Playboy, October, 1964, vol. 11, no. 10. 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, Associate Advertising Manager, 405 Park Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10022, MU 8-3030; Joseph Fall, Advertising Manager; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 155 E. Ohio Street, Chicago, Ill. 60611, MI 2-1000, Detroit, Joseph Guenther, Manager, 2990 West Grand Boulevard, TR 5-7250; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard, OL 2-8790; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street; YU 2-7994; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Road, N. E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
Our July noninterview with Presidential noncandidate Marvin Kitman elicited a number of letters, none more interesting than that of yet another Presidential noncontender, Mrs. Yetta Bronstein of the Bronx. A few irate Kitman supporters have charged that Mrs. Bronstein is trying to cash in on the write-in-for-Kitman boomlet or to take advantage of the Jewish backlash: Both candidates hail from New York University, and both point with pride to the fact that they're twice as Jewish as Goldwater. There the similarity ends, however. Whereas Kitman is an NYU graduate, Mrs. Bronstein admits that she, like Senator Goldwater, is no more than a college dropout.
Bittersweet / Carmen McRae (Focus) offers ample evidence of Miss McRae's ascendancy to the very pinnacle of vocaldom. Supported by a quartet sparked by guitarist Mundell Lowe, Carmen does definitive interpretations of a baker's dozen ballads, including flawless renditions of When Sunny Gets Blue, Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most and If You Could See Me Now.
The first happy obligation in reviewing My Autobiography (Simon & Schuster, $6.95) by Charles Chaplin is to be grateful for it. We're lucky that the supreme genius of films has written his life story, has told so much about his work, his loves and marriages, friendships and aversions. Born in a poor section of London in 1889, he was the son of music-hall performers who separated when he was a baby. His youth was a life of poverty out of the grimmest pages of Dickens. He became a child actor at 12, advanced steadily, and in his early 20s made American tours with a troupe. A chance viewing of the act by Mack Sennett in New York led to his first film contract in 1913. By 1916 he was given a $150,000 bonus to sign a $670,000 contract. Chaplin's narrative of early Hollywood and its carefree, imaginative film making is totally fascinating. (The Tramp, for example, was hurriedly devised in one day because Sennett needed some gags for a movie he was shooting.) Equally striking are his portraits of Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks. W. R. Hearst, Valentino, and many others; his too-brief occasional reflections on comedy and film techniques; and his accounts of how he chose his subjects. He is fairly frank about his principal love affairs and three of his marriages. His second marriage, to the mother of his two grown sons, is dismissed in a few lines. As might be expected, he gives his own (perfectly credible) versions of the Joan Barry paternity suit and of his wartime speeches that led to harassment by the American Legion and other groups, and eventually to cancellation of his re-entry permit into the U. S. What are missing are the ends of some of the stories of people's lives, fuller details about the making of his major films, better developed thoughts on his methods as actor and director. What might have been spared are his economic and political opinions, as delivered to world leaders such as Churchill and Gandhi, and the occasional labored literary flourishes. Still, this is Charles Chaplin's autobiography, and it will be read as long as the Tramp is loved.
Girl with Green Eyes is yet another triumph from the British outside-the-Establishment Woodfall group, headed by Tony Richardson, who this time serves as executive producer. While directing A Taste of Honey, with Rita Tushingham, Richardson decided (a) he wanted another vehicle for the gifted young actress and (b) Desmond Davis, his camera operator, should someday get a chance to direct. A great hunch--for Davis, in his first effort, has moved himself right into the front rank of British directors. Setting the film in Dublin and its environs, staying away from the studio, Davis gives us a rich, bubbling Irish stew about a lowly grocery-store clerk in Dublin who reads the works of F. Scott Fitzgerald on the side, and finds herself drawn into an affair with a much older, married writer. As the girl, Rita Tushingham uses those remarkable round eyes of hers to express joy, wonder, pain and infinite variations thereof. Peter Finch crowds her for acting honors as the older chap whose resources of feeling are too depleted to cope with the exuberance of her emotions. Lynn Redgrave (Michael's daughter) is fine as a talkative roomie, and Arthur O'Sullivan contributes a rare bit as a hard-drinking and overprotective father.
