Be not Alarmed by our suave rabbit's momentary disregard of the miss on this month's cover. He's understandably distracted by the dazzle of Playboy's new publishing venture: Show Business Illustrated. Beginning August 23, the expanding world of entertainment will be brightly reflected, and insightfully reflected upon, within the color-splashed pages of this unique biweekly magazine of the performing arts. Arriving on the scene at a time when mass-communicated show business has become not merely a world-wide industry, but the common denominator of a new world-wide culture, SBI will dedicate itself as observer and participant in this swelling surge toward the arts and entertainment. With purpose and perception, it will scan the changing showscape from Minsky to Hurok, Old Vic to New Wave, La Perichole to La Monroe, Kabuki to Carnival! – and all intermediate points.
Playboy, September, 1961, Vol. 8, no. 9. Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Co., Inc., Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio st., Chicago 11, Illinois. 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 to Playboy, 232 E. Ohio st., Chicago 11, Illinois, and Allow 30 days for Change. Advertising: Howard w. Lederer, Advertising Director, 720 Fifth ave., New York 19, New York, cl 5-2620; Branch Offices: Chicago, Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio st., MI 2-1000, Joe fall, Midwestern Advertising Manager; Los Angeles, 8721 Beverly Blvd., OL 2-8790, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager: San Francisco, 111 Sutter St., YU 2-7994, Robert E. Stephens, Manager; Southeastern Representative. The Hal Winter Company, 7450 Ocean Terr., Miami beach, Florida, UN 5-2661.
Has it occurred to you – as it has, now and then, to us – that the so-called "standard" measurements, if taken at their literal and original meanings, are completely arbitrary, vague, whimsical and otherwise undependable? Maybe we'd better give instances. "How deep is the ocean?" (for one instance) is a question usually answered in fathoms. But how deep is a fathom? The word comes from the Anglo-Saxon faethm, or "the embracing arms," and has actually been defined by an act of Parliament as "the length of a man's arms around the object of his affections." At this point, you will say "Aha," or possibly "Oho," and will point out that the fathom has been firmly nailed down as the equivalent of six feet. Sure, we know that, but please bear in mind that we're talking about the literal and original meanings of measurements; and the sizes of human feet differ just as do the lengths of embracing arms. Same trouble crops up when you say a horse is so many "hands high." The dogmatic, etymologically pristine part of us forces us to ask "What size hands, please?" And are you in the habit of ordering so many "fingers" of whiskey? Whose fingers are you talking about? Don't tell us a destination is only "a stone's throw" away – just who is throwing that stone? Is one man "a head taller" than another? Sorry, we won't buy that one, either. Nor will we countenance a "hairsbreadth" – ever see different hairs under a microscope? All right, wise guys (say you), what about the inch: surely that's stable enough for you? Not so – it is the most suspect of all, because all it means is "a twelfth." A twelfth of what? A foot? Whose foot? That puts us right back where we started – namely, in a state of confusion resembling that which attended the old "barleycorn" unit, a third of an inch, by which Edward II tried to pin down the "inch" as the length of "three grains of barley dry and round" placed end to end, lengthwise (whose barley, how dry, how round?, etc.). Truly – if you are a persnickety cuss like us – the only measurement you can really trust is "so big."
