This Campus-conscious September issue at hand offers to the undergrad and the young-in-heart alum a well-rounded curriculum. Playboy's Pigskin Preview, by expert-in-residence Anson Mount, once more crystal-balls the upcoming collegiate gridiron year. It should be noted, with all due immodesty, that the bringing together of the 13 stalwarts of our All-America football team is a logistical feat of considerable dimension and a tribute to both our Photo Department, which coordinated arrivals in Chicago from all parts of the U. S., and the esteem in which the players hold the Preview. Fashions for football watching and other areas of collegiate concern are perceptively projected in Robert L. Green's Big Man on Campus. Involved in our parodistic college fashion guide are three prime practitioners of the subtle art of satire--Ann Elder, Omar Shapli and Dave Steinberg--all members of Chicago's famous cabaret-theater, The Second City.
Playboy, September, 1964, Vol. 11, No. 9. 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, $20 for Three years, $15 for Two Years, $8 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.
Exposés are not our favorite cup of tea, but The Invisible Government (Random House, $5.95), by Washington newspapermen David Wise and Thomas B. Ross, is the most nourishing outpouring of this genre to come our way in a long time. It documents what sophisticated observers have long suspected--that the intelligence arms of our Government, most especially the Central Intelligence Agency, have been the directing forces behind a good deal of our so-called diplomacy since the War. The consequences, such as the mortifying Bay of pigs invasion, a discussion of which begins the book, have not always brought prestige to the Stars and Stripes. Uncontrolled by elected officials, unresponsive to public pressure, infatuated with right-wing dictatorships, these top-secret bodies are a strange and disquieting facet of our democracy. This book, which agitated the CIA gumshoes even before publication, describes their joke-and-dagger activities in Guatemala and Vietnam, in Laos and Burma, in Iran and Indonesia--and in the U. S. itself. If half of what is reported here is accurate--and nobody has shown otherwise--the book's title is no exaggeration.
A new Nancy Wilson LP is usually a happy event and Today, Tomorrow, Forever (Capitol) is no exception. Nancy, backed by husband Kenny Dennis' group, dresses up such au courant melodies as I Left My Heart in San Francisco, Call Me Irresponsible, One Note Samba and What Kind of Fool Am I?, but our own favorite is the country-and-western I Can't Stop Loving You which Miss Wilson turns into a lilting serenade for us city boys.
That Man from Rio, directed by Philippe de Broca and starring Jean-Paul Belmondo, is a nifty spoof on all the Saturday-afternoon serials ever made, done with wit and zip. Belmondo, an air force private, has a week's leave in Paris, and goes to see his girl. Her father was an anthropologist in Brazil who buried a valuable statue in his Rio garden. Two Indians, after the statue, kidnap the girl. Belmondo cons his way onto the Brazil-bound plane without a cent and gets caught up in a scad of escapades that are pure nonsense. Fun is flung nonstop at action and suspense clichés. The plot gyrates through Rio (wow!), Brasilia (pow!) and the jungle (ech!); and the color is magnificent. The brouhaha never subsides. Belmondo's esprit is something to see, Françoise Dorleac plays the girl with sexy nonchalance, Jean Servais (remember her in Rififi?) is terrific as a turnabout bookworm. But the real jewel of this jamboree is De Broca, the least appreciated of the new French directors. The Love Game, The Joker, The Five-Day Lover, now this lulu--what else is needed to indicate that he may well be the new René Clair?
Carol Burnett is a knock-kneed, large-mouthed, flat-footed clown with a voice as loud as Merman's. For the past few seasons she has been locked up inside the idiot box. Fade Out--fade In explodes her onto a Broadway stage--and without her, Fade Out would fade out fast. Movie mogul Lionel Z. Governor has had Carol plucked out of a chorus line--only he meant the girl next to her, Judy Cassmore. While L. Z. is in Vienna being analyzed by a short, long-bearded, sex-centered psychiatrist, his F. F. F. Studio is being misrun by his syco-frantic nephews, who comprise most of the old man's padroll, and they are trying, forcibly, to transform the homely chorine into a movie queen. When L. Z. discovers the goof (Carol), he fumes and fires (Carol). Free of F. F. F., she dons six petticoats, blonde spit curls, patent-leather shoes, and--don't ask why--takes off on Shirley Temple. It is a completely devastating impersonation--the most unnecessary completely devastating impersonation of the year. Funny, too, is Jack Cassidy as Byron Prong, a movie king deeply in love with himself; he keeps a mirror in the crown of his top hat. Unfortunately the rest of the show is by no means 100-spoof. Betty Comden and Adolph Green's satiric pen pierces right down to the skin, and most of Jule Styne's score is strikingly ordinary. Comden and Green have written a funny musical about funny old filmland, but it's not Fade Out--Fade In. It was the movie Singin' in the Rain. At the Mark Hellinger, 237 West 51st Street.
