For the third April in a row, we proudly present the exclusive prepublication of a James Bond novel. Our two previous serializations of the late Ian Fleming's masterspy works, You Only Live Twice (Playboy, April--June, 1964) and On Her Majesty's Secret Service (Playboy, April--June, 1963), went on to become best sellers in hardcover and paperback, and will ultimately find their way to the screen--to become box-office smashes, we're confident. Starting in this issue is Fleming's final Bond book, The Man with the Golden Gun; much as we mourn its author's passing, we're glad to report--and feel certain you'll agree--that he was at the height of his inventive powers when he completed Golden Gun shortly before his death. Scaramanga, villainous wielder of the title weapon, will rank with Goldfinger as a marvelously murderous and Machiavellian monster; Bond, bent on vindication as well as victory, takes him on in his inimitably suave and lethal manner.
Playboy, April, 1965, Vol. 12, No. 4. 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.
In this otherwise charming month, replete with the promise of all sorts of vernal delights, it seems typical, if not fitting, that the Feds should do their annual best to justify the late T. S. Eliot's assertion that "April is the cruelest month." Taxpayers, whose fevered brows even April showers can't quite cool, may derive a bit of envious solace from the following, however: a report on how a beleaguered citizen one-upped the IRS and saved a healthy hunk of hard-earned loot--simply by knowing his assessments from a hole in the ground.
The Repertory Theater of Lincoln Center, while boasting that it is nonprofit, has from the beginning had its eyes on the market place, and so far has succeeded in being neither artistic nor commercial. If that weren't enough, it has aired its internal squabbles in public, with everyone passing the buck. The group's first real accomplishment is, appropriately enough, the staging of the classic comedy about hypocrisy, Molièire's Tartuffe--the last play of its second season. Those most responsible for the success are newcomers to the Repertory, expressly added for this production: translator Richard Wilbur, director William Ball and performers Sada Thompson, Joyce Ebert and, most importantly, Michael O'Sullivan. The translation is new but faithful--Wilbur rhymes, as Molière did. The direction is inventive without being frantic. Best of all, O'Sullivan, as Tartuffe, the double-dealing, woman-chasing, dirty old religious fraud, gives an outrageously comic performance, using every part of his strange anatomy, from his splayed feet to his pipe-cleaner fingers. His head resembles that of an apoplectic lion, with stringy hair, dewlapped lips and purple face, as if something is constantly choking him. "Cover that bosom, girl," he snips at a servant (Sada Thompson), and tucks a handkerchief delicately into her décolletage. He is a guest in Orgon's house, but for his host's wife (Salome Jens) he has hospitable intentions of his own. "I'm pious, but I'm human, too," he announces, smiting his concave chest and pursuing her around a table, unbuttoning as he runs. Tartuffe plays Orgon for a cuckold and a fool, which should make Orgon's predicament at least as ridiculous as Tartuffe's. The failing of this production--a minor failing, all things considered--is that Larry Gates' Orgon is not very funny, merely pitiable. It is all Tartuffe's show, and O'Sullivan, hell-bent on hell raising, makes the clownish most of it. At the ANTA Washington Square, 40 West 4th Street.
Sylvia is a semisuspense picture that is semisuspenseful, in which Carroll Baker gets raped (somewhat less wildly than in Something Wild), waylaid, beaten and otherwise maltreated. George Maharis, a private eye in sunny Cal, is hired by rich Peter Lawford, looking lumpy, to get the facts on a poetess whom Lawford plans to marry but of whose background he knows nil. Maharis mouses out the info that she was a pro from Pittsburgh who wended and vended her way, after her stepfather "forced" her, from Mexico to Manhattan; but even on her back she always had her eyes on the stars. At last, through a little blackmail after she is black-and-blued by a customer, she invests her money wisely and retires to Europe for culture, then to the Coast to grow roses and write poems. As those who remember Laura can predict, the detective falls for his subject, and the ending is woe-stained. Vivid bits are contributed by Viveca Lindfors, Edmond O'Brien and Ann Sothern, and in a brief appearance as a star stripper, Nancy Kovack simmers up more sex in minutes than the beauteous Miss Baker can convey in hours. Maharis is mahogany. The script by Sydney Boehm, out of E. V. Cunningham's novel, is a Twenties tearjerker updated with pseudosexual candor. Gordon Douglas directs to suit, which is to say, unsuitably.