Toward the beginning of Zooey, the thirty-thousand-word work which makes up some three-quarters of J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey (Little, Brown, $4), the author, speaking through his garrulous mouthpiece, Buddy Glass, states that "What I'm about to offer isn't really a short story at all but a sort of prose home movie." And that's what this slim book is – a home movie in glorious Zencolor, set mainly in the dining room of a college-town restaurant and in the bathroom of an upper-East Side New York apartment, and featuring the unbreakable, though slightly stained, Glass family, off on another of their metaphysical talkathons, with guest appearances by Epictetus, Kafka and Mu-Mon-Kwan. For those who missed the collector-item issues of The New Yorker where they first appeared, Franny is the short story of a twenty-year-old college girl who goes off on an Ivy League football weekend and, at Saturday lunch, over a chicken sandwich, has a mild nervous breakdown. Zooey, which takes place the following Monday morning, is the longer story of how Franny's television-actor brother (not to be confused with Buddy, her writing brother; Waker, her Carthusian monk brother; Walt, her dead soldier brother; or Seymour, her late saint brother) talks her out of the breakdown while he's shaving. With all their faults – wordiness, pedantry and occasional obscurity being chief among them – the two pieces taken together are stunning examples of the work of a truly original writer. There is the uncanny ear for upper-middle-class New York speech; there is the humor (Boo Boo Tannenbaum, a married Glass sibling, describes Zooey as looking like "the blue-eyed Jewish-Irish Mohican scout who died in your arms at the roulette table at Monte Carlo"); there is the intellect, the compassion and the love, "pure and complicated." Salinger may at times get on one's nerves, like an overly bright conversation-monopolizer at a party, but he has a virtuoso talent. It's been eight years since the publication of his Nine Stories, and one might have hoped for a more imposing work by now from the creator of Catcher in the Rye. But Franny and Zooey is rich reading – and an absolute must for every knowledgeable neurotic's home library.
The printed program for Erroll Garner's recent concert in Chicago's Civic Opera House wasn't really a program at all. It was an apology. It stated that "Garner's entire program is extemporized" except when "Garner listens to his own recordings, and tries to follow some of the original renditions as closely as possible" – a rather grim portent of the evening ahead. Since no tunes are identified at a Garner concert, you are either with it or not – there is no middle ground. The audience by and large accepted this with an equanimity indicating, perhaps, that most of its members were with it. Our own score card showed four blanks out of twenty-two offerings which, we imagine, makes us second-string Garner-fanciers. His "extemporizing" follows an extremely rigid pattern: first, a series of stream-of-consciousness chords flow bountifully from the piano, evidently intended to titillate the audience into a what-could-he-possibly-be-leading-up-to frenzy. When the audience is properly primed, he gets down to the business at hand with lush, many-fingered chords, spelling out (usually) some standard dear enough to everyone's heart to draw a ripple of applause; after several choruses, Garner enters his "improvisational" phase, his right hand developing single-note figures while his left, in stanch support, pounds out bass chords that evoke nothing so much as an image of a Salvation Army drummer at the height of the Christmas season. Garner's treble gives the intriguing and ofttimes pleasing impression of hurrying to catch up after having started a little late. The catching up is usually accomplished immediately prior to the return to the fat, two-handed chords, indicating that the piece is drawing to a close. The pattern, recurring with mechanical regularity and seemingly inviolate, took much of the gloss off what were, individually, highly polished, ingeniously conceived and immaculately executed piano portraits. (Bassist Edward Calhoun and drummer Kelly Martin were industrious aides-decamp.) Resolved: Garner in small doses is dandy; the large economy package is not nearly as digestible.
There is some dispute over whether James Gould Cozzens' 1957 best-seller, By Love Possessed, was grand or merely grandiose. The color-film version, however, is neither; it is an old-fashioned, wince-upon-a-time romance. (Says Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., to Lana Turner: "I don't want this night to end – this spell to be broken.") Whereas the Cozzens novel of law and life in a small town posed some big questions, the movie just makes a treacly try at putting Peyton in second place. In the leading role of lawyer-lover Arthur Winner, Zimbalist's voice runs on like a river of cod-river oil. Miss Turner, as wayward Marjorie Penrose, is present more in flesh than in spirit. Jason Robards, Jr., as Julius Penrose, wanders through the film, apparently hunting for a scene worth his talent. As purebred Clarissa Winner, Barbara Bel Geddes is blondely bland. And George Hamilton, the poor girl's Tony Perkins, indulges in quite a lot of anguish as Winner's nèon-lit scion. John Sturges, who has done better, could hardly have directed worse. The result – By Hollywood Reprocessed.
