With this 210-page issue -- first of a pair of specially priced Christmas gift and holiday packages and the biggest in our history -- Playboy celebrates its Eighth Anniversary. Commemorating the occasion in the style to which you've become accustomed, Editor-Publisher Hugh M. Hefner has thrown open the portals of the Playboy Mansion for a lavish Holiday-Anniversary house party. Along for the weekend: an even dozen of our most popular Playmates of the past, frisking from hearthside popcorn popping to bikinied splashing in the free-form indoor pool -- all to be seen on 10 pleasure-filled pages inside. Never one to espouse merely vicarious diversions, we also offer counsel on how to do your own Hosting for the Holidays, in a compendium of wise words and instructive pix presenting five festive Playboy parties ranging from the traditional Formal Dinner to the unique Let the Guests Do It.
Playboy, December, 1961, vol. 8, no. 12, 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, Jules Kase, Eastern Advertising Manager, 720 Fifth Ave., N.Y. 19, N.Y. 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; Florida and Caribbean representative, the Hal Winter Company, 7450 Ocean Terr., Miami Beach, Fla., UN 5-2661; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 1722 Rhodes-Haverty Bldg., Atlanta 3, GA., JA 2-8113.
We were the recipient of a telephonic cry for help from a fellow fourth estater the other day. Our caller was the editor of the Courier-Review, the local newspaper of Barrington, Illinois, an exurban hamlet which has been pejoratively described as a road-company Westport. His plea for succor was not a selfish one: his readers were confronted with a thorny problem entailing the maintenance of status in a changing society -- and we were glad to offer our assistance to a colleague and, via him, to the vanishing breed of entrenched county blue bloods. For many years, he told us, the sterling folk of Barrington had been privileged to obtain from the county clerk the required resident windshield stickers bearing status-loaded low numbers. To their chagrin, said clerk (who may otherwise be the soul of charity) had brutally announced that, for the coming year, no numbers would be held sacrosanct for the upper crust; the stickers would be issued strictly on a first come, first served basis. Deprivation of this numerological badge of privilege, our caller felt, would not only sow consternation among the gentry, but might even threaten the very fiber of social class distinctions and their ready recognition. He wanted advice -- fast -- to impart to his readers on how to combat this bureaucratic plebeianization without too much effort, since effort of this sort is as infra dig as high sticker numbers. The conversation -- with us doing our off-the-top-of-the-noggin best in a worthy cause -- went like this:
The hard-working, original and talented authors-performers of From the Second City demonstrate conclusively that it is only a short theatrical step from Chicago, where their revue was born (Playboy, October 1960). to the Broadway big time. The collective excellence of this company has been appreciated for years by coffee sippers at the Windy City's Second City--heir to the improvisational heritage of the Compass Players--and earlier this year Los Angeles had the pleasure of this company's company for three successful months. Whether or not the show matches this record in New York, its visit will still have been most welcome. The production is simple: eight actors, one pianist, four chairs and a trunkful of props. And the viewpoint is fresh in approach, wise in comment and rich in verbal wit. Take the sketch that ribs a mechanized world of "canned togetherness": A lonely young misfit listens hopefully to a long-playing record that offers him the eternal friendship of the narrator. As Eugene Troobnick's voice booms heartily over the sound track, oily in cajolery, avuncular in phony aphorisms, Paul Sand, who studied with the master, Marcel Marceau, achieves an alternation of despair and tentative confidence that is a small masterpiece of pantomime. There is a wildly animated burlesque of an early Chaplinesque flick; a lethally perceptive parody, in drastically broken Swedish, of an Ingmar Bergman film: and a brilliant dialog between Alan Arkin as a beatnik with a guitar and no place to go, and Barbara Harris as a shy young art student "with problems in the area of spontaneity." All the players are at home with intelligent ideas that demand an equal share of intelligence from the audience. Although not every sketch is up to par and although what seemed right in the informal case of a cabaret theater does not always make it in the formality of a main stem theater, the best of From the Second City is the best revue material Broadway has seen in years. At the Royale, 242 West 45th Street.