Norman Mailer's An American Dream (Dial Press) is a private nightmare of murderous and suicidal movement, in which sex is viewed as armed combat. The Mailer-minded and -mannered hero is Stephen Richards Rojack, a rough-hewn half-Jewish Harvard grad, impulsive politician, existential psychologist and TV personality whose occupation has largely become his wife, the wealthy and willful heiress Deborah Caughlin Mangaravadi Kelly Rojack. It takes our hero only one chapter to kill her off (strangulation, and a shove from the window to simulate suicide). The narrative continues with Rojack's arrest and release and a Raskolnikovlike psychological fencing with the fuzz--except that Mailer's man always wins, whether in outwitting cops, beating up Negro studs armed with switchblades or banging women to near death on the battle bed. The book could appropriately be called The Naked and the Dead, for it is a war novel of sex. The hero-narrator reports with relish of his heiress wife that "Our marriage had been a war, fought by many rules, most of them broken if the prize to be gained was bright enough, but we had developed the cheerful respect of one enemy general for another." Pure battlefield, too, is his encounter, shortly after killing his wife, with the young German downstairs maid: " 'You're a Nazi!' I said to her out of I knew not what. 'Ja.' She shook her head. 'No, no,' she went on, 'ja, don't stop, ja.' There was a high private pleasure in plugging a Nazi ... " The signal for his next sexual battle is given by his new opponent, a blonde night-club singer: " 'I'm feeling pretty mean myself,' Cherry said. It was in that glow that we made ready to go to bed." Naturally our hero is weary after these wars, and at the end of the book he goes alone to Vegas where he takes to the gaming tables--and of course wins there, too. Then, without further adieu, he announces his intention to take off for Guatemala, where he has a "friend in the jungle," and from there "on to Yucatan." Although the book covers only 32 hours, Rojack has indubitably earned his rest and recuperation from the war bed, which, sad to say, has been more exhausting than exhilarating, both for the narrator and for the reader. Mailer's sex warrior gets plenty of fight from his women, but not much fun.
"Who Can I Turn To" and Other Songs from "The Roar of the Greasepaint" / Anthony Newley (Victor) features the ubiquitous Mr. Newley singing to a fare-thee-well the score he and Leslie Bricusse whipped up for their new show The Roar of the Greasepaint--the Smell of the Crowd. Newley's acting abilities stand him in good stead as he adds the theatrical dimension the unusual tunes demand.
There's no better time to visit the Emerald Isle than in June, before the tourist flow begins and after the chill northern winter's gone, when the salmon and sea trout are begging to be taken and the classic Irish Derby is under way.
Marvin Kitman, our interviewer this month, was himself the subject of a "Playboy Interview" of sorts when we buttonholed him briefly in our "After Hours" pages last July, at the climax of his tongue-in-cheek campaign for the Republican Presidential nomination. Back, like Barry, in private life, Kitman has become a contributing writer for The Saturday Evening Post, returned to his job as "News-Managing" Editor of Monocle, a monthly magazine of political and social satire, and is currently engaged in chronicling the saga of his ill-fated bid for the nation's highest office, soon to be published by Dial Press. Debuting as a Playboy interviewer, he writes of his subject:
Once upon a time, runs the personal legend of every defrocked bohemian, there was my Greenwich Village, my Montmartre or St.-Germaindes-Prés, my Barbary Coast and North Beach in San Francisco. In those days art was liberated, the girls were also, food tasted good, the wine was cheap, and we whiled away the hours between borning and dying with eternal truth, beauty and rolls in the hay. What is your Charles Street today, your Latin Quarter, your Westminster Place, your Near North Side?