Gleamingly new and impressively facaded with twenty travertine pilasters surmounted by gold-plated Italian lanterns, Fairchild's, just north of Wilshire Boulevard on Restaurant Row (38 N.La Cienega Boulevard, Beverly Hills), is a go-for-Baroque bistro specializing in Continental cuisine. It also boasts custom-wrought wrap-around bumper guards for Rolls-Royces (said cars being handled exclusively by attendants accomplished in the art of driving and parking foreign cars) and a doggily appointed, air-conditioned parking kennel for the canine set. During the week, the doors to the restaurant and, we presume, its animal retreat, are open 11:30 to two A.M.; Saturday and Sunday, hours are five P.M. to two A.M. Through appropriately massive, ornately configured oaken portals, we were ushered into the presence of a pair of Pats – one, the winsome blonde hostess; the other, Fairchild's benign maitre d'hotel. A trio of features of the 140-seat room immediately struck us: the excellent soundproofing afforded by the treated cork ceilings; the quietly passionate burnt-orange-and-lush-green color scheme blending with dusky, handfinished oak paneling; the enormous bar that dominates the dining room. Hanging crown-shaped lamps of heavy iron set with gems (merely simulated) shed a multihued glow over the ample tables and 24-carat-gold-cushioned seats. To the accompaniment of a subdued sound system, we perused the hors d'oeuvres roster, waiving Escargots Bourguignon ($2.25) and Matjes Herring in White Wine ($1.25), among some seventeen choices, in favor of the luscious African Shrimp Cocktail with Avocado. Following delicately flavored and delightfully chilled Vichyssoise, we dispatched, at a properly deliberate tempo, the entree of rare Roast Eastern Sirloin of Beef with Mushroom Sauce, rich au gratin potatoes and superb French peas ($7). The weighty responsibility of developing and maintaining Fairchild's fledgling reputation for haute cuisine in a Hollywood stage setting rests with master chef Joseph Bruillard. A random tapping of his specialites de la maison uncovered Coquille St. Jacques "Westbrook" (dedicated to co-host Robert Machris Westbrook, who shares supervision with restaurateur Peter Fairchild), a glazed concoction of baby scallops, tiny shrimps, mushrooms and creamed white wine sauce ($4.50), and Coq au Vin d'Arbois sauteed in butter, shallots, Arbois red wine, pearled onions, mushrooms and pork lardons ($4.50). For a brace of victually attuned trenchermen, there's the Chateaubriand with Bouquetiere and subtle. Bearnaise ($14) or the similarly priced Double Eastern New York cut steak. Secure in a booth comfortably upholstered in hunter-green leather, anticipating the forthcoming culinary delights, you may occasionally find yourself wondering at the waiters' escargot-like tempo of service, in marked contrast to the restaurant's many superlative features.
Into a good stereo rig place: the delicate, economical sounds of harpist Corky Hale, an occasional assist from Bud Shank's flute and the flexible, unpretentious, moving voice of Kitty White. The result is Intimate/Kitty White Sings (World Pacific). Recorded in the relaxing atmosphere of Miss Hale's Hollywood pad, the set was unrehearsed – simply the product of the good taste of the participants. Miss White turns her superbly controlled tones to such jewels as Kurt Weill's My Ship, Rodgers and Hart's Glad to Be Unhappy and My Romance, and Jimmy Dorsey's I'm Glad There Is You, among the dozen included in this ballads-only, mood-sustaining collection. Intimate is one of the most captivating discs we've heard in months. Left-bank languor oozes from every groove of More Piaf of Paris (Capitol), Edith's current existentialist exercise. Backed by Robert Chauvigny's orchestra, the slight, pale chanteuse once again tracks the ways and woes of love. Through a dozen songs, she weaves a special kind of spell, enhanced by her own insights and musical nuances. No matter that all the tunes are sung in French; Miss Piaf's probing knows no language limitation. We must take exception to the title of Lorez Alexandria's new LP, Sing No Sad Songs for Me (Argo), and offer a low-key lament over the distressing fact that Miss Alexandria's total effect is considerably lessened by the inclusion of a number of rhythm-and-blues roundelays handled in a manner closely akin to that of Dinah Washington. The results are depressing, especially since Lorez, when she is of a mind, can be a softly pitched, sensitively tuned transmitter for ballads and torch songs – I'll Remember April and They Can't Take That Away from Me are the richer for having been sung by this emotion-drenched diva. The r & b idiom seems a backward step Miss Alexandria would have been wiser not to take. We wish her better luck (and better material) next time.
