Donna Michelle, our provocatively posed cover girl, and a runaway choice for Playmate of the Year in a May poll of the editors, achieves within these pages a special distinction. Our 11-page pictorial paean to December Playmate Donna's singular charms is a page longer than the previous record holder for a photo takeout devoted to one girl -- the unforgettable Marilyn Monroe (MM Remembered, January 1964). Playboy photographer Pompeo Posar, the man behind the lens in our Playmate of the Year pictorial, is a quietly charming Continental type. An Italian from Trieste who came to this country in 1955, Pompeo joined Playboy four years ago after his freelance photographing of several Playboy's Penthouse TV sessions caught the eye of Editor-Publisher Hefner. Pompeo's enviable task of focusing in on Donna Michelle marked his ninth shooting of a Playmate for the magazine.
Playboy, May, 1964, Vol.11, No.5. 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 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 Bevery 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.
The word "exotic," as a description of the wondrous ways of the Orient, has always struck us as apt, but we never quite realized how apt until we received a brace of advertisements from Japan in a recent morning's mail. If these circulars are any indication, those inscrutable Nipponese, impatient with their image as imitators, have apparently decided to be innovators -- and leaders -- in at least one field: sexual exotica.
Ernest Hemingway's posthumous book A Moveable Feast (Scribner's, $4.95) is his best since For Whom the Bell Tolls. The flatulence of his later fiction is absent from this account of his life in Paris in the early Twenties. From first to last it is filled with beautifully remembered days of youthful pride and poverty, of love, of Paris before it became a kind of Disneyland. We watch him discovering and making the Hemingway style that had such impact on writers around the world. His accounts of his friendships are fascinating. Ezra Pound is here shown as a great poet, a good friend and a marvelously skillful literary advisor. Gertrude Stein is seen clearly and intimately. Scott Fitzgerald is revealed in an unflattering but touchingly human light. They met when Fitzgerald was already celebrated and Hemingway struggling; the story of the auto trip on which the celebrity invited the unknown is hilarious and biographically important. As for Zelda Fitzgerald, whom Hemingway disliked for herself and for her influence on Scott, he reports on a visit to their Riviera home: "I knew everything...was going to turn out well in the end when she leaned forward and said to me, telling me her great secret, 'Ernest, don't you think Al Jolson is greater than Jesus?'...Scott did not write anything anymore that was good until after he knew that she was insane." Hemingway's relations with his own wife (his first) are a bit too good and brave and true à la A Farewell to Arms; but this book is a memorable memoir for everyone who has ever been interested in Hemingway, the writer and the man. And who hasn't?
James Bond returns in From Russia with Love -- the second of Ian Fleming's lust-and-Luger-laden spy stories to be screened, and superior to number one (Dr. No, Playboy, May 1963).This yarn, which begins in Turkey, is a lot of Istanbul, but it writhes with surprises, as Bond -- played again by Sean Connery -- deliberately walks into a trap on the chance of getting a Russian decoding machine. The trap is blondely baited with a Russian code clerk (Daniela Bianchi): but what Bond doesn't know is that she's really being used by Spectre., the third force that plays West against East -- and she's the girl who can play it. The tension is tangy, the color is zesty. Through Turkish cellars, gypsy camps, and that good old European train with the separate compartments, Agent 007 makes his way and his women, unaware that he is one lap behind the schemes of Robert Shaw, a cool, careful killer, and Lotte Lenya, a Lotte menace. The episodes are strung together like sausage links; just when you think it's over, along comes another tasty hunk of baloney. But what's wrong with baloney when it's this enjoyable?