Granted that a landlocked lass undulating in a topless (and often bottomless) swim suit is a far cry from rock-'n'-roll idol Chubby Checker mesmerizing adolescents with 1959's niftiest new dance, the twist; nevertheless, San Francisco's swim clubs owe their existence to twist pioneer Chubby's initial efforts. Not since the Twenties has any dance had the impact of the twist and its progeny (bug, frug, hully gully, pony, monkey, swim, watusi, et al.). The twist spent several post-Checker years as a teenage tribal rite before café society discovered Gotham's Peppermint Lounge, a somewhat raffish twist temple drat overnight became ultra-in. The jet set took the twist to Europe, which soon came up with a "twist" of its own--the discothèque An amalgam of deejay (disquaire) and dance floor, the discothequè was born in Paris where devotees of le tweest made boites such as Chez Reginee, New Jimmy's and the original Whisky à GoGo de rigueur for tourists. The GoGo's Hollywood namesake added glass-showcased, short-skirted watootsies, and a flock of facsimiles quickly appeared. Society has its own favorite watering holes--Le Club, L'Interdit, II Mio and Shepheard's in New York, The Id in Chicago. But it remained for San Francisco's roisterous Barbary Coast to provide the final fillip. Fashion designer Rudi Gernreich's sensational topless bathing suit supplied the costume gimmick that turned a multitude of Barbary Coast swim clubs into bare-bosom bistros. (The proliferating swim clubs proved the major attraction--outside of Goldwater & Co.--at last year's Republican Convention.) The twist and its exotic offshoots, prime targets for gloom-and-doom prophets, have been characterized as "neo-primitive dances of fear which foster segregation of the sexes," as "sick sex turned into a spectator sport" and as "symbols of a mad and often frightening era." Conversely, one sociologist has defended the practitioners of the pony and such as "a new generation, anxious to achieve its own independence and expression, adopting new sounds and gyrations as its red badge of courage."
Centuries ago, long before Lenin introduced the lowest common denominator to Russia, status-seeking boyars, hungry for both food and culture, turned to France for the fine art of cooking. One of Peter the Great's most valuable souvenirs picked up during a trip to western Europe was a Parisian chef. However, when Frenchmen in large numbers went uninvited to Russia during the Napoleonic campaign, the Russians, as every schoolboy knows, taught them a lesson in deepfreezing. One of the exhibits in the object lesson was the eminent French chef Laguipière, who had been cooking for French Marshal Murat and who regrettably expired in the snowy reaches of Vilna without leaving a single recipe.
There was a time when I was a fairly heavy cigarette smoker. Then, several years ago, I was on a vacation and motoring through France. One day, after driving for hours through some particularly foul rainy weather, I stopped for the night at a hotel in a small town in the Auvergne.
Old Man Pulaski and the Infamous Jawbreaker Blackmail
Anyone who has ever experienced a first-degree, big-league, card-carrying, bone-shattering toothache in a major molar at three A.M. in the quiet solitude of night has stood at the very gates of hell itself. There are no words in the language that can adequately describe the ebbing and swelling, ebbing and swelling, then the rising to even greater heights, then again deceptively receding, only to turn again to the attack; the nagging, dragging, thudding, screaking ache of a tooth that has faced more than its share in a hard, rough-and-tumble lifetime of Juju Babies, root beer barrels, jawbreakers, and countless other addictive confections devoured during the innocent days of childhood. Like all sinners, orgiasts of all stripes, we look back with tearful, bleary-eyed nostalgia upon the very thing that reduced us to shuddering, denture-ridden, cavity-wracked hulks. Everywhere, daily, dentists--cackling fiendishly--reap the harvests sown years ago in penny-candy stores across the land.
He was not the first man, Cliff Leyland told himself bitterly, to know the exact second and the precise manner of his death; times beyond number, condemned criminals had waited for their last dawn. Yet until the very end, they could have hoped for a reprieve; human judges can show mercy, but against the laws of nature there was no appeal.
We have always maintained that a man should never stint when it comes to providing himself with proper bedding. The masterful combination of the cabinetmaker's art and the electronic engineer's skill pictured here is the Playboy Bed--our own personal manifestation of the ultimate in sleeping and sybaritic accommodation. Originally conceived as an artist's drawing in The Playboy Town House (May 1962), this bed was created especially for installation in the Playboy Mansion, where it now rests, blending the best in old-fashioned comfort with the latest in mechanical innovation within and surrounding its regal eight-and-a-half-foot diameter. At the touch of a finger it can be gently rotated a full 360 degrees in either direction to suit the occupant's whim. When the bed is aligned with its nine-foot arced stationary headboard, it is ready either for slumber or late-night TV viewing on the special screen suspended from a facing wall and operated by sonic remote control. Press the control button concealed between the two black-leather back rests and the bed is silently rotated to face the romantic glow softly emanating from an Italian marble fireplace, and becomes perfect for ruminating à deux. Another press of the button and the bed turns again on its six giant cushioned casters and faces the headboard, which offers a convenient expanse that can be utilized as a table for any-hour snacking, a private bar or even a work surface (concluded on page 184) Playboy Bed (continued from page 88) for those briefcase chores more happily accomplished at ease than at the office. Another 90-degree turn and the bed faces a convenient couch on the south wall, transforming the space between into a conversation area.
