The issue at hand marks the third time we have devoted a cover to our Femlin, that puckish little sprite who, in six short years, has become the world's best-known – and sexiest – elf since J.M. Barrie's Tinker Bell. Similar in name and temperament to the mischievous "gremlin," the Femlin first came to us in June 1957, when she popped out of a champagne glass sketched on our Party Jokes page by LeRoy Neiman. For the next year and a half she showed up – now as a blonde, now as a brunette – whenever it suited her fancy. In November 1958, she became permanently raven-haired after a midnight dip in a bottle of Neiman's India ink (which also explains her jet-black hose and gloves). A short time later, she broke into our reader-mail file and, discovering that she was one of our most popular features, demanded a promotion to cover girl. She got her way in August 1960, when Neiman depicted her holding the very first Playboy Club key. The taste of fame made her all the more imp-erious and before we knew what she was up to she had persuaded sculptor Austin Fox, Jr., to create a series of Femlin figurines for sale to her admirers. In April 1961, she made her second cover appearance, her first in sculptured form. Skeptics who don't believe she really exists may change their minds after inspecting our photo feature, The Femlin Comes to Life.
Playboy, May, 1963, Vol. 10, No. 5, 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, 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
This being the year of corporate moans and individual groans anent the new income-tax regulations on entertainment expenses, we particularly appreciated the good spirits and jolly high humor with which the folks at Maker's Mark whiskey view the situation, via the following newsletter sent out to their salesmen. The letterhead reads: "The Hardin Creek Hunkering and Hankering Society on Starhill Farm Near Loretto Kentucky," and continues like so:
The 1963 spring literary scene is brightened by the appearance of six Playboy luminaries whose latest tomes are reviewed here. Herbert Gold's new novel, Salt (Dial, $4.95), is a seasoned look at some young Americans, first introduced in these pages, who are by love unpossessed. Peter Hatten, young man of Manhattan, is plowing along looking for love, frightened at not finding it. When his wartime buddy, Dan Shaper, gets divorced Peter introduces him to an ex-girlfriend, Barbara, and she and Dan make it together. While Dan is off on a trip, Peter, still looking, plays a one-night return engagement with Barbara. This leads to a street fight between the two men – and eventually to the union of Dan and Barbara and a chance at the real life that Peter is doomed to miss. Gold's diamond-point dialog is always pertinent, and his humor is nicely impertinent. He makes his case (as Antonioni has done in recent films): that a chief question of our time is whether we are still capable of love, or whether love has to be redefined for a newly evolving race in an as yet alien environment. Lovelessness is the salt in Peter's wound, and Barbara is, hopefully, the salt of Dan's earth. The author has put in enough feeling and thought on these matters to make the novel worth its weight in Gold.
Although no further proof is necessary to establish the incredible versatility of the man who is quite possibly the best performing talent in show business, Sammy Davis Jr. at the Cocoanut Grove (Reprise) wraps it up on a two-LP album. Sammy does it all – from a smattering of stand-up comedy to a smidgen of soft shoe, to a nifty display of miming (Ted Lewis, Elvis Presley, Ray Charles, the Kingfish, Al Jolson, Laurel & Hardy, Karloff, Lugosi, Walter Brennan, Robert Newton, Nat Cole, Billy Eckstine, Frankie Laine, Tony Bennett, Louis Armstrong, Bogart, Cagney, James Stewart, Brando, Dean Martin, Jerry Lewis, Claude Rains, Marlene Dietrich, Vincent Price and Sinatra). Add a superb singing stint highlighted by a bongo-accompanied West Side Story medley. For a comprehensive course on what it takes to be The Compleat Performer, you need look no further than the Davis grooves at the Grove.
