If you detect a remarkable resemblance between this issue's cover and that of last June, whereon we heralded the appearance of The Nudest Jayne Mansfield, the similarity is not unintentional. Last June's much-appreciated and much-publicized issue turned out to be a runaway best seller, so when Tommy Noonan, Miss Mansfield's vis-à-vis in Promises, Promises! apprised us that he was teaming up with one of our favorite screen beauties, Mamie Van Doren (February 1964), for a similar epidermal celluloid epic, we made certain our photographers were on hand during the proceedings. The visual results--no less enticing and unfettered than those of the Mansfield movie--are displayed in The Nudest Mamie Van Doren.
Playboy, June, 1964, Vol. 11, No. 6. 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., Ml 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 hadn't realized just how insidiously the cards were stacked against the single man on the socioeconomic and judicial-governmental levels until the other day when we were apprised via the mails of one more high-handed example of governmental discrimination against the bachelor. The letter from United States Air Force Captain Leonard Wine (a singularly appropriate moniker, as we shall see) was a study in irate frustration. It seems the captain had been given books on how to make wine and a wine-making kit for his birthday. Before putting them to use, he faithfully followed the prescribed procedure and applied to the Treasury Department for permission to produce 200 gallons of tax-free wine per year at home. Expecting nothing but the Government's blessing for having followed the letter of the law before he pressed a single grape, the captain received Internal Revenue Service Form 1541 in its stead. Plowing through the bureaucratic fine print, he was brought up short by Section 240.541(b) which states that "wine produced by a single person unless he is the head of a family" is not taxexempt. End of Captain Wine's abortive foray as an amateur vintner. Already bruised and bled by promarital incometax laws (see our review of Frederic Nelson's new book, Bachelors Are People, Too, on page 38 of this issue), the bachelor is not even permitted the solace of a little home-fermented vino in which to drown his singular sorrows. Why, we wondered, does the Government thus penalize the bachelor and reward the family man? Surely it can't be to assure that the kiddies get their daily quota of sauce without having to rely on mother's market allowance. The only reason we could think of--and we don't think much of it, because it's so very logical--is that some bachelor legislator assessed the multiple sorrows of the hard-pressed family provider, and figured he needed a cheering, tax-free 200 gallons of do-it-yourself wine per year in which to drown his woes. Meanwhile, there is that sterling character Captain Wine, serving his country--an officer and, according to the same Government, a gentleman--who can't be trusted to use the fermented fruits of his own labor for home consumption, even though he's willing to swear to it. The situation is obviously intolerable. We suggest that bachelors rise up in a body and write to Washington, where the grapes of wrath are stored, demanding that every man, regardless of marital status, be given an equal opportunity to be his own little old wine maker.
What Makes Sammy Run? Steve Lawrence. He is Sammy Glick, who claws his way from copy boy to movie mogul, and Lawrence makes the clawing and the climbing seem real. Furthermore, he is a good pop singer--talented enough to be playing undiluted Glick (or better yet, Pal Joey), but the Schulberg book, cut past the bone by Budd and his brother Stuart, has lost its marrow. A few of the nasty old cracks are there ("If you want me to, I'll miss him," says Sammy about his supposed best friend, Al Manheim), but most of the action is one long song setup. Two tunes are already inescapable on the jukebox (A Room Without Windows and The Friendliest Thing), but the rest of Ervin Drake's score is easily forgettable. Sadly, except for Lawrence, so is the cast. Robert Alda plays, or rather, poses as, Manheim, and love interest Sally Ann Howes is merely decorative. But What Makes Sammy Run? doesn't need decoration. It needs a cold heart and some warm bodies. At the 54th Street, 152 West 54th Street.
Soft and Swinging / The Music of Jimmy McHugh (Columbia), etched by the ubiquitous André Previn leading his trio and orchestra, proves long-time composer McHugh to be a man of taste and discernment, and Previn to be an apt interpreter. Included in the session are I'm in the Mood for Love, Don't Blame Me, I Can't Believe that You're in Love with Me and Exactly Like You--any one of which would rate McHugh his pop-music laurels.
