We have occasionally been accused of tooting our own egophone, to which we plead guilty and promise to mend our ways. One way-mending tactic would be for us to modestly step aside and let others do the tooting. These others would include The Architects' Journal, published in London, which earlier this year ran a good-sized editorial headlined I'd crawl a mile for playboy, indited by Mr. Reyner Banham. We think our readers may find interesting what one from across the sea has to say about their favorite journal, so here follows a digest (we don't have room for the whole piece) of Mr. Banham's comments:
Playboy Subscriptions: In the U.S., its possessions. The Pan American Union and Canada, $14 for three years, $11 for two years, $6 for one year. Elsewhere add $3 per year for Foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new Subscriptions and Renewals. Change of address: send both old and new addresses and allow 30 days for change Advertising: Howard W. Leader, Advertising Director. 720 fifth Avenue, New York 19, New York, CI 5-2620: Advertising Production. Playboy Building, 232 East Ohio Street, Chicago 11, Illinois, MI 2-1000; Los Angeles Representative, Blanchard-Nichols Associates, 633 South Westmorlend Avenue. Los Angeles 5, California, DU 8-6134: San Francisco Representative, BlanChard-Nichols Associates, Phillips and Van Orden Building, 900 Third Street. San Francisco 7, California, YU 6-6341: Southeastern Representative, Southeast Advertising Sales, Chamber of Commerce Building, Miami 32, Florida, FR 1-2103.
From time to time, as you know, we turn over a chunk of this page to our Research Department, which has in the Past gathered and presented interesting, little-known data on such flora and fauna as mistletoe and buffaloes. Recently, during the course of researching something else, they unearthed a lot of stuff on sea horses, certainly a summery topic of vital interest to all. Sea horses are usually to be found on shower curtains, in inexpensive bars in Miami and under signs that say Any Article Of Jewelry On This Counter, SI. Great numbers of them may also be encountered in the English Channel (it's either the English Channel or the Bering Strait) where they have confused eminent scientists for years. The sea horse is very irresponsible and has a great sense of humor. Boy sea horses all act like girls and girl sea horses all act like boys. (A couple of sea horses are a lot of fun at a party.) Eminent scientists used to think that just because a sea horse acted like a male, it was a male andvice versa. The male (?) sea horse encourages this nonsense by going around and sticking his pouch out at friendly females. It may be the other way around but any sea horse with a grain of sense ought to know that if you go around sticking your pouch out, somebody is going to put something in it. The female (?) sea horse is a bachelor-type girl who likes to sleep late and go to parties. So when she sees a convenient male (?) acting like a passed hat or a Salvation Army tambourine, she uses her head, loads the old boy up with eggs and goes out for a long lunch. There is nothing of the Little Mother about a female (?) sea horse, but the male (?) sea horse is no bargain either. All we know for sure is that you never hear a sea horse going around saying that A Boy's (?) Best Friend Is His Mother (?). Sorry, we will not discuss sea horses any more at this time. They make our Research Department nervous.
(Metrojazz) Presents – in an astounding record debut – two trumpeters from an unlikely locale, the village of Copainala in southern Mexico. Juan and Jose Santos, the liner notes state, "have never seen any jazzmen of stature in person.... Their jazz conception stems from their listening [to records] and reading." The sounds the brothers produce on this LP (standards, "originals" based on the chord progressions of standards and a pair of blues) – backed by an all-Mexican rhythm section – are, to understate it. phenomenal. In fact, they're unbefievable. In fact, we don't believe a note of it, on disc or jacket. In fact, we think the "trumpet" Ilights were created by two composers we know playing valve trombones elccuonicallv boosted into trumpet range. Object: to taunt the critics. Don't let the hoax bug you; these guys blow up a storm.
