The power of mind over mind has fascinated man since time immemorial. The modern word we use for the scientific application of this psychic phenomenon is hypnotism. There is a growing public awareness of this still little-known and less-understood power; in fact, as our lead article makes clear, it is much mis understood – as a result of its being deemed by the medical and psychiatric professions too arcane and potent to be shared with the layman, and its theatric exploitation as mumbo-jumbo occult entertainment. Add its recent popularity as a hip party stunt, and the reasons for the ignorance and confusion concerning its true nature are easy to adduce. This month, Ken Purdy, a long-time lay student of the subject, lets in the light of knowledge where darkness has prevailed. We believe hypnotism has never enjoyed such thorough explication nor such complete clearing of the controversial air surrounding it.
Playboy, February, 1961, Vol. 8. No 2. Published Monthly by hmh publishing Co., Inc., playboy building, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago 11 ILL, 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 and $3 per year for foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals, change of address: send both old and new addresses to playboy, 232 E Ohio St., Chicago 11, ILL., and allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director, 720 fifth Ave., New York 19, N.Y., Cl 5-2620; Branch Offices; Chicago.Playboy building, 232 E. Ohio St., MI 2-1000; Los angeles, 2252 W. Deverly Blvd., DU 1-2119, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager; San Francisco, III Sutter St., YU 2-7994, Robert E. Stephens, Manager; Southeastern Representative, the hall winter company, 7450 Ocean terr., Miami Beach, FLA., UN5-2661.
As if you didn't know, thirty days hath September, April,June and November, while all the rest have thirty-one – except February.Why February? Blame Caesar Augustus, who robbed February to enlarge his name-month of August. Now, we're content to let dead Caesars lie, but, as Mark Antony pointed out, we're not wood or stones, and we can't help being touched by the remarkable accomplishments of little February. Here's the month in which the ground hog chooses to come out(he might just as easily have chosen March).Here's the month without which Washington and Lincoln would have had nothing to be born in, the month that gave us Charles Dickens and Jimmy Durante, Babe Ruth and Adlai Stevenson, Gloria Vanderbilt and Gypsy Rose Lee, Elizabeth Taylor and Kim Novak.Think what additional genius, talent and pulchritude February might have created had she gotten the two or three days that were coming to her.But there she's been standing for centuries, smaller than all the rest, braving the fiercest weather of the year, with few friends to her name, which comes, incidentally, from a Sabine word meaning cleanliness. Now, at long last, a chap we've heard from is organizing a society to right the injustice. The Friends of February, he tells us, will crusade to get back all the days stolen from their favorite month down through the ages – roughly, two days a years for the past two thousand years.After he has rounded up these many lost weekends, our man proposes bunching them into one long month, each day of which will recur upwards of one hundred and forty times before the next day appears. Offhand, it sounds OK. While a stretch of a hundred and forty ground-hog days might begin to pall toward its end, we look forward expectantly to those weeks and weeks of nothing but St.Valentine's Days. Of course, as your accountant will point out, there may be some strain in meeting first-of-the-month bills one hundred and forty February firsts in a row, but remember, after this trying period we'll all have a breathing space of more than ten years before March 1 rolls around.
"Genius" has become a two-bit word in the lexicon of the liner-note literati; it is tossed with wild abandon and equal fervor at Wanda Landowska and Lawrence Welk. We have no quarrel with the approbation, however, when it's applied to Gerry Mulligan, the poet laureate of the, baritone sax. The Genius of Gerry Mulligan (Pacific Jazz) is a meaningful chronicle of the years (1952-1957) of Mulligan's ascendancy to the ranks of the jazz greats. It includes a number of previously unreleased items and a re-examination of several by-now historic efforts. One facet of Mulligan's genius is his ability to attract and inspire such lights as Chet Baker, Bob Brookmeyer, Chico Hamilton, Red Mitchell, Lee Konitz, et al. They are sprinkled liberally throughout the time-tested Mulli-gantuan memorabilia, including Get Happy ('52), Bernie's Tune ('52), I Can't Believe That You're in Love with Me ('53) and Ploka Dots and Moonbeams ('54). Through it all, the incandescent Mulligan horn reigns supreme.