About six months ago I started dating a woman some seven years older than I. Our relationship has been extremely fulfilling, but there is one serious problem which is becoming progressively (or regressively) worse. I find nothing in common with her friends, who strike me as conservative, sedentary and rather stodgy. She has told me that she gets nothing from my social circle, which she characterizes as shallow, frivolous and irresponsible. As a consequence, we spend all of our time of late à deux. I have the feeling that this can't help but lead to a parting of the ways. Is there any solution or compromise we can work out? – B. B., Boston, Massachusetts.
When the Newest Playboy Club "closed" its doors for business this past spring, amid much celebrity-spangled excitement, another glamorous chapter in the Playboy Club story had been written. The same silver-and-black key that unlocks the fabled Chicago Playboy Club's rabbit-escutcheoned doors is now its lucky holder's open sesame to Miami's modern-day Fountain of Youth – a gilded gathering place for the country's influentials and affluentials.
the kite-flying, fez-digging, tequila-swigging, bongo-beating, flamingo-fancying, cow-painting ersatz plenipotentiary, flack-meister extraordinary, raconteur emeritus, discover of furtles, inventor of fatolators, designer of whaletoriums, hatcher of ostrich eggs, friend of flying midgets and six-legged turkeys, onetime funeral-insurance planner, part-time prestidigitator, sometime horror-movie heavy, all-time mad prince of munchausen mummery, falstaffian flapdoodle and brobdingnagian balderdash article Jim Moran is one of those rare people who has his own part of the world ordered exactly as it pleases him. He lives alone, cooks for himself, and spends hours with his 210-pounds, six-foot-two-inch body slumped in a chair, starting moodily out of his front window. He looks like one of those poor Middle European souls Emil Jannings used to play in German films. But his appearance is deceptive. Although he is often pensive, he is also sometimes diabolical, more frequently mysterious, continually mischievous, and incurably insatiable. He has an enormous appetite for food, sports cars, jazz, classical guitar, primitive spiritous liquors, girls, practical jokes, semantics, modern and ancient art, weird machines, exotic musical instruments, girls, photographing wild animals, travel and the world in general.
In 1560, Jean Nicot, French Ambassador to Portugal, gifted his Queen, Catherine de Médicis, with the seeds of N. tabacum and had the somewhat dubious honor of being immortalized in the nomenclature of the noble weed through its least appreciated by-product – nicotine. Since then, Western Man, whether in doublet, knee breeches or pin-stripe, has endeavored to smarten up his smoking gear so as to enhance his enjoyment of tobacco. In the past, the requisite of portability was fulfilled by accouterments that ranged from intricately engraved tinderboxes to oilskin tobacco pouches, to bulbously proportioned cigar cases. Today, the pleasures of tabac, which according to Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, go "beyond all the panaceas, potable gold and philosopher's stones," are heightened by a host of trimly tailored, easily toted accessories that bespeak a quiet elegance. Ordinary paraphernalia being obviously out of joint for smoking's ritual pleasures, we offer the following handsomely crafted, eminently useful tools. Clockwise from noon: French stainless-steel smoker's knife by Dunhill, $15; 14k engine-turned gold cigarette case by Merrin, $685; gold-plated butane lighter with flame adjuster by Dunhill, $35; Sportsman pipeliter by Nimrod, $3.95; French brown pinseal tobacco pouch with Velcro closure by Dunhill, $10; sterling-silver matchbook cover by Tiffany, $8; 14k Florentine-finish gold cigar cutter with initial plate by Tiffany, $39, attached to heavy gold vest chain by Cartier, $370; 14k gold and black cigar holder by Cartier, $90; square 14k engine-turned gold cigarette case by Tiffany, $655; superslim 14k textured gold lighter by Tiffany, $140; French black crocodile cigar case by Dunhill, $25. Supporting the smoker's knife: an English dull-finish black lizard cigarette case by Dunhill, $27.50; clustered in front of case, left to right: 14k gold cigarette holder with tortoise-shell mouthpiece by Tiffany, $33; hand-stitched brown cowhide butane lighter with flame adjuster by Ronson, $12.50; 10k gold-filled engraved lighter with initial panel by Zippo, $20; 14k gold cigar piercer with centering end and initial panel by Tiffany, $76. All will add immeasurably to the delights of the leaf.
