|From top: Betty Garrett, Celeste Holm, Vivian Blaine|
The enduring image of Mr. Frank Sinatra today is from the early 60s: the ring-a-ding-dingin' wiseguy crooner, chairman-of-the-board for the Rat Pack, shtupping a plethora of broads, Las Vegas royalty. But did you know that during WW2 he used to be called 'Frankie' and even into the 50s he was often but a humble and naive wingman to blustery Gene Kelly in MGM musicals, losing girls even to Bing Crosby? He hooked up mainly with aggressive, strong women; they pursued him and this Brooklyn beanpole never put up more than token resistance. If she had a good pitching arm, a car, her own apartment, a money-making job, and refused to take no for an answer, what could he do? Ring-a-ding-done! So what was the deal for this unusual romantic strategy?
It all began during the Second World War when Sinatra's quiet storm radio broadcasts, singing torchy ballads in a style and with a mic technique that carried right through the speakers clearer and more intimate than all the other crooners on the airwaves. With their men all overseas, women across America were swooning in adoration. It made soldiers listening on Armed Forces Radio jealous and resentful. So in the interest of patriotism and good sportsmanship Frank played up the mother instinct aspect. Nothing to be jealous about! Frank was just a skinny kid with a golden voice and women could love him and not be unfaithful because they just wanted to cook for him and make sure he had his mittens. He was no threat to a red-blooded mesomorphic serviceman and he was a good sport about being mistaken for a broom or carried off by strong winds when he guested on Bob Hope or The Jack Benny Show.
|Anchors Aweigh, w/ Pamela Britton|
|Take Me Out the Ballgame (w/Betty Garrett)|
In Take Me Out to the Ballgame (1949) Sinatra and Garrett' relationship was perhaps best summed up by the song "It's Fate, Baby it's Fate," a duet wherein she makes aggressive passes and Frankie tries to argue his way out while she chases him around the empty ballpark:
Betty: Too late, baby, too late,
So accept your destiny,
It's fate, baby, that you were meant to fall into love with me.
I'm gonna start it out on my astrology, and phrenology
Frank: It does not matter that you are Aquarius, or Sagittarius
Or Gemini or Scorpio or Taurus the Bull, Capriconicus or Pisces the fish.
Betty: Winter, summer, spring or fall,
As long as you were born at all,
Mister, you're my dish.
It's fate baby, it's fate.
Frank: Can't I even put up a fuss?
Betty: It's fate, baby, the stars have written that you and me is Us.
|On the Town (w/Betty Garrett)|
|Guys and Dolls (w/Vivien Blaine)|
He made two films that year-- The Tender Trap and High Society. The staid, supportive, witty, and patient Celeste Holm took over the hungry matron role for both. Like Garrett she was a working girl. A photographer in High Society and a concert violinist in Trap, she was high class, less aggressive than Garrett but on the other hand started the film already hooked up with Frank. A lady of substance rather than a brassy girl from the neighborhood, Frankie was making the grade from the outset, but there was no sparks with Holm. She was his launch pad, boosting his courage and catching him if and when he ever fell. She was the consolation prize, the holding pattern while he reached for radiant stars like Grace Kelly or fell for unattainable hick virgins like Debbie Reynolds.
|High Society (w/Celeste Holm)|
In High Society, Holm is in the place usually reserved for Joan Blondell or post-code Jean Harlow, the patient, long-suffering girl friday. It's Grace Kelly of course that Frank really sparks with. She's supposed to be Bing's true love but as soon as Sinatra gets behind the bar, pours some drinks, and sings to her, an alchemical transubstantiation occurs before our eyes and ears, the beanpole kid from Brooklyn vanishes and the super cool 'swinger Frank' is born. The bar is clearly his place of power, his voice the sonic equivalent of the giddy warm flush in your cheeks when the first drink lights up your soul like a beam of cocktail hour setting sun. Kelly's whole body seems to respond to his voice like a kitten to the touch, and his voice reacts to her response to his voice, elevating the voice in turn. The mold of 'Frankie' and the mother instinct shattering from the low throb vibrations. Together they leave Bing looking almost anemic, ready for the hospital matron Celeste to lead him out to pasture.
But he still had to go back to Holm in the end, because he would never be able to go all the way into high society. He was meant for the quiet hideaway bar with the fishbowl tip jar on the piano, rather than the ritzy soirees. And Holm, at least in High Society, wins him by default. But her mother instinct had just gone obsolete. She expected her Icarus high-flyin' swinger would plummet back into her arms once his wings melted into the morning's hangover and the bar was closed but there was a city where the bars were always open, the crooning, drinking, and seducing could go on 24/7. There was no need for hangovers or Holm in... Las Vegas.
In Frank and Holm's other 1956 film, The Tender Trap, he plays a swinging New York City talent agent with a constant stream of dames, allegedly, but he only ever wakes up with Holm, whose classy carriage (she's an orchestra violinist) and Broadway wit anchor his confidence, one cool swinger to another. Her steadfast availability made him a lazy lover; why bother putting in any effort when Holm's handy? She will put up with his tomcatting because she's got nothing better going on, for now, and so the years pass. Easy sex keeps them dependent until they meet marriage-minded virginal singer Debbie Reynolds (one of Frank's new clients) at a restaurant. Amused by her naive hick integrity, they're like Grant and Russell with Bellamy at lunch in His Girl Friday. Grilling her on her life goals (she wants three kids and a home in the country, all within five years, or bust), she doesn't even recognize they're kidding her along. Holm gets to seem cosmopolitan here but then the censor steps in, presumably, and it's revealed Holm is just a plain old-fashioned girl, too.
|The Tender Trap|
Holm is great, was great, before Reynolds' bossy and controlling attitude stains her disposition by contrast. Frank refuses to value her homespun malarkey but his womanizing attitude buckles like arctic summer ice when Reynolds finally falls into his arms; he's finally bigger than someone, and its beautiful to see both of them being swept along against their will, despite the icky censor-sanctified subtexts. Luckily Holm doesn't need to look far to find a man who appreciates her, she doesn't even make it out of the elevator before she's found an upgrade of her own.