The Trial, Franz Kafka's modern classic of unreal reality, has been filmed by Orson Welles, himself something of a trial to filmgoers. Few directors have shown his brilliance, but the Kafka film, like his others (always excepting the classic Citizen Kane), is not as deep as one continues to feel Welles ought to be. Scene after scene is molded magnificently, photographed with finesse, paced with power; yet it all adds up to a clutch of memorable moments without successfully conveying the novel's feeling of 20th Century Angst. Part of the disappointment must be charged to Anthony Perkins, miscast as the Middle-European Joseph K., the nowhere bank employee in a nowhere country, who is suddenly arrested without being specifically charged and who goes through a long series of dreamlike quests and inquiries until he accepts his guilt without ever learning of what he is guilty. Welles' wizardry too often draws attention to itself, instead of to what the work is about, and the switch of the ending from tragedy to triumph seems hard to justify on artistic grounds. Jeanne Moreau, Elsa Martinelli and Romy Schneider play the female parts – all of which have obviously been given more body. As K., Perkins searches for God and justice like a freshman looking for the registrar's office. Still, this fine near-miss of a film deservedly will be the subject of many a long Kafka-klatsch to come.
You have answered questions about marriage problems of women in your column before, so here I go. What do I do about a girl who's crying on my husband's shoulder about her love affairs with other married men? He talks so much about her that I get a sick feeling when he mentions her name. He insists that she's "just a kid" (18) and that he wouldn't date her even if he were single, but I notice he's beginning to lose interest in our two children. And recently he said to me, "You're so young and beautiful and your world has been in this apartment for four years now; you've got to get out more with me." Well, I find nothing boring about my housewife's job, so it seems to me he's just trying to provide me with a social life so he can let me down easy before he asks for his freedom. I'm not going to fall to pieces if you tell me he loves her and that divorce is the answer. Just let me know. – B.L., Hudson, Massachusetts.
The Other Afternoon, while drawing up an outline of subjects to cover in this month's editorial, we received a telephone call from a New York agent (show biz, not literary) and in the course of the conversation, we mentioned that we were working on The Playboy Philosophy for May. He said that a few evenings earlier he had read the current Philosophy aloud to his wife and they had then spent most of the rest of the evening discussing it. If this editorial series can get very much of that sort of thing going around the country – prompting discussion and debate on the relative merits of the common and the uncommon man, individual initiative us. security and conformity as motives in modern society, the deeper significance of religious freedom in America and the other subjects we've been expressing our own views on the last few issues – it will have been well worth the writing. We must confess that we feel closer to our readers while working on each new installment of The Playboy Philosophy than we have at any time since we began editing this journal nearly 10 years ago and nothing we've previously done here at Playboy has given us any greater satisfaction or pleasure.
He was walking down the green-carpeted hall when he passed the open door of a room and heard Stud Tatum's voice,saying, "Come on, Byron, wake up – you got to get up now. Byron, get your can out of that sack!"
Dancing, someone once said, is "the poetry of the foot." With equal accuracy, it might also be described as the limericks of the legs, the jingles of the arms, or the ballads of the belly and buttocks. Through the ages, every muscle, limb and organ of man's body has wiggled, jiggled and jumped in dancing celebrations of victory, puberty, birth, marriage, divorce, circumcision, the changes of the moon and the rising of the sun. At various periods and places, dances of the feet, neck, eyes, knees, lips, shoulders, thighs, breasts, hands and fingers have been used to arouse sexual desire, promote fertility, prepare for war, and to make rain, magic, money and whoopee.
Playboy readers will readily recognize the picture below as this issue's cover come-to-life – the palmed pixie, of course, being our Femlin, the prankish pocket-sized charmer depicted by LeRoy Neiman on our Party Jokes page each month. Dark of stocking, glove and hair – but notably light of heart – our small wonder personifies for us a friskily festive approach to life. To confound those cynics who doubt that such a blithe spirit really exists, we offer the following photographic scenario – proof positive that our fair little lady is indeed a living doll.
Few Americans In Europe, I would guess, are much dismayed these days by the pickets who, on one political occasion or another, parade before our embassies carrying signs that read:Americans Go Home! Such pickets, we tell ourselves in our new sophistication, are merely hardened Leftists or Rightists ready to exploit any occasion, the execution of Caryl Chessman or the building of a new rocket base, for their own obvious ends. And yet deep within us, I suspect, lurks an uneasy sense that such pickets speak also for us; a half awareness that, in the dark innards of the most enthusiastic American abroad, shadow figures march with placards carrying similar slogans. But this is a secret we have always found easier to confess in literature than in life.
