Playbill with a Modicum of pride, we introduce in this issue Little Annie Fanny, an adult satire strip devoted to the misadventures of a delightfully dizzy damsel in dishabille. The maddest spoof we've seen since the first issues of Mad Magazine, Annie was created, appropriately enough, by Mad's originator, Harvey Kurtzman, and original illustrator, Will Elder. In this first episode, li'l Annie pans in on the Freudian format of TV commercials. In future issues, she'll bust into big business, politics, and any other area of human—or inhuman—activity worthy of satire.
General Offices: Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio Street, Chicago 11, Illinois. Return postage must accompany all manuscripts, drawings and photographs submitted if they are to be returned and no responsibility can be assumed for unsolicited materials. Contents Copyrighted (c) 1962 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc. Nothing may be reprinted in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher. Any similarity between the people and places in the fiction and semi-fiction in this magazine and any real people and places is purely coincidental. Credits: Cover Design by Arthur Paul, Photography by Don Bronstein, Dress by Jax; P. 3 Photos by Bronstein, Jerry Yulsman, Wide World; P. 69 Photos by Desmond Russell; P. 79 Photo by Pompeo Posar; P. 80-81 Photo by Roy Ikada; P. 95 Photographed at Ambassador East, Chicago; P. 105 Illustrations Courtesy of the Bettmann Archive, Culver Pictures, Inc.; P. 109 Photo by Playboy Studio; P. 111 Drawings by Ed Paschke; P. 112-119 Photos by Ed Alexander (15), Gordon Tenney (6), Larry Gordon (3); P. 126 Photo by Jon Pownell.
Playboy, October, 1962, Vol. 9, No. 10, published monthly by HMH Publishing Company, 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., 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; Detroit, 705 Stephenson Building, 6560 Cass Ave., TR 5-7250; Southeastern, Florida and Caribbean Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta 5, GA., 233-6729.
Ever alert for opportunities to feel good about being a member of the human race, we think we've found one in an anomaly of contemporary communications. The anomaly concerns professional image builders, and the image of themselves that they project. Consider the dozens of motivation research firms devoted to creating corporate or personal public images for their clients, striving—day in, day out—to earn the heavy sugar they are paid to make the Boy Scout Oath seem faint praise for those whose virtues they extol. Consider their psychologists, statisticians, pollsters and professional ponderers—busy as ants in a kicked-over anthill—seeking to soften the public psyche, by means devious and arcane, so it will be responsive to such notions as that a certain product, or person, or corporate complex is indispensable to the good life and largely actuated by loving altruism, to boot. And then consider the public image of these same motivation researchers: it inspires subliminal suspicion, cynical doubt, even active dislike. Isn't it passing strange that—occupied with manipulating the public's private thoughts—they can't generate any feeling of warmth or regard for themselves? We don't think so. We credit it directly to the basic good sense of a public that wants its mind left alone, what's left of it, and will guard itself accordingly (and rather effortlessly, at that), despite the sophisticated techniques of persuasion practiced upon it. The public may not be immune to manipulation (though we like to believe the threshold of gullibility gets ever higher), but one thing is sure: the manipulators—would-be or actual—have not been able to create for themselves the public trust or allegiance they claim they can fabricate for others. Fine fellows these practitioners may be (some of our best friends are MR men), and endowed with keen and subtle intelligence. It is their occupation that arouses an almost superstitious unease, quite different from the open hostility occasionally directed at the more overt assaults of public relations and advertising, for example. Such is the anomaly—and the sort of public response—we find ourself pleased to applaud.
