This issue's captivating cover girl is our own Cynthia Maddox, who won her first deluge of reader plaudits as the bountiful Valentine on our February 1962 cover and precipitated another mail-storm with Valentine Revisited in May. Cynthia's off-camera activities hereabouts have changed since then: no longer just a Playboy secretary-receptionist, she's been promoted to Assistant Cartoon Editor to the not incidental pleasure of our cartoonists.
Playboy, March, 1963, Vol. 10, No. 3, 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 Building, 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, CI 5-2620; Branch Offices: Chicago, Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio St., MI 2-1000, Joe Fall, Midwestern Advertising Manager; Detroit, Boulevard West Building, 2990 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
The successful orbiting some months back of Telstar and her sister satellites inspired optimism in many customarily glum television viewers, most of whom have since given forth with happy predictions of how Olympic games, European coronations and summit meetings will soon be brought back alive to Americans at their Stateside hearths. While we admit that these brave-new-worldly thoughts are edifying, we feel that they ignore one of the most interesting sidelights inherent in a sky bright with Telstars: the possibility, however remote, that foreign talent and maturity might begin to have some beneficial effect upon the U.S.' soporific TV commercials. As international television becomes more common, and Madison Avenue's hucksters begin to feel the impact of a foreign expressiveness that has until now been confined to art-flick houses, maybe – just maybe – a dash of spice will be added to the pablum that comprises our customary admixed diet.
Volume Two of Ray Charles/Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music (ABC-Paramount), a follow-up to best-selling Volume One, is, in our estimation, just as forlorn an enterprise as its precursor. Aside from the opener, a surprisingly robust limning of You Are My Sunshine, these turkeys-in-the-straw have nothing to recommend them. A much better batch of Charles (based on his biggest record hits) is available on "The Genius" in Harmony/The Anita Kerr Singers (Victor). A mellifluous, precisely schooled quartet, the group adds an ensemble dimension to a dozen Charlesian chants that is smooth yet stirring. The instrumental side of the omnipresent Mr. Charles can be heard on Soul Meeting/Ray Charles & Milt Jackson (Atlantic). Although Ray'spiano prowess has to take a back seat to the solid creativity of the incomparable Bags, the amalgam of what would seem to be two totally dissimilar styles bears much tangy fruit. These opposite musical poles should attract a wide audience, and deservedly so.
At the age of 85, Carl Sandburg sings out forcefully in a collection of 77 new poems called Honey and Salt (Harcourt, Brace & World, $4.75), several of which first appeared in Playboy. The bard who put Chicago on the Muses' map back in 1916 has no plans, thank you, to lay down his lyre, or guitar, or anything else. As ever, he is an openhanded writer, more flowing than fine-polishing. His low points are his long poems; the title piece and the closing one (Timesweep) pound at Walt Whitman's door without really getting in. The surprise is that so many of these poems deal with love and passion – and not down memory lane, either.
Tchin-Tchin is about sin-sin. An Italian-American contractor and an upper-class English lady meet to discuss an affair his wife is having with her husband. As the contractor, Caesario Grimaldi (Anthony Quinn) explains, "Even if you and I never met and I had a cold, you'd catch it." The English lady, Pamela Pew-Pickett (Margaret Leighton) wants Caesario to take action against the adulterers, but neither knows precisely what sort of action. "If I say, 'Choose my wife or yours,' " Caesario muses gloomily, "he'll choose mine." Caesario, on the other hand, is not about to choose Pamela Pew-Pickett. She is, he tells her, a tea bag. Caesario is a Scotch man himself. Pamela sticks to tea and empathy until, after four months of indecision, the pair concludes that since their spouses are still in heat, they are not going to remain out in the cold any longer. Their fling begins in a seedy hotel room with Pamela taking her very first nip of Scotch. "You won't treat me as a tart?" she says girlishly. Caesario ponders a moment, replies, "I might." "Well," says Pamela, "if I get very drunk maybe I won't notice," and snatches the bottle. They both get very drunk, and their sportive cavort is one of the great hilarities of recent theatrical seasons, Miss Leighton revealing the latent charms beneath her dignity and clothing, and Quinn, that quintessence of earthiness, finally passing out, blotto on the cotto. Unfortunately, nothing that happens afterward reaches this high plane of low comedy. Things turn first toward the absurd, then toward the maudlin. Still, Quinn and Miss Leighton give splendidly matched, sparkling performances, and until it goes flat in Act Two, their play is vintage bubbly. At the Plymouth Theater, 236 West 45th Street.