For those who maintain that it's the little things in life that make the difference, April Playmate Sue Williams--a 4'11" blonde and blue-eyed native of the Golden State--will undoubtedly provide an attractive 98 pounds of added weight to their argument. Our most petite Playmate to date, Sue has spent the past 19 years blossoming in the healthy California clime. Born and raised in Glendale, where she graduated from high school last June, centerfolddom's shortest short subject now resides in her first bachelorette pad, conveniently located within walking distance of her job as secretary-receptionist for a Burbank film-processing firm. As Sue told us: "My parents wanted me to enroll at USC this year, but I decided I'd be better off getting out on my own for a while. I'm not full of academic aspirations at the moment, and I can't see going to a university just to get a degree. By earning my own keep and learning to solve my own problems, I think I'll learn a lot more about life than I would in any classroom." An ardent fan of the great outdoors, diminutive Miss April shows a marked proclivity for la vie athlétique. "I guess you could call me a latent tomboy," says Sue. "After work, I can't wait to switch into slacks and sneakers. Then, it's either down to the beach for some late-afternoon surfing, or out to Verdugo Park for a few innings of softball with the old gang from Glendale. On rainy days, I catch up on my one sedentary hobby--collecting old coins." Our outdoor miss also admits a feminine weakness for dining ("Cantonese food is my downfall") and dancing ("Anything from the frug to the fox trot is fine with me") with a date who's "well groomed, considerate, and not so tall that I have to strain my neck to see what he looks like." On dateless nights, her tastes run to Ian Fleming thrillers, stereophonic jazz ("Monk and Mingus are my favorites"), and late-late video film fare ("Where else can you see Gunga Din these days?"). Her pet peeve? "People who talk big."
When some nameless English bard sang that "sumer is icumen in," he was probably lucky if he could find a decent jerkin to wear at Runnymede for the signing of the Magna Charta. When warm weather begins to break on the scene these days, however, a man is often even luckier if he can pick his way through the sometimes bewildering array of new styles and costumery drat is served up each year for every summertime activity from country-club dancing to keeping cool on the way to work.
When Jessica walked into the club car, everyone knew with one startled glance that this was somebody special, someone important, and I sat watching their eyes and mouths pop open. Out of the world's three billion people there can't be more than, say, a hundred women like Jessica Maxwell. Her red-brown hair was thick and shining with health, her brown eyes magnificent, her complexion so flawless your fingers ached to touch it, her figure marvelous. But that doesn't tell you how beautiful she was; I can only say that if you were staggering toward a hospital with three bullets in your chest, you'd stop and turn to stare after Jessica if she walked past.
For the past six years, I have been designing hair styles for men and offering them advice on grooming their hair. My base of operations is Hollywood, where an actor's career can rise and fall on the strength of his personal appearance. But actors aren't the only clientele at my three shops in West Hollywood, Palm Springs and Las Vegas. A potpourri of doctors, lawyers, politicians, teenagers and even construction workers have paid up to $30 per visit for my services.
In the 70-Year History of the cinema--a medium which can claim with some truth that it has profoundly influenced, if not revolutionized, popular culture, morals and social customs throughout the world--perhaps its paramount dilemma has been the vexing question of what the surface of the silver screen may properly reflect to its myriad patrons. Hardly had the photographed image begun to move when objection to the manner and form of its movement became a kind of continuing counterpoint to its commercial and artistic progress. Early moviemakers were incessantly exhorted--and sometimes legally compelled--to conform to Victorian standards of conduct and content. Because the movies began as peep shows, they soon acquired the undeserved taint of the shady and the suggestive, and the new medium became fair game for smut-minded censors, opportunistic reformers and grandstanding legislators. Inevitably, it was the depiction of sex, explicit and implicit, that occasioned the most ire and anxiety among those already indignant about the moral state of their fellow men. Thus the history of sex in cinema takes on a social and psychological relevance that goes far beyond the medium itself, and this chronicle may be viewed, therefore, as a unique kind of psycho-sexual history, as well as an objective account, of the cinema's treatment of erotica and of the repression it has so often inspired.