Starting with this issue, our cover price moves to 75 cents. This will enable us to bring you each month many additional pages of the finest, most colorful entertainment available in any magazine in the world today -- more (and still better) fiction, articles, picture stories, cartoons and special features. All these bonuses, we think you'll agree, are handsomely apparent in this hefty, record-breaking 240-page issue at hand.
In Charles Beaumont's June article, Requiem for Holidays, we see the type of thinking --a wish to return to the old days of vandalism during Halloween -- that would keep us in a barbarous culture. The attitude that allows vandalism and the breaking of laws for one day or even tolerates it is what changed the Roman games from sport to slaughter a little bit at a time. Civilization can only come with restraint and intelligent moderation and a rigid refusal to embrace or tolerate any of those atavistic tendencies that would drag us down and back to a savage and barbaric society.
Playboy, September, 1963, Vol. 10, No. 9. 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, $17 for Three Years, $13 for Two Years, $7 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, Illinois, 60611, and Allow 30 Days for Change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, 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.
You may recall that last winter a feisty organization called SINA -- the Society for Indecency to Naked Animals, led by "President G. Clifford Prout, Jr." -- mesmerized a goodly portion of the nation's press with its ostensibly sincere crusade to clothe all domestic animals "for the sake of decency." ("It should be worded the Society Against Indecency to Naked Animals, of course," Prout explained, "but unfortunately my father was a little -- well, not quite of sound mind when he drew up the will financing the movement, and he used the wrong preposition.") Then, in March, stories appeared in both Time and Newsweek claiming that SINA was nothing more than the farcical brainchild of a TV gagwriter named Buck Henry -- alias Prout. At the time it seemed likely that the society and its crackpot capers (members once picketed the White House with signs demanding that the First Lady clothe her horses for the sake of the nation's youth) would be heard from no more. Not so -- proof that SINA has not repented crossed our desk a while ago in the form of a meticulously edited 40-page magazine entitled Inside SINA. Included in this "Official Organ of the Society for Indecency to Naked Animals" are such poker-faced items as two pages of patterns for SINA-approved animal duds, and a do-it-yourself summons, to be cut from the magazine and served as a "citizen's arrest" to anyone perpetrating a public act of indecency -- i.e., appearing in public with a nude dog, cat, horse, cow or "any animal that stands higher than 4 inches or is longer than 6 inches."
Ben Hecht's Gaily, Gaily (Doubleday, $3.95) is a string of poignant reminiscences about newspaper days in Chicago during the early 1900s. Most of the pieces appeared in Playboy in the early 1960s. In Hecht's recollection, the young century "was a time devoted equally (by my colleagues) to the promotion of good literature and honest fornication -- and to their suppression by illiterates and hypocrites." As an intrepid young reporter for the Chicago Journal, Hecht made the acquaintance of a lot of bright apples, among them: Masha, a skid-row gypsy woman who tyrannized three lovers; Clara ("It took me a month to convince Clara that she was too beautiful and too fine a girl to work in Queen Lil's whore-house"); and Fred Ludwig, a sentimental murderer who primped with rouge before his hanging and inspired Hecht to write in the Journal: "Fred Ludwig lived as a cowardly man but he died as a brave woman." Accompanying Hecht through this dim demimonde were such dedicated demimondists as Sherwood Anderson, Theodore Dreiser, Charles MacArthur and the late, benighted Maxwell Bodenheim. Ben and Max were once paid $100 apiece by the Chicago Book and Play Club to debate a literary topic of their choosing -- "Resolved: People Who Attend Literary Debates Are Fools." Ben, taking the affirmative, stood up, made a scornful motion at the audience and said, "I rest my case." Max then rose and surveyed the membership for a full minute. Finally he turned to Ben and announced. "You win." In Gaily, Gaily, Ben Hecht wins again.