40 Pounds of Trouble sounds lightweight – and is. The script by Marion Hargrove, a distant descendant of an old Shirley Temple starrer (Little Miss Marker), is about a hot-shot gambler who has a six-year-old child left on his hands at the Lake Tahoe lootery he manages. He also has divorce and dame dilemmas and the laughs lie mostly in the tyke's toddling innocently through his money, marital and mob machinations. The high spot is a chase through Disneyland, which is just about to be hilarious when it forgets to stop. Tony Curtis is a winning casino concierge; Edward Andrews, Howard Morris, and Larry Storch comprise a sturdy staff; and in a brief appearance as a brutal boss, Phil Silvers is all gold. Director Norman Jewison keeps this candy-striped soufflé of yeggs and sugar from collapsing into an omelet.
My playmate has given me an imported wicker picnic set that fits into the back of my Jaguar. So, I'm expressing my thanks by taking her on a picnic. It may as well be a first-cabin affair. What would you say should be the menu? – P. Y., Bronxville, New York.
If the long and stormy life of Bertrand Arthur William Russell can be said to possess any unifying thread, it is an enduring attitude of passionate skepticism, a lifelong refusal to accept any truth as immutable, any law as infallible or any faith as sacred. During the nine decades of his dedication to dissent, the erudite Earl Russell, a member of the House of Lords, has been awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in recognition of his pioneering research in mathematical philosophy and symbolic logic, and honored with Britain's distinguished Order of Merit for service to his country. But he has also been reviled as an enemy of religion and the flag; jailed for his ring-leadership of passively nonviolent demonstrations against nuclear armament; and variously extolled and execrated for his contentious convictions on free love, women's suffrage, sex education, pacifism and preventive war.
We have tried to show in previous issues how an improper emphasis on security and conformity stifled this country for a generation and we have pointed to signs that suggest, to us, that initiative and the individual may soon again be receiving their proper due. But there has been another stifling influence in America – far more insidious – that has pervaded our culture since the nation's beginnings, yet most of us are only vaguely aware of its continuing effect on every facet of our laws and our lives.
Before scanning the current world output of automobiles in search of playboy cars, let's get the record straight on just what we mean by that phrase. Among those qualities which justify the appellation "playboy car" are all those desiderata that might come under the quaint cliché "sex appeal." That is, a playboy car has dash and style, speed and zing, an atmosphere of luxury and/or sportiness, "alive" responsiveness and an overall air bespeaking the fact that it was personally selected to complement its owner's happiest self-image. But, quite possibly, one might more clearly spell out exactly what constitutes a playboy car in terms of negatives – most of them, not incidentally, qualities highly touted to the mass market.
How wonderfully secure and peaceful a genuine marriage seemed to Carter, when he attained it at the age of 42. He even enjoyed every moment of the church service, except when he saw Josephine wiping away a tear as he conducted Julia down the aisle. It was typical of this new frank relationship that Josephine was there at all. He had no secrets from Julia; they had often talked together of his 10 tormented years with Josephine, of her extravagant jealousy, of her well-timed hysterics. "It was her insecurity," Julia argued with understanding, and she was quite convinced that in a little while it would be possible to form a friendship with Josephine.
Well, A Hell of a lot of water has flowed down the Danube since I was a boy, and I often sit and speculate about what could possibly have happened to all of the people whom I had known during those long lost years in the Vienna of my childhood.
"Claret is the liquor for boys, port for men, but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy." Either Samuel Johnson's classic 18th Century dictum no longer applies, or the fact that cognac consumption has tripled in this country during the past 10 years suggests that heroes have proliferated of late at an unparalleled rate. In any case, Dr. Johnson was on the right track to this extent: brandy taken neat is in itself heroic. There is something about brandy's finesse that caresses the senses and even the palm of your warming hand. Although after-coffee brandy outshines almost any flavor or aroma that has gone before it, it isn't necessary to sate your palate with a formal 12-course dinner and six wines in order to test the survival power of a great brandy. Actually, the fine old elixir becomes an even more impressive finale for the modern casserole dinner, the shell steak party or the informal buffet.
