July, as the young lady on our cover reminds us, is a fine time to loll on the grass and lazily ponder the good things in life. And, since Playboy and its readers share many of these good things, we offer the following statistics on Playboy Club Bunnies as worthy material for summertime musing:
Playboy, July, 1963, Vol. 10, No. 7. 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, 405 Park Ave., New York 22, New York, MU 8-3030; 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.
Recent dispatches from the Orient report the perfection of an operation which is worth a moment of sober reflection: Tokyo gynecologist Kohei Matsukubo has learned how to create an artificial hymen for blushing brides-to-be. This surgical subterfuge, called jinko shojo, is performed either with plastic or human body tissue, and is available to interested girls (no virgins need apply) for $60 in yen. We've decided that what bothers us about Dr. Matsukubo's exercise in Instant Innocence, even more than the deception involved, are the semantic problems that leap to mind: Can the doctor be called a flowerer of women? Can the doctor be accused of running a closed shop, or confusing the tissue? Might each of his operations be called an open-and-shut case and his appointment book dubbed an unscore card? And does each patient become, after the 20-minute operation, a risen woman? Is this, then, what is meant by the Inscrutable East? These questions aside, it would appear that we will never again be able to place complete trust in that hoary buy-line, Made in Japan.
Henry Miller began his writing life with a three-book salvo. Black Spring (Grove, $5), written in 1936 between the two Tropics, reaches this country last. Perhaps because it's the weakest. Like the others, it celebrates Miller's escape from marriage and money-grubbing to Left Bankruptcy, skipping verbally between his love of France and of freedom and his hatred of everything in America but his Brooklyn boyhood. The first section, The Fourteenth Ward, is the best in the book -- a splashy memory cascade of sights, smells, friends, and fights in the Williamsburg that was. But his pulsing proclamations that U.S.A. spells doom and that Europe means hope have not only grown tinny with time but have been given the horselaugh by history. The book has almost no narrative and its recollective rhapsody has a way of degenerating from dithyramb to rambling. There are poetic touches, even wisps of wit: "Tom Moffatt was a genuine aristocrat; he never questioned the price and he never paid his bills." But, whether you loved or loathed the Tropics, Black Spring is missable Miller.
A little child shall lead them . . . to an Academy Award. Sundays and Cybele, this year's Oscar-winning foreign film, is the story of a friendship between a 12-year-old girl and a man. He is an ex-war pilot who lost his memory when he crashed and killed a child and who now lives in a Paris suburb with his nurse-mistress. Every Sunday he takes the 12-year-old, who has been abandoned in a local orphanage, for a walk -- posing as her father. Soon there's room for rumors, and the world comes whirling inbetween them. The most interesting element in the film is that their relationship has a touch of Lolita without their really touching. Newcomer Serge Bourguignon directed delicately. Hardy Kruger plays the man, but Hardy is a softy. The real stars are the photographer, Henri Decae, who makes poems out of trees, and Patricia Gozzi, the child, who really rings Cybele.
Ella Sings Broadway (Verve) is both praiseworthy and puzzling. It rates an accolade for the incomparable Ella's etching of Almost Like Being in Love, No Other Love and Whatever Lola Wants; the puzzlement is over the inclusion in this set of such Broadway banalities as Warm All Over, Dites-Moi, Show Me and Somebody Somewhere. All too often Miss Fitz loses out to the misfits. And one gets the impression from the LP jacket and the liner notes that Ella is a cappella -- an error of omission that does disservice to the anonymous orchestra providing the backdrops.
