There are two forms of fame that people admire: dying early – and surviving. Frank Sinatra was a survivor in 1955. In the 1940s it caused hysteria among young people, which is how youth was discovered in the first place.
But when the decade ended, Sinatra was a thing of the past. His film contract was canceled, and then his record contract too. In 1950, Eddie Fisher was the new star. James Kaplan writes in his monumental biography “The Voice”: At the time, Sinatra could not have known that Eddie Fisher would be forgotten – and he himself would be immortal.
After reading James Jones’ novel From Here To Eternity, Sinatra was eager to play the role of Maggio. He marked the passages in the book. Then Fred Zinnemann announced the film adaptation of the bestseller, and Sinatra applied. Nobody wanted him. What possibly happened next is described in “The Godfather.” Frank Sinatra got the role, he played opposite Montgomery Clift, he was fantastic, and he won the Oscar in 1954. And then Ava Gardner, with whom he had indulged and argued and drunk, left him, his goddess, his nemesis.
In February 1955 he recorded the songs for In The Wee Small Hours, the first modern album. Sinatra found his subject: male pain. He made it clear what the interpretation of a song, yes, what singing actually is. He didn’t write songs, but he was their author. He discovered the dark land of the soul for the song.
He very reluctantly starred in the film musical “Guys & Dolls” with Marlon Brando. Brando was the next generation, but he couldn’t sing or dance. There were mumbles now. It was a different kind of male pain. Sinatra stood his ground. For four decades. When he died in 1998, the Empire State Building was lit blue and the lights went out in Las Vegas.
The greatest of all singers died on May 14, 1998. He never left us. All you have to do is listen to “Thanks For The Memory” and it’s all there again: “I know it’s a fallacy/ That grown men never cry/ Baby, that’s a lie/ We had our bed of roses/ But forgot those roses die. “