The history of British craftsmanship is laid out in Nothing hut the Best (McDowell. Obolensky, S3.95), by Thomas Girtin. Here arc stories of the men, and women, who have for a couple of centuries served the British gentry. The tale is told usually through a history of one firm in each field: gunsmiths, glovers, hatters, bootmakers, coachbuilders, saddlers, jewelers, umbrella makers and so on. This is an intriguing book, studded with odd and singular information (such as the fact that one way to assay the quality of a silk top hat is to lay a plank across the top and stand on it – a good British – made lid won't so much as wrinkle). A proper saddle will last forty years, and one by a fine saddler like the firm of Sowter's may be worth more secondhand than it was new. In the lush days before the Kaiser War, bootmakers almost never had a pair of their hand–lasted, hand – sewn creations back for resoling, because their owners so rarely walked on anything but carpet (when they stepped out of the carriage or limousine to enter a shop, they expected to find carpet unrolled on the sidewalk). These shops flourished in the golden days of Empire, but it was a buyers' market: no British aristocrat would dream of paying a bill before it was a year old, and one peer, deferentially reminded by his bootmaker that his account had run three years, replied, "You're in a damned big hurry, aren't you?" But if the shopkeeper knew his station and minded his manners and had been fortunate in his customers he would probably be paid eventually. Meantime, when he called at the town house in Berkeley Square to measure the ducal cranium for a bowler, or to show the latest fabrics, he would be pleasantly received and even treated to a glass of dry sherry and a biscuit. Sometimes he didn't need many customers. Two good families, with their retainers, would support a modest tailoring establishment in 1900. Today many of the ancient crafts are dying out, decimated by the machine and the difficulty of finding apprentices. The pattern of survival is spotty; the fishing–rod makers are prosperous, but jewelry shops that once thought it routine for a customer to order three dozen gold scarfpins now do no business at all. In the surviving trades, quality is as good as ever. The bootmakers still polish a gentleman's shoes half an hour daily for a month before delivery, for example. One thing has changed: bills are promptly presented, and no forelock–tugging about it, either.
The key to The Apartment belongs to Jack Lemmon, who seems at last to have made it as a star. This picture, like some Like It Hot, is the work of producer-director Billy Wilder and writer I. A. L. Diamond. Its premise: a guy could become pretty miserable once the word went around to his lecherous office superiors (suburbanites all) that his Manhattan apartment might be borrowed for quickie and not-so-quickie engagements. Jack helps a lot as the harried but too-ambitious Organization Man who is progressing at the office only as long as he gives up his bed. Fred MacMurray, the personnel manager, starts borrowing the place in order to resume an affair with elevator operator Shirley MacLaine, a gal Jack has had his eye on for a long time. Fred turns out to be a suburban rat, capable, of shoving a hundred-dollar bill at Shirley as a Christmas present before racing for the commuter special. She realizes that this isn't exactly the highest sort of compliment; tries a bottle full of sleeping pills and collapses on Jack's bed. Finally, Jack and Shirley get together – after dozens of further complications – and he flees the firm and the cushy job he'd parlayed there. Off they go to start something real and right. Aside from the grim slackening of the last third (there's something awfully unfunny about suicide), the film has some very bright and biting moments.
Walter tritka could not have said at what moment he had made up his mind to go to America. But there at the edge of the field, beneath a clump of trees in whose shade they had paused a moment to tighten the harness and turn the plow, he turned to his sister's husband and told him.
The two men sat swaying side by side, unspeaking for the long while it took for the train to move through cold December twilight, pausing at one country station after another. As the twelfth depot was left behind, the older of the two men muttered, "Idiot, Idiot!" under his breath.
As Miles Davis' international popularity grows, so does his reputation as a coldly arrogant loner, contemptuous of his audiences and stubbornly insistent on having his own way in every way. He wins polls with the ease with which Thomas Costain diagrams a best seller, despite the moat he keeps between himself and his listeners. After gathering a Playboy award this year, Davis topped the largest of the European jazz popularity contests – that of the British Melody Maker. "Miles Davis has done the impossible," said the front-page story. "For the first time in the history of the Melody Maker Readers' Poll, Louis Armstrong has lost his title as the World's Top Trumpeter. That honor now belongs to the diminutive, thirty-three-year-old Miles."
The Playboy Club – introduced as a concept in January – is now an exciting, elegant reality. The initial club – in Chicago – has become, almost overnight, one of the most singularly successful, most talked about night spots in the U.S. The Playboy Key – with the familiar rabbit emblem stamped upon it – has become a new and meaningful status symbol amongst men of means. No one who is really In wants to be without it, for if you are not a member of the club, and do not hold a key, you cannot enter; and The Playboy Club is a meeting place for the most important, most aware, most affluent men of the community.
I Have Always Had A Furtive Desire to achieve immortality in two sentences, or even one. The kind of sentences I mean is, "To thine own self be true," or "Never complain, never explain," or "Take the cash and let the credit go."
