Getting this may issue off to a flying start is an inviting Invitation to Flying, Playboy's primer on private planes for fun and travel. From swift, sporty two-seaters on up through superbly -appointed sky yachts (including a personal jet and helicopter), these planes can whisk the urban gentleman and his party from the turmoil of the city to an idyllic weekend hideaway or a shimmering, palmlined strand quick as you can say "Caribbean." Conveniently and comfortably, you can wing from city to city on biz, then be off for a weekend of carefree abandon, zipping through an azure sky or moonlit clouds to your choice of playgrounds – for skiing, swimming, sunning or delightfully various combinations of whatever your pick of pleasures might be.
May 6 being the 105th anniversary of the birth of Sigmund Freud, this seems like an appropriate time to bring up a small matter that has been bothering us. We admire the father of psychoanalysis and believe that his immense influence on our ways of thinking about ourself, our neurotic friends and life in the large has been mostly to the good. But we're concerned over what he's done to certain mythological figures – in particular, Oedipus. Not all Americans today know that Oedipus was a king, but everybody knows he's a Complex. For our generation, Oedipus evokes not the glory that was Greece, but the penchant for theorizing that is contemporary psychology. The mention of his name summons us not to reflections on the destiny of man, but to nervousness about Johnny's making eyes at mommy. To people whose knowledge of psychology has been garnered from the colorful pages of our women's magazines and the child-rearing columns of our daily newspapers, the Oedipus Complex manifests itself as follows; boy-child loves mother; envies father; wishes to get rid of latter and replace him in former's big, warm, mysterious double bed. Hearing this situation (which no doubt really exists on certain days in most households) identified incessantly as "Oedipal," these same people have, quite reasonably, concluded that Oedipus had incestuous intentions toward his mother and homicidal ones toward his father. All unconscious, to be sure, but he had them. Now, the clear facts of the case are these: Oedipus, a proud and princely youth living in a violent age, killed some rude strangers who tried to force him off the road to Thebes. He had never laid eyes on the men before in his life. Neither he nor his unconscious could possibly have known that one of them was his father. He went on to answer the riddle of the Sphinx and thereby rid Thebes of a monster which had been terrorizing the town. For this he was awarded the throne by a grateful citizenry and, along with it, came the modest bonus of a widowed, middle-aged queen – a plot twist which will be familiar to anybody who has ever read a fairy tale. There was no wooing, no flowers or sentimental ballads. Sophocles did not write a single romantic exchange for the couple. In the oldest versions of the myth, in fact, Oedipus did not get to marry the woman at all. Such are the unembellished facts. Oedipus had plenty of troubles, but they were not caused by an unruly libido. His crime was against the gods, not against mental health. He was certainly guilty of overweening pride, but incestuous desires were not in his line. The gods compensated Oedipus at his death for the sufferings he had endured at their hands, by opening for him "in love the unlit doors of earth." Can the psychoanalysts do less? Fortunately, a simple method is available for relieving the hero of the stigma that has been stamped upon his unconscious. The polio vaccine is named after Dr. Salk, not after the first child to receive three shots and a booster. The Theory of Relativity is sensibly described as Einstein's. Obviously, not all of the complexes Freud investigated can be so labeled, but surely he deserves to have his name attached to this one, far and away the most famous as well as the most crucial to orthodox psychoanalysis. It would, we think, be a suitable birthday gift. After all, as his biographer tells us, young Sigmund did have some complicated feelings about Mama and Papa Freud.
One-Eyed Jacks is a well-made, well-acted Technicolor Western, with sex and six-guns ablaze. But that's all it is. Despite the big build-up for Marlon Brando's first movie of his own, it is likely to remind you of other Westerns – many others. Brando, playing an American bandit in Mexico in the Eighties, is deserted in a tight spot and turned in to the law by a danger-dodging bandit-buddy (Karl Malden). After serving five years on a Sonora chain gang, he goes gunning for the squealer, who has meanwhile become sheriff of a California town as well as stepfather of a pretty señorita (Pina Pellicer). The showdown shows up on schedule. It's no news that Brando can give a good strong performance when he tries. No, he's not just Stanley Kowalski in chaps; he needs only two lines to establish that he's Rio, the gun-happy outlaw. It is news that he can direct; he has a discerning eye and a way with wayward actors. Remembering that the Old West extended to the Pacific, he has captured some stunning shots of horsemen pounding along past the pounding surf, and he has drawn a restrained, valid performance from the variable Malden. But what induced Brando to put so much time and talent into this merely OK script? ¿Quién sabe?