After the Fall is Arthur Miller's first play in eight years, and at least eight years of suffering and soul-searching have gone into it. The play inaugurates the new Lincoln Center repertory theater, and almost as many years of suffering and goal searching have gone into that. The disappointing news is that although the play has much in its favor -- a timeless theme of tragic dimension, man's search for guilt within himself; several scenes of unflinching honesty; a first-rate cast; fluid direction on an open stage by Elia Kazan -- in the end, as a work of dramatic art, After the Fall fails. It is no secret that the play is autobiographical, all about Miller the man, his battles with Congressional committees and with wives, and mostly about his marriage to everyman's everywoman, Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn is called Maggie, and she is a pop singer, but as acted by Barbara Loden in a blonde wig and scanty negligee, she looks like Marilyn, talks like her, and ends like her. The author is almost excruciatingly frank about his marital pleasures and pressures (Maggie gives sex away like Christmas goodies, later proves not only suicidal but wants her husband, Quentin, to deliver the death pill). However, in other, crucial ways, Miller is not quite candid enough, most importantly in the central character of Quentin. He is a lawyer, not an artist; he is analytical, not intellectual or creative, except that he writes prize-winning briefs. This robs the marriage of one of its most intriguing conflicts, art vs. success -- and also makes Quentin a dull boy. He is onstage for the entire play, three hours, to prove it. "Hello," says Jason Robards, Jr., as Quentin, to the audience, and immediately whips into a windy confession in which he conjures up people from his past. Much of what he says is interesting, but like a hammy trial lawyer in love with his own words and forgetting the jury, he gabs on and on, recounting his transgressions until the play falls victim to Quentin's sin-drone. At the ANTA Washington Square, 40 West 4th Street.
Washington, D.C., long mourned as a 61-square-mile tombstone to night life, is showing signs of shaking its late-hour lassitude. Witness The Shadows (3125 M Street, N.W.), a musical monument to youthful enterprise. Bob Cavallo, who now shares ownership with Declan Hogan and Stephen Sanders, cut undergraduate study hours at Georgetown University to parlay a borrowed $10,000 into one of the brightest lights in the city's rather dim entertainment galaxy. From its lush, wall-to-wall crimson carpet to its tapestry-draped and dark-paneled walls, the bistro is designed to relax nerves frayed by Washington's hectic political, governmental and commercial life. Subdued modern paintings dot the walls and candles flicker above red-clothed tables. Upstairs, The Dark Room, an entertainment lounge, operates sans cover charge. The Shadows' emphasis on young performers draws a diverse crowd -- ranging from besweatered college folk to Brooks Bros.'d businessmen -- to hear folk talent like Miriam Makeba, Odetta, and The Tarriers, flamenco guitarist Juan Serrano, and comics of the caliber of Woody Allen. The limited but adequate menu provides assorted sandwiches (80¢ to $1.25) and a 10-ounce, inch-and-a-half-thick sirloin served with potato, vegetable, toasted French bread, and tomato-and-lettuce garnish ($3.95). The Shadows' alley entrance opens at 8 P.M., and closes at 2 A.M., Monday through Saturday (after midnight on Saturday, The Shadows turns into a coffeehouse --courtesy D.C. blue laws). Sunday, the folkniks seek their entertainment elsewhere. The cover, Monday through Thursday, is $2, which inflates to $2.50 on weekends. There's never a minimum.
Mel Tormé Sings "Sunday in New York" & Other Songs About New York (Atlantic) should do more for Gotham than the World's Fair. From the movie title song right on through the oldie There's a Broken Heart for Every Light on Broadway and the ageless Sidewalks of New York, Mel -- aided by the arrangements of Johnny Williams, Shorty Rogers (who comes off with top honors as far as we're concerned) and Dick Hazard -- turns New York into a year-round song festival.
I'm faced with a touchy problem. I have been invited to a dinner party next month, and the girl I plan to take is a Negro (I'm white). Would I insult either hostess or date by calling the hostess in advance to inform her of my intention? -- J. P., New York, New York.
One of the most satisfying ways to get away from it all is on a private yacht, where the accent is on leisure, informality and freedom of movement. The nearby Leeward and Windward Islands of the eastern Caribbean (or the shores and islands of the Mediterranean for those wishing to go farther afloat) are perfect for vacations of this nature. One firm, boasting a wide variety of ships, both power and sail, offers package arrangements for charter trips for private parties, and all of these, regardless of the size of the ship, guarantee courteous, efficient crews, complete seaworthiness and a high standard of comfort. Whether or not you opt for a planned itinerary or decide to sail with the winds, you are literally the ship's master; the captain will comply with all reasonable whims.
In two recent film-industry surveys, Jack Lemmon was named the nation's number-one box-office personality, comedian and dramatic actor. For the 39-year-old star, esteemed as one of the screen's most versatile perfomers, this triple crown caps a ten-year film career already studded with such honors as an Oscar for his portrayal of the irrepressible Ensign Pulver in "Mister Roberts," Oscar nominations for his memorable roles in "Some Like It Hot," "The Apartment" and "Days of Wine and Roses," and most recently, his selection as m.c. of this year's Academy Awards presentation.