Gentlemen, be suited – and be suited most elegantly. This fellow's best bib and tucker works winningly for those special occasions that don't quite call for a dinner jacket, yet demand more than a business suit. His careful selection of suit and accessories gives him a cosmopolitan look that is thoroughly distinguished and eminently correct. His black suit jacket boasts a small amount of shoulder construction and a slight indentation at the waist reflecting the influence of London's Savile Row tailors; peaked split-shawl collar, three-button front, half-cuffed buttonless sleeves; plain-front narrow trousers, by Petrocelli, $125. Pearl-gray wool weskit, lined in white, by Currick & Leiken, $13. White-on-white cotton dress shirt with tucked-panel front, moderate-spread shortpoint collar, French cuffs, by Van Housen, $6. Olive Italian silk tie, by Peacock Ltd., $6.50.
"When i clean the bastards out, the stock goes up. What I want is the Capital Gains." With this simple credo, Alfons Landa, a Washington investor whom Fortune magazine regards as the craftiest proxy fighter in the nation, has crystalized for posterity the principal objective of many American financial tycoons in the year 1960.
More and more gourmets, hitherto shy about pleasing their palates for fear that savoir-faire would be more than matched in avoirdupois, are plunging into gastronomy with nary a thought to their waistlines. How come? For one thing, the shelves in gourmet shops are becoming filled with a growing variety of low-fuel foods. There are canned mackerel in white wine, clam juice cocktail, imported lean canned hams, jellied or clear soups from petite marmite to pheasant broth, Italian bread sticks and Finn Crisp Thins, low-calorie salad dressings and, above all, canned fruits with no sugar syrup. Black pitted cherries sweetened with Sucaryl are hard to distinguish from the same fruit packed in heavy syrup. And the flavor of canned pineapple with unsweetened juice can be superior to sugarladen pineapple, because it's taken from more mature fruit at the plantation. Simply including such foods in your menus provides you with a weight control so automatic that "weight-watching" – a dull pastime – can be avoided.
Why Do Studio Audiences erupt into applause when TV personalities announce the fact that they hail from Brooklyn? We've often wondered, but now we're beginning to understand. Treats, if not trees, grow in Brooklyn – Elaine Paul being one such. Elaine works in that bustling borough as a journeyman (well, journeywoman) fabric designer, journeying blithely from Greenpoint to Gowanus in whatever form of loco locomotion she happens to find handy. Those who know about such things say she has a way with perky patterns, and we – who know about certain other things – say that she herself is woven with a warp and woof wondrous enough to make her a memorable Miss August.
In any discussion on the merits of the past decade's film musicals, I am always the first to acknowledge the general excellence of An American in Paris, It's Always Fair Weather, Les Girls, Gigi, Singing in the Rain, et al.
There is a "Look" that you will see on campuses across the country this fall that is the mark of the intelligently-dressed undergraduate. The look does not require a lot of loot (though it is a rich look); what it requires is that the basic items of your wardrobe – slacks, sports jackets, suits and outercoats – be chosen with a careful eye to details of cut and fabric. Take outercoats. Call them what you will: stadium coats, car coats, suburban coats, or just plain coats. The contemporary look in these campus classics requires a length from 38 to 40 inches. Horseblanket plaids are galloping into fall – as linings in both coats and jackets, as shells for pullovers, as the other side in reversible jackets and coats. Also, what started as a strictly inside story of outerwear is now coming out strongly in front – as fur-like shawl collars and hood linings in synthetic piles. Some of the pile fabrics are breaking into patterns – district checks, Argyle plaids and glens are just a few.
