Like movie and TV credits—producer, director, writer, etc.—the masthead of a magazine is frequently of more interest to the trade than to the public. We allow ourselves to believe, however, that Playboy readers take more than a casual, passing interest in what goes on behind the scenes here, so we call your attention to our revised masthead on page eight, whereon you'll find some newsmaking new names, and some Playboy regulars assuming new roles.
Playboy, October, 1961, Vol. 8, No. 10, 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 address 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, CI 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.
For the delectation of those who have exhausted the entertainment value of Webster's Unabridged Dictionary and the Manhattan telephone directory, we'd like to suggest Books in Print, a stupefyingly exhaustive catalog of 225,000 currently published authors and titles, as a rich new source of light reading pleasure. On all counts—staggering weight (eight pounds), unwieldy dimensions (8-1/2 x 11), healthy cost ($17.50) and preposterous length (2050 pages)—this pleasingly plump tome qualifies as an endlessly diverting bedside companion for the discriminating reader. Picking up our copy the other day, we flipped quickly to the I's, began scanning 240 titles beginning with everyone's favorite word, and discovered that we were, or rather I Was, at one time or another, Defeated, unaccountably Swindled by Red Movie Makers, and just plain Sick, which is hardly surprising in view of the fact that I Was also A Male War Bride, A Teen-Age Dwarf, A Spy for Hitler. A Career Girl's Consort and A Chaplain on the Franklin. With equal versatility, I Stole $16,000,000, Doubted Flying Saucers, Met a Man with a Shining Face and Couldn't Help Laughing, Fought with Geronimo and also With Custer, Saw It Happen in China, Knew Sister Kenny and Knew a Phoenix; then, just in the nick of time, I Found My Love and I Thought of Daisy as I Threw a Rose into the Sea; finally I Joined the Russians, but regretted it and woke up one morning to find that I Killed Stalin. Currently, we are, or rather I Am, A Daughter of the Church, A Mouse, A Shipping Clerk, An Estonian, An Eskimo, Anastasia, Fifteen and (somewhat confusingly) both My Brother and Myself. Soon after, I Married a Korean; but it didn't work out, and in rapid succession I Married a San Blas Indian, A Logger, A Hunter, A Boat, The Klondike, The Veep, and finally, for a new kick, Four Children. Furthermore, apropos of nothing, I Can Jump Puddles, Tell God Things, Fly and Get It for You Wholesale. And for whatever it's worth, I Know the Club Manager, A Magic House, A Secret, Some Little Animals and A Lot of Things, you bet. Not only that, but I happen to Like Children, Trains, Winter, Greece, Red and—laugh if you will—Being a Grandma. And here, as Eloise would say, is what I Want: I Want to Be a Zookeeper, An Orange Grower and (don't bandy this about) A Ballet Dancer. However self-contradictingly, I also Want to Be Like Stalin; but most of all, I Want to Paint My Bathroom Blue. What I Don't Want, on the other hand, is To Shoot an Elephant and Other Stories. Therapists might want to look into my (our) ambivalent intentions: I'll Be Seeing You, I'll Tell You a Story, then, undiscouraged, I'll Tell You Another Story; and because you'll be insufficiently attentive, I'll Kill You Next, Bury My Dead, and then Die Laughing—but Cry Tomorrow and Sing No More. Let's face it: I Never Grew Up. That's enough about I (or rather us) however; now let's talk about You: You and Your Skin, Your Budgie, Your Rugmaking, Your First Hundred Meals, Your Nasal Sinuses and Their Disorders, Your Cosmic Destiny, Your ... but that's all the time I (or rather we) have for the Reading Hour this month, kiddies. Next time we'll tell you How, among other things, To Build a Baroque Concert Harpsichord, To Live with a Neurotic at Work or at Home, To Write and Use a YMCA Physical Education Policy, To Scrape Skis, To Make Earthworms Pay, To Tan Animal Skins at Home, To Put on a Minstrel Show, To Run a Bassoon Factory, and even—lest these varied accomplishments don't suffice—To Be Deliriously Happy.
