Playboy, May, 1965, Vol. 12, No. 5. 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.
Borrowing a page from the comic books, Evergreen Review, the avantgarde literary journal, has come up with a self-satiric subscription offer that totally disarmed our considerable sales resistance. In a recent issue of The Village Voice, ER ran a half-page cartoon-type strip, in the unintentional pop-art style of the old 98-pound-weakling ads of Charles Atlas. Standing in for that muscle-bound Adonis as the pictured pitchman, in this version, is none other than "J. P. Sartre, Noted Author," who asks atop the page, via the time-honored word bubble, "Buddy can you spare a fin?" "Only 15 minutes a day," promises the adjoining headline, "molds a vital and more interesting you!!!" Attention galvanized, we hasten on to the story below, where we find our protagonist, Chuck, "handsome young IBM executive," hopelessly attired in bow tie and wide-lapeled sports jacket with padded shoulders, visiting a coffeehouse thronged with hippies and chianti-bottle candlesticks. At the next table, he overhears a group of bearded bohemians discussing the contemporary arts. "Ornette Coleman, Summerhill, Djuna Barnes!" intones a long-haired cat wearing shades. "Eddie Albee, handheld camera, Arrabal!" replies the beat chick with him. In the next panel, Chuck joins in amiably: "Boy, that edna ferber is one hell of a writer!!!" A pall descends over the coffeehouse. "edna ferber!?!" gasp the disbelieving patrons, recoiling in horror. "J'accuse!" screams one girl, fixing the Philistine with a finger of scorn. Back at his apartment in the next panel—surrounded by his Glenn Miller records, Grand Rapids furniture and a Walter Keane print of Natalie Wood as a child—Chuck broods about his identity. "What's wrong with me?" he asks himself. "I'm well built. Nail down 15 thou a year. drat it all, anyway!!!" he exclaims, drop-kicking his complete collection of National Geographies since 1938 across the room with a visible "BLAM!" Then, as he's leafing through a magazine, a light bulb materializes above his head. "Hello!" he exclaims. "What's this? Subscribe to the evergreen review—six issues for five dollars—clip out coupon ... Hmmm ... It's worth a try!" In the next panel—one year later—we find Chuck striding dauntlessly back into the scene of his humiliation, as one of the regulars mutters, "Look! Here comes that creep again!" "let's put him down!" hisses his female companion. "Read any good books lately?" they cry raucously, filling the coffeehouse with cruel laughter. But Chuck keeps his cool. Narrow-tied, natural-shouldered, four-buttoned, no-lapeled, a copy of Evergreen Review conspicuously in evidence, he murmurs offhandedly, "Marcel Duchamp, morning-glory seeds, Terry Southern, Monk, Sören Kierkegaard, Nova Express, John Cage, Pablo Neruda, Big Sur, Norman Mailer's 'Existentialist Hero,' Roger Corman, Beverly Kenney, Gelber, Malaparte, Satie, Miraculous Mandarin, kif, Genet, John Chamberlain, Merce Cunningham, Kiki—and—The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari!" The effect is cataclysmic: "GASP!" "WOW!" "we're wiped out!" shout the crowd, snowed out of their sandals. Amid the din of finger-snapping approbation that follows, a groovy-looking skirt in a ponytail throws her arms around our hero's neck and sighs, "Chuck baby, let's fall by my pad and dig some Horace Silver!" "I'm hip," he replies laconically in the last frame—so we scribbled our name and address on the subscription coupon and tore along the dotted line.
Sammy Davis/Count Basie: Our Shining Hour (Verve) has a third magical ingredient going for it: orchestrations by the consummate Quincy Jones. Jones has made the first vinyl meeting of the Count of Red Bank and the Golden Boy one of Stanley-Livingstone proportions. The Basie band and Sammy do the hand-in-glove shtick on Work Song, Why Try to Change Me Now, that Basie stalwart April in Paris and the tag-off Bill Basie, Won't You Please Come Home, which features Davis as a hoofer. A brace of the arrangements—Blues for Mr. Charlie and The Girl from Ipanema—are by Sammy's own pianist-conductor, George Rhodes; they are workmanlike but pale beside Jones' infectious orchestrations.