The plays of Bertolt Brecht have been staged to increasing acclaim around the world, but until Jerome Robbins' production of Mother Courage and Her Children, not one of them had reached Broadway. Mother Courage not only Brechts the fast, it adds calories to a thin-gruel season. This masterfully chronicled play, adapted by Eric Bentley, with music by Paul Dessau, was written 34 years ago but its sting hasn't lessened. The timeless subject is the mindlessness of war, which Brecht demonstrates by lantern-sliding, in 12 scenes, the life during the Thirty Years' War of an old peddler called Mother Courage. From Sweden to Poland to Germany, she hauls her wagon of war wares -- boots, belts, brandy -- hawking to all buyers. On the Brechtian battlefield there are no friends and enemies, only the living and the dead. Mother Courage belongs thunderingly to the living. She loses three children and her business sags, but she never loses her rock-hard will to survive. One of her two sons is taken prisoner, and while she haggles over his ransom money, he is shot. She wails her anguish, then goes on selling. "These fellows may be good at dying/But cannot fight unless they feed," she snarls in her bitter theme song. Brecht's astringent assault on inhumanity is veined with irony. During a brief peace between wars, Mother Courage's older son is captured doing what he was paid to do in war -- steal cattle; and without opportunity for ransom or appeal, he is executed for it. Brecht abjures all suspense in this scene, as in all scenes, by announcing beforehand precisely what will take place. He is taking no chances that his audience will be moved by the drama. He wants a cool, intellectual response. But in spite of Brecht, and because of Anne Bancroft in the title role, the audience is not merely attentive, it is involved. Though the role is some 25 years to her disfavor, Miss Bancroft conjures up all the toughness, humor and single-mindedness of this earthy mother. Notable in lesser roles are Zohra Lampert and Barbara Harris (both former residents of Second City) -- Miss Lampert as Mother Courage's mute daughter who sacrifices herself to warn a town of imminent invasion, and Miss Harris as a cheery tart who turns into a brassy strumpet. The rest of the camp followers and ragtag soldiers are not uniformly sure of themselves, and the direction is sometimes overly stolid. But the play is Brecht at his best, and that's quite enough. At the Martin Beck Theater, 302 West 45th Street.
How often does a man of 28 require sex? My husband makes love to me only once every 10 to 14 days and I think that two to three times a week is closer to normal. We've been married four years and I am now 21. He insists that I'm oversexed, that he's normal and that "married life isn't only sex." Which of us requires medical help? If it is he and he refuses to seek help, should I have an affair -- which is against my beliefs -- or should I seek a divorce? One thing more: he has gone out with other women and every time he does he later accuses me of having cheated, too. -- J.N., Denver, Colorado.
No feature previously published by playboy has produced so much reaction and debate -- both in and outside the pages of the magazine -- as "The Playboy Philosophy" by Editor-Publisher Hugh M. Hefner. To give readers a greater opportunity to respond -- pro and con -- to the subjects and issues raised in the editorial series, we are introducing this new section, "The Playboy Forum." It will offer a place for extended dialog between readers and editors, and because we feel many of the subjects discussed in the "Philosophy" are among the most important facing our free society today, we will continue "The Playboy Forum" just as long as your letters of opinion warrant. So do write and express yourselves. It is every American's right, and one too seldom exercised.
Mark Twain expressed himself on America's oft seemingly schizophrenic sexual attitudes in his Letters from the Earth, long suppressed by his family and just recently published for the first time: A fallen angel visits earth and describes, with some incredulity, what he finds there to archangels St. Michael and St. Gabriel. "There is nothing about man that is not strange to an immortal. His heaven is like himself: strange, interesting, astonishing, grotesque. I give you my word, it has not a single feature in it that he actually values. It consists -- utterly and entirely -- of diversions that he cares next to nothing about, here on earth, yet is quite sure he will like in heaven. Isn't it curious? Isn't it interesting? You must not think I am exaggerating, for it is not so. I will give you details.
A monarch is dying. Today, a thin quiet man stands and watches through a gauze of dust as its faceless enemies pull it down -- or, rather, begin to pull it down, for its splendor even now is too ranging for any foe to demolish in a single day. Immense, it resists with every ton of its mass, with every dome, with every wall and pier, every cornice and buttress, every pierced balcony, every apse and nave and arched recess. Each little corbel resists, each metal finial, each glass mosaic, each softly modulated moulding. Its entablature resists, its lacelike carving, the intricate decoration of its arcade spandrels. Stolid, it ignores its conquerors with the passivity of a captive barbarian prince scornful and stoic under gross torture.
