Connie Francis, the angelic-voiced singer who was one of the biggest recording stars of the late 1950s and early 1960s, has died. She was 87.

Her friend and publicist, Ron Roberts, announced the singer’s death Thursday, according to the Associated Press.

Less than a month prior to her death, Francis was hospitalized for “extreme pain” following a fracture in her pelvic area. The singer, who shared details about her health with fans on social media, used a wheelchair in her later years and said she lived with a “troublesome painful hip.”

Francis emerged when rock ’n’ roll first captivated America. Her earliest hits — a dreamy arrangement of the old standard “Who’s Sorry Now?,” the cheerfully silly “Stupid Cupid” and the galloping “Lipstick on Your Collar” — fit neatly into the emerging genre’s lighter side. Although she targeted teen listeners with such songs as the spring break anthem “Where the Boys Are,” Francis ultimately gravitated toward the middle of the road, singing softly lit, tasteful pop for adult audiences.

Francis’ commercial peak roughly spanned from Elvis Presley’s induction into the U.S. Army to the Beatles first setting foot on American soil. Over that five-year period, Francis was one of the biggest stars in music, earning three No. 1 hits: “Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool,” “My Heart Has a Mind of Its Own” and “Don’t Break the Heart That Loves You.” As her singles offered familiar adolescent fare, her albums were constructed for specific demographics. During the early ’60s, she cut records dedicated to “Italian Favorites,” “Rock ’n’ Roll Million Sellers,” “Country & Western,” “Fun Songs for Children,” “Jewish Favorites” and “Spanish and Latin American Favorites,” even recording versions of her hits in Italian, German, Spanish and Japanese.

This adaptability became a considerable asset once her pop hits dried up in the mid-’60s. Francis continued to be a popular concert attraction through the 1960s, her live success sustaining her as she eased into adult contemporary fare. A number of personal tragedies stalled her career in the 1970s, but by the ’90s, her life stabilized enough for her to return to the stage, playing venues in Las Vegas, Atlantic City and elsewhere until her retirement in the 2010s.

Connie Francis was born Concetta Maria Franconero on Dec. 12, 1938, in Newark, N.J. When she was 3, her father bought her an accordion and she spent her childhood learning Italian folk songs. By age 10, her parents enrolled her in local talent contests. When her father attempted to book her on the New York-based television show “Startime,” producer George Scheck only agreed because Francis played the accordion and he was “up to here in singers.” Francis remained a fixture on “Startime” through her early teens — Scheck served as her manager during these formative years — during which time she also appeared on Arthur Grodfrey’s “Talent Scouts.” Godfrey stumbled over her Italian name, suggesting she shorten it to something “easy and Irish,” thereby giving birth to her stage name.

Scheck managed to secure Francis a record contract with MGM in 1955. As she received work dubbing her singing voice for film actresses — she subbed for Tuesday Weld in 1956’s “Rock, Rock, Rock” and Freda Holloway in 1957’s “Jamboree” — MGM steadily attempted to move her from pop to rock. Nothing clicked until Francis recorded “Who’s Sorry Now?” as a favor to her father, giving the 1923 tune a romantic sway.

“Who’s Sorry Now?” caught the ear of Dick Clark, who regularly played the record on his “American Bandstand,” which had just expanded into the national market. Clark’s endorsement helped break “Who’s Sorry Now?” and sent it into the Billboard Top 10. MGM attempted to replicate its success by having Francis spruce up old chestnuts, but to no avail. The singer didn’t have another hit until she cut “Stupid Cupid,” a song co-written by Neil Sedaka and Howie Greenfield, a pair of young songwriters at the Brill Building who were navigating the distance separating Broadway-bound pop and rock ’n’ roll.

“Stupid Cupid” was the first of many hits she’d have with the songwriters, including the slinky ‘Fallin’” and the ballad “Frankie.” She later said, “Neil and Howie never failed to come up with a hit for me. It was a great marriage. We thought the same way.” Sedaka and Greenfield weren’t the only Brill Building songwriters to command Francis’ attention: She developed a romance with a pre-fame Bobby Darin, who was chased away by her father.