What – Exactly – Makes College FootbaLL such a great spectator sport? If you add up the elements – pageantry, color, the spirit of competition – you still don't come up with the real answer to the enormous appeal of the game. One of the key reasons for football's gripping hold on its fans is the simple but not-so-obvious fact that it is, almost uniquely, an underdog's game. Every season there are several major teams that get taken apart by smaller, almost-unknown schools that were originally scheduled as breathers. The human tendency to identify with an underdog gives every football game an air of tense anticipation; the very real possibility that a scrappy team from Dwarf U can whip the behemoths from State (with the help of a few breaks and clever strategy) keeps the stadia filled on crisp autumn Saturday afternoons. And if, in seasons past, the little guy has had his days of glory with pleasing regularity, this season promises even more of the same. A kind of social revolution is taking place in college football, and the gridiron (continued on page 147) (continued from page 76) aristocracy had better guard its encrusted traditions. The have-nots are suddenly the haves. Teams that were gridiron nobodies barely a decade ago – Houston, Memphis State, Rutgers, Arizona, Iowa State, Detroit and dozens more – are becoming powers. Little more than a decade ago, Florida State University didn't even have any male students; now its football team is one of the major forces in the South.
Sheldon Keeler, manager of the home products division, kept himself in conference-readiness at all times; Walford Company meetings were liable to be called any time and any place. Even the building elevators weren't sanctuary; as he stepped into the up car on Wednesday morning, Cliff Bowles, the personnel VP, was waiting for him. Bowles had large, nervous hands; when he lit a cigarette, he held his elbows tightly against his sides. "Had a powwow last night," he said. "One of your guys got kicked around, Shel."
The Scene: early evening on a penthouse terrace, slow jazz playing on the stereo, weekend traffic humming far below, quiet conversation over beaded glasses of late-summer libation with a group of friends. The wherewithal (swizzled and test-tippled in 14-ounce vessels at Playboy's own bar), from foreground: Strawberry Blonde – Marinate three fresh strawberries for an hour in 1 ounce strawberry liqueur. Into glass pour 6 ounces Rhine wine, 1 ounce kirsch, 1 slice lime; add three ice cubes. Fill glass with soda, spear berries on toothpick, insert into straw in waiting wassail, attach pineapple slice to rim, clasp firmly in drinking hand and quaff. Jocose Julep – Mix in blender for 20 seconds: 2-1/2 ounces 100-proof bourbon, 1/2 ounce green crème de menthe, 24 mint leaves, 1 teaspoon sugar, 1 ounce lime juice. Pour over three ice cubes in glass, fill with soda, stir, insert 6 tall mint sprigs, serve to nearest betle. Papa au Rhum – Mix in blender for 15 seconds: 2 ounces light rum, 1 ounce dark rum, 1/2 ounce curaçao, 2 dashes bitters, 1 tablespoon pineapple cube, honeydew and cantaloupe balls on toothpick, and place in straw end, insert in potation, pay homage. Blended Comfort – Mix in blender for 10 seconds: 2 ounces blended whiskey, 1/2 ounce Southern Comfort, 1/4 cup thawed frozen peaches in syrup, 1/2 ounce dry vermouth, 11/2 ounces lemon juice, 1 ounce orange juice, 1/2 cup cracked ice. Pour into glass, add 2 ice cubes, spear cocktail orange on toothpick, place in straw end, thrust into firewater, fasten sliced lime and lemon on rim, imbibe. Horse's Neck with Scotch – Fill glass two-thirds full with cracked ice, insert spiraled lemon peel, add more ice to brim. Add 3 ounces Scotch, 1/2 ounce each sweet and dry vermouth, stirring well; still more ice. "Age" 10 minutes, then sip. Pink Elephant – Drain juice from small jar of maraschino cherries, replace with kirsch, marinate several hours. Mix in blender for 15 seconds: 2 ounces gin or vodka, 2-1/2 ounces lime juice, 1 ounce grenadine, 1 egg white, 1 cup cracked ice. Pour into prechilled glass, fill with ice cubes, skewer cherries on straw, plunge into concoction, proffer.
