The Bouncy bonbon adorning this month's cover is Cynthia Maddox, a 20-year-old Valentine confection who adorns our offices daily -- to our great delight -- as fulltime receptionist-secretary and part-time model, exclusively in our pages. Exclusive, too, are playboy's annual silver medal awards which we dispense every February to the sterling winners in our Jazz Poll. Your choices for the 1962 Playboy All-Star Jazz Band (total votes cast in this sixth annual poll, it should be noted, broke all previous records), and those luminaries selected by last year's winners as All-Stars' All-Stars, have been lightly limned by caricaturist Mike Ramus, whose portraits provide the proper note of harmony for musicologist Leonard Feather's reprise of the 1961 jazz scene.
Playboy, February, 1962, Vol. 9, No. 2, 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 years. 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., New York 19. New York. C1 5-2620; Branch Offices: Chicago, Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio St., M1 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; Detroit, 705 Stephenson Bldg., 6560 Cass Ave., TR 5-7250; Florida and Caribbean Representative, The Hal Winter Company, 7450 Ocean Terrace, Miami Beach, Florida, UN 5-2661; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie a Brown, 1722 Rhodes-Haverty Building, Atlanta 3, Georgia, JA 2-8113.
The other day, amidst the eternal fallout of press releases, publicity handouts and news clippings which crosses our desk, we happened across three items that gave us pause. The first was a squib -- written in standard upper-case flackese -- for a Mad Ave PR account engagingly letterheaded in the finest Young Married tradition: "SHELTERS FOR LIVING." The purpose of the piece, we learned on further inspection, was to announce a "SPECIAL NEWS PEG." "FIRST TIME A FALLOUT SHELTER WILL BE HAULED INTACT THROUGH NEW YORK STREETS AND EXHIBITED IN GRAND CENTRAL STARTION," the copy bellowed, then went on with helpful suggestions for picture possibilities: "DRAMATIC CONTRAST SHORTS OF SHELTER AGAINST NEW YORK SKYLINE, RUSSIAN EMBASSY, UNITED NATIONS BUILDING." The shelter, we were informed, is in effect a "Family-Library-Music room within stout, scientifically engineered walls ... a beautiful addition to any family's plan for pleasant living." Included was a quote from the "well-known interior designer" who worked on the shelter: "I have tried ... to make a shelter a place of repose and buoyant relaxation."
Clap Hands, Here Comes Charlie! (Verve) finds Ella Fitzgerald succinctly surrounded by a rhythm section as she chronicles the tuneful foibles of 30 years of pop balladry. The themes delineated are disparate in quality and content, ranging from the lovely and too-seldom-heard Good Morning Heartache to that inane ditty of the Thirties, Music Goes 'Round and 'Round, which is really not worth Miss Fitz' attentions. But be the basic material good, bad or indifferent, its metamorphosis under Ella's aegis is, as always, magical. A similar survey of anthems old and new, bright and blue, is undertaken by Ann Richards, in Ann, Man! (Atco). While Miss Richards, an enchanting eyeful, lacks Ella's extraordinary vocal skills, she is, nevertheless, an accomplished songstress at her best when she can belt out a lyric. In this vein, Yes Sir, That's My Baby, Is You Is or Is You Ain't My Baby and Evil Gal Blues are very much her métier. Also offered is a delightful reprise of An Occasional Man, an eloquent reminder of its engaging attributes. No such audio attractions are apparent on Eydie Gormé's I Feel So Spanish! (United Artists). Eydie's first-rate talents are submerged in a morass of stodgy, soporific and saccharine Latin refrains. Don Costa's stereo-typed orchestrations do their best to drag Miss Gormé down with them. In most cases, unfortunately, they succeed. The supremely successful firm of Lambert, Hendricks & Ross (check the Jazz Poll results, page 135) have issued another dividend, High Flying (Columbia), which confirms their status as harmony's fat cats. The items tendered are all late arrivals on the jazz scene. L, H & R turn the au courant into the avant-garde as they wend their surrealistically polysyllabic way home with the Ike Isaacs Trio in expert attendance.
Flower Drum Song, the Broadway show that put the goo in moo goo guy pan, is now dribbling over the screen. Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote the sweet, unpungent songs for which they may someday be forgiven. The dialog has been served up with a worn chopstick by Joseph Fields. The story, from a novel by C. Y. Lee presumably adapted from the contents of a stale fortune cookie, deals with Hong Kong girl who goes to San Francisco with contract for marriage to night-club owner who is in love with star. Star, in turn, is pursued by rich boy, good egg; but is egg too young to choose own wife? Honorable father think so. Meanwhile, third girl loves rich boy unrequitedly and dreams about him in ballet full of Freud rice. The complications would drive a litchi nuts. Best scene in film: Nancy Kwan, as the star, in triple mirror image, singing I Enjoy Being a Girl. Best scenery in film: Nancy Kwan's legs.