One Reason New York is a nice place to visit is the girls who want to live there – particularly the ebulliently budding models and actresses who brighten the city as they anonymously pursue their careers and dreams. Such an unsung charmer – typical in her bouyant hopes, atypical in her cool blonde beauty – is Adrienne Moreau, an aspiring New York free-lance fashion model and our March Playmate. The short happy life of Miss March began 21 summers ago in Trenton, New Jersey, where she was born of French parents; following schooling in both Jersey and Pennsylvania she entered Rutgers to study the diplomatic arts (specializing in languages and political science). Along the way her vivacious personality led to many extracurricular activities: she first did fashion modeling at 16 in Philadelphia, starred in two high school plays, and during college worked as a part-time teacher in a New Brunswick charm school. After giving the academic life the old college try for two years, Adrienne left Rutgers in the spring of 1961 with the time-honored ambition of becoming a girl of independent ways and means in NYC. Since her arrival, she has done well in publicity and advertising assignments (unlike fashiondom's usual skeleton crew, she tapes a notable 38-22-36) and recently was able to finance a snug walk-up apartment on 73rd Street just off Central Park, where she lives with a roommate amid a pleasant feminine clutter of clothing and cosmetics. Though somewhat shy at first introduction, Adrienne makes friends easily with men, who are invariably taken with her quick enthusiasms, her spontaneous laugh, and the fact that she so obviously enjoys masculine company. Of her future she says: "I'm terribly unrealistic – I want to become a great actress, and travel extensively, and marry a wise, decisive man. And I want lots of laughter and wonderful unpredictable things along the way. I don't want to live by any blueprint." For the nonce, lovely Adrienne is clearly content with the lively life of a New York bachelor girl – and glad to have Playboy's company as she relaxes in and around the apartment she hopes will be her launching pad.
While His Affluent Neighbors are still snug in their silken contour sheets, a lanky Beverly Hills resident gulps down 10 varieties of vitamin pills along with a tumbler of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. The sun has yet to pierce the California smog as he pulls on a Beethoven sweat shirt, wrinkled khakis and size 10-1/2-D tennis sneakers. Exiting from his 15-room Spanish colonial villa on North Beverly Drive, he briskly embarks on his morning constitutional, heading past hedgerows toward the Beverly Hills Hotel, a short jog up the street. Outflanking its pink-stucco facade, he wheels right at Sunset Boulevard and then right again on Crescent, pausing briefly to greet a motorcycle cop crouched behind a stop sign. Occasionally a bewildered Japanese gardener looks up from landscaping to observe the loping figure turn at Lexington, hard by the stately mansions pin-pointed on Hollywood star maps, and then negotiate the stretch down palm-lined North Beverly. Back home, hardly puffing, he grunts through 10 minutes of calisthenics and swims four laps in his cherub-studded, Olympic-length pool, capping these bursts with a hot-and-cold needle shower in soapy splendor. After a breakfast of bran flakes with raw almonds, one half of an organically grown papaya, yogurt and stone-ground bread, Stan Freberg, Satirist, is ready for another day at the office.
The Ultraslim Outline of last year's footgear has filled out into a broguishly masculine shoe silhouette that's high, wide and decidedly handsome, in emulation of the evolution in apparel to slightly wider shoulders and lapels. Cleaving to the classic lines of wingtips, straight tips and moccasin fronts in laced and loafer models with widertoes, they create an impression of sturdy substantiality without sacrificing the polished urbanity of unadorned styling. Subtly keyed in style and shade to every mode of male attire, the well-heeled gentleman's shoe wardrobe for '63 includes a variety of smooth leathers for dress and business wear, grained textures for tweedy town-and-country pastimes, brushed hides and coarse-weave fabrics for active and spectator sports.
Casually correct as a daytime shirt for the driving male, this versatile innovation serves no less handsomely as a jacket at the lunch or cocktail hour, banishing the botherof changing into tie and sports coat while on the move. Designed in breezy basket-weave cotton hopsacking by Playboy Fashion Director Robert L. Green, it features patch pockets, notched lapels, five-button front, no vents, buttonless cuffs, detachable ascot (fastened to back of collar with inside button), by Bill Miller, $22.
