Joaquin Alberto Vargas de Chavez, known to Playboy readers more succinctly as Vargas, created one of his most luscious ladies especially so that her enchanting visage might be used for this month's cover. Although Señor Vargas' full-blown females have been regular visitors to our pages for the last five years, his March miss is the first to have a playboy cover all to herself--a new pinnacle marking almost half a century as a professional artist for the agelessly ebullient Vargas.
Playboy, March, 1965, Vol. 12, no. 3. 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 $4.60 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.
Although surrounded by the ever-en-croaching, ear-splitting, eye-wearying leviathan of hard-sell supersalesman-ship, we had until recently labored under the delusion that there were some purlieus beyond the grasp of those who tenaciously dig for our dollars. Alas for our delusions; we've come upon a battle plan for door-to-door salesmen--ecclesiastical division--which we heartily recommend as a fit target for action by the Third Ecumenical Council. The following are lowlights from a guide to in-person Bible peddling, entitled Presentation of Marian Deluxe Bible:
John Hersey's career has been one of the more erratic among contemporary American writers, and his new novel, White Lotus (Knopf), keeps it that way. He started as a good War journalist (Into the Valley, 1943), then wrote a tricky War novel (A Bell for Adano, 1944), then a fine piece of reporting (Hiroshima, 1946). Hardly had we concluded that he was clearly a journalist, rather than a novelist, when he gave us an outstanding novel about the Nazi horror (The Wall, 1950). Then he reverted to form and produced, in too-rapid succession, a murky piece of fiction (The Marmot Drive, 1953), a pretentious Chinese allegory (A Single Pebble, 1956) and a stupidly obvious War novel (The War Lover, 1959). The word around was finílo. But his next one (The Child Buyer, 1960) was a sci-fi satire with considerable bite. Now the pendulum has swung again: White Lotus is 683 bruisingly boring pages of Chinese allegory (once more) in which it is possible to make out what's happening, but it is not possible to care. There's a clever idea beneath it: The relation between America and Africa in the 18th Century Negro slave trade is shifted to the future, with China and America in the equivalent positions; the Chinese import white slaves from our West Coast. Well, Ray Bradbury or Arthur C. Clarke might have made a pungent piece of it in 4000 words. This tremendous tome runs out of gas so soon that Hersey can almost be hailed for his achievement in continuing to put words together long after he has exhausted thematic invention. The story, such as it abysmally is, is narrated by a girl from Arizona called White Lotus, who is taken to China in her early teens. It tells of her induction into slave life and into love and sex, of her sales to various masters, her participation in conspiracies and abortive revolts, her gropings toward education. It ends with a hint of future freedom. The first-person narrative by this untutored miss is pretty classy. For example (talking of a fellow slave named Peace): "There ensued, for me, a moment of shock--not because the raindrops had been able to march so thuddingly over the line of our white God's crosses, but because Peace, in whom I had reposed so much hope, did not seem able to believe that our deity might abandon us." The book is, obviously, a comment on the racial problems of our time and country: These white slaves pick cotton in China, see, and the yellows make envious jokes about their sexual prowess. Hersey's heart has always been sound. In this case, it is much sounder than his head. Who needs a gigantic novel to allegorize--without further illuminating--knowledge that is all too familiar to those likely to read the book in the first place?
Cannonball Adderley's Fiddler on the Roof (Capitol) represents an auspicious debut on that label for the esteemed altoist. It also is a daring venture, as Jerry Bock's Yiddish-accented score for the Broadway smash would seem rugged territory for jazz permutations. But the Adderley Sextet has bridged the gap in stunning fashion. Cannonball, brother Nat on trumpet and cornet, Charles Lloyd on tenor and flute, and Joe Zawinul on piano all make major contributions to a session that is a wordless wonder.
Incident at Vichy is the best production so far at the Repertory Theater of Lincoln Center, and it is Arthur Miller's best play since A View from the Bridge. The first statement says little, since the other productions have ranged from disappointing to dismal, and the second merely means that the new play is better than After the Fall. All it really proves is that Miller is a promising playwright. The reason his play is only a partial success is not so much because it is old-fashioned--at least 20 years old-fashioned--but that he has little that is original to say about his subject, and it is a subject that demands originality. What new can be written about the Nazi horror? Miller searches his conscience, which got such a public workout in After the Fall, and emerges with: "Everyone has a Jew; even the Jew has a Jew." In other words, we are all guilty. Until this revelation, which comes at the end of Miller's 90-minute one-acter, we are confronted with, and sometimes interested in, a benchful of people who are about to be interrogated by the Nazis in Vichy in 1942 and, if found guilty of Jewishness, to be carted off to the ovens. There are a Red, an artist, a bearded patriarch, a boy who is too young to leave his mother, a psychiatrist (Joseph Wiseman), and a liberal Austrian prince (David Wayne) who has been detained by mistake. The acting generally is good, but the characters, except for the last two, exist largely as symbols. The measure of the play's limited effectiveness is the fact that as each person is taken off stage to be judged, the audience applauds--complimenting the actor's exit, forgetful of the man's fate. At the ANTA Washington Square, 40 West 4th Street.