With Gideon, Paddy Chayefsky deserts the Bronx for the Bible and achieves his most affecting work to date. Using three chapters from the book of Judges, the author of Marty recasts in colloquial terms the Old Testament story of how God, walking the earth, saw the humble farmer Gideon and chose him to lead the scattered tribes of Israel to victory over the Midianite marauders. Tyrone Guthrie, with characteristic vigor, keeps a large cast of actors in constant transit across David Hays' drab-tented, rockstrewn stage, but only two are central to this parable of man's relationship to God: Fredric March as a majestic Jehovah in flowing black robes and with gray hair and beard, and Douglas Campbell, a Gideon clothed in homespun and ignorance. Here is a very human Almighty who can love Gideon yet despise him a little, like a tolerant father with a backward child. And here, awakening to change and growth, is Gideon, the bewildered oaf who feels his first stirring of rebellion with his first rush of vanity, the faltering individualist who cries out in frustration that the Lord is "too grand a concept" for mortal comprehension, and rejects all further parley with his God to seek out his own destiny as a man. Chayefsky's restatement of biblical profundities brings boldness and originality to the Broadway season. At the Plymouth, 236 West 45th Street.
The hero of Robert Penn Warren's novel Wilderness (Random House, $4.95) is a Bavarian Jew whose given name, Adam, and deformed foot announce that he stands for guilty humanity in the large. Resolved to serve the Northern cause in the Civil War, Adam comes to America, where he surmounts obstacles and resists temptations -- only to find that each success in these tests is, in some way, a failure, each act of fidelity a desertion. Feeling totally devalued, he crosses at last the crucial river to the Wilderness, the territory of defeat, death and self-knowledge. At the end of the novel, he is ready to come out again, having learned to live with human shortcomings. His experience would be more impressive if it were not quite so nakedly symbolic. The temptations that beset Adam derive from a philosophical concept rather than from human experience. Abstractions like Freedom, Worthiness, Truth are always on his mind, and he pauses continually to ponder his values. But despite the obtrusive symbols, Warren's morality tale has considerable dramatic power. Few modern writers know so much about the ambiguities of the ethical life, and few have his sense of history. And perhaps relating man to his history, letting him live it, is, after all, the best way to restore to the poor slewfoot his tragic dignity.
Recently I asked a young lady of my acquaintance if she would care to spend a weekend with me in Las Vegas. She seemed delighted at the idea and replied that she would be more than happy to be my guest. Then, after I had bought a pair of plane tickets and was about to telegraph for a room reservation, she advised me that, of course, it was going to be separate quarters. I now regret having asked her -- but I don't know how to back out gracefully. What would be a suitable course of action in a situation such as this? -- B. B., New York, New York.
In Parts I and II of his biography, "My Brother, Ernest Hemingway," Leicester Hemingway explored, from the intimate, uniquely revealing point of view possible to an only brother, the many-faceted emergence of the celebrated writer as man and artist. He wrote of Ernest's strict Middle Western upbringing, his wounding at the Italian front in World War I, the drumming out of his family by his parents which preceded his first marriage, his subsequent expatriate years -- beginning as a newspaper correspondent and evolving into a master creative writer, first of short stories and then of a major novel, "The Sun Also Rises." Leicester also told of his brother's tempestuous personal life, a divorce and second marriage (to Pauline Pfeiffer) followed by his return to America and Key West -- the setting of "To Have and Have Not." There, Hemingway became a dedicated deep-sea fisherman and, in a brief getaway period, found a taste for African big-game hunting; more important, he entered his great productive surge, initially marred by the prophetic suicide of his father but adorned by the publication of "A Farewell to Arms." Now, as Part III opens, we find the ever-restless writer drawn back to an old love -- as a foreign correspondent, in the Spanish Civil War.
I remember my first meeting with this Anthony. It was in the busiest social center in Hollywood, the assembly room that is to the actor what his club is to a London barrister; the unemployment insurance office on Santa Monica Boulevard.