An arrestingly different restaurant in New York, a city abulge with unusual eateries, is The Sign of the Dove (Third Avenue and 65th Street). Its owner, Dr. Joseph Santo, a Boston dentist who emigrated to Gotham, put together the Dove in his spare time and was soon devoting almost all of his working days to dinner plates rather than dental plates. The Dove is a complex of rooms, each with its own personality and each a tribute to the innate good taste of Dr. Santo. The main dining room is a converted greenhouse which provides the Manhattan sky as a ceiling. It overlooks a garden that is pressed into service for outdoor warm-weather dining. Fronting on Third Avenue and preceding the main dining room are a brace of bars, artifacted with Early Americana garnered by Dr. Santo on foraging expeditions around the country. An ancillary dining room, The Coffee House, is just off the greenhouse. Most recent addition to the establishment is the Terrazza Di Stefano, an intime cocktail terrace on a level over the bars (plans are to enclose it for year-round use). The decor here is mainly Mexican; the dining areas are a felicitous amalgam of Mediterranean with Early American. The dinner menu is brief but excellent. After sampling the Stuffed Mushrooms (our companion had Prosciutto with Melon), we moved on to Stuffed Danish Trout, a subtly piquant treatment of a fish that has had far too many gourmandial travesties committed in its name; our lady's fare was Brandied Duckling Christiansen which had just enough sauce to render it softly succulent. Our dinners were capped with caffè espresso--strong, black and flavorsome. The Dove's wine list is sprinkled with enough superior vintages to satisfy most discriminating bibbers. Luncheon is served from 11:30 a.m. and a Sunday brunch is offered where the late riser can assuage the inner man with one of four different soufflés, German Farmer's Breakfast, Quiche Lorraine or Filet Mignonette with Eggs. The Sign of the Dove is open seven days a week till 3 A.M.
Off-Broadway, this has been the year of the Negro. There were Negro dramas, gospel shows and staged readings, many of them written by Negroes, and all of them starring Negroes. Musicals were also big this season. There were toe-tapping versions of Little Women, Cinderella, and almost one of Alice in Wonderland; and there were musicals of old plays by Molière and Dion Boucicault.
The girl I'm going to marry in two months is 22 and a virgin. I know she's affectionate, and can even be quite passionate, but more than a few of my friends have warned me that any college graduate who's a virgin at 22 is either frigid or decidedly on the cool side. Do you think our marriage has as good a chance of surviving as it would if she were not a virgin?--G. P., Cambridge, Maryland.
It wasn't until 9:55 on a night last February that anyone began to take seriously the extravagant boasts of Cassius Marcellus Clay: That was the moment when the redoubtable Sonny Liston, sitting dazed and disbelieving on a stool in Miami Beach's Convention Hall, resignedly spat out his mouthpiece--and relinquished the world's heavyweight boxing championship to the brash young braggart whom he, along with the nation's sportswriters and nearly everyone else, had dismissed as a loudmouthed pushover.
The woman stepped to the kitchen window and looked out. There in the twilight yard a man stood surrounded by bar bells and dumbbells and dark iron weights of all kinds and slung jump ropes and elastic and coiled-spring exercisers. He wore a sweat suit and tennis shoes and said nothing to anyone as he simply stood in the darkening world and did not know she watched.
Though Marco Polo is reputed to have journeyed all the way to Cathay in search of spices of the marjoram-and-thyme sort, the latest cinematic rendering of his travels has Horst Buchholz (as Marco) uncovering exotic dishes more of the sugar-and-sweetmeat variety. In its photographic paeans to the flesh, Marco Polo lends further substance to the observation that the "costumes" in costume epics, if not the films themselves, are becoming simultaneously skimpier and more spectacular. For Marco, French costume designer Jacques Fonteray was called on to produce brief garb for a horde of Mongol and Tartar types usually portrayed dressed to the teeth. As these pages show, he was up to the task of dressing them down.
