Emulating Virgil, Playboy's July issue has steeped itself "in a bowl of summertime." Our Summer Fun Issue is crammed from cover to cover with warm-weather attractions that are lighthearted and multitudinous. Starting at the front, Cynthia Maddox adorns our cover for the fourth time and gives us a Rabbit's-eye view of a great American navel engagement. One of the prettiest staffers ever to grace a magazine's masthead, Cynthia, in her past cover-girl stints, has always set PLAYBOY'S mailbags abulging, and this month's should prove no exception. With so much fan mail, it's clear that Miss Maddox is easily the world's most popular--as well as most beautiful--Assistant Cartoon Editor. Echoing our bikini-bedecked cover, a surfside hoedown in all its happy aspects--food and drink, fun and games--is handsomely covered at length in Beach Ball.
Playboy, July, 1964, Vol. 11, No. 7. 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.
As the race for the Republican Presidential nomination draws to a climax in San Francisco this month, we note with regret that not one editorial page in this country has embraced the candidacy of our favorite dark horse--Marvin Kitman, whom political insiders will recognize instantly as the writer who renounced his craft ("I'd rather be President than write") to enter the hustings. Our preference for Kitman is predicated upon his having injected into politics a quality so rare as to have become virtually nonexistent: humor. Though his candidacy is frankly tongue in cheek--he's collecting material for a series in the satirical magazine Monocle--725 New Hampshire voters took him seriously enough to cast ballots for him after he had made a whirlwind weekend tour of that state during its spring primary. While he fell lamentably short of Ambassador Lodge's winning tally of 33,007 votes, he outpolled William Scranton (86 votes) and George Romney (72), and finished only 560 behind Harold Stassen, whose campaign humor was anything but intentional.
You name it and Gore Vidal can write it: play, movie, novel, short story, review, essay, political speech. It is rumored that he knocks off mysteries under a pseudonym when he can't get to sleep nights. The latest product of his prolific pen, Julian (Little, Brown, $6.95), shows him in still another medium: the groaningly long historical novel that is juicily ripe to be transformed into a groaningly long Cinerama spectacle. Vidal has entered this field through the life and times of Julian the Apostate, the Roman emperor who spurned Christianity just when it was becoming fashionable and returned to the good old gods of Rome. Except for being a religious maverick, however, Vidal's Julian sounds much the same as the Roman emperors we usually meet on the screen. Like the rest of them, he suffers from a strange compulsion to lead untold numbers of armor-laden men through the hostile deserts of Persia, where they are set upon by other hordes of men, and all proceed to bang one another to bits. Vidal tells his hero's tale by the device of a first-person "journal" kept by Julian, loaded down with such Gore-y details as "comments on the text" by two philosophers of the time, Priscus and Libanius. Though Julian was supposed to have been a neophyte philosopher in his youth, his "journal" bears a depressing resemblance to such prosaic political reminiscences as those of Harry Truman and Richard Nixon. If only Vidal had lent Julian a bit of his own wit, it would have made for a far more readable book. But in Techni color, it won't matter anyway.
Marcello Mastroianni's latest pow performance is in The Organizer, a period piece set in Turin around 1900--a labor-vs.-capital saga about a group of mill hands struggling to get one hour a day knocked off their 14-hours-a-day-6-days-a-week schedule. Marcello is a ragged ex-professor who blows into town on a freight train (with the cops after him) to help organize a strike--a ridiculous but obviously dedicated figure. We also meet a warm-blooded young worker and a girl who loves him but clouts him when he comes too close; an old worker's daughter who took the Easiest Way and takes pity on the professor; a lonely young soldier in the nearby barracks who falls for one of the working girls--all the theatrical ploys reminiscent of the proletarian Thirties. Mastroianni is masterly, Folco Lulli is fine as a lovable bruiser, Gabriella Giorgelli is embraceable as his earthy daughter. And director Mario Monicelli re-creates the era unerringly.