Tenor man Stan Getz, after almost three years as an expatriate based in Denmark, debarked from a liner at a New York pier early this year with wife, two daughters (two sons remained in a Swiss school) and horn in tow. After participating in assorted welcome-home jam sessions (including one at Macy's with uke player Arthur Godfrey sitting in), he assembled an under– twenty-five quartet with pianist Steve Kuhn, a School of Jazz alumnus; Scott La Faro, an astonishingly facile bassist; and drummer Pete La Roca, a Philly Joe Jones disciple. The group's initial club date was at Chicago's Sutherland Lounge, and we were on hand to dig the foursome. The repertoire (Getz soberly selected tunes from a stack of sheet music) ranged from pop standards like Out of Nowhere, For You, for Me, Forevermore and Lost in a Dream to jazz staples such as Benny Golson's Stablemates and Dizzy Gillespie's Woody'n You. The performance was less reliable than the tunes. The quartet sound was disjointed, the obvious penalty for inadequate rehearsal. What emerged were remarkable solos by La Faro, crisp drumming by La Roca and economical, almost cautious, statements by Kuhn. Getz, apart from moments when he flashed an awareness of the Rollins-Coltrane "hard" sax sound, was what he was when he left this country in 1958: incomparably tender on ballads, with a sighingly soft tone, and properly vigorous, though never frantic, at medium and up tempos. His gentle glimpse at Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most (his was the only solo, a languishingly expressive one) was head-and-heart above other instrumental versions of that tune we've heard. It was enough in itself to remind us that at thirty-four, Getz is one of a few major stylists in jazz. He plans to remain here for at least six months, before deciding if he'll defect again to Denmark. We hope he sticks around, if only to cut more discs like the two-LP set just issued – a superb session tagged Stan Getz at Large (Verve).
Arthur Koestler spent two years traveling through India and Japan, seeking to find whether the perplexed West did not have something to learn from Oriental spirituality. His report, in The Lotus and the Robot (Macmillan, $3.95): Oriental spirituality is pure bunkum. In India he found the traditional culture cracking and splitting under the pressure of modern industrialization. Yoga, he reports, does not live up to the claims of its Indian and Western devotees that it can cure physical and mental disorders, procure supernatural powers and effect the mystic Union. And even Indian sensuality turns out to be a much more anxious thing than the garden of delight pictured in the lip-smacking stereotypes. Along with love manuals and erotic temple sculpture, with their feats of acrobatic copulation, go shame and fear of sex; the Indian psyche is split right down the middle, with no prospect of being made whole again. Japan turns out to be a "lotus culture" – dolls, kimonos, Flower Arrangement, Tea Ceremony – side by side with a modern international "robot culture" of "tranki" (tranquilizers) sold without prescription in enormous quantities, a million and a half abortions per year and a transistor radio in every trouser pocket and handbag. Zen Buddhism, on Koestler's examination, is "at best an existentialist hoax, at worst a web of solemn absurdities." In sexual matters the Japanese are free of inhibition; but they use their freedom to make housekeepers out of their wives and dolls out of their geisha women. Whether or not one goes all the way with Koestler's blackwash, it is a pleasant relief to find a man who doesn't dissolve into a puddle of sympathy and guilt when confronting the inscrutable East, but looks at it dispassionately and says, "I have a new respect for Europe."
As one of the feeblest Broadway seasons in recent memory gasps its last, we have decided to desert the Times Square scene for livelier fields, East Side, West Side and All Around The Town – Off-Broadway, in other words, where a sizable segment of New York's theatre is thriving on high hopes and low admission prices. Below are listed some of the hardy survivors from past seasons, along with a handful of those we predict are most likely to succeed from the new.
