Four-and-twenty Playmates, even if not exactly baked in a pie, make a dainty dish to set before king and commoner alike. In this Holiday Issue, you'll find nine delicious pages devoted to Playboy's popular pin-up, with pictures of every monthly Miss who has appeared in the magazine during the first two years of publication.
Two tough guys muscled their way into town recently to publicize their respective motion pictures. One of them was Jack Palance who, on the screen, behaves like a well-bred panther. Off the screen — as we discovered when we met him in a nearby bistro — he behaves exactly the same. He shakes your hand, smiles pleasantly, speaks in well-modulated tones; he sips a drink and handles a wedge of pizza with enviable grace. It's all very civilized. But there seems to be an undercurrent of jungle below the surface. We got the uneasy feeling that if we said one false word, he'd clutch us by the Adam's apple and fling us to the opposite end of the bar. But maybe our imagination was working overtime. The other tough customer was Marlon Brando. We were visiting an old friend at Chicago's swank Ambassador East Hotel 9:30 of a bleak winter morning when, unshaven and tired from a long train trip, Brando shuffled into the lobby, the collar of his dark overcoat turned up as a defense against the raw blast that swept off Lake Michigan. Jean Simmons leaned on him for support, or maybe it was the other way around. We followed them into the elevator. During the ride, we noted that Brando, like Palance, behaved pretty much as he does on the screen. He pouted very well, sighed with expression, and blinked the well-known Brando blink. He said nothing. His hands remained sunken into his overcoat pockets. We thought of starting a conversation with some bright mot like "Hiya, champ," but he did not appear in the mood for repartee. So, recalling how he messed up Lee J. Cobb in On the Waterfront, we kept a civil tongue in our heads (we have several) and blinked back. Miss Simmons, obviously bushed, buried her tousled head in his lapel, and he uttered low, consoling noises. Then the doors opened and the two of them stepped off to start a gruelling day of selling Guys and Dolls.
Physical therapists are flocking to Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter? to contemplate the breathtaking lineaments of Jayne Mansfield (last February's Playmate) without benefit of underwear (or so her spoken lines claim; we never really find out). Jayne, who seems to be constantly inhaling, is on stage through most of the gambit, soothing the eye and disturbing the libido. Soothing the ear is suave Martin Gabel, a writer's agent who is literally a devil in the flesh. Milquetoast Orson Bean, a starving hack for a movie fan mag whose only interview has been with the mythical star "Rock Hunter" (who never appears in the play), falls prey to the silk-tongued Gabel. As agents will, Gabel charges 10 percent of Bean's quaking soul for each whopping service rendered (depositing a million dollars in his checking account, securing the unbridled love of filminx Mansfield). The 10s add up and soon Bean is close to 100 percent jeopardy and eternal perdition. The yoks are seldom from the diaphragm in this umteenth telling of the Faust story, but they're frequent. Hollywood comes in for its baiting during a writer's conference at which Bean must deliver a scenario about a prostitute and a psychiatrist. The problem is how to get them to "meet cute." In exchange for his usual percentage, the agent plops this devilishly clever solution into Bean's mouth, as the second act curtain drops: "Well, it seems they both send out their couches to be re-covered and there's a mix-up." (At the Belasco, 44th St., NYC.)
The musical wares of June Hutton, husband Axel Stordahl and a blend of male voices called The Boys Next Door are displayed in Afterglow (Capitol T643), a frankly reminiscent biscuit that takes us back to the lush vocal groups of a decade ago (The Pied Pipers, The Modernaires). In choosing tunes, Stordahl wisely stood pat (or June) on such tested favorites as I Should Care, I Hadn't Anyone Till You, Day by Day, Never in a Million Years, and so on, until you're practically mired in a mush of memories. Poignant listening, though, for you and The Girls Next Door. Sarah Vaughan does to a dreamy ballad what Chateau Yquem does to a bunch of grapes. Fluid and flowing, The Divine Sarah is heard at her most majestic in After Hours (Columbia CL 660), a satin serenade that strongly suggests early morning hours in a quiet, deserted city. You can never really be sure which way Sarah is going to turn her tunes, how she is going to phrase the next line, but you always feel that she has carried it off perfectly. Some of her most distinctive offerings are on this LP, My Reverie, Street of Dreams, Thinking of You and Deep Purple.
