Playbill offering portents of midsummer pleasure, along with a handsome AC Cobra and matching charmer on this issue's cover, is our symbolic Rabbit, firmly in the driver's seat. And so, symbolically, is Stirling Moss, as revealed by Ken W. Purdy in his prescient, probing study of England's Favorite Son. It is only now, with his announced retirement from racing, that the entire career of Moss may be measured against those ageless British standards of courage, doggedness and esprit that make an Englishman a national hero. It was this assessment for playboy, says Purdy, that gave rise to his forthcoming biography of Moss, All but My Life, to be published by E. P. Dutton this fall.
Playboy, August, 1963, Vol. 10, No. 8. 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.
When car cognoscenti gather for some post-race reminiscing, the conversation often turns to such hallowed names of motordom as the Moon and the Marmon, the Essex and the Auburn, the Thomas Flyer and the Wills Sainte Claire. But what of the almost-3000 makes of American automobiles and trucks which met with resounding public apathy toward their charms? The time has come to salute the losers (and they did exist, however briefly, so help us) and to toast some of the benighted knights of the road. We lift our glass, then, to such flyers in the face of euphony as the Bluffelimber, the Schlotterback and the Luedinghaus-Es-penschied. And we have a spot reserved in our heart for those misbegotten image evokers, the Anchor, the D'Olt, the Duck, the Havoc, the Mock, the Sphinx and the Static. How could we ever forget those victims of man's verbosity, the Hall Gasoline Trap, the Plass Motor Sleigh, the Rigs-That-Run, and the Seven-Little-Buffaloes? And what about the entomologically inclined Auto Bug and Bugmobile, or the diametrically opposed philosophies of the Average Man's Runabout and the Croesus Jr., or that mechanized monument to a modern-day Damon and Pythias -- the Murray-Max Six? For the Cinemascopically attuned we offer the Ben-Hur and the Robe, and for the Mad Ave minions, the hard-sell-titled Fool-Proof and the commuter's very own transport, the Club Car. We'll let others argue over the relative merits of the Fwick and the Wick, but we get openly maudlin and dewy-orbed when we conjure up visions of that splendid example of nominal éclat -- the Morris and Salom Electrobat.
Marilyn is about Marilyn. 20th Century-Fox, for whom she made most of her films, has assembled clips from 15 of her pictures, beginning with A Ticket to Tomahawk, in which she had 22nd billing, to Something's Got to Give, her last never-completed starrer. The collection, which runs as long as a feature film, shows how the MM "character" was developed by movie experts through the years; more important, it shows how she herself developed considerable comedic technique and the ability to belt out a musical number. In their routines from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Jane Russell, something of a looker herself, simply fades when Marilyn takes over. The scenes from The Seven Year Itch show a round-eyed rounded Marilyn who manages to give hot-and-dirty sex a good name. The saddest fact is that she looks her best in the make-up tests for her last film. It's a pity that nothing is included from The Asphalt Jungle, where her figure first started traffic, or from her finest film, Some Like It Hot -- but these two came from other studios. Despite Rock Hudson's appearance as narrator, Marilyn is well worth seeing -- an almost-worthy tribute to a miss who too soon became a myth.
In the high-pressure world of musical comedy, She Loves Me comes as a gentle nudge. It has no big production numbers, no razzmatazz, no chorus girls, hardly any dancing at all. There are almost as few changes of scene as there are changes of season. (Even the latter are modestly beguiling. "Look," says one character, as a handful of leaves falls from the eaves, "autumn!") Although the book sounds sugary -- it was the creamy center of a Margaret Sullavan movie called The Shop Around the Corner -- the play is tart enough as here presented. In a pink-satined parfumerie in a European city much like Budapest, Barbara Cook and Daniel Massey (a boyish lookalike for father Raymond) sell side by side, but are completely occupied with pen pals whom they have never met and address only as Dear Friend. It doesn't take a James Bond to deduce that Dear Friend is really the clerk at the next counter, but for the lovers the knowledge is two acts in coming. While they dream, a fellow clerk schemes. Jack Cassidy, as a shopworn dandy, cads about with the impressionable Barbara Baxley, and dawdles on the sly with the proprietor's wife. Cassidy will, of course, lose Baxley but win a little shop of his own by use of his rakish resources. Baxley will find happiness with an optometrist (by wearing glasses). And Cook and Massey will finally discover that love by mail leaves too much to the imagination. Whenever things start to get sticky, composers Sheldon Harnick and Jerry Bock (Fiorello!) whisk in a fresh tune. Ice Cream is a double-dip ditty in which the heroine writes of her love to her love, but keeps thinking about the guy at the shop. Ilona is an ironic bit of romantic deviltry in which Cassidy is more concerned with posing than proposing. A Romantic Atmosphere is a gypsy paean to the tryst. The title song, like the show, is a buoyant burst of innocence. At the Eugene O'Neill Theater, 230 West 49th Street.
