If you, like our debonair cover rabbit, have already flipped to page 118, you know we aren't kidding about The Nudest Jayne Mansfield. But you may not know that Nudest, in a sense, completes our photographic conjugation of J. M. which, in the years since her first introduction to readers as a Playmate of the Month, has included features entitled The New Jayne Mansfield (February 1957) and The Nude Jayne Mansfield (February 1958). With each appearance on our pages, there has been more of Jayne to behold. And New, Nude or Nudest, the manifest Miss Mansfield is certainly no playne Jayne.
Playboy, June, 1963, Vol. 10, No. 6, 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.
We regret to report that -- as is so often the case with sequels -- Alexander Graham Bell's recently published Manhattan Telephone Directory simply doesn't measure up to the promise of the author's earlier work. After poring with pleasure through last year's massive tome (1780 pages) from this prolific writer -- a powerful evocation of the sweep and stature of a great metropolis -- we had entertained high hopes for Bell's next effort. However, his newest volume is merely derivative (where not actually imitative) of its predecessor. And his decision to introduce a motley array of unnecessary new characters has had the effect of compounding the confusion of an overcrowded and ill-assorted cast of characters, and of stretching the threads of a virtually invisible plot line -- the one tragic flaw which has always marred Bell's work -- almost to the breaking point. The melodramatic appearance of no less than eight characters named George Washington, for example, struck a discordant note of farce. That seven of these men are obvious impostors was unquestionably intended to indicate the often imperceptible distinction between truth and falsehood, illusion and reality; but we found this symbology both pretentious and overdrawn.
Enter Laughing has all the dog-earmarks to stamp it as just another shopworn cloak-and-situation comedy, but in the magic hands of Alan Arkin, it is strictly made to measure. A fugitive improviser from Second City (where he played everything from a far-out folknik to an aged pretzel vendor), Arkin is a friendly faced, gopherish comic who can mimic, mug and marshal audiences into helpless laughter. In this adaptation by Joseph Stein of Carl Reiner's autobiographical novel, Arkin is David Kolowitz, a hammy errant boy for a millinery-machine manufacturer (Yiddish actor Irving Jacobson in his belated Broadway debut), who is willing to overlook his protégé's past truancies, if he will only stop with those Ronald Colman imitations. The boy's wise old mother (Sylvia Sidney), who will forgive him everything as long as he has meat for dinner, wants him to be a druggist. But Arkin hates druggists. He likes actors, though, and tries out for a part with a seedy band of players, catches the eye of leading lady Vivian Blaine and gets to be her leading man. The stage direction says "(Enter Laughing)," and at rehearsal Arkin tries them all, from a staccato heh-heh to an ear-blasting haaargh. The more he acts, the worse he acts. The day of the play, with his family beaming backstage (so if he's not a druggist, at least he'll be a good actor), he swashbuckles to stage front, and then, swash!, he buckles. He stands there gaping as the play continues around him. "You were the best," says his mother after the show. Running, jumping, standing still or struck dumb, Alan Arkin is the town clown. At Henry Miller's Theater, 124 West 43rd Street.
Jean Genet's play The Balcony isn't "healthy" by cornball standards, but the fact that it was filmed in America is a milestone in the maturing of U. S. movies. This far-out French fantasy (an off-Broadway hit) takes place in a bordello in a nameless revolt-torn country. The bordello specializes in customers who dress in costumes and dream it up with the dolls. Three of the johns like to be a general, a judge and a bishop, respectively, and their play-acting with the poules is a caricature of the stupidity and evil in the world outside. The payoff comes when the three impersonators have to impersonate their real-life counterparts for real-life stakes. Genet's jabs at the lies of life, pomposities of power, and silliness about sex have been boiled down in the movie, and too many cooks almost spoil the brothel. Still, while Ben Maddow's screenplay is more satirical farce than bitter fantasy, it keeps much of the original's originality, and would have fared better with a better director; the play is poetic, and Joseph Strick is strictly prosaic. Peter Falk, as the chief of police, can't quite decide to be either Groucho or grim. Shelley Winters never really gets into the part of the madam--it's only skim-deep. The standout is Lee Grant, as her Lesbian friend--tigerish, tender and talented.
