Frank

by James Kaplan

  That was in retrospect. In the near term, her rebuff sat less than well with him. They began on a footing of edgy hostility, which made their romantic scenes tricky. When it came to their big duet together (as the titular nightclub entertainer, Sinatra performed a half-dozen songs in the movie), Winters was so intimidated that she could barely open her mouth. Her nerves seem to have inspired Frank to his only charitable moments of the shoot—he helped her through.

  The rest, though, was debacle. As the lawyers hammered out the details of the divorce, Sinatra realized just how complicated winning his freedom was going to be. “His children were quite young and there were always psychiatrists and priests and his kids visiting him on the set,” Winters recalled.

  Sometimes the children would come to the commissary and I would join them. A priest from the Catholic Family Counseling Service would sometimes be with them. The priest was a very nice man, but the afternoons he visited Frank on the set we all might as well have gone home. Frank was truly impossible and so disturbed that he couldn’t hear anything that anyone said to him, including the other actors, the crew, and the director, Joe Pevney.1

  Halfway through the shoot, Sinatra attended the premiere of Show Boat with Ava, all of Hollywood falling at her feet. A few days after that, his radio show Meet Frank Sinatra (which he’d been broadcasting from L.A.) came to the end of its sputtering run. Neither of these events could have improved his mood.

  He was achingly thin (“Frank was losing about a pound a week, which made me look heavier in the rushes,” Winters recalled). He was discontent with the cut-rate movie studio and the small change they were paying him. Winters, on the other hand—she already had a career-changing performance in A Place in the Sun in the can—was on her way up.

  And on the night they shot Danny Wilson’s penultimate scene, outdoors at Burbank Airport, the storm finally broke. “I can’t remember what started our vicious argument,” Winters recalled, “but the mildest things we called each other were ‘bow-legged bitch of a Brooklyn blonde,’ and ‘skinny, no-talent, stupid Hoboken bastard.’ ”

  At about three in the morning Frank flew into a terrible rage at me, and despite my gorgeous hat and white gloves and beautiful elegant navy dress and stone martens, I screamed like a fishwife and I think I slugged him. For a second I thought Frank’s makeup man/bodyguard—who I suspected carried a gun—was going to shoot me. Contrary to other Italians I have known since, he didn’t hit me back—I guess I was lucky—he just slammed into his limousine and roared away. Maybe he went home and hit Ava Gardner.

  The production head Leo Spitz pleaded with Winters to feel some empathy. “Mr. Sinatra is going through a terrible and troubled period of his life and career,” he told her. “He’s going against all his religious training and has periods when he loses his voice, and it terrifies him. And he is not famous as an actor but a singer … That’s no excuse for him behaving so outrageously, but you’re both liberals, and maybe with your ideals of brotherhood you can bring yourself to understand the reasons that are making him behave the way he did.”

  Grumbling, Winters returned to the set—to endure Frank’s revenge. They rehearsed the final scene, in which, as Winters’s character lay in a hospital bed, Sinatra was to say to his romantic rival (Alex Nicol), “I’ll have a cup of coffee and leave you two lovebirds alone.” Once the camera was rolling, however, what Frank said was “I’ll go have a cup of Jack Daniel’s or I’m going to pull that blond broad’s hair out by its black roots.”

  Winters hit him over the head with a bedpan, raged off the set, and went home. She stayed there for two days—until she got a tearful phone call from Nancy Sinatra. “Shelley, if Frank doesn’t get the twenty-five thousand dollars for the picture, the bank might foreclose the mortgage on the house,” Nancy said. “My children are going to be out in the street. Please finish the picture.”

  Shelley finished the picture. When Meet Danny Wilson wrapped on July 31, all concerned breathed a huge sigh of relief. The film would go on to do just so-so box office. Yet considering the disastrous course of the production, the New York Times review is surprisingly positive, calling the film “pleasantly tune-filled and amiable,” and going on to praise the battling co-stars: “Frank Sinatra is charming, natural and casual as he breezily portrays the cocky Danny Wilson … Miss Winters is equally slick as that desired dame and she neatly adds to the performance in a snappy duet with Sinatra on ‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find.’ ”

  So much for the artistic benefits of peace and harmony. In truth, Frank was improving as a film actor, if anyone cared to pay attention.