The mistral, that chill, ill wind that rattles through southern France, has finally blown someone something good-- a new luxury establishment that forces the pantheon of great restaurants to open up for one more. Manhattan's Le Mistral (14 East 52nd Street) is pure Provence from its whitewashed walls and painted view of Pont d'Avignon to the soupe de poissons. The front portion of the dining area is latticed to give a handsome alfresco effect. The blue ceiling, pinpricked with tiny lights, gives the impression you are dining by moonlight on the Cote d'Azur. As a matter of fact, you stand a very good chance of dining as well at Le Mistral as at almost any eatery along the Cote. For openers we savored I'anguille fumee, smoked eel, with a delicately chilled horse-radish sauce, and a specialty of the house, la croustade meridionale, a concoction of hot seafood served up in a flaky puff pastry. Chef Guy Moruzzi properly keeps the number of entrees down to about a dozen so that each serving gets the master's touch. Particularly good is the squab served either with artichokes and mushrooms or simply with peas. There is a plat du jour that remains uniformly excellent. Specialties include pompano and a dazzling caneton (duckling) flambe, along with the usual items from the grill. The cheese board runs the gamut from a piquant goat cheese to a rich brie. Desserts are often the test at which even the best restaurants falter. Le Mistral's selection is, if anything, the strongest portion of its solid menu. We ended with a sinfully caloried pot de creme au choco-lat and a Bavarian cream with a vanilla sauce laced with anise. Proprietors Jean Larriaga and Joseph Lemerdy have assembled a noteworthy staff. Many of them, from waiters to the saucier pois-sonnier, have served previously at Le Pavillon, that haut monde of French cuisine in America. As it should be, but rarely is, the service is attentive, knowledgeable and friendly. The wine list is more than adequate. There is a fixed price of $5.50 for luncheon (from 12:30 to 2:30) and $7.50 for dinner (6:30-10). Many of the specialties are extra, however, and a really masterful dinner for two with wine will run around $30. Reservations are suggested. Le Mistral is closed on Sundays.
They've oiled up the machinery in the Hollywood fun factory (but not enough) and creaked out another so-called comedy. This time it's called Strange Bedfellows, with Rock Hudson and Gina Lollo-brigida in a script produced, directed and co-authored by Melvin Frank; and to be frank, Melvin hasn't got it. He has got a good memory, and he's been a diligent disciple of the screwball school; all he lacks is talent and taste. This jaded jape is about an American oilman in London who marries an Italian bohemian. They fall into bed and then, in several senses, fall out. After seven years in Arabia, culminating in a big coup, he returns to London to find she's still a big kook. But to get a promotion with his company he has to be happily married--just when they've agreed to a divorce. Furthermore, she's planning to lead a protest march on the U.S. Embassy the day his boss arrives. The best that can be said about Hudson as a light comedian is that he is tall. Miss Lollobrigida, still beautiful, seems less beautiful because all the playfulness has gone out of her playing. Gig Young, a boozy PR man, varnishes off another smoothy; with Young we always know the gig, but at least it's deftly done. There's a lot of Technicolor for a lot of clothes and settings, and a lot of very sad jokes about topic A. Melvin Frank has tripped all over the light fantastic.
A friend and I recently disagreed on a technical matter concerning a girl's loss of virginity. Would you say that more young women rupture their hymens accidentally (in gym classes, etc.), or during their first act of sexual inter-course?--J. D., Joplin, Missouri.
Although many men of the world would rather travel on their own than with an organized group, some unusual benefits can be had if the group has a sophisticated approach. Still new, but apparently on the right track, is the International Ski and See Club. Its current attraction, for example, is a monthly Thursday-to-Sunday junket to the Lucayan Beach Hotel on Grand Bahama or to one of several top hostelries at Las Vegas, with the hotel assuming the cost of all transportation, room, board, reasonable drinks and on-premises entertainment. The guest buys $500 worth of chips and agrees to risk them at the gaming tables (most gamblers would venture this amount in the normal course of the weekend). Of course, the traveler who chances his quota in good faith and wins or breaks even is that much ahead of the game--and welcome to return.
