This month’s definitive article, The Death of Hip by Marion Magid, may be read with a so-what reaction, though we must say we find it one of the most impressive pieces of interpretive reportage we’ve ever published. But before you shrug it off as just another essay in the hoary tradition of magazine think pieces, all constituting just so many more variations on the same old theme of Whither Are We Tending, we ask you only to pause and reflect on just a few of the articles in similarly valedictory vein that have graced these pages in the more or less recent past.
A brace of comments on your April number. Stanley Elkin’s A Poetics for Bullies seems to me a masterwork. Single lines, notably “... the unconscious embroidery of love, hope’s bright doodle,” make it well worth reading. But the whole has a grandeur greater than the sum of its parts.
<p>Once upon a time, long, long ago, Hollywood comedies were funny. First there was the classic age of Keaton, Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, Harry Langdon and some —though not as much as sentimental archaeologists now pretend —of the myriad spawn of Mack Sennett, the Diaghilev of slapstick.</p>
It cannot be said that Professor Giovanni Costigan’s Sigmund Freud (Macmillan, $4.95) adds anything much to Ernest Jones’s masterly biography. All the same, it has the merit of being shorter, more compendious, as well as readable and sensible.
That guy in the tender trap on our cover is Sean Connery, of course. He looks cool enough, all things considered, but photographing him culminated a week of action-packed suspense (good Bond phrase, that) during which Esquire invaded England.
If you’re looking for the Restaurant of the Five Volcanos at the New York World’s Fair, you go directly to the amusement area, find the Hawaiian Village, glance upward until you see five gigantic cones which, with the help of a little imagination, can be said to resemble volcanos, and follow them to the restaurant itself.
The Japanese Steak House, 225 West Broadway, New York City
Success is a funny thing. Sometimes you start with a small place and when it catches on you do a bit of enlarging and then a bit more until you have it, and when there are no more nearby worlds to conquer you go far afield, to the other side of the globe, and you bring something alien back and make it your own, almost in your own image, and once again it’s a challenge, this time not financially so much as an expression of the desire to see if it can be done again, on another scale, but with the same formula of the best in the most pleasant manner possible.
<p>After I finish packing away my . little white Courrèges boots in tissue paper, I’ll be ready to leave. I’ve already stored my gaily printed jersey tops with the gaily printed stockings to match, and also my kindergarten dresses, and my natural unpadded unwired marvelously droopy brassieres.</p>
What caught my eye in Terry Smith’s article, Bobby’s Image, in the April Esquire was the story about my radio broadcasts in Yiddish on Senator Kennedy’s behalf in his race against Kenneth Keating. Actually there were nine broadcasts—six of them in English, of all things.
I had the opportunity of reading the September Esquire only a few days ago and there, in Films by Dwight Macdonald on page eighty, I found a statement very lightheartedly expressed by him about the Italian people. As I know my countrymen much better than Mr. Macdonald, I personally consider it as a great honor to have been one of these “worst soldiers of this century”; I do think also that an appropriate investigation of how the Italian soldiers had to fight the wars they have been involved in could have been very useful; for it is positive that an impartial research could lead to surprising results, and maybe to a higher esteem on the part of honest people, who would take into account the well-known deficiency of means among the Italian Armed Forces, before uttering a final judgement.
MILAN : “People shouldn’t compare so much,” said Anna Moffo the other day in her Rome apartment, looking out at her incomparable view of the ruins on the Palatine. “If you had to be the best to sing anything, then there would be only one person singing each part, and what good would that do? Besides, most of the time there isn’t any ‘best’—just ‘different.' "
<p>Swinging through Eastern Europe to cover Iron Curtain Going Up (which you’ll find on page 118), I flew most of the way by Sabena. The Belgian airline has the most complete service to this area, since it’s the only Western airline that stops at all five of the main Eastern European capitals: Warsaw, Moscow, Bucharest, Budapest and Prague.</p>
<p>A PAGE FROM THE SCRIPT EXTERIOR. SALTWATER POOL. BOND. LARGO In the pool are half-a-dozen murderous-looking sharks. In B.G Janni and Vargas, two Spectre henchmen LARGO (as Bond eyes sharks dubiously): I collect the big-game fish for various marine institutes.</p>
Twenty percent of Thunderball will take place underwater and the production people are working overtime on bizarre aquatic gimmicks that will really work. On top, the deadly “wet sub,” which ordinarily resides in the hull of the Spectre yacht and which, when needed, is released from a secret hatch.
You’ll go out of your mind! This is close to the big finish (but not the big finish; that we’re not telling). Here’s what’s happening: the aquaparas (good) are landing at left to get the underwater H-bombs before they blow up Miami and send those Morris Lapidus hotels to kingdom come.
Lastly, there is a third organization involved in the story of Thunderball. Neither as evil as Spectre nor as deeply committed to justice as the Special Section, the producing unit of the movie—with myself as screenwriter—plays a role combining aspects of both diabolism and truth.
And what could a plastic surgeon have done for Cyrano, other than destroy his soul?
