I live in Hoboken, a town of churches (and 1 synagogue – hi, Rabbi Scheinberg!) This small city’s Catholic character is obvious to any casual visitor, and certainly struck us strongly when we were scouting the place out and toured many apartments for sale above whose pristine beds, plumped up attractively for prospective buyers, sat crucifixes large and small. In fact, one of my neighbors has in her living room two huge portraits: one of Frank Sinatra, and one of the Pope.
When does idolization cross over into obsession? Cary Hoffman, a shy Jewish kid growing up in postwar Queens, admired Frank Sinatra so much that he dreamed of becoming the singer himself. In Hoffman’s thought-provoking one-man show, “My Sinatra,” now playing Off-Broadway with musical direction by Alex Nelson, the performer interweaves the story of his infatuation with the singing of two dozen of the singer’s standards. His voice is so uncannily similar to Sinatra’s that few can tell them apart.
Once upon a time, before Tel Aviv filmmakers invented the Israeli thumb-sucking depressive anti-war movie filmed in a cloud of cigarettes, being a liberal in Hollywood meant being more Zionist than the Stern Gang.