At the end of a day of glare and heat – sand devils dancing on ditch banks, leaves still and hushed on oaks, man and animal creeping beneath a baked sky with the movements of hibernation, of clotted blood – at the end of such a day, with the evening star already hung like a distant lamp in the west, a six-year-old girl named Rosa Belle Miller was run over by a car in front of her home in the village of Tobacco Grove. After the first jolting grip of brakes, the car rolled on for several feet before the driver, not yet comprehending, perhaps, but horror already glazed upon his features, turned sharply off the street. The front bumper hit the trunk of an oak, not hard, gently, nuzzling. The engine died with a sound of choking. The driver's door was flung open. The driver, perhaps 20, whose unfinished face had suddenly aged, leaped out and ran back to Rosa Belle Miller. He knelt beside her. Already her blue dress was reddening at the collared yoke. Her long-lashed eyes were closed, but her lips were open. Her breathing stirred faintly the dust (continued on page 158) Hung Jury (continued from page 111) in which she lay.
There lived in the county of Alletz a man named Bornet, whose ardor for his wife had lessened considerably through their years of marriage. Accordingly, he had become interested in one of his maidservants. However, because he valued highly the esteem of his neighbors, and because he knew that they would not look favorably upon such an activity, he knew not how to approach the matter.
The Four Characters Strung Out behind filmdom's current musical miracle worker, Henry Mancini (Breakfast at Tiffany's Holly Golightly, private eye Peter Gunn, Hatari!'s white hunter Sean Mercer and professional gambler Mr. Lucky), are striking symbols of maestro Mancini's video-movie-LP–sound-track success story. Back in movies to stay after three years on the TV-series treadmill – his latest effort, Days of Wine and Roses, will be followed by a pair of mystery-comedies, Pink Panther and Charade – Mancini had once toiled for six years and through 100 films in Universal-International's musical vineyards (the fruits of his labors at U-I were rarely vintage) before teaming up with Peter Gunn's Blake Edwards. Mancini's formula for his vinyl smashes – LP sales of his movie and TV themes measure in the millions – is a simple one: discarding the original sound tracks, he re-orchestrates and re-records his themes. As a consequence, eminent jazz musicians, unencumbered by plot line, have had a chance to let loose at length. If some critics were inclined to dismiss Mancini's musical abilities, after the phenomenal success of Peter Gunn and Mr. Lucky, as a one-stringed bow wrought out of a jazzed-up, drum-ridden beat, they were forced to gnaw on their words as Mancini's poignantly lyrical Moon River, written with Johnny Mercer, and the score for Breakfast at Tiffany's cornered the 1962 Oscar market, while last year's Grammy awards, given by the recording industry, saw Mancini carry home five mantel decorations. An imaginative instrumental innovator who has made use of a Hammond organ (Mr. Lucky,) a harmonica (Moon River,)an autoharp (Experiment in Terror) and an untuned piano and calliope for Hatari!, the 38-year-old Mancini may take his bag of tricks to Broadway. If he does, it's a good bet theater audiences will exit humming his melodies.
Wielding an Acetylene Torch in the backroom of a Chicago barn, 27-year-old Richard Hunt molds twisted steel into some of the most impressive sculpture in America, for he is a man determined to forge in the smithy of his soul "the undetermined conscience" of his race. Acclaimed even before his first one-man show in 1956 (his third opens February 25th at the Alan Gallery in New York), Hunt today is recognized as the Midwest's foremost young sculptor in metal. His tools: a welder's torch, a grinder, a vise, a hack saw, a pair of pliers, a maul and a ball-peen hammer. His materials: the wreck of a car, a broken bicycle, an egg beater, a tortured piece of pipe and other impedimenta from a dozen junkyards. With this 20th Century flotsam he has created a series of abstract masses that have an obscure and haunting relationship to an anatomy of grotesque limbs, joints and muscular twists and turns. Steel Figure – '59 (right) is a bizarre parody of the human form, expressing, he says, "the fusion of motion." Spatial Theme, a skeletal figure constructed from a bicycle handle bar, a table leg, parts of a stroller and other tubular elements, depicts "endless motion." Of himself, he says simply: "I try to convey an insight into our times." Hunt was born on Chicago's teeming South Side, the son of a barber. He began to paint at eight and joined the Junior School of the Art Institute of Chicago at 13. In 1953 he transferred to the Institute itself and there was smitten by the convoluted forms of Julio Gonzalez, the Catalonian art pioneer who was among the first to conceive the idea of welding metal into sculpture. Three years later Hunt's winged pipes, rods and bric-a-brac were first displayed in a gallery, and since then they have been exhibited in 21 museums and galleries in the U. S. and abroad. Today his work is represented in the permanent collections of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, the Art Institute in Chicago, and Cleveland Museum. To his agent-mentor, B. C. Holland of Chicago, Hunt's early flowering is exceptional. "Painters are sprinters," says Holland. "But sculptors usually develop late – like marathon runners. Richard is almost unique." To which Hunt appends: "I must work fast. Any artist, particularly a Negro, has a responsibility to locate the truth."