We recommend a significant six-pack re-issuance of tracks gleaned from the Riverside library -- Great Jazz Artists Play Compositions of (in order of their issue) Richard Rodgers, Cole Porter, Jerome Kern, George Gershwin, Harold Arlen and Irving Berlin (Riverside). The cast of players includes the likes of Cannonball Adderley, Thelonious Monk, Bill Evans, Wes Montgomery, Charlie Byrd, Herbie Mann and Sonny Rollins; the compositions on hand read like an all-time all-time hit parade and are, in the main, more than given their due.
"I have just read Tropic of Cancer again and feel I'd like to write you a line about it." Such is the opening sentence of Lawrence Durrell's first letter to Henry Miller in 1935, and it's the underestimate of the century: That "line" is still going on. Their rich exchange of letters up to 1959 crams the 400 pages of Lawrence Durrell & Henry Miller: A Private Correspondence (Dutton, $6.95). Miller was 43 in 1935, living in Paris, writing furiously because he had started late, convinced of his own importance. Durrell was 23, living on Corfu, ambitious but plagued by self-doubt. He asked himself: "Are you a writer -- or merely a literary gent?" They did not meet until two years later, but the letters trace their confidences before and between their meetings over the years, during their wartime separation and through their various marriages, divorces, entanglements, travels, books. Each thinks the other a genius, yet not infallible: After reading Sexus, Durrell cabled: Sexus disgracefully bad will ruin reputation unless withdrawn revised larry. Miller is generous, single-minded; Durrell is worshipful but sporadically snappish, sometimes uncertain about his writing but generally on fire. We catch fascinating glimpses of him unconsciously collecting material for the Alexandria Quartet. Deftly edited and annotated by George Wickes, the correspondence is a salty and moving record of writers' lives in our time. The last line of Miller's last long letter: "To be continued."
This may sound like a silly question, but I mean it in all seriousness and hope you'll give me a serious answer. Do you think it is possible to fall in love with a girl you have never met? Once upon a time I would have scoffed at the idea, but I swear it has happened to me. Six months ago, when I was down in the dumps over a busted romance, a female friend gave me the name and address of a former roommate of hers who's living on the East Coast -- she said the girl wrote amusing letters and might, perhaps, cheer me up. Well, she answered my initial letter with a warm and friendly one of her own, our correspondence gradually increased in frequency, and almost before I knew what was happening I found myself falling in love with her. She's sent me her picture, and in both it and her letters I'm sure I can read real character and a passionate nature. During my next vacation I plan to fly to New York, where she's agreed to meet me. My buddies tell me I'm nuts and say that I'm kidding myself if I think I'm in love and that I'm wasting the transcontinental round-trip air fare to find out she's not the girl for me. I'm enough of a realist to think that just possibly they may be right -- and yet every time I get another letter from her my heart misses a beat. Will I be making a fool of myself by paying her this flying visit? -- K. B., Los Angeles, California.
For solo and collaborative efforts as director and scenarist, Billy Wilder has been nominated 24 times for Academy Awards, amassing nine Oscars during 28 years in the movie capital. Recently Playboy interviewed him in his suite of offices on the Goldwyn lot in downtown Hollywood, where he and co-writer I. A. L. Diamond -- having just completed "Irma La Douce" -- were brain-storming over the script for his next picture. They would be working and reworking it right up to the final day of shooting, for Wilder has conceded that although he always knows where he's going with his plots, he's never quite sure how he's going to get there. Between intermittent sips of a vodka martini, he answered our questions with a rapid-fire delivery reminiscent of the brisk dialog from one of his own films. He strode restlessly up and down as he spoke, slapping his thigh occasionally with an ornately carved walking stick, his colloquial English enunciated in the guttural accents which still bespeak his beginnings as a struggling screenwriter in Berlin between the wars. Much of Wilder's work -- from such eminently unfunny films as "The Lost Weekend," "Double Indemnity" and "Sunset Boulevard" to such comedic tours de force as "Some Like It Hot," "The Apartment" and "One, Two, Three" -- has been touched by a cynicism which reflects the mood of that worldly city during the Twenties. We began with an exploration of these early years and influences.
