappy waltz, "Don't Make a Beggar of Me"; and one standard, Johnny Mercer and Rube Bloom's great "Day In, Day Out."

It was an odd session. Sinatra was in excellent voice, but the material didn't quite rise to the occasion. True, "Lean Baby"-arranged not by Stordahl but by his (and the bandleader May's) musical deputy Heinie Beau, in the bright and bra.s.sy Billy May style-was thoroughly charming. And "Day In, Day Out" was magnificent, if somewhat sedate-but Sinatra, for reasons of his own, would eventually decide not to release it. Of greatest concern were the middle two numbers, "Walking" and "Beggar," both of them outright dogs.

But he was recording again, and he was pleased. After the session, Livingston took Sinatra across the street to Lucey's for a celebratory drink. Sanicola lagged a few paces behind. The record executive noticed that Frank was walking taller, looking more alert, smiling. "It was late and we were sitting in the bar having a drink," Livingston recalled.

n.o.body else was in the place except for a man who was sitting across the bar. Frank and I were talking. I said, "Why don't you take it easy? Get a better image." He said, "Alan, I don't do anything." All of a sudden, the man says [to Livingston], "What are you doing, buying a drink for your leech friend?"Frank said, "Knock it off." The guy said, "Knock it off, knock it off..." And Frank didn't do a thing, but his kind of a bodyguard went up and grabbed this guy-I thought he was going to kill him-and threw him out of the restaurant. Frank said, "See? That's the trouble I get in. It's not my fault."

Sometimes, miraculously enough, it wasn't. But the image of Sinatra as an aggrieved innocent to whom trouble came unbidden was no truer, then or later, than the image of him as a thug. He was more complicated than that, even if the world didn't know it yet.