Fanny is based on David Merrick's Broadway musical, which was a condensation of Marcel Pagnol's celebrated film trilogy. The surprise is not that the original has been diluted but that the picture has managed to retain some tang of the Pagnol originals. So those who saw the classic trio, Marius, Cesar and Fanny, may say, "Tangs for the memory." Fanny (the movie) is laid on the Marseilles waterfront. Fanny (the girl) becomes pregnant by Marius, who wants to be a sailor. When he sails off, Panisse, an older man who loves Fanny, marries her and treats the child as his—until Marius comes back to claim his girl and his son. Leslie Caron, in the title role, is elopement-bait, and Horst Buchholz as Marius yearns with sincerity for sea and sex. As Cesar, his saloonkeeper father, Charles Boyer still suggests more boudoir than bar. Maurice Chevalier, playing the doting dotard Panisse, is a high-power entertainer but a low-voltage actor. Shot in Marseilles in picture-postcard Technicolor, Fanny is a not unpleasantly flavored bouillabaisse that could do with a lot more seasoning.
At first glance, Frank Sinatra's most recent LPs bear certain striking similarities. Both Come Swing with Me (Capitol), and Sinatra Swings (Reprise) boast the presence of Billy May and his studio band. Both highlight Sinatra singing reliable standards. On the Capitol disc, he investigates Day by Day, Five Minutes More, That Old Black Magic, Lover, Paper Doll and I've Heard That Song Before, among the dozen tunes included. On the Reprise LP, entrepreneur Sinatra confronts another dozen, including Falling in Love with Love, Love Walked In, I Never Knew, It's a Wonderful World and Have You Met Miss Jones. Beyond these separate but equal qualities (a situation which prompted Capitol to sue Reprise and win a temporary injunction which halted nationwide distribution of the Reprise package under its original title, Swing Along with Me), the LPs are light-years apart. For his ex-bosses at Capitol, Sinatra performs listlessly; it's an able but undistinguished outing. For his own firm, however, he wails as he's rarely wailed before, punching out a dynamic The Curse of an Aching Heart, a vigorous Granada and a hard-charging You're Nobody 'til Somebody Loves You. In this competition, Reprise triumphs handily.
In Murray Hill, a richly historic section of New York almost devoid of outstanding eating places, the Town House (108 East 38th) stands out in bold, happy relief. Maître de Emmanuel Zwaaf boasts that his staff can prepare any dish a patron asks for, whether it's on the menu or not, but the menu more than suffices. Start with a Coquille St. Jacques (seafood baked in a shell). For an entree, it's eeny-meeny-miny-mo—Baked English Sole, sautéed Beef Filet with Sauce Chasseur, Coq au Vin Rouge, Pompano Veronique. We requested and received the marvelous Shrimps St. Honorat even though it was not on the menu that evening. It's an incomparable composition of shrimp and lobster with a stuffing of crab meat mixed with white wine, mustard, minced garlic and bread crumbs, blended and baked to that point at which robustness and subtlety are d'accord, and served with a hot cream sauce. Next, try the piquant Salade Emmanuel (chopped raw spinach and shallots, vinegar-wine dressing). If, after this, you are miraculously up to more than coffee and a pony of Chartreuse, there are Profiteroles au Chocolat, Peach Flambé au Cognac and a number of other seductive confections on the dessert menu. Prices are à la carte, with most entrees between $3.75 and $5.75. Lunch is also á la carte, starting at $2.30. The dining arrangements are split-level—two darkly intimate rooms seating about sixty each. One room has murals of Provençal scenes painted in gay colors, but seen in deep chiaroscuro because most of the light is supplied by flickering candles on the tables. Down a few steps is a less formal area with whitewashed brick walls, red leather banquettes and red carpeting. The bar is in the Library, a shadowy den more suited to romantic bibbers than researching bibliophiles. A pianist (during our visit, Stan Stacey was in attendance) is unobtrusively present from 7 P.M. to closing. Hours are 11:30 A.M. to 11 P.M. Monday through Friday. The Library is also open Saturdays to students of the good life.