In expressing our views about the importance of the individual and his freedom in a free America, we have pointed out how essential a total separation of church and state is to our concept of democracy. We have also tried to show how religiously inspired puritanism has been allowed to subtly undermine certain of our most precious freedoms. Nowhere is this more insidiously dangerous than in the continuing erosion of our Constitutionally guaranteed rights to free speech and press, for it is these freedoms that assure the protection of all our other freedoms. It is for this reason that we are personally opposed to censorship in any form.
Little Harry was loved; of that he was aware every waking hour of the day. But not even in sleep did love escape him. During the day his big, athletic-smelling father and his thickening, plum-ripe mother lavished him with the sweet fragrance of their affection. Their passion, their whole appetite was for Harry, their little Harry, who had come to them so late, so unexpectedly, so long after all hope for miracles was gone. But, unlike other parents who found their children lovable enough to eat -- and so did -- Harry's approached the object of their appetite with the innate sensitivity of born gourmets. They prepared him for dinner but nibbled only lovingly and slightly, savoring the act, inhaling its aroma and noting it forever in their book of memories, and then ever so delicately pushing away from the table to gently demur another serving -- "Tomorrow, maybe. Not now."
When the editors of Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary defined the noun "sandwich" as "two or more slices of bread with other food, as meat, cheese, or savory mixture, spread between them," they irreverently snubbed those modern-day Vikings whose tables are dedicated to the proposition that the real art of sandwich-making (and sandwich enjoyment) lies in the theorem that in halving the bread one doubles the eating pleasure. Although the open sandwich, or sm⊘rrebr⊘d, is lavishly served all through the Scandinavian countries, as well as in Germany and Austria, the Danes are credited with having brought it to its present peak of virtuosity. Comestibles that most Americans wouldn't think of putting between slices of bread become magnificent booty when perched atop a single slice. In Scandinavia, such toppings as herring in cold lobster sauce, slices of roast goose mingled with fruit stuffing, raw egg yolks, bits of crisp bacon with sautéed onion atop rare roast beef, or fillet of freshly smoked eel aren't esoteric oddities but properly satisfying fare for the more knowledgeable trencherman. The well-trained sm⊘rrebr⊘der astutely brings together the doughty and the delicate. Scraped or ground raw beef in cannibal sandwiches cavorts with tiny shavings of fresh horseradish, capers and onions. Smoky sprats rest atop weightlessly soft scrambled eggs and hot curry finds its way into the blandest mayonnaise.
Woody Guthrie, the saline singer and balladmaker from Okfuskee County, Oklahoma, once auditioned at the Rainbow Room in Rockefeller Center. It was in the early 1940s, and folk music was still limited mainly to the folk itself in rural areas and small towns. A few sophisticated field collectors, academicians and sanguine propagandists for the Left were aware of its prickly existence, but the general public either ignored folk music or regarded it all as squawking exotica. The Belafontes and the Kingston Trios had not yet applied detergent to the folk roots and become millionaires in the process of dilution.