Lord Jim is Peter O'Toole. That's both a fact of casting and of over-all effect. The tall, slender-strong Irish actor, who proved in Lawrence of Arabia that he can portray perfectly the man of action who is also a man of mystery, re-creates Joseph Conrad's character with realities that are both immediate and deep: It's a performance you're likely to remember long after you've forgotten the picture. For although it is finely photographed by Frederick (Lawrence) Young, excellently edited by Alan (Guns of Navarone) Osbiston, the script kids enough with Conrad so that it is O'Toole himself who has to keep the tone intact. In adapting the novel to the requirements of the screen, writer-director Richard Brooks has underscored, overloaded, added characters and tended toward a "melodrama with meaning" instead of a soul's adventures through the misadventures of the body. After Jim commits his dishonorable act—deserting the ship on which he is first officer when he thinks it is sinking—the story of his life runs more up narrow Brooks than oceanic Conrad. The Asian island of Patusan becomes a treasury of gems and gold, a character called The General (hammed in the modern "psychological" manner by Eli Wallach) is its dictator, and Jim becomes the little country's liberator. Conrad's theme is shoved at us in italics and capitals. As director, Brooks has functioned much more wisely and well. His cast—excepting Daliah Lavi, who is gorgeously stupid as The Girl—is exceptional. Paul Lukas, as old trader Stein, reminds us of what a very moving actor he can be. James Mason is gnarled and nefarious as Gentleman Brown. Akim Tamiroff, as Schomberg, repeats richly his unshaven tropical tramp. But it is O'Toole—his face, his voice, his last glance at the sky before he dies—who makes the almost-three-hour movie magnificent. He is Lord Jim, as we've always imagined him.
Bill Naughton is a truck driver turned playwright, a middle-aged Anglo-Irishman whose first two London hits, both working-class comedies, reached Broadway this season. The first, Alfie, a slangy picaresque series of scenes about a young British bounder, was, undeservedly, a fast flop. Naughton's somewhat less original All in Good Time, which London critics picked as their best play in 1962, is having a more rewarding run, but nowhere near the popular success it deserves. It is, quite unlike Alfie, a comedy about continence. A young north England couple, Violet and Arthur, marry and, from the wedding night on, put up in his father's house and put up with his father's boorish working-class ways. The boy likes Beethoven, the father believes in basics: If humans were meant to do something, then animals would do it, too. "Did you ever see a horse reading?" he asks. The stifling atmosphere and close quarters impede fulfillment of the marriage: The kids can't make it. "A right bloomin' fiasco," storms groom Arthur (Brian Murray). Bride Violet (Alexandra Berlin) soothes him: "What you never had you'll never miss." The boy's understanding mother (Marjorie Rhodes) pleads, "All in good time," but the father (Donald Wolfit), once his thick head understands what isn't going on, wants action. The storyline, like the family from that point on, is single-minded, but this is not a one-joke comedy. Naughton is interested in developing character. In the play's funniest, most moving scene, a round-robin attempt by the pairs of parents to rescue the marriage, he reveals that the father, who is so quick to criticize his son, took his best friend along on his honeymoon "so I would have someone to talk to." The author's canvas is small, and sometimes he sentimentalizes (the stubborn son finally asks his stubborn father for advice), but the play is accurate, illuminating and enriched by local color, and the acting is faultless. The mother-in-law has the last word: "I always knew Arthur was reliable." At the Royale, 242 West 45th Street.
After creating the most clamorous controversy in jazz since Charlie Parker 15 years before, alto saxophonist Ornette Coleman stopped playing in public in December 1962. His reasons: too few jobs and too little bread for what engagements were offered. Since then, underground legends have accelerated. Ornette is painting. Ornette is going on to different instruments. Suddenly Ornette is back on the jazz jousting grounds; and judging from his stay at New York's Village Vanguard, the controversy is sure to spiral again. The lean, slight, bearded musician with the soft voice continues to play with fierce intensity. On alto, he has become more economical, and his solos—though still melodically jagged and rhythmically unpredictable—are more easily absorbable for those not yet entirely oriented in the avant-garde. But Ornette has indeed gone on to other instruments. At the Vanguard, in addition to the alto, he switched to trumpet and violin. On trumpet, his sound is more choked than it is on alto, indicating he still has to acquire enough technical assurance to "speak" as freely and slashingly on the trumpet as he does on alto. His left-handed violin playing will fire the most controversy. Apparently self-taught on the instrument, Ornette has worked out his own technique and the result is an astringent, scraping tangle of sounds which make his alto playing sound conservative by comparison. Yet, even though his violinwork often sounds inchoate, it, too, expresses the unmistakable personal thrust of Ornette's relentlessly challenging music with its "human" cries, splintered melodies, blues-laced textures and churning beat. He received admirably resourceful support from drummer Charles Moffet and Dave Izenson, a formidably imaginative bassist.