One of the most memorable qualities of rum is that it never lets you forget where it comes from. Bourbon, Scotch or gin drinkers don't necessarily associate corn-covered prairieland, peat bogs or verdant groves of juniper shrubs with their pet potations. But as soon as the first drop of rum is poured, tropical touches inevitably begin to appear -- plump mangoes, passion fruit, ripe papayas, green limes, cool coconut milk and pineapples heavy and musky as the jungle itself. Even without such exotic persuasions, something in the sheer aroma of distilled molasses spurs every mix-master's imagination.
Peter Rand came to the top of the subway stairs and narrowed his eyes against the light of the sun, lowering now toward three o'clock, but still bright in the clear sky. Under his feet the sidewalk trembled as a train boomed through the station, threading the black, pipe-strung hole in the ground to dive beneath the sluggish river boundary into the city.
The small boats available to budding captains and seasoned skippers alike this year happily combine function with fun; as a result, American waters -- both fresh and salt -- will be more smartly populated than ever before. The ownership and operation of a small boat -- and by that term we mean pleasure craft, sail or power, 25 feet or under -- requires but modest wherewithal and only the basic skills; yet the dividends in relaxation and revelry are huge compared to the size of the investment and the size of the boat. The ever-increasing availability of good, sturdy, less-than-yacht-size craft means that every man can be captain of his own ship and enjoy a way of life that can include -- depending on his nautical proclivities -- the excitement of water-skiing or fishing, the adventurous world of skindiving or racing, or the easy sociability of just plain soaking up the sun while day-sailing with close friends.
Synopsis: First as a child, later as a man, Harry just could not avoid being loved. Everyone has his own image of perfection and Harry fit them all. No one considered it strange that Harry thought only of himself since all those around him thought only of Harry. He made people want to stand there and watch; he made them want to salute. Sightseeing buses could have made a fortune driving around him.
While it may not necessarily be true, as the song says, that happiness lies under the skies back in one's own back yard, there are occasions when back-yard life definitely has its attractions. Take, for example, a lazy July day, replete with wind-rippled greenery, fat bumblebees and warm, dappled sunlight, the type of day during which one may relax and observe at leisure the growing wonders of nature -- such as Playmate Carrie Enwright, whom we here present at her simple but engaging back-yard pursuits. Like the best of mid-July days, Carrie seems to be destined expressly for the informal, easygoing pleasures of life, and is, as a consequence, a refreshingly unaffected companion. "I am," says she in thoughtful self-summation, "a very healthy, well-adjusted, fun-loving kind of girl." No close observer could quarrel with the buoyancy of her health: 5'5", 123 lbs., 39-24-36. Nor is there any disputing her natural enthusiasm for life, an upbeat attitude which can best be conveyed by quoting her own observations on the short, happy life of Carrie Enwright: "I am 19 years old and have lived in California all my life, the last 11 years in Hollywood, California, where I went through high school and where I have had at various times various not-so-odd jobs. For a while I was cashier at the Hollywood Paramount, which was my closest fling with the movie business. Then I worked as a salesgirl in a candy store. Trouble was. I have this terrible sweet tooth and pretty soon I was eating more candy than I sold. Right now I'm living with my mother and studying like mad to take my state boards in cosmetology. My most active hobby involves artwork, from making seed mosaics of Siamese cats to painting wild, wild oils. I get excited over my finished products -- but then, I'm not critically minded. I'm crazy about progressive jazz, lasagna, and playing practical jokes on people I like. For instance, I have been known to secretly put in cold mashed potatoes as the bottom scoop of someone's root-beer float, which is a terrible thing to do, but fun. I am not the type who always has a book going. I rarely read novels, but occasionally I get on a self-improvement reading kick, the most recent of which was plowing through Hayakawa's Language in Thought and Action. In movies, I'm a sucker for anything romantic or touching -- The Miracle Worker was just perfect for me. As for entertainers, I love Nina Simone, Miles Davis, Frank Sinatra, Jerry Lewis, Jonathan Winters, Victor Borge, Joan Sutherland -- oh, so many more. I'm very congenial toward most performers, and I enjoy nearly all. That probably relates to my main shortcoming as a person -- too much of the time I use my heart and not my head. I'm really a very gullible girl. I wish on first stars and believe in miracles. When I go out with a boy, it really doesn't make any difference what we do -- for me it's a successful date if I get the feeling he appreciates being with me. If we like each other, I would just as soon run through the park in Levis as have a fancy dinner at Frascati's with the opera to follow. And I don't much care whether I eventually live in a mansion or in a tree house, so long as the man I'm married to is fun to be with. Of course it's a trite observation, but what I want most in life is happiness. What else is there?" Such an end in life can be persuasive -- especially when pursued with the magnificent means apparent in our gatefold, where lush Playmate Carrie is shown sensibly doffing her duds prior to a swinging session in her secluded back-yard hammock.