As if you didn't know by now, the most dynamic development on the U. S. night-club scene in years is the discothèque--a place in which to dance to both live and recorded music. It has its roots in contemporary Paris and its ardent rooters currently are jamming late-night bistros--including the Playboy Clubs in Miami and Phoenix--in half a dozen major U.S. locales. Los Angeles has emerged with the biggest and brassiest of the discos--Whisky à GoGo (8901 Sunset Boulevard)--a frenetic watering spot inspired by its more docile Parisian namesake. Outside, closed-circuit television provides glimpses of the interior, where the wailing voice and heavy-handed electric guitar of group leader Johnny Rivers interpret tunes like La Bamba, Midnight Special and Go, Johnny, Go. Inside, a mass of loose-limbed dancers on a postage-stamp-sized floor gyrate the Watusi, the Hitch-Hike, the Swim, the Monkey, the Frug (pronounced Froog), the Chicken, the Bug and the Dog. Two short-skirted maidens demonstrate the latest dance in a 9-foot-square glass-enclosed booth dangling 30 feet above the floor. (The GoGo girls have personally schooled the likes of Hedda Hopper, Gina Lollobrigida, Shelley Winters and Pat Boone.) When the live musicians take five, the girls convert the place into a true discothèque, playing record requests made from strategically located floor telephones on a $3500 stereophonic sound system. Whisky à GoGo is open seven days a week from 4 P.M. to 4 A.M. (with the Sunday session beginning a half hour earlier). There is no cover or minimum. To make certain his disque won't slip, owner Shelly Davis recently installed $20,000 worth of air-conditioning equipment, a much-needed addition in light of the heated carryings-on.
Although any vacationer seeking to avoid crowds of tourists will enjoy a November jaunt to Europe, ski buffs find the Continent especially appealing for its early schussing season. In the French Alps, the last word in off-season opulence is offered by the super deluxe Hotel Savoy in Chamonix or the Mont d'Arbois in Mégève. But bachelors--and bachelorettes--may find nearby Courchevel more congenial because of its unique hostelry--Hôtel des Célibataires--which caters to unmarried guests. (Don't let the name of the hotel put you off--célibataire, in French, connotes a state of unwed bliss.) The hotel is a small place, situated at the foot of the slopes, and its owner, Madame Monique Grass, manages admirably to keep the après-ski action intime. Because the hotel has no restaurant, its young guests--mostly the St.-Tropez discothèque set--generally make the rounds of the excellent cafés and chalet-restaurants in Courchevel. For more conventional after-hours entertainment, it's an easy swing to Chamonix' lovely--and lively--casino.
George Bernard Shaw had this to say on the subject of immorality: "Whatever is contrary to established manners and customs is immoral. An immoral act or doctrine is not necessarily a sinful one: on the contrary, every advance in thought and conduct is by definition immoral until it has converted the majority. For this reason it is of the most enormous importance that immorality should be protected jealously against the attacks of those who have no standard except the standard of custom, and who regard any attack on custom--that is, on morals--as an attack on society, on religion, and on virtue ...
Novelist Bernard Wolfe, who conducted this exclusive interview for Playboy, has been a close friend, colleague, drinking companion and brother iconoclast of this month's interviewee for almost 25 years. Fellow literary lights in New York during the Forties, they are now neighbors in the fashionable suburbs of West Los Angeles--where, beside the pool and in the rustic living room of Miller's roomy split-level home, the following conversation was recorded. A long-time Playboy contributor, the 49-year-old Wolfe debuts herein, with hard-hitting authority and familiar expertise, as a Playboy interviewer. Of his subject he writes:
"'That inverted nipple seems better than it was.' the doctor told Evelyn Ayres after he had concluded his usual examination. 'Have you been pulling it out gently several times, morning and night, the way Mary Ann showed you?'