According to the Automobile Insurance Companies, the under–twenty-five male should be married, live on a farm, and drive only to church, slowly, over placid rural lanes. Otherwise, if a young man persists in living in happy bachelorhood in a city, the companies are going to stick him with the highest rates in the business, in order to make up from him what they are now losing for reasons that have nothing to do with under–twenty-five male drivers.
In keeping with the rest of California's anything-goes architecture, many of its banking institutions operate in the guise of a depositor's Disneyland, a Spanish hacienda, or a Frank Lloyd Wrightish rock-and-redwood ranchhouse. One conservatively marble-pillared maison de money, however, has enough business acumen to decorate its premises with secretary Christa Speck, whose own architecture (38-22-36) is spectacular in itself. When Christa's finished transcribing bank notes for the day, she turns her extracurricular attentions to the dance (modern), jazz (she digs Miles) and the sunday outdoor activities (she's a trampoline bug) that most nineteen-year-old Angelenos find irresistible. And her serious approach to matters fiscal detracts not one whit from Miss Speck's undeniable attributes, which might well, we maintain, cause something of a reverse run on the bank one day soon.
There Seems To Be some about where American civilization is goiug,. but there need l>e none. American civilization is going where it has always gone — to the drugstore. With'pilJ. potion and devout wish, most of the nation is, as usuaJ, striving alter superhuman levels of physical, mental and emotional felicity. Americans continue to be obsessed with the conviction that they owe it to themselves to look better than possible, feel better than possible and function better than possible. And what are the criteria of perfection- Se\emeen-jewel bowels, dazzling comeliness, infinite sexual stamina and a wide-awake bloodstream fortified with iron. And how may (continued on page 108) Perfection (continued from page 91) they be attained? With stomach-sweeteners, blood-purifiers, kidney-flushers, liver-arousers and gonad-stimulators, with an array of miraculous medicaments and hopeful suppositions that would make a Baluba witch doctor bilious with envy.
On the first and third sundays of each month, prisoners at the state penitentiary whose names begin with A through K are permitted to receive visitors; on the second and fourth Sundays, the Ls through the Zs. When fifth Sundays occur, special permission must be secured, but it is invariably granted. Each prisoner is entitled to have three persons visit him, two of whom must be members of his immediate family.
It wasn't long ago that sartorial distinctions among the various collegiate regions were easily identifiable by anyone with a reasonably perceptive fashion eye. Professional know-how was far from necessary to separate the three-button Ivy Leaguer from the freewheeling enrolle at a South-western agricultural college; to spot the ultra-tony undergraduate from an exclusive liberal arts school; or to distinguish between the conservatively inclined city-college commuter and the casually accoutered state-university man. With the gradual growth of Ivy influence across the country, however, local looks have lost much of their sharply sectional stamps. The lean-lined natural-shoulder profile has been adopted (and adapted) almost everywhere. Individuality is still observable, but its manifestations are increasingly subtle; the flair with which a certain suit is worn is often the only denominational difference between an MIT engineer and a UCLA Lit. Major. A working knowledge of such near-intangibles, therefore, becomes advisable for style-conscious collegians. To help provide these prerequisite insights, Playboy has prepared this regional rundown of the last and latest word on campus fashions. Read it and reap.
Scholars and Fossil-Fanciers, who dig Early Man, believe the first "swearing" was largely a matter of growls, hisses and roars calculated to strike fear in the ear of an enemy. As Finley Peter Dunne once put it, in the dialect of Mr. Dooley: "'Twas intinded as a compromise between runnin' away an' fightin'. Befure it was invinted they was on'y th' two ways out iv an argymint."
