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I found myself having dinner with Frank Sinatra this week; at least it seemed that way. I was in Palm Springs where a dozen restaurants and clubs claim that Sinatra was once a “regular.” Photos of their idol adorn the walls, all showing Sinatra smiling, even though I never remembered a Sinatra smile during our real-life encounters.

The Sinatra mythology intrigues me because movie stars seem all but invisible these days. They’re absent from their once-favorite Hollywood haunts or even from magazine covers or late-night television. Or from movies, until perhaps next fall when big-budget movies are unveiled.

By contrast, Sinatra’s claim to a certain immortality was reinforced this week with publication of Sinatra and Me, a book augmenting the formidable library of Sinatra books (30 by my count). Its author, Tony Oppedisano, claims to have been a Sinatra intimate, thus joining a list of intimate writers that includes three wives,...