Basin Street East (137 East 48th), one of New York's top Jazz and Joke rooms, is run by Ralph Watkins, who won his impresario's spurs at the old Basin Street and at the New York Embers. Watkins is a firm believer in swinging entertainment and he picks up where the old Paramount Theatre extravaganzas left off. BSE's shows major in music, but there's often a top comic as an added attraction – Mort Sahl has used its podium to deliver his unique brand of social and political funditry; Don Rickles, in his first New York appearance, insulted everything that wasn't nailed down; and Lenny Bruce dumped some arsenic in the wassail bowl this Christmas season. Offbeat comics may offer a change of pace, but on-beat musicians are still the main event. The bandstand has supported the sounds of George Shearing, Herbie Mann, Erroll Garner, Neal Hefti,Chris Connor, Peggy Lee, and the man who really put Basin Street East on the entertainment map, Benny Goodman. The future looks just as bright, with Quincy Jones and Georgie Auld, return trips for B.G. and Peggy Lee, and a spring outing for Ella on the agenda. The show, when we caught it, featured Charlie Barnet, Billy Eckstine and Rickles, and was a wildly typical potpourri. Though the room holds 350, it is surprisingly intimate. The decor picks up on the Basin Street tag, with New Orleans touches that include weeping willows and stained-glass windows. Acoustically, the music comes through with plenty of drive and presence, but with none of the ear-splitting quality found in many jazz dens. The kitchen delivers a variety of dinner and late-evening morsels, with Far East fare filling most of the menu and the customers; beer and booze go for $1.50 per. There's no cover or minimum, but there is a "Music Charge" of three dollars per person, which entitles you to just sit and listen to your ears' content. The bar offers its hospitality for a two-drink minimum. Show time, during the week, is at nine p.m. and midnight, with an extra stanza at two a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays. Sundays, all is still.
Ingmar Bergman's admirers tend to introduce their praise with apologies. Apologies, then, on his behalf for the lack of thematic clarity and consistent dramatic tension in his newest film, The Virgin Spring. But, let us add at once, this retelling of a Fourteenth Century Swedish legend is a work of superior photography and acting; like The Seventh Seal, it achieves a remarkable medieval texture; and – Bergman to the core – it grapples with serious questions of morality and faith. An innocent girl is raped and murdered; when her body is lifted from the spot, a spring bursts forth. Admittedly, the picture moves slowly up to the murder and the father's bloody revenge – while Bergman, as usual, goes about racking up a set of symbols. (For instance, the chief rapist is mute; his tongue has been cut out for a crime. Presumably this symbolizes that vindictive society has deprived him of the normal means of asking for love.) Still, no other contemporary director can so galvanize all the techniques of camera and cutting room to hurl a figurative torch into the spiritual dark. It flares only briefly, providing a shadowy glimpse of a mysterious beyond, but it does flare. Anyone who is willing to abide an occasional longueur for the opportunity to spend an hour and a half in the company of a poet and visionary will want to see this film.
Bill Henderson, who did surprisingly well for a new vocalist in Playboy's fifth annual Jazz Poll (see page 134 of this issue), put in an appearance recently at the Playboy Club Library in the Windy City, and it was there we caught him. Bill is a visual singer. When he rocks with the likes of Bye Bye Blackbird, he rocks. From the extra-thick horn-rimmed glasses (a trademark) right on down to his thin-soled shoes, Henderson is all wrapped up in his work. As a matter of fact, we had the feeling that if the sound were cut off, the audience would still get a charge from Bill's frenetic activities. This is not to slough off Henderson's vocal talents. His voice, in timbre and phrasing, has a modicum of Ray Charles in it, but with almost none of Charles' raw edge, a finesse which stands him in good stead when he's balladeering. Love Locked Out and the first chorus of I've Got You Under My Skin were beautifully showcased. But Henderson's main appeal lies rooted in the up-tempo items in his songbook. His opener, Old Black Magic, and Hallelujah, I Love Her So (the Ray Charles swinger) turned the Library into a camp meeting. The Blackbird sign-off was a particularly effective way of leaving things at their peak, and Henderson very professionally knew when to strike the set. His first LP, incidentally, Bill Henderson (Vee Jay), contains, in addition to several of the tunes mentioned above, two great Rodgers and Hart ballads, My Funny Valentine and It Never Entered My Mind, which almost never had it so good. For a recent arrival, Henderson has an abundance of vocal and visual savoir-faire; he should go far and fast.