Viewing the curious world of haute couture, disgruntled males have long suspected that fashion's feudal lords require their standard-bearers to be spindle-shanked, slab-chested, hollow-cheeked creatures who collectively possess all the earthy sensuality of a soda straw. Like most sweeping generalizations, this one has its exceptions -- and if there are, admittedly, a depressing number of lean and hungry lookalikes in dress circles, it is also true that a few couture mannequins do exist who are as eye-catching and artistically assembled as the gowns they wear. Such an exceptional one is Connie Mason, an all-girl fashion model from Chicago who is our decorative June Playmate. In addition to being an admirable answer to the bizarre misses of Harper's Bazaar, Connie is also an energetic, gregarious sort who obviously enjoys both her work and her life. "The way I see it," she says, "modeling is a near-perfect job for me. I love fine clothes -- wearing gowns I couldn't possibly afford gives me a wonderfully regal feeling. This, I suppose, is a holdover from my childhood when I used to dress up in my mother's clothes, Of course, modeling is not always a gay, mad glamor routine -- there's a lot of hard work mixed in, as well as some boredom -- waiting around in a tiny dressing room can be a king-size drag. But, with the possible exception of Cary Grant's latest leading lady, I wouldn't trade places with anyone." Capsuling her career, Connie notes, "I was born 25 years ago in Washington, D. C, went to high school in Silver Spring, Maryland, and attended Stratford (Junior) College in Danville, Virginia. I have an older sister, married, and a younger brother, unmarried, who is a whiz at horseback riding and is always winning all kinds of jumping prizes. For a year-and-a-half after I finished school I managed the cosmetic department at Woodward & Lothrop, a department store in Bethesda, Maryland. Then friends persuaded me to give modeling a whirl. I did." The whirl led to quick acceptance by the dress-parade set and a number of choice assignments, including a stint last summer in New York wearing the colors of Oleg Cassini ("He's the best -- it was quite a challenge working for him, and I loved every minute of it"), and her current Windy City employment. Though she still feels the life of a successful high-fashion model is made to order for her, Connie was recently exposed to show business for the first time -- and found it catching. While visiting her family -- her dad is the president of a seawall-and-piling construction company in Hollywood, Florida -- she was spotted by movie talent scouts for an outfit modestly dubbed Box Office Spectaculars, Inc., who promptly signed her to play the heroine of a Florida-filmed, gore-splattered quickie entitled The Blood Feast, which will be released this month. "It's all about sacrificing beautiful young virgins to Egyptian deities," says Connie. "You know, a typical, everyday kind of story. I'm rather proud of the fact that at the end of the show I'm still healthy, while every other girl is either dead or horribly mutilated. I don't imagine we'll win any Academy Awards, but it was fun taking time off to do it and I'd love to act in more films if I get the chance. I want to try everything. I'd hate to grow old, and look back and say to myself, 'Now, why didn't you at least give that a try?' It would be a horrible feeling, not having attempted something that might have been fun." Now back modeling in Chicago, Connie shares a North Side apartment with roommate Rosemarie Yaiser and a pampered French poodle, and is chief cook, bottle washer and conversationalist of the household. "Talking," she says, "has always been one of my favorite hobbies." A random sampling of the Masonic code: "I'm not an intellectual by any stretch of the imagination, but I do love to read, especially autobiographies and collections of love letters. I just finished that book of Woodrow Wilson's love letters and it really flipped me. He looks so stolid, you know. Basically, I'm an outgoing person -- I adore people and am happy whenever I'm in a group. I think of myself as an optimist -- I like movies with happy endings, Italian foods and wines, romantic poetry, upbeat ballads. My taste in men tends toward guys with aggressive minds, but I can't take phonies. The worst feeling in the world for me is falling out of love. The best, of course, is falling in. My biggest fault is that I get too enthusiastic about what I'm doing and am sloppy about little details. I'm a good cook, though. And I'm the only girl I know who owns 600 jazz records. My favorite is Joe Williams. My biggest ambition at the moment is to be successful enough as a model to make myself happy and to be able to settle down in a place where there's lots of sunshine and palm trees and water and eligible bachelors. I don't get to meet too many single men in my line of work -- but I always enjoy it whenever there are males in the salon where I'm modeling. The women are all fascinated by my clothes -- but I know the men, at least, are looking at me. I've never found that to be an uncomfortable feeling." For the nonce, all frocks forgotten, curvilinear Connie stretches out on her bed and our gatefold, proving herself in the process a likely nominee for any design-conscious connoisseur's Best Undressed List.
