Frank always told his producers to make sure they got his first performance on tape, as it would probably be the best. Anything after—and there would usually be many more takes—he felt suffered because he had expended so much commitment, energy, and concentration on that first take.
Through the years, Frank worked only with orchestrators or arrangers who could interpret the music his way: Axel Stordahl, Nelson Riddle (who was an unknown in the business when he started with Sinatra but would go on to do more than half of his albums), and other giants in the field whose names would become synonymous with Sinatra’s success: Billy May, Gordon Jenkins, Johnny Mandel, Neal Hefti, George Siravo, Robert Farnon, and Don Costa. Because Frank knew which orchestrator worked best on which kind of song, he always selected songs with the orchestrator in mind, and vice versa.
No orchestrator ever really challenged Frank, though they all gave input, which he welcomed. Gordon Jenkins once said that he would never question Frank’s ideas because “I’ve never seen him wrong. Every suggestion that he’s ever made to me has been an improvement.” However, Frank was never a dictator in the recording studio. He knew that no singer could expect cooperation on future projects if he alienated the best orchestrators in the business. Besides that, he was eager for their involvement because, technically at least, they all knew far more than he did. He welcomed examples of their artistry and creativity as much as they delighted in his.
Another key to Frank’s success was that he understood his audience and what was expected of him. Though he was well-read, he never flaunted his knowledge or acted in a way that would make him appear to be superior to his fans. In truth, he was one of them: an unpretentious guy from Hoboken who just happened to make it big. His wealth, his women, and his growing power never put distance between himself and his audience, for his fans wanted him to be successful, and they too relished his success. As long as Frank Sinatra’s music reflected a common human experience—pain, joy, heartbreak, or redemption—his fans were happy.
The House He Lives In
In May 1945, Frank embarked on his first USO tour. He, Phil Silvers, and company successfully toured abroad, singing for the troops for seven weeks. Unfortunately, when the contingent returned to the States on July 6, 1945, Frank made a few disparaging comments about the USO (“Shoemakers in uniform run the entertainment division. Most of them had no experience in show business.”), thereby causing another controversy. Defenders of the USO, such as writer Lee Mortimer, a protégé of Walter Winchell’s who would become Frank’s greatest nemesis in the media, harshly rebuked him. Unfortunately, Frank’s comments generated more negative attention than any goodwill he might have been able to spread on his tour. From this imbroglio, George Evans learned that one never knew what Frank was going to say or how the media would react to it.
Not fazed by any negative response to the USO tour, Sinatra then went on the record expressing a social concern for the youth of America—and this before it was fashionable for entertainers to do so. He felt that if he had the attention of America’s youth, he should do something positive with it. To that end, he spoke in high school auditoriums and at youth centers across the country. He also wrote articles about juvenile delinquency, which George Evans distributed to schools nationwide. Moreover, he spoke to high school editors of newspapers about race relations, encouraging students to be as tolerant as possible “if you want a better world for yourselves.” He wanted to do his fair share.
At this time, Frank also made an excellent, critically acclaimed ten-minute-long film called The House I Live In, about religious and racial tolerance, in which he played himself. It was directed by Mervyn LeRoy, produced by Frank Ross, and written by Albert Maltz; all profits from this, his final RKO film, went to anti-juvenile delinquency programs and organizations.
In the film, Sinatra walks out of a studio after a recording session to have a smoke. He comes across a gang of kids hurling epithets at a Jewish boy. “Look, fellas,” Frank tells the boys, “religions make no difference except to a Nazi or somebody as stupid.” He says that he would be “a first-class fathead” if he were the type of person who would hate a man because of his ethnicity or religion. Then he sings the title song, a ballad written by Lewis Allan and Earl Robinson, which would go on to become one of his signature songs. A reporter from Cue magazine wrote, “The picture’s message is tolerance. Its medium is song. And its protagonist is Frank Sinatra who has, amazingly, grown within a few short years from a lovelorn microphone-hugging crooner to become one of filmdom’s leading and most vocal battlers for a democratic way of life.”
The film would be awarded a special Academy Award in 1946.