"You think beautiful girls are going to stay in style forever?" asks Barbra Streisand, who is waiting for her type to have its turn. Her type? Eyes like marbles, an outsize nose, an even bigger mouth, a haystack of hair, and a slouchy frame--in short, a Funny Girl. She is too ugly to be in the chorus, so she's a star. She can act, dance, clown, and sing with a voice that cries like Judy's, swings like Billie's and amuses like Bea Lillie's. When Barbra plays Fanny Brice in Funny Girl, it is not so much an imitation as an incarnation. This is Fanny's story, but it might as well be Barbra's: a paean to push, a toast to talent. In a happily disrespectful first act, Fanny girl climbs mouth first, followed by knees and elbows, to the top. But then librettist Isobel Lennart is stuck for a topper. Act two belongs to Nicky Arnstein, backstage husband. Sharpie Arnstein (Sydney Chaplin) has been cleaned up into a department-store dummy who gets innocently involved in a swindle and slapped in jail. When he is freed, Fanny wants to forgive him. He wants her to forget him. So they vow to forget each other. Forget it! Think about the rest of the show, which is fast, fresh and very Fanny. The score by Jule Styne and Robert Merrill is as diverse as its leading lady. The dances, sets and costumes fit fine in the period (World War Oneish), and supporting players Kay Medford, as Fanny's dutiful mother, and Danny Meehan, as Fanny's faithful gentleman in waiting, steal what small part of the show hasn't been swiped by Streisand, which, come to think of it, is very, very small. At the Winter Garden, Broadway and 50th Street.
Nippon Soul/Cannonball Adderley (Riverside), the result of an Adderley Sextet concert in Tokyo's Sankei Hall, reflects the ebullient reception that the group was given in Japan. Especially evocative is the work of Yusef Lateef on flute, oboe and tenor; his effect on the Cannonball contingent cannot be overestimated. Although the session includes the title tune, there are no concessions to the Oriental--funk and soul still reign supreme.
Europe has a special appeal in September, after the summer tourist tide has ebbed and before the first frost sets in. It's an excellent time to relax and enjoy the cool and colorful countryside, and there's no better way than from the vantage point of a Swiss chalet. Offering majestic mountain views from your living room--where a glowing wood fire crackles through the night--and easy access to friendly villages down winding mountain roads, chalets are a great travel bargain in the fall: Typically, the Chalet Alexandre, 3300 feet up in the Bernese Alps at the Swiss resort of Hohfluh Hasliberg, rents for $625 a month and is large enough to accommodate a congenial group of fellow vacationers. If you're traveling solo or à deux, and don't need all that room, a comfortable apartment on the shores of Lake Geneva--at Cully near Lausanne--can be had for about $60 a month.
One of the most pleasant aspects in the writing of this series of editorials on the social and sexual ills of society has been the response it has elicited from readers. Several hundred letters on The Playboy Philosophy come in each month from every part of the United States, and a number of foreign countries as well. We try to personally read just as much of this correspondence as possible, and the most interesting comments are published regularly in The Playboy Forum.
To art buff and art historian alike, Salvador Felipe y Jacinto Dali is one of the most compelling and paradoxical figures of our time. As the most famous living exponent of surrealism, he has been hailed by one critic as "chief cartographer of the mind's hidden country, and perhaps its chief custodian." His seemingly inexhaustible flood of nether-worldly images--drawn, he says, from dreams, nightmares and paranoiac visions--has left its mark, for good or ill, on almost every field of the contemporary graphic arts. He has been a fountainhead of avant-garde designs for jewelry, stage sets, automobiles, ballet costumes, restaurants, store windows, magazine covers, prototypal pop-art sculpture and experimental films. In 1929, with fellow Spaniard Luis Buñuel, he filmed "Le Chien Andalou," a surrealist classic that still startles art-film audiences with a gory sequence in which an eyeball is slit open with a straight razor. Though his grotesque and hallucinatory subject matter--ranging from limp watches and fur-lined bathtubs to rhinoceros horns and flaming giraffes--has been denounced as "diseased and disgusting," his technical brilliance as a painter has been compared by some to that of the Flemish masters, with whose works many of his own hang in museums around the world.