  The day after shooting ended on Meet Danny Wilson, Sinatra and Ava took off on what was meant to be a secret jaunt to Acapulco. From the beginning, the trip was snakebit: crowds of reporters and photographers turned out to see the pair off at the L.A. airport, taking note of the ungodly number of suitcases they had with them. Was this something more than a quick vacation? You could get a fast divorce in Mexico. You could get married there too.

  The photographers clustered on the stairs that were pulled up to the plane, snapping away; the pilot was helpless to start the engines until they were cleared. Sinatra leaned out the door and gave it to them with both barrels: “GET THE FUCK OFF THE STEPS!”

  “You shouldn’t act that way, Frankie,” one of the lensmen piped up. “The press made you what you are!”

  “The press didn’t make me, it was my singing! You miserable crumbs!”

  Reporters were alerted all down the line. They showed up in swarms at the flight’s layover in El Paso and at the airport in Mexico City. From there, a wire-service story went out:

  Crooner Frankie Sinatra said angrily tonight he has “no intention” of eloping with Movie Queen Ava Gardner.

  The surly singer said “there’s not a bit of truth to these rumors” that he came to Mexico for a quickie divorce and marriage.

  The couple would not talk to newsmen about their romantic plans, but the bobby-sox idol telephoned friends here that they plan to return to Hollywood without being married.

  “We’re really just on a vacation,” he said. “I’m in no position for a divorce just now.”

  Their attempt to slip quietly into Mexico by air last night turned into the most publicized romantic goings-on since Rita Hayworth’s trip here with Prince Aly Khan before their marriage.

  Their host, a Mexican millionaire named Jorge Pasquel (newspapers liked to call him a “wealthy sportsman”), flew the couple from Mexico City to Acapulco in his converted B-17, El Fantasma, and put them up in his palatial digs. Rumors swirled that Sinatra had gotten his quickie divorce and secretly married Ava in Cuernavaca. Officials denied it. Another wire-service dispatch, on August 4, reported the big news that Ava had been snubbed by Hedy Lamarr in Acapulco:

  The two movie queens eyed each other coldly at a night club owned by Miss Lamarr’s new husband, but the older actress didn’t even nod to the hand-holding pair who are Hollywood’s most torrid new romance.

  One night just after midnight, Frank and Ava adjourned to a club called the Beachcomber. An American photographer who had stationed himself outside asked if he could snap their picture. Frank told him to fuck himself. The flashbulb went off anyway. A Mexican bodyguard—another contribution from Pasquel—went for the camera, but the photographer held on to it. “If you don’t give me that camera,” the bodyguard said, “I’ll put a bullet into you.” Somebody called the police, who listened to Sinatra’s complaint, took the camera, and handed it to Frank, who opened it and yanked out the film, raining a blue torrent of obscenities on the photographer while Ava dabbed at her eyes.

  Surely somewhere on the Baja California in 1951 there was a deserted beach town, minus wealthy sportsmen, former movie queens, and Eurotrash, to which Frank and Ava might have managed to spirit themselves for a few days of solitary relaxation. Surely Sinatra with all his resources could have found a way to ditch the paparazzi. But it was the same as with his bachelor jaunts to Palm Springs: he wa
nted to get away from it all, but not too far away. Solitude, unglamorous surroundings, were anathema. So he went to the usual places, with the usual suspects, and got into the usual situations. With the usual resultant attention. Attention was very important. What was he, who was he, without it? The idea that he could manage it completely, that the press of the world would fall in at his heels like Earl Wilson, was a fond illusion.

  Look at me. Leave me alone. The tension between the couple’s need for publicity (Ava’s was more ambivalent) and their need for privacy was killing the relationship as it was struggling to get started. When the two of them were alone—it was far too seldom—she cried to him about the scenes. She was a tough girl, with a thick skin, and she liked showing off as much as any actress, but she was sensitive too. He tried to console her; in reality there was little he could do. His power was diminishing every minute.