True, the leopard cannot change his spots, but a number of Gothamites have changed their favorite dining spot to The Leopard (253 East 50th Street). Its unusual name stems from the fact that owner Gioia Cook is a descendant of Prince Niccolo, the viceroy of Sicily under the Bourbons, who was the romanticized subject of both a novel and a motion picture called—you guessed it—The Leopard. The restaurant, handsomely ensconced in a midtown brownstone, takes more than the name as its standard; it has a style and flourish worthy of a prince of the House of Bourbon. A small room whose decor is regal in its elegant simplicity, it provides a suitable setting for quiet, luxurious dining. Because of Mrs. Cook's Sicilian background, one might expect The Leopard to lean toward pasta-based southern-Italian cuisine, but the bill of fare, as announced (there is no menu), is French. Many of the dishes are cooked according to old family recipes that are distinguished and unique. There is usually a choice of three main courses, the prices of which represent the price of the meal. Wine, appropriate to the course, is included. The appetizers available the night of our visit were quiche Lorraine, prosciutto and melon, salmon mousse and smoked salmon; the soup course offered clear consommé or fresh pea; the main attractions—Filet Béarnaise ($15), Coq au Vin with Beaujolais ($12.50) and Lobster au gratin ($12.50). Dessert is du jour, and may be a choice of chocolate or strawberry mousse, ices or fruit. Salad is very Italian, usually with arugula. There are only ten tables downstairs, and Mrs. Cook used to ask lingering guests to ascend a spiral staircase to a small balcony for coffee. But business got too good, and dining tables were added to the balcony, putting an end to that charming custom. The Leopard is open for dinner every evening except Sunday from 6:30 until about 11. A reservation is required, and one should ask for Mrs. Cook or her maître de, Tom.
The taut, often scorching fiction of Chester Himes has been divided into his "serious" novels (If He Hollers Let Him Go and The Primitive) and his astringent series about Harlem police detectives Grave Digger Jones and Cotton Ed Johnson. In 1961, Olympia Press printed Himes' first full-scale venture into that teasing sexual terrain which manages both to put on the hungrily inexperienced reader and titillate sophisticates. The book, Pinktoes (Putnam), is now available here, and although notable for unadulterated venom, it is disappointing both in its hammerhead style and in its fetid substance. Pinktoes, Himes begins, "is a term of indulgent affection applied to white women by Negro men, and sometimes conversely by Negro women to white men, but never adversely to either." He then proceeds to catalog a faceless, interchangeable round of conversations about and consummations of interracial sex. At the center of this treadmill of mechanical concupiscence is Mamie Mason, an omnivorously amoral Harlem party giver whose circle of caricatures includes editors, foundation officials, educators, party girls, ministers, housewives and race leaders. The ingredients are present for a savagely satirical, Rabelaisian novel; but since Himes' own disgust at his characters—imperfectly hidden behind an attempt at high camp style—is so strong, the result is gamy rather than Gargantuan. The book is essentially a broken record of one joke—the internalization among some whites and Negroes of the sexual fantasies each has of the other. Instead of trenchant comment on the harshness and pathos of a culture that nurtures these biracial fantasies, there is only a nose-thumbing gesture of contempt at the whole piebald swarm of bumbling satyrs and aging nymphomaniacs who inhabit Pinktoes. Now that Himes has had his hollow kicks, perhaps he can return to his best kind of writing, in which anger burns rather than tickles and in which the humor is penetrating rather than vacuous.
I am 28, married, and a successful engineer. However, I find that the social life that my wife and I are active in is threatening our happy marriage. Somehow, after Saturday evening out, our group (which consists of couples our age, who have been married for much longer than we have) always ends at my home—which is the most attractive—for that last drink. That last drink, however, usually turns out to be more of the same, with dancing and conversation. A distinct temptation at these late, intimate, boozy parties is to make advances toward someone else's mate. I would like to stop these parties and cultivate other friendships, but I'm afraid that even new friends might lead to the same story.—B. F., Hartford, Connecticut.