The studio had been built for a muralist. He had worked with very big cartoons. The studio was three stories high, and the black-crayon outlines of many sketches mazed the walls. In certain lights they seemed to waver and tremble; it was as if one were looking into a giant Chinese carved-ivory ball made of layer after layer of pierced walls cut by windows not quite in line with each other. The phenomenon irritated Charles Boyd. He often resolved to whitewash them over, or paint or repaper the walls. He was incapable of doing anything of the kind, and he knew it. He did not consider the man from whom he had bought the place an artist in the sense that he, Charles Boyd, was an artist, but clearly he had not been a carpenter either. He had been a creator, if in rather a limited fashion; he was a kind of artist, and Boyd's soul squirmed at the idea of obliterating lines laid down by another man. He tried not to look at the walls on certain days when the sky was thinly overcast, when, in late afternoon, the light seemed peculiarly to reach into the maze of lines.
For years, dynamic young California architect Fred Lyman was kept so busy designing highly imaginative homes up and down the scenic West Coast, he had to put off plans to construct an intimate retreat of his own.
The most popular of all poetry forms in Japan today is -- as it has been for the past several centuries -- haiku. The form is so popular, in fact, that haiku cults have sprung up in this country and in many other parts of the world. Haiku, as anyone remotely familiar with them knows, are three lines in length and contain exactly seventeen syllables -- the first and third lines having five syllables each, and the second, seven. They invariably deal with such subject matter as nature, animal and insect life, love, and other emotions. Here are some classic examples:
The next time someone asks, "Who is Sylvius?" be prepared with the answer: He was the inventor of gin. Sylvius' proper name was Franciscus de la Boë. He was a professor of medicine at the Dutch University of Leiden, and the pure lab alcohol which Dr. Sylvius distilled with the oil of juniper berries was intended as a blood cleanser for sale in apothecaries rather than taverns. It was the 17th Century, when drinking most distilled liquors snapped the neck and created a lingering ball of fire in the throat. The professor's comparatively smooth and inexpensive nostrum soon not only cleansed the blood of countless native Hollanders but also juiced up the minds and bodies of English soldiers campaigning in the Lowlands. Englishmen brought the new Dutch formula back to their cold foggy isle, and a great mass warming of an entire nation took place over the next several centuries.
Paris is a tough town and I was getting tough breaks one after the other. And then to have those two big-winged white birds run off with my money that night, that was the worst. It was raining again when I got back to my hotel room and the old femme de chambre had busted my looking glass with her mop handle. I didn't know whether that meant more bad luck for me or for her.
When our may playmate, Terri Kimball, recently returned to Cape Cod, her homecoming represented much more than a routine reunion. She was returning to visit her three younger brothers, whom she hadn't seen in that many years. Nineteen-year-old Terri, a sparkling blue-eyed Bunny hutched at the Chicago Playboy Club, had been separated from her brothers since she left Massachusetts in 1961 and journeyed to St. Louis, where she lived with relatives for more than a year, working as a doctor's assistant. Speaking with a slight New England accent that barely suggests her Cape Cod upbringing, this freckle-faced charmer told us about her brothers: "We're so very close that telephoning and writing were just not enough -- I finally had to get home to see them. The four of us grew up together in Hyannis, a small town on the south side of the Cape, and the fact that our parents are divorced probably made us even closer than we might have been otherwise." Terri acknowledges that her brothers idolize her (justifiably, we think), and when our 5'5" Miss May arrived at the family homestead, she wasn't too surprised at the burst of affection that greeted her. Brothers and sister spent the next few days just getting reacquainted. "They were all so big," Terri told us later. "My brothers were just children when I left -- and young men when I returned. Biff, the oldest, who's eighteen and a diehard Playboy fan, was bowled over when he learned I was rooming in the Bunny Dormitory with Pamela Gordon, a former Playmate who is an all-time favorite of his. In fact, he told me he has Pamela's Playmate pose pasted inside his prep-school locker, and I promised to have Pam call him on his birthday. And when I told them I'd been chosen May Playmate, they were totally overwhelmed." Though her visit lasted only a week, our pert, raven-tressed Miss May found time for her favorite pastime, deep-sea fishing in Cape Cod Bay with brother Biff. She later escorted brothers three on a daylong junket to Provincetown, there treating them to a lobster repast, with Terri herself