Jersey Bookshelf: ‘Sinatra: The Chairman’ by James Kaplan
Sinatra: The Chairman
by James Kaplan
(Anchor Books 2015)
The follow-up to author James Kaplan’s brilliant 2010 Frank: The Voice, Sinatra: The Chairman is so juicy you might need a napkin while reading it. The first book delineated Sinatra’s meteoric rise, with fascinating asides about his mother, the all-powerful Hudson County politico Dolly Sinatra who not only performed neighborhood abortions but operated a speakeasy during prohibition. This second book unmasks her only son as the monster he became, all the while still creating the kind of art—be it cinematic or musical—that people will digest a hundred years from now.
The book starts the day after he revived his faltering career with a 1954 Oscar as “Best Supporting Actor” for his portrayal of Private Angelo Maggio in From Here To Eternity. Once re-established, he became the #1 recording artist in America, a Hollywood movie star, a touring superstar, the founder of Reprise Records, a movie producer, a restauranteur, a manager of boxers, but an inwardly tortured individual, addicted to pills and booze, and, yes, a despicable human being.
But oh his genius prevailed! On his legendary studio sessions, his ear was so good that he could arrange to the point of picking out one wrong note from one violinist within a huge orchestra. But during the course of its 979 pages, he cheats on every wife he ever had, treating his loved ones with sadistic domination, not caring to understand the meaning of friendship.
He could be flamboyantly generous, yet stubbornly stingy. As a Democrat, he champions a host of left-wing causes, helps elect John F. Kennedy, but treats Marilyn Monroe like a whore, makes fun of Joe DiMaggio to his face, absolutely hates rock’n’roll, and has a temper that cannot be constrained in public. He’s violent, starting brawls in nightclubs. He’s a man who exhibits extreme temper tantrums if things don’t go his way, be it from perceived slights or a lack of deference. He constantly insults reporters. He abuses prescription drugs, polishes off a bottle of Jack Daniels a day, and cancels concerts at a moment’s notice. The fights, the outbursts, the sexual escapades, even his own daughter Nancy refers to him as a real-life “Jekyll and Hyde” character.
His Mafia connections are well-known. He co-owned The Cal-Neva Lodge with Chicago Boss Sam Giancana. New Jersey’s nortorious Willie Moretti helped him out of a contract once putting Sinatra in his debt for life. He met with Lucky Luchiano in 1947 Cuba. He was frenquently seen with Carlo Gambino, one of the more bloodthirsty of the era’s gangsters. He gravitated towards major mob figures in Hollywood and Detroit. It got to the point where you knew you just didn’t fuck with Frank Sinatra.
It's that age-old conundrum of separating the art from the artist. Is not The Cosby Show still great? Is not Jerry Lee Lewis one of the true kings of Rock’n’Roll? Can we still love Mel Gibson movies? Is not OJ Simpson one of the best football players ever? Are not the albums of Michael Jackson still eminently listenable? Ultimately, Frank Sinatra was a deeply torn, deeply troubled man of contradiction. Sure, there’s no diminishing his artistic greatness, but at what price?
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