The most Important Recent Development in the world of high fidelity is, of course, the long-awaited debut of stereo, or multiplex, FM. For the benefit of anybody who may have tuned in late, we should explain that the FCC in Washington has finally put its seal of approval on a method for broadcasting stereophonic program material over a single FM carrier signal. The technique by which one station can broadcast two separate channels is called multiplexing. It involves transmitting a combination of left and right channels on the main carrier, while a subcarrier transmits the "difference" between the two channels. An ordinary FM radio -- sensitive only to the main carrier -- will continue to give forth mono sound in proper balance; a stereo FM radio -- with its built-in multiplex circuitry designed to decode the subcarrier -- will sort out the left and right channels and pipe them into your stereo speakers. This sounds complicated, and it is; but it does seem to work with startling success. The bugs that plagued some of the early stereo FM transmissions -- excessive background noise, capricious separation, and the like -- have apparently been eradicated. And with more and more FM outlets converting to stereo all the time, we see nothing but fair sailing ahead. You'll find an abundance of stereo FM tuners, and of multiplex adapters for existing mono tuners, already in production by the major component houses.
Next to pizza and motels, one of the most prevalent phenomena in them land today is group psychotherapy. In teams of anywhere from six to 12 members, the groups gather regularly for mass problem-probing and advice-offering sessions, each individual playing to some extent the role of analyst as well as patient. Now I, for one, have no quarrels with this unique form of psychic togetherness, but I can't help concerning myself with some of its possible consequences. For example, to what extent does the intimacy of the formal group session carry over into the after-hours social life of its members? And, perhaps even more important, after members have become so emotionally dependent on one another, where -- in so-called normal, everyday situations -- does the individual begin and the group leave off?
The course of True Love, and even of light dalliance, has never run smooth, as we know, but few lovers of our acquaintance have actually risked a legislated death penalty for a moment of bliss. Such a dire punishment for such a tender transgression is not unknown in literature, however. Listed on this page are descriptions~but not the titles~of five novels, plays, etc., in which a stern law imposes capital punishment for unwed shenanigans. All~well, all but one~are extremely well-known works, and even the single obscure work that we've included just to be stinkers is by a famous master. Your job, of course, is to supply the missing titles. Rack up a score of five and you'll go scot free; get four right and we'll commute the sentence to life; get only three correct and we'll have to make that solitary confinement; anything lower~off with your head! The answers are on page 117.
The indefinable but unmistakably Italian look of tailored nonchalance is tastefully and imaginatively epitomized, we feel, by our showcased trio of fashion discoveries on this and the following pages: the elegantly unorthodox four-button spectator sports suit with vertical front pockets, the tropically awning-striped dinner jacket with self-covered buttons, and the rugged coarse-weave beige cotton pullover shirt with color-coordinated slacks.
Once in a Blue Moon, When the Albany Post Road near Hetheringham is being repaired, the traveler is directed to a complex of dirt roads whereon he may get to Bunterton. On such occasions, Mr. Ciuccia sets a board on a pair of trestles by the wayside and puts on display whatever wizened or retarded fruits and vegetables he may have coaxed out of his obstinate little piece of land. So he makes tobacco money. He smokes Toscani cigars -- not because he enjoys them, but because their exhalations kill green fly, and he is proud of his flowers. "Dey likea me, I likea dem," he told me, reluctantly handing me a potted Easter lily to which I had taken a fancy.
Norway, a frosty land of fjords and folklore, has long evoked superlatives from fanciers of natural scenic beauty. Ideally illustrating the wisdom of such praise is our February Playmate, a captivating example of nature's Nordic handiwork called Kari Knudsen. Born in Romsdal, Norway, a tiny hamlet of less than 80 souls, Kari spent her girlhood there dreaming of becoming an actress; two years ago she sailed alone for the U.S. to seek her own Valhalla amid Broadway's neon glitter. In the States, our green-eyed thespian has proved to everyone's satisfaction that she is amply endowed with talent as well as piquant beauty, for she has already garnered a fistful of stage, screen and TV credits. A well-turned 23, Kari is sold on horseback riding, knitting, modern jazz and dating. But she definitely does not dig over-egoed guys who call her "honey" at first sight. Although she is happily becoming Americanized, Kari occasionally has a homesick hankering for the fjords in her past; on winter weekends she is apt to leave her acting chores behind and go native with a rink-a-ding whirl of skating in New York's Central Park. Needless to say, this lovely argument for international exchange is an eye-catching figure skater (she cuts a neat 36-23-35). In the foldout, 5'4" Valkyrie Kari presents a Valentine dividend: her on-the-rocks cavorting done for the day, she relaxes before the hearth in a fetchingly feminine pose, an inviting northern light in her eyes as she warms both herself and the winter season.
After an engagement of several years, George and Gloria were finally married. When they returned from their honeymoon, a bright-eyed friend asked Gloria how she enjoyed married life. Absent-mindedly, the bride replied: "To tell the truth, I can't see a bit of difference."
Ettore Bugatti was an Italian who lived his life in France among Frenchmen, and he was, they said, un type, or as we say, a character, an exotic, one of a kind, greatly gifted, proud, unswervingly independent, indifferent to any opinion but his own, amused, aristocratic, impractical, profligate, a connoisseur, a gourmet, a bon vivant.