Miles Davis in Person at the Blackhawk, San Francisco, Volumes 1 and 2 (Columbia), reconfirms, in the clearest possible terms, two things -- that Davis' playing is an intricately sculpted work of art, and that any sideman working the quintet must be absolutely first-rate or suffer the consequences. Hank Mobley, Davis' tenor man for these sessions, unfortunately suffers the consequences. Adequate in other surroundings, Mobley's ideas appear sterile and inconsequential in the glaring light of Miles'. A random sampling of Davis statements -- Bye Bye Blackbird (Volume 1), Fran-Dance (Volume 2) -- and Neo (Volume 2) -- gives an accurate indication of how Miles has expanded the scope of his instrument and, for that matter, the horizons of jazz. The erroneous equating of audio excitement with frenetic, overdecibeled, underdisciplined blasting was never more resolutely put down than in the tightly transcribed tonalities of Davis' lovely horn.
The Hustler is Paul Newman in more senses than one. He plays a pool shark who lives by conning pool clunks, then makes the big time for a short time. In one scene he tells his girl what it feels like when the balls are clicking right and the cue seems part of his arm. That's the feeling he gives us all through the film -- in control and going. He can take moments you've seen 3000 times, that usually you just can't wait to get past -- and make them happen (the moment when he sees the girl's body, for example). An actor who can do that is like a writer who can nudge a weary cliché slightly and suddenly the world starts all over again and all of us are very, very grateful. Newman is perfectly paced by Piper Laurie, who does well as a kid with her nervous system showing, and Myron McCormick, a friend whom Newman and an audience can lean on. George G. Scott, playing a gambler, is exceptional, as is Jackie Gleason playing pool whiz Minnesota Fats. Robert Rossen has directed with a Marcel Carné touch and, with Sidney Carroll, has co-authored the script based on Walter Tevis' short story that originally appeared in playboy (January 1957) and was later turned into a novel. The dialog is incredibly real and dramatic, and the script reaches for the Hemingway mystique: sport as the one activity at which modern man can face his moment of truth. The poolroom doesn't quite match the bull- and boxing rings, but the scenes in the poolroom are as compelling as anything put on film this year and the best parts of a strong picture. This is a triumph for Rossen and gives Newman the chance to niche his name nice and big at the top of his profession.
Don't be taken aback by the 5000-odd books lining the walls of The Library (917 Clement near 11th Avenue), way off San Francisco's beaten and beat track. This boîte is not for the pedagogically inclined. As soon as you're comfortably ensconced on one of the back-to-back couches scattered through the dimly lit lounge or at the low-slung volume-inous bar, a close-by phone jingles; you uncradle it and hear: "This is Nonie, your librarian. If you see someone you know, or would like to know, pick up this phone, tell me where she is sitting and I'll make the connection." Nonie, a 36-24-36 former Jackie Gleason show dancer, makes connections from cocktail time through 2 A.M. closing; as a result, few chicks who come to The Library solo leave that way. Partners in this beer-booze-'n'-books emporium (a brew, straight or mixed drink, or any book on the shelves goes for six bits) are Joe Gannon (who was one fourth of The Kingston Quartet before it switched to a trio) and Bob Fischer, who has a strictly business background. While flying the Berlin airlift, Joe first spotted the phone shtick in a German Bierstube. Years later, he remembered the phones, Bob dreamed up the librarian-operator acting as a hostess to introduce people to the phones and each other, and the pair was in business. Prime public relations problem was persuading telephone execs that one room with 30 phones did not a bookie joint make. Since its June opening, The Library's been swinging right up to its 60-sit, 60-stand capacity, and they're now talking of franchising Libraries in Los Angeles, New York, Seattle and Honolulu.
Morris L. West's new novel, Daughter of Silence (Morrow, $3.95), is, like The Devil's Advocate, set in contemporary Italy where the Australian novelist, a down-under Alberto Moravia, apparently spent some crucial years. The book opens with a young woman stepping out of a taxicab (it's obvious from her looks that she comes from a big city), knocking at the door of the mayor of a small back-country Italian town and, when he appears, shooting him five times in the chest. Promising opening, one murmurs to oneself -- dark passions, mysterious doings, and all that. And then we meet the Ascolini family, who are summering and simmering not far from the scene of the slaying. II dootore is a noted lawyer, urbane, cynical, whose aged body no longer performs in signorine's camere da letto, but whose mind performs agilely in manipulating the emotional lives of those around him. His daughter, Valeria, is occupied full time putting horns on her husband, Carolo, a young lawyer as unproved in law as he is in matrimony, who does a great deal of brooding at the piano over Chopin nocturnes. The cast is rounded out by Peter Landon, a visiting American psychoanalyst, and Ninette Lachaise, an attractive French painter, as unattached, self-sufficient, worldly wise and as aching with adolescent yearnings as Peter. Question: What happens when young Carolo decides to get out from under poppa-in-law's thumb by defending a pretty young murderess and showing his stuff in court? Answer: Just what you'd expect to happen when La Dolce Vita is crossed with The Guiding Light.