The True Genius of Chinese Chefs has always been their limitless flair for improvising. In old China, the lowliest cook could take an ordinary onion omelet and with a few spices transform it into a celestial delicacy. Foraging Chinese soldiers would climb almost inaccessible ocean cliffs to bring down swallows' nests and convert them into birds'-nest soup. After they had eaten all of a shark's meat, Chinese fishermen found they could steam the fins into a ravishing broth.
At First Glance, May Playmate Sharon Cintron would appear to be a rather perplexing young lady. As a denizen of Hollywood, California, a city not noted for lack of ambition on the part of its comelier citizens, she is thoroughly bored by the thought of a movie career, intends instead to become a hair stylist. Further, in a community much given to artistic temperaments and casual sophistication, she has never been known to affect worldliness in either manner or speech. And in the midst of a sensual land where women set great store by physical beauty, she appears refreshingly unimpressed by her own lush looks. At second glance, however (in Sharon's case, glances become habit forming), certain elemental truths begin to come clear: far from being a puzzle, she is instead that rarity in tinselland: a pretty girl who is uncomplicated and straightforward. "I want to be a hair stylist," she says, explaining with disarming directness, "because I like styling hair. And the money is good. Why try to be a starlet and starve?" A girl who gives no perceptible indications of imminent starvation (her 110 pounds are arranged in a healthy 36-23-36 configuration), Sharon is currently employed as a receptionist in a law office, from which occupation she hopes to save sufficient funds to finance her stint at hair-styling school. Born 18 winters ago in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, Miss Cintron trekked to California as a little girl when her mother decided on a change of scene, from the Jersey flatlands to the Golden State's pleasant hills. Sharon was schooled at Hollywood High where she developed an interest in psychology and the disarming philosophy that one should have fun and exercise to the fullest one's capacity to enjoy life. For Sharon, no small part of that enjoyment evolves from the boy-girl camaraderie of dating. "Because my father divorced my mother when I was very young, I never even knew him," she says. "So maybe I'm compensating with masculine company now. In any case, I know I like the sense of protection that comes from having a male around. I'm attracted to guys who are understanding and sympathetic – and I have a special weakness for anyone nice enough to laugh at my jokes. But I can't bear kiss-and-tell types; probably this is because I'm too trusting and am disappointed by minor betrayals." Since graduation, Sharon has continued to study applied psychology at UCLA night school, a course she calls "fascinating, sort of do-it-yourself psychoanalysis. But I don't take it too seriously. I'm too much of a nut on romance to believe that human behavior can be equated with Pavlov and his dogs. I'd rather believe in love at first sight than instinctual motor responses. Besides psychology, I'm interested in art and in yoga. Good painting has always flipped me. I like portraits best, probably because I like people. The yoga bit is recent. I haven't achieved spiritual well-being from it yet – just a sore neck. But I'm still game." Continuing to catalog the pleasures that brighten her spirits, Sharon says, "I love all foods, but most especially Japanese dishes. I go wild over sashimi – that's raw fish, but never mind, it has a lovely taste. Like a lot of my friends, I get my outdoor kicks from horseback riding and swimming. I have a thing about fixing old furniture. I like classical Spanish music, Charles Laughton movies and simple, tailored clothes. And dancing the cha-cha. And the sound of rain on windows." When asked what she wants most from life, she quietly replies, "Love. Money is nice, of course – but it can't hold hands." Miss May lives in her mother's home and sleeps in a cozy room full of antique furniture, with a color combination of white, beige and blue, an oasis which she has infused with a high degree of femininity. Attractive as the room is, the sine qua non of its interior decoration is provided only when Sharon herself is in residence – as may be witnessed on the accompanying gatefold, where our winsomely lovely Playmate thoughtfully nibbles an apple and, in the process, looks tempting enough to lure not only Adam but all his heirs as well.