Twenty-two minutes out of Montego Bay, the de Havilland Heron, its quartet of Rolls-Royce engines thrumming gently, flew eastward over the ribbon of white beaches lazily lining Jamaica's swank north coast. The plane held its course past the town of Ocho Rios; then, banking slowly to starboard, it began chasing its shadow across the lush jungle surrounding the huge resort hotel that now lay below.
"It still seems hard to believe," the young man said from the chair next to mine. "Saul Kessler ... the author of Letters from Miriam ... after all these years." Doubt flickered across his glowing features. "You don't think he'll mind? Your bringing me along?"
Americans are sold on schooling and are continually pouring new billions into it. Yet for most youth, including the brightest, going to school for many years is not only a poor way of getting an education, but is positively damaging. The high schools and colleges can superficially be improved, of course, but their basic idea is wrong. For most students, schooling prevents education. It destroys initiative and the relation to society that education is supposed to be about.
The rat race is on again. But this time the catcalls have turned to cheers. Back in the late Forties, when unlimited substitution revolutionized college football, anguished groans rose from conservatives. Overnight, football changed more than it had since the forward pass was legalized. "Football has become a rat race," insisted Tennessee Coach Bob Neyland to all who would listen. Neyland and others finally rallied enough support, and strictly limited substitution was reinstated in the early Fifties. And it's been a big mess ever since, with confusing, complex and often contradictory new substitution regulations being adopted nearly every year since, in a patently impossible attempt to satisfy everyone. Last year was the worst, the dead end. Chaos reigned in many games and the coaches spent much of their time keeping track of substitution legalities.
This rich, lustrous dark-gray imported wool and silk sharkskin suit, here delineated in pop art style, is impeccably impressive for late-night on-the-town wear, boasts a one-button jacket with a deftly defined waist, peak shawl lapel and side vents, plus trousers that feature adjustable waistband and quarter-top pockets, by Raleigh, $115. The striking black-and-white striped cotton broadcloth shirt has contrasting solid-white medium-spread collar, double cuffs and box-pleat back, by Aetna, $6, and is tastefully set off by a black and gray diamond-pattern Italian printed silk necktie, by Handcraft, $5.
Though Astrid Schulz, our saucy September Playmate, has been in America only one year, she's already a rising starlet, and she's adopted her new homeland so thoroughly that it's difficult to tell her from a California native. Born and raised in Heemstede, Holland, quadrilingual (Dutch, French, German, English) Astrid left home to pursue careers in acting, modeling and singing, finally arrived at her West Coast abode--which is permanent, she says--after jobs in Paris and London. Astrid studied ballet at the Sorbonne, performed professionally in light opera all across Europe and modeled in some of the best salons in London, but despite her international background and her impressive artistic credentials, she now enjoys such down-to-earth pursuits as watching TV's The Outer Limits in her trim Santa Monica apartment, reading gothic chillers by the Brontës, acting week nights in a Santa Monica little-theater group, and skindiving off nearby Catalina Island. With an ever-so-slight accent, brown-eyed Miss September told us she feels her given name (which means stellar) makes her destined for stardom--and she already has two small movie roles to her credit: In The Art of Love, a Ross Hunter/Universal picture, she plays a Mexican danseuse, and in A House Is Not a Home, a forthcoming Levine/Paramount movie, she plays a Polly Adler minion. Though she never skied or surfed before reaching these shores, Malibu regulars rate her above average in both. Living proof that good things can come in not-so-small packages (she stands 5'7" barefoot, weighs in at 120 sans bikini, arranged on a framable 36-23-36 frame), Astrid understandably has a wide range of dates, prefers "the fun ones--honest and outgoing guys who show me a happy time," a job for which, needless to say, most honest and outgoing guys would gladly volunteer.