Statement required by the Act of August 24, 1912, as amended by the Acts of March 3, 1933, July 2, 1946 and June 11, 1960 (74 Stat. 208) showing the ownership, management, and circulation of playboy, published monthly at Chicago, Ill., for Oct. 1, 1961. 1. The names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing editor, and business manager are: Publisher and Editor. Hugh M. Hefner, 1340 N. State Pkwy., Chi., Ill.; Managing Editor, Jack J. Kessie, 164 W. Burton Pl., Chi.. Ill.: Business Manager, Robert S. Preuss, 7970 Oak Ave., River Forest, Ill. 2. The owner is: HMH Publishing Co., Inc., 232 East Ohio St., Chicago 11, Ill. The names and addresses of stockholders owning or holding one percent or more of the total amount of stock are: Glenn L. Hefner., 1922 N. New England, Chi., Ill.; Hugh M. Hefner, 1340 N. State Pkwy., Chi., Ill.; Keith Hefner, 1340 N. State Pkwy., Chi., Ill.; Victor A. Lownes III, 221 E. Walton, Chi.. Ill.; Arthur Paul, 168 E. Pearson, Chi., Ill.; Eldon Sellers, 2615 Greenleaf, Wilmette. Ill.; Burt Zollo, 532 Aldine, Chi., Ill. 3. The known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders owning or holding one percent or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities are: None. 4. Paragraphs 2 and 3 include, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears upon the books of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the name of the person or corporation for whom such trustee is acting: also the statements in the two paragraphs show the affiant's full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances and conditions under which stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon the books of the company as trustees, hold stock and securities in a capacity other than that of a bona fide owner. 5. The average number of copies of each issue of this publication sold or distributed, through the mails or otherwise, to paid subscribers during the 12 months preceding the date shown above was: 1,212,598. Robert S. Preuss, Business Manager, Sworn to and subscribed before me this 18th day of September, 1961, (SEAL) Marjorie Pitner. (My commission expires April 20, 1963.)
The Young Man Met the Girl in a Longchamps bar; her office was in the same building, on the 17th floor. The bar had been decorated for Christmas since Thanksgiving -- everything in New York had. There was a draft from the revolving door and the girl kept her coat around her shoulders. She had bought the coat in the Village and it looked a little Villagey but not too Villagey. "I had to see my income tax man this afternoon," the young man said. "He's got a place in Florida and he said there wasn't anyone there right now and I could use it. So I got to thinking -- would you like to go down to Florida for Christmas? We could start tonight and drive down, and be on the beach tomorrow. Or if you'd prefer I could see about plane reservations."
Since the Middle Ages, when Christmas was celebrated in the holly-decked halls of the great feudal demesnes with 12 days and nights of feasting, wassailing and dancing -- and a partridge in a pear tree -- the Yuletide has been a season of hospitality on a grand scale, of welcoming hearths and prodigal boards, of brimming bowls and hearty camaraderie.
The following communication was recently received in our morning mail, along with the usual stack of letters from readers, writers, literary agents, et al. There was nothing particularly unique about the contents of the missive -- in fact, it was quite typical of letters from professional authors -- but the substance on which it was written was of a metallic nature and was slightly tingling to the touch. The secretary who copied its contents, so we might read it without eyestrain, claimed the letter had a way of "flickering" (her word), by which she meant vanishing and reappearing "as if it didn't want to stay here." This was obviously an excuse to cover a messy job of typing, and the secretary is no longer with us. Neither is the original letter: it seems to have been lost or misplaced. This is just as well, since it was not intended for us, anyway -- a fact we deduce from its mention of prior correspondence (we have had no prior correspondence with this person) and also from the fact that the envelope was addressed to the editor of some foreign publication called Man About Mars. We are reproducing the letter here, as a curiosity, after having anagramized the names of people and places out of respect for their privacy.