When July's temperature and humidity soar, it's nothing but cool, clear common sense to head north for escape and recreation. While we don't recommend an igloomy fortnight in the arctic, we do think you can comfortably foresee a Scandinavian fjord in your future vacation plans.
The first subjects to receive extensive consideration in this editorial series on the social and sexual ills of contemporary society are also the first freedoms guaranteed in the First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America:
French writers have always had a gift for inciting wars of the spirit, but probably no French writer since Voltaire has given the civilized world a case of the jitters comparable to that inflicted upon it by a stocky, walleyed, 59-year-old ex-professor named Jean-Paul Sartre. As a philosopher ("Being and Nothingness," "What Is Existentalism?"), novelist ("Nausea," "The Age of Reason"), playwright ("The Flies," "No Exit," "The Respectful Prostitute"), essayist ("Situations." "Saint Genet"), autobiographer ("The Words"), pamphleteer, editor, author of political petitions and demands, even as a writer of popular songs, he has let loose a torrent of words upon a groaning but responsive public. In his role as a resister, a denier, a ferocious and uncompromising visionary, he began by anatomizing the decay of French democracy between the two Wars. The first great dramatic challenge of his life was the conquest and occupation of France by the Germans, which called forth both the most sordid and most heroic qualities of the French character. Sartre took his place, along with Albert Camus and Francois Mauriac, as one of the writer-heroes of the Resistance, at the risk of his life and the cost of his freedom; he was imprisoned by the Nazis. Later, atheist Sartre parted company violently with the Catholic Mauriac and the pantheist Camus, and proceeded after the Liberation to assume the role of writer as political leader—founder of parties, propagandist, struggler for causes, perpetual schismatic. His ambiguous relationship with the Communists, with sexual anarchists, with the oddballs and the woebegone and the nihilists, has given the Sartrean version of existentialism a kind of public influence that none of the milder, more university-oriented forms have ever enjoyed. Christian existentialism could not compete with the wild intellectual activists of the post-War chaos and reformation of Europe. Sartre's personal metabolism outraced the competition—at least in the struggle for the minds of the young.
Not Long Ago, a large wooden case was deposited at the door of my house by the railway delivery service. It was an unusually strong and well-constructed object, and made of some kind of dark-red hardwood, not unlike mahogany. I lifted it with great difficulty onto a table in 'the garden, and examined it carefully. The stenciling on one side said that it had been shipped from Haifa by the m/v Waverley Star, but I could find no sender's name or address. I tried to think of somebody living in Haifa or thereabouts who might be wanting to send me a magnificent present. I could think of no one. I walked slowly to the tool shed, still pondering the matter deeply, and returned with a hammer and screwdriver. Then I began gently to prise open the top of the case.
Time was, say just after World War II, when $1500 would buy a Duesenberg double-cowl phaeton in fair shape. Coffin-nosed 810-812 Cords went for half that. Before the War, an example of the rarest of all U. S.-built automobiles, the T-head Mercer Raceabout, was sold for $50. Three hundred times that price might buy it today, and it might not. A good Model J Duesenberg can bring $10,000. An old story, to be sure. A few of the things man makes, even though the creations of craftsmen, not artists, are so happily conceived that they outlive their lifetimes. There are never enough of them to go around: George III thujawood cabinets, Bréguet watches, clocks by Thomas Tompion, silver by Paul Revere. When demand exceeds supply and prices become no matter, someone will take action and the result will be either a counterfeit or a replica. A replica, someone has said, is a forgery made by an honest man, like the replicas of the British sovereign minted a few years ago for sale to European hoarders. They were exact copies, but they weren't counterfeit because the British government no longer made the coin, it wasn't in circulation, and because the man who did make them saw to it that they had a bit more gold content than the British mint itself had used.
