{"product_id":"rat-pack-confidential-isbn-9780385495769","title":"Rat Pack Confidential","description":"\u003cb\u003eFor the first time, the full story of what happened when Frank brought his best pals to party in a land called Vegas\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eJanuary  1960.  Las Vegas is at its smooth, cool peak.  The Strip is a jet-age  theme park, and the greatest singer in the history of American popular  music summons a group of friends there to make a movie.  One is an  insouciant singer of Italian songs, ex-partner to the most popular film  comedian of the day.  One is a short, black, Jewish, one-eyed, singing,  dancing wonder.  One is an upper-crust British pretty boy turned  degenerate B-movie star actor, brother-in-law to an ascendant  politician.  And one is a stiff-shouldered comic with the quintessential  Borscht Belt emcee’s knack for needling one-liners.  The  architectonically sleek marquee of the Sands Hotel announces their  presence simply by listing their names:  FRANK SINATRA.  DEAN MARTIN.   SAMMY DAVIS, JR.  PETER LAWFORD.  JOEY BISHOP.  Around them an entire  cast gathers:  actors, comics, singers, songwriters, gangsters,  politicians, and women, as well as thousands of starstruck everyday  folks who fork over pocketfuls of money for the privilege of basking in  their presence.  They call themselves The Clan.  But to an awed world,  they are known as The Rat Pack.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey had it all.  Fame.  Gorgeous  women.  A fabulouse playground of a city and all the money in the  world.  The backing of fearsome crime lords and the blessing of the  President of the United States.  But the dark side–over the thin line  between pleasure and debauchery, between swinging self-confidence and  brutal arrogance–took its toll.  In four years, their great ride was  over, and showbiz was never the same.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAcclaimed Jerry Lewis  biographer Shawn Levy has written a dazzling portrait of a time when  neon brightness cast sordid shadows.  It was Frank’s World, and we just  lived in it.Acclaim for Shawn Levy's \u003ci\u003eKing of Comedy: The Life and Art of Jerry Lewis:\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Superb....Levy's ambitious (and entirely successful) biography is a model of what a celebrity bio ought to be--smart, knowing, insightful, often funny, full of fascinating insiders' stories, always respectful but never worshipful.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e--Los Angeles Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Among the finest, most show business-savvy screen biographies ever written.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e--Boston Phoenix\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"One of the great, clear-eyed showbiz biographies of our time--a book worthy of comparison to the genre masterpiece, John Lahr's \u003ci\u003eNotes on a Cowardly Lion.\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e--Boxoffice\u003c\/i\u003eSHAWN LEVY is the author of six previous books, including the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller \u003ci\u003ePaul Newman: A Life\u003c\/i\u003e.  He served as film critic of \u003ci\u003eThe Oregonian\u003c\/i\u003e from 1997 to 2012 and is a former senior editor of\u003ci\u003e American Film\u003c\/i\u003e and a former associate editor of \u003ci\u003eBox Office\u003c\/i\u003e. His work has appeared in the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, the \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e, the \u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Independent, Film Comment, Movieline, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eSight and Sound\u003c\/i\u003e, among many other publications. He lives in Portland, Oregon.This was Frank's baby.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnstage, Dean, singing almost straight, then pissing away anything like real feeling with jokes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the wings, Sammy, Peter, Joey.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOut front, a mob scene: Marilyn, Little Caesar, Kirk, Shirl, Mr. Benny, that Swedish kid that Sammy was so crazy for, that senator and his tubby kid brother, a few broads without addresses, a few guys without real names . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFamous faces at ringside for the cameras, infamous ones in the shadows in the back, plus a hundred or so civilians as bait for the rest of the world--suckers with money to blow and dames to blow it with them until it ran out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the casino, every schmuck that couldn't pay or beg or muscle his way in was betting his rent money just to feel as big as the ones who could.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe joint was packed; the rest of town might as well have been dark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd for what? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA movie, a party, a floating crap game, a day's work, a hustle, a joke: They'd make millions and all they had to do was show up, have a good time, pretend to give a damn, and, almost as an afterthought, sing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes it seemed like Dean had the right idea: \"You wanna hear the whole song, buy the record . . .