Aside from Sonny Liston, no American champion has ever endured a worse press than 19-year-old Robert J. "Bobby" Fischer, who romped off with the U. S. chess title at the age of 14 and held it for four years before retiring undefeated. Accustomed to being labeled "egotistical," "rude," "ungrateful" and "impolite," Fischer has a ready explanation for his poor public image: "The people who interview me know very little about chess so they are forced to dwell on my personal 'problems.' " Actually, Fischer's "problems" are scarcely different from those of any teenager who has won fame before gaining a sense of identity. His monumental immodesty (he has often been quoted as saying he is one of history's greatest players) is the natural result of his success in vanquishing his elders. But no one belittles Master Fischer's unconventionally aggressive style of play. "He has," says I. A. Horowitz, editor-publisher of Chess Review, "divine afflatus– the breath of the gods upon him." Fischer learned the game from an older sister when he was six, could think of nothing else by the time he was 10, and at the age of 12 was blazing a trail of checkmates through the awed ranks of the prestigious Manhattan Chess Club. Like many chess masters, he is no eclectic genius; he detested school and quit at 16 to earn a modest living as a tournament pro. Although he claims outside interests (movies, clothes, good food, travel and palmistry), chess dominates his life. His small Brooklyn apartment is cluttered with chess books, boards and trophies. He has as yet only a faint interest in females. ("Girls are weak, I can beat any woman at knight-odds – even the national champion.") But time is rounding the rough edges of Fischer's personality. An omen of his emerging maturity is his straightforward explanation of why he blew his only tournament game with Russia's 51-year-old world champion, Mikhail Botvinnik: "f made a pure blunder." The blunder has put: the world title at least three years out of Fischer's reach. But few chess masters doubt that this knight errant will eventually become king.
Clutching a jug of sun-tan lotion and whistling Moon Over you-know-what, Shel Silverstein, Playboy's wandering minstrel of the sketch board, recently trekked to Miami Beach to research and relish the palm-fringed benefits of that land flowing with mink and honeys. Venturing forth from his Fontainebleau Hotel base, Shel first observed at close hand the storied playground and its sun and sand, bars and boites, fur-bearing females and go-for-baroque architecture. Then, having soaked up sufficient local color and Planter's Punch, our bushy chronicler set up his unjaded palette and recorded these wry impressions of Florida's phantasmagorial gold coast.
This May, a fresh travel fillip will be available to those with an unabashed yen for luxury accommodations: a service has been organized which specializes in renting villas on the French and Italian Rivieras and along Spain's jet-set Costa Brava. Included among the homes-away-from-home up for hire are a pastel cottage on a flower-bright hill above the tiny Italian fishing port of Alassio and proximate beaches laved by the Mediterranean; a villa on a vast estate built for Queen Victoria, overlooking Cap-Ferrat; and a spotless modern Spanish apartment near a village whose main street is closed to traffic every Saturday night for folk, dancing. A monthly rental rate ranging from $165 to $445 will also net you a maid who'll do your marketing in the morning, come by in the afternoon to clean and launder while you're at the beach or picnicking in a lazy mountain meadow, then prepare dinner for you and yours. Each pad is fully checked out with an eye toward American tastes, and all are worthy of prolonged occupancy.