When grant got off the 10:05 from Stamford, at Grand Central, he walked out the Lexington exit, but instead of going to his office, he went to a bar on Third Avenue. He had a bad hangover and felt guilty as hell. All the way in town, on the train, he had kept thinking, What in God's name am I going to do? The night before, in one impetuous, passionate moment, he had thrown away his entire future.
Fashions in the current sartorial swim have come a long way from the bundled-up "hospital-patient" look of long robes and the now square cabana sets that compromised the atmosphere of American beaches with their gaudily overdecorated motifs. Today's trend toward mixing and mating swimming and lounging garb has sent the garish cabana set the way of the great auk.
When We Were first told that we could find a potential Playmate working as a meatcutter behind the counter of a butcher shop, we were skeptical; and when we learned that the girl's name was Melba Ogle, and that besides being a meatcutter she was a part-time fashion model, we were downright incredulous--and remained so, until we met Melba ourself. It was then we discovered that she's not only a meatcutter and a mannequin (her What's My Line? vocation and her name, which is Swedish, are both for real), but also a delightfully feminine charmer who--in a world where equality of the sexes is becoming more and more a reality--has not lost sight of the fact that though there are times when a girl should be equal, there are also times when she should be different. Born in Cheyenne, Wyoming, our 21-year-old Playmate moved to the West Coast as a youngster, and for the past three years has worked for Stockyard Meats in El Monte, California, graduating from assistant's assistant to part-time manager, despite the fact that she's away from the shop several hours each day, modeling high fashions for the luncheon set at Merridy's, a restaurant in nearby San Gabriel. "I like to be different," Melba says. "A few years ago I dated a butcher, and he got me interested in the meat business. I found the thought of working in a meatshop a challenge and I answered a want ad offering a job as a counterhop, which is as menial as you can get. Much to my surprise, I got the job--and before a year had passed, I was a meatcutter. The work, of course, is quite strenuous. That's why I'm glad to take off a few hours at lunchtime each day to do a fashion show--and wear dresses and gowns that I would never think of buying on my own. I began modeling two years ago. Five of my seven stepsisters work in haute couture, and they're all over five feet, seven inches. I'm just a shorty at five feet, two inches, and was beginning to get that ugly duckling feeling. So I went out looking for a fashion job, mainly to soothe my own ego. Fortunately, the job I found also pays well." So well, in fact, that Melba recently purchased her own one-bedroom bungalow in Whittier, the home town of another enterprising Californian, Richard M. Nixon. "I bought a house," Melba explains, "because I loathe paying rent. And though I enjoy people, I don't care for the lack of privacy that goes with apartment living. Also, there's Chewie-Caterpillar, my pet and companion--like any respectable Scotty, he deserves a back yard to romp in." Melba's penchant for suburban privacy doesn't extend to her social life, however. She admits a weakness for tall men ("The strong, silent type really sends me"), big-city night life, and leisurely picnics à deux in the woods. In her preference in men, friendships, dress and aspirations, Melba above all respects (and reflects) sincerity. "I get along best," she says, "with, people who like me not for my face or my figure, but for myself. And this is how I try to base my appreciation of others." For an appreciation of Melba, albeit confined to face and figure, see the gatefold.
Many Otherwise perfectly hip people, it seems to me, don't take the subject of office affairs very seriously. They think of office romance as mere purple puppy passion among some junior clerks and attribute carnal lust only to a few walrusy-faced tycoons who chase their secretaries around the desk.
Men--For such is their weakness--have forever felt the need to incarnate their desires in the form of imaginary women. To the ancient Greek, these mistresses of the mind were his goddesses, whose statues he admired, whose adventures he read in the epics of Homer. Today, the movie star has replaced the goddess on Olympus, and just as the Greek loved Venus or Minerva, so countless moviegoers have worshiped Greta Garbo, Marilyn Monroe, Gina Lollobrigida or Brigitte Bardot.
Nowadays, life in Hollywood is presided over by the telephone. You sit and wait for the crisp secretarial bulletin that you are about to be levitated from the Limbo of "availability" to the Beulah Land of "firm assignment."