Gotham's surprising shortage of first-rate seafood restaurants has been happily assuaged by the much-fanfared (and deservedly so) debut of the Méditerranée at Park Avenue and 63rd Street. In an atmosphere of subdued gentility, brightened in one room by well-executed Mediterranean murals, and warmed in another by sea-cavern architecture and the felicitous piano of Ralph Strain, host Ed Kern presents one of the few exciting nautical menus in town. The bill of fare abounds with fresh approaches to old favorites. The fish mousse of sole and snapper with a green sauce, for instance, is exotic, while Brandade en Bouchées -- a culinary amalgam of salted cod in an excellent pastry shell -- is outstanding solid fare, whether taken as hot hors d'oeuvres or as a luncheon dish. Among the soups, the ordinary is extraordinary and the rare, such as Waterzoie (of eel, carp and whitefish) and Billi-Bi, a cream-of-mussels delicacy, is delightfully accessible. Each fish in season is offered in several different ways, some of them unique. The Crab Duchesse, for example, is served on artichoke bottom with béarnaise sauce cooked in. The menu includes, of course, the coastal delicacies of many countries and the lover of sea urchins, squid and the like can safely drop anchor here. Mr. Kern brought with him to the former site of Voisin the chef he employed when he owned Copain. Méditerranée is open seven days a week for lunch from 12--3 p.m. and dinner from 6--11 p.m., and for Sunday brunch. The menu is à la carte, and the restaurant, it should be pointed out, is in the city's high-rent district. To the pisciphile, however, a visit is well worth the price.
Teri Thornton Sings "Somewhere in the Night" (Dauntless) shows the young lady to be a singer very much in the force of today's vocal ranks. Teri is self-assured and syrup-smooth, the arrangements by conductor Larry Wilcox are excellent, and the material is irreproachable. Included is the title tune, Stormy Weather, Mood Indigo and I've Got the World on a String. Miss Thornton has arrived.
Federico (Dolce Vita) Fellini has concocted a psychiatric catharsis in his new film 8 1/2. (The title is just an opus number; up to now he's made seven long films and three "half" segments.) His hero, a film director, is holed up at a spa: he can't get off the plot with his new film script. The hero's mistress, wife, and producer arrive -- not together -- and each helps and hinders. Interwoven with his script worries and tangled life are recollections, fantasies and wish fulfillments that would make Napoleon, Harun al-Rashid, and Casanova envious. The way that Fellini blends reality and unreality, his macaber and sexy humor, and his technical razzmadazzle make this film a surrealistic smorgasbord. Maybe you'll be hungry for substance after it's over, but while it's going on, it ranges from diverting to disturbing. The ending -- in which the director reconciles himself to his life and decides to make a film of it -- is an attenuated excuse for a finale, but any excuse that keeps Fellini film-making is a good one. Marcello Mastroianni, Claudia Cardinale, Anouk Aimee, and Sandra Milo head the admirable cast, but photographer Gianni di Venanzo and editor Leo Catozzo deserve top billing, too.
One opening night last spring an actor playing a janitor in an off-Broadway no-play called The Purple Canary sloshed his mop through the air so enthusiastically that he splashed the entire front row. The play dried up after six performances, but the moment was recorded as the most characteristic of the off-Broadway season. From the 70-odd productions that opened away from Times Square, it was obvious that for the most part the actors were enthusiastic, the playwrights were foolish, and the critics were martyrs (and, occasionally, all wet). Off-Broadway was not, however, a total loss. There were some first-rate revivals and even a few good new plays by good new playwrights.
Two years ago when I was 19, I became enamored of a strikingly lithe beauty who was but a junior in high school. As our love flourished, so did our physical intimacies until, inevitably, our desire was consummated. During the next year our relationship withstood separations and the frustrating futility of longdistance phone calls. But the summer was marred by constant bickering and our time together consisted primarily of battles and bedtime. After she went off to college we drifted apart and, after one terrible Thanksgiving vacation together, we broke up. After two years of promises and agreements, I must say I enjoy my new freedom, but I am worried about one thing: the insistent urgency in our sexual relations. Now that she is seriously dating another, will she be predisposed to hop in bed with the next one--and the next? What responsibility do I share if ultimately she becomes a pro?--B. G., New York, New York.