Wide variety is one of the principal spices used to pique the palate of Gotham gourmets at the Vesuvio (163 West 48th Street), a long-time culinary landmark in New York, a city noted for epicurean fickleness. For more than twenty years, owner Patsy Gullotta has been serving Italian cookery ranging from infinite variations on the usually prosaic pasta theme to obscure (even for New York) specialties of the house. The menu, in short, is long, but Patsy, assisted by hosts Anthony and Louis, stands ready and able to guide the venturesome viand voyager unerringly and appetizingly through the unfamiliar. Prices are moderate – $5.50 is tops for entrees – and service is what it should be: leisurely, unless you're in a rush to catch an 8:40 curtain, in which case the staff will move with an almost alarming alacrity to get you fourth-row center on time. There are a few dinners on the menu, but the most tempting items are found in the à la carte section. If your appetite is sufficiently Gargantuan, start with the hot antipasto ($1.75). Eggplant, shrimp, stuffed mushrooms, baked clams, and peppers are all sautéed lightly and served in a tableside iron chafing dish. For a less ambitious but no less attractive lead item, try the cold antipasto, guaranteed to warm the cockles of a gourmet's heart. Veal is prepared in eleven different ways; we tried it scaloppine with lemon ($2.50). Linguine with Clam Sauce ($1.75) makes a substantial side dish for the trencherman and a main course for the less hardy. Spiedino di Mozzarella alla Romana ($2.25) is also highly touted in the specialties column, and our partner tried it with lip-smacking results. It consists of alternate layers of mozzarella cheese and bread, deep fried and then baked. Sweetbread Marsala ($2.75) is cooked in marsala wine and topped with mushrooms. If you're angling for seafood, try the Fritto Misto alla Napoletana ($2), a variety of fish, deep fried and prepared Neapolitan style. But if meat is your meat, you'll be smitten by the Beef Braciola ($2.75). This is rolled beef, stuffed with eggs and covered with a tomato sauce that is sinfully succulent. The Eggplant Parmigiana ($2), another Vesuvio specialty, and Chicken Cacciatore with Wine Sauce ($2.75) are both worth sampling. For an unusual pasta specialty, dig and dig into the Cannelloni ($1.50), large shells of the pasta, stuffed with meat and broiled. You can get a crack at the Neapolitan Lasagne ($1.50), only if you're lucky enough to make the weekend scene. You won't, if you know what's good for you, bypass the wine list. Along with the usual chianti, we can recommend the bardolina or valpolicella. There are also a few rosés available. Hours are from 11:30 A.M. to 1 A.M every day of the week. A special luncheon menu offers most of the house specialties. Omnipresent though innocuous music is, happily, one of the few things that's canned.
The fiddles saw and the brass blares on Ray Charles... Dedicated to You (ABC-Paramount), but they can neither undermine nor drown out some of Ray's most persuasive performances to date – a platter of panegyrics to a dozen pop-ballad heroines served up in the best Charles tradition. Ray's blues shouting is, paradoxically enough, pianissimo and right at home in the surprising surroundings of a string ensemble or full orchestra, both under the auspices of Marty Paich. It's an intriguingly subdued Charles, especially when he pays almost lyric-perfect tribute to a trio of our favorite musical misses, Nancy, Ruby and Candy; they were never more ardently or expertly courted. Judy Garland's voice isn't what it used to be. It's better. Doubting Tomcats can consult Judy! That's Entertainment (Capitol). The backing – from Milt Raskin's solo piano to a hefty string ensemble – suits each tune to a J. A delicate It Never Was You, a stomping Who Cares? and a strutting How Long Has This Been Going On? are part of the garland the undiminished Garland magic creates.
I've been engaged to a girl for a year and a half and contemplate marriage in the very near future. There's one dark cloud on what looks like a very bright horizon; she has been under psychoanalysis for the last three years. Her family, who can afford it, spends seventy-five dollars a week on couch fees. I have a pretty fair job but not good enough yet to handle the tab on her thrice-a-week sessions. Shall we postpone the wedding until she's out of analysis (no way of telling when that might be), take the plunge and try to handle the doctor bills as best we can, or accept her parents' offer to continue paying for the therapy until she's out of it? The latter really rubs me the wrong way, but I love the girl and want to do whatever's best for her. What do you think? – B. G., Tucson, Arizona.
A Few Months Ago, in Palm Springs, California, the promoters of a golf tournament offered $50,000 to any player making a hole-in-one, and when a professional named Don January did indeed score a hole-in-one, his feat, in the words of a gentleman from Lloyd's of London, "repercussed." The promoters, it developed, had with some foresight insured themselves against the contingency, and as so often happens when the name Lloyd's turns up in connection with an apparently frolicsome bit of insurance business, a good many people doubtless concluded once again that, given the proper premium, Lloyd's will insure anything.
The plane-owning Man-about-town is automatically the man-about-many-towns. The magnificent mobility afforded by his private plane has turned him into a nomadic wayfarer ready at the drop of a windsock to strap an airplane to the seat of his Italian silk trousers and seek his fortunes and his fillies on their home grounds, be they across the country, country or even ocean.