That same year, Frank was called a communist by some members of the press. At that time, many prominent liberals found themselves branded as communists for nothing more than having publicly expressed a tolerance of diversity and empathy for the poor.
The “communist” charge came suddenly and surprisingly when Gerald L. K. Smith, of the conservative America First Party, testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) in January 1946 that Sinatra was acting “as a front” for communist organizations. Smith, a voice for racism and anti-Semitism, hosted his own radio program at the time. He didn’t explain his comments about Sinatra or even qualify them. “That son of a bitch called me a commie,” Frank raged privately. “How can he do that?”
Smith’s accusation made no sense, yet it found traction among the paranoid anticommunists of the period.
A short time later, Gerval T. Murphy, a director of the Catholic group the Knights of Columbus, claimed that Frank had demonstrated a penchant for communism by speaking “at a Red rally of sixteen thousand left-wingers.” Actually, Frank—who called Murphy “a jerk”—spoke at a rally for the Veterans Committee of the Independent Citizens Committee of the Arts, Sciences and Professions. He called for the passage of legislation that would house veterans. Therefore, he tried his best to set the record straight—“I don’t like communists either, and I’m not one”—but in a climate of such fears about communism, the charge stuck. Some of the parents of his young fans began voicing their concerns about Sinatra, all of which were based on unfounded allegations.
Marilyn Maxwell
By 1946, Frank Sinatra had fully immersed himself in the Hollywood social scene and was enjoying every second of it. He was thrilled to live in California and anxious to fit in; he became friendly with many of the town’s most influential and popular entertainers, such as Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, Jack Benny and Bing Crosby, all of whom were very happy to welcome him into their ranks. Restaurateurs Mike Romanoff, David Chasen, and Charlie Morrison also became close friends.
In Hollywood, Frank began attracting women of a totally different class and breed than the infamous Lips Luango of Jersey City. Actress Lana Turner was among the women interested in Frank, and she made her intentions quite clear. Frank had his pick of women, though, and was in no big rush to commit. As usual, he didn’t really consider his own marriage a factor. “In the time that we were together as friends from 1945 to 1959, I never once saw him talk to her or touch Nancy, or relate to her in any way,” said Phil Silvers’s wife, Jo-Carroll Silvers.
Frank also met the beautiful Ava Gardner in April 1945 at the Mocambo nightclub on the Sunset Strip. Ava was then a ravishing twenty-two-year-old brunette film star, but she was married to Mickey Rooney at the time; Frank joked with her that had he met her before Rooney, he would most certainly have married her himself. Ava knew Frank’s reputation with women, yet she also couldn’t help but be charmed by him. Frank would keep her telephone number carefully tucked away in his wallet—“for future reference,” he said to her with a wink.
In the summer of 1946, Frank pursued a contract player at MGM, twenty-four-year-old Marilyn Maxwell, an actress and singer with the Kay Kyser band. Marilyn was a stunning blonde from Iowa with an iridescent movie-star smile who bore a physical resemblance to Marilyn Monroe and embodied the sort of riba
ld humor of Joan Blondell or even Mae West. She was recently divorced from actor John Conte, whom she’d married in 1944. She was also well-read and had a certain depth to her, which appealed to Frank. Frank had known Marilyn for a couple of years; they appeared on Lux Radio Theatre the same year she married Conte. “She was gorgeous,” Frank’s friend Nick Sevano recalled, “and they were quickly crazy about each other.”
Frank dealt with his attractions by allowing himself to become completely swept away without pausing to consider the consequences. He fell in love overnight, and he didn’t care what anyone thought of it. Soon he was telling people that he and Marilyn belonged together and that he was going to—again—ask Nancy for a divorce. In the end, it wasn’t Frank who actually told Nancy about Marilyn Maxwell, though. When she heard about her from mutual friends, she was a little more concerned than she’d been about the other women in her husband’s life. After all, this one was a working actress, not an extra or a stripper—hardly a star, but in Nancy’s eyes she was most certainly a woman to be reckoned with.
