Playbill never One to give short shrift to chronologically short-changed February, Playboy has pleasure-packed the month marked by the natal days of Washington, Lincoln and (appropriately enough in this leap year) Susan B. Anthony. The woman suffragist would be proud, indeed, of cover girl (her third appearance) Cynthia Maddox. Our Assistant Cartoon Editor, now in her fifth year here at Playboy, has garnered many a ballot from readers as the girl they would most like to be alone with in a voting booth. The Playboy puppet blowing sweet nothings into Miss Maddox' ear imaginatively indicates that this month's editorial horn of plenty has a musical lilt to it. Along with the results of our eighth annual Jazz Poll (accompanied by an over-the-shoulder look at the past year's jazz activities by eminent musicologist Nat Hentoff), we offer a Playboy Panel on Jazz – Today and Tomorrow, incisively moderated by critic Hentoff, that should dispel once and for all the baseless put-down that jazz musicians can articulate only with their music. The better to hear their music, we also present Sounds of '64, a handsome get-together of the latest in hi-fi gear custom tailored to the size of your pad. Here, too, is The Playboy LP Library, a listing of 300 of our favorite recordings soundly suited to any mood.
Playboy, February, 1964, Vol. 11, No. 2. published monthly by HMH publishing company, Inc., Playboy building, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago, Illinois 60611. 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, advertising director, Jules Kase, eastern advertising manager, 405 Park Ave., New York, New York 10022, 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, Ga. 30305, 233-6729.
We applaud the progressive position on traffic safety taken by the American Automobile Association, which recently hailed the rising hemlines of women's skirts and called for more of the same. "Auto headlights," explained a spokenman, "readily pick up the stockings or bare legs of women pedestrians at night. Naturally, the more stocking or leg exposed the easier it is for motorists to spot them and thus prevent an accident." With this bit of intelligence in mind, we pulled out our slide rule and came up with the following computations: If in one year in a given area there are X number of nocturnal accidents involving women pedestrians wearing knee-length dresses, then the new thigh-high skirts, exposing, say, two more inches of leg (or three percent of the average woman's total epidermis), should proportionately reduce the number of traffic accidents during the same period. To carry our computations further: If all women in the same area wore shorts (exposing ten percent more skin), the accident total would be proportionately reduced to an unprecedented low. The obvious conclusion does not require additional computation: one hundred percent bare flesh equals perfect safety records – all of which would seem to substantiate the well-known assertion that you can prove anything with statistics.
The Private Ear and The Public Eye are a pair of short stories done up in dialog, a crisp package from Peter Shaffer, British author of Five Finger Exercise. The Private Ear is a sentimental kitchen fable about a shy clerk (Brian Bedford) who is devoted to music, his dashing buddy (Barry Foster) who is devoted to women, and the girl (Geraldine McEwan) whom the clerk brings home to supper (cooked by his friend, the wolf). The situation is old-fashioned, but Shaffer works some newfangled variations, and the actors are delightful. The Public Eye is a screwball cartoon about an outrageously unprivate detective named Cristoforou, who favors tan shoes, broad-stripe suit, yellow tie, trench coat, raisins, nuts and yogurt. "This is one of the few jobs where being nondescript is an advantage," he says sincerely. A stodgy accountant has hired this grotesque, sight unseen, to shadow his young wife whom he suspects of high-jinkery with other men. Up to then she has been guilty only of an abnormal interest in horror movies, but now finds herself irresistibly drawn to the gum-shoe – and no wonder, for as played with devilish hilarity by Barry Foster, Cristoforou is a mad, sad clown who is forced to live his private life in the public eye. At the Morosco, 217 West 45th Street.