Well, just as we were managing to forget all about Advise and Consent, here come the same characters—plus plenty of new ones—rolling into their roles in Allen Drury's second novel, A Shade of Difference (Doubleday, $6.95). This 603-page choo-choo commutes between Washington and UN headquarters in New York with its tricky tale of the leader of an emerging African nation's fight for independence. The African—all 6 feet, 7 inches of him—makes a grandstand play in a South Carolina integration incident that gives the U.S. a black eye, so to speak; a young Negro Congressman gets caught between his Americanism and his raging racialism; a resolution censuring the U.S. is introduced in the General Assembly by a Yank-hating Panamanian who is married to a sister of the governor of California; Senator Seabright Cooley (Charles Laughton—remember?) delivers an eight-hour filibuster to defeat a resolution apologizing to the African and expires from having talked himself to death; and a U.S. delegate makes an appeal for brotherly love to the General Assembly while literally dying of leukemia. This crock of crises is ornamented with soaper scenes, fortune-cookie wisdom and innumerable details about finaglings in High Places—all of which brummagem bric-a-brac is wrapped in dreary Drury prose. The author's first novel was about national government; his second is about world government. Drury is obviously on his way up. Heaven, look to your gates!
No Strings, prospering on Broadway, is a clear indication that Richard Rodgers, long a team man, can go it alone if the need arises. An After-Theater Version of Richard Rodgers' No Strings (Atlantic), starring the voices of La Vern Baker, Chris Connor and Bobby Short, and the flute of Herbie Mann, adds new luster to the show's tunes. Baker and Short are particularly appealing in conveying the score's lighter moments.
A couple of years ago Irwin Shaw wrote a fake-serious saga called Two Weeks in Another Town, which MGM has now made into a fittingly fake-serious film. It's the talky tale of an ex—movie star carrying a lost-love-and-neurosis load. All loads lead to Rome, and it's there that he gets a comeback chance from a director who's getting his comeback chance. We watch the actor hurdle toward sanity, over the obstacles of an ex-wife, an ex-bim, an ex-homo who is not quite sapiens, and the (almost) ex-director. These exes mark a lot of familiar spots, in inglorious Metro color. Eventually, by gad, we get the actor's long speech about how lonely a star really is, plus the drunken auto ride in which he tempts death and finds life. This halfbaked pizza is spiced with a diluted Dolce Vita sauce. (New equation: an Italian girl doing the cha-cha in a slinky dress equals Depravity.) But weaving hips don't hide the fact that this is a 1925-type flick with sound, much too much of it. The words pour mostly from Kirk Douglas, as the ex-star, but Edward G. Robinson, the director, gives us plenty of the side of his lip, too.
During the arduous process of completing 16 films in five years, Peter Sellers has gained an international reputation as England's most lustrous comedian. The peerless portrayer of Lolita's malevolent Quilty submerges himself so completely in his roles (an Indian doctor, a Graustarkian Prime Minister, an unconscionable car thief, a Welsh librarian), that the "real" Peter Sellers has had little chance to stand up. People conditioned by his chameleonlike cinematic tours de force find it something of a visual and aural surprise to meet the 36-year-old Sellers off camera. Unprepossessing and painfully shy, attired in a nondescript gray suit set off by an innocuous tie, Sellers held forth for Playboy for four hours in his dressing room at Shepperton film studios in London's outskirts. During his soft-spoken answers to our queries, his eyes searched the floor through thick-rimmed glasses for some elusive wellspring of inspiration in an obviously gracious attempt to muster the verbal virtuosity associated with the acting profession. That he communicated well was more a tribute to Sellers' determination to express his thoughts than a natural loquacity. (The news, learned as we went to press, that Sellers and his wife had separated, supplies a melancholy postscript to his voiced longings for familial stability.)
Colonel Pierre Roquebrun emerged from his villa at nine o'clock on a certain bright, sunshine-filled Riviera morning, and walked down the path to his antique shop which was located one kilometer before the village of La Tourette on the road between Venice and Grasse.
One of the first things I ever shot with a rifle (air) was a North Carolina mockingbird. It was Grandma's favorite, and Grandpa whaled hell out of me. The first time I ever fired a real rifle seriously I killed a Tanganyika lion with it, and became disastrously ill thereafter, because one does not generally break in on lions, and the reaction is apt to be violent. The lion was shot with a Winchester .375 Magnum, and it made such a frightful noise that I had been afraid to shoot it in practice. A dozen years and a few elephants later, I find I'm not conscious of the noise.