The comely young woman, standing chained to an iron post in the center of the square at Würzburg, watched with horror as the executioner heaped dry twigs about her ankles. Then she began to sob and shriek hysterically as his assistants brought up yet other fuel for her funeral pyre.
Already making histrionic history with worldwide box-office records, Hollywood's mammoth magnum opus of the Nile Queen now promises to reap rich sartorial rewards as well--with a neoclassic look in summer robes designed along the flowing lines of the Roman toga. In the leonine lap of the Sphinx on Rome's "Cleopatra" set, sun worshipers sport modern mantles fit for a Caesar: signore at far left in sumptuous robe of royal blue and silver silk brocade with velvet lining, kimono sleeves, $150; amico in ultracomfortable robe of red-striped cotton, $85, both by Brioni of Rome.
In those days there were no experts on the newspapers; no specialized know-it-alls to bolster the publisher's editorial policy. The editorial writer had to do it all alone -- a sole intellectual Hercules straightening out the errors of the world.
Bugs Bunny and Peter Rabbit, you've had it. We're sorry, fellows, but nobody out of knee pants is apt to think of you anymore when Bunnies are mentioned -- as they are, almost daily, from Iceland to India.
Air France -- a government-controlled company which traces its germination back to 1919 and the first international passenger flight (linking Paris and London) -- is today both the world's largest airline and the most stylish exemplar of modern travel's pièce de résistance: the intercontinental jet flight. While no one jet trip can properly be labeled the most glamorous in aviation, many veteran travelers concur that making the transatlantic hop to Paris ensconced in the First Class section of an Air France jetliner carries with it an unexcelled cachet of elegance and savoir-vivre. On board a recent Paris-bound Air France flight -- one of 56 which leap off North American runways each week during the summer months -- was impressionist LeRoy Neiman, Playboy's ambassador-at-large to the world's far-flung playgrounds, off in quest of fresh palette-pleasing material. "The most enjoyable aspect of a flight such as this," Neiman notes, "is its completely unhurried atmosphere. Although one is covering a great deal of distance at great speed, there is an easy, quite-social leisureliness on board. I was able to do full justice to a superb dinner featuring Poulet sauté au Champagne, not even aware of the fact that in the time required to sip a glass of Pouilly blanc fumé we had traveled 150 miles, or that 800 miles of the Atlantic separated my initial Parfait de Fois Gras and my concluding cognac." Here are Neiman's perceptive delineations of the pleasurable luxuries to be found in modern transoceanic air travel.
Once upon a time a rich old farmer married a woman much younger than he. Whereas he was old, nearly impotent and faithful to her, she was youthful, passionate and fickle. All she had on her mind was handsome young men.
