While usually about individual characters, this trope can also be a characteristic of a Free-Love Future or similar world.
So when the boozy ranting and raging began, she paid no attention to it.
And then there’s Sinatra, confident, not the Adam’s apple on a stick he was or the barrel-chested belter he would become, cruising inside the luxury-limousine sound of the Count Basie band, not so much singing the up-tempo numbers (“Fly Me to the Moon,” “You Make Me Feel So Young”) as riding them home, his rabbit jabs providing the punctuation to his cagey phrasing and eased-off vowels.
Frank Sinatra has been called great for so long that it’s easy to forget how great he is. At one point, alluding to Sammy’s set, he says that the song he’s about to perform makes for “a slight duplication here, but I don’t think you’ll mind too much,” launching into his own rendition of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” which he contours and tattoos as if romancing for the first time.
It’s an opportunity to catch three of America’s greatest showmen in their tigerish prime (with Carson along for the ride), before they became total legends and turned into leather.
There’s Dean Martin with his sleepy power, like a leopard in a smoking jacket, finishing his few songs with the words “I’d like to do some more for ya, but I’m lucky I remembered these.” There’s Sammy Davis Jr., a gleaming revolver of a man, belting out a maudlin Anthony Newley torch song as if he means it, goofing around with “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” (“it’s a little lumpy, but you’re under my skin”), demonstrating the latest go-go dances (the monkey, the jerk, the frug, the mashed potato), and, in a final tour de force, doing quick carbon copies of Billy Eckstine, Nat King Cole, Frankie Laine, Mel Tormé, Tony Bennett, and Dean himself.