Although the title of Duke Ellington's latest album is Afro-Bossa (Reprise), be not misled into thinking that he and his orchestra have been caught up in the bossa-nova milieu. The Duke and his minions follow only their own jazz concepts. With the growler, Cootie Williams, back in the fold, Cat Anderson cloudbusting, Hodges, Nance and Gonsalves in fine musical fettle, and the program built on Strayhorn-Ellington originals, much more meets the ear than Latin offshoots.
In The Techniques of Becoming Wealthy (Prentice-Hall, $10), Richard H. Rush assures us that "There are no shortages of opportunities for financial success in this country," but adds, "even with the greatest opportunity ... wealth cannot be created without knowing how." Rush thereupon tries to tell us how, drawing on his own experiences (in real estate, insurance, and the loan business, to name a few) and on the experiences of his friends, the most eminent of whom is our own J. Paul Getty. Rush agrees with Getty's dictum that "the only way to make a good deal of money is in one's own business" -- and the launching and nurturing of such is the book's main concern. Among other things, Rush explains when it is wise to borrow money, how to buy a concern with little cash, and how to play the stock market without losing one's shirt. (Daily trading, he warns, is strictly for professionals.) In Rush's ledger, real estate ranks very near the top, and he steers the reader through the intricacies of the field, from depreciation allowances to leaseback. Among the more esoteric money-making means covered are foreign investments, commodity-market speculation and the care and feeding of race horses. For the man in search of millions, the choices seem practically unlimited -- and one of his first might be this informative treatise.
Most of your comments are understandably directed to the cause of preserving bachelors from gaucherie and cloying alliances, but the question of standards affecting the young married set seems also to need a definitive -- or at least an honest -- answer. My bride and I, now in our early 30s, have successfully made our way through the threadbare postcollege years, and with the kids in school and a comfortable income assured, are beginning to enjoy some leisure and expand our horizons once again. Herein lies the problem: one of the girls in our crowd is a delightful creature with whom I could enjoy a relationship more personal than that of a bridge partner, and the feeling is clearly reciprocated. Similarly, her husband and my wife are developing an equally sympathetic rapport. Lately the four of us have been talking about a weekend boating trip together, and the tacit understanding seems to be that the port and starboard watches will be subject to an exchange of personnel for the voyage, isolated from the prying eyes of those with a proclivity to gossip. The stumbling block, of course, is the insistence by so-called "experts" on marital relations that this sort of hanky-panky will rot the moral fiber, cause ulcers, falling hair, and presumably, the gout. The illogic of this position is that the alternative can only be secret, hasty extramarital flings, with all the guilt that such dishonesty produces. We are sophisticated, happily married adults seeking an intelligent answer to what must be a widespread problem. Don't you think this is one are where there is room for a fresh reappraisal of standards? Your magazine seems to be the only source of healthy thinking on the development of social and sexual mores under today's conditions. -- S. M., Galveston, Texas.
One of the major controversies in contemporary society concerns sex. The gap between our supposed sexual morality and our actual behavior is extreme and when an entire nation practices such hypocrisy, the results can be calamitous. Since the behavior is based upon a natural sex drive that, when repressed, results in perversion, impotence, frigidity and unnatural feelings of guilt and shame, society is searching for a new morality more in keeping with the newly recognized "facts of life."
Fidelman listlessly doodled all over a sheet of yellow paper. Odd indecipherable designs, inkspotted blotched words, esoteric ideographs, tormented figures in a steaming sulphurous lake, including a stylish nude rising newborn from the water. Not bad at all, though more mannequin than Cnidian Aphrodite. Scarpio, sharp-nosed on the former art student's left, looking up from his cards, inspected her with his good eye.