Henry Hyde, Ph.D., assistant professor of sociology, had for precisely one year suffered a violent and unrequited craving for the wife of a faculty colleague at Merryweather College; and here it was, Christmas Eve again, the annual eggnog fest, the anniversary of the onset of his unhappy hunger. His prey stood blonde and breasty, gaudy, apathetic, peering with great violet eyes into a foaming cup while Claude Revanche, of Romance Languages, spitefully abused prominent statesmen.
Sizable Fortunes have been made and are being made by individuals who invest their money in common stocks. I, myself, have made many millions by investing in them, by buying common shares on the stock market. I own certain shares today that are worth as much as 45 times what I paid for them a few years ago.
If You're Looking for a girl with both feet on the ground, look elsewhere, for December's air-borne miss, Lynn Karrol, is smitten with the life aloft -- at least part of the time. She's a lissome 22-year-old ex-Pittsburgher transplanted to Manhattan, has held a pilot's license since she was 16 and has recently taken up the exhilarating sport of sky-diving (she's logged nine jumps so far). Miss Karrol's somewhat singular avocation has not been plucked out of thin air: her father owns a small flying field on the edge of Pittsburgh and Lynn returns there several weekends a year to perfect her technique. When she isn't hitting the silk, she's donning it -- as a fashion and television model. Lynn acquired her mannequin's poise at a Pittsburgh finishing school; after graduating, she stayed on to teach her newly acquired social skills (make-up, styling, speech, etc.) to fledgling models. Our richly endowed (35-22-35) airess doesn't always have her saffron coiffed head in the clouds: she'd love to use her growing number of modeling credits as a springboard to the movies. Lynn suspects that a film contract might put an end to her skydiving diversions. Until then, however, she'll rate as our favorite fall girl.
A new organization has been formed, called Athletics Anonymous. When you get the urge to play golf, baseball, or any other game involving physical activity, they send someone over to drink with you until the urge passes.
A pleasantly pushy female helps deliver a full complement of Christmas treasure guaranteed to make easy sledding of your lady fair's master plans. Clockwise from one o'clock: Playboy's fetching Femlin, $7.50, flourishes aloft our favorite bunny-emblazoned four-in-hand, black on muted shades of gray, brown, navy, red, olive, $5, Playboy Products. Our Christmas wool-gathering garnered these cold-weather accouterments: left to right, Swedish wool pullover, $26.50, matching cap, $3.50; Icelandic-patterned multicolor wool cardigan with hidden zipper, $32.50; Bavarian hand-loomed wool zippered cardigan with contrasting trim, $27.50, matching cap, $3.50; all by P.&M. Distributors. Perfect for travel reminiscences or top-level sales meetings: 580 console model Executive Projector in walnut cabinet, holds 60 slides in spill-proof tray; F/2.8 45mm lens projects mirror-reflected image on 13½" x 20" translucent screen; remote-control unit on 10-foot cord allows forward and reverse cycling, remote focusing, contains a pointer light; four-position automatic timer can be set for 4-8-16- or 32-second intervals, by Argus Cameras, $400. A superb helpmeat is this contemporary design forged stainless steel 11-piece steak knife and carving set, slicer, carver and fork, with hollow-ground stainless razor-steel blades, in lined cowhide zippered case, by Plummer, $49.50. For the happy huntsman: Deerslayer lightweight 16-gauge shotgun for rifled slugs, with peep sight, recoil pad, sling, by Ithaca, $125; lightweight automatic-loading, center-fire .308-caliber rifle with detachable box magazine, rotary-action bolt-lock, by Winchester, $155. For sitzmarkers and schussboomers: Red Blizzard combination skis, lacquered laminated wood with Kofix plastic bottoms, steel edging, $85, attached Eckel bindings, $16; Eckel steel poles with racing rings, $14.50; Innsbruck double boots with speed lacing, $32.50; glare-killing amber-tinted plastic racing goggles, $2.50, all by P.&M. Distributors. Herewith an extra-elegant carving equipage: silver-plate roast carving cart with cherry-wood base, has movable plate rack, carving-knife shelf, cast aluminum cutting plate, vegetable or gravy warmers, twin alcohol or Sterno heating elements, by Iron Gate, $2000. For the most automatic do-it-yourself moviemaking, a Leicina 8mm electric-eye motion-picture camera with reflex viewing and focusing systems; motor driven by miniature battery, controls exposure automatically, with adjustable forehead rest bar, folding hand grip, leather carrying strap, by Leitz, $267. Attached is Q-Beam, a 650-watt quartz motion-picture flood lamp with built-in safety, needs no fuses, has adjustable hinged folding camera mount, provides constant color values for 16 hours, by Acme-Lite Manufacturing Company, $22.95. Above the guns: for company cookery, an eight-quart earthenware marmite with copper and brass stand; alcohol or Sterno heating element has walnut handle, by Bazar Francais, $49.50.