It's happened: An American has made a fine, fine film – one that may eventually rank with world standouts. It's Dr. Strangelove: or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. Stanley Kubrick, who made the graphic Paths of Glory and the oft-brilliant Lolita, has hit a stride here that puts him big-leagues ahead of the overblown Hollywood "greats" (Stevens, Wyler, Hawks) as well as the far-out-and-they-should-stay-there arty cinemadmen. Kubrick also collaborated in scripting this scorching satire with Terry Southern and Peter George from George's novel Red Alert. It's related to the Fail-Safe idea (which it preceded): a U. S. nuclear-bomber attack gets unleashed on Russia, and then what? It starts when a fanatic general decides to obliterate the Commies – and, after barricading his airfield, commits suicide without revealing the recall code for his planes; and it takes place while the planes are en route to Russia. All but one are shot down by the Reds – with apologetic American help – but the one that gets through brings about, shall we say, the conclusion. The action takes place mostly in the general's office (he's aptly named Jack D. Ripper); in the key bomber; in the Pentagon war room. Peter Sellers plays three roles riotously: an R.A.F. type attached to Ripper's staff; the President of the U. S. (called Merkin Muffley, apparently as a ribald private joke between the scriptwriters and anyone in the audience who may appreciate erudite erotica); and Dr. Strangelove, a pseudonymous German who is the brains of our nuclear program – a weirdo with a false arm that gets away from him and keeps flying up in Hitler Heils. Sterling Hayden is the fanatic, George C. Scott is tops as a top Air Force general, and Keenan Wynn is fittingly yclept in the role of Colonel "Bat" Guano. Kubrick keeps the film straight and fierce and savage, searing through the sacred cows – and bull – of deterrents, missile gap, big-think, and nuclear survival, until he shows how the whole world has, figuratively, locked itself inside a runaway bomber. It's not enough to praise Kubrick for his courage in making this film, because there's so much in it of film wizardry. A lot of it is also very funny, but who's laughing?
Appropriately enough, one of the biggest and most lavish bistros to open its doors in Windy City, U.S.A., since the old Chez Paree was shuttered (and taken over for much-needed office space by the expanding Playboy operation) is the new Chez Paree (400 N. Wabash Avenue). For nostalgic night-life buffs, the new Chez will happily recall much of its predecessor's elegance, ebullience and reputation as a showcase for high-priced, high-class talent. Done in striking blue, white and gold, mirrored and panoplied, the main room is a super-size watering spa, holding up to 400 patrons. Upstairs, the Chez "400" Lounge is furbished in a rich red motif; the Chez Paree Adorables, a corps of sparingly furbished waitresses, tend tables which seat over 300. For its initial offering, the Chez had the Lively One, Vic Damone, giving his all and then some to make the premiere a gala event. Choosing from a menu limited in scope to nine of the more popular main courses, we preceded Vic's dinner-show stint with a sirloin that was both succulent and heroically proportioned; our companion found her filet mignon butter soft and savory; they were accompanied by an excellent chef's salad and specially prepared baked potato. After our dinner-topping coffee, we were in a properly receptive mood for Damone (although his performance would have brought around even the most dyspeptic visitor), who was backed impressively by Joe Parnello and his orchestra. Henry Brandon's orchestra plays for dancing. In the "400" Lounge (Tommy Kelly's in charge), there's continuous entertainment till 4 A.M. The main room has two shows nightly Sunday through Thursday ($2.50 entertainment charge) and three shows Friday and Saturday ($3.50). The Chez plans to expand to 1100 seats this spring, at which time Robert Goulet and Harry Belafonte will be on the entertainment agenda. A familiar figure from the old Chez' Fairbanks Court days, maître de Peter Largus is the congenial keeper of the velvet rope.
Vinyl reminiscences are with us in abundance. Biggest packet is the three-LP Glenn Miller on the Air (Victor), made up of previously unreleased "band remotes" from the Glen Island Casino, Meadow-brook, Café Rouge, and Paradise Restaurant – 40 tunes in all, some terribly dated, some terribly dull, but many sparked with the Miller magic. Frank Sinatra Sings the Select Johnny Mercer (Capitol) gathers together a flock of past Sinatra performances of Mercer-lyricked melodies. The best of the lot – Laura, When the World Was Young, Blues in the Night, Too Marvelous for Words and I Thought About You – rate well up on any all-time favorites list. Miles Davis/Birth of the Cool (Capitol), a reissuing of an LP landmark, proves that in the eight years since its release, time has dealt kindly with the Davis group's pioneer sorties into the school of the cool. Move, Jeru, Godchild and Boplicity, arranged by Davis, Gerry Mulligan, John Lewis and Gil Evans, are still masterful examples of the jazz art. More loosely inclined are the groups to be found on Timeless: Gerry Mulligan/Chet Baker (Pacific Jazz). The Mulligan quartet circa 1952, with trumpeter Baker, was nonpareil; their collaborative efforts which make up side one of the LP are near perfect. Side two, made up of 1953–1956 Baker-led groups, is a shade less impressive, but the LP's cumulative impact is exceptional. Charlie Parker/The "Bird" Returns (Savoy) is a gleaning from mysterious sources of well-known Parker efforts, Ko Ko, Scrapple from the Apple and Barbados, among them. Although personnel, along with many other things, is not identified, it seemed to these ears that Gillespie, Norvo and Hawkins were among those present. The recordings are technically abominable, but we'll take what we can get of Parker.