<p>It was a family of three sons and four daughters, every one of whom had a great, arched nose. Since both the mother and father had a nose of that kind and before their marriage were often mistaken for brother and sister, there was hardly any room for variation among the children.</p>
They’re called, reasonably enough, the Harvard Fellows; they may be the best fellows anywhere
<p>On September 25th, 1933, in Harvard’s mock-Colonial Eliot House, in a brand-new oak-paneled room designed to look old, six young scholars sat down to a private dinner with seven of the great men of academic life. There had been sherry first, in an equally private Anglican parlor, and there would be a choice of Madeira or Cognac at the end; and there were two wines with dinner, one of them a Romanée-Conti of a great 1920’s vintage.</p>
Who is Johnson’s right-hand man at times of crisis— the assassination, the convention, the Jenkins affair? A mighty Fortas is, by God
Charles B. Seib
Alan L. Otten
<p>Politically, the law firm of Arnold, Fortas and Porter is the most powerful in Washington, D.C. The number-one partner, Thurman Arnold, was a famous New Deal trustbuster and is now recognized as one of the wiliest old lawyers in the Capital.</p>
Along the circuit, from London to Paris to Amsterdam to East Berlin to Copenhagen, the hipster is changing and something new is in the wind
<p>That was eight years ago. In quest of the present state of hip and/or its descendants, we set out last January on a trip to Europe. It was a wayward odyssey which proceeded mostly by improvisation ; we moved ahead in fits and starts, following all sorts of leads, many of which led nowhere, for at the time we had no way of knowing which were the false leads and which the true ones.</p>
Sifting through the bubble-gum cards and the imaginary gun belts for the eternal verities
Teddy Weir and Bob Vincent had been talking about the war, and this happened between the time Teddy Weir ordered another Cutty and Perrier and the time the waiter brought it. Teddy Weir was hazy about the war, confusing it with the Depression, particularly at three-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon when he should have been back at his typewriter, writing a caption for a photo of Bob Vincent’s newest and most amazing product, a ten-story motel near Orlando.
Any day now, he becomes a man. Temper the ordeal with one or several of the following. Pictured below and starting from bottom: Rolex watch which goes with the well-dressed frogman, $127.50, Richards Sporting Goods. The pen (with ink cartridge) is sterling silver trimmed with gold, has a 14-k gold point, $25, Parker.
On Father’s Day, surprise the old man with a gift that gets bigger. Everything shown above unfolds, expands, or branches out to form the useful items pictured at right. Starting at the bottom of the picture: The thing curled up is a fishing gaff; snap down a lever and it’s rigid and rugged enough to handle fish, $7.95; the fishing rod telescopes out from its handle, $17.50; Abercrombie & Fitch.
You were wondering about the shortest route by water across the U.S. (with the least amount of portages) for a small family in a small powerboat? This is it; get going
William T. McKeown
Well, why not? Americans take every other sort of elaborate vacation. Why not get in a powerboat and go across the continent? You can go nearly all the way by river, lake and canal if you follow the route outlined here. True, you’ll have to take your boat out of the water from time to time (about twenty-six times in fact) and load it on.
Down by the old millstream, or elsewhere, things are as great as ever— if you have the right pH factor and sophisticated fish
Charles K. Fox
<p>It is eminent that the trout scene will see a mating of philosopher and scientist, something which has taken place in so many other areas. Being one who relishes fly fishing, I want to be around after such a union has taken place because there will result trouting the like of which never before has been seen or sampled.</p>
It is, without question, the century of the automobile. Fortyfive percent of all Americans attend some sort of church service on the weekend, but eighty-four percent wash their cars. And there are quieter, less obvious manifestations of the faith than the ritual baptism with soap and water and anointing with Glo-Coat.
And the show, on the home grounds of good King Wenceslas and bad Count Dracula, is terrific. Let the workers exploit you for a change
<p>If you’d like to go hunting wolves and wild boar on horseback with a former Polish cavalry officer, watch 16,000 Czech athletes flexing their muscles simultaneously in a stadium three times the size of the Yankees’ ball park, ski across the Carpathians or bake on the sands of a new Miami in Rumania, ride a hydrofoil down the Danube to Budapest, then weep happily in your Tokay from the combination of Hungarian gypsy music and paprika in your goulash, you can do it now—easily, conveniently and inexpensively, for the first time in more than a quarter of a century.</p>
Nothing’s more comfortable and practical for summer than the sweat shirt; everybody knows it, and everybody, especially the school-age group at left, does something about it. This newly introduced version is the "sea shirt,” adapted from the Greek sailor’s shirt.
A little brick, a little glass, a little F.H.A., a little depreciation, a little cost-cutting. In a little while, a lot of money.
Daniel M. Friedenberg
<p>Ordinarily it is not so easy. If you tried to strike it rich in the stock market, you might lose your shirt. Retail businesses are a headache and a bother and are never guaranteed to succeed. Pure land speculation takes too long, and a lot of money is tied up for years before there is a profit.</p>
<p>Magazines, like war, may be too important to leave to the generals— or, in this case, the editors on the firing line. But if a man cloaks himself in the mantle of a communications statesman, and takes over the magazine war, it seems reasonable to insist that he be willing to answer for his aspirations.</p>