"Will Someone Take me to a Pub?" So ran the refrain of one of G. K. Chesterton's happiest ballades. I have often quoted it to myself when the Madame Secretary of a lecture club has displayed for my admiration the cultural and civic ornaments of the community whose elite I am to address that afternoon. The library, the swimming pool, the oratorium, the cathedral, the park are potent proofs, no doubt, of a high standard of industry and social consciousness, but I should get a clearer insight into her fellow citizens if she would take me to a saloon and I could observe how they relaxed.
Wonderful and Exciting things have happened to Playboy during its eighth year of publication. We count among them hefty increases in circulation (now guaranteed at 1,150,000), advertising linage and revenue; the launching of Show Business Illustrated, the most important new magazine of the past half-dozen years; established plans to expand the Playboy Club operation to 50 major cities throughout the world. The year's dramatic capper was provided by a signed contract with Tony Curtis to produce and star in a film based on the Playboy operation, scheduled for shooting this coming spring. Curtis will play Editor-Publisher Hugh Hefner, the man behind it all.
Maxim's, just off the Place de la Concorde at 3 Rue Royale, is one of the world's famed dining establishments and a cherished mecca for affluent cognoscenti everywhere. Founded at the turn of the century, the restaurant still retains all the flavor of an era long past -- with massive convex mirrors, velvet-covered walls, paintings turned golden with the years. An unobtrusive orchestra can be heard faintly above the well-bred talk and tinkling laughter of the ladies and gentlemen present (at one time, only actresses and well-born mistresses were considered decorative enough to be appropriate dinner companions at Maxim's). Amid the rose-hued Victorian glow of the main dining room, peripatetic Playboy artist LeRoy Neiman and his date took dinner of a Friday night (when formal garb is obligatory). "We started with un dry -- pronounced "dry' and meaning, of course, a dry martini -- but you want only one, lest your taste buds become immune to the cuisine prodigieuse that is to follow," relates Neiman. "I ordered Caviar Volga and, for the young lady, Belons Extra -- small, pungent oysters -- and we went on to, respectively, Crème Vichyssoise Glacée d'après M. Diat de New York and Crème Marigny. As our entree, we chose the Tournedos Marsan Dèglacé a l'Armagnac, in which the Armagnac is poured over the beef fillets and immediately burned off, along with Asperges Vertes de Louris and Pommes Soufflés. We'd consulted Bernard, one of the four sommeliers of Maxim's, for appropriate wines: a white Haut Brion '53 with the caviar and oysters, a red Chambertin '55 with the Tournedos.
A Certain Young Gascon, having boasted of possessing a young damsel who had no use for him at all, was justly punished for his boasting, as you shall see. The world is always ready to believe the worst of a beauteous maid, and the Gascon's false words found eager ears where'er he went in the village, much to the poor damsel's dismay.
Today, there is probably nothing the world wants or needs more than an epidemic of laughter. Laughter is the sound a nation makes when it is proud of its past and confident of its future. We made that sound not so very long ago. We made it and we exported it to the four corners of the earth, creating thereby an image of the United States as the capital of joy and merriment, a happy-go-lucky, fun-loving country of clowns who preferred pie in the face to pie in the sky, exploding cigars to imploding bombs, and the boff to and above all things.
If You Want something more exotic than a Stateside vacation this February, we suggest a flight south to the Caribbean, where the solacing sun of the tropics can be yours for the basking. An assortment of attractive cruises originate in the islands themselves, providing opportunities for lazy junketing through warm blue waters to old, worldly ports of call.