There may be several people within the continental limits of the United states who don't recognize the artfully disguised sheik on our April cover as Britain's cinematic clown prince, Peter Sellers, but happily they don't read this magazine. Peter's variation on the Valentino theme (with appropriate subtitle) provides only a small inkling of what brightens our pages within. His comedic contribution, Sellers Mimes the Movie Lovers, is a wildly mad and wonderfully unclad (courtesy of a dishabilled cast of leading ladies) take-off on an all-star entourage that includes the title role in his forthcoming flick, The World of Henry Orient.
General Offices: Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio Street, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Return postage must accompany all manuscripts, drawings and photographs submitted if they are to be returned and no responsibility can be assumed for unsolicited materials. Contents copyrighted (c) 1964 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc. Nothing may be reprinted in whole or in part without written permission from the Publisher, Any similarity between the people and places in the fiction and semi-fiction in this magazine and any real people and places is purely coincidental. Credits: Cover models Karen Lynn and Peter Sellers, design by Austin/Paul, Photo by Horn/Griner: P. 3 Photos by Seymour Mednick, Jerry Yulsman; P. 45 Photos by Herman Leonard; P. 78 Photo by Vincent T. Tajiri; P. 87 Illustration by Robert Lostutter; P. 124 Photos by Peter Gowland, Sam WU. P. 125 Photos by Bunny Yeager, Hal Adams, Gowland, P. 126 Photos by Leonard (2), Ruth Sondak, Russ Meyer, P. 127 Photos by Adams, Tony Guyther, Mike Shea; P. 92--96 Hairstyles by Fred's Shears & Cheers.
Playboy, April, 1964, Vol. 11, No. 4. 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 50611, 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.
For the interest of those amused by the suggestive subtleties of that age-old semantic gambit known as the double-entendre, we herewith open a brand-new avenue of dual meanings that may add an unexplored dimension to Shakespeare's hoary rhetorical question, "What's in a name?" We wonder if anyone has thought of Norman Mailer as the name of a medieval French armorer; or that Shepherd Mead should be a kind of pastoral libation? Spiritually speaking, Bud Abbott sounds to us like the name of a novitiate prior; Jim Bishop like a prelate in charge of intramural sports; Sydney Chaplin like an Australian missionary; and Ivy Baker Priest like the chaplain at an Eastern cooking college.
In The Girl Who Came to Supper there's a showstopper that really stops the show. Halfway through the first act of this Noel Coward-Harry Kurnitz musicalization of Terence Rattigan's romantic war horse, The Sleeping Prince, Tessie O'Shea, a fat, squat satchelful of good cheer, wheels out a fish-and-chips cart, and as far as the audience is concerned, the treats are on the house. Tessie plays Ada Cockle, and as all of London passes before her, she belts four bits of authentic cockles-warming Londonese, including What Ho, Mrs. Brisket and Don't Take Our Charlie for the Army. She lifts her skirt, dainty legs shoot out from under her Franklin stove of a body, and she skips and cavorts with the chorus. The lady is onstage only ten minutes, and what she does has nothing whatever to do with anything before or after; but it is so much better and more animated than all the rest that the whole affair should have been called The Tessie O'Shea Show. But, alas, there's a plot--something to do with a stuffy prince regent of Carpathia who is in London in 1911 for the coronation of George V, and lets his braid down long enough to dally with an American showgirl from Milwaukee. The showgirl falls for the prince, and most of the evening is a matter of when will he. José Ferrer plays the pompous prince, and he has an annoying habit of adding syllables: "In your stunted and limited vocabulary, is there no other word than love-va?" Florence Henderson is the showgirl, and she is cute, has a well-pitched voice and an antic humor, but her part gives her no opportunity to show much more than a phony Midwest accent. The sets are splashy, the production slick, but except for Tessie's turn, this musical merits only the award the prince pins on the showgirl, the Royal Carpathian Order of Perseverance--Second Class. At the Broadway, Broadway at 53rd Street.