  After three less-eventful days (though the United Press had done some digging and discovered that the Mexican bodyguard had a long murder record), Frank and Ava flew back home. “It was dark when we arrived, but a horde of photographers were gathered anyway, eager to pounce, and flashbulbs were popping as we scrambled into the waiting car,” Ava recalled.

  The horde of photographers consisted of about a half-dozen members of the press, but one of them, a cameraman for KTTV, shone a spotlight at the Cadillac. This infuriated Sinatra, who kept screaming, “Kill the light! Kill the light!” According to the testimony of a news photographer named William Eccles, Sinatra swerved the car directly toward him and struck him with the fender, screaming, “Next time I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”

  Eccles filed a criminal complaint against Sinatra, but withdrew it when he received a letter of apology allegedly written by Frank.

  Some good news after he got home put Frank in a better mood: Nancy announced she would permit him to file for a divorce in Nevada, where the complainant had only to satisfy a six-week residency requirement. Broker than ever, Sinatra had his people get him what work they could: two weeks at the Riverside Hotel in Reno, followed by another couple of weeks at the Desert Inn in Las Vegas.

  He arrived in Reno on August 9 in fine spirits—and determined not to let any bad press scuttle his plans. Frank smiled at the reporters and said, “I hope I’m going to get along with you fellows.” Then he shook hands with each, and invited them all to his hotel suite to ask him whatever they wanted. The men glanced at each other in disbelief.

  Soon they were cozily swilling free booze and noshing on canapés in Sinatra’s suite at the Riverside. They got out their notebooks.

  “Frank,” one of them piped up, “I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but some people are saying you’re too broke to file for divorce.”

  Frank looked at the ceiling, exhaled a plume of smoke, and leaned back in his chair like a man without a care in the world. Outside the picture windows, the snowcapped Sierra Nevada stretched gloriously across the horizon. He grinned at the reporters. Was that what they were saying? Well, the gentlemen of the press would all be getting their bill for the drinks and snacks in a few minutes.

  Everyone laughed. Frank turned serious. He didn’t like to brag, but this joint was paying him twenty-five grand for two weeks, which wasn’t too shabby, plus he had another engagement in Vegas after that, and his television show—Saturday evenings from eight to nine on CBS—would start its second season in October. Frank guessed he had a couple of nickels to rub together.

  Someone piped up: Was he going to marry Miss Gardner?

  Frank looked at his fingernails. “I presume I will.”

  Another voice called out. What about all that trouble down in Mexico?

  Sinatra shook his head. “Grossly exaggerated,” he said. “I got sore because I got some pretty rough handling from a couple of guys. They were the exception to the rule, though, for the press has done a lot for me.”

  Frank gave a small, sincere smile. Butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth.

  Ten days later Ava flew up to Reno. Continuing the charm offensive, Frank escorted her into another roomful of reporters, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. For reasons of his own, he had spent the last week and a half growing a sparse mustache. He would try facial hair from time to time over the years. It was not a good look for him.

  But his skin was tan, his eyes were the blue of the high-desert sky, and he and the press were still romancing each other. He didn’t even flinch when somebody asked if he knew what Nancy’s plans were.

  “I honestly don’t know what she’ll do,” Sinatra said. He looked meltingly at Ava. “But I think you can safely say that Miss Gardner and I will be married.”

  Over dinner one night—they were relaxing at the Cal Neva Lodge, on the glorious shore of Lake Tahoe—he asked her to tell him about the bullfighter. Had they done it? She artfully changed the subject, smiling brightly; he smiled back at her, then asked again over coffee. She gave him a cross look and asked him why he was trying to fuck everything up. They fought; they made up. Later, they lay together quietly in the bedroom of his cabin: with the wind swishing through the pines, it seemed they could hear the earth turning. And he asked her again.

