Frank_ The Voice - James Kaplan [276]
“Dialogue between Ava and hubby Frankie Sinatra as actually heard in London’s swank Ambassador hotel dining room,” Frank Morriss wrote in his August 12 column:
Frankie-Boy: What time is it? Ava: How do I know?
Frankie-Boy: I’ll be seeing you … Whereupon he exits …
That night he packed his bags and flew home. Alone.
When he landed at Idlewild, it was as if he’d gone through the looking glass—from drab, still war-ravaged England, cool and clammy even in August, to hot, pulsating New York City, where everyone—everyone, from baggage handlers to cabbies to cops—was congratulating him on his brilliant performance.
Hey, Frankie! Hey, Frankie! Hey, Maggio!
He couldn’t stop grinning. Suddenly everybody wanted to be his friend. The phone in his suite at the Waldorf Towers was ringing off the hook, with more congratulations, and with offers. NBC, which had been interested in him in 1952 but had faded fast when CBS canceled his TV show, was back, talking about an exclusive contract for radio and television. Milton Berle, the guy who used to make fun of his low ratings, wanted Frank to appear on his show for $6,000. Six thousand dollars, for one night—almost as much as he’d made for all twelve weeks of From Here to Eternity; more than three times as much as they’d paid him for that night in Naples.
Offers kept flooding in. Skinny D’Amato’s 500 Club in Atlantic City wanted Frank as soon as he could get there; so did Bill Miller’s Riviera in Fort Lee. He was called for television and films: an Army movie with Dan Dailey; a Fox musical with Marilyn Monroe, Pink Tights. And most interesting of all, a waterfront picture with Elia Kazan, set in Hoboken …
In the meantime, MGM was planning to rerelease The Kissing Bandit—a backhanded compliment if there ever was one. His agents at William Morris were suddenly all smiles: he could hear it in their voices over the phone.
Frank distrusted every last glad-hander. He preferred to believe the grudging noises his former detractors were making. “Looking through my Frank Sinatra file today, I discovered that I have been about evenly divided in my praise and my criticism of Frankie-boy,” the Hollywood gossip Jimmie Fidler wrote in mid-August.
Of late, the file is heavily critical, so it pleases me at this time to add something to the good side of the Sinatra ledger.
I am referring to the strong comeback Frank has made, just when everybody figured he was washed up …
About his performance in “From Here to Eternity” a number of columnists are predicting that Sinatra has next year’s Academy Award in his hip pocket.
His performance had thrown everybody for a loop. The toughest reviewers were melting. “For the first time,” the New York Post’s Richard Watts wrote, “I find myself in the ranks of his ardent admirers. Instead of exploiting a personality, he proves he is an actor by playing the luckless Maggio with a kind of doomed gaiety that is both real and immensely touching.”
“Doomed gaiety”—that was good. For the past three years doomed gaiety had been the only kind he’d had. But it was the death scene that got them, he knew it. He and Monty had talked about that scene a dozen times. The trick, according to Clift, was not overplaying it. Dying was like snow falling.
But now he was living—livin’ in a great big way, as the old Dorothy Fields lyric had it. Again he could stroll into Toots Shor’s like the conquering hero (“You crumb bum!” Toots sang out happily at the sight of him); again he could wink at the Copa Girls and decide which would be on the menu first.
Atlantic City was golden in the late-August sun. Frank flared his nostrils and inhaled the salty air. Skinny spread his well-tailored arms to hug him, then indicated a short, sour-looking man in sunglasses and a fedora. Surely Frank remembered their good friend Sam Giancana?
The boardwalk crowds surged into the club to get a glimpse of Frank; the sunburned honeymooners held each other close as he sang to them, better than ever. Dolly came down and pinched his cheeks some more. Skinny wouldn