In 1961 jazz opened its own New Frontier, a Frontier that was, on occasion, replete with politico-sociological overtones. Leading the way out of the night clubs -- which (except for scattered jazz-oriented oases) are now past their peak as fertile breeding grounds for fresh new sounds -- ambitious young jazzmen showed themselves eager to seek out new horizons for their art. More and more, these expanded boundaries were encompassing foreign tours, LPs and concerts. It was more than ever a jazz year with an international flavor. Soon after England's Victor Feldman quit the quintet of Cannonball Adderley, Joe Zawinul from Vienna sat in his chair. Dizzy Gillespie's major projects for the year included two suites written for him by Lalo Schifrin, his Argentine pianist-composer. Quincy Jones, the perennial cosmopolite of jazz, celebrated the release last fall of Boy in the Tree, the Swedish film in which he made his bow as a movie orchestrator.
Since there were no open beds at the hospital when he arrived, the man had been put temporarily in a room used for storing defective bottle caps. Seven days after his admission he lay there among the caps, his eyes bulging sightlessly at the ceiling. A bowl of Spanish shawl fish stood on the table beside him with a note against it that said, "Your favorites, from Mumsy." Four doctors conferred in low voices around him and when the specialist from Rochester arrived, they broke their circle to help him off with his coat. The specialist was a neat man with little feet, given to clasping his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels, making smacking sounds with his lips and staring off over people's shoulders. No sooner did he have his coat off than he was rocking and smacking away, his glance shooting out of the room into the midday sun.
The continuing popularity of vested interests in men's attire is a trend that will bear watching in a special way this season: the venerable pocket watch has resumed its time-honored role as an elegant accouterment for the gentleman's waistcoat. Losing none of their classic masculinity, the handsome new pocket chronometers combine tasteful tradition with clean design. Watchwords aside, consider this impressive show of hands. Left to right: perpetual calendar watch in 18K gold with 18-jewel Swiss movement, moon phase indicator, by Patek Philippe, $1050; contemporary 14K gold watch with 17-jewel Swiss movement, by Girard Perregaux, $175; 14K yellow-gold watch with 23-jewel movement, sterling silver dial, hinged back with protective inside cap, by Hamilton, $275; 18K gold watch with 18-jewel Swiss movement, 24-hour dial, revolving rim that tells time anywhere in the world, by Patek Philippe, $1050; sturdy 10K gold-filled Railroad watch with 21 jewels, block-numbered dial, rustproof hairspring, by Elgin, $97.50; gold-filled pocket alarm watch with 17-jewel Swiss movement, luminous hands, by Le Coultre, $75.
Rome is the oldest, and probably the greatest, of the world's capital cities. It has been the lodestone and fountainhead of Western civilization, the axis of a stupendous pagan empire, the capital of Christendom. It has stood while Babylon, Byzantium and Carthage crumbled. Yet Rome is young. After 2500 years of turbulent history it retains its magnetism for travelers of every faith and nationality. Borne on DC-8s instead of elephants, brandishing American Express checks instead of spears, bent on pleasure instead of plunder, they invade today's Eternal City in annual armies of 18,000,000 from every corner of the shrinking globe. Many, in the black, white, red and yellow habits of countless Catholic orders, come as spiritual pilgrims. Some, wearing expressions no less reverent, come to bask in the lambent afterglow of the Renaissance or to explore the world's greatest repository of antiquities from four millenniums of human history. A few, not unreasonably, come solely to worship at the altars of Bacchus and Lucullus in Rome's cornucopian array of restaurants. But most come simply to join the city's 2,500,000 denizens in that civilized celebration of the (continued on page 126) Girls Of Rome (continued from page 90) senses known as la dolce vita Romano. For the visiting American male in Rome, a single stride from the carpeted hush of his downtown hotel into the swirling slipstream of Roman foot traffic is sufficient to dispel any lingering doubts about the principal reason for and most eloquent embodiment of this suavely sensuous spirit: the girls of Rome.
There lived in London in olden time a young secretary who was as handsome as he was clever. He worked for a jealous middle-aged man who had a beautiful young wife, and he burned to sample the favors she daily paraded before his eager eyes. One day the young fellow decided to tell her how he felt. It turned out that she shared his sentiments and had been waiting, as a woman should, for him to make the first move. Once he made it, she reciprocated in kind and before very long they were tasting the sweetest fruits of love.
April, as T. S. Eliot almost said, is the coolest month -- especially for the gentleman traveler who wishes to mix memory and desire in a foreign clime. Overseas highways and byways are still happily uncluttered, and the race for space in top hostelries has not yet reached its frenetic summer pitch.