If country-and-western music is here to stay, we'll take it in helpings such as Gormé Country Style/Eydie Gormé (Columbia). Backed by Joe Guercio's Orchestra playing Don Costa arrangements, Eydie is down home and delightful on such pastoral tone poems as I Can't Help It, I'm Sorry, I Walk the Line and I Can't Stop Loving You.
To Bed...or Not to Bed bases its comedy on a legend and a fact. Legend: Swedish ladies, single or not, never waste those long arctic nights. Fact: Alberto Sordi is a top Italian man-in-the-street comic. Put the two together by sending Sordi to Sweden and much fun must follow. A married fur merchant, he heads north for a little wolfing, stoked up by stories of those scandalous Scandinavians. The parade of pretties begins on the train and on the ferry from Denmark, and by the time Sordi hits Stockholm, he is fit to be untied. When a friendly bit of blonde smorgasbord accompanies him to his hotel room, he thinks the northern lights are really going to blaze; but she proves amiably distant, and half aloof (he finds) is not better than none. Later, a weekend hostess who seems really hospitable only furthers his frustrations. And when still another nifty takes him to a coed sauna, the steam really builds. The last lap of his rabbit chase is with a cutie in a car race on the ice, and there's a helicopter finish that ends the film with a lift. Screenwriter Rodolfo Sonego sometimes seems to be figuring out what to do next, but what he comes up with is generally jolly. Sweets to Swedes Barbro Wastenson and Gunilla Elm-Tornquist, and bravos to Sordi, who pants skittishly after the skirts.
The techniques of the modern secret agent are the subject of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (Coward-McCann, $4.50). According to John le Carré (the nom de plume of a British civil servant), the spy of the Sixties is all business. Indeed, in his unswerving concern for his job and his disdain for ordinary pleasures, Leamas, the British agent-hero, lacks only a gray-flannel cloak to be a full-scale organization man. Leamas' immediate superior is Control, his organization Circus, his life job-oriented. Armed with only a carefully written dossier and a few well-chosen words, he sets out to destroy a rival spy organization. The atmosphere of high-level intrigue, set mainly in divided Berlin, is authentically conspiratorial and details of the spying art are neatly limned. The author even weaves a moral into his exciting tale. Western agents, he suggests, are handicapped by humanistic scruples in dealing with their Communist counterparts. In the old argument of end versus means, the totalitarian agents or bad guys have a distinct advantage. The hero's ethical struggles as double cross follows double cross raise the book from a superior spy story to a real novel.
Several years ago you indicated that you thought men who married under age 30 were ill-advised. I'm 22, and have been dating a girl (19) who seems perfect in every respect. I am able to support her comfortably, and see no reason to risk losing this gem by postponing our wedding. Would you please expand on your earlier statement? -- K. N., New York, New York.
This June, a visitor to Gaul will discern a poetic turn of events. The ancient castles of France, where hapless prisoners once languished in chains, are now themselves in chains. Eighty châteaux, along with a number of manors throughout the Provençal countryside, are thriving links in a pair of hotel circuits. One's lodging includes a room, three meals -- and a ghost, or at least a credible rumor of one, at no extra charge. Travelers of an extroverted bent are advised to spend at least one night at the Château de la Caze in the Châteaux-Hotels chain, where the spirits of eight -- count 'em -- eight beautiful maidens are said to roam the moonlit hours seeking lost lovers in the haunted darkness.
In any competition for the one least likely to succeed as a man of letters, Jean Genet would almost certainly be the runaway favorite. A balding, 53-year-old homosexual, onetime male prostitute and unregenerate ex-convict with a lengthy record of convictions for burglary, counterfeiting, bootlegging, dope smuggling and desertion, he is the author of prose no less emphatically antisocial. His works have been reviled as "acts of vengeance"; he himself has been called "the most depraved author now writing for the stage." His highly publicized private life notwithstanding, he has been hailed as "the most important writer to have appeared in France since the end of world War II," and proclaimed as "probably the greatest living playwright."
In Our Continuing consideration of the rights of the individual in a free society, we discussed in the last installment of this editorial series (February) the extent to which a person's private sexual behavior is the subject of governmental control in America.