  She got up on one elbow and looked down at him, her hair falling over one eye. Didn’t they have better things to discuss than this?

  It was no big deal, he swore; he just wanted to know.

  She shook a cigarette out of the pack on the nightstand and lit it. She smoked for a minute, saying nothing.

  “Ava, honey,” Frank said. “It doesn’t really matter to me. We’ve all fallen into the wrong bed at one time or another. Just tell me the truth and we’ll forget all about it.”

  She thought for a moment. She tapped the cigarette on the ashtray, though she didn’t need to.

  All right, she said, since he wouldn’t leave it alone. Once. One mindless night. She’d been drunk—she didn’t really even remember it.

  Once, Frank repeated, dully.

  The next day Sanicola rented them a gleaming new Chris-Craft so Frank and Ava could go for a picnic cruise on the lake. Hank came along to steer the boat; Ava’s maid, Reenie, brought sandwiches and champagne. It was perfect early-September weather, crisp and sparkling, a light wind blowing across the steel blue water. Frank and Ava sat on the back deck drinking champagne while Hank drove. The big engine thrummed as Sanicola steered into a quiet inlet. Ava lifted her face to the sun, her eyes closed.

  “I suppose you wish you were out here with Howard Hughes,” Frank suddenly said.

  Reenie cleared her throat and slowly shook her head.

  “Why the fuck should I wish I were out here with Howard Hughes?” Ava said.

  “I bet he’s got a bigger boat than this, doesn’t he? That guy’s got enough bucks to buy ten boats the size of this one.”

  Up on the bridge, Sanicola looked back at them.

  “I don’t care if he owns the fucking Queen Mary,” Ava said. “I’m not sorry I’m not with him. So shut up.”

  “Don’t tell me to shut up.”

  Sanicola looked pleadingly at Reenie. She shrugged.

  “Then don’t tell me I’m thinking about Howard Hughes when I’m not thinking about Howard Hughes.”

  “I’ll t——” Frank stopped in mid-utterance as the boat jerked and shuddered to a halt with a terrible grinding noise. They all were nearly knocked out of their seats. The boat had struck a large, mostly submerged rock in shallow water about a hundred feet out from the shore. They were already beginning to list to starboard.

  The water was only around four feet deep. Hank helped Reenie climb down the ladder, then descended himself. They both splashed toward shore. Frank was next. Ava stayed put.

  “Get off that fucking boat while there’s still time, you fucking fool,” Frank called from the water.

  “Go fuck yourself,” she said. “I’m staying here.”

  And there she sat, sipping champagne.

  “It was about that time that I discovered that this fancy boat was stock
ed with a monstrous amount of toilet paper,” Ava recalled.

  Why in the name of God the owners had decided to store so much on one boat I’ll never know. But all the champagne I’d drunk convinced me that this wealth must be shared with the world. So I unwrapped roll after roll and floated them all off in the general direction of Frank. His rage was now off the charts, and he screamed a variety of curses in my direction that even I found impressive, but nothing he said deterred me from my appointed rounds.

  Eventually, the boat began to sink in earnest, and I carefully joined Frank on the shore, carrying with me, with perfect survivor’s instincts, the last bottle of champagne and two glasses. We managed to get the bottle open and sat down to regard the scene. What was a little rumpus between lovers, anyway? We clinked glasses, laughed and made up.

  This is breezy and funny, a memoir written to amuse when the reality cannot have been so amusing. Both Frank and Ava had become serious drinkers by this point: in his case, he needed more and more alcohol to blur his worsening career and family problems; Ava just liked to drink. During the recent shoot of Lone Star, a dog of a Western that Metro had forced her to make, she had been loaded much of the time. And when the two of them were together, alcohol was as apt to loosen their tongues as their libidos. “Just a few nights later, when we both had drunk so much, Frank made an offhanded remark that hurt me so deeply that I didn’t stop to argue or shout back, I just left,” Ava wrote.

  I ran out into the darkness, my bare feet heading toward the lake … Then I heard someone running behind me, trying to catch up. It was Reenie.