Its title taken from the sorrowful statement of a Grand Prix driver whose car had just run off the road and killed a man, Robert Daley's The Cruel Sport (Prentice-Hall, $10) is an understanding but realistic appraisal of Grand Prix automobile, racing, perhaps the most dangerous, demanding and exciting of all games men play. Based in Paris, Daley covers European sports for The New York Times. His book is the distillate, in ample text and 165 photographs, of four years of reportage on the big European events, and it goes a long way toward demonstrating the compelling fascination that pulls men toward road-circuit auto racing, though the game kills and hurts so many of them. The photographs are superlative, almost all of them revelatory and dramatic, and many of salon quality.
I was a virgin at marriage and my wife was not. Since my discovery of her several former relationships, I have endured periodic fits of depression. I don't consider my wife as chattel, and we have a sound intellectual and physical relationship. But still, I worry. Can you help? – J. B., Chicago, Illinois.
One of the least-known international playgrounds is at the very roof of the world: the Himalayas, though they are inaccessible from mid-November to the end of March. The season opens April 1st, when the winter snows are melting; and to the intrepid they offer 28,000-foot mountains, big-game hunting, trout fishing, archaeological sites, primitive tribesmen, health-giving waters, unusual wines and rugged scenery until the onset of the cold weather.
During The Dark Ages, the medieval Church dominated almost every level of European society. Many of the Church leaders were negatively obsessed with sex, to a degree unknown in early Christianity, and this antisexuality was perpetuated by both ecclesiastical and Church-influenced secular law.
The Middle Years By the end of 1956 the prospering Playboy had outgrown its small offices on Superior Street and moved to the present Playboy Building on Chicago's Near North Side. As Playboy grew, office procedure became increasingly complicated and involved.
Although there was a profusion of new faces in the 1963 jazz panorama, the pre-eminent figure during the past year was the resplendently resilient Duke Ellington. While maintaining an arduous traveling schedule with his band, Ellington also had an unusually full composing agenda. In addition to writing originals for his orchestra, Ellington composed and staged one of his most ambitious works, My People, a history of the Negro in America during the past hundred years (first performed in Chicago in August). Earlier in the summer, Ellington's score for Timon of Athens had been premiered during a performance of that play at the Stratford (Ontario) Shakespearean Festival. Almost completed by the end of the year was a new Ellington musical, Sugar City, based obliquely on The Blue Angel.
The compleat city squire will, of course, want to own a collection of LP etchings as diverse as the moods he feels and the life he leads. The haunting, wailing power of Billie Holiday provides the right lusty note for and elbow-bending gathering of a stag clan, while the artful strains of the Modern Jazz Quartet are perfect for an evening of unruffled solitude. The sensuous background sounds of Jackie Gleason's orchestra or the hip stylings of Frank Sinatra suggest the enchanted moods of amour, and the spirited strummings of Leadbelly or Joan Baez will quicken the pace of any soiree. The classic symmetry of Vivaldi offers the unhurried order of a bygone era for those moments when the hurly-burly of today is too much with us, while the fiery romanticism of Brahms adds another dimension to those evenings when the gentle sex is very much with us. The Editors of Playboy offer no "ratings" for the LP albums listed below (100 each of jazz, classical, and pop/folk music). We selected them simply because we like them; we think you will, too.