The Extraordinary concern and affection the British people show for Stirling Moss cannot be explained by his eminence as a sports figure. (My London housekeeper, who had never seen a motor race, and had never seen Moss excepting on television, asked me to tell him to please shave off his beard, she didn't like it. Then she added, "He is very dear to us.") The British people have known many great sportsmen, and they have usually viewed them with comparative calm and equanimity, but during the decade 1952-1963, let us say, Stirling Moss has been one of the most prominent figures in the United Kingdom. Other formidable accomplishers, sportsmen, athletes, film stars, scientists, politicians have stepped upon the stage, stayed a bit, and slipped away. But still today, and this is written nearly a full year after Goodwood, when Stirling Moss comes down a jet ramp at London Airport, it's news. Why?
Not long ago, I was forced to demand the resignation of a top-level executive in one of my companies. Although he was intelligent, hard-working and experienced, this man had a signal weakness that proved fatal to his career -- and which, in time, might well have proved fatal to the company. He simply could not distinguish between the possible and the impossible -- and his myopia extended to matters large and small.
Of the indians in the town square, it was Miguel who first became aware of the little drama on the side of the mountain. Faraway, where the road was a rising scar on the barren slope, the bus was to be seen, and close behind it a big American sedan.
Playboy's Readers responded with predictable enthusiasm when we presented, in text and pictures, the remarkable Girls of Africa last April. The lion's share of praise was dedicated to a comely South African miss named Gillian Tanner.
Petite Playmate Phyllis Sherwood is an admirably grownup blend of the ingredients traditional to all little girls -- one third sugar, two thirds spice -- and no male will deny that in her case the combination has definitely improved with age. Short (5'1") and shapely, with strawberry-blonde hair and big brown eyes, plus a pert face and a glow of health, Phyllis pleases by being her natural, more-than-slightly mischievous self. Not in any manner a mixed-up miss for whom everything's coming up neuroses, she brings to day-by-day living an infectious esprit, a quality much in evidence as she talks about her life and the things in it that matter most to her -- including men: "Unlike a lot of girls I know, I'm totally unimpressed by bold, brash, dynamic types -- my dream man is a quiet, rather shy, attentive guy who would always humor me and my quirks. For example, I have just about every silly superstition in the book, and I hate to be laughed at when I refuse to walk under a ladder or turn away at the sight of a black cat. Also, I'm sensitive to being kidded about the big unfulfilled ambition of my life, which has always been to become an archaeologist. I first became excited about archaeology while attending Niagara Falls High School -- I was wild to travel to Egypt to discover and explore ancient tombs -- but my father's death when I was 16 prevented my going on to college to study the subject. I worked for a while in Niagara Falls as a bookkeeper for a photo supplier before heading out on my own to Chicago, where I now live alone -- unless you count one Siamese cat and one French poodle. I support the three of us by working as a secretary in a textile showroom. In my spare time, I'm a fierce reader -- I average at least two books a week, ranging from H. Allen Smith to Margaret Mead to Frank Yerby. My other passions include charcoal-broiled steaks, Vic Damone, emeralds, and Ingmar Bergman movies, which usually leave me a complete emotional wreck. My big weakness is a quick, flaring temper, especially when I see any type of injustice -- which is why my friends have nicknamed me 'Tiger.' As for the future, my plans include marriage, four children -- three boys and one girl, in that order -- and a home in suburbia with a huge lawn and a huge swimming pool. But that seems a long time from now." For the present, Phyllis is well-content to remain a foot-loose bachelor girl who, when she slips into someone else's pool in suburbia, is a singular subject for male admiration. For buoyant proof, consider the gatefold.
Not too many years ago, after generations of second-class sartorial citizenship, the ready-made suit began to come up in the world of men's wear; at first envying, then emulating the breeding and bearing of its custom-tailored counterpart. Today, mingling at last as social equals, they cannot always be distinguished from each other either in quality or cut -- as evidenced by the elegantly attired gentleman in the ready-made suit at left. In short, if he masters a few of the finer points of appraisal and alteration -- explicated herein -- there's no reason why the fashion-wise male can't wear a suit off the peg with complete satisfaction.
