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TIME: Almanac 1995
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<text id=92TT1906>
<title>
Aug. 24, 1992: Reviews:Books
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1992
Aug. 24, 1992 George Bush: The Fight of His Life
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
REVIEWS, Page 64
BOOKS
Dealer with A Hot Hand
</hdr><body>
<p>By Richard Corliss
</p>
<qt>
<l>TITLE: DINO</l>
<l>AUTHOR: Nick Tosches</l>
<l>PUBLISHER: Doubleday; 572 Pages; $24</l>
</qt>
<p> THE BOTTOM LINE: Smooth and sexy, uncaring and unknowable,
Dean Martin was the showman America deserved.
</p>
<p> He sang like Bing Crosby. More important, he looked like
Crosby sang: dark, romantic, utterly at ease. Those seductive
glissandi and buh-buh-buh-boos made him a housewife's heart
murmur and the ideal straight man for a crew-cut ba-ba-baboon,
Jerry Lewis--"the organ grinder and the monkey," they were
called. In the early '50s the duo owned movies, TV, nightclubs,
stage shows, and the singer had hit records (That's Amore,
Memories Are Made of This) on the side. When they split up in
1956, he segued smoothly into leading-man roles. He Rat-Packed
and six-packed, patenting the image of the blotto bon vivant.
In 1964 he bumped the Beatles off the top of the charts with
Everybody Loves Somebody, then wandered through his own hit
variety show for nine seasons.
</p>
<p> Dean Martin did what he wanted--drink, screw around,
play golf, make a bundle--with little effort and on his own
terms. The son of Italian immigrants, Dino Crocetti learned fast
the American genius for appropriation. He swiped somebody
else's voice, altered his name twice and his nose once, sold
105% of himself to early investors. He took plenty from everyone
and didn't give back much but a kind of low-level radiance. He
was a gambler, yes, but even more a dealer; it was the trade he
plied as a youth in Ohio gambling joints and later, for fun, in
the casinos where he headlined. The hands are fast, the eyes
dead. I deal the cards, you play 'em. I control your destiny and
I don't give a damn.
</p>
<p> In its way, Martin's is an exemplary American story: how
to succeed without really caring. And America loved the ease
with which he held an audience, even if he held it in contempt.
But is this an exemplary life? Is Dino worthy of Nick Tosches'
big, reckless new book?
</p>
<p> Biography usually quests for an existence that makes a
difference. Dean's specialty was indifference. He did decent
work in a few good movies (Some Came Running, Rio Bravo), but
passed through others with slight effect, like the gentle
baritone rumbling of a distressed stomach. His TV show was flash
encircling stupor: the Golddigger chorines did their cooch; the
cue-card girl had the script written on her bare midriff. And
in the middle, so laid-back as to be supine, was Dino--on the
cutting edge of lumpen-American mediocrity.
</p>
<p> This is just what Tosches, author of a fine biography of
Jerry Lee Lewis, sees as crucial in Martin's life: that he was
the signal showman of an America that was "fulfilling its
destiny as the chrome-crowned glory of post-literate, polyvinyl
civilization." Dino was what we wanted and deserved. With the
cool of a crooner and the leer of a rocker, he straddled two pop
eras. He took the styles others created and filtered them,
through the screen door of his nonchalance, for a Middle America
avid to be hip.
</p>
<p> Just about everybody liked Martin--including directors
and fellow actors and, surprisingly, Lewis, who played goony
child to Martin's mellow macho man--but, as Dino warned a TV
producer, "nobody gets to know me." Even Martin's most expert
appraiser, his long-suffering wife Jeannie, says he's an enigma.
"He's either the most complex man imaginable or the simplest,"
she tells Tosches. "There's either nothing under there or too
much."
</p>
<p> Tosches goes with "nothing." He admires Martin's languid
scorn for producers and gangsters and fans--for those who
would hustle or intimidate him or win the love they forlornly
hoped was inside him. For Dino, Tosches writes, "there could be
no happiness but in waving away the world; none but in being
apart, unthinking, unfeeling." The Italians call it lontananza.
Distance.
</p>
<p> Naturalmente, Dino didn't talk to Tosches. So the author
relies on the mind reading and fiction weaving that are such an
important, easy part of the modern biographer's technique. Yet
Tosches' high-wired prose--he's a cogent social historian on
an eloquent rant, Tom Wolfe married to Screamin' Jay Hawkins--is an ideal instrument for defining the incestuous connection
of gangsters and entertainers and the lure of money, whiskey and
gals in Hollywood.
</p>
<p> Still, no one filled or fulfilled Dean; as Jeannie Martin
notes, "He was always content in a void." Eventually the drunk
act ceased to be an act; he was not Dino as in vino but Dino as
in wino. Now, at 75, he is a Dino-saur, eating alone each night
in restaurants. His chilling apathy is the only bodyguard he
needs. And his only company is the knowledge that he filled a
vacuum in popular culture with the more seductive void of his
personality. Memories, and memorable biographies, are made of
this.
</p>
</body></article>
</text>