"I Heard a Rumor," Sangstrom said, "to the effect that you –" He turned his head and looked about him to make absolutely sure that he and the druggist were alone in the tiny prescription pharmacy. The druggist was a gnome-like gnarled little man who could have been any age from fifty to a hundred. They were alone, but Sangstrom dropped his voice just the same. " – to the effect that you have a completely undetectable poison."
The word "chop," if it doesn't suggest cherry trees or suey, usually brings to mind the ubiqultous broiled lamb chop – a morsel both quickly prepared (brown, tukn, brown, serve) and quickly devoured. But "chop," in the generic sense is an immense continent of measure, comprising the entire succulent expanse of an animal's tender mid section – region with which every self respecting trencherman should become intimately acquainted.
Anyone who has spent any time in a gambling casino has certainly seen this typical gentleman at the roulette table. In Europe he is likely to be elderly, distinguished looking, and rather shiny at the elbows. He sits quietly at the table with a ledger in his lap and watches the movement of the ball with an alert eye, making notations in his book after every spin. Behind him there may be one or two curious spectators. Finally the conditions are favorable. From the modest stack of chips in front of him he selects several and disposes them on the green felt: "Les jeux sont faits. Rien ne va plus." With a slight quickening of interest he watches the ball as it spins, tumbles, hops, hesitates, and comes to rest. "Le douze. Rouge, pair, et manque." If he has won, he accepts his gains with the negligent air of one to whom the outcome was never in doubt. If he has lost, he bows his head and carefully records the event in his ledger.
There's a Creaky Adage in Hollywood, harking back to the halcyon days of Ramon Navarro and Louise Fazenda, that the shortest distance between obscurity and stardom is not through Central Casting. Tinseltown moguls seem to make a point of discovering box-office potential in less obvious surroundings, and there's no pat formula for the time or the place. The latest and loveliest proof of the ancient dictum is Susan Kelly—blonde, brown-eyed and built—who went to Celluloid City several orange crops ago to teach English. (Honest.) It then followed as the night the day that Susan was discovered (which, in this case, was like discovering snow in Alaska) by producer Albert Zugsmith. He promptly made an ex-schoolmarm of her by offering a contract instead of an apple and casting her as a curvy WAC lieutenant in Allied Artists' Dondi. From the looks of our superbly structured Miss May, it's no trick to predict her Oklahoma University sheepskin in education will become a mere wall decoration, but the little tots' loss is their older brothers' gain. Miss Kelly's class—the class of 36-22-35—figures to get A+for attendance in her concentrated course in anatomy.
"And when the last trumpet blows, we shall find him up yonder, arms outstretched, on one knee, exhorting us to come to God even as he exhorted us in life to come to Loew's State. For who among us can forget how he filled the theatres of the world, yea unto capacity, to hear his mighty voice lifted in that great song Little Man, Dry Your Tears, which won the Academy Award in 1937..."
Packed in A Parka and humming Midnight Sun, our bebristled cartoonist Shel Silverstein recently stomped through the snows of Alaska and found the last frontier to be a magnificent land of warm-hearted Eskimos and hard-drinking settlers. Snowshoeing and dogsledding his way, Shel mushed on to Anchorage, Fairbanks, Kotzebue, Nome and Point Barrow on the frosty Arctic Ocean. There's still gold in them thar hills, he discovered, but more panning is done by north country film critics than by adventuresome treasure seekers. Putting the lie to a crop of Hollywood fictions, Shel found nary an igloo, but did find an array of Eskimos weary of flicks about intrigue in the ice domes. Another myth exploded by Shel was the one about the accommodating Eskimo husband and the itinerant tourist. "It simply isn't so," moaned Shel. What impressed him the most? The stunning scenery and the innate good sense of the people. "Shooting a moose out of season," Shel says, "is considered a worse offense than shooting your wife."
Back In The Halcyon Days Of Saratoga, when the world of horse racing extended from the thick-carpeted clubhouse to the clipped lawns and white verandas of the old United States Hotel, frock coats and top hats were indispensably correct for gentleman spectators. Times and tastes have changed, however, and today's turfwear – except in the Enclosure at Ascot, where stately styles still survive – has taken on an equally correct but far more colorful, comfortable, contemporary look. Whether handicapping the futurity at Santa Anita or checking time at the Maine Chance Farm on a new French thoroughbred, box-holder and railbird alike rate the new spectator suits, slacks, sports coats, shoes and accessories shown here as their best bets in modern track fashion.
