Frank_ The Voice - James Kaplan [212]
Crooner Frankie Sinatra said angrily tonight he has “no intention” of eloping with Movie Queen Ava Gardner.
The surly singer said “there’s not a bit of truth to these rumors” that he came to Mexico for a quickie divorce and marriage.
The couple would not talk to newsmen about their romantic plans, but the bobby-sox idol telephoned friends here that they plan to return to Hollywood without being married.
“We’re really just on a vacation,” he said. “I’m in no position for a divorce just now.”
Their attempt to slip quietly into Mexico by air last night turned into the most publicized romantic goings-on since Rita Hayworth’s trip here with Prince Aly Khan before their marriage.
Their host, a Mexican millionaire named Jorge Pasquel (newspapers liked to call him a “wealthy sportsman”), flew the couple from Mexico City to Acapulco in his converted B-17, El Fantasma, and put them up in his palatial digs. Rumors swirled that Sinatra had gotten his quickie divorce and secretly married Ava in Cuernavaca. Officials denied it. Another wire-service dispatch, on August 4, reported the big news that Ava had been snubbed by Hedy Lamarr in Acapulco:
The two movie queens eyed each other coldly at a night club owned by Miss Lamarr’s new husband, but the older actress didn’t even nod to the hand-holding pair who are Hollywood’s most torrid new romance.
One night just after midnight, Frank and Ava adjourned to a club called the Beachcomber. An American photographer who had stationed himself outside asked if he could snap their picture. Frank told him to fuck himself. The flashbulb went off anyway. A Mexican bodyguard—another contribution from Pasquel—went for the camera, but the photographer held on to it. “If you don’t give me that camera,” the bodyguard said, “I’ll put a bullet into you.” Somebody called the police, who listened to Sinatra’s complaint, took the camera, and handed it to Frank, who opened it and yanked out the film, raining a blue torrent of obscenities on the photographer while Ava dabbed at her eyes.
Surely somewhere on the Baja California in 1951 there was a deserted beach town, minus wealthy sportsmen, former movie queens, and Eurotrash, to which Frank and Ava might have managed to spirit themselves for a few days of solitary relaxation. Surely Sinatra with all his resources could have found a way to ditch the paparazzi. But it was the same as with his bachelor jaunts to Palm Springs: he wanted to get away from it all, but not too far away. Solitude, unglamorous surroundings, were anathema. So he went to the usual places, with the usual suspects, and got into the usual situations. With the usual resultant attention. Attention was very important. What was he, who was he, without it? The idea that he could manage it completely, that the press of the world would fall in at his heels like Earl Wilson, was a fond illusion.
Look at me. Leave me alone. The tension between the couple’s need for publicity (Ava’s was more ambivalent) and their need for privacy was killing the relationship as it was struggling to get started. When the two of them were alone—it was far too seldom—she cried to him about the scenes. She was a tough girl, with a thick skin, and she liked showing off as much as any actress, but she was sensitive too. He tried to console her; in reality there was little he could do. His power was diminishing every minute.
After three less-eventful days (though the United Press had done some digging and discovered that the Mexican bodyguard had a long murder record), Frank and Ava flew back home. “It was dark when we arrived, but a horde of photographers were gathered anyway, eager to pounce, and flashbulbs were popping as we scrambled into the waiting car,” Ava recalled.
The horde of photographers consisted of about a half-dozen members of the press, but one of them, a cameraman for KTTV, shone a spotlight at the Cadillac. This infuriated Sinatra, who kept screaming,