Yes, masters, I have caught trout on worms and even salmon eggs, and may, I fear, do it again tomorrow if the weather's nice (and if no one's looking, of course, and the fish won't take any sporting artificial flies). If the weather's threatening, so that it doesn't seem wise to drive 90 miles north to the nearest trout stream, I may just snag a few carp from the Iowa river near home instead.
In recruiting models for our semi-annual coverage of the newest and best in masculine apparel, we could have put them in elegant settings--thus augmenting our style selections with an aura of urban excitement--or we could have employed motionless mannequins, the better to show off the style, stitch and weave of every garment. No dummies we, we opted for the best of both worlds by utilizing live models to play the parts of mute mannequins. Notwithstanding this stroke of genius, we still had to forecast the trends, and so, packing our warm-weather duds in the closet and unpacking our sartorial crystal ball, we present herewith Playboy's predictions for fall and winter.
In almost 11 years of unveiling feminine charm, we've discovered our Playmates in small-town shops, in big-city banks, in our own offices, in beauty contests, in various facets of showbiz, on college campuses, and in our Playboy Clubs. Though for the most part we've discovered them, occasionally our Playmates have turned the tables, introducing themselves through letters with snapshots enclosed, as did Nancy Jo Hooper, our February 1964 Playmate. Our prize for the most refreshingly direct approach to date, however, goes to Rosemarie Hillcrest, the statuesque British beauty who graces our gatefold this month. A 21-year-old student at the Sceptered Isle's prestigious Exeter University, Rosemarie jetted 4000 miles from Devon, England, to Chicago, U.S.A., for the express purpose of placing her name and numerals (41-25-38) in nomination for Playmate laurels. Rosemarie has long been a Playboy fan (though a copy of Playboy costs $1.20 in the United Kingdom, it's still the largest-selling American magazine there) and Playboy's popularity on the Exeter campus further kindled her long-cherished dreams of becoming a gatefold girl. "I knew I had the wherewithal to be a Playmate," Rosemarie later told us, "but I was hesitant to travel all the way to America, because I was afraid I might not even get an interview." With some urging from school chums, however, Rosemarie decided to visit the United States during her summer vacation--with a scheduled stop at Playboy's home base in the Windy City. Thus it was that one afternoon in the summer of 1963 she appeared on the marble doorstep of The Playboy Mansion, on Chicago's Near North Side, requesting to see Editor-Publisher Hugh M. Hefner, who happened to be at home that afternoon. She was shown in. Understandably impressed, Hef arranged Playmate test shots, the results of which were, as the British might understate, a bit of all right; so much so that a few months after Rosemarie had returned to England, we arranged to fly her back to the U.S. (between semesters) to pose for her official Playmate photos in the Playboy Studio. Rosemarie was so taken with America and with the Playboy world that she plans to come back after graduation to work as a Playboy Club Bunny. As far as we know, when she dons her satin ears she'll be the first Bunny-aristocrat: Her ancestry, which traces back to the England of William the Conqueror, entitles her to a coat of arms. Her intellectual escutcheon is equally prepossessing: She reads deeply in the works of such British novelists as Anthony Trollope, George Eliot and Jane Austen. But her abiding interest is economics, a subject in which she will soon hold a bachelor's degree. A disciple of the British economist John Maynard Keynes, Rosemarie thinks that America's economy should be more closely planned, says she believes the late J.F.K.'s greatest domestic achievement was consciously applying deficit spending to boost prosperity. Our 5″6″ Miss October is also an accomplished equestrienne and first-rate swordswoman. Except for TW3, she finds television "a terrible bore, which I blamed on Britain until my first visit to America, when I learned that the only thing worse than British television is American television." She also can't tolerate the Beatles or their fans, reserves special contempt for affected men. But she's not hypercritical, she avers: She digs show horses, showbiz folks, sunshine, rose-period Picasso athletes, progressive jazz and masterful men. "Though deep down I'm a sensible girl, I'm sometimes rather too spontaneous for my own good," she admits candidly. "Which explains why I do outrageous things, like coming to America--that have wonderful results, like becoming a Playmate." The wonderful result of Rosemarie's spontaneity is--in this instance--undeniable; skeptics can refer to the gatefold for additional evidence, and for further insights into our beauteous and bounteous bundle from Britain.