T here was time not too long ago when it was considered fashionable to regard the man in the Brooks Brothers gray flannel suir as a cookie-sheet prototype of the young executive and his anonymous attire. In a sartorial sense, at least, this regimental image may have contained more than a grain of truth back in 1955, when Sloan Wilson's pet sobriquet first became a national catchphrase. With the increasing impact of British and Continental styling over the intervening years, however, this archconservative Ivy League silhouette has matured and metammorphosed into an internationally accented admixture of divergent fashions for every pastime and predilection—each distinctively, but each bearing the unmistakable "Made in U.S.A." stamp from head to toe.
While out Sunday driving on a suburban golf course recently, we discovered a young charmer whose stance and style awakened our interest in tee-for-two outings: She's Laura Young, an ardent golfer and our October Playmate. Brown of hair and green of eye, country-clubbing Laura is strictly a play-for-kicks girl—while making the rounds her spirits are as high as her customary score ("I did shoot a 72 the other day," she confided to us. "Of course, that was before I reached the sixth green."). But no matter how she slices it, her classic form—a striking 36-25-36—is sufficient to quell the critic in any man, ourself included. Lovely Laura was born in Long Branch, New Jersey, 24 years ago; during her youth she lived the nomadic life of a Navy dependent as she and her family followed the steps of her stepfather—a line lieutenant—from Miami to the Panama Canal to Key West to Red Bank, New Jersey, where she settled down long enough to win her high school diploma and then undertake breadwinning chores as a telephone operator and nurse's aide. Following the sage advice of observant friends, who felt that the artful arrangement of her 125 pounds on her 5'6" frame should make her a sure click as a model, she moved on to Chicago a few months ago in quest of a pretty-as-a-picture career. A girl who is endowed with refreshingly unpretentious tastes, Miss October confesses a secret addiction to True Confessions magazine ("I guess I enjoy reading about other people's problems because I don't seem to have any of my own"), flips for such Art Linkletter books as Kids Say the Darndest Things! ("Maybe it sounds corny, but I happen to like children") and digs Bobby Darin's brash belting, Ben Casey's surly scowl, Alfred Hitchcock's thrillers and heaping helpings of all foods Italian. She also goes in big for painting ceramics, dating a long list of admirers ("My only requirement in men is that they be fun to be with—I can't stand fellows with moody or sleepy personalities") and, of course, pursuing her carefree country-club sport of letting the chip shots fall where they may. Having lamped Playmate Laura's fair ways on the fairways, we promptly persuaded her to tee off her modeling career by becoming this month's Playmate. For an intime view of lithesome Miss October, a swinging golfer of proportions, unfold the foldout, whence she smiles hello to Young lovers everywhere.
One day in school young Johnny wrote on the blackboard, "Johnny is a passionate devil." The teacher reprimanded him for this act, and made him stay after school for one hour. When he finally left the school that evening, all his friends crowded about him, eager to hear what punishment he had received. "What did she do to you?" asked one little tyke.
The human brain is the most complicated structure in the known Universe, but, since practically nothing of the Universe is known, it is probably fairly low in the hierarchy of organic computers. Nevertheless, it contains powers and potentialities still largely untapped and perhaps unguessed-at. It is one of the strangest of all facts, impossible for the sensitive mind to contemplate without melancholy, that for at least 50,000 years there have been men on this planet who could have conducted a symphony orchestra, discovered theorems in pure mathematics, acted as Secretary General of the United Nations, or piloted a spaceship—had they been given the chance. Probably 99 percent of human ability has been wholly wasted; even today, those of us who consider ourselves cultured and educated operate for most of our time as automatic machines, and glimpse the profounder resources of our minds only once or twice in a lifetime.