Kenneth Tynan, who conducted this interview for Playboy, is widely esteemed as Britain's most articulate and iconoclastic commentator on the theater. Writing with a rare authority gained from his multifarious background as a stage director, movie script editor and television writer-producer, he has become internationally known as a drama critic (for the London Observer since 1954, and for The New Yorker, succeeding the late Woolcott Gibbs, from 1958 to 1960); trenchant essayist on drama in England, Europe and America; and author of six books (including an illuminating profile of Sir Alec Guinness). Lauded by literary critic Alfred Kazin as a "virtuoso performer in journalism" for his barbed and burnished prose, he has also earned a reputation as an engineer of reportorial coups: He once arranged and presided at the only meeting between Tennessee Williams and Ernest Hemingway; he is reputed to be the only writer who ever interviewed the reclusive Greta Garbo; and he is one of the few journalists in the world to whom the press-beleaguered Richard Burton has consented to speak for publication in the two years since "Cleopatra" began production. Tynan writes of their most recent meeting -- occasioned by Playboy's request for an exclusive interview -- in the following preamble:
In an attempt to better explicate the Sexual Revolution currently taking place in society, and Playboy's own part in this search for a "new morality," we offered last issue a brief history of sexual suppression since early Christendom through the Middle Ages, and this month we will complete that historical analysis with a consideration of the Renaissance, the Reformation, Puritanism, Victorianism and their relationship to present-day sex prohibitions and taboos.
Incredible though it may seem, the above offer is completely legitimate. More than 40,000,000 Americans are already so employed, and -- give or take a few thousand dollars -- all are now enjoying most of the promised benefits.
This is Both the Year of the Rabbit and the Year of the Quarterback. Modern football, like modern warfare, is dependent upon an effective air attack. You don't necessarily win with it, but you certainly can't win without it. In recognizing this gridiron fact of strife, college coaches have been combing the back country for sharpshooting passers, and the fruition of their efforts is on display in stadiums everywhere. Never before has there been such an impressive galaxy of superquarterbacks. At least a dozen would have been uncontested All-America selections a few years back, but this season all but one or two will be merely also-rans. Final choices, as in most All-America competitions, will depend largely on the won-lost records of the teams and how well the local drum beaters do their jobs. When once asked what makes an All-American, Grantland Rice answered, "Seven good linemen to do the blocking and a poet in the press box."
Erminio, A Cousin of Mine from Viterbo, had come to Rome for the first time and wanted to see everything and everybody; I had to show him round, and one evening I suggested we should go to the cinema. We were in Piazza Mastai, so I went over to the kiosk with the intention of buying a newspaper to see what was playing. Fiammetta, the newspaper seller, was just shutting up to go home; however, as a favor to me, she slipped a paper out of a bundle and gave it to me, saying: "If you look at it quickly, I'll take it back without making you pay for it." So I opened the paper, saying to Erminio: "It doesn't look to me as if there is anything much"; then all at once I realized that he was paying no attention to me but gazing instead at Fiammetta. Have you ever seen Fiammetta? If you haven't, go to Piazza Mastai and there you'll see a big kiosk all decked out with newspapers and magazines, and amongst all these papers and magazines, a little sort of proscenium formed also of papers and magazines, and, inside the proscenium, a woman's face, of a most lovely oval shape, surrounded with big fair curls, with blue eyes, a tiny little nose and charming red lips. It looks like the face of a doll, of the kind that turn up their eyes, show their little teeth and say "Papa" and "Momma." It is Fiammetta's face, and generally it is bent over some illustrated magazine: as she spends her whole day among papers and magazines, she has acquired the habit of reading. But tell her you want such-and-such a magazine that is not within reach but hanging up outside; and then she will come out of the kiosk, rather like a puppet showman out of his box, backward, and you'll be astonished that all this profusion of delights can sit huddled together on the little chair amongst the bundles of printed paper. For Fiammetta has a shapely, rounded figure, just like a beautiful doll with all its parts turned to perfection -- arms, shoulders, hips, legs, et cetera. A rare beauty is Fiammetta; who does not know her? And who does not know that she has been betrothed for years to Ettore, the barman at the café in Piazza Mastai, who, from his counter, can keep his eye on her through the window at all hours of the day? Everyone knows it, everyone, that is, except a person like Erminio, who does not belong to the quarter or even to Rome but to Viterbo.