The telephone rang. She looked at it speculatively. She was not obliged to answer it. She was not even sure she should answer it. It went a second and a third time. She decided that if it rang six times she would pick it up.
Time was when the waking-hours focal point for a gentleman's retreat was a roaring hearth. But times change and with them the means by which a man of means might best while away his leisure hours. In this electronic age it is both meet and proper that the knowledgeable bachelor should have for his avocational center of attractions an area replete with all the latest electronic inducements to keep him--and whoever he chooses to share his company--indoors.
When May Irwin and John C. Rice electrified nickelodeon audiences with the screen's first flickering kiss--a prim 60-second buss which was the smash scandal of 1896--moving pictures became not only big business but also a magnifying mirror for the moral moods of their times. They still are; but times, happily, have changed. Keeping pace with moviegoers, the movies have since learned to dish up the facts of life with unblushing frankness. Licit and illicit, sex is today bigger box office than ever before; and never has its infinite variety been more openly explored--in everything from the cheapest nudie movies to the multimillion-dollar epics and avant-garde award winners. Whatever their genre, no variation on this evergreen theme is more time-honored than that of the cuckolded husband, the wayward wife and the philandering paramour whose triangular misadventures are invariably climaxed by the melodramatic moment when hubby returns home to find the little woman in flagrante delicto. This scene is such a classic cinematic cliché that we got to wondering how several of our favorite directors might attempt to breathe fresh life into this age-old confrontation. In the following photo spoof, we suggest the manner in which nine well-known moviemakers might proceed, each in his own distinctive cinematic style.
As he faces the audience, the artist is at the focus of a battery of eight tape recorders, with an attendant by each. At a signal, he begins to speak. So do all eight tape recorders. Each one is playing a speech in his voice--but all the speeches are different, and in addition none of them is the speech the live artist himself is delivering.
Ribald Classics: The Tutor Who Taught Too Well, Alas
There once lived a young and innocent student named Bucciolo who, having finished a course of tedious study at Bologna and still having before him the time for some sport ere his return to Rome, asked his tutor to use what days remained in coaching him in the ways of love. "Very well," replied his seer. "You could not have chosen an angler better than I, for this is a pool in which I oft have slaked my thirst."
Chantilly, a small village set in deeply forested countryside 25 miles north of Paris, is an idyllic site for one of the world's most aristocratic divertisements: riding to hounds in pursuit of deer. The classic chasse à courre, which once flourished under the royal enthusiasm of pre-Revolution monarchs, is a tradition sustained in France today through the private sponsorship of a few titled elite--the counts, dukes, marquis and barons who still have a passion, and the francs, for the hunt. A recent witness to this exclusive and exciting sport was Playboy's impressionist man-about-the-world, LeRoy Neiman, who was invited to the Château de Chantilly to view a hunt held under the auspices of the Marquis de Rouälle, Grand Veneur, or huntmaster, of the Rallye Pique-Avant. Reports Neiman: "I was struck immediately by the totally unself-conscious--and therefore somehow inoffensive--snobisme of all concerned, from the impeccably attired men in traditional hunting garb to their elegant ladies, to the attendant piqueurs, the class-conscious grooms and dog handlers. An aura of time-honored protocol infuses the proceedings, a sense of ceremony which is conveyed with typical French flair. The hunt itself is a tremendously exhilarating affair, enacted against landscapes of unmatched rustic beauty, and punctuated by the cry of the pack and the brassy blasts of the circular hunting horns which sound as the hounds pick up the scent, when the game is sighted, and following the kill. As the ringing tones echo through the woods they seem to go back through time in search of similar sounds long since lost--the effect is that of a charming fairy tale, made poignantly nostalgic in its re-enactment."