The Fashion Message this season is as clear and bright as the noonday sun: Light makes right. This spring, as the days grow longer and summertime beckons you toward the easier living ahead, count on breezier and more cheerful colors, fabrics and designs to add ease and luster to your work-and-play wardrobe.
The morning was all right. Watching the light come slowly, you could always imagine that today you were finally over it. It was quiet in the morning, and still cool, and it was fine to watch the sun come sliding up over the edge of the world, past the coral reef. There was even a taint breeze. You never had fever in the morning.
Archrivals Florida and California now have a dazzling topic they can get together on: our April Playmate, Ashlyn Martin. A sun-ripened product of Delray Beach, Florida, auburn-haired Ashlyn recently succumbed to the Golden State's blandishments, migrated to California for a change in scenery and a taste of West Coast living. "I'm attracted to bright lights and sports cars," our outgoing 18-year-old explains candidly. "Things were pleasant in Delray Beach, but too quiet for me. I visited Los Angeles briefly after finishing high school -- and right away I knew it was California, here I come!" This 5'5" bachelor girl now lives alone in a newly rented L.A. apartment, decorated in Danish modern; her first job, appropriately enough, is as a receptionist in a Los Angeles sports-car rental agency. Ashlyn bears a striking resemblance to film star Ann-Margret, though her own taste in singers runs to the masculine Mr. Sinatra, Tony Bennett and the rhythms of Ray Charles. Ashlyn is also quite a cook. She says: "Though I can live for weeks on bologna sandwiches and chocolate milk, I love to prepare a real gourmet spread when I'm entertaining. French cuisine is my favorite, and coq au vin is my special dish. In fact, I think my idea of a perfect evening would center around a six-course meal at Maxim's, complete from soup to cognac. I'm easy to please, and with the right man I'm happy in almost any situation. Please don't ask me about the future -- the way many of my friends do -- because I'm really uncertain about that part of my life. Right now I'm quite happy with the present." For a view of the status quo with which our Playmate is so properly content, see the gatefold.
Although a French Proverb sagely states that appetite is the best sauce, few things pique the appetite so provocatively and prestigiously as the eggs of a sturgeon, the liver of an overfed goose and the wild tuber growing near the roots of old oak trees in Italy and France. Fresh caviar, pâté de foie gras and brushed truffles ride high in the Rolls-Royce class not just because they come from afar, but because their magnificent yet casual flavors satisfy, like nothing else can, the sophisticated appetites of the male animal. For men whose digs are sanctuaries of gourmandise, and whose principal icons are the martini pitcher and the champagne bucket, these three foods are almost indispensable.
How Beautiful she was, Dandish thought, and how helpless. The plastic identification ribbon around her neck stood out straight, and as she was just out of the transport capsule, she wore nothing else. "Are you awake?" he asked, but she did not stir.
A worthy successor to the silent films' "Man with a Thousand Faces," Lon Chaney, the incredibly facile Peter Sellers has just completed a film, The World of Henry Orient, in which he plays the title role, a concert pianist who has Liberace's technique onstage and Lothario's off. In the midst of working out the complexities of his part, Sellers found time to discuss with one of our editors the contrast between the great love scenes of pictures past and the frankly sexual approach taken in movies today. Which led us to wonder what those magic screen moments would be like if they were to be remade today, what with Hollywood's burgeoning emphasis on female nudity. No sooner conjectured than done, for Peter promptly agreed to restage these scenes especially for the Playboy camera. On the following pages you'll find the remarkable and riotous results of Sellers' near-miraculous metamorphoses to the celluloid amorists of yesteryear. (Sharp-eyed Playboy readers, incidentally, will recognize Henry Orient's expressive aide-de-camp on the last page of this pictorial parody as Lynn Karrol, our lissome December 1961 Playmate.) The choice of screen lovers is very much Sellers' own, ranging from Valentino's Sheik to such offbeat playboys as Lugosi's Dracula. But the enjoyment of Peter's antic updating of famous love scenes from film classics, as you will soon discover for yourself, is quite universal and devastatingly comedic. And, now, if someone will dim the houselights, we'll start the projector. Enter Peter the great, next page.