Gore Vidal had a witty hit on Broadway with The Best Man, and the film is at least as funny and a lot faster. This comedy of political conventiontime, U. S. A., tells of behind-the-scenes power plays between two candidates for an unnamed party's Presidential nomination. One of them is what anti-intellectuals derisively refer to as an egghead (not Stevenson, you understand) and the other is an opportunist Senator who has made his name as an investigator (not Nixon, of course). The latter gets hold of a blackmail item with which he hopes to scramble the egghead, and the egghead's friends get a juicy jotting with which to stave it off. Considerable fencing is done, but in the end both are foiled, to some degree. Whether or not the blackmail business is believable, the real razzmatazz is in the convention hoopla, which is hustled and bustled by director Franklin Schaffner. Vidal's updated dialog lets a little lightning loose on topical topics (Southern segregationist to candidate: "You talk like a liberal, but I know at heart you're really an American"). Henry Fonda as the brainy one and Cliff Robertson as the bulldozer, Margaret Leighton and Edie Adams as the respective wives, are rightly cast and competent. But--as on Broadway--the show is stolen by Lee Tracy as the "hick" ex-President (not Harry Truman, naturally).
You can't say William Golding isn't a game one. In previous novels he has gotten into the skins of a pack of English schoolboys after the Bomb; a group of Neanderthal survivors, faced with Homo sapiens; and a drowning man in the last, oversaturated two minutes of his life. In his new book, The Spire (Harcourt, Brace & World, $3.95), his subject is the dean of an unfinished medieval English cathedral who attempts to build a spire on it. The tower's foundations are almost nonexistent; the cathedral, says the master builder, floats on mud. The dean's fervor drives the master builder on, and the spire goes up until the stones of the frail tower below sing from the strain. At one moment the mud beneath the cathedral starts to crawl. At which point the master builder begs off; work stops, and only begins again because the master builder is held to the cathedral by an affair with the verger's wife. The dean spurs the workmen on with all his substitutes for faith. He neglects the running of the cathedral, is broken physically and ecclesiastically, but is at the summit when the barely completed spire shakes and shudders through its first great autumn gale. At moments the book takes a fierce hold, but for the most part Golding drives his novel as savagely as the dean drives the workmen. Rhetoric, said Yeats, is the will trying to do the work of the imagination. That the rhetoric of this novel is by no means empty is a measure of the height at which Mr. Golding has gallantly aimed. The Spire is worth a hundred less aspiring, more successful books.
The girl I'm engaged to is a good deal brighter than I am, and I wonder if our marriage will fade in the stretch because of this marked difference. Please understand: I'm no dummy, having successfully negotiated college and landed a rewarding technical job. It's just that my financée bats in another league--she graduated Phi Bete from a top women's college and plans to go on for a master's and a Ph.D. We have a successful relationship and, despite our differences, find a lot to talk about. However, I'm a little skeptical about the long run.--B. B., Woburn, Massachusetts.
A good reason why ever-increasing numbers of travelers will be seeing the Continent by car this summer is the freedom this freewheeling transportation gives them to do their own discovering, to follow the less-frequented side roads, and to tailor their vacations to individual tastes.
In the months since Ingmar Bergman's "The Silence" world-premiered in Stockholm, moviegoers in a dozen countries have been lining up around the block: some to see the final third of the Swedish film maker's celebrated trilogy (following "Through a Glass Darkly" and "Winter Light") on the quest for love as a salvation from emotional death; others to verify the judgment of some critics that this anatomy of lust is the master-work of Bergman's 20-year career. But most, quite unabashedly, have come to ogle the most explicitly erotic movie scenes on view this side of a stag smoker--even after the snipping of more than a minute's film for the toned-down U.S. version. The film has precipitated a rain of abuse on its 45-year-old creator--as a pornographer (by members of the Swedish parliament), purveyor of obscenity (from Lutheran pulpits all over Sweden) and corrupter of youth and decency (via anonymous calls and letters). Outraged at the outcry, Bergman was most offended by the accusation that he filmed the sex scenes merely to shock and titillate his audiences. "I'm an artist," he told a reporter. "Once I had the idea for 'The Silence' in my mind, I had to make it--that's all." The son of an Evangelical Lutheran parson who became the chaplain to Sweden's royal family, Bergman remembers his years at home "with bitterness," as a period of emotional sterility and rigid moral rectitude from which he withdrew into the private world of fantasy. It was on his ninth birthday that he traded a set of tin soldiers for a toy that was to become the catalyst of his creativity: a battered magic lantern. A year later he was building scenery, fashioning marionettes, working all the strings and speaking all the parts in his own puppet theater productions of Strindberg--foreshadowing his directorship of a youth-club theater during his years at Stockholm University, where he produced in 1940 an anti-Nazi version of "Macbeth" which became a minor cause célébre--and scandalized his family.
Al Dooley, graduate student in sociology at the University of California, and bored, sick of being bored, bored with being bored, had thought that his service in the Army would provide a nice, unpleasant break in the easy slide of his life. Well, it didn't. He beat it without meaning to.