Well, What the Devil then, where's your title?" said Mr. Bozman, the proprietor of The Baltimore General Press. "I see a quotation: 'Ignoscito saepe alteri nunquam tibi'—which, construed, reads 'Forgive others often, but never forgive yourself.' Well?"
For one of October's most inviting recipes, take a cool Saturday afternoon, stir in approximately two hours of gridiron grandstanding, moisten whenever necessary with eau de vie from a hip flask, then simmer down to a leisurely evening repast in the mellow light of your own digs. Ever since Englishmen in the 11th Century engaged in the manly sport of kicking around old skulls on battlefields, "futballe" has remained one of the most uninhibited forms of ordered mayhem known to man. Happily, it has its own highly civilized safety valve—the convocation at cocktails and dinner following the game when the afternoon's formations and strategies are all relived calmly in the vicinity of home bar and ice bucket. Only a fiercely (continued on page 152) Post-Football Fete (continued from page 109) loyal alumnus returning from his own campus can appreciate October's rich colors—the scarlet of a bloody mary, the harvest yellow of a 16-ounce mug overflowing with frosty ale, the autumnal haze surrounding a double old fashioned glass filled with whiskey and rocks. Football fans have no less an appreciation of October's culinary attributes. Although the oyster season starts in September, the plumpest of the marine bivalves are just now appearing on the half shells. Coolish nights once more bring out the carnivore in men. Huge rib roasts are readied for the fire. Beef in Burgundy simmers.
There must be 17 or 39 different varieties and subspecies of publicity people—if you know the actual number don't tell me, I really don't want it, all anybody needs to know are the two main categories: the arm-grabbers and the other kind. Bernie Hoven was an arm-grabber. That's him at the banquette table by the window, that good-looking little creep, that's Bernie Hoven. That broad he's with, that big blonde, that's Helga Carlsson, as if you didn't know. You would never guess, seeing her sitting down like that, the girl is six foot one, would you? When she stands up those jokers at the next table will duck: they'll figure she'll fall off her stilts into their brandy. Bernie? Oh, five seven, five seven and a half or so. And that's with his shoes on, I don't guarantee a thing for him barefoot.
London, said Disraeli a century ago, "is a nation, not a city, with a population greater than some kingdoms, and districts as different as if they were under different governments and spoke different languages." Today, as the second largest of the world's metropolises, the capital of England and the British Isles, and the axis of a commonwealth girdling the globe from Singapore to Saskatchewan, the sprawling city on the Thames is more of a nation than ever. Encompassing 693 square miles of Roman ruins, Norman citadels, Elizabethan alehouses, Tudor palaces, Renaissance basilicas, Edwardian mews, Regency malls, Georgian town houses, Swedish-modern office buildings and chromium luncheonettes—a capsule history of its 2000-year evolution in architectural microcosm—modern London is unique among the world's capital cities as the nucleus of nearly every major social, economic and cultural institution in its far-flung domain: art, music, letters, show business, communications, advertising, industry, high fashion, high finance, high society—and girls.
In previous installments, the men of C Company, until then innocent of battle, had stormed the Japanese redoubt on Hill 210 in Guadalcanal. They lay there now, cowering in bloodlined craters, waiting for the enemy to move. On the field telephone, Stein, their Captain—pursuing his private war with Colonel Tall by refusing regimental orders to lead his men into further slaughter—hears with disbelief the command to attack again.
To the Jazz Musician, nearly all of the summer "festivals" that purport to celebrate his "art" are just another gig. The money is somewhat better out-of-doors, but the playing conditions are usually worse and the promoters are no less rhomboid than the average night-club owner. "This," Miles Davis once said while appraising the July emigration to Newport, Rhode Island, "is a jazz supermarket." Mr. Davis has since included all the festivals he has played within that condemnation, and he expresses the consensus of a large majority of the jazz confraternity.