The simplest, most modern outlet for a bachelor's gourmet endeavors is the 110-volt one on the wall. Any man capable of breaking an egg can now make Béarnaise sauce. A pillowy rich concoction of egg yolks, butter and tarragon vinegar, it's made in a blender in minutes. Just a few years back, however, it required the kind of job that daunted some professional chefs. The electric cord is not only a conductor to the loftiest culinary arts; it can radically transform simple things like coffee. The man who savors his Mocha and Java knows that coffee beans should be ground minutes before they go into the pot. If you own a blender, you can grind freshly roasted coffee beans in all of 15 seconds. If you're particular about the exact degree of pulverization you want, you can grind the beans in one of the new electric coffee mills. In either case, the brew and its aroma which follow will bring forth smiles of delight. If you like to sip espresso or cappuccino, and you want the real Latin potion rather than the slow drip variety, there are electric espresso coffee-makers that sit serenely on your table, and in a matter of 60 seconds pour forth their jet-black brew right into the waiting pitcher or demitasse cups. Give the electric skillet credit for demolishing the old wheeze that good cooking is necessarily difficult. Good cooking requires sensitivity and precision, rather than labor. For centuries the professional chef's dream of the perfect saucepan was one that would heat evenly, hoard its heat within a narrow temperature range, and thus liberate the chef from the chore of continuous pan watching. The electric skillet or saucepan, now matured into the electric chafing dish, performs this feat infinitely better than anything heretofore known in the pot-and-pan kingdom. Any cook who's handled a delicate fare like oysters or frogs' legs knows that prolonged heat at a high temperature will turn them to rubber. Too low a heat will inhibit their flavors. By a mere flick of the dial, the electric skillet can be set to sauté them in a few minutes. Another setting will simmer them gently, and a third will keep them warm until the (continued on page 213) current attractions (continued from page 122) last straggler pulls up to the buffet.
Maxwell Bodenheim was more disliked, derided, denounced, beaten up and kicked down more flights of stairs than any poet of whom I have ever heard or read. He was also more ignored than any literary talent of his time.
As the Super Chief approached Los Angeles on its overnight run from Santa Fe, Bertram Bascomb Baylor sat in the club car thoughtfully sipping some 25-year-old Scotch that had been placed aboard for his convenience by the press department of the Federal Broadcasting Company. United Broadcasting had arranged for Bertram's train accommodations (he had a thing about flying) and it had behooved Federal to get in there fast with a little judicious care and feeding of its own.
Although we can't guarantee that Playboy's annual campus fashion feature will bring you fame instead of shame (as in the accompanying photo story), we're willing to warrant that if you heed this guide, your peers, especially the fair sex, will regard you as a Big Man On Campus.
The male human animal, skulking through the impenetrable, fetid jungle of kidhood, learns early in the game just what sort of animal he is. The jungle he stalks is a howling tangled wilderness, infested with crawling, flying, leaping, nameless dangers. There are occasional brilliant patches of passionate orchids and other sweet flowers and succulent fruits, but they are rare. He daily does battle with horrors and emotions that he will spend the rest of his life trying to forget or suppress. Or recapture.
Herewith, the eighth step in our Tenth Anniversary romp down Playmate Memory Lane, to be followed shortly by a December Readers' Choice portfolio. The phenomenal growth of Playboy was reflected in its eighth year by a torrent of mail responses to 1961 's gatefold girls. So many readers raved about Christa Speck (September) that her total has never been topped; Speck-tacular Christa (38-22-36) later appeared in the Playmate Holiday House Party feature (December 1961), which garnered additional overwhelming male reaction; shortly thereafter, Playboy's editors unanimously selected her the Playmate of the Year. Christa's bosom companion, Heidi Becker (June), a strudel-sweet Austrian, elicited enough letters to place her third in all-time Playmate popularity; our mail room also worked overtime toting billets-doux for Barbara Ann Lawford (February) and Connie Cooper (January). Sheralee Conners (July) and Lynn Karrol (December), having tasted gatefold fame, opted for cottontailing and became two of New York's most popular Bunnies; admirers may also recognize Lynn as one of Peter Sellers' charmers in his movie-lover parody (Playboy, April 1964), and Sheralee via her appearance on Steve Allen's show, when she tutored him on the techniques of Bunnying. If you've already decided on your ten favorite Playmates of the Decade, send in your choices now. Any girl who appeared between December 1953 and December 1963 is eligible for our year-end portfolio.