The Interlude (8568 Sunset) in Los Angeles has always been one of our favorite watering-holes for evenings when we felt like a glittering, romantic view of the city lights. We heard rumors of dramatic changes underfoot, so decided to investigate. Gone are the roomy, plush hideaway booths – now replaced by naked tables meant for two, but seating four. The biggest (and best) change is in entertainment: replacing the tinkling piano of yesterday are the foot-stompin' stylings of Frances Faye, backed by bass, guitar and bongos. The beat is a product of the never-let-up school, the fastest-paced music this side of Birdland. These happy sounds almost make you forget another change: bar prices have been boosted to an average of $1.25 per slug, but there's always a crowd of Faye aficionados waiting to get in. Reservations are taken by a tawny blonde who answers to the name of Dottie.
Playboy is published monthly by the HMH Publishing Co., Inc., 11 E. Superior, Chicago 11, Illinois. Postage must accompany all manuscripts and drawings submitted if they are to be returned and no responsibility can be assumed for unsolicited materials. Entry as second-class matter applied for at the Post Office at Chicago, Illinois, August 5, 1955. Contents copyrighted 1955 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc. Nothing may be reprinted in whole or in part without written permission. Printed in U.S.A. Any similarity between the people and places mentioned in this magazine and any real people and places is . purely coincidental.
Ronnie Hodge had been married to Clarise for about three months and, because he and Clarise were getting along together so well night and day, he was convinced that Harry Banning was a man of superior wisdom when it came to knowing about women.
You can waste a lot of time, cash and energy on a girl before you discover she's not what you're looking for. If you don't know the ropes, it isn't exactly a snap figuring out what makes her tick and whether she ticks fast or slow. Rule One in the Girl's League is to keep a guy guessing.
Events having taken an unexpected and intolerable turn, I, the undersigned, sound of mind and body, having this day resolved to die by my own hand, do acknowledge the following articles as my final words and solemn legacy:
Men who live well have always enjoyed a formal occasion. They've welcomed the opportunity to dress in the classic, almost severe, attire demanded by society for formal functions. While rustic souls have voiced objections to "monkey suits" and "fancy get-ups," the urban man has relished their rightness, their place in the scheme of things. The tuxedo, like the engraved invitation, has long been a symbol of gracious living.
Escaping from the toils of his enemies, after having regretfully killed a missionary in self-defense, the naïf young scholar Candide and his worldly-wise valet Cacambo rode their horses into an unknown country where they found no road. Candide was disguised in the costume of his recent victim.
Professional hockey grants no favors. There's more money for the winners, and the way to win is to learn your opponent's weaknesses and play to them. The players that do just that scale the pinnacle of greatness, while others fall by the wayside and the hours of their servitude to the game leave their personalities bare as they walk alone with their dreams.
nothing more. It's a weakness with me, I suppose. My friends have their own opinions: some are partial to brunettes or redheads, and I suppose that's all right. I certainly don't criticize them in the least.
An old-fashioned gentleman took a modern miss for a ride in his car and after finding a suitable spot to park, kissed her several times lightly on the cheek and then announced, "This is called spooning."
A funny thing happened to me on the night I probably decided to get married to the girl I wanted to get married to. Her name was Sylvia. I forgot about her later, but that night I think I wanted to marry her.
When you step over the threshold into man's estate, you will at last be free of home and parents, free to set your own course. From now on you are your own master, making your own rules. Make them well. On your decisions will rest the happiness of so many.
In its first two years of publication, Playboy has filled its pages with a rich variety of sophisticated, masculine entertainment. There have been offbeat stories by some of the world's finest writers; smart, full-color cartoons; regular articles on food and drink, fashion and jazz; unusual picture features; Ribald Classics, Party Jokes, limericks, drinking songs, toasts, humorous verse, and a host of other special material; but the favorite feature, issue after issue, has been the mischievous miss in the center of the magazine: Playboy's provocative Playmate of the Month.
A delightful photo-interview withJAYNE MANSFIELD,star ofWill Success Spoil Rock Hunter?,with words byEARL WILSONand pictures byHAL ADAMS... a satire of a TENNESSEE WILLIAMSplay by playboy-favoriteRAY RUSSELL... Playboy's ring preview for '56.