There is Nothing quite so quaint as a recently outmoded way of dressing. So, now, there was some nudging and whispering among the newspapermen who frequented McSorley's in New York City when the old gentleman came in with something between a limp and a swagger, got up in a sky-blue jacket and waistcoat and dark blue trousers, a "polo" collar starched hard, cut so low as to expose the whole of his wiry brown throat and with a gap for a black satin necktie knotted as thick as your wrist and ornamented with a horseshoe brooch, and a hard round hat of the kind that used to be advertised as "Sportsman's Dove-Gray Curl-Brim Special." There was a zinnia in his buttonhole, and he carried a great Malacca-root stick which, by the way it swung, was evidently loaded with lead under its silver knob. And then, his posture, his manner, even what remained of his melancholy, gentlemanly good looks, did not belong after the turn of the century.
The Mention of Sweden may suggest smorgasbord to the epicure, steam baths to the health faddist, Johansson to the sports fan, Bjoerling to the opera buff, Hammarskjold to the humanitarian, neutrality to the political scientist, even aurrora borealis to the astronomer. But to most of us, it suggests the image of a tawny-skinned, cerulean-eyed, golden-haired, clean-limbed creature with the cool mystique of a Greta Garbo, the radiant spirituality of an Ingrid Bergman, the smoky sensuality of a May Britt – and a hyperactive mating instinct. In the flesh, of course, she isn't always as golden-haired or cerulean-eyed as dreamed. Nor, it must be admitted, is she as concupiscent as a jack rabbit, exactly. But as fantasies go, this one comes tantalizingly close to reality, At first glance,(continued on page 89) however, even the reality is slightly deceptive. On any afternoon around five, when the big commercial emporiums empty out along the Kungsgatan, Stockholm's main drag, a rubber-necking American tourist – swept up in a surging ground swell of well-groomed womanhood – might easily imagine himself headed upstream at 52nd and Madison, until he hears the musical candence of umlauted vowels issuing from thousands of smiling, unreddened lips. After a quick second take, he notices that the scrubbed, shining faces, the soft, translucent eyes, the aureoles of sun-warmed hair are all but innocent of cosmetic alchemy. This is certainly not New York. He watches the way the girls move, erect and effortless; in every gesture and motion of the slender legs, the brown arms, the gently swaying hips, is a peculiarly feline and fluid grace, a delicious mixture of awareness and artlessness; this can't be Hollywood, either. They are dressed well – a majority in simple skirts and sweaters with single strands of pearls – though not chicly, by New York or Paris standards. But they manage to seem chic, in a style which has neither the sham of shapeless self-concealment nor the blatancy of figure-clinging self-decoration.
Few elements of the sartorial ensemble are smaller, and yet more essential to the impeccably-dressed look, than a gentleman's cuff links. It is not enough to select the right suitings and shirtings to wear together; correct linkage lends the harmonious finishing touch that creates the look of elegance. Five maxims for matching should make your link-training a simple and pleasant task. First, eschew the ostentatious: simplicity is the best policy. Second, spurn the spurious: there are no substitutes for real gold, silver, precious or semi-precious stones. Third, put down the prodigious: unless they're priceless heirlooms or handcrafted designs, oversized links are downright vulgar. Fourth, capture counterpoint: the new links – including Florentine finishes, geometric and abstract patterns, classic engravings, brushed finishes on bright surfacings – can be winningly contrasted with shirt, suit and neckwear tones. Fifth, value versatility: except for cuff couplings designed exclusively for evening clothes, your links should be good mixers, compatible with several suits. One picture being worth a thousand cuff-words, however, we forthwith direct your gaze to the adjoining sextet of smartly accoutred sleeves.
In Vikrama-Pura a certain wine merchant so neglected his wife that she took to amusing herself with the servants. One day as she stood in the inner patio kissing one of the woodcutters with great fervor, her husband appeared unexpectedly at the gate. It looked as though there was no escape. The woodcutter's arms were around her. Hers rested on the man's shoulders. Their mouths were fixed in a sound kiss. "But a woman is never at a loss," runs an ancient proverb.
Europe, bathed in a warm July sun, is a beguiling spot for manifold reasons, not the least of which is American women. From offices, ateliers, apartments and estates they descend en masse on the Continent seeking cultural uplift and ententes cordiales. Paris, with its aphrodisiac amalgam of Pernod and parfum, is the city for rapprochements – that is, if you haven't already established one on A Deck or in the Flight Lounge going over. If there is a meeting of minds, there can always be a modification of itineraries. From Paris, you and your new-found friend can strike out for Deauville on the north coast and put up at the smart Normandy or Golf hotel.