Over the next few years, Francis recorded both standards and new songs from Sedaka and Greenfield, along with material from other emerging songwriters, such as George Goehring and Edna Lewis, who wrote the lively “Lipstick on Your Collar.” Within less than two years, her popularity was such that MGM released five different Connie Francis LPs for Christmas 1959: a set of holiday tunes, a greatest-hits record, an LP dedicated to country, one dedicated to rock ’n’ roll and a set of Italian music, performed partially in the original language.

Connie Francis and Neil Sedaka in 2007.

(George Napolitano / FilmMagic / Getty Images)

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With her popularity at an apex, Connie Francis made her cinematic debut in the 1960 teen comedy “Where the Boys Are,” which also featured a Sedaka and Greenfield song as its theme. Francis appeared in three quasi-sequels culminating in 1965’s “When the Boys Meet the Girls,” but she never felt entirely comfortable onscreen, preferring live performance. “Vacation” became her last Top 10 single in 1962 — the same year she published the book “For Every Young Heart: Connie Francis Talks to Teenagers.” Too young to be an oldies act, Francis spent the remainder of the 1960s chasing a few trends — in 1968, she released “Connie & Clyde — Hit Songs of the ’30s,” a rushed attempt to cash in on the popularity of Arthur Penn’s controversial hit film “Bonnie and Clyde” — while busying herself on a showbiz circuit that encompassed Vegas, television variety shows and singing for troops in Vietnam.

A comeback attempt in the early 1970s was swiftly derailed by tragedy. After appearing at Long Island’s Westbury Music Fair on Nov. 8, 1974, she was sexually assaulted in her Howard Johnson’s hotel room; the culprit was never caught. Francis sued the hotel chain; she’d later win a $2.5-million settlement that helped reshape security practices in the hospitality industry. As she was recovering from her assault, she underwent a nasal surgery that went astray, leading her to lose her voice for years; it took three subsequent surgeries before she regained her ability to sing. Francis spent much of the remainder of the ’70s battling severe depression, but once her voice returned, recordings happened on occasion, including a disco version of “Where the Boys Are” in 1978.

Connie Francis.

(ullstein bild via Getty Images)

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Francis returned to the public eye in the early 1980s, first as a victims rights activist, then as a live performer. Her comeback was marred by further tragedy — the murder of her brother George, a lawyer who became a government witness after pleading guilty to bank fraud; the police indicated the killing was related to organized crime.

Francis continued to work in the wake of his death, playing shows and writing her 1984 autobiography, “Who’s Sorry Now?,” but she continued to be plagued with personal problems. She told the Village Voice’s Michael Musto, “In the ’80s I was involuntarily committed to mental institutions 17 times in nine years in five different states. I was misdiagnosed as bipolar, ADD, ADHD, and a few other letters the scientific community had never heard of.” After receiving a diagnosis for post-traumatic stress disorder, Francis returned to live performances in the 1990s; one of her shows was documented on “The Return Concert Live at Trump’s Castle,” a 1996 album that was her last major-label release. When asked by the Las Vegas Sun in 2004 if life was still a struggle, she responded, “Not for the past 12 years.”

Francis regularly played casinos and theaters in the 2000s as she developed a biopic of her life with Gloria Estefan, who planned to play the former teen idol. The film never materialized. In 2010, Francis became the national spokesperson for Mental Health America’s trauma campaign. By the end of the 2010s, she retired to Parkland, Fla., and published her second memoir, “Among My Souvenirs: The Real Story, Vol. 1,” in 2017.

Connie Francis married four times. Her first marriage, to Dick Kanellis in 1964, ended after three months; her second, to Izzy Marion, lasted from 1971 to 1972. She adopted a child with her third husband, Joseph Garzilli, to whom she was wed from 1973 to 1978. Her fourth marriage, to Bob Parkinson, ended in 1986 after one year.

So, yes, the discourse is out of control. It started when Superman writer-director James Gunn suggested to interviewers that the beloved DC Comics hero was an “immigrant.” (Superman is, after all, a refugee from another planet.) The right-wing media sphere riposted by deriding Gunn’s reboot as “woke.” The White House posted a doctored version of the movie poster with the president’s face on the Man of Steel. People spread an unfounded rumor that Gunn was suing over the appropriation. Superman made a lot of money over the weekend, which didn’t silence the naysayers.