Overnight, British film actress Susannah York (snuggled above with William Holden on the set of their new film, The Seventh Dawn) has risen from novice to box-office draw. Until recently a student at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, she made the most of her first professional opportunities--important parts in three TV shows--and parlayed them into stellar roles in Tunes of Glory, as Alec Guinness' daughter; Freud, in which she played a pretty but hysterically paralyzed patient opposite Montgomery Clift; and in Tom Jones, as the virtuous heroine who led Albert Finney a merry chase throughout the story--and shared with him the abundant praise bestowed upon the film. Still in her early 20s, seductive Susannah seems assured of a bright future.
Each of Us Wants what Ponce de León wanted, and unless the road maps are all wrong, we are well on the way to finding it. Consider yourself in the year 1984--20 years older, 20 years more worn in your parts. Yet most of you is still likely to be in pretty good shape. We do not wear out all at once, like the wonderful one-hoss shay, but seriatim, like a hard-driven sports car. Well, replace the worn-out parts. You would not discard an XK-E because of a worn clutch; you would replace the clutch. By 1984, or some date in that approximate area, you will not put up with the wheeze of emphysema in your lungs, for all you need is a new set of lungs, or a graft of tissue in the old lungs, and magically the emphysema is gone. Hairline receding? Graft in new follicles--or stimulate the old, perhaps, with hormones, chemicals or some latter-day derivative of DNA. Wrinkles? Flabby muscles? These are chemical matters. We treat them with surgery now, if we treat them at all, but in a couple of decades chemistry should provide a way of rejuvenating the collagen and flushing out the calcium compounds that bring age. Want to get rid of fat? You would not put up with a burning mixture that left carbon deposits in your car's engine; you will not have to put up with a metabolic rate that deposits a spare tire of blubber around your waist. Your look can be young, your step can be sprightly. And your sexual powers? They need not stop at 45--or 65--or 105, for that matter; tissue transplants will rejuvenate old organs of every sort. This may not even be necessary; for the basis of most failing ardor is not physical but psychic, and the therapies that make you feel young and be young will remove the psychic obstacles to love.
Of all the pleasure cities of the world vying for the attention of the knowledgeable traveler, none has gained fame more swiftly as a metropolitan Lorelei luring the jet set than Copenhagen, a lusty 12th Century merchant port, which in less than 20 years has attained a unique reputation among Europe-bound voyagers for its high spirits, its gracious way of life, its remarkably tolerant attitudes, its omnipresent welcoming smile--and, not least by any means, its extraordinary breed of statuesque Nordic women.
Because Insurance Companies evoke images of monolithic statistical tables and multipage rate charts and contracts, we were especially pleased when we recently discovered one that offered a surprise dividend far more to our taste. Her name is Lori Winston, and she cuts a fine actuarial figure as girl Friday for a lucky Los Angeles insurance exec. Daughter of a captain in the L.A.fire department, 19-year-old Miss June attributes her healthy good looks to the beneficent rays of the golden California sun, in which she spends as much time as she can, preferably in sufficient seclusion to permit indolent, allover tanning. But she's also an active sportswoman, with a strong preference for the water-borne life. As she puts it, "I love everything outdoorsy, especially sailing. In fact, I'm saving up to buy a Tahiti ketch--and spend the rest of my life cruising to the world's most exotic ports of call." But that's only one ambition of this girl. She also wants to be an artist, plans to take lessons which will discipline her freewheeling artistic ebullience. These and other dreams she discusses with her more thoughtful dates--the kind of males she most admires. In lighter moods she likes to go night-clubbing with a date--preferably to hear the sounds of Maynard Ferguson. At home, Lori might treat a boyfriend to her Mexican specialties ("I'm quite a cocinera when it comes to chili and tortillas"), or, on dateless nights, curl up with an adventure novel or make silk-screen prints of urban scenes. Needless to say, she can make our urban scene any time.
The dreamed screams had merged into real ones when, four hours later, Bond awoke. There was silence in the hut. Bond got cautiously to his knees and put his eye to a wide crack in the rickety planking. A screaming man, from his ragged blue cotton uniform a Japanese peasant, was running across his line of vision along the edge of the lake. Four guards were after him, laughing and calling as if it were a game of hide-and-seek. They were carrying long staves, and now one of them paused and hurled his stave accurately after the man so that it caught in his legs and brought him crashing to the ground. He scrambled to his knees and held supplicating hands out toward his pursuers. Still laughing, they gathered round him, stocky men in high rubber boots, their faces made terrifying by black maskos over their mouths, black-leather nosepieces and the same ugly black-leather soup-plate hats as the agent on the train had worn. They poked at the man with the ends of their staves, at the same time shouting harshly at him in voices that jeered. Then, as if at an order, they bent down and, each man seizing a leg or an arm, picked him off the ground, swung him once or twice and tossed him out into the lake. The ghastly ripple surged forward and the man, now screaming again, beat at his face with his hands and floundered as if trying to make for the shore, but the screams rapidly became weaker and finally ceased as the head went down and the red stain spread wider and wider.
