Celebrate the centennial of anyone who became famous and you realize there are many people who will tell you about the subject. A life is re-examined. Books, documentaries, TV tributes, radio shows, lectures and discussions will all follow.
Sinatra's daughter Tina has been trying for years to get a statue of Frank erected in Times Square, near the old Paramount Theater, where Frank sent bobby-soxers into fainting spells. There is a statue of George M. Cohan in Times Square, and it is felt Frank should have one as well.
There has been disagreement over this since Frank was not from New York, but rather Hoboken, across the river in New Jersey. Of course this is silly carping. Ulysses S. Grant was not born in New York, and yet there is a tomb and monument to him, albeit so far up in Manhattan that some people might think they've left the city.
At this point, with the way Times Square looks with life-size costumed characters and topless women caging for tips on Bloomberg Beach, Frank himself wouldn't know the place, and might just really want to be honored somewhere else. The statue advocacy seems to have died down.
But Times Square would be right for Frank. He was a bit raucous, and could be rough around the edges. The joints he frequented are all gone, but there's got to be a place Frank could go. Maybe something near the 21 Club, not far from Times Square. Frank did like to drink.
I do read books, but I read book reviews more. They can be beautifully written, and often impart as much knowledge as a good obituary about the context of the subject. The chief New York Times book reviewer is Michiko Kakutani, who I suspect is feared amongst writers, publishes, and literary agents. Even the show 'The Affair' had a piece of dialogue about how tough her reviews can be.
Take the review she recently wrote for Sinatra: The Chairman, by James Kaplan. The first several paragraphs of the review deftly outline Sinatra's life on their own, and give Mr. Kaplan sufficient credit in this, his second volume on Sinatra's life. The first volume is also held in high regard.
But then the 979-page length becomes an issue, and you almost get the impression things would have been better if perhaps there was less shoved into the book. All I know is I'm not going to know, because I fog out on biographies. And I already know a good deal of Frank's story.
Ava Gardner, Frank's second wife, is discussed a bit at length in the review. Ava, as anyone knows, was the one person Frank wouldn't discuss with anyone after he and Ava split up. The review points out "the hole left in his heart gave his singing new depth and dimension. These are hardly new insights."
Well, they might be new to those whose lives don't nearly coincide with Frank's. I remember being at a New York Pops concert at Carnegie Hall and Tierney Sutton was doing several numbers. She looked great, and sang great, and told the audience that she wanted to thank Ava Gardner for devastating Frank so much, because he wouldn't have had the emotions he put into song if they stayed together. It was insightful, black humor, and not many people got it.
And speaking of Ava and book reviews, there was a book review in the Wall Street Journal a week or so prior to the NYT review on the same book. It had a style completely different than Ms. Kakutani's and was itself a little raucous, much like Frank and those he hung out with.
Ava, herself a piece of work, is said to have commented on Frank's human proportions, weight vs. reproductive organ. She said of Frank: "He weighs 120, but 110 of those pounds are cock."
Now that would make some statue.
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