The Best-Paid poet in the world today, to coin a couplet, is a heavyweight lad named Cassius Clay. Although he composes nothing but hymns of self-praise in a shaggy doggerel of trite (and not always true) rhymes, his last verse, a two-line gem, packed Madison Square Garden and 37 closed-circuit theaters, earned him $30,000, and established him as boxing's biggest box-office news since Joe Louis. ("Louis?" says Clay, with characteristic modesty, "I could have decisioned him in his prime.") Nevertheless, Clay's March epigram -- "Jones thinks he'll fight some more / But he's got to go in four" -- nearly became his own epitaph when he was forced to go a full 10 rounds to snag a jeeringly unpopular decision over powerful, plodding Doug Jones. Until then it had been Clay's conceit to predict -- in rhyme -- the exact round in which he would deck his opponent. ("They all must fall in the round I call!") Incredibly, seven of Clay's pigeons (including ageless Archie Moore) shattered on schedule. Although he talks and acts as if he came down from Olympus, the 21-year-old, six-foot-three "Louisville Lip" actually came up from the 1960 Olympics where he won a gold medal. But it is not his 17 straight victories (over generally lackluster losers) that have molded Clay into a golden boy so fast; it is his own flamboyant ("Man, am I beautiful!") egotism. While most experts agree that Clay, though flashy and fast, still fights like an amateur, he may -- on lip alone -- talk his way into a big-money match with lethal Sonny Liston. But even incautious Cassius knows that it will take more than a jingle to jangle the champ.
The plays of Edward Albee, lean, 35-year-old dean of America's flourishing experimental theater, have been variously described as "chilling," "horrifying," "dirty and depressing." The author of this year's Critics' Award play Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and four instantly successful off-Broadway one-acters does not agree. He maintains that his critics are put off by his refusal to "slop into sentimentality." Albee's neosurrealistic theater has also been called the Theater of the Absurd. The playwright boomerangs the term back to Broadway where, he says, the absurd aesthetic criteria are: "makes money -- good play; loses money -- bad play." Genteelly bred by affluent, adoptive parents, Albee worked aimlessly at a succession of menial jobs before, at age 30, he began writing his savage dialogs between emasculated males and emasculating females. Paradoxically, the predominant element in these spectacles is humor. Albee, not unconscious of the irony, insists, "Avant-garde theater is often freeswinging and wildly, wildly funny." American audiences may be in for a long paroxysm of diabolical laughter before Albee and his colleagues depart the scene.
Judging by the Explosive success of brooding-browed Peter Falk, the wages of cinematic sin run exceedingly high. Since his much-praised portrayal of the sinisterly sotto voce Abe Reles in the 1960 low-budget crime flick, Murder, Inc. (a part which brought him the honor of being the first actor ever nominated for an Oscar from a B movie), Peter's star -- along with his pay scale -- has been in the ascendant. He garnered another Oscar nomination the following year for his limning of the mobster in Frank Capra's Pocketful of Miracles, won an Emmy for his hard-boiled, soft-hearted trucker in the Dick Powell TVer The Price of Tomatoes, and clinched his reputation with a slew of hard-guy take-outs -- including a stint as a tormentor of Untouchables. Falk, who spent his early years in nonacting pursuits (he worked as an efficiency expert for the state of Connecticut), is busy branching out in all acting directions, including roles as the officer in Genet's The Balcony and as a beset cab driver in Stanley Kramer's It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. Compared by some to Garfield or Cagney, the 35-year-old Falk has more pointedly been praised by astute critics as a man beholden to no one for his consummate characterizations.
It's time to think about physical fitness, Washington tells us . . . which is why this chapter sees Annie off on a 50-mile hike, And for those of you who are readying for your own forced march, it might be well to remember the presidential aide, who, on regarding the fifty-mile hike, uttered these ringing words: "I may be plucky, but I'm not stupid." -- Pierre Salinger, 1963
September in Ireland, when the mists are light over the fields of Donegal and the lakes of the River Shannon, is the time of the hunter. One sure-fire source of the better game birds -- wild duck and geese, snipe and woodcock -- is the area about Woodhill Guest House, Ardara, County Donegal, a rustically simple inn where competent guides and dogs are available for about $2 per diem. More luxurious quarters for the gamesman may be found at Cashel Palace Hotel, Cahir, County Tipperary, an elegant little village hostelry (13 rooms, $10 a day) and a fine base for those who want to try their hand at coursing, a favorite sport in the country districts. An ancestor of greyhound racing dating back to the Second Century, coursing entails the pursuit of a live hare across open country either on horseback or on foot, depending on the hunt you pick (if the call is to horse, the secretary of the hunt will tell you where to hire a well-trained steed). The 85 recognized packs -- eight of which are active in the Dublin area alone -- include some which specialize in tracking stags or otters.