Nancy asked friends and family members for advice. Practically everyone told her that she should probably file for divorce—and not necessarily because of Marilyn, either, but rather because of Frank. Why, they all wondered, would she want to stay married to this man?
It was a good question. Frank was a serial cheater and his arrogance knew no bounds. He showed no respect for his wife or for the sanctimony of marriage. True emotional intimacy would always elude him. Nancy knew her husband well and had long ago come to terms with his limitations. She had made her choice years earlier to put up with him. But perhaps it was time to reconsider.
Just before he was scheduled to leave California for New York (where he was to film his next movie, It Happened in Brooklyn, with Peter Lawford and Jimmy Durante), Frank and Nancy fought about Marilyn. “Can I be honest with you?” he asked Nancy. “All the best lies start with that sentence,” she observed. This time, though, Frank wasn’t going to lie—he told her he planned to meet Marilyn in New York. Nancy was devastated. “The fact that you can just tell it to me like that means you have no respect for me,” she told him in a tearful argument witnessed by family members—including Dolly and Marty—who had flown to Los Angeles to visit.
According to what Dolly would later recall to relatives, Frank told Nancy, “You just take care of my folks while I’m gone. That’s your job. Your job is not to worry about me and Marilyn Maxwell.”
In response, Nancy picked up an ashtray and threw it at Frank. It missed him by a hair and sailed through a closed window in the kitchen, shattering it. “And you’re payin’ for that,” Frank hollered at her as he began to bolt from the room. As he was leaving, Dolly grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled so hard, he almost tumbled backward. “Apologize to your wife,” she demanded. “You apologize right now.” Frank was in no mood for apologies. Breaking free of his mother, he said, “Lemme go, Ma! Mind your own business.”
After Frank was gone, Nancy realized that, Hollywood actress or not, Marilyn was just another woman, like the rest of Frank’s extramarital conquests, and she wasn’t going to give up her marriage without a good fight. Dolly encouraged her to do something about it. Dolly had become a surprising ally to Nancy when it came to Frank’s “whores,” as she called them. “You have to fight to keep your family together,” she told her daughter-in-law. “Don’t let that son of mine ruin your family! You two got kids, Nancy!”
“Is that what you would do?” Nancy asked her, according to a later recollection. “Fight?”
“No,” Dolly said, shaking her head. “I would cut his balls off, that’s what I would do.” Dolly said that she wouldn’t put up with such behavior from Frank “for five seconds.” However, she felt that Nancy was different. Maybe Nancy was stronger than she was, Dolly offered. “You’re a fighter, Nancy,” she told her. “You have to fight for your family.”
Then, as Dolly stood with her arms folded across her chest, Nancy telephoned George Evans. “I’m afraid there’s another one,” she somewhat tremulously told him. “I need you to take care of Marilyn Maxwell.”
Just as he had handled Dorothy Bonucelli, George Evans was more than happy to intervene on Nancy Sinatra’s behalf. Dutifully, he sprang into action; he decided to use on Marilyn Maxwell the same line that seemed to work so well in getting rid of Dorothy Bonucelli.
According to Ted Hechtman, “Once again, as in the case of Dorothy, George didn’t even bother talking to Frank about it. He just called Marilyn and said, ‘Listen, you’ve got a morals clause in your studio contract that says you can’t disgrace the studio by going out with a married man. You’ve never seen bad publicity like the kind you’re gonna see if you go out on the town in New York with Frank Sinatra.’ Since George was a legitimate show-business publicist, Marilyn didn’t know if that was a threat, a promise, or just a warning. Therefore, she decided she didn’t want to be seen with Frank in New York. Moreover, she said she needed time to reconsider her relationship with him. It was all a lot more trouble than she’d imagined it would be. Of course, Frank was upset when he found out what George had done. He called him every name in the book for messing up his New York plans.”
George Evans had his hands full with Frank. “He’s got more dollars than sense, let’s face it,” he said at this time. However, Evans had won the Marilyn Maxwell battle for Nancy—at least for the moment.
But Frank didn’t waste much time lamenting the loss of Marilyn Maxwell in his life. With her out of the picture, he set his sights on bona fide star Lana Turner.
