Why Sinatra Matters – Pete Hamill

The first part of this short biography concerns the immigrant experience in the last years of the nineteenth century. This story has been covered a lot, but Hamill’s prose is so smooth and engrossing that it seemed fresh. Next Hamill writes about Sinatra’s development as a singer; there’s a lot about technique by a music afficionado (which I’m not). We’re now halfway through the book, and fame and fortune have not yet arrived for Frank. The peculiar thing is that, when it comes, it’s pretty much glossed over. Instead (for example) we get a mini-biography of Nelson Riddle, who did the compositions for Sinatra’s most memorable work. OK, so this not a Tell-All; of his four marriages we get very little (in the case of Mia Farrow, about twelve words). I guess Hamill felt that enough had been written about Sinatra’s messy personal life, and he felt too friendly toward the man to join in. And they were friends. Not close, but the book is sprinkled with quotes of what Frank said to Pete. We don’t get the perspective of the many people who were not Frank’s friends and would have an entirely different story to tell. What else we don’t get is Frank the Leader of the Rat Pack, Frank the Chairman of the Board. (What I remember of him is a man who surrounded himself with sycophants who broke up at his “witty” quips.) So, in its incompleteness, we don’t get a true portrayal of the man. In a sense, this is refreshing. I didn’t like the guy, Hamill did. And we agree on one point: Sinatra’s renditions of the classics are top-notch. But, as for the book’s title – does Sinatra matter? Now, today? Some people may happen to come across a movie he made, but Sinatra saw himself primarily as a singer, as does Hamill. Can I see hands of the people who have listened to any of his albums? The truth is, Sinatra doesn’t matter anymore. Time pushes even the once-famous entertainers back into a shadowy realm where they exist only as a name.

Elvis Presley – Bobbie Ann Mason

Maybe he should have married his Tupelo girlfriend and stayed a truck driver all his life. He well might have led a happier existence. And, surely, a far less confused one. But then we wouldn’t have the breakthrough he made in music. In the famous Sun Records recording of “That’s All Right” something new was unleashed. And then he became the King, a cultural phenomenon. Mason (a southern novelist/short story writer) covers his life pretty thoroughly, though it’s material that’s been well-documented. Who doesn’t know of Elvis’s self-destructive act? Does she add insights into his character? Well, sort of, but I found her psychoanalyzing the weakest aspect of the book, partly because she’s so repetitive. In fact, repetitiousness is the book’s major flaw. This Elvis bio is part of the Penguin Lives series, which includes such diverse subjects as Crazy Horse, Proust and Joan of Arc; their aim is to present a compact, accessible coverage. And we do get that from Mason. Once again, it’s interesting to see how ruinous fame can be. One has to know how to handle it, and Elvis, with his background, was uniquely unprepared for the task. Possibly, if he had wise and compassionate guidance, things would have worked out differently. For one thing, he needed to have been steered to making music – not movies. The guidance he got from the avaricious Colonel Parker was harmful, but I don’t believe that he’s the villain of the piece. Elvis was headstrong, and prone to wacky ideas, and was his own worst enemy. He was a lonely man, even though he surrounded himself with people. As for his relationship with Priscilla – a pretty fourteen-year-old he met when he was stationed in Germany – she was a human equivalent to the Mercedes and jewelry he bought indiscriminately. Their marriage was a bad joke, and was motivated out of a sense of obligation (and maybe an element of blackmail). Anyway, as the song goes, Elvis was headed on down Lonely Street to Heartbreak Hotel, a place where people “are so lonely they could die.” He died of cardiac arrest at age forty-two; fourteen drugs were found in his body.

Leaving a Doll’s House – Claire Bloom

As is probably true with most people, I only read the “good part.” That is, the part (which constitutes about half the book) devoted to Bloom’s relationship with Philip Roth. They were together almost twenty years, the last two of which they were married. She was, by her account, attracted to his intelligence and wit. But there’s no explanation as to why she stuck with the guy. Why she endured his mood swings, the upside of which was a sly tenderness or a neediness (off and on he had severe physical and emotional problems), the downside of which was malevolence. He indulged in what I see as cruel game playing, the most intricate of which involved a novel called Deception, which he wrote while they were together (but not yet married). In this book (all that follows is as described by her) he has Philip Roth, the narrator, married to an actress whose name is Claire. Claire is depicted as remarkably uninteresting, an ever-spouting fountain of tears, a jealous wife whom he betrays over and over again. Philip (the real person) places the manuscript where Claire (the real person) can’t help but find it, and when she protests he agrees to change the name of the actress. Soon after that incident they get married. His proposal letter reads “Dearest Actress, I love you. Will you marry me?” and is signed “An Admirer.” After she accepts, she’s presented with a prenuptial agreement that is aggressively retributive in nature. So – again – why, Claire? Why marry a guy who’s obviously a nut case in regards to women? Maybe she was attracted to the fact that she would be the wife of a world famous author. Since she was in her fifties and early sixties when they were together, and her acting career was in the doldrums, she may have been vulnerable. Or maybe she was a masochist. I don’t know, and, after reading this account, I don’t much care.