"Adam catched eve by the furbelow, And that," according to famous catch composer, Henry Purcell, "is the oldest catch we know." The history of mating does, indeed, reach back to Adam's delighted discovery of the world's first prime rib. The mating rite -- or the contractual formalization of what had once merely been a blissful verbal agreement -- is somewhat more recent, but has rapidly developed into what one cynic described as, "Marriage: a community consisting of a master, a mistress, and two slaves, making in all, two." In the relatively brief time that it took this hitherto loose union to evolve into a closed shop -- a wed lock, as it were -- and as monogamy developed, so have nuptial fashions become more and more formalized, from Adam's original fig leaf and Eve's furbelow to their present stylized and specialized state. Even the most jaundiced of us will admit that there are occasions when a freedom-loving bachelor considers an altar-ation in his status. For just those occasions, and for those brave lads won over by the urge to merge, we (continued on page 164)Rite Time(continued from page 111) herewith offer our own vest-pocket guide to social and sartorial groomsmanship for the rite-minded male. The several styles of masculine matrimonial attire -- each with its own particular proprieties -- have all been designed and designated for certain hours, seasons, settings and ceremonies. For example, should the dreamy-eyed partner insist on a formal church wedding taking place before six p.m., the classically correct garb for the groom is an Oxford-gray or black cutaway coat, black-and-gray striped trousers, single- or double-breasted formal waistcoat in gray or black (white in summer), formal shirt with plain or pleated front and separate starched collar -- either the preferred wing style with modestly patterned black-and-white, gray or silvery silk ascot, or the turndown model with a comparably conservative four-in-hand necktie; plain-toed black calf Oxfords or slip-ons; garter-length black silk hose; suede or nylon gloves to match the vest; pearl stickpin; and gray silk topper. Either a tranquilizer or a stiff bracer before the ceremony is suggested to reinforce pre-nuptial euphoria.
Synopsis: In the helicopter, after the take-off from Zürich, James Bond wore a mask of nonchalance as he sped toward the Alpine hideaway of his prey, the malevolent Ernst Stavro Blofeld, mastermind of Spectre and the most hunted criminal in the Western world. Beside him sat the inscrutable Fräulein Irma Bunt, plain-as-a-prune and personal secretary to Le Comte de Bleuville who, Bond believed, was actually the devious Blofeld himself, and behind him lay a chain of events that had involved not only Bond and his government's security but a dread brotherhood of Corsican cutthroats, a beautiful girl with suicidal intentions, and a mission so perilous that Bond's own chief--the ineffable M--placed no more than a farthing on the possibility of its success and less than that on Bond's own chances of survival.
No Capital in The World is more cunning at playing peekaboo with the human body (female) than our own film capital. Hollywood's history is studded with near, but not quite total, exposures, and the actress who has courageously bared all has been rare, indeed. The recent wave of "nudie" movies, however, has injected a breath of flesh air upon the scene. Their unpretentious nakedness and wide public acceptance have helped push bodices down and hemlines up (to where they virtually vanish) in otherwise "straight" productions.
The rate of a person's descent into senility can be gauged, it is said, by the degree to which he reminisces. If he harks back to The Good Old Days no more than a couple of dozen times a week, he is considered competent to function; if, however, he is a compulsive reminiscer, forever glorifying the past to the debasement of the present, he is patted on the head and fed soft foods. Certainly he is not taken seriously. Why should he be? Old coots are the same everywhere. Because they've survived the past, they love it, and because they're not at all certain they'll survive the present, they hate it. Of course, that would not be their explanation of the value judgment. To them, the world was indeed a better place when they were young. The girls were prettier then, the men were stronger, the games wilder, the grass greener, the sun warmer, the stairs less steep, and oh! if they could only go back. But they can't, and that's a blessing, because they would find their world as dark and frightening and confusing as the children of today find theirs.
There Lived In Rome two physicians alike in many respects -- they were raised together as children, studied under the same mentor and ultimately began practicing in the same locality. Also, each was known to be fond of drinking, revelry and a variety of amusements.
The farseeing husband knows how important it is for his wife to be well-groomed at all times. The sloppy, poorly dressed wife creates a bad impression everywhere, and can even be harmful to a man's standing in the community and in his business relations.
"The Playboy panel"--Part I of a distinguished symposium in which 12 top science fictioneers explore the world of 1984 and beyond--with Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Robert A. Heinlein, Rod Serling, Theodore Sturgeon, William Tenn, Arthur C. Clarke, A. E. Van Vogt, James Blish and others
Though many otherwise aware chaps tend to regard Switzerland as a playground to be enjoyed exclusively by the winter set, the fact is that this patch of high-rising real estate is made to order for summer vacationing as well. Given the mobility that comes with the August sun, a man can really explore the country, either through a bracing bit of social climbing in the hills, or a sampling of more urban pleasures in Geneva and Berne, Zurich and Lucerne.