\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut there \u003ci\u003ewas\u003c\/i\u003e something in the music, wasn't there? With the right band and the right number, it was like flying--and like you could drag everybody up there with you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo let Dean do jokes, and Sammy--Sammy would start numbers and they'd stomp all over them and he'd like it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut when Frank sang, it would be straight. It could be New Year's Eve, the very stroke of midnight, the middle of Times Square, and he would stop time, stop their hearts beating, and remind them where the power was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was in his voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was his.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen they finally had enough and dropped the curtain, they would wander out into the casino.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome act'd be up there on the little stage in the lounge, and maybe they'd go over and screw around; Sammy liked that the best--more eyes on him, always more eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat Dean and Frank liked was dealing. They had points in the joint, and who was gonna stop them from horsing around at a table: It was their money, right? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDean actually knew what he was doing. He'd push aside a blackjack dealer and do a little fancy shuffling and start dealing around the layout: his rules.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You got five?  You hold. That's a winner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nineteen?  Hit. Twenty-six?  Another winner.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe'd shovel out chips and make sure that everyone took care of the real dealer, who'd stand there looking nervous over at big Carl Cohen, the casino manager, who normally didn't go for clowning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Carl would be quiet. He'd lose a couple hundred during this monkey show, sure, but he'd get it all back and more: There were crowds five or ten deep just waiting to get at the tables. Besides, Dean was like family; he'd worked sneak joints back in Ohio before the war with Carl's kid brother. The big guy could afford to be a little bit indulgent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich wasn't the case with Lewis Milestone, the poor director saddled with making a movie in the middle of it. Every morning he came to work in an amusement park that his boss owned and woke his boss up and tried to get him to jump through hoops for a few hours, and you had to look deep into his dark old eyes to see what he really thought about it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis movie wasn't some work of art, this wasn't \u003ci\u003eAll Quiet on the Western Front\u003c\/i\u003e with poetic butterflies and mud and a moral. This was a sure thing, a money machine, a way to bring the party to the people who could only read about it in the papers. Hell, the only reason they hired him in the first place was that Jack Warner insisted on a pro and Peter guaranteed that the old guy--who was making Lassie shows, for chrissakes--would do whatever they told him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut, still, they didn't want to make a career out of it. So come the morning, they let Millie run them around in circles for a little bit, even if they hadn't gone to sleep yet on account of last night was, as they liked to say, a gasser.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr at least everyone but Frank let him do it. Frank was the boss, after all, and picture or no picture, he was going to work when he felt like it. He used to say that he only had one take in him, like he was an artist about it. The truth was he only had one take he gave a shit about, and if they wanted that one in the movie, then they'd have to wait until he was ready to give it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo Sammy, a Salty Dog or two down the hatch, would show up on the set at 9:00 or 10:00 in the morning, and Dean and Peter would show up at 9:00 or 10:00 in the morning, and Joey--who was lucky to be here at all, let's face it--would be there at 7:00 or whenever they said so, showered and alert.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Frank: 4:30 in the afternoon, maybe 5:00; and twice, \u003ci\u003etwice,\u003c\/i\u003e before lunch; and most days not at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey worked on the picture twenty-five days in Vegas; Frank showed up nine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, it was his show, all right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the early evenings, between a few hours of the movie and going back out onstage, the steam room. Frank had it built--the first one on the Strip--and when he was in town it was off limits to anyone else. They'd drink in there and make phone calls and give each other the needle: the only time they could all be together and alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome other people were allowed in: the ultimate VIP room. This Rickles would take these incredible liberties with Frank and Frank would kill himself.  Sammy would take one humiliation after another--\"You can't wear a white towel. Here's a brown towel for you!\"--and act like he was killing himself. Actors from the movie. Business guys. Other guys who didn't say who they were. This was an \u003ci\u003einner\u003c\/i\u003e inner circle. Men capable of all sorts of acts of power would sit like convent girls just for the pleasure of having been allowed inside. Compared to this, the show and the movie were, well, for \u003ci\u003eanyone.