In his latest film, In Harm's Way, precedent-busting producer-director Otto Preminger escalates his war against movie censorship with a contemporary variation on the classic cinematic clinch, with German-born beauty Barbara Bouchet (right) wrapped in warm unadorned embrace with ex–TV cowboy Hugh O'Brian on the sandy shores of Waikiki Beach. Although Playboy has featured other filmic highlights of natatorial nudity in the past—Susannah York (June 1964), Elsa Martinelli in the arms of Robert Mitchum (October 1963)—the beachside buss on the following pages establishes a precedent for U.S. cinemaphiles in that Preminger vows it will not he restricted to European consumption. The film, which covers the attack on Pearl Harbor, opens with an officers' party and an orgiastic dance scene between Barbara (who plays Kirk Douglas' wayward spouse) and O'Brian, followed by their adulterous luau-for-two and subsequent demise during the Japanese attack. Amidst a star-filled cast, which includes John Wayne, Patricia Neal, Paula Prentiss, Burgess Meredith, Henry Fonda and others, Barbara's brief debut adds appealing new dimensions (35-22-34) to American moviemaking.
The Prolonged Oratorical Binge that is a Presidential election campaign does not in the normal course of events lay down guidelines for future policy. Our political dialog is too amorphous, too charged with the cult of personality. But a national election can and often does serve a useful end in knocking down, if only for the time being, bogeys conjured up out of fear and distrust.
Bobbie Burns, liquordom's Scottish laureate, left no doubt about the wellspring of hisinspiration when he said, "O whisky soul o' play and pranks/ Accept a bardie's gratefu' thanks." Americans say thanks not in verse but in the gallonage they drink. Three out of every four bottles of the distilled spirits with which they now commune are whiskey. Most of it's whiskey spelled with an "e," an added tribute which the thrifty Scots and Canadians never have found really essential.
On the morning after the storm the body of a drowned giant was washed ashore on the beach five miles to the northwest of the city. The first news of its arrival was brought by a nearby farmer and subsequently confirmed by the local newspaper reporters and the police. Despite this the majority of people, myself among them, remained skeptical, but the return of more and more eyewitnesses attesting to the vast size of the giant was finally too much for our curiosity. The library where my colleagues and I were carrying out our research was almost deserted when we set off for the coast shortly after two o'clock, and throughout the day people continued to leave their offices and shops as accounts of the giant circulated around the city.
Francophiles will be pleasantly surprised to learn that, despite the unmistakably Celtic ring to her name, May Playmate Maria McBane is every bit as French as croissants and the cancan. Born in Avignon, in the heart of the French wine region of Provence, our 19-year-old May miss was reared in the traditions of the provincial petite française until the age of ten, when her family sold their small vineyard and came to America. As she recalls: "We settled in Detroit. My father had always had a certain flair for mechanical work, and he felt that the automobile industry offered the most opportunity for him to develop this talent. No one seemed to mind the change in customs except me. For one thing, I had been drinking wine since I was old enough to lift a glass, and topping off a hearty meal with milk seemed positively primitive at first. Another thing I missed was the community folk dancing. Back in Provence, any feast day or civic event was ample excuse for the whole town to get together and dance all day." Maria's penchant for things terpsichorean was further enhanced during her high school days in Detroit, when she was asked to join a professional teenage folk-dancing troupe called The Tambouritzans and subsequently toured the country during a summer vacation. "When the group made its West Coast swing," says Maria, "I immediately fell in love with California. For a girl brought up in the sunny clime of southern France, California was just what the doctor ordered." Since her graduation from Detroit's Western High last June, Maria has been a confirmed resident of the Golden State, where she commutes daily from her apartment (furnished, naturally, in French Provincial) in suburban Glendale to her job as a Los Angeles dentist's assistant. Eschewing the possibility of a career as a professional danseuse, this month's bilingual beauty still keeps in shape (36-22-36) by taking weekly lessons in modern-jazz and folk dancing. "I can't see myself making a living as a hoofer," she confides, "but I would like to take a crack at operating my own dancing school someday." On weekends, Maria heeds the call of la mer and heads for Newport harbor, where Saturday sailors can rent a sloop for the afternoon at a nominal fee ("I've already picked out an eighteen-foot day sailer to buy with the money I receive for my Playmate appearance"). After dark, she prefers a quiet repas with a guy who's "witty and has eyes only for me." Those who haven't already eyed the centerfold, regardez, tout de suite!