Until fairly recently, speculations on the health of the novel were a morbid and monotonous feature of our literary life. In fact, ever since Ortega y Gasset pronounced the novel dead back in the Twenties, and T. S. Eliot discovered that Flaubert and James had killed it, critics have generally shown more interest in the novel dead than alive, and have devoted more energy to conducting post-mortems than to providing resuscitation. For a number of years in the Sunday book-supplement world, the novel was dying as regularly as tycoons and athletes, and of a much more interesting variety of ailments. In the main, it was the critics of that world, the middlebrow, trend-tracking kind, who carried on the discussion over the last two decades, the concern for the novel's health apparently having passed from Eliot to Trilling to Frank O'Connor to J. Donald Adams with steadily dwindling intensity and authority.
The Epsom Derby, a contest of such moment that a horse worth a few thousand pounds at the outset of the race may increase in value a hundredfold by the finish, lays claim to the title of world's greatest sporting event. Dating back to 1780, this one-and-a-half-mile competition is not so much a race as it is a national institution: it ranks in an Englishman's esteem with afternoon tea and Buckingham Palace. With the betting ranging from a few bob to thousands of pounds, there is hardly an onlooker in the cheering crowd who doesn't have something at stake as the horses make that last straining effort down the straightaway from famous Tattenham Corner.Artist-observer LeRoy Neiman notes that "suit-rental emporiums in London and vicinity are besieged long before Derby Day by all who can't afford the traditional morning coats, top hats, waistcoats and other sartorial appurtenances called for by this socially prestigious occasion. From the reigning monarch to the lowliest commoner, everyone who can manage to be there is there. Throngs jam the trains to Epsom, 15 miles from the heart of London: as early as six in the morning the vast parking areas begin to fill with endless streams of cars and motor coaches." The milieu is an olio of the elegant and the plebeian, as entire families come upon the scene with picnic baskets to make a day of it. Tents and booths blossom all over the grounds, purveying anything from chilled champagne to hot sausages, while the nobility pays its respects to the Queen in the Royal Box, where, as England's most illustrious improver of the breed, she oversees one of her country's oldest and proudest events.
Ribald Classic: The Crafty Counsel of Colonel Biondi
After a Successful campaign in Reggio di Calabria, the battle-weary troops of Colonel Biondi were dispatched to Provincia Cosenza for a period of rest and recuperation. A bivouac was set up on the beaches and supplies were brought south from Naples, including wines, meats and fine cheeses. The sage Biondi realized, however, that despite the many comforts offered the men, there still was a decided lack of the ultimate in accommodations: the presence of women. Accordingly, desirous of securing for them the maximum in recreation, Biondi determined the location of certain procurers from whom courtesans might be persuaded. He then visited these fellows, sampled their wares and bargained for group rates to be applied to all who might be members of the military unit.
Playboy's Tenth Anniversary reprise of past Playmates proceeds apace with a refreshing backward glance at 1956. The succeeding years of the Playboy decade will be recapped an issue at a time until December, when a Readers' Choice pictorial, presenting the ten all-time favorites, will appear. Our third year of publication was highlighted by a countdown of figurative feats. Our beautiful Subscription Manager, Janet Pilgrim, became a Playmate for the third time in October (a record that still stands); Phi Beta Kappa Alice Denham was doubly exposed in July, both as Playmate and author of The Deal, that month's lead fiction; in September, Danish-born Playmate Elsa Sorensen married singer Guy Mitchell (they're still receiving a joint subscription to Playboy); and for a dazzling year-end capper, appreciative readers zeroed in on the demure warmth of Floridian Playmate, Lisa Winters. Readers with long memories need not wait for our centerfold retrospective to unfold -- their selections are welcome at any time. Any Playmate, from December 1953 through December 1963, is eligible to appear in the special ten-page portfolio scheduled for the end of this year.