In what was probably the biggest opening since Jonah stepped inside the whale, Stan Kenton and his troupe of two-dozen traveling minstrels debuted midst much fanfare their "new era in modern American music," an unveiling that threatened to totter Las Vegas' towering Riviera Hotel. Kenton's bow in the hotel's Lounge was so successful the management removed the large plush swivel chairs from the lounge and substituted smaller straight-backed jobs to accommodate a slew of extra customers. In its four 45-minute shows nightly, the "new era" band made you forget the shoehorning, with the exuberant vocals of Kenton's songbird-spouse, Ann Richards, the winner of every set. The Kenton crew balanced out thusly: five trumpets, five trombones, five reeds, four mellophoniums, bass, drums, congas and bongos, and Mr. K. at the keyboard completing the complement with his customary éclat. The four mellophoniums (the hippies have dubbed them elephant horns), an off-breed brass instrument pitched in F and specially created for Kenton, visually and musically demanded and got the crowd's attention. In appearance, the mellophonium resembles nothing so much as a surrealistic French horn. The music goes round and round and comes out of the large bell some three feet from the player's lips; the tubing is circular; the valving is trumpet style. The instrument's tonal quality broadens the arranger's scope, enabling him to score an alto voice in the brass section, filling the gap in the chord structure created by standard brass voicing. Its effect in the ensemble, as scored by Kenton and his artful arranging staff of Johnny Richards, Gene Roland and Lennie Niehaus, ranged from the warm to the sonorous to the eerie, imparting a multifaceted character to the always dominant Kenton brasses. From the opening ballad of the evening's first set, a languorous I'm Glad There Is You, through the medium-up Stomping at the Savoy, the new instrumentation became immediately evident in the broader tonal palette applied by the band. Intermission Riff, that sturdy Kenton stand-by, was still, in its revamped form, an exciting arrangement that built line on line until all the massed brasses wailed in surging waves of sound. Bill Holman's scoring of Malaguena was a brilliant example of choice modern charting, while Clair de Lune, written for brass choir, spoke softly but carried a big kick. This new Kenton contingent boasts a cracking good trumpet team, a sax section whose intonation is impeccable but whose teamwork tended at times to be sloppy, a well-nigh perfect trombone section in which Jim Amlotte's bass horn glittered, and a mellophonium choir that became more closely knit with every set. There also were strong soloists in every section; Gene Rowland blew mellophonium jazz with taste and attack; Gabe Baltazar, on alto, managed to combine an essentially cool and collected approach with fire in long, fluid exploratory figures; Marvin Holaday's baritone sax, on the other hand, was gruff and biting. However, the band's most exciting soloist, surprisingly enough, was old-timer Sam Donahue. His big, brash tenor-sax sound and his solid, romping concept of what jazz communication should be proved a delight. Kenton, appraising the Lounge date, said: "This is the location we've wanted for such a long time in Vegas. We've all worked so hard on this new endeavor, we're happy it's such a success." Our own feeling is that if Stan Kenton isn't exactly launching a new era in modern American music, he certainly is enlivening the present one.