The sport shirt can be the key to correct summer styling: In bright patterns or bold stripes it lends a needed flash of brightness to the natural-shaded sports jackets that are big this season; in solid colors it brings those way-out madras outfits back down to earth. Our Playboy anthology of these summer fashions begins with a collection of easy pullovers displayed over a fetchingly laid-out miss. Reading from head to toe: English velour, sheared cotton terrycloth polo style with zip pocket, by Herbert Aronson Ltd., $9. Portuguese cotton velour V-neck, by Leonardo Strassi, $7. Blazer-striped Kodel and cotton links-stitch knit, by Robert Bruce, $8. Red-and-blue wide-striped Orlon "bicycle" shirt with mock turtleneck collar, by Glasgo, $11. Beige Italian acetate mesh-knit with ribbed collar and cuffs, by Damon of Italy, $19. Stripes will offer a colorfully sophisticated touch to your summer shirt wardrobe.
Being refined is a very nice thing, and I have had some happy times noticing refinement in the members of my family, most of whom, especially those who were born in the old country, in Bitlis, finally learned that vocal modulation, for instance, constituted one of the many signs of being refined. Shouting was all right in the family, but out among Americans and people like that it was always a good idea to modulate the voice, at least until you found out that the Americans themselves weren't very refined, which my Uncle Shag seemed to be finding out all the time.
If you're wondering where poetry is headed these days, the answer is from bad to verse. Blame for the gloomy state of modern poesy should not be heaped on modern bards—many members of the wastelanded gentry could still make it with the muse if given half a chance. No, the real trouble is this: The function of the poet is to romanticize life—and in our atomic age there is just not one hell of a lot left in life to romanticize about. Not even a first-rate layman can get very many flights of poetic fancy off the ground when his themes involve civilization, or lack of it, in the Sixties. As proof thereof, consider what might result if some of the celebrated poets of the past were plying their craft today.
Stella Stevens, one of Hollywood's fastest rising stars, has the rare distinction of being the only erstwhile Playmate (January 1960) whose cinematic career reached its turning point during rather than after than after the unveiling of her centerfold charms. Since that fateful day, when Playboy's lensmen stopped shooting long enough for Stella to answer her telephone and accept the part of Appassionata von Climax in the film version of Li'l Abner, her status as a screen siren has been secure. Yielding to producers' efforts to typecast her as a blonde bombshell, à la Playmates Mansfield and Monroe, Stella has given her appealing all, opposite such diverse leading men as Glenn Ford, Jerry Lewis and Elvis Presley ("The sexy parts always attract more attention"), but now she is playing roles which call upon the full range of her dramatic talents (Synanon and The Secret of My Success) and has signed a five-picture contract with Columbia. An outspoken critic of conformity, Stella once refused an of fer of free plane fare to Hollywood from a major-film-studio exec because "too many people are always looking for the free ride in life." A bride, mother and divorcee, all before the tender age of 18, she now alternates a busy shooting schedule at Columbia and a hectic home life that embraces one "terribly bright" son, a "frenetic" housekeeper, and two neurotic pet spaniels "who think they're really people." On her career: "I dislike the idea of setting goals for myself. Perhaps I'm just basically lazy, but I refuse to look at a career as some sort of life plan. I prefer to play things by ear, and do the best job I can with each new role." On nudity: "I think the people who condemn it the most are probably the least psychologically fit to make judgments about anything." On sex: "The more the better, both on and off the screen. Our society is slowly pulling away from the old puritanical ties, and Playboy has undoubtedly been a major force in this sexual evolution. I'm proud of being associated with the magazine." On the ideal man: "For me there's no such person as Mr. Right. Why waste time looking for someone who meets a bunch of rigid pre-established standards? It takes all the mystery out of life. When it comes to men, I prefer to be surprised." On children: "I'd like to have at least two more preferably after I've remarried." On herself: "I guess you could call me a typical bohemian. I love to paint, write poetry, and, most important, live a life that's free to go in any direction."
The ironclad rule among American sculptors today is to break all the rules of sculpture. On this ground, Frank Gallo, a 31-year-old émigré from the wastelands of Toledo, Ohio, is strictly a conformist. His waxy nudes, composed of polyester resin reinforced by fiberglass, melt unctuously into vacuous backgrounds—and emerge seemingly as impermanent as a bar of soap, sporting the bland and unbeguiling look of fugitives from Madame Tussaud's museum. His success has been formidable. Casts of Gallo's now-famed Girl in Sling Chair have been sold three times at $3500 apiece (to the Museum of Modern Art, to Playboy Editor-Publisher Hugh M. Hefner, and to an unnamed philanthropist who is paying for her in installments while she waits patiently in the window of a Chicago art gallery). Gallo, who earned his B.F.A. at the University of Toledo and his M.F.A. at the State University of Iowa, completely controls his total production and is unique among contemporary sculptors in that he makes and finishes each cast of a work himself. The finished figures possess the aura of art nouveau innocence, sly decadence and a sensuality of surface unlike any other currently seen. Gallo, who produced Girl and several hundred other sculptures of the human female in a drafty barn behind his home in Urbana, Illinois, is lanky, rumpled, married, the father of a small son, a hat wearer at work and a foe of New York cocktail parties ("I'm moving to Maine to escape the dry martini"). His Weltanschauung: "I'd like to bring sculpture away from the contemporary trash heap and back to the masters where it rightly belongs."
