Lee J. Cobb is a gem as the disappointed Jewish father of two sons -- Sinatra and Bill -- who desert him and his wax fruit business to live the lives of shallow New Yorkers on the hedonistic treadmill. He's full of indignation and irony. When we first meet him, he's coming home from work. "Is that you, Harry?", cries his wife, Molly Picon, from the kitchen. "No, it's a BURGLAR coming in. At five in the afternoon. For dinner." He's a delight whenever he's on screen, grumbling about "da brudders" who are "bums" because they won't get married and give him grandchildren. Molly Picon is good as the mother, but in her one big scene she's recherché and a little silly -- not the actress' fault but the screenwriter's.
Sinatra isn't too painful as the older son with a luxurious apartment that now would look in the neighborhood of $10,000 a month. He rarely shows up for work because he's too busy ploying the local ladies. How can he afford the place? He leases it from a woman who adores him. But that doesn't explain how he affords alpaca cardigans, a personal hair stylist, tuxedos, dinners are Sardi's and drinks at Toots Shore's. I once managed a dinner at The Russian Tea Room but it cost me three months worth of pizza pies.
I have nothing against Tony Bill, the younger brudder, who begins to ape Sinatra's self-indulgent ways, but he almost ruins the picture. He looks the part of the twenty-one year old naif, but his voice is high and squeaky, and his notion of "nervousness" reaches for the stars. Bud Yorkin, the director, should have reined him in and introduced him to the concept of "underplaying." It all turns out right in the end, of course. Sinatra has several girls on the hook -- including the airhead Jill St. John and the bourgeois virgin Barbara Rush. Guess which one he marries.
All in all, it reminded me a lot of "The Tender Trap," in which Sinatra again was pursued by a horde of marriage-hungry females and David Wayne was the visiting hick. The greatest hangover scene ever committed to celluloid.
On the other hand, if it had been done as a drama it would have resembled "Hud," with a stern and principled father, a dissolute older son, and a younger one who wants to imitate his big brother.
Some of the scenes had me laughing out loud. "MY TONGUE SHOULD FALL OUT!" And Molly Picon's first visit to Sinatra's suite, when she looks around this palatial spread and remarks about the dirt. It reminded me of an incident during the shooting of "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," a classic of the silver screen, in which I was an extra. I was standing next to quiet man (Hi, Luigi!) and his wife, a nice Jewish lady who disapproved of the set -- a slum street strewn with litter. She left the sidewalk and began picking up discarded shoes and other trash until a PA told her politely how much effort and expense had been put into importing all this garbage and seeing that it was properly strewn.
Sinatra isn't too painful as the older son with a luxurious apartment that now would look in the neighborhood of $10,000 a month. He rarely shows up for work because he's too busy ploying the local ladies. How can he afford the place? He leases it from a woman who adores him. But that doesn't explain how he affords alpaca cardigans, a personal hair stylist, tuxedos, dinners are Sardi's and drinks at Toots Shore's. I once managed a dinner at The Russian Tea Room but it cost me three months worth of pizza pies.
I have nothing against Tony Bill, the younger brudder, who begins to ape Sinatra's self-indulgent ways, but he almost ruins the picture. He looks the part of the twenty-one year old naif, but his voice is high and squeaky, and his notion of "nervousness" reaches for the stars. Bud Yorkin, the director, should have reined him in and introduced him to the concept of "underplaying." It all turns out right in the end, of course. Sinatra has several girls on the hook -- including the airhead Jill St. John and the bourgeois virgin Barbara Rush. Guess which one he marries.
All in all, it reminded me a lot of "The Tender Trap," in which Sinatra again was pursued by a horde of marriage-hungry females and David Wayne was the visiting hick. The greatest hangover scene ever committed to celluloid.
On the other hand, if it had been done as a drama it would have resembled "Hud," with a stern and principled father, a dissolute older son, and a younger one who wants to imitate his big brother.
Some of the scenes had me laughing out loud. "MY TONGUE SHOULD FALL OUT!" And Molly Picon's first visit to Sinatra's suite, when she looks around this palatial spread and remarks about the dirt. It reminded me of an incident during the shooting of "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," a classic of the silver screen, in which I was an extra. I was standing next to quiet man (Hi, Luigi!) and his wife, a nice Jewish lady who disapproved of the set -- a slum street strewn with litter. She left the sidewalk and began picking up discarded shoes and other trash until a PA told her politely how much effort and expense had been put into importing all this garbage and seeing that it was properly strewn.