The beginning of Carson McCullers' new book, Clock Without Hands (Houghton Mifflin, $4), leads one to expect a somber lyric narrative in the manner, if not the style, of Samuel Beckett. J. T. Malone learns that he has leukemia and can expect to live only a little more than a year. That is the underlying premise of the novel, but unlike Beckett, Miss McCullers does not keep her focus entirely on one subreal central character; she moves outward to his small Georgia town with its assorted characters and builds an absurdity—feeble Judge Fox Clane, dreaming fatuously of the Ole South—into a lovable, yet contemptible human being. But J. T. Malone, the one real human being in the novel, moves like a shadow in the shadow of death. At forty, he has lost what small libido he once had; he is not needed by his wife or his children. He fears death, and would like to believe in God and in his own immortality, but his minister is embarrassed by his questions. Toward the end of the novel, a blue-eyed Negro named Sherman Pew, having gone unnoticed all his life, decides to "do something." Through a newspaper ad, he rents a house in the white section of town. A white citizens' committee meets in J. T. Malone's pharmacy, and lots are drawn for who should bomb Sherman. Malone draws the job—but refuses to carry it out. He is near death, he tells the others, and fears for his immortal soul— "... if I have one, I don't want to lose it." So somebody else throws the bomb. Sherman Pew is killed and, later, Malone dies, somehow comforted by his refusal to do the job. "He was no longer a man watching a clock without hands. He was not alone, he did not rebel, he did not suffer." J. T. Malone remains veiled, while the world of mindless racism around him comes through vividly in this admirable and ambitious novel.
I'm a one-time loser who took too many years to discover my mistake. Now that the marital knot's been untied I find that I cannot bring myself to go through the whole boring rigmarole of calling girls on the phone, making small talk on dates, exchanging inane pleasantries, and all the other sticky frosting that's required on the pre-boudoir cake. It just seems too childish to me now. Am I asking the impossible by inquiring if there is any other way to establish a rapport than through the usual time-consuming channels? — M. T., San Francisco, California.
Peter Stelver was a lover of games. When he was eight years old the names Parker and Bradley warmed his blood and rattled his brain in its pan; they moved him as the sight of Monte Carlo from the sea might goad a gambler. His relatives noted his taste, and his toy chest was racked high with bright lithographed layouts of games of skill and chance. He spent hours over them, and he didn't care whether he played with someone or alone. When his middle finger flew off the trigger of his thumb and the little brass arrow spun in a blur, he knew contentment, whether the pointer told him, when it stopped, "You Have Found the Gold Mine!" or "Go to Jail."
In our semiannual Fashion Forecast last October, Playboy divined and defined Ivy, British and Continental as the three major influences then shaping the form and direction of upcoming sartorial styles. The prevailing Ivy silhouette, we correctly prognosticated, would be infused with a feeling of unimpeachable Continental elegance, while reviving British outlines would impart to outdoor and casual (text continued on page 71) wear a look of tweedy masculinity. With the arrival of a new fall and winter season, these same three fashion forces will continue to hold sway over the style scene, but with a significant realignment in their balance of power. Continental modes will be giving way before a combined upsurge of Savile Row and Ivy League. And as a result of this shift in spheres of influence, a new fashion movement is (text continued on page 74) beginning to take shape. Amalgamating the undecorated naturalness of Ivy and the unique detailing of British tailoring, this emerging profile will retain the slimness and suavity of Continental lines—but with a distinctive authority all its own.
Nature-loving (and clearly loved by nature) Jean Cannon's natural habitat is any reasonably shady glen, except when she's water-skiing, showing her prize-winning pooches or boning up on the hippest way to crack the Hollywood enigma (she's a stage-struck emigree from New York's very "in" Neighborhood Playhouse). While we're not usually enthused over rambles through the greensward, the prospect of prospecting for dryadlike Jean would send us into the California woods faster than Apollo pursued Daphne. Doe-eyed Jean hasn't met a satyr on her sylvan romps, instead speaks warmly of silver birches and her pet poodles (she brings out the beast in anyone). But the satyr's loss is our gain, all 38-24-37 inches, so join us in a birthday toast to our sable-haired October Playmate, a tempting twenty this month.
When the squeaky little voice called "Help me! Help me!" over and over again, Henry nearly jumped out of his skin. He had just returned to his apartment from seeing a re-rerun of The Fly at his neighborhood theater, and his first thought was of that awful climactic scene in the web. "Impossible!" he told himself, but he started looking around anyhow. "Where are you?" he asked.