The polls remain open in our special election for the ten Playmates of the Decade, all of whom will appear in a December Readers' Choice pictorial. The 1962 roster of candidates, herein pictured, validates the ancient adage that good things come in pairs. Before our ninth year of publication, we had never photographed a Canadian Playmate; that year we reached north of the border for two, Pamela Anne Gordon (March) and Unne Terjesen (July), who was born in Odda, Norway, before migrating west. Another double premiere was personified by Jan Roberts (August) and Mickey Winters (September): Until their arrival on the gatefold scene, 24 girls had transited from Playmate to Bunny, but Jan and Mickey were discovered in cottontails at the Chicago Club, and, in a neat switch, went from Bunny to Playmate. Then, in December, June Cochran became the 25th beauty to go the other way, when she followed up twin beauty-contest victories (she won the Indiana State title in both the Miss World and Miss Universe contests) with a stunning centerfold appearance, then became--and still is--one of the Windy City's most popular Bunnies, as well as 1963's Playmate of the Year. We also introduced a brace of cinema hopefuls in 1962 who have since taken their first steps up the stardom ladder: Merle Pertile (January) recently signed a contract with Universal, and Marya Carter (May), a regular on the Jackie Gleason show last year, will soon appear in Columbia's The New Interns. Next month, Playboy will revisit 1963's candidates, after which the ballot box will be unsealed and the ballots tallied. If you've already chosen your slate of ten favorites from December 1953 through December 1963, you may cast your votes now.
Ten years ago, the soft and subtle trumpetry of a handsome 24-year-old jazzman orbited him to the top of the popularity charts in the world of cool jazz. In 1954 and 1955 Chet Baker placed first in both the Metronome and Down Beat polls, and in 1957 he won second place in the first Playboy Jazz Poll. His rapid rise provided a boost to both his ego and his wallet: Purists and squares alike gobbled up his records; his Prince Charming looks led to screen roles, and his suave and swinging hornwork, especially with Gerry Mulligan, earned him extravagant kudos from aficionados of the new lyrical "West Coast" sound in jazz. The bubble began to break in 1956 on a European tour when Dick Twardzik, his brilliant pianist and closest friend, abruptly died of a heart attack. Deeply shaken, Chet came home and a short time thereafter the boy with the golden horn became a hung-up young man with a golden arm. His career, badly damaged, reflected a physically sick body and an emotionally disturbed soul. Hounded by U.S. authorities, an unhappy and confused Baker fled to Europe. "I hoped," he said not long ago, "that if I could get away from the States for a while I could put my life together again." The road was rough, with several much-publicized cures and a prison term in Italy along the way: Maturity hadn't come easily. Last spring Chet Baker returned from Europe, almost penniless, but with his health and confidence regained. Today, Chet's instrumental (he has discarded the trumpet in favor of the Flügelhorn) and vocal efforts are more moving than ever. In a recent Down Beat, critic Ira Gitler spoke of Chet's "retention of lyricism" while calling him "a much more virile, masculine player than he was before." His recent popular successes--at the Newport Jazz Festival and at night-club engagements throughout the country--have proved to jazz lovers that, after an unfortunate detour, Chet is back on the road to the top.