The Unsinkable Molly Brown is based loosely on the lusty, gusty times of one Molly Tobin, an Irish chambermaid who married Johnny "Leadville" Brown and his silver mines around the turn of the century, made a grand play for social recognition and culture, and climaxed her career by getting off the sinking Titanic with her feet dry. Meredith Willson has written another versatile score counterpointed in Americana. He offers a rowdy drinking chorus, Belly Up to the Bar, Boys, and mutes his brasses for such ballads as If I Knew and Dolce Far Niente. Director Dore Schary does a nimble job of pacing Molly's social climbing from a Missouri shack and a Colorado saloon to the exalted manses of Denver (where she is royally snubbed) and the gilded salons of Paris and Monte Carlo (where the impoverished nobility recognize a good thing when they see it). But it is Tammy Grimes, a legitimate actress turned song-and-dancer, who gives this unsinkable Molly her life preserver. Somewhere between the gamin in homespun and the would-be grande dame in velvet, Tammy turns beautiful before your eyes. And when she sings, the enchantment is complete. Not that the girl has any kind of voice you have ever heard before. It is strictly her own, gravel-harsh and shrillsweet, but it does wonders for Willson's score. Baritone Harve Presnell helps mightily as a hulking Johnny, and the group acting and dancing, in general, are first rate. But only the tomboyish Tammy is irresistible. At the Winter Garden, Broadway and 50th Street, NYC.
The reader need only glance at the opening pages of John Updike's second novel, Rabbit, Run (Knopf, $4), to be again impressed by the depth and range of this twenty-eight-year-old writer's talents, but like much of his earlier work, his new book is oddly disappointing. In a sense, Updike's trouble is that he simply sees too much. In Rabbit, Run, for instance, he describes a small-town Pennsylvania neighborhood at dawn, the smell of the interior of a new car, the sound of a basketball against a backboard, the sensations of sexual intercourse, and even the taste of semen – like sea water, says Updike, through the thoughts of a young prostitute – so graphically that, at last, nothing is left to the reader's imagination. Reading this novel is a little like watching a faultless acrobat: you admire his skill, yet after a while you wish the damn show would get over with. And it's the stylistic acrobatics you have to depend on to carry you along, for the plot isn't much. Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom, a twenty-six-year-old ex-high school basketball star, tires of his job and his marriage; on an impulse, he abandons his pregnant, semi-alcoholic wife and two-year-old son and takes up with a plump prostitute. Updike turns the inarticulate Rabbit into a species of mystic, a man who can be happy only outside the conventions of morality and responsibility. The prostitute becomes an updated Molly Bloom. In fact, one interior monolog, in which she is remembering a high school sexual experience, sounds like an Americanized version of the final pages of Ulysses: "Boy, there wasn't any fancy business then, you didn't even need to take off your clothes, just a little rubbing through the cloth, your mouths tasting of the onion on the hamburgers you'd just had at the diner and the car heater ticking as it cooled, through all the cloth, everything, off they'd go. They couldn't have felt much, it must have been just the idea of you." Some years ago, in reviewing one of those big war novels, British critic V. S. Pritchett called the author a bore. A bore, said Pritchett, is not the man who is stupid or dull, but rather "the man who tells you everything." Mr. Pritchett, meet Mr. Updike.
I've been dating a girl who is a fantastic combination of looks and gray matter. Anatomically, she's a dream; musically, she's the hippest; she digs art, and she's up on all the latest and greatest literature. But – and what a but – she's the world's worst dresser. Her clothes look like rejects from a D.A.R. rummage sale. She's got the dough; just lacks the know-how and doesn't particularly care. But I do. Where do I go from here? – R. U., Boston, Massachusetts.
Not long ago, I met a young business executive who might well have served as the prototype for the entire breed of case-hardened conformist "organization men" one finds in ever-increasing numbers in the business world today. His clothes, manners, speech, attitudes – and ideas – were all studied stereotypes. It was obvious that he believed conformity was essential for success in his career, but he complained that he wasn't getting ahead fast enough and asked me if I could offer any advice.