Tradition and Trail Blazing are elegantly interwoven in the outline of a new sartorial silhouette: the Spanish look. Amalgamating the uncluttered lines of classic flamenco attire with the luxuriance of the matador's dazzling traje de luces, this emerging profile enlivens the urbane informality of Continental casualwear with a venturesome individuality entirely its own. In handsome hides and fabrics of lush tint and texture, designers in cosmopolitan Madrid and Barcelona are fashioning attractively unorthodox, consummately tailored sports- and outerwear which promise to rank these two cities among the world's leading male fashion centers. Unabashed but understated is the tasteful tone in rainwear, which will be coping with inclemency Stateside (as well as on the plains in Spain) in cotton poplin models both long and short, belted and beltless, classic and unconventional with solid browns setting a muted mood, colorfully counterpointed by a few coats in alabaster white. No less decoratively decorous, the new wardrobe of Spanish sweaters will be available in full-cut cardigans and pullovers, blending supersoft weaves and leathers in outspoken solid shades. Comfortably correct for corrida or jai-alai gallery, these spirited styles embody all the attributes implied in the phrase, buen gusto – good taste.
"For The Person Asleep," Professor Pickering said, "time, in a sense, stands still. When he regains consciousness, he has jumped a certain interval into the future. Indeed, there have been cases of prolonged coma lasting many years, from which the patient has awakened to an entirely alien world."
Deadlocked in March on our choice of Playmate of the Year, we appealed to Playboy readers to help us select the winner from among three fine finalists – Avis Kimble (Miss November), Laura Young (Miss October) and June Cochran (Miss December). Now, with all votes tallied, we are pleased to announce that December's June proved the favorite of her annum. Winner of her state title in both the Miss World and Miss Universe contests, Hoosier Miss Cochran flipped when we gave her the good news (and a handsome bonus award). "You know," she told us, "I never thought I'd win. I've always considered myself as sort of an ugly duckling. And besides, the other two finalists were so very beautiful." June-mooners should be happy to learn that there are more at home like her: sisters Donna, Diana, Dana, Deanna and Debby all stack up as potential Playmates of the future.
Monte Carlo – along with Monaco's other communes, La Condamine and Monaco-Ville, site of the Palace – is a territorial microcosm unique in its raison d'être. Although over 100,000 more visitors tread yearly through Monaco's Oceanographic Museum than its Casino, the postage-stamp principality would be little more than just another sunny promontory on the Côte d'Azur if it weren't for the international drawing power of its monolithic Casino's green-baized gambling tables. His Most Serene Highness, Prince Rainier, governs his Graustark-by-the-Sea with a benign iron hand, but it is still Dame Fortune who rules the waking hours of most of its non-Monegasque inhabitants and visitors (a save-the-people-from-themselves royal edict forbids Monacan citizens to gamble in the Casino).
In an Italian seacoast town a merchant captain, who had accumulated a vast fortune through 50 years of business transactions, noted that he had so busily occupied himself in gaining and preserving his treasures that he had come to know little of the social delights. Seeking to fulfill this aspect of being, he sent out his shipmates to inquire after the youngest and most beautiful girl in the city. Soon he came upon a young woman who, at this time, deserved to be called the most beautiful of all – young, of fine culture and good upbringing, whose form and entire being promised the most pleasant prospects. After brief negotiations, by which the most advantageous conditions were secured for the beauty, the marriage was celebrated, and from this day on our merchant felt for the first time that he was really enjoying his wealth. After a time, however, upon observing the transactions of fellow merchants from whom he had now separated himself, he became malcontent and once more experienced the stirrings of his old passion, even to the point of feeling dissatisfaction at the side of his wife. Finally, the desire to return to the sea became so great that he took violently ill.
In The Extraordinary film amalgam of sand, sun and stars that is Lawrence of Arabia, a 29-year-old Irishman named Peter Seamus O'Toole has vaulted from relative obscurity to heady heights of acclaim (including an Oscar nomination at presstime) by virtue of his authentically enigmatic title portrayal. Critics tempted to view the actor's incandescent performance as a lucky flash in the Panavision should be apprised that Peter O'Toole has prepped long and well for his rendezvous with fame: following scholarship study at the prestigious Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, he signed on with one of England's top repertory companies, the Bristol Old Vic, for a 3-1/2-year apprenticeship in 73 different parts. At the time of his role call for Lawrence he was playing three leads by turns at the Shakespeare Theater at Stratford-on-Avon, the youngest (27) actor ever to star in a playhouse that has echoed to the classic sonorities of Olivier and Gielgud. The son of a Dublin bookie, O'Toole exudes cock-of-the-walk confidence and mercurial Celtic charm – but the arduous two years on location as Lawrence have diluted his fondness for hell-raising drinking bouts, and honed his volatile energies into a fierce devotion to his craft. The lean and leonine actor has selected Becket as his next film; he is currently in London playing Baal in Brecht's Baal (hence the beard above), happy to be onstage again: "To me, it's like going back to the well. I spent seven years learning how to draw water from that well, and I don't ever want to forget it." Safe bet: he won't.