As Jimmy Mc Clain sat by the time clock waiting for the brunette starter, he stared at the cigarette that trembled in his hand and wondered at the mystery of his own nature. Why should a terrible accident cause him to invite out Vera? Why should sudden and violent death cause him to look at Vera and decide she was not an insensitive and malicious hoyden, but a warm, attractive and charming person?
A Racing event, whether it be Le Mans or the Preakness, has traditionally been an occasion when even the most conservative dresser rummages through his wardrobe looking for that bright waistcoat and boldly patterned ascot. The most recent American Grand Prix competition at Watkins Glen was no exception. Witness the collection of casual-wear pictured here among the more than 50,000 persons who mobbed that scenic New York State race course to see the world's best drivers handle the Glen's twisting 2.3-mile course. Perfect for viewing the excitement of formula racing, these sports clothes are equally appropriate for any countrified occasion from alfresco cocktails to informal dining out. The sartorially resplendent racing enthusiasts who watched Graham Hill set a new course record were a far cry from the fans of an earlier day. When Watkins Glen was first set up to handle road-racing events in 1948, it was de rigueur to hustle out to the track in corduroy pants and an Indian blanket. "American racing crowds have little dress sense," sniffed the elegant English racing critic Louis Stanley, fresh from watching the competitions in Monaco and France, "... a cross between Laramie and Alice in Wonderland. Only feathers and war paint were missing." At the latest Glen go, we are happy to report, the Beethoven sweat shirts were held to an absolute minimum. The racing followers had obviously traded their Navahos for garb that would please the most fastidious Continental. Mr. Stanley, shooting stick et al., may come back any time to see for himself.
During the 1930s a funny little story was current here and in England. It gave considerable pleasure both to those who read it or heard it and to those who had set it afloat. The story, as usually done, opened with the statement that it was well known that the Japanese could not design any mechanical device, but could only copy. The Japanese, everyone knew, were short, myopic, backward folk, addicted to the kimono, the tea ceremony and flower arrangements, people living in the past. After all, they had fought a battle with the bow and arrow in the 19th Century!
That Tall, black-eyed, redheaded, high-breasted and round-heeled lass from Liverpool, Fanny Hill, has come a long way from her humble beginnings. Conceived in a debtors' gaol in 1748 by an eccentric littérateur and vagabond named John Cleland, who then cast her out into the world for a paltry 20 guineas, she went on to ignite the erotic imagination of millions of readers in every major language; and now, 217 years later, Fanny has made her debut as the most triumphant fille de joie the movies have ever known.
Synopsis: The nameless narrator, a suicide by pistol shot after having been humiliated and caned by the husband of his mistress, almost immediately begins a new, nightmarish incarnation. The scene is laid in post-World War I Berlin. It is a life peopled by émigrés from Communist Russia: the bookseller Vikentiy Lvovich Weinstock; jovial Khrushchov and his wife Evgenia; her sister Vanya; Dr. Marianna Nikolaevna; Roman Bogdanovich, an old family friend; Mukhin, the betrothed of Vanya; Vanya's Uncle Pasha; and, above all, the enigmatic Smurov.
The Number-one Boy, Manolo, was suddenly a whirling, twisting, leaping demon. He was wearing a gray baboonhide cloak and a pair of bushbuck horns on his head. War rattles clanked on his piston-pounding legs and he flourished a wildebeest-tail fly whisk, embroidered with magic beads. He had clamped a war whistle between his teeth, and occasionally blew piercing blasts. Another chap--the cook, I think--was blowing mightily on a kudu horn. Another--perhaps the room boy?--was dressed in leopardskin and rattles, and was tumbling madly on the ground. Africans of all shapes and sizes were leaping and stamping to as wicked a multiple drumbeat as ever announced the first serving of boiled missionary.
The Devil makes work for idle hands, they say, and if the converse is true, March Playmate Jennifer Jackson's hands are positively angelic. "I'm not out to prove anything; it's just that I'm not at my best unless I'm busy all the time," explains the tireless 20-year-old, who triples as a Bunny at the Chicago Playboy Club, a part-time undergraduate at a Chicago teachers' college, and a free-lance model with a rapidly expanding schedule of assignments for national and local advertisers. "What with my time at the Club, hitting the books and posing for a new soft-drink ad, I really need Sunday to catch up with the past week's news," says our centerfold March Hare. "Actually, I'm only sorry there aren't more hours in the day. There are so many things I want to do, and so little time to do them."
