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Rating: 
Summary: spiritual journey in a gangster novel
Review: I think Michael Ventura had to use the context of a crime novel to get his story published. However, this novel is really a journey of his own self-discovery. He reminds me of Herman Hesse in the way he constantly enters and exits different doors in his own psyche -- almost at random. The central character, Mike Rose, has a mentally ill older brother. So does Ventura. Avid readers of Ventura's essays know this, and it is very easy for said readers to imagine that Mike Rose is Ventura. If you just want a murder mystery, this won't work for you unless you are particularly daring -- and patient. But, if you like to see someone get to the heart of himself, take a chance. You might be blown away by Ventura's prose. Light reading, this is not, but it is very interesting.
Rating: 
Summary: First rate
Review: Michael Ventura really knows how to tell a story that's more than just plot or characterization, but also SAYS something. I bought this book, read it right through, and then re-read it in bits right away, just for the enjoyment of it. This is as good as it gets.
Rating:
Summary: Technicolor Noir
Review: OK, I picked up "The Death of Frank Sinatra" as an impulse-buy $2.99 hardcover from the "used library books" aisle...so I was pretty much purchasing it by-the-pound...no expectations, other than it was Vegas-fiction and sounded fun.Now, I feel like I owe somebody. Which is not a good feeling in the hardboiled world Ventura describes so bristlingly. I have been turned on to a fusion of genres so rich and bountiful, that a full $24.99 pricetag seems only fair. So...if anyone wants to collect the remainder, no pistol-whipping will be necessary. It's quite simply pulp poetry. Crackling descriptions of the blood-in-your-urine doings of a Vegas private dick, featuring characters that jump off the page to pin your arms back while kicking your nuts and a geo-real Vegas that resonates with anyone who can "recite" the Strip from the Alladin to the Sahara and whose secret desire is to be buried at the YESCO graveyard. It's great stuff, and if you've never heard of Michael Ventura, (cause I sure as hell hadn't) you'll soon be saying the same thing I am now..."How the hell is this guy not being read on every Flight 711, instead of Grisham?" ...
Rating: 
Summary: Sinatra's not the only one
Review: The Hamlet-esque mind of Mike Rose is the hook to Ventura's "The Death of Frank Sinatra". His head whirls in the indecision of what he loves or hates and in some cases what or whom is the object of both extremes. The italicized asides in the first person are probably the strongest portions of the book as Rose's wannabe existentialist is continually crippled by loathing for himself, his past, his connections, and perhaps most of all, for Las Vegas which he believes is his puppet master and submissive lover all at once. Here is the crux of the novel which centers on a private eye who has bathed with and been raised by mobsters but has remained on the edge of the precipice without ever truly jumping in. It is an intriguing dilemma when his unstable brother unwittingly blabs "too much" in front of a grizzled old Outfit veteran, although as with most of the book what is spoken is half said, a half truth and, well, to be blunt, only half convincing. It's all well and good having the circle of insecurity forever turning in one's head, but surely no group of people are as instantly tuned in as Ventura's characters are. It seems half the time that, whoever it is, they are inexplicably able to read their conversation partner's mind, irrespective of intelligence, age or familiarity. What we get is a series of unfinished statements and knowing glances, which doesn't quite wash. At first, I thought the insight into Vegas, spearheaded by the persona and rep of Frank Sinatra - a nifty touch - was about as illuminating as a travel guide, but without really being conscious of it, the constant bombardment and repetition of the town's warts and all, became quite intoxicating and ultimately revealing. I was less convinced by the insider knowledge of the mob, which seemed to focus on shock value and sensationalism, in marked contrast to the understatement of the book's overall tone. The little nuances that are so prevalent in Scorsese's films, for example, that help to humanize and rationalize are absent for the most part here. The plot is convoluted and difficult to grasp with several intertwining threads that don't really mesh. However, in truth, most of the action happens in Rose's head, so that's not as disastrous as it sounds. Still, there seemed to be several loose ends that Ventura was content to let lie, which was a little unsettling. Overall, I felt it was indulgent and melodramatic, teetering on the edge between dark social commentary about an inately corrupt city, and simply incoherent rambling, but the well expressed sadness and stolid, if misguided defiance of the central character, along with the admitted originality of the style was enough to earn 3 stars. Just.
Rating:
Summary: Sinatra's not the only one
Review: The Hamlet-esque mind of Mike Rose is the hook to Ventura's "The Death of Frank Sinatra". His head whirls in the indecision of what he loves or hates and in some cases what or whom is the object of both extremes. The italicized asides in the first person are probably the strongest portions of the book as Rose's wannabe existentialist is continually crippled by loathing for himself, his past, his connections, and perhaps most of all, for Las Vegas which he believes is his puppet master and submissive lover all at once. Here is the crux of the novel which centers on a private eye who has bathed with and been raised by mobsters but has remained on the edge of the precipice without ever truly jumping in. It is an intriguing dilemma when his unstable brother unwittingly blabs "too much" in front of a grizzled old Outfit veteran, although as with most of the book what is spoken is half said, a half truth and, well, to be blunt, only half convincing. It's all well and good having the circle of insecurity forever turning in one's head, but surely no group of people are as instantly tuned in as Ventura's characters are. It seems half the time that, whoever it is, they are inexplicably able to read their conversation partner's mind, irrespective of intelligence, age or familiarity. What we get is a series of unfinished statements and knowing glances, which doesn't quite wash. At first, I thought the insight into Vegas, spearheaded by the persona and rep of Frank Sinatra - a nifty touch - was about as illuminating as a travel guide, but without really being conscious of it, the constant bombardment and repetition of the town's warts and all, became quite intoxicating and ultimately revealing. I was less convinced by the insider knowledge of the mob, which seemed to focus on shock value and sensationalism, in marked contrast to the understatement of the book's overall tone. The little nuances that are so prevalent in Scorsese's films, for example, that help to humanize and rationalize are absent for the most part here. The plot is convoluted and difficult to grasp with several intertwining threads that don't really mesh. However, in truth, most of the action happens in Rose's head, so that's not as disastrous as it sounds. Still, there seemed to be several loose ends that Ventura was content to let lie, which was a little unsettling. Overall, I felt it was indulgent and melodramatic, teetering on the edge between dark social commentary about an inately corrupt city, and simply incoherent rambling, but the well expressed sadness and stolid, if misguided defiance of the central character, along with the admitted originality of the style was enough to earn 3 stars. Just.
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