savoring a steak. "I'm allergic to seafood," she told us. "I guess if I liked it a lot this would be a real tragedy, especially for a Cape Cod girl, but -- fortunately for me -- I'm not a fish fan anyway." Of her brothers, Terri won't pick a favorite ("They're all great"), but says she most resembles Bruce, her middle brother. "He's fifteen, and a loner, like me. In fact, he and I could be two fingers on the same glove. We're both something of an enigma: rebels, possibly too independent for our own good, and yet sometimes we become quite dependent on others." Our 36-23-36 Miss May is delightfully formed of equal parts Cherokee and Irish. "My mother was born on a reservation in Arkansas, which I visited once, when my great-grandfather died. It didn't take me long to learn that I'm related to half the state -- I found more cousins than I could count." When in Chicago, Terri is a videophile whose preferences range from The Beverly Hillbillies to The Bell Telephone Hour. She also voices a musical weakness for classic jazz -- both New Orleans and Chicago style, and among vocal entertainers especially enjoys Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. Her ideal evening on the town consists of a quiet meal at a good restaurant with a man who's tall, dark and assertively masculine. No need to add that our Playmate herself is assertively feminine, but skeptics may refer to the gatefold for pictorial proof.
There used to be a popular literary pastime called "Imaginary Conversations." The idea was to bring together in imagination great men or women who never met in reality, and improvise dialog to fit the situation. The more disparate the pair, the better: What, for instance, would St. Francis of Assisi have said to the Marquis de Sade? And what would a fly on the wall have gleaned from a chat between Noel Coward and Lenin? I often play the game in my mind, and one of the pairings with which I have toyed is that of Ernest Hemingway and Tennessee Williams. How would the great extrovert react to the great introvert, the big-game hunter to the hothouse plant, the virility symbol to the student of deviation? I never got very far with that confrontation, and usually passed on to something simpler (like Casey Stengel and Sappho); but it persistently nagged at my imagination until a spring day some five years ago, when I was offered a chance of translating my abortive fantasy into accomplished fact.
The Italians have made a habit of winning the world championship at contract bridge ever since 1957, when Carl Alberto Perroux brought his then-unknown Blue Team to New York to meet -- and defeat -- the biggest names in bridge. They did it in 1958 and 1959; they did it in 1961 and 1962 -- and they did it again in 1963, just as most of the world expected. This time they won in the tiny Italian resort town of Saint Vincent, while less dedicated mortals strolled on the mountain slopes under a brilliant June sun or played chemin de fer at the casino under the brilliant chandeliers.
Despite the bumper crop of beauties adorning our gatefolds in 1963, the selection of Playmate of the Year proved stunningly simple once Donna Michelle appeared as Miss December. Originally spotted in a high school play by a coperformer, the daughter of West Coast photographer Edmund Leja, Donna was subsequently snapped by him, and appeared on our pages shortly after her 18th birthday. She received a call from Otto Preminger the same week the issue went on sale, and TV and movie offers have since begun pouring in. Delectable Donna's first film appearance will be in the Arthur Penn production, Mickey One, for Columbia, starring Warren Beatty. The initial beneficiary of a newly instituted program of additional largess to be heaped on the usual prestigious Playmate of the Year honors, Donna will receive several thousand dollars' worth of prizes, including an entire wardrobe and matching luggage in Playmate Pink (a new shade conceived by the magazine) and a special all-pink version of Ford's spanking-new sports car, the Mustang. In the midst of television and motion picture assignments, plus personal appearances and promotions for Playboy, Donna is continuing her studies via night school sessions at UCLA. Although rumors persist that our top Playmate's male classmates have had their powers of concentration seriously impaired, there have been no complaints. They obviously welcome higher education's most attractive distraction.
It's only fair to warn you, Mr. Chairman, that much of my evidence will be highly nauseating; it involves aspects of human nature that are very seldom discussed in public, and certainly not before a Congressional committee. But I am afraid that they have to be faced; there are times when the veil of hypocrisy has to be ripped away, and this is one of them.
In florence there once lived a suspicious young man named Anselmo who became desperate to discover if his wife, the beautiful Camila, was faithful to him. After much reflection, he resolved to have his good friend Lotario attempt to seduce her, for he believed that if his wife were thus overcome his friend would not carry the conquest too far. How mistaken was Anselmo.