You can lead a man to liquor very easily in the torrid days ahead, provided the drinks are cold, tall and spirited. A sip of an ice-cold Liebfraumilch (alcohol, ten percent) spritzer will rally a fellow out of his summer torpor with lightninglike rapidity, while its low alcoholic content will permit a considerable intake with no fear of dulling the senses. The thirst-slaking spritzer, one of the most delightfully cool escape hatches from summer doldrums that we know, is variously known as hock and soda or Rhine wine and seltzer. The well-known Alpine pleasure may, in fact, be made from either Rhine wine in the brown bottle or Moselle in the green. Both German wines are famous for their young, fruity, racy flavors, If they're older than ten years, their briskness is lost. Wines with labels marked spätlese, made from late-gathered grapes, have a trace of sweetness and just enough of a bacchanalian flavor to keep the drink frisky until the last drop. When making a spritzer, make sure the hock, the glass and the soda are precooled as cold as the ice itself. A single large ice cube is placed in an eight or ten-ounce highball glass. While equal parts of hock and soda are the common ratio, we prefer about twice as much wine as sparkling water, with just enough of the latter to give the drink an added buoyancy. Conventionally, a bottle of siphon water is placed on the table for spritzers. It's convenient, but most well-known bottled carbonated waters are more full of play than siphons; and their fizz, after the bottle is opened, will last for hours, and even longer if you use a snap-on cap.
The Jet-stream ease of modern travel has played havoc with the voyager who would impress by the classic gambit of geographical namedropping. Gone are the days when one could incite envy among one's friends by casual mention of Paris, Tokyo or Bombay; try it today and--comes the yawn. Familiarity has bred, if not contempt, at least a modicum of ennui.
No less than 12 showbiz columns reported last week that the United Broad-casting System was (and I quote all 12 of the columnists) "readying" a special 90-minute Tribute to Al Zack. The show will be (and I quote 10 of the 12 columnists) "upcoming" on its subject's 60th birthday. Now that we have had Tributes to Richard Rodgers, Cole Porter, Lerner and Loewe, et al., UBS has got around to the man who is (and I quote Al Zack himself) "Songwriter Laureate for the Little Guy."
There once lived a venerable knight who, weary from many encounters both upon battlefield and bed, ordered his young and innocent bride to wear a coat of mail whenever they took their jousting together. The lady, more blessed with beauty than with intellect, accepted his explanation that she would be harmed in love's jousts without armor. Dutifully, she thus donned a hauberk on their nuptial eve, ne'er dreaming that there might be other manners of adorning oneself in such sport.
Herewith, another retrospective look at a delectable dozen Playmates of the past. These 12 authentic American beauties were picked for their original playboy appearances from every part of the nation: Virginia Gordon was born and raised in West Virginia and Audrey Daston in Boise, Idaho--though both were living in Hollywood when we first spotted them; Clayre Peters and Nancy Crawford grew up in the East and were submitted by New York photographers. Boston-born Cindy Fuller was discovered in a Miami water pageant; she graced both the May gatefold and Playboy's House Party, a picture story in the same issue. Waukegan, Illinois, birthplace of Jack Benny, came up with a second, fairer claim to fame in 1959, with February Playmate Eleanor Bradley; Marilyn Hanold was working in a Las Vegas show with comedian George Gobel when she made her June Playboy debut and Marilyn obviously has an appreciation for the comic, and vice versa: This past season she was a featured regular on the Sid Caesar TV show. Chicago's own Marianne Gaba was Miss Illinois in a Miss Universe contest and made a scrumptious Miss September. October's Elaine Reynolds, a professional swimmer, and December's Ellen Stratton, a legal secretary, came from opposite coasts, but wound up the year as two of the most popular Playmates and later became a pair of The Playboy Club's most beautiful Bunnies. Readers are invited to submit their own ten favorites from among all the Playmates of our first ten years--from Miss December 1953 to Miss December 1963. Send us the names of your ten favorites, then enjoy the results in a December pictorial, Readers' Choice.
"Revolution Below The Belt"--A Penetrating Appraisal Of The Battle Lines That Are Being Drawn Between Anxiety Born Of Sexual Guilt And The Potent Life Force Of Genuine Sexual Liberation--By John Clellon Holmes