When I was A kid on my father's ranch in California we used to chase wind devils. After the land had been plowed and harrowed, but before the cotton was up, the wind would raise towering whirlwinds and I used to chase them. It was half terror, half wild joy to be inside a wind devil. There was no breathing in there, no hearing, the noise so overwhelming it was a kind of drowning. You could only stand, deaf, grit-blinded and battered while some part of you was sucked up into the wind, whirled out of you. When the wind devil passed, you could only stand dazed and silly, waiting for the whirled-away part of you to return from where it had been and you could become you again.
If the age of chivalry were still alive, producer-director-actor Tommy Noonan would have to be dubbed a Knight of the Bath. His production of Promises, Promises!, in which Jayne Mansfield bared all in a bubbly bath scene, literally cleaned up. Thanks to the sensation created by Playboy's celebrated pictorial uncoverage a year ago this month, the film garnered more publicity than any other save Cleopatra and ranked high enough in box-office listings to encourage Noonan to take off in the same direction. This time he is pin-upping his hopes on lovely Mamie Van Doren, who takes off, in his new film, even more than she did in her February Playboy photo feature. The result is called Three Nuts in Search of a Bolt (Noonan-McGlashan Productions--to be released this month), a zany comedy that mixes generous helpings of Freudian tomfoolery with ample proportions of Van Doren tub-nudery--an unbeatably Psychobathic combination.
Life, when you're a male kid, is what the grownups are doing. The adult world seems to be some kind of secret society that has its own passwords, handclasps and countersigns. The thing is to get in. But there's this invisible, impenetrable wall between you and all the great, unimaginably swinging things that they seem to be involved in. Occasionally, mutterings of exotic secrets and incredible pleasures filter through. And so you bang against it, throw rocks at it, try to climb over it, burrow under it; but there it is. Impenetrable. Enigmatic.
In Baghdad there once lived Ali, a man so fond of beautiful women that he all but lost his wits when one was mentioned and he could not have her. Being poor and fully cognizant that only wealth would enable him to meet the needs of his vigorous body and passionate spirit, he resolved to become wealthy so as to provide himself with that solace and panacea for which his flesh craved and his soul yearned. Before he was 30, therefore, by hard work and sacrifice, he had become a man of means, had built a fine house and had filled it with some of earth's fairest daughters. Men who knew how to judge such possessions swore that Ali's small harem of 60 damsels surpassed, in quality, if not in quantity, the 600 found in the palace of the caliph.
Continuing our tenth anniversary year program of reprising candidates for the December 1964 Readers' Choice pictorial, Playboy presents the lucky 13 Playmates who gazed from our foldouts in 1958. (Playboy's fifth year was marked by our first and only twin gatefold featuring the blonde beauty of Pat Sheehan plus the titian-topped attractions of redhead Mara Corday.) January's Elizabeth Ann Roberts' underage appearance--she was still on the sunny side of 18--created a minor problem, but not in reader enthusiasm for the pert college freshman, whose modeling fee turned into tuition toward her M.D. Judy Tomerlin was a Playboy receptionist and just six months removed from the foothills of Tennessee when she became our June Playmate and the prime focus of Photographing Your Own Playmate, a pictorial in that same issue. From sunny Miami came Joyce Nizzari, adding a decided glow to frosty December; September's Teri Hope was an undergrad at Carnegie Tech when a fellow student submitted her picture as a prospective Playmate; we found chess enthusiast Linné Ahlstrand in California and today she is a Bunny in the New York Playboy Club. Readers are invited to send us the names of their own ten favorites from the first ten years--and every girl who graced our gatefold during the first decade, from Marilyn Monroe (Miss December 1953) to Donna Michelle (Miss December 1963) is eligible. The ten most popular Playmates will appear in a special December 1964 pictorial.
Lately, at bedtime, I have started using my brain for thinking, and I wish I hadn't. As soon as you decide to think, you have to select some subject to think upon, and once a subject is on your mind, you find yourself asking questions about it, and when you run up short against unanswerable ones, your idyl with Morpheus has had it.
Ladies, or Gentlemen, are born. They cannot be made. To be what is called a lady, you must have a certain refinement of sensibility which compels you to do unto others rather better than you hope they may do to you. Gentility is a quality of soul. It involves compassion for your fellow men; an inborn goodness.