At a hughes aircraft research center four years ago, an obscure young scientist named Theodore H. Maiman wrapped a rod of solid ruby in the flash coil of a photographer's strobe light, triggered a switch, and watched a thin dart of intense red light lance from the heart of the stone. He called his chromatic invention a "laser" (for "Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation"). Promising to revolutionize modern science in areas as disparate as surgery and cybernetics, this light fantastic can weld, measure, balance, heat, survey, detect, communicate, time, sterilize, map, machine, heal, analyze, search and melt; not surprisingly, it may prove to be as far-reaching a technical breakthrough as the X ray or vacuum tube. The invention has already paid off for Maiman, who at 37 heads his own laser-making firm, Korad Corporation, grossing $1,500,000 yearly and recently acquired as a subsidiary of Union Carbide. Maiman started his first business at 13--an appliance-repair shop whose profits eventually helped him through the University of Colorado and Stanford. After getting his Ph.D. in physics, Maiman abandoned repairing the inventions of others in favor of evolving his own. Today, he's less often in a lab coat than in a business suit, selling lasers to research organizations. More than 500 major firms have joined in the light brigade, and are now investing $30,000,000 annually in laser research, justifying Maiman's characterization of his invention as "a solution looking for a problem." Despite its research applications, however, the laser has already outgrown its nonutilitarian origins (early versions performed such parlor tricks as burning holes in diamonds and bouncing light beams off the moon), and is now in practical use--in such fields as eye surgery, metallurgy and communications. Its prospective applications are even more impressive, including: optical radar (superior to the sonic variety, and 100 times more compact); supersensitive satellite guidance systems; radio and television broadcasting; wireless power transmission; optical computers (in which glass fibers and light replace electrical impulses and wire); and even the mythical Buck Rogers death ray (current lasers are powerful enough to start fires two miles away). All in all, Maiman concludes, laser's future looks rosy as a ruby ray. As laser prospers, so will he.
In the steam rooms at Pimlico, Hialeah, Aqueduct and Arlington Park, where each afternoon the jockeys sit and read soggy issues of the Daily Racing Form while waging their endless wars against weight, Bill Hartack is regarded as the best in the biz. No one in a single season has had mounts who won as much money as his ($3,000,000 in 1957), nor so many big stakes (43). In his career he has captured more than 3300 races, third highest total in U.S. history. A 31-year-old bachelor, rebellious little (5″4″, 113 pounds) William ("Don't call me Willie") Hartack last year took $125,000 from the winnings of the horseflesh he straddled. This year, riding the Canadian-bred three-year-old Northern Dancer, he won the Kentucky Derby (for the fourth time in six tries), the Preakness, and finished third in the Belmont. In addition, impudent, non-conformist Hartack is as determined (and apparently as successful) indoors as out. Off track he lives in sultanic splendor in a New York pad equipped with ankle-deep carpeting, a wide black couch, a zebra-striped cocktail table, a bar of Polynesian decor and, usually, two or three chicks (to keep his weight down). He also owns a $90,000 house in Miami Springs, a 170-acre farm in West Virginia and a Cadillac convertible which he customarily turns in almost as soon as the ashtrays are filled. Born the son of a coal miner in Ebensburg, Pennsylvania, Hartack was too puny to follow his father into the pits; instead, he found a job shoveling out stalls at the Charles Town, West Virginia, race track. Next assignment: exercise boy. Finally, he became an apprentice jock--and, on his third mount, won his first race (three years later he won more than 400). Today he is regarded by turf-men as the thinking man's jockey and, with the probable exception of Cassius Clay, as the most controversial figure in sports. Hartack's trouble is that he gets along better with horses than he does with most people. He has had 12 agents in his career (the last one quit the day of the Belmont). After his fourth win at the Derby, he left reporters muttering into their mint juleps for an hour while he signed autographs, and his relations with other jockeys, owners, trainers and stable boys has often discreetly been described as "brusque." Yet sometimes he expands a bit. Asked recently if he planned to retire, his riposte was a ready one: "Quit? You think if I quit I'd be riding around in a new Cadillac every year? Hell, no. I'd be driving an Edsel."
Benton Battbarton shows Annie his gun collection in an adventure that will quicken the pulse of every armophile from the sophisticated big-game hunter dusting his dumdum bullets to the little tyke oiling his war -- surplus machine gun --