Most knowledgeable beefeaters tend toward split culinary personalities. In their club dining rooms, they call for planked steaks and sizzling steaks, for Delmonicos and Chateaubriands, for filets and contre-filets. But when the black ties are tossed aside in favor of chef's caps, carnivorous men more often than not turn to slices of juicy beef brisket astride wedges of new cabbage, to German Sauerbraten and beef stew in burgundy, Old World dishes for which devotees always have been willing and able to perform a cook's tour of fireside duty. In France, it's axiomatic that if you scratch an urban gourmet, you'll find a peasant with his pot-au-feu. In this country you may not find a peasant, but you'll find a peasant's hearty appetite and, more often than not, his devotion to some traditional rural cuisine.
Filomena Flung the plank door Shut with such violence the candle blew out; she and her crying children were left in darkness. The only things to be seen were through the window -- the adobe houses, the cobbled streets -- where now the gravedigger stalked up the hill, his spade on his shoulder, moonlight honing the blue metal as he turned into the high cold graveyard and was gone.
Joe Looked Down at Mousie, walking so sedately beside him, and he thought, you're a second-rater, and so am I. Her name wasn't Mousie, but Sara Nell. He always called her Sara Nell except when he thought about her, and then she was Mousie. It was her hair, maybe, or the nose that was so very well shaped only one-and-a-half sizes too large for her face. She had a little pointed face. Anyway, it was Mousie, and it wasn't affectionate.
There Exists In This World a small but notable number of girls to whom artistic endeavors come naturally. Such a gifted one is our September Playmate, a dark-tressed Los Angeleno named Victoria Valentino, whose talents, like her figure, are wondrously well-rounded. Vicky has many irons in the creative fire: she paints ("Mostly still lifes, and pen-and-inks"), she sings ("My voice is technically imperfect, but I like to think it has a bluesy quality that gets a song across"), she dances ("Purely for my own pleasure -- though I did work one summer teaching ballet to little girls"), she plays the guitar ("I'm what you would call an experimentalist"). And she acts -- wherein lies the pith of her talent and the core of her fondest hopes. "I've always wanted to be an actress," she notes in her quiet, melodic voice. "This is not a pipe dream -- I've been prepping for it ever since my father, who is a free-lance commercial artist, and my mother, an ex-singer, put me in the Professional Children's School in New York City. I studied a year at New York's American Theater Wing, where I majored in musical theater, before moving to L.A. I'm taking private acting lessons now and waiting for what people call the 'big break' -- no luck so far, outside of hospital shows, some summer stock, and work in little theater groups. But I keep busy with girl-type activities like sewing, dusting and cooking, and with my painting and other hobbies. And I wait for my chance -- I'm still game." Fair game -- for Vicky is an artistic achievement in her own right: standing 5'3" in her stockinged feet and weighing in at 110 well-distributed pounds, her fragile beauty suggests a classic Castilian heritage (vide the gatefold). But no Spanish blood flows in Vicky's veins -- for the most part, her lineage combines Italian fire with English ice. Flashing her Latin spirit, she bridles at any implication that she is a kindred soul of the pseudo-arty, coffeehouse crowd that proliferates like smog in the L.A. environs. "I got out of that bohemian mess a year ago," she states emphatically, "and I haven't gone back. It was a question of mental health and self-preservation." Herewith a sampler of other distinctively Victorian views -- On herself: "I'd describe my personality as sensitive and introspective. My main weakness, besides staying in bed till all hours, is an occasional lapse of self-confidence -- I'm very easily hurt if a man I like shows a lack of respect toward me. I should laugh it off, I know, as being the way the world is. But I can't -- my hopes are always too high." On personal preferences: "I enjoy reading the novels of Tolstoy and Dostoievsky, plays by O'Neill, and poetry by the Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda. In the performing arts, my favorite actress is Anna Magnani -- she's a woman in the full sense of the word. When it comes to movies, I guess I'm something of a snob because I definitely prefer foreign films. I also get enthusiastic about Spanish food, Arabic folk dances, and life in Mexico -- which is where I'd live if I were rolling in money, which I'm not." On her outdoor life: "I hack away at badminton, and do some swimming, but my big exercise kick is hiking. I head for the country and keep going till I find a remote and peaceful spot -- or until I collapse." On what she wants from life: "Love." Vicky, a firm believer in fate, is sure that her life "will follow as it was planned out long before I came into existence." If the fates have indeed selected our September Playmate to mime a predestined part as a lovely, hopefully star-struck young actress, then clearly the role could not have been more winningly cast -- by either kismet or MGM.
