If you catch the glint of Playboy's rabbit on the rim of the lady's glass on this month's cover, you'll see we've turned the world upside down to make this February issue go to your head. Credit for this feat goes to Contributing Photographer Stan Malinowski, who spent hours posing Cheryl Lampley's pretty profile on the edge of that neatly tipped champagne glass to capture Chicago's inverted skyline within it.
Playboy, February, 1963, Vol. 10, No. 2, Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Company, Inc., Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio, St., Chicago IL, 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 IL, 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, CI 5-2520; Branch Offices: Chicago, Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio St., MI 2-1000, Joe Fall, Midwestern Advertising Manager, Detroit, Boulevard West Building, 2090 West Grand Boulevard, TR 5-7250, Joseph Guenther, 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, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N. E. Atlanta 5, GA., 233-6729.
If your boyhood commenced sometime alter the era of Jules Verne and before the advent of Horatio Alger, chances are that you became addicted to the hairbreadth exploits of that paragon of pluck and moxie; that clean-living champion of God, Home, Flag and Mother; that indomitably optimistic and stick-to-itive spouter of sticky sampler mottos: the immortal Tom Swift, of whom Frank Merriwell, the Rover Boys and even Tom Swift, Jr.-- his contemporary namesake -- are the palest reflections. Perhaps the most unforgettable of all the memories inspired by this fabled folk hero is the prose of Victor Appleton, Tom's inimitable creator: a mélange of wildly improbable plots larded with impossibly stilted dialog beside which the pomposities of Bull-winkle's incorruptible Dudley Doright fairly crackle with wit and verisimilitude. "If you don't unhand that lady," Tom used to say, "I will be forced to resort to fisticuffs." Or, "Scoff if you wish, but my Electric Aeroplane shall fly." And as if this weren't enough, he would always say it "steadfastly," "cheerfully," "jauntily," or even "gaily."
Little Me, a musical comic strip, kaleido-scopically chronicles the rise to stardom of Belle Poitrine, as did the Patrick Dennis best seller (which originally ran in Show Business Illustrated) on which the show is freely based. Sid Caesar plays most of the men in Belle's life and, since Belle's life is mostly men, he has to do a lot of dashing on and off stage, in and out of costumes, characters and accents. Belle begins as a sexy nobody from the wrong side of the tracks. Sid as Noble Eggleston, the biggest somebody on the right side of the tracks. He goes off to Harvard and to Yale to study law and medicine, while she, seeking "wealth, culture and social position," turns, in order of their appearance, to: Banker Pinchley, the meanest miser in the world ("I haven't had a good grovel and beg in weeks"): Val Du Val, an incredibly French entertainer ("Sank you, sank you, sank you, or as zey say in Eeengleesh, thank you"); Fred Poitrine, an incredibly dough-brained doughboy: Otto Schnitzler, a tyrannical director kicked out of Hollywood "because of prejudice and 12 rotten pictures in a row": and Prince Cherney, the dying monarch of a dying kingdom who dismisses his subjects from his deathbed because "I must get some dying done." All give their Belle a boost, but her heart belongs to Noble, who pops up in the course of the action as a World War I air ace, governor of North and South Dakota, a full-time rummy and the father of Noble Eggleston, Jr. (Junior goes to Georgia Tech and to Juilliard, so that he can both build Lincoln Center and conduct there at night.) The forum is full of Caesars -- most of them screwball, all of them hand-tailored by Neil Simon (one of Sid's old TV gag gang). Also on hand and niftily tailored is Virginia Martin, a brassy Belle with a clarion voice. The showstopper, among a first-class batch of songs by Cy Coleman (composer of Playboy's Penthouse theme) and Carolyn Leigh, is a male striptease, the low-down ve Got Your Number. Best of Bob Fosse's inventive dances is The Rich Kids' Rag, a knock-kneed slow-motion Charleston -- the only slow thing in this fast, frenetic, funny show. At the Lunt-Fontanne Theater, 205 West 46th Street.
"Noted for melodious song," the encyclopedia says about the mockingbird. In like manner. To Kill a Mockingbird sings out over the racket of most recent American films. Harper Lee's first-novel phenomenon has been deftly adapted by Horton Foote; lyrically photographed by Russell Harlan: and directed by Robert Mulligan with kid-comedy but no cuteness, tearful touches but no tear jerking. This story of an Alabama town in 1932 threads together two themes: children learning about evil and adults learning about good. Atticus Finch, a widowed lawyer with a son of 10 and a daughter of six, is court appointed to defend a Negro accused of rape. The case tangles with the lives of the children, touching their fantasy forays around a "haunted" house on their street. Eventually the house becomes unhaunted for them, and they get a glimpse, by the end, of the endless complications of life. As Atticus, Gregory Peck has a part cut skintight to fit his undersized acting, his summation to the jury is his peak performance to date. Phillip Alford. Mary Badham and John Megna are kookie kids whose mischief has the makings of maturity in it. Brock Peters as the accused Negro and James Anderson as his trashy white accuser are too credible for comfort. Maybe the script leans a little heavily on the latent loving liberalism underlying generations of Southern gentry; but Mockingbird's song is that there are a few heartening things in man's heinous heart.