Hapless previewers of this fall's television schedule have already added their amens to John Crosby's classic allegation that the American medium is little more than "chewing gum for the eyes." Overseas, mercifully, mankind's video-viewing prospects are far less fatuous. The current craze on Tokyo TV is a corps of kimonoless chorines who prance weekly on a bluish bauble called The Pink Mood Show; and in France, the unstrung heroines of the Folies-Bergère debuted déshabillé for Parisian TViewers late last year. Inspired by this broad-minded programing concept from abroad, lampooning lensman Jerry Yulsman illustrates how the female form – suffering not a whit from overexposure – could be used to boost both Nielsens and morale on our drear domestic screens.
La Plaza De Toros, in Madrid, has a capacity of 23,000 ecstatic aficionados; among them, recently, was artist LeRoy Neiman (on European assignment for Playboy), whose intense, impressionist use of color captures here the excitement and spectacle of the bull ring. The corrida begins with a flourish of trumpets heralding the ritual entrance of the matadors and their cuadrillas (crews) to salute the Presidential box. Neiman's sketch-pad notes describe the fight itself. "There is a moment of expectant silence and the bull charges in, aroused by his sudden freedom and the blinding light of the sun-streaked arena. More swirls of trumpets, each announcing a stage, or suerte of the fight: the suerte de capa, performed by the matador himself with his magnificent cape – it is here the graceful, dangerous passes such as the veronica are made. Then comes the suerte de varas by the mounted picadors, whose function is to pick El Toro's powerful neck muscles; the suerte de banderillas, in which ribboned darts are thrust into his neck; and the final stage, the spectacular suerte de muleta, when the matador's large cape is replaced by the small red muleta and sword. If the fight is going well, the atmosphere is not unlike that of a Roman circus, from which the corrida descended. The crowd, emotional and spirited, is quick to criticize and as quick to approve. At the final thrust of the sword, the bull sinks to the ground, reluctant and savage as a dying gladiator, as proud as the matador, his killer, who strides away, hand raised to the throng. A national hero, he has faced death in the afternoon for this moment of wild adulation."
A Philosopher Once Studied the Wiles of women until he believed that no woman on earth could deceive him. Equipped with such vast knowledge, he felt that he could marry and keep his wife chaste, and he chose, therefore, a very beautiful and very young woman for his bride. Their house he turned into a fortress. The wall around it was tall and thick, and the only window through which his wife could look was set high in a tower. This wise philosopher kept only female servants, carried his key on a chain around his neck when he left the house, and at night slept with it beneath his pillow. Such precautions enabled him to banish care and to live a peaceful and tranquil life as befitted a man of sense and wisdom.
Terry-Thomas:tunnel-toothed & goggle-eyed The Cheshire grin permanently attached to the lace of mustachioed Terry-Thomas has been mirrored by the smiles of pleasure from a burgeoning coterie of moviegoers (including hordes of Britishers enjoying a haw-haw at a caricature of themselves). They have followed T-T through such lighter-than-air misadventure films as Private's Progress, Brolhers-in-Law (both with Ian Carmichael), Blue Murder at St. Trininn's, Tom Thumb (with Peter Sellers), Man in a Cocked Hat (also with Sellers), Too Many Crooks, I'm All Right, Jack (with Sellers and Carmichael), School for Scoundrels (again with Car-,' michael), and recently Make Mine Mink. The fifty-year-old T-T— christened Thomas Stevens — experienced his initial, somewhat gamy taste of thesping with the Union Cold Storage Company Dramatic Society (he was once a butcher), had the innocently outrageous temerity to first adopt the stage name of Mot Snevets (Tom Stevens in Serutanese), changed it because "Snevets didn't seem quite me." T-T (he didn't add the hyphen till 1947) has found time 'twixt a steady parade of comedy roles to design and wear 150-odd (some very odd) waistcoats and to write his autobiography, Filling the Gap. He is now mugging his way through his first Hollywood movie as Tuesday Weld's co-star in Bachelor Flat. As a wildly warped archetype of the British stereotype, Terry-Thomas has come a long way from less-than-meaty roles with the UCSCDS. a stint as ukulele-strumming leader of a long-defunct, little-lamented band called the Rhythm Maniacs, and a tour of duty as a twinkle-toed instructor in Ada Foster's School of Dancing. He is, in all his tunnel-toothed glory, the unchallenged, blustering, bumbling successor to Colonel Blimp.