It would be absurd to decry the “politicization” of Superman — fiction and politics have always been overlapping spheres. But does the hero’s second full cinematic reboot have a reason to exist beyond offering the latest excuse for online hullabaloo?

The deal

Forget about origin stories. Everybody already knows how Superman reached Earth and was raised by kindhearted Ma and Pa Kent (Neva Howell and Pruitt Taylor Vince). This tale opens in medias res, with young Superman (David Corenswet) already well known in Metropolis, masquerading as Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent and dating fellow newshound Lois Lane (Rachel Brosnahan). Superman isn’t the only “metahuman” in this world, but he is the strongest, and he’s made powerful enemies by foiling the invasion plans of a dictator. (There’s no single glaring analogue to real-world events here, which hasn’t stopped the speculation.)

While the State Department frets over Superman’s unilateral foreign interventions, billionaire Lex Luthor (a wonderfully smug Nicholas Hoult) takes matters into his own hands. Eager to protect his economic interests, he crafts new metahumans to attack Superman.

But Lex’s real coup is a PR smear. Having infiltrated Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, he reconstructs the fragmentary message that Superman’s alien parents (Bradley Cooper and Angela Sarafyan) sent with him to Earth. Turns out the Kryptonians intended Kal-El to rule humanity and not just be our protector, as he’s always assumed. Once the news leaks, the world decides Superman is a wannabe tyrant with a “secret harem.”

It’s a shock to a gee-whiz guy who has only ever wanted to help people. When Lex kidnaps the Superdog, Krypto, Superman gets really pissed off.

Will you like it?

Much has been made of the vibe shift from Zack Snyder’s “gritty,” tormented 2013 version of the Man of Steel to this one. Without a doubt, Gunn’s Superman returns to the sunnier, cornier tone of the 1978 Richard Donner film. Corenswet’s Superman is almost comically good — he rescues kids, dogs, even unwary squirrels — and he isn’t afraid to be uncool. When Lois accuses him of being naïve, he suggests that trust and kindness to others are “the real punk rock.”

It’s the mission statement of an uncynical hero who has been very knowingly designed for an ultra-cynical era. Superman is often a silly movie, much like Gunn’s Guardians of the Galaxy films, yet there’s nothing pandering or sanitized about it.

Indeed, it has one telling resemblance to Man of Steel: Both take place in a 24-7 news culture where everyone is expecting Superman to make a fascist heel turn. The 21st century doesn’t know how to comprehend someone so strong and so decent, but that’s just who this guy is.

The movie manages to make goodness interesting, in large part because its star radiates old-fashioned charisma. Corenswet deploys a slightly dorky charm to play the character as confident without being arrogant, just like original Superman Christopher Reeve. Brosnahan matches him with a tight-wound nerviness reminiscent of Margot Kidder. This Lois already knows Clark’s secret identity, so we get to watch them work out the growing pains of their relationship without secrets. In one deftly written scene, she challenges both his geopolitical savvy and his journalistic ethics — Superman has a questionable habit of interviewing himself.

Somehow this adult romance coexists just fine with the kid-friendly shenanigans of Krypto (who is not a very good boy). Most of the long roster of wacky supporting characters make strong impressions, from a lady-killer Jimmy Olsen (Skyler Gisondo) to a fatuous Green Lantern (Nathan Fillion) to Mr. Terrific (Edi Gathegi), who’s so fearsomely competent that he regards everyone else with a touch of serene disdain. It’s easier to forgive the dullness of the requisite city-wrecking CGI battles with such amusing company.

If you want a more “realistic” Superman or just hate comic-book movies, this Superman isn’t for you. The primary colors, chaotic world-building and goofy, self-referential humor all work in synergy. It’s the kind of movie where the sneering villain has a lair that doubles as an escape vehicle.

But if you’re weary of comic-book movies that take themselves ultra-seriously, Gunn’s Superman delivers. Sure, maybe it’s political, if you think there’s something radical about a Superman who just wants to save people, regardless of their nationality, color or creed. Also, it’s fun.