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut not just anyone was welcome. This was a group that Frank handpicked, gliding through the world, sizing people up, then giving them the golden tap on the shoulder and bringing them in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTalent, money, power: None of these was quite enough. You had to have something Frank had, or something that he wanted to have more of. You were a cool, leonine Italian, or a dazzling black ball of fire, or a British sophisticate with powerful relatives, or a Jewish wiseguy who could brush off the world with a shrug. You were an Irish millionaire senator or a psychotic Mafia lord. You were the acme, the original, one of a kind, and Frank wanted you up close to study. He gathered everyone around him and sat in the middle and saw little parts of himself, little things he could fix or steal--Dr. Frankenstein building a hip new kind of superman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrankenstein, though, or Nosferatu?  Because, though everyone got rich, got famous, got laid, Frank got \u003ci\u003emore.\u003c\/i\u003e They made movies; Frank was the producer. They cut records; Frank owned the company. They played Vegas and Tahoe; it was Frank's hotel. Everyone did good work; Frank was Michelangelo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey called him the Leader; they asked him to be their best man; they named their kids after him, their \u003ci\u003edaughters,\u003c\/i\u003e even. And when it all spun out of control, when the precious, delicate balance came undone, when the merry-go-round stopped with a jerk, everyone got thrown on their ass--or worse--except Frank, who stood there in the middle, unfazed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDivorce, drugs, bankruptcy, death, irrelevancy: Every single one of them took a major hit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrank didn't get so much as a scratch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut that would all be later. That would be after the golden time, when, for a while, no matter what they did, it would sell. No matter how many broads, no matter how much booze, no matter who they got mad at or cozied up to, it had reached a point where Frank could simply do no wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe press knew the story. They didn't \u003ci\u003ewrite\u003c\/i\u003e it, but they \u003ci\u003eknew\u003c\/i\u003e it. They didn't rat him out because they needed him more than he needed them, and except for a few he'd chosen as whipping boys, they lined up to do whatever he wanted them to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was drinking with this one or that one or fucking this one or that one--who was gonna talk? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd anyone he wanted around him, the same thing: You hiding from the G?  You don't need to hide around Frank. You got a wife back home who reads the gossip page?  Frank'll see that you're not in it. You running for president?  Frank'll throw a little juice your way and make sure everything looks on the up-and-up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUp close, the whole thing was not to be believed. You wanna talk about rebellion?  Those rock 'n' roll punks had no idea what a \u003ci\u003ereal\u003c\/i\u003e rebel did in private. They couldn't begin to understand the power and the appetites and how little you had to care. \u003ci\u003eLa Dolce Vita\u003c\/i\u003e nothing: This bunch made Nero look like a Cub Scout.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut outside, from far away, it didn't look like ego or license or indulgence. It looked like a big, beautiful party in the desert, with laughs and music and cars and clothes and incredible women, and no one ever ran out of money, and no one ever got tired, and no one had to answer to anyone, and no one ever grew old, and you would just die unless you could be there--even if the closest you ever got was a movie theater or a record player.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWherever they went, they drew a crowd. And not just yokels, but Friars and sex symbols and made men and the president himself. They made Vegas Vegas, Miami Miami, and Palm Springs Palm Springs. And they made and broke people like they were pieces of toast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor a while, everything took a backseat. For a while, the whole world was like a gyroscope, spinning so fast that it looked like it was standing still, with Frank and his cronies smack-dab in the middle of it, smiling at you, making you think you could do anything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe world wasn't big enough for them to bother with so they made it bigger and took it over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd instead of resenting it, people loved it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd there was never anything like it before or since.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    ","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302269866213,"sku":"NP9780385495769","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780385495769.jpg?v=1767735412","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/rat-pack-confidential-isbn-9780385495769","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}