It will gladden the Salinger cult to see Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction (Little, Brown, S4) reprinted in book form. Salinger has a fine eye for the nuances of a certain rather narrow mode of experience; he frequently turns shrewd and funny phrases, especially in mild derision; and his greatest gift is the satire so toughly yet subtly used in parts of Raise High -- Buddy Glass' recollection of his brother Seymour's failure to show up at his own wedding. But when Salinger becomes serious, he can fall into sentimentality, tedium and a nobbishly disengaged "sensitivity." Seymour is almost entirely in this vein, a rambling, flatulent view through brother Glass, of Seymour's life and poetry. It is J. D. at his most jaded, full of conspiratorial asides, false hesitations, italic crutches and often pointless observations of the commonplace. Both stories are written in that mincing, longwinded, coy and sometimes snotty style that has become the mark of much of the fiction in The New Yorker, where they first appeared. Salinger remains exasperating because of the very real -- even unique -- talent he has always exhibited and the promise he has too rarely fulfilled.
If The First Family (Cadence), the definitive take-off on the Clan Kennedy, does nothing else, it will secure for Vaughn Meader a niche in mimicry's hall of fame as the voice of JFK. Meader's carbon copy of the President is devastatingly accurate -- allowing, of course, for a satiric broadening of JFK's already broad New England accent. Naomi Brossart as the First Lady is a close second as a copycat. There is also an imitation (by whom we are not certain) of Sen. Ev Dirksen's honeyed tones which rates as a deadly ringer. The routines themselves, while rising on a number of occasions to a high level of humor, generally do not come up to the standards set by the miming. The more antic moments are contained in an after-dinner conversation which finds JFK admonishing: "I want you youngsters to stop fighting among yourselves, Bobby and Caroline"; there is an announcer intoning: "Vote for the Kennedy of your choice, but vote!"; a summit meeting in which the President in an economy move sends out for lunch and Nikita says, "You don't have to order for me; I'll have a little from everybody else's sandwich." Nkrumah states that he'll have watermelon, to which JFK replies: "Don't put me on": a press conference has Kennedy, when asked what he has to say about his family being called a dynasty, answering: "I don't believe it: neither does my brother Bobby nor my brother Genghis."
After being involved with a most charming and elegant young lady for three wonderful months, I'm becoming increasingly disturbed by her financial irresponsibility. First she wanted to borrow money to redecorate her apartment, a request that I gladly met. Then she borrowed money to buy two new, strikingly expensive dresses. And two or three times she has asked for a loan of $50 or so until her "dividend checks come in." As you've undoubtedly guessed, in not one instance have I received my money back. Up till now I have made no mention of the money to her, first because I don't want to give an impression of being petty, and second, I have quite frankly been afraid of disturbing or somehow disrupting the most successful physical relationship I have ever had with a woman. What bothers me most about the whole affair is that she is so obviously a young lady of good breeding and education. I guess I just didn't expect this sort of treatment from someone of her kind. What should I do? Am I -- as I suspect -- being played for a very large sucker? -- T. D., Los Angeles, California.
The Upbeat Generation has arrived and its conflict with the old ways, the old ideas, the old traditions and taboos is evident all around us. After 20 years of Depression-bred and War-nurtured conformity, and compulsive concern with security and the common man, the Uncommon Man has at last come back into his own, along with a renewed respect for the uncommon mind, the uncommon act and the uncommon accomplishment.
Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves!: Part I of a New Novelette
P. G. Woodehouse
It is no secret in the circles in which he moves that Bertram Wooster, though as fizzy as one could wish when night has fallen and the revels get under way, is seldom a ball of fire at the breakfast table. Confronted with the kippered herrings or the e. and bacon, he tends to pick cautiously at them, as if afraid they may leap from the plate and snap at him. Listless, about sums it up. Not much bounce to the ounce.
That Loosely Used and overworked word "unique" applies rather precisely to the American Virgin Islands. As you can see from the picture on the preceding page of three uninhibited sun worshipers (the girls sporting tattletale white), the fine sand beaches provide privacy and lucent waters in which to swim and snorkle. Other tropical resorts do, too, but these virtues are more numerous and closer to perfection in the Virgins. Charlotte Amalic, the capital of St. Thomas, offers a very special blend of cosmopolitan pleasures: an endlessly fascinating waterfront which teems with native vessels, luxury yachts and ocean liners, and a drinking-dining-dancing-romancing night life that does not exist -- in kind or quantity -- in the run of resort areas that are relatively free from the thundering herd of non-shoe, non-U tourists.
Rafferty was not the only one losing at the blackjack table, but he had been there the longest. He had been sitting there since 10 in the morning; now it was after three, and the waitresses of the Wanderlust, Las Vegas' fanciest and newest hotel, had offered him drinks on the house half-a-dozen times at least. The hotel could well afford buying him a drink to keep him where he was.