Certainly one of the most strategic bases of operations for the would-be chef at this torrid time of the year is the spot directly in front of a delicatessen's cold-food display case piled high with thuringer, Genoa salami, prosciutto, smoked eel, a dozen or so cheeses and a prodigal assortment of salads and seafood. With a little imagination, you can easily convert these plain cold comestibles into cold gourmandise. Cooked shelled shrimps reclining on beds of ice, for instance, are ready not only for bottled cocktail sauce but for subtle marinades and sumptuous offbeat salads. Tissue-thin slices of West-phalian ham can lead a hand-to-mouth existence or be rolled into horns of plenty filled with Dungeness crab meat, Alsatian foie gras or smorgasbord salads.
In the six years that cartoonist Shel Silverstein has been roaming the globe for Playboy, drawing funny conclusions from Madrid to Moscow to Miami Beach, no assignment has proven more challenging -- or more off the beaten track -- than his most recent: to depict the unabashed life of a typical U.S. nudist camp. The site selected was Sunny Rest Lodge of Palmerton, Pennsylvania, a well-regarded buffer zone which graciously allowed Shel carte blanche for a fortnight's stay. When he arrived, with drawing pen loaded for bare, embarrassment was his first reaction -- but inhibitions soon faded as our quick-change artist, now birthday-suited, relaxed in his new environs. "These were the most pleasant, relaxed two weeks of my life," he recalls. "There was a great sense of freedom, of naturalness in the camp. Pretensions just vanished. Nobody, you might say, had anything to hide." His advice to the amateur nudist on getting past the first awkward confrontation scene: "Look straight ahead. Don't look sideways, don't look up and don't look down." Reflecting on what it is like to live amidst a platoon of unclad females, he notes, "They lose their sense of mystery. There's no question about that. On the other hand, relationships between the sexes seem much more honest." Here is the epidermal essence of Shel's excursion into a brave nude world.
No cosmopolite Is Immune to an occasional longing for some parcel of sky-domed greensward to offset the concrete, chrome, glass and steel that may make city living elegant and convenient -- but decidedly nonpastoral. For the young man on the way up to his penthouse or about to turn into the driveway of his town house, a sky-high terrace or ground-level patio offers the perfect on-the-spot answer for hours in the sun or evenings of unconfined entertainment. An urban oasis which delightfully avoids the crawl through country-bound city traffic, the patio-terrace offers the man-about-town expanded horizons for after-office-hours hosting, and a corner for simply getting away from it all without having to go away from it all.
Ribald Classic: Young Lancelot and the Forester's Daughter
When Lancelot was very young, and beardless, he had an adventure that earned him both censure and envy. He went with two knights to the castle of a grim forester named Galagandreiz, who was famed for two things: a beautiful daughter and an evil disposition. It was the custom at the castle that guests always fared badly if they offended against chastity to the slightest degree whatever, and many were the good knights who had been foully murdered for admiring the forester's daughter. She was a virgin, and it was her father's vow -- though by no means her own -- that she should remain so until his death.
Sally Dennis was a very pretty young matron, with a neat small face and a great luxuriance of hair, sleek, healthy, most remarkable. In corduroy pedal pushers behind the cart in the supermarket at the corner of Columbus and Taylor in San Francisco, she could pass for somebody's teenage daughter. Then, abruptly, after a few minutes before the mirror, her gamine oddity -- pale small face framed by that dark hair -- might be transformed for the evening into the teasing mystery of the girl in a dream of violation. She had teeth for biting. In pleasure, she sometimes lost consciousness entirely. She would wake in the darkness, smiling with those teeth.
Seasoned Travelers tend to agree that the best time to embark on the ultimate vacation trip -- a jaunt around the world -- is during the fall. If such ambitious circumnavigating be your aim this October, you'd do well to avoid the perennial bane of globe-hopping: getting caught up in an unrelenting succession of tourist-trapping ports of call. Veteran wan-derlusters generally are knowledgeable enough to try offbeat stops and side trips while doing Europe -- but lose their yen for experimentation when in less-familiar Asian and Pacific climes. Here, then, are a few tips for nonconformist comfort on the far side of the world.