I remember, when I was still very much of a business tyro, learning an invaluable lesson from a man who even then had extensive business holdings and who later became one of America's wealthiest industrialists. Although I knew him fairly well, I hadn't seen him for several months before bumping into him one day in the lobby of a Chicago hotel.
The Limerick, insists one scholarly source, was introduced to the English-speaking world during the early 17th Century when a detachment of Irish mercenaries returned to County Limerick after serving in the armies of France, bringing with them doggerel both ribald and ripe. Other literary archaeologists, mining the mother lode of lively lyrics, insist that bawdy balladry resembling in form and in content the contemporary limerick was inscribed upon the walls of the bordellos of Pompeii.
One year ago, the late Marilyn Monroe discussed her deification as an acetate love goddess in these forthright words: "I never quite understood it -- this sex symbol -- I always thought symbols were those things you clash together! ... But if I'm going to be a symbol of something I'd rather have it sex than some other things they've got symbols of!" Sadly, Marilyn's untimely death brought with it the demise in America of her special brand of symbolism: the voluptuous child-woman who personifies the immemorial romantic dreams of men. No new American actress has swiveled forth to take her place or to claim her title -- nor are any apt to do so soon, for the current young U.S. screen stars are, by contrast, a disappointingly pallid and spindly lot. The situation in Europe, however, is dramatically different: over there, an uncommon market in sexy actresses who play sexy parts in sexy films has flourished during the past few years, a pleasant phenomenon which is leading the American male to regard foreign films -- and their decorative stars -- with steadily increasing enthusiasm. In France, Italy, Germany and England, a full-bodied corps of gifted actresses is gaining fame by speaking a language that has absolutely no need for subtitles. In recognition of these lovely attractions abroad, Playboy herewith presents a 14-page portfolio -- consisting in part of reprises from well-worth-remembering movie scenes, in part of portraits from exclusively-for-Playboy shootings -- featuring the freshest and most seductive of Europe's current crop of sexpot exports.
The World's Pocket-Billiards Championship was held this past April in the chan-deliered ballroom of Manhattan's Commodore Hotel. Competing on the brilliant-green felt of two adjacent tables, a dozen crack shots took their cues in a seven-day pursuit of the title (the winner: Luther Lassiter). Watching the dinner-jacketed pool pros at solemn play was a connoisseur audience that included Playboy's LeRoy Neiman. Reports Neiman: "I was most impressed by the emotional excitement that charges the smoke-filled air during a match, particularly when a high run starts to develop. Sounds are a dominant part of the drama -- the scratchy rub as the cue is chalked; the clean, sharp click of cue on ball as the player strokes; then the sharp crack of cue ball on object ball and the clunking drop into the intended pocket. If the shot is well-executed, spontaneous applause breaks the quiet, just as in tennis. Each formally clad player takes over his table with the direct, accomplished skill of a concert pianist taking over a keyboard. In the ornate setting -- a dramatic contrast to the seamy pool-hall milieu of Hollywood's The Hustler -- the absorption of both players and spectators is complete."
Buckskin Man was an Apache hunter. They called him so because he wore a suit of the finest buckskin with a fringe hanging from it and rattles that jingled when he walked. All the women stopped their work and turned to look when he passed, for they knew his reputation as a great lover. All the braves smiled and spoke to him, for they esteemed him as a great hunter.
The casual trend in collegiate fashions will accelerate its course this school year and continue on to a high degree of neat, studied informality. The days when the glass of undergraduate fashion reflected a sloppy Joe are gone -- forever, we hope -- and the line that predominates (notwithstanding individual and regional differences in the nation's six major college sections) is the commendably clear one of demarcation between casualness and carelessness.