Frank was now drawing the A-list stars, but nothing could prepare him for the Shirley MacLaine experience. Her garish 'party girl' make-up and a solid range of acting chops didn't preclude her playing the doormat, adopting some Vivian Blaine-shrillness as the 'party girl' who won't stop chasing Sinatra even back into his hometown (where he goes for a frigid uninterested English teacher instead) in the non-musical Some Came Running (1958). As he almost did with Holm in Trap, Sinatra marries Shirley for the wrong reason and she runs into her pimp's bullet mere hours afterwards, to save Frank's life and open him up for some more reciprocal relationships. Were any of them coming? Or just some more mothering easy Brooklyn-type broads (whom he considered himself too good for) and slumming college-grad good girl virgins (vice versa)?
|Some Came Running (w/Shirley MacLaine)|
But Frank had found his inner fire, and it gave off a heat of saloon whiskey and artistic aspiration and that old black magic. He knocks our socks off with his "Lady is a Tramp" rendition, performed for Hayworth in the empty club, and when he starts to walk away from her at the end of the films, in his iconic white raincoat and hat, you can feel an earned gravitas in his step, the dockside fog enveloping him like an admiring friend, with a dog and Novak at his side. Bogey had that same walk and a similar raincoat and fog in Casablanca, and we all know Bogey ran the original Rat Pack, which Frank had been an admiring young pup in. The apprenticeship had paid off. He'd get Bacall and the chairmanship.
|Pal Joey (w/Kim Novak)|
A mark of his maturity was his willingness to look foolish and asshole-ish as a character in a film rather than just being self-effacing. In one of the Joey songs, "My Funny Valentine," Novak sings of his less-than-Greek figure and unsmart dialogue, so we finally knew who that song was about! For "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered," Hayworth refers to him a "half-pint imitation." Each song is a smoldering high in the film, each asking the eternal Frank question: why is it that this half-pint imitation-- skinny, arrogant, class climbing so-and-so can still deliver the sexual smolder in spades? It's a testament to all three performers that we can feel their rapture so keenly. As Stephanie Zacharek recently wrote about Baz Lurhman's Gatsby, there's a difference between a faker and a phony. And Frank can submit his faker balloon persona to enough withering epiphanies and humiliations to bring down ten Gatsby gondolas, and still be floating over the Brooklyn Bridge.
|Pal Joey (w/Rita Hayworth, Kim Novak)|
DM - What made you come back? I've come to the conclusion it must be love. Mother love
AG: I'll consider many things: mistress, plaything, toy for a night, but I refuse to be a mother, that's out.
DM - Don't get me wrong, I'm the mother....
|Ocean's 11 (Angie Dickinson)|
Then there was one final mother: Janet Leigh in The Manchurian Candidate (1962). This one comes in like a relapse, understandable since Frank's character is in the process of becoming unglued as a result of nightmares and PTSD. Hardly a matron or a broad, Leigh follows him out of the train's bar car after she notices him shaking and glazed with sweat, unable to make eye contact. She gives him a cigarette because his hands are too shaky to light his own, gives him her address and phone number, presuming a man in his DT-esque condition will effortlessly remember both. He finally calls her but it's to pick him up from jail, and in the cab home she announces she's already broken off her engagement before even getting the call, because, why? Because this sweaty, shaky, twitchy, nervous wreck in a uniform is such a catch?
|Manchurian Candidate, The (w/ Janet Leigh)|
Then, JFK died. It traumatized Sinatra deeply and brought an immediate end to all innocence (and shelved the CANDIDATE for years).
Mother instincts were out, for keeps.
Do I have a purpose here, in following this 'mother instinct' thread? Maybe just that-- as a recovering alcoholic ex-rock band bassist/singer, ex-husband--I've had my own 'troubles' with mothering co-dependent women. I've been fought over like a chew toy and then discarded; I've had bad luck finding the middle ground between being ignored and suffocated in a relationship. I've tried to escape and failed; I've stared out hotel windows at dawn onto small town main streets with a bourbon in my hand and unopened Steinbeck on the bed.... not even trying to be legendary, just trying to not shake and sweat, tuning in the TV and feeling lucky to find Artists and Models. Have I suffered for Frank's sins? Is the whole mother instinct thing and Frank's efforts to be rid of it underwriting the boozy misogyny that coursed through his Rat Pack schtick, which in turn infected generations of men like me?
|Pal Joey (w/Rita Hayworth, Kim Novak)|
Frank would know--he was always more intellectual and caring than he let on--but he's flown off to the next marquee. Hopefully in the next life he won't have to spend a whole first half of a film career escaping, and then submitting to, the tender trap, and then maybe those of us who follow after him won't confuse maturity with womanizing, won't end up settling for the one apron string that ties us up faster than the rest just so we can spend the rest our stage time hacking at it, bemoaning our leash like the courageous dog who's a coward off it. It's not fate, baby, it's not fate, it's just men trying to figure out how the hell they wound up in your bed, again. Once they figure it out, they're gone. They'll call you, baby, but don't let them call you a mother.