Take Peter O'Toole, fresh from his smash success in Lawrence of Arabia, and Richard Burton, fresh from his smash success with Liz Taylor. Now put them on the bedroom set of Becket with a fun-loving French actress named Veronique Vendell during a between-scenes break from both filming and Peter Glenville's direction, and you get some of the wildest tom foolery a candid photographer ever snapped for Playboy. Unable to leave wild enough alone, we were prompted by the results to supply our own captions to the carryings-on, with the results you see here. Paramount's production of Becket is in the multimillion-dollar class, but like most movies of today, with big budget or small (see The Nudest Jayne Mansfield in our June 1963 issue, if you can still get one), it's not above actress-on-a-mattress theatrics.
For the third Consecutive night Judy Quale was awakened by her husband's nightmare. He whimpered, twitched, and rattled bits of sentences in Chinese, or maybe Korean. Suddenly his left hand lashed out, striking her thigh, and she wriggled to safer territory. He switched to English and phrases tumbled over one another in senseless bursts. "Time factor critical ... nucs in Shanghai ... they'll never get enough stuff out of Sinkiang ... crazy for us but not the way the Han thinks ... only a trigger in the Gobi ... if Melanie comes through ... Melanie, Melanie, just one more time, Melanie ... for them six is enough ... adds up ... Q. E. D."
The realistic needs imposed, curiously enough, by such strange bedfellows as austerity and affluence have played fundamental roles in the emergence of leathers and suedes as important design factors in today's fashions for men. The ubiquitous, hard-wearing leather elbow patch first appeared as an economic measure to prolong the lives of the threadbare sports jackets that many undergraduates had to make do with during the equally threadbare Thirties. Of functional origin, too, is the currently distinctive suede or leather shoulder patch, a clever and decorative bit of upholstery that once protected many a gentleman hunter's delicate deltoids from painful pummeling at the hands of his Purdey shotgun or his Weatherby magnum rifle. Today's sartorial arrow also flies through the air onto the hat, sports coat and sweater with the greatest of elegant ease. It's on target, as well, because leather and suede score bull's-eyes as both color accents and practical, wear-resistant trims on a man-sized variety of handsome knits, woven woolens and corduroy, as shown on these pages.
Where Does It Say in Freud That a Shrink Has to be Polite?
Jack Raphael Guss
Booth Adams, who looked nothing like Harry Belafonte but thought he bore a striking resemblance to Whizzer White, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, crept into the room stealthily with a black scowl on his face. He wore a dazzlingly white T shirt that had been washed in the institution laundry with Fab, and his bare purplish forearms radiated strength and oftentimes joy. Wound around his neck was a long colored scarf, the kind worn by students at All Souls College on a foggy day. The scarf hung down below the drawstring on his gray sweat pants.
From the heart of the old Confederacy we recently received a pair of candid snapshots and a few hopeful words, enticing enough for us to send a staffer to Savannah to meet Nancy Jo Hooper, the walnut-haired 20-year-old who was to become this February's Playmate. Hazel-eyed Nancy Jo has lived all her life with her parents and younger sister in the same Georgia town, so small that she asked us not to name it, because if six visitors arrived at once they'd cause a traffic jam. Now a telephone-company employee, this Southern bell ringer previously clerked in a drugstore, there heard Playboy purchasers tell her she was Playmate material herself. Discarding daydreams of discovery, she took the initiative by sending us snapshots of herself, because, as she explained in a caramel drawl, "It occurred to me that no one from Playboy would ever find me here on his own." Nancy Jo's flight to Chicago for test shots marked her first airplane trip, and her first visit to any city besides Savannah. Soft-mannered, soft-spoken and shy ("I really enjoy walking alone in the park"), well-read Nancy Jo offers the sort of attractions that could once more set armies marching through Georgia. She so enjoyed her Chicago trip that this erstwhile country lass announced she'd someday like to settle here, perhaps when she finds the man in her life, who will be "understanding and sophisticated – but possibly with a small-town background." For a striking sample of rural electrification, see gatefold.
Tiring of things, I began collecting people. Mirror-image scoundrels, for example – men who seemed to have had almost identical criminal careers in different centuries, like Gaston B. Means in the 20th and Sam Felker in the 19th. From them it was only a small hop to my present specialty – the successful, i.e., uncaught criminals.