The Combustive Career of expatriate conductor Lorin Maazel furnishes healthy proof that child prodigies don't always fade away into post-teen limbo. Today the second-most-popular maestro in Europe (after Vienna's seasoned Herbert von Karajan) and the first American and youngest conductor ever to appear at the prestigious Bayreuth Festival, Maazel has, at 33, convincingly transcended the trying days when he was known to America as "Little Lorin," a brown-curled, white-suited toy Toscanini blessed with absolute pitch, voracious score-keeping memory, and startling poise on the podium. Following his debut at 9 at the 1939 N.Y. World's Fair, Maazel spent six years guest-conducting major symphony orchestras in the U.S. and Canada, until the downy cheek and fluting voice of pubescence brought his band wagon to a halt -- because, as he sardonically notes, he had "ceased to be a monstrosity." Stranded for several years in the musical backwaters of Pittsburgh (he studied violin, became an assistant conductor with the Pittsburgh Symphony), sensing that neither profit nor honor awaited him in his own country, at 22 he set sail for Rome and a fresh start on the Continent. There, freed from the ghosts of his precocious past, he has fashioned a brilliant conducting career, a gratifying prelude to his States tour last winter with France's Orchestre National, wherein he impressed the home-grown critics with the matured command and controlled urgency of his style. Intense, disciplined, austere (at his own request, close acquaintances call him Mr. Maazel rather than Lorin), the prodigy-turned-pro is now embarked on a global tour, driving himself relentlessly toward the day when the cognoscenti will affirm his lofty self-appraisal: "I am," he says flatly, "the leading conductor of my generation."
Because A Staunchly Romantic hero image is vital to the self-esteem of a demilitarized but historically mighty nation like Japan, it is not surprising that the realistic and fiercely masculine screen portrayals of sword-swinging, swashbuckling feudal samurai by a virile and feral actor named Toshiro Mifune have captured this proud little country's imagination. Under the brilliant direction of Akira Kurosawa (Playboy, March 1962), especially in such critically acclaimed imports as The Seven Samurai, Yojimbo and Sanjuro, Mifune has vigorously updated the national paladin by blending into his roles the heroic lines of American-cowboy cinematizations with deft strokes of broad comedy and mordant satire. The 5'9", ruggedly handsome Mifune does not descend, as might be expected, from a long line of samurai warriors or kabuki-trained thespians. His father was a Japanese trader in Tsingtao, China, where the actor was born in 1920. He spent the war years as a real-echelon instructor of aerial photography and did not settle in Japan until 1947 when, after failing to land a camera job with Toho films, he was promptly "discovered" and given bit-acting parts. In 1950, Kurosawa cast Mifune in the starring role of Rashomon, which won the 1951 Cannes award and established Japan in the front ranks of international film making. Subsequent kudos for Mifune in Venice, Berlin, San Francisco and Hollywood have made him the first Japanese star of global magnitude since Sessue Hayakawa. An indefatigable worker on the set, he plays just as hard at hunting, boating, flying and sports-car driving off screen. Currently, Mifune is producing, directing and starring in his own film and, before reconsidering the American screen offers he has rejected. Japan's brawny top sword will give his expanded role a thorough trial--and perhaps indulge a yen for a few more Eastern Westerns.
With the accent on culture, these days...it's only natural that we should find Annie Au Naturel in the greenwich village garret of Duncan Fyfe Hepplewhite where she discovers what philosophers have long known: that life is fleeting, but art lives forever...except when it doesn't sell, in which case forget it!Confound it, Annie...What difference can it make to you! I'm only painting from the terrace because I need the distance--But, Mr. Hepplewhite...you know how it' is with models...we don't mind posing undraped, but it's embarrassing when someone sees us through the window.
Come November, skiers will again be waxing enthusiastic about the joys of the open trail--and accordingly plotting vacation holidays to the more-renowned slopes. If you number yourself among the slalomminded set, and would prefer to enjoy your sport in an off-the-packed-track setting, you might take note of the following relatively unpublicized skiing sites.