In our book, at-home games of chance and skill easily cop the second-best spot when it comes to urban indoor entertainment. Gaming and all its gleaming gear can be as gemütlich as all get-out when you're tête-à-tête with some captivating creature who's game for games, or entertaining a coed crowd around the mesmeric blur of a whirring roulette wheel, or settling down for a brisk guys-only evening of poker, complete with good Scotch and panatelas. By all odds there's nothing that makes winning – or even dropping a few bucks – more pleasurable than first-rate gaming accoutrements. A well-turned pair of dice, a masterfully-carved chessman, a diamond-bright poker chip – all add immeasurably to the give and take of the evening, no matter how large or small the group you're entertaining. The Brunswick pocket billiard table features live rubber cushions, gullyball-receivers, ball storage rack, adjustable leveling devices, paired folding legs, burn-resistant rails; with balls and four cues; $275. On table, left to right: The Education of a Poker Player by Herbert O. Yardley, $4, Scarne on Cards, $5,Goren's New Contract bridge Complete, $5, The Roman Club System of Distributional Bidding, $3.50, The New Complete Hoyle, $4, Scarne on Dice, $10. French-made 18-inch Bakelite roulette wheel and multi-colored allwool felt layout, by Abercrombie & Fitch; $60. Rotating brass little-neck dice cage on wood base, by Baron; $55. Set of giant ivory poker dice, by Alfred Dunhill; $28.50. Felt-lined circular dice tray, by Baron; $8. Counter game dice cup of dark top-grain cowhide, heavy leather tip rim, cushion bottom, ribbed rubber inside, by Mason; $7.50. Red perfect-ring eye-spot dice, precision hand-finished, by Mason; $1.50. Tan cowhide poker dice cup, by Baron; $5. Below table, left to right: backgammon set in carrying case with 30 Catalin men, by Pacific; $30. Lockable leatherette game chest contains roulette wheel and layout, checkers, chess, dominoes, chips, cards, cribbage, dice and cup, by A & F; $50. 42-inch maple-walnut dice stick, by Baron; $9. Green domino set in walnut case with sliding cover; $13. 22-inch roulette wheel of hand-rubbed woods, by Mason; $650. Green poker chip case (holders swing out when center knob is turned), 300 chips, by A & F; $21. (concluded overleaf)
Here we go again. I, Dale Dubble, was quarreling with a friend named Evie about whether or not she was going to let me. Her eyes said zero-naught at me. My eyes said mute-boyish-appeal at her. Her eyes said back-of-my-hand-to-you and her mouth said, "Hang it up, Dale."
For those of us who burn the candle, there can be no doubt about which meal of the day yields the greatest pleasure. It's the one consumed round midnight, for that's the time of night when the glow of the city's lights is at its softest, when two hearts are at their tenderest, and, often, when kindred souls are at their hungriest. No forlorn sandwich will do at the witching hour, nor will a noisy nightery yield the intimate gratification of appetites you can more artfully attain chez vous. What you and the lady deserve are great soft mounds of scrambled eggs, glossy with the sweet butter in which they cooked, accompanied by hot anchovy toast. Or, if that's not to your taste, try crisp oyster fritters dunked in a rich remoulade sauce accompanied by a capacious carafe of freshly-brewed coffee. Bridge buffs who've been in close communion with several rounds of highballs know that, as the wee small hours approach, the only intelligent bid is curried lobster or steak sandwiches. As any civilized cityite will attest, the proper time for a theatre party to assuage its hunger pangs is after the show, not before. (Cocktails and copious canapes make better sense before an eight-thirty curtain than a hurried early repast.) As midnight draws nigh in the snug confines of your own digs, you and the group, or you and your solitary guest, start your post-performance post mortems fortified by fresh sausage cakes with crisp dill pickles or slowly melting mozzarella cheese with Canadian bacon and chunks of fresh French bread. This is fare worthy of the midnight chef.
Crane Awoke with the Tingle Tooth-foam song racing through his head. Tingle, he realized, must have bought last night's Sleepcoo time. He frowned at the Sleepcoo speaker in the wall next to his pillow. Then he stared at the ceiling: it was still blank. Must be pretty early, he told himself. As the Coffizz slogan slowly faded in on the ceiling, he averted his eyes and got out of bed. He avoided looking at the printed messages on the sheets, the pillowcases, the blankets, his robe, and the innersoles of his slippers. As his feet touched the floor, the TV set went on. It would go off, automatically, at ten P.M.Crane was perfectly free to switch channels, but he saw no point in that.