We've Said an Eyeful in our photo-uncoverage of the past nine years, but no picture story provided a bigger kick (for our readers and ourself) than the Playmate Holiday House Party in our Eighth Anniversary Issue. Following a full dozen of Playboy's prettiest Playmates on a weekend run of the Playboy Mansion was no snap job; the shooting ran through three days and nights during which our photo staff logged more than 2000 color shots. Although many of the scenes were planned in advance, our alert lensmen kept their eyes open (who wouldn't?) while the girls were "resting" between takes. That's how they caught Playmates Teddi Smith (July 1960), Carrie Radison (June 1957), Christa Speck (September 1961) and Delores Wells (June 1960) in the impromptu pillow fight that enlivens these pages. And while not a part of the planned party and not published with the original picture story, we felt that these spontaneous Playmate photos were too delightful not to print for our readers.
Of all the natural forces, gravity is the most mysterious and the most implacable. It controls our lives from birth to death, killing or maiming us if we make the slightest slip. No wonder that, conscious of their earth-bound slavery, men have always looked wistfully at birds and clouds, and have pictured the sky as the abode of the gods. The very phrase "heavenly being" implies a freedom from gravity which, until the present, we have known only in our dreams.
The Best Antidote we know for February's wintry blues is a lot of sun shining on a lot of girl -- which we herewith offer in the fine form of Toni Ann Thomas, our February Playmate. A tempting 18 years of age, titian-haired Toni Ann is passing through an appealingly unpredictable stage in her young life: at times she is tomboyishly exuberant and given to wild backyard romps with her two kid brothers; at other times she can, through the alchemy of perfume and peignoir, suddenly transform herself into a delicate charmer with womanly poise. Born and bred in California, Toni Ann lives alone in West Covina in a small, neat apartment furnished in Swedish modern. Her bedroom contains one rarely used TV set ("It bores me to tears"), some 20 stuffed animals of uncertain lineage, and three widely scattered alarm clocks, which most of the time succeed in awakening her for her job as a switchboard operator with a local insurance company. (A recent graduate of Los Angeles' Washington High, Miss February first worked as one of Vic Tanny's more spectacular -- 38-22-36 -- instructresses before switching to the switchboard.) In her spare time, she likes reading short stories with happy endings and being escorted to movie houses featuring light comedies and exciting whodunits. Toni Ann is still girl enough to squeal at football games (she roots passionately for Southern Cal), stuff herself on Mexican and Italian dishes, and leap in the air when she bowls one of her rare strikes. At the same time, she views her life and the men therein with a levelheaded maturity: "My favorite kind of guy is one who is unpretentious and who cares as much about what I think as how I look. The fellows I really turn off are the phonies -- the ones who are fascinated by themselves and want to take me places only as some kind of ornament for their own egos. Also, I'm not too fond of the sly types that keep saying they can help me get ahead in show business. I don't want to be an actress, and I'm not particularly interested in being a model. I'd much prefer marrying a nice guy and raising a big family." Blessed with sultry features and a lushly proportioned 5'5", 120-pound body, Toni Ann naturally draws masculine double takes wherever she goes. "I guess there's no point in fighting nature," she smiles. "I used to be self-conscious. Now, frankly, I enjoy it. You might say it's part of growing up." As proof that Toni Ann has indeed grown up, we refer you to the accompanying photographs of our fun-loving Miss February, a Playmate of whom it clearly can be said: Thank heaven for not-so-little girls.
Ours is a Spacesaving Age -- notwithstanding the sterling exploits of astronauts and cosmonauts -- and we are pleased to note that the high fidelity industry has taken cognizance of the fact. The accent this year, more than ever before, is on miniaturization. Right down the line, from turntables to speakers, audio gear is shrinking in size. Fortunately, we have detected no corresponding shrinkage in quality. On the contrary, recent progress in transistor technology has given a new twist to an old cliché: Hi-fi is getting smaller and better all the time.
Oval, the shape of most masculine faces, is compatible with almost any collar style, as shown at right, top to bottom: business shirt with medium-spread snap-tab collar, appropriate in coordination with four-in-hand necktie knot, Continental or British-influenced jacket; classic long-pointed buttondown, best with British or lvy suit; bold-stripe shirt with pointed widespread collar, worn with Windsor or four-in-hand tie knot, Continental or English suit.
Last month we published two opposing essays written especially for Playboy on the role of the American Right Wing, by two of America's angriest young men, novelist Norman Mailer and author-editor William F. Buckley, Jr. By agreement, each combatant read his essay as his opening statement to a showdown debate, staged by John Golden Productions, before a tense Chicago audience. The rapid-fire cross-interrogation that ensued, a bitter ideological duel, appears here.
More Than Any Other time of year, the spring-in-the-air buoyancy of April evokes wanderlust in the guy who likes to go. Fortunately, the choice of near-and-far-sited vacation locales during this burgeoning month is a notably extensive one.