To The Most Dedicated of his disciples – and they run into the tens of thousands – Philip Roth stands alone as a spokesman for that segment of our generation that is not only lost and disenchanted, but doomed to conformity as well. And Roth, often with scorn but always with perception, speaks so eloquently for this fragment that he has become perhaps the most acclaimed and decorated young novelist of his time. At 29 he already has won the National Book Award (in 1960 for Goodbye, Columbus, a shortstory collection), a Guggenheim Fellowship, a grant from the National Institute of Arts and Letters, the Houghton Mifflin Award, and the Aga Khan prize for fiction; while the New York Herald Tribune, in a review of Letting Go, his second book and best-selling first novel, observed that "If a major writer is one who brings extraordinary and variegated skills to the consideration of vital questions, then Philip Roth is a major writer." Born in Newark, N. J., and educated at Bucknell and the University of Chicago, Roth taught at Chicago and at the Iowa Writers Workshop, lived in Rome and now (with wife and two children) makes his home in Princeton, N. J., where he holds a writer-in-residence chair and lives a life that is insular, reflective and almost reclusive. There the writer almost obscures the man. His family, his home, even his personality seem all but overwhelmed by his work. But in every man's writing, Carlyle has said, lies the core of the man. And perhaps it is here that the grapes of Roth are stored.
Amid the Sad final listings on the 1962 N. Y. Stock Exchange, one corporation stood out as a model of fiscal fitness – National Airlines, whose shares increased 77 percent over their 1961 value, a robust gain unequaled in the market. Chief reason for the rise: National's lean, 36-year-old president, Lewis B. Maytag, Jr. A scion of the washingmachine clan, Maytag spurned a safe berth in the family firm ("The business was too slow and well-run – I preferred to make my own way"), founded Maytag Aircraft Corp. (a contract fueling operation) at 22; the Maytag-Wanick Co. (a manufacturer of aircraft components) at 26; and at 32 bought Denver's Frontier Air Lines, where he showed a rare flair for eradicating red ink, turning a shaky line into a profitable one. The air-minded heir (a licensed pilot, he has logged over 5000 hours) vaulted into the big-league jet set in April 1962 with the $6,400,000 purchase of 14 percent of Miami-based National – an airline which had lost money three of its last five years. The Maytag Midas touch was soon helping to dissolve the National debt; within a year he had instituted a revivifying $51,000,000 refinancing program, added muscle to its flabby board of directors, and transformed his company into an all-jet carrier. Boyish in appearance, quietly aggressive in manner, "Bud" Maytag pinpoints the source of his executive success as "the ability to choose able subordinates and to delegate authority. If I tried to run a one-man show I'd mire myself in detail, and I don't like to be slowed down."
Again we find Annie playing "Straight-Man" to night-club mimic, Freddy Flink. The theme of our adventure brings her to grips with the increasingly popular pastime of capitalizing on the personalities of the first family ... which is our way of saying that we do not subscribe to imitations of the president ... as you shall see as our story opens with Freddy imitating the president –– So I told Bobbie I just (sniffle!) didn't think I should create a clan depahtment' in the cabinet foah Peter.
If You Plan to be footloose on the Continent this July, and wish to dodge tourist congestion, we suggest you head for a haven favored by the locals for beating both the heat and the jostle of invading outlanders. Travelers in Germany, for example, will do well to spend a few relaxing days in the bright blue-and-white environs of the North Sea's low-lying Frisian Islands. On the resort island of Sylt – which can be reached directly by a train that rattles along a trestle just a few feet off the water – is lively Westerland, which sports a casino, shows and a section of beach reserved for all-overtanning, and Kampen, a thatch-roofed village big with bohemians. Other pleasure islands accessible by fast North Sea ferry from the mainland – Föhr, Borkum, Juist, Norderney – are slower paced, though Norderney has of late become popular with the yachting set.