Uncle Sam has promised the world that our astronauts will be on the moon before 1970. It is largely up to scientists such as Dr. Robert Jastrow to see that they get there on time. Formerly the chief theoretical physicist for the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, and now director of NASA's Goddard Institute for Space Studies, Jastrow—and his associates—must master the complex and still unproved physical laws of outer space before the first lunar flight. A theoretical physicist has two jobs: The first is to construct theories or speculations on energy and matter which help explain the structure of the universe. The second, according to Jastrow, is to "work like hell." A Ph. D. at 22, he has done plenty of both. He currently directs the efforts of some of the greatest basic research scientists in America, who periodically forgather at Goddard. A bachelor and accomplished skier, the 40-year-old Bronx-born scientist also holds an adjunct professor's chair at Columbia, where he instructs on the physics of the upper atmosphere. His primary interest is the moon, which he calls "the Rosetta stone of the universe," and the probable key to solving the riddle of the birth of our planet. It is not good scientific form to dwell in public on the "space race" between the U.S. and Russia, and Jastrow follows the rules. But he did pull off a classic ploy in astrophysical one-upmanship not long ago when former Soviet premier Khrushchev accused the U. S. of hiding and refusing to give back a Sputnik that supposedly crashed in Alaska. Using data from the Sputnik's last-known radar position, Jastrow calculated the final orbit of the dying satellite and later presented a paper in Moscow telling the Russians where they could find it—in Soviet-held Mongolia. Indeed, there it was.
The spokesman in the U.S. House of Representatives for 382,320 people who populate its most famed Congressional district is a handsome, liberal, 43-year-old Republican named John Vliet Lindsay. His bailiwick is Manhattan Island's "Silk Stocking" district, bounded on the south by Greenwich Village, on the north by Spanish Harlem and including, in between, Park Avenue and millionaires' row on the Upper East Side. Elected to a fourth term, despite a Democratic sweep of his state, Lindsay remains a maverick; he has voted against his own party as often as he has voted with it. He believes in Medicare, aid to Appalachia, NATO, the UN, and the political philosophy of Franklin D. Roosevelt. He opposes isolation, cartels, the John Birch Society, Barry Goldwater, and other hallmarks of right-wing Republicanism. Indeed, he refused to support Goldwater in his Presidential campaign last year and was a leading participant in the fight to reapportion seats in the House. His rewards for this unusual behavior have been meager: In six years as a Congressman, he has been appointed to few important committee posts, while legislation he introduces rarely gets out of committee hearings. Yet he is quite possibly the most exciting politician the Republicans have unearthed in New York City since Fiorello LaGuardia, and is consistently mentioned by his party as its next candidate for mayor, for governor and (eventually, he hopes) for the Presidency. He is a married man, has four children, lives quietly in New York and Washington; yet his campaign headquarters last fall smelled as sweet as a harem, with a dozen pretty volunteers stationed at typewriters and telephones. He is a man in the middle, caught between the pressures of his own party and his own predilections, often closely identified with the enemy camp. Why, with his particular point of view, is Lindsay a Republican? "Because ninety-nine percent of my classmates at Yale Law were Democrats," he says, tongue firmly in cheek.
Count Vestiggio of Firenze was a maker of practical jokes, one who lived for the cackle of laughter that rested like ants upon bars surrounding piazzas. In addition, it is presented here that the count was more consumed with japery than with his performance in quilt—to the dismay of his countess, Gianina the fair.
C-can I get out now, S-S-Solly? The reporters will never C-come in this weather, justto see me S-S-Swimming.Sweetie - baby ... even if it's Lena the Hyena, swimming out of season always makes page one. Think of the publicity and you won't mind the cold.