The pullover, one of the most versatile elements in a man's wardrobe, ranks easily as the most popular of sweater styles. It is, therefore, an unusual and noteworthy feat to produce a pullover that is eye-catchingly different yet neatly correct. The one shown above, being subjected to a distaff squeeze play, fills the bill admirably. A trail-blazing flat-knit import with jacketlike open sleeves and loose waist, it comes in 22 colors, by Odys de Paris, $40.
Once upon a time, making money was looked upon as the supreme challenge of American manhood. Leisure, luxury, power and prestige--all these hinged on how much money a man could make. The result was materialism: a lamentably lopsided accent on acquisition. Today American manhood faces a much deeper and more spiritual challenge. As every alert, red-blooded young American knows, true achievement is no longer measured by how much money a man can make. What counts is how much he keeps.
Ike, certain He'd handled himself well, was pleased. He broke precise half-inch chunks from the body of a soft-shell crab to bait the three hooks tied to his line. The crabs were kept captive in a wooden tray on the floor boards of the boat. They sloshed about lazily in the salt water brought over the side in a dented galvanized bucket which had a hemp rope tied to the handle.
Carol Lynley is that rarest of rarities, a famous little girl who grew up to be a famous woman. Never a spoiled prodigy, but always prodigiously pretty in a natural-blonde way, she was New York's top junior mannequin before reaching her teens. At 15, having found modeling "iffy," she launched her acting career with a major role in Broadway's The Potting Shed, and the same year added a cover story in Life to her more than 50 magazine credits. Carol then assessed her future as being "where the money is," and also predicted that by 21 she would quit, marry and raise a family. Moving faster than foreseen, Carol was not only married and a mother by that age, but a divorcee as well. Far from retiring, however, she was just beginning to earn big cabbage. Her delineation of the unwed mother in Blue Denim--at 17-- had won her numerous TV and film parts; but most of them portrayed her as a fluffy-brained teenager. Claiming she merited "adult, sexy roles," Carol made her point in The Cardinal, in which she played a hard-bitten taxi dancer. She continued to prove her maturity with sophisticated parts in Under the Yum Yum Tree, Shock Treatment, The Pleasure Seekers and, not least of all, this portfolio of exclusive photographs for Playboy.
The New York Playboy Club, located at 5 East 59th Street, right off Fifth Avenue--just a martini olive's toss from the Plaza and Central Park--was aptly described by Variety as a "20th Century dreamworld." From the open-hearth fireplaces, the eye-arresting Neiman paintings, the illuminated Playmate transparencies and Playboy cartoons, the warm paneling and deep carpeting throughout, the visitor feels as if he has entered an urbane version of an Arabian Nights palace. What brings the fantasy into focus are the indigenous Bunnies, who smile, beguile, serve drinks, dance the twist, check coats, manage the gift shop, take pictures of and with patrons--in short, make the Playboy Club keyholder feel like a sultan of yore. Our man LeRoy Neiman, blending the vivid qualities of this multitiered structure with the lively esprit of the Bunnies, reports: "Entering the Club on any level, flashes of delightful flesh pop in the semidarkness as the Bunnies move about. Their throats and bosoms gleam, their Bunny costumes pointing up their natural gifts. As the eye accustoms itself to the romantic glow, more exciting visual rewards ensue. The Bunnies' youthful freshness contrasts with their stylized gestures, making it apparent that it is they who endow this unique setting with its exquisite luster."
When I say that where I come from is neither here nor there, I mean exactly that, for my family's place is dust and ashes. And there are 32 winds. As the Dumb Ox once said, "Neither here nor there is everywhere. You are a citizen of the world, young Martin. Cheer up!"
Schickless shel Silverstein, Playboy'S cartoonist at large, recently ended a long stay Stateside by donning sandals and sombrero for a foray down Mexico way. Though sorely tempted at one point to spend his entire southern sojourn basking in the congenial Acapulco sun, our whiskered wit overcame his somnolence and covered the country like a serape in a leisurely ramble from Tijuana to Yucatán. True to the Silverstein tradition, Shel eagerly embraced a number of old Mexican customs--including cockfighting, tequila, la siesta and the señoritas. Though a seasoned world traveler (his sketch-pad junkets for Playboy in the last seven-plus years have taken him to Tokyo, Scandinavia, London, Paris, Italy, Switzerland, Spain, Arabia, Greenwich Village, Africa, Alaska, Hawaii and Miami), Shel is anything but jaded and, as the accompanying cartoons show, still has no trouble finding suitable subjects for his inky ingenuity.