Lana Turner
If Nancy Sinatra thought Marilyn Maxwell was formidable, one wonders what she might have thought of the gorgeous, twenty-six-year-old Lana Turner, a small-town girl from Wallace, Idaho, who’d been born Julia Turner to teenage parents. She and her mother moved to Los Angeles in 1931, when Julia was ten, after the murder of her father. Hollywood legend has it that she was discovered at Schwab’s Pharmacy in Hollywood. Actually, it was at the Top Hat Malt Shop on Sunset Boulevard, where at sixteen she was spotted by William R. Wilkerson, publisher of the Hollywood Reporter. He was attracted by her beauty and personality and suggested that Zeppo Marx—one of the Marx Brothers, who also had a talent agency—sign her to a contract. In 1937, Marx got her a deal with MGM; Louis B. Mayer felt sure she could be the next big sex symbol after Jean Harlow’s death six months prior to Turner’s signing. By the time Frank met her, Lana had made more than twenty films and was very successful, very wealthy, and—after two marriages—very single, living in a lofty estate in Bel-Air overlooking the country club.
That Lana had a three-year-old daughter, Cheryl Crane—offspring of a brief marriage to restaurateur Steve Crane—didn’t impede her celebrity lifestyle. As she once recalled of this particular time, “Ciro’s was a favorite haunt. I’d walk up the steps and through the glass door and pass the velvet rope that barred the less fortunates. And the headwaiter would spring forward—‘Ah, Miss Turner’—and escort me in. I had a special table right by the stairs so I could watch the comings and goings. I’d head straight there, never glancing right or left.
“And then, when I was seated, I’d give the room a long casing, bowing to this one or blowing that one a kiss. Silly, I guess, but fun . . . Everyone would stare, and you knew you were making an entrance. I’d usually dress in something clingy, black or white, sometimes gold, occasionally red. I’d wear diamonds and a fur of some kind draped over one shoulder. Often white fur, my favorite. Maybe ermine or silver fox. Or sable. I had beautiful sables. I’d have jewels in my hair, or flowers, and every hair in place.”
When Frank saw her film The Postman Always Rings Twice, he couldn’t resist Lana, who appeared tanned and gorgeous in white shorts, halter top, and matching turban. “I have to have her,” he said. “How can I not?” He obtained her phone number from a mutual friend and called her.
At the time, Lana was in love with thirty-three-year-old Tyrone Power, but the relationship was not
going well. She actually had more suitors than she could count. Esther Williams, who was a close friend of Turner’s, recalled, “Lana’s dressing room at MGM was right next to mine. The rest of us, we just had a couch, a coffee table, and a couple of chairs in our dressing rooms. But Lana—she had a king-size bed with pink satin sheets and a roomful of mirrors. When I saw this, I thought, boy, it doesn’t take an interior decorator to figure out what you like if you furnish your dressing room this way.”
Frank would later say that he’d never been with anyone quite as carnal as Lana. She seemed uninterested in anything other than just being with Frank in the bedroom, and he didn’t mind. She didn’t want to talk about moviemaking or her career or his, and she definitely wasn’t interested in his family life. If he tried to engage her in small talk, she was indifferent. World events? Forget it. Simply put, she just wanted to have sex with him, and as often as possible. She fascinated him. He had never known a woman so confident of her sexuality that she didn’t care if a man saw her as nothing more than a sex object. In fact, she encouraged it.
It was her confidence, too, that drew him to her. When it came to women, Frank couldn’t resist the strong, commanding type, like his mother, Dolly. In her own way, of course, Nancy had strength and resiliency that most of Frank’s other women could never even imagine, because she had managed to stay married to the man all this time. But Frank couldn’t appreciate that at this point, finding her dull compared to the likes of Lana Turner. In typical fashion, he became completely swept away by Lana with the passage of just about two weeks. This time he told Nancy he was actually moving out of the house. “I’m with Lana now,” he said succinctly. “Just let me go, Nancy. Just give me a divorce.”
“Hell no,” Nancy told him. “Hell no.”
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