This year, as we focus in on the high-fidelity panorama, we will be paying particular heed to stereo apparatus in its natural habitat – to the rigs in their digs. Budgetary considerations aside, the size and shape of a man's listening quarters are likely to be the prime factors in his choice of equipment. A pair of outsize, horn-loaded speaker systems is going to look absurd and sound cramped in the low-ceilinged confines of an efficiency apartment (though it'd be great for knocking a hole in an otherwise ironclad lease). And a miniaturized, all-in-one tape player will seem decidedly muted within a loftily baronial chamber. To cut a proper sonic swath, equipment should be in tune with its surroundings. Fortunately, the manufacturers of high-fidelity gear have tailored their wares for a wide variety of space availabilities, and there's now a profusion of choice for just about every listening situation.
Mamie Van Doren is one of the many Hollywood stars who find the footlights a more satisfactory setting in which to sparkle. These photos of her before and during her new night-club act, plus four shots for which she posed exclusively for Playboy, herald the onset of a renewed career for a girl whose life had seemed to be leveling off at an unsatisfactory plateau. Mamie Van Doren of the movies was a strikingly stunning lass who had been married to, and divorced from, band leader Ray Anthony while her career slogged along through such inauspicious roles as a waitress in All-American, a harem girl in Yankee Pasha and that nadir of prominence: a part in one of the many Francis films, where all acting plays second fiddle to the antics of a talking mule. Despite this lethal limbo in which she existed, Mamie was outstanding enough to be noticed and known by name to the movie-going public, though – typical of the fate of many a bosomy blonde starlet – she was inevitably compared with Jayne Mansfield or Marilyn Monroe, then dismissed from film producers' minds as just another good-looking chick. In an industry constantly seeking new faces, her already established looks had become a liability.
While I usually write for the general public, today I would like to address myself, instead, to that small group of starry-eyed young hopefuls who are would-be songwriters, and explain to them why they should throw away their metronomes and go home (if that's where they work, they should leave home): Talent has nothing to do with writing successful music.
If there was anyone in all of Italy as beautiful as my mistress, Cecelia, it was her young cousin, Angelique, who was engaged to marry Don Francisco of Tivoli. Yet, although I treated this magnificent child with more than the usual amount of courtesy one bestows upon the relatives of one's mistresses, she responded with what must be considered less than polite cordiality.
synopsis:In Part IV of his autobiography, last month, Lenny Bruce told the story of his first obscenity arrest, in San Francisco, and the subsequent trial in which he was found not guilty. He quoted from the trial transcript to show the manner in which the state set about arresting him for standing at a microphone and talking to a night-club audience of adults, while down the street other clubs were featuring female impersonators and amateur strippers whose actions apparently did not speak as loudly as Lenny's. He also quoted from some of the routines he had used – routines developed over the years to express the observations and impressions formed from the childhood incidents and later adventures described in the first chapters of his story. More than any comparable performer today, Lenny had built an act which was not a series of age routines but a consistent reflection of an honest, clamorous point of view on the less-than-perfect aspects of the world. But no sooner had he matured as a voice with an enthusiastic and growing audience than those same qualities began to attract persistent attention from the "guardians of public morality." Beginning Part V, Lenny describes the effect on him of an unfolding pattern of hostile treatment, and the introduction of a different arrest charge – illegal possession of narcotics.
During this, our Tenth Anniversary Year, Playboy will be conducting a refreshing refresher course in Playmates past. Each issue will reprise, for our readers' delectation, a twelvemonth's worth of tempting females, culminating next December in a Readers' Choice pictorial. Our year-end issue will display the ten lovelies chosen by Playboy readers as their favorite dolls of the decade. Playboy's initial year of publication was highlighted by the magnificent Marilyn Monroe, whose famed face and figure graced the very first Playmate pages in our very first issue. Playmate Margie Harrison put in a pair of Playmate appearances, in January and June, 1954. (In Playboy's early years, we occasionally had a repeat performance by one of our leading ladies.) Knowing our readers' firm convictions in such matters of nubile nostalgia, Playboy welcomes your own all-time top-ten list as soon as you feel certain of your personal preference in hit misses. No need to wait until this retrospective Playmate parade has been completed. Send your ten choice choices to Playboy and we will publish the most popular Playmates of the decade in a special ten-page portfolio in December.
"The Girls of Russia and the Iron Curtain Countries" – Playboy's Photographers return from a year-long Secret Mission behind the Iron Curtain with a Plenitude of Pictorial proof that Feminine Pulchritude knows no Political Boundaries