"Interplanetary Ships and Saucers of various material densities can approximate the speed of light. This seems impossible to you only because of a natural principle that has not yet been discovered by your scientists. Also, the Speed of Light is the Speed of Truth. This statement is presently unintelligible to Earth's peoples, but is a basic cosmic axiom."
Nero would probably have relished the succulence—and certainly the spectacle—of a Baked Alaska lapped with flaming brandy, but this erratic emperor had to pique his sweet tooth with simpler pleasures: buckets of snow from the distant Alps were borne to Rome by the swiftest centurions, drenched in the rarest fruit syrups, then rushed to the festal board for the approval of his surfeited palate. A sweet-scarce millennium later, the first iced delights joined boar haunch and blood pudding on the banquet tables of Britain's lionhearted (and iron-stomached) sovereign, Richard I, who returned from the Crusades not with the Holy Grail, but with a dandy recipe for orange ice presented to him by Saladin, the gourmet-warrior-sultan of Egypt and Syria. Enjoying Thirteenth Century hospitality in Cathay, Marco Polo tasted a sugary none-such which he was foresighted enough to take home to Italy, along with the silks and spices of the East: a treasure-trove of voluptuous recipes for cold confections made with milk. It remained for the French, of course, to stir cream into what came to be known—and sometimes worshiped—as glacé. Charles I became so enamored of this bonne bouche that he employed the services of a full-time glacé-chef, who pledged himself to keep the king's exclusive formulas on ice. Overcome with sweet sorrow when security measures melted, the miffed monarch summarily sent the glacé-maker to his Maker.
Igor Stravinsky—a slight, somewhat stooped elder citizen whose deeply crevassed jowls and heavy, dark-rimmed spectacles accentuate a generally somber physiognomy—is a man with a long and distinguished past who might now be expected to play the part of the benign old master. He does nothing of the kind. Stravinsky makes no attempt to build a bridge across time to la belle époque. In his eightieth year he remains the model of a modern iconoclast.
To the best of anyone's knowledge, the human practice of bathing began with primitive man, and is presumed to have developed from the experience of getting wet. As a habit it is more recent than eating, drinking, hugging or kissing, and probably evolved only after a long period of scratching. It preceded the use of soap by thousands of years, and has figured prominently in the histories of sex, religion, medicine and Madison Avenue.
There's no bitterness so numbing as to find oneself sitting in the shambles of one's life, regarding the wreckage of the years. A decade ago, I learned something about wines. They seemed unnecessarily confusing to me, so eventually I wrote a book about them, to clear things up. The book may well have been crystal, but too long, so then I wrote a short one, which I thought of fondly as a grape caught in amber. And there I rested, until I overheard a conversation in a restaurant while I waited for a late guest.
In the twelvemonth that's passed since you last rated the nation's top jazzmen, more fans dug more jazz (funk, soul, cool, Dixie, Third Stream) in more forms (concerts, clubs, festivals, LPs, radio, TV, college courses) by more first-rate musicians (from Adderley to Zentner) than ever before. Now, it's time once again to make your wishes known as to who should fill the regal roster that will make up the 1962 Playboy All-Star Jazz Band—a dream aggregation of top sidemen. As in the past, the ballot is made up of musicians who have been active on the jazz scene during the past year. Several top names—notably Chet Baker and Art Pepper—are missing because of entanglements with the law both here and abroad.
There was once a Certain gentleman who used to go in the dark of night to make love to a certain woman. They had an agreement. When he came to her door he would yap like a little dog and she would then open the door and let him in.