Ian Carmichael:sticky wickets & muddling through The Englishman savors a secret image of himself: a quiet chap, well-bred, painfully shy with, but appreciatively aware of, girls; a basically gentle soul, aristocratically inept in everything except (Rule, Britannia!) The Ultimate Crisis. The cinematic incarnation of this dream is embodied in forty-one-year-old Ian Carmichael, a boyish, tweedy, old-school-tie bloke who manages to muddle through his own shortcomings in the very best British tradition. He is put upon, dictated to, barked at, deceived, defrauded and duped by his co-stars in a manner that would try the patience of all but the most bulldogged Britisher. Carmichael always hangs on grittily until the final reel, when he manages to prove that one can play the game (cricket, of course) according to the rules (but badly) and still win fair lady, financial reward and public approbation. Off-screen, Carmichael is a better-than-average cricketer; as a nonmuddling army major in World War II, he was "mentioned in dispatches," which is the low-key British way of saying he was a hero. After the war, he put his one year of training at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art to good use, appearing in a score of West End musical com-edies and revues before stumbling purposefully in front of the movie cameras. Since his first starring role in Simon and Laura (with the late Kay Kendall), he has teamed up on a number of happy occasions with his screen nemesis, Terry-Thomas. As long as nice-guy-wins-girl-after,-many-snafus-type movies are being made, Carmichael, the very model of a model muddle-througher, is assured a resounding "good show" by fans and front office alike.
Peter Sellers:mild-mannered & many-guised unassuming, unactorish Peter Sellers is comfortably riding the crest of England's New Wave of film funnymen. The diffident thirty-five-year-old student prince of English comedy may soon succeed to the throne if its current tenant, Alec Guinness, continues to be preoccupied with the serious side of the cinema. Sellers, who uses his almost unearthly talent for mimicry ("I work from the voice inward") as a self-effacing shield, has confessed his inability to project his own personality, buries his real identity beneath an infinite assortment of vocal disguises. A firm believer in the occult, metaphysician Sellers' chameleonlike abilities were given full rein after World War If when he was recruited for BBC's sortie into insanity, The Goon Shows, a radio crossbreeding of the Marx Brothers with Salvador Dali. Sellers' first film, Lei's Go Crazy, found the prolific Peter, a one-man U.N., playing nationals of five different countries. Six years later he adroitly assisted Guinness in The Ladykillers, and was on his way. His near-magical 35-millimeter metamorphoses have ranged from a tripartite triumph in The Mouse That Roared (his initial American conquest) to Humbert Humbert's bete noir, Quilty, in the movie version of Lolita. An amateur pantomimic effort of his, The Running, Jumping and Standing Still Film, won an Oscar nomination in 1960. Sellers, who has satisfied a compulsion to fill his house with every mechanical gimcrack he can lay his hands on, possesses no invention quite so imaginative as his own acting skills; he will soon put them to the test in two forthcoming flicks, playing Napoleon and Potemkin.
The Sociologists, in the argot of their craft, are upward mobile. They are getting ahead. The membership of the American Sociological Society is eighty percent higher than it was eleven years ago. In 1950, there were only fifty persons who had working cards in the study of social stratification; now there are five times as many. The increase has been almost as substantial in the sociology of art and literature, not to mention the sociology of "disorganization, deviance."
November's Brisk Winds and barometric whims supply special incentive for Southern exposure, and we warmly recommend the Caribbean, chock-full of splendidly appointed sun spots that can turn frosty November into a fall fiesta. In San Juan, Puerto Rico, for instance, it's just a swizzle-stick toss to the nearest daiquiri dispensary at any of the city's pleasure places – Caribe Hilton, Condado Beach, La Concha and the San Juan Intercontinental. And it's only a little more than that to their on-the-premises casinos that stay open the better part of each twenty-four hours. You can gambol and gamble, too, at the Flamboyan and Jack's Club; the hotel bandsmen and kindred souls usually get together at the Morocco Club on Avenida Ponce de León, which stays open until five a.m., or the cellarish little Gilded Cage in the old town.