With monterey flourishing on the West Coast, and a reorganized Newport Festival once more echoing the welcome sounds of live, authentic jazz in a salubrious, noncommercial atmosphere in the East, 1962 turned into a festive year for the hot and the cool. This being the case, we fully expect this year's Playboy Jazz Poll, America's biggest, most respected jazz consensus, to handsomely outpull all previous pulsetakings. The Jazz Poll ballot, as in years past, is made up of only those musicians who have been performing actively during the last twelvemonth.
Ribald Classic: Gawain and the Lady of the Pavilion
In pursuit of adventure Gawain entered the forest of Broceliande and rode for three days and nights. In the early afternoon of the fourth day he entered a clearing and saw a pavilion of dazzling white silk with red pennons flying. Gawain dismounted, and entered the pavilion with drawn sword. He saw five low beds of soft down, four of them empty. In the fifth bed there lay a sweetly sleeping young woman in a white silk nightdress, with a red smiling mouth and long black hair, her arms thrown wide as if in preparation for an embrace.
Comic Dick Gregory's gags-to-riches career is probably the fastest rising and most spectacular in night-club history. At the time he was first booked for a three-week gig at Chicago's Playboy Club in January of 1960, at $250 a week (his initial appearance in a non-Negro night club), Dick's club engagements were so infrequent that he was forced to wash cars during the day to support his family; he was seriously considering scrapping his showbiz career altogether (cracked Dick in his act: "Things are so bad, if it weren't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all"). But soon after his welcome to the Club, Dick began to click with his unique style—mainly because in talking about segregation, freedom riders and sit-ins he truthfully probed to the heart of darkness at a time when the nation's conscience on matters racial responded to the spur of laughter. Dick's engagement at the Playboy Club was extended for an additional six weeks, and when the S.R.O. quip-cracking stint was done, he had been featured in stories in every Chicago newspaper, received a full-column salute in the Show Business section of Time, scored twice on the Jack Paar show, been besieged by big-money bids from top clubs throughout the U.S., and hailed by critics as "the Negro Mort Sahl," the first colored comic ever to make it big in night-clubdom. ("In Africa," he observed wryly, "Mort Sahl is the white Dick Gregory.") In a business where memory and friendship exist all too rarely outside of song lyrics, Gregory has returned to the Playboy Club again, and still again, to fulfill a contract written for a few hundred a week, when he was receiving $5000 at other clubs; and when PM East devoted an hour to a TV profile of Playboy in New York recently, he jetted in from the West Coast to do an eight-minute spot on the programfor scale, returning immediately to San Francisco for his show at the hungry i that night. Having already entered the best-seller lists as an LP monologist (Dick Gregory in Living Black and White, Dick Gregory East and West) Dick debuts next month as an equally lethal literateur: E.P. Dutton will publish From the Back of the Bus, a book featuring caustic comment by Gregory, pictures by Playboy photog Jerry Yulsman, and an introduction by Playboy Editor-Publisher Hugh M. Hefner. Herewith, for our readers, a special prepublication package of the latest word in pointed Gregorian chanting.
Let's take the shot over again a couple more times, Miss Fanny.But, Mr. Battbarton, all the Soapsuds have dissolved!Soapsuds!Who's got the Soapsuds?Anyone got the Soapsuds?I have the film and I have the Soapsu-Awk!Sst! get him outta here!
This December we suggest you gift yourself with a holiday in Europe, one that combines a jolly English Noel with schussing on nearby Continental slopes. In London, a prime spot to mark Christmas is at the Scarsdale Arms on Edwardes Square; here you jump feast first into the traditional festive spirit with such urban renewal as hot punch, turkey or goose, pheasant and boar's head and, of course, brandied Christmas pudding borne in aflame. Or, if you'd prefer to spend the holidays in the country, do as the roaming do: head for the rustic pleasures and ruddy good sustenance of such hostelries as The Courthouse in Newton Ferrers or the Lygon Arms at Broadway, a charm-laden village in Worcestershire.