Our tenth anniversary celebration continues with the fourth chapter of Playboy's Playmate primer, a fetching review of pulchritude past. Subsequent years will be graphically remembered in each succeeding issue until December, when a Readers' Choice portfolio will feature the decade's ten most popular Playmates. The first Playmate of our fourth year was June Blair, who appeared before our camera on her 23rd birthday appropriately birthday suited. June is now married to David Nelson, Ricky's older brother, and her considerable talents have been kept in the family--she's a regular on the Ozzie and Harriet TV show. Sandra Edwards' March Playmate appearance led to a movie contract with Warner Bros.; December's Linda Vargas went on to Hollywood, too, and a contract with Jerry Wald that included a part in The Best of Everything. Since June Playmate Carrie Radison's foldout feature, she's become a permanent part of the Playboy scene, gracing Playboy Clubs in Chicago, Phoenix, New York and New Orleans as one of our most popular Bunnies. Readers needn't wait for the final installment of Playmates Revisited--votes for Playmates from December 1953 through December 1963 are welcome at any time.
Great britain's entry in the uncommon market is versatile, ebullient, 29-year-old Jonathan Miller, a scalpel-witted neuropathologist, satirist, playwright and essayist and one of the outstanding comic mimes of our era. As co-star (and co-author) of the highly irreverent revue Beyond the Fringe, this union jack of all trades first besieged our shores 18 months ago and since then his Fringe benefits have included a television show (Trip to the Moon), a stint as TV and movie critic of The New Yorker, and an off-Broadway play. An equally acerbic observer of our manners and mores off stage or on, Miller's conversational repartee bristles with epigrammatic insights. Samples: On American women -- "Here the biggest crime for a girl to commit is to be ugly." On TV -- "The worst minds in the world go into television." On himself -- "I am given to frivolous generalities." He is also given to soaking in the bathtub all day, stalking Manhattan all night and reading prodigiously. Next for restless author Miller: a novel, a book on pathology, a series of articles for Playboy, and a return (with wife and two small tads) to England where people, he holds, actually see themselves as they really are -- "as a gaggle of clowns."
When a youthful conductor ascended the podium at Chicago's Ravinia Music Festival last summer, his expectations were modest -- he was only substituting for an ailing colleague. But, in a real-life enactment of the cliché about the artist who achieves stardom after a pinch-hit performance, Seiji Ozawa was invited to return as Musical Director and Resident Conductor for 1964. This distinction climaxed a long train of triumphs for the 28-year-old maestro. After completing his studies in Japan, he left for Europe and eventually guest-conducted some of the Continent's best orchestras. Under Leonard Bernstein's subsequent tutelage, Ozawa's work with the New York Philharmonic was unanimously acclaimed. So far, the only blemish on his brilliant career was received in Japan, when Tokyo's NHK Orchestra, resenting his youth and American training, refused to honor a contract to play for him in 1962. The concurrent brouhaha strengthened his position, for it earned him a commitment to tour Japan with a competing orchestra, thus reversing the maxim about prophets lacking honor in their own lands and underscoring Ozawa's world-wide future -- which should indeed be filled with both honor and profit.
A 25-year-old negro with the build of a fullback (which he was at Temple University) and a gentle disposition, Bill Cosby also possesses a wit inventive enough to have brought him in less than two years to the upper echelons of comicdom. Onstage, Cosby eschews the black ("There's room for only one Dick Gregory") and the blue, preferring instead to dwell at length on the wonders of karate ("After you've graduated from karate school there's no better feeling than walking around knowing you can wipe out your whole neighborhood"), the New York subway system ("I saw a three-act show from West 4th Street to 125th Street. This woman went around condemning everyone. She was so great, when she got off we gave her a standing ovation."), and greasy-kid-stuff commercials ("...Now let's compare combs. See. Yours is green, mine is orange. Now let's go out and get us some women..."). Today, with a successful LP, top TV appearances, several concerts, and a string of night-club triumphs (Basin Street East, Mister Kelly's, the hungry i) behind him, Cosby finds it difficult to avoid making $1500 a week, which isn't bad for a young fellow who not too long ago was scuffling for $60 a week as a barkeep-comic.