Broadway's Success Worshipers are among the major social hazards of our time. They all have total recall, unlimited wind and are not above grabbing you by the lapels to cut off your circulation and your escape. I've been backed against innumerable grand pianos at uncountable parties and told in great detail about the opening nights of South Pacific, Ghosts, Show Boat, and a succession of Hamlets. I know the precise second Ethel Merman belted out I've Got Rhythm for the first time, how many people yelled bravo when Walter Huston, wearing a peg leg as Peter Stuyvesant, talked his way through September Song and how many members of Actors' Equity Jose Ferrer killed with his sword in Cyrano. I've been Sothern-and-Marlowed, Barrymored, Lillian Russelled and Gertrude Lawrenced to death.
The checkroom at Chicago's Playboy Key Club is the setting for an off-and-on romance involving the handsome outerwear you see at your right; and a fashionable layaway plan it is. The cloakroom Bunnies attentively in attendance have testified of late that what's coming off at the club is taking up a lot less space than it used to, and there are good reasons for the trend: coats (both top- and over- ), hats, gloves, mufflers, umbrellas and attache cases have all been Metrecaled down to a slim, trim, decidedly elegant look that was unknown just a short while ago.
Ethnologists tell us skiing originated not among weekending revelers at Aspen or Sun Valley, but among the frosty-bearded hordes of Stone Age Europe. It has since become a many-splendored art form, blending agility, grace – and the informal social graces of the ski lodge. Sleekly garbed for the slopes or beguilingly peeled in a rustic retreat, eighteen-year-old Barbara Ann Lawford can boast a many-splendored art form all her own. We found our adventurous Playmate in California, in a Sherman Oaks sport shop, buying gear for her very first ski trip. Naturally, we invited ourself along. At the ski lodge, Barby took to her room, got out of her traveling clothes and decided to wax her skis – as you can see for yourself in this month's eye-filling gatefold – before donning stretch pants and parka. During the fun-filled weekend, we coaxed Barbara into returning with us to Playboy headquarters in Chicago where this beautiful snow bunny is presently brightening the lives of members as another kind of bunny, complete with rabbit ears and cottontail, at the Playboy Key Club on Chicago's Near North Side.
Nineteen sixty in the world of jazz, as the newspapers saw it, was the Year of Contention, with riots at Newport and other bashes. Jazz fans could see beyond that. More concerned with new chords than with discord, they saw it as the Year of Invention.
"Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer," said Shakespeare, digging the sleepy greensward of England's Kent. These days, of course, England's Kent is not the only goal for those who need a holiday from hoarfrost. Toward Cannes or Coronado, Nice or Nagpur, Sorrento or Santa Barbara, Barbados or Biarritz, St. Croix or St. Tropez, frostbitten flocks flee southward to the sandy, sun-soaked sanctuaries of every continent on earth, anxious to shed "winter's weeds outworn" for the great-looking, comfortable duds of carnival. And this year, the trappings of sweet idleness take on the colors of an early-blooming tropical flower, with a burst of uninhibited plumage in men's resort wear that promises to get the mating season off to a flying start. Whether you're the type who likes to greet dawn the rosy-fingered with a splash in the salubrious surf, or prefers to loll in the hammock till the sun's zenith, the hip habiliments of 1961's resort wear will have you swinging just right.
New york has more girls than any other city in the land. It probably has more of just about everything – and consequently so do they. It is the temple of communications and the image makers, the vault of high finance, the haven of live theatre, the clothes closet of fashion, the nation's link with Europe by plane and by boat – and every one of these activities in which it excels brims with girls: career girls and clericals, callgirls and floozies, shop girls and waitresses, mannequins and mimes.
A story is told of a certain prince who ruled a city and who was strong and handsome and in the full flower of young manhood. One day as he made his way through the city, his eyes encountered a vision of loveliness named Lavanyavati, the wife of a merchant's son, a greedy young man known as Charundatta. At that instant, the prince was transfixed by the arrows of the god of love, and the lady was herself wounded by darts from the same bow. Even so, she refused all invitations from the prince and answered his messengers in the negative. "Although I would like nothing better than to pleasure His Majesty," she told them, "I cannot. My husband's word will ever be my law. To hear is to obey him."
At exactly 11:14 p.m. The squad car from second district pulled up to the green street entrance of Robertson, Schwab and Miller. The big store had been closed since 9:30 that night, a matter of one hour and forty-four minutes. The alarm from Argus Protection Service had been phoned into second district at 11:12, which meant that the police had got to the scene in just two minutes.
The editors of playboy proudly announce the founding of Playboy Tours, a new concept in sophisticated voyaging and another major step (like our jazz festival and key clubs) in making the good Playboy life available to readers.