Yes He Could

Sammy Davis, Jr. would have turned 85 this month, but all those cigarettes finished him off 20 years ago.  While he was around, he was one of the most dynamic performers ever, but was also searching for who he was.

I recently read Will Haygood's lengthy biography. (There were two bios in the library--I took the longer one.  I'm in no rush.) While perhaps there's a little too much time given to the politics of his life (even though there's no way to ignore the revolting racism Sammy had to face), it offers quite an inside look.  There are some minor errors on tangential matters--for instance, Haygood attributes an Osmond Brothers hit to Donny and Marie--but nothing to make you doubt the basic research.

Davis was born in a trunk, and became a Vaudeville star with Will Mastin's troupe while still a child.  Soon it was down to the Will Mastin Trio, with Mastin, and Davis senior and junior.  Mastin knew little Sammy was the act and didn't let him stray too far.  Sammy felt he owed Mastin who, in any case, contractually owned him until he turned 40.

Sammy could do it all.  Singing, dancing, acting, impressions.  Perhaps that's why he never found a voice of his own.  Sinatra was inspired by singers like Bing Crosby, but eventually found himself, while Sammy could sound like anyone--and always wanted to be Sinatra--so never had a well-developed personal style.  Ironically, one of his big hits was "I've Gotta Be Me."

A huge nightclub star, he might have become a movie star if he'd been white. (He also was short and not particularly handsome.  For years, his biggest competitors for top African-American entertainer were two tall, handsome men--Sidney Poitier and Harry Belafonte.) Then, in 1954, he lost an eye in a car accident. (If you drive from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, you'll pass that spot, as well as the place where Sam Kinison died in a crash.) While a personal tragedy, it gave him great publicity, with people rooting for him to pull through.  It ended up, if anything, helping his career.  Around this time he became a Jew.  It's not entirely clear why--I do feel it was heartfelt, but some saw it as opportunistic, with so many Jews in show biz.

For years, the accusation in general had been he wanted to be white.  I can't say, but he certainly had an eye for white ladies, which was dangerous back then.  He started an affair with Kim Novak, whom Columbia was grooming for stardom.  Head of the studio Harry Cohn put the heat on, and made it clear, through seconds, that if Davis didn't drop Novak, he'd lose his other eye.  Sam dropped Novak and got into an arranged marriage with a black dancer he barely knew.  That was dissolved and a couple years later he married the beautiful and very white actress May Britt.  They received a lot of hate, but what ultimately broke them up seems to be that he wasn't the family man she wanted.  He also had an affair with Lola Falana.  Sammy later married another African-American dancer, Altovise Gore.

He wanted to move up in show biz, but lead roles for black actors in film were few and far between.  He decided to appear on Broadway, even though it represented a pay cut (and he didn't always show the discipline to stick to one role for any length of time).  His first show, in 1956, was Mr. Wonderful, which brought big, new crowds to Broadway, basically to see Sammy.  The plot was actually about a guy developing a nightclub act, and the last thirty minutes was the act.  Not much of a stretch.

For the next show, in 1964, he tried a little harder.  It was Golden Boy, a musical adaptation of the Clifford Odets' play, though now the central character is a black boxer rather than a Jewish one.  Behind the scenes things were a mess, but somehow, with director Arthur Penn taking over, and songs by Strouse and Adams, it turned into something decent.  It enjoyed a good run, thanks to Sammy's fans.  It also featured an interracial romance, which was, alas, still a brave thing to depict.

Meanwhile, Sammy, who'd always idolized Sinatra (and ran his own entourage as if he were Sinatra--though he had less money and was regularly in debt), ran around with the Rat Pack.  He did Vegas shows with Frank and Dean and Joey, and also appeared in several movies with them.  He got the occasional role elsewhere, popping up as a pretty good Sportin' Life in Sam Goldwyn's last production, Porgy And Bess, not to mention a fun cameo as a cult leader in Bob Fosse's Sweet Charity.



He never established a major film or TV career.  Worse, with show biz changing, what had once seemed hip now seemed hokey.  And Sammy, who laughed so strongly at his fellow entertainers that he'd fall out of his chair, became a symbol of show biz insincerity. Further, in an age of black power, he seemed like a sell-out.  And a photo of him embracing President Nixon made some believe he was an Uncle Tom.

Oddly, around this time, he recorded a throwaway tune from Willy Wonka that became his biggest hit, reaching #1 on Billboard--"The Candy Man." He'd never chart again.

He continued doing live performances, and even if some laughed at him, was still beloved by audiences.  I saw him years ago on Broadway, where he split the bill with Bill Cosby. (I admit I was there for Cos, though I didn't mind having Sammy thrown in.)

When it was clear he was ill, all was forgiven and the tributes started pouring in.  Better late than never.  Whatever else people thought, he was one of the great entertainers.