The Botany formula has nothing at all to do with flowers. It is instead the business brainchild of Boston-based corporate crossbreeder Abraham Malcolm Sonnabend. In 1954, after accepting an invitation to buy a quarter of the common stock of all-wool Botany Mills, Sonnabend discovered that the company was in danger of not meeting its next payroll. Made Chairman of the Board, he quickly added a highly profitable textile complex, paying for it out of his own excess working capital and future earnings; at tax time, its profits were offset by Botany's considerable tax-loss credit, and its sellers had a handsome capital gains deal for their troubles. He continued to feed the revivified Botany a fistful of companies making everything from dolls to synthetic pearls, turning it into a fat and frisky fiscal cat. In like manner, Sonnabend's Hotel Corporation of America (New York's Plaza, Chicago's Edgewater Beach, Washington's Mayflower, et al.) also includes such unlikely enterprises as maple syrup and minced clams marketers, while his Premier Industries, originally a soft-goods amalgam, now has Mad magazine under its well-feathered wing. Harvardman Sonnabend joinéd forces this spring with oil zillionaire Clint Murchison's sons in a successful proxy Pier Sixer that knocked out Allan Kirby and the incumbent management of the Allegheny Corporation, a multibillion-dollar holding company. Although happy to have won, Sonnabend had already earned his M.D. (Master of Diversity) many times over.
"I think writers are the beginning. If you don't have writers, there is nothing for singers, actors and musicians to do." So speaks Oscar Brown, Jr., a thirty-five-year-old, multiskilled artist who is himself a singer, actor and musician as well as lyricist and author. His latest one-man effort is a "modern morality play with a beat," Kicks & Co., all about a Mephistophelean mag publisher who has a hell of a time on a Negro college campus corrupting beauty and brains. Whether Kicks soars high or falls flat at its Broadway debut this winter (it preems in Chicago this month), it will remain as a hip monument to a canny folk poet who got into the songwriting biz ten years ago. After his first hit, Brown Baby (recorded by Mahalia Jackson), one-time radio actor and newscaster Brown began to play the nightclub circuit, has to his credit recent pack-'em-in performances at New York's Village Vanguard, Chicago's Birdhouse, as well as a fine Columbia LP, Sin and Soul, and a rave reception at last summer's successful Music at Newport. Singer Brown, adept at combining wit and nonsense with wildly moving, tormentingly real blues ("Being a Negro is not always pleasant, but it can enrich an artist"), has a knack for leaving his audiences hollering for more. Lyricist Brown, who counts among his credits Work Song, Forbidden Fruit and Dat Dere, sums up his credo succinctly: "My aim is to deliver messages that swing and entertainment that is meaningful."
A World-wide revolution by Blueprint is shaking the deep-rooted Bauhaus foundations of modern architecture right down to bedrock. One of the spearheads of the movement away from right-angle thinking ("Contemporary Victorianism") is Chicago-based, Bauhaus-weaned architect-engineer Bertrand "Bud" Goldberg, forty-eight, a restless spatial spirit responsible for Marina City, whose twin sixty-story cylindrical towers—with utility "cores" at the center from which radiate 896 pie-wedge-shaped apartments, each with all-glass perimeter wall and patio offering fabulous lake or city vista—dominate the north bank of the Chicago River. Marina City, a round-the-clock design for living, will contain (in addition to the world's tallest apartment buildings) offices, twenty-story garages, a boldly avant-garde theater, docking facilities, skating rink, swimming pool. Goldberg, whose designs often have to pause in mid-flight waiting for technology to catch up, is busy exploring fresh avenues for the "creation of order." Already built: factories, schools, residences, a revolutionary featherweight freight car. Already blueprinted or a-building are an outdoor civic auditorium for Palm Beach; a radically conceived audio-visual grade school for Chicago; Astor Tower, a radically designed Chicago apartment hotel. Goldberg's Renaissance-man interests span past and present—he alternates twelve-tone music lessons with collecting archeological artifacts—but professionally, he has eyes for only the present and the future. Regarding architectural "monuments" which impede the progress of urban planning, he states flatly: "When a building has outlived its function, rip it down."
In December a sparkling world of travel awaits those venturesome enough to flee the traditional holiday haunts. For this month we suggest that you take off on a balmy ski jaunt, to a clime where slalom can be mingled neatly with Sol.