In the opinion of Ian Fleming fans, no fictional hero has ever been more impeccably personified on the screen than that incarnation of twofold undercover expertise -- the incomparable, indestructible James Bond, Britain's celebrated Secret Service agent provocateur (whose latest exploits unfold in You Live Twice, a new Fleming novel debuting in this issue). In Doctor No, a flashy filmization of the Fleming best seller, sinewy Sean Connery brought Bond to life with an arrogant authority which has earned him a truckload of fan mail -- and a fat contract for four more Fleming spy larks. The off-screen antithesis of the urbane Bond, 33-year-old Connery is an earthy Scotsman who prefers beer to brut blanc de blanc, stud poker to chemin de fer, was born to the family of an Edinburgh millworker, quit school at 13 to earn his keep and seek his fortune: as a dray-horse driver, seaman, lifeguard, printer's apprentice and finally bit player in the cast of a London production of South Pacific. He stayed on to study acting, soon found himself in demand for leading parts in telly plays. Making the movie grade at 26, he signed with 20th Century-Fox, only to languish inconspicuously in a series of films which culminated with a walk-on in The Longest Day. Then came Doctor No -- and proverbial overnight stardom. Back currently as Bond in From Russia with Love, Connery has contrived shrewdly to elude the Bondage of typecasting by alternating Fleming flicks (next: Goldfinger) with outside starring roles (upcoming: Woman of Straw and Hitchcock's Marnie). His post-No price per picture: $200,000 -- which proves that it takes a canny Scotsman to make a fortune in Bonds.
The Biggest Name in Egyptian movies belongs to a 32-year-old former lumber salesman with a mouthful of ivory that gleams like the midday sun over the Qattara Depression. The teeth, from bicuspid to incisor (like Barrymore's profile and Gable's ears), are the trademark of Omar Sharif, born Maechel Shalhoub, proud product of a wealthy Alexandria lumberman. He discarded his real name when his interest in lumbering flagged and he was lured into films by his wife, the former cine-moppet Fatten Hamama, once famed as "the Shirley Temple of the Nile." Omar, a fiery-looking scamp, set filmdom aflame last year with his first exposure to non-Egyptian audiences in Lawrence of Arabia, where he played the native ally of Peter O'Toole during the latter's ubiquitous wanderings through Jordanian sands. At the conclusion of this four-hour epic, critics staggered back to their desks to write paeans of praise about the skilled performances of O'Toole, Alec Guinness, Anthony Quinn and Jack Hawkins while women hurried home to burble over Omar. A bridge, sports-car and Kelly pool buff, Sharif has a pad in Cairo and another in London and insists that he disapproves of the current campaign among Hollywood flacks to compare him to Rudolph Valentino. "I would naturally like to be a demigod," he has admitted, "but I don't want to spend the rest of my life on a cames." To avert this fate he will play a Catholic priest in Behold a Pale Horse -- which is fine with fast-rising Omar. No bur-noose is good burnoose, as far as he is concerned.
In Recent Years, foreign-film fanciers who haunt the art theaters in search of cinematic verities have watched a steady procession of brooding, hauntingly dreamlike filmic masterpieces created by Sweden's cineMerlin, Ingmar Bergman. To them, the casting of Max von Sydow -- a leading light in what has been called the Bergman Repertory Company -- as Christ in George Stevens' The Greatest Story Ever Told, on the negative grounds that it would be difficult to accept a well-known actor as the Lord, was an incredible underestimation of the Bergman legions' scope. The tall, gaunt, viking-blond von Sydow has played a succession of somber, Strind-bergian roles -- the doomed medieval knight in The Seventh Seal, a 19th Century Svensk Svengali in The Magician, the avenging father in another dark-cornered medieval opus, The Virgin Spring, and important roles in the contemporary Winter Light and Through a Glass Darkly. Von Sydow boasts the classic Swedish stage background -- years of study at the Royal Dramatic Theater School, which stood him in good stead through the seemingly endless filming of what one waggish iconoclast has dubbed "The Newest Testament." Although director Stevens forbade von Sydow to give any interviews while portraying Christ, the actor's words still managed to filter back through the Celluloid Curtain from the movie's Utah location: He had no intention of personifying Christ as a pastel-tinted Savior out of a Sunday-school primer. Von Sydow has etched Christ as a strong man whose love was based on justice, not sentiment -- a thinking man's Messiah.