When Sophia Loren, a modern-day Aphrodite, first invaded Hollywood in 1957 to sign a two-million-dollar film contract, she blinked her sultry green eyes at reporters and sighed, "Do you think America will understand I?" Even blase newsmen were moved to dissolve her doubts. It was a storybook day for the earthy Italian actress with the unforgettably opulent figure: just ten years before, as fifteen-year-old Sophia Scicolone, she was living a drab existence in a crumby Naples suburb, "the scarecrow of a girl buried in poverty," as she recalls. A year later, padded properly by pasta, she first began to inspire second glances. Her mama turned a set of window curtains into a dress; in it, Sophia won a Naples beauty contest. Burning for fame, mother and daughter turned up in Rome as extras in Quo Vadis. Producer Carlo Ponti (to whom she's now married) sensed her natural, animal charms and nailed Sophia for her first starring role, in Africa Under the Sea.Producers, directors, actors and panting fans cheered for her success. She starred in Aida; then, as the tide of interest in her rose still further, in twenty Italian films in three years. She wriggled and slinked in her own special fashion, hugged a slew of hungry heroes and blithely bared her bountiful bosom. Hollywood took notice and Sophia found her sensuous self caressing the likes of Frank Sinatra, Alan Ladd
Forest Hills – home of the West Side Tennis Club – is one of the hemisphere's most prominent rallying points for tennis buffs. The superbly appointed clubhouse, fifty-five courts and stadium serve the most notable net competitors in the entire world. Forest Hills, as the club is familiarly known, has been the site of title tennis playing for forty-seven years – ever since its officers acquired the present Long Island grounds. (The club was founded in 1892 and occupied three New York City locations before moving to Forest Hills in 1913.) The roster of players who have achieved international greatness at the club reads like a tennis hall of fame: Bill Tilden, Bill Johnston, Ellsworth Vines, Don Budge, Frank Parker, Jack Kramer, Pancho Gonzales, Frank Sedgman, Lew Hoad, Alex Olmedo, to name a few. A string of major net events are held regularly at Forest Hills, including the Davis Cup, the Wightman Cup and the National Tennis Championship matches. In establishing its eminence, the club has grown from thirteen hardy founders to approximately one thousand dues-paying ($60 to $150 annually) devotees. Its impeccably groomed acres serve as a model for aspiring tennis clubs throughout (concluded on page 101) man at his leisure (continued from page 77) the world: between the terraced clubhouse and the 13,500-capacity horseshoe stadium is a diligently manicured stretch of grass, easily converted to active courts according to the day-to-day needs of the club; flanking this expanse of grass as smooth as a golf green are rows of clay courts. To the visitor, there is a unity that links clubhouse, courts and stadium in a single manorial image.
Fritz Weaver, George C. Scott, Robert Morse: Three for the Shows
A Sneering Professional Villain, A Dedicated Classicist, and A Baby-Faced Comic actor are popping up in the cocktail chatter of stage-struck folk these days. The villain, George C. Scott, dourly dominating this photograph's foreground, recently starred on Broadway in The Andersonville Trial and was an Oscar nominee for his job as the prosecuting attorney in Anatomy of a Murder. No stranger to laurel wreaths, he's copped the Clarence Derwent, Vernon Price, Daniel Blum and O.B. (Off Broadway) awards, last year heard the satisfying sound of a critic shouting "A star is born!" when he appeared with Dame Judith Anderson in Comes a Day. His mouth a surgical slash, his livid face a chunk of unfinished sculpture, on stage he is volatile, fiery, near-manic, a fountain of eruptive words and secretive glances – and, thus, a natural for Richard III, which he sensationally title-roled in a Central Park production early in his short career. At thirty-two, sinister Scott is twice-divorced and until recently a busy drinker, now scorns the sauce because (he says, eyes narrow and flashing) "I'm tired of waking up to lost mornings, fouled-up opportunities, wasted time and energy."
A Handsome Matron, having no place in which to meet her young lover, rented a room in a house of pleasure and met him there whenever her husband, an aging and pompous silk merchant, was out of the city. All that was necessary to summon her lover was to send word to him by the old proprietress of the house.
If You Haven't Had Your Fill of sun after the long, hot summer, hie yourself to Europe. Fall is first rate practically all over the Continent, with the pale sun bringing out an intense life in the cool, gray cities, brown leaves crisply carpeting narrow streets, steam curling blue off your coffee at a terrace cafe in the Bois de Boulogne or on the Champs- Elysees.Everyone feels cosmopolitan, and you can, too, at galas like the vintners' festival at Konigswinter at the foot of Germany's craggy Drachenfels beside the Rhine; or drive from Munich to Frankfurt through the shepherds' town of Rothenburg, medieval villages like Nord-lingen, where your sleep will still be broken by the ancient call of the night watchman echoing along cobbled lanes, and to castles of the Teuton Knights, like Weikersheim. The dark old Gothic inns along the way will offer you pale wines from casks in cool cellars.