If you like this, try…

Super (2010; AMC+, Philo, Pluto TV, Roku Channel, YouTube Primetime, rentable): Back when Gunn was a low-budget indie filmmaker, he made this comedy that deconstructs the whole superhero mythos, with Rainn Wilson as a jilted husband homicidally determined to fight evil. It’s equally disturbing and funny.

Man of Steel (2013; HBO Max, YouTube Primetime, rentable): There’s been endless debate over whether Snyder’s edgy version of Superman (Henry Cavill) is the superior one.

Superman (1978; HBO Max, YouTube Primetime, rentable): But most people seem to acknowledge the classic status of Donner’s version, which predated the comic-book conquest of cinema.

NPR is receiving a highly symbolic financial boost days before Congress is expected to vote on the fate of federal funding that supports the news and culture nonprofit.

Ann Philbin, former director and current director emeritus of the Hammer Museum at UCLA, has been named this year’s Getty Prize recipient. The honor comes with a $500,000 grant for a nonprofit of the winner’s choice, and Philbin has selected NPR and its Los Angeles member stations, KCRW and LAist.

The prize is considered the Getty’s highest honor and recognizes what the institution calls “cultural leaders whose work expands human understanding and appreciation of arts and culture.” Previous awardees include Frank Gehry, Mark Bradford, Ed Ruscha, Yo-Yo Ma and Thelma Golden.

“I wanted to shine a light on one of the most pressing issues of our day,” Philbin said in a phone interview. “And that’s freedom of speech and freedom of the press.”

Philbin said she requested that half of the Getty grant go to NPR and the other half to be split between KCRW and LAist.

“Those two radio stations for me — and I think for so many Angelenos who spend so much time in their cars — are constant companions,” Philbin said. “We listen to them all the time, and they’re precious to us. To even think about the fact that they might not exist is unbearable.”

NPR Chief Executive Katherine Maher in May filed a lawsuit against President Trump after he issued an executive order directing the Corp. for Public Broadcasting to freeze all funding to NPR and PBS. She said Philbin’s decision to split the donation between NPR and its local affiliates showed a level of understanding about the interdependency of the local and national radio platforms not often mirrored in the national conversation.

“It is an extraordinary gift at an extraordinary time with real, material impact for the stations,” Maher said.

Congress has until the end of the week to vote on a White House proposal known as the rescission bill that would claw back $9 billion in foreign aid and more than $500 million per year in federal funding already approved for the Corp. for Public Broadcasting, which funnels financial support to NPR and PBS as well as local public radio and TV stations across the country.

Trump has been adamant that his allies vote in favor of the rescission package, writing on Truth Social last week that he will withhold support and endorsements from any Republican who doesn’t vote in its favor. He called the Corp. for Public Broadcasting, NPR and PBS “a monstrosity.”

The proposed cuts to the Corporation for Public Broadcasting would total $1.1 billion over the next two years. Federal funding accounts for about 15% of PBS’ budget and 1% of NPR’s budget, according to NPR, but local stations would be the hardest hit and some may not survive, Maher said. If they vanished, she added, they would take with them the kind of hyper-local, community-based reporting that helps forge and maintain a sense of place, identity and purpose, particularly in rural communities.

“That impact is something that is hard to conceptualize, even when you are a member of Congress who represents some of these communities,” Maher said. “Because you spend so much time living with one foot in the world of places like Washington, D.C., and very little time in the areas of the country where broadband services are not reliable or easily available, and cellphone service is not necessarily consistent and universal.”

Philbin noted that NPR’s mission statement is to create a more informed public and to celebrate the diversity of the human experience, and that those values are being challenged by a storm of misinformation.

The Getty Prize was founded in 2013 as the Getty Medal. It was initially given to several individuals each year, but last year it transformed into its current incarnation, honoring a single person who chooses the “pay-it-forward” grant recipient.

Last year’s honoree was Mark Bradford, who chose to steer the grant money to the Arts for Healing and Justice Network, which brings arts programming to minors in the juvenile justice system.