Our sparkling Fourth-of-Julyful Bunny Joey Thorpe, in her second cover appearance (her first was in September 1963), offers a light-fantastic encomium to Independence Day—and sets the celebrational tone of the issue at hand, which we think you'll find more fun than a string of Chinese firecrackers. Kicking off the fireworks within is Jean Shepherd's mirthful memoir of an unforgettably explosive Fourth back home in Indiana: Ludlow Kissel and the Dago Bomb That Struck Back. A butterfingered pyrotechnician in his storied youth, Jean believes he's one of many survivors of bygone Independence Days to sport a set of false eyebrows.
Playboy, July, 1965, Vol. 12, No. 7. 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, $3 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.
An ad for a Time-Life book, The Birds, reminded us of the odd but highly imaginative collective nouns still applied to certain avian groups—a sord of mallards, a covert of coots, a murmuration of starlings, an exaltation of larks. We then considered the unlimited number of human types crying for collective appellations heretofore denied them and hastened to set matters aright. The following is but a scrabble of words that came quickly to mind:
"I don't want to be thought of as having a dirty mind." Perhaps the last man whom many would expect to say that is Henry Miller; yet the statement is in his very first letter in the new collection, Letters to Anais Nin (Putnam), edited by Gunther Stuhlmann. Anais Nin, the daughter of Spanish and Danish parents, a leading avant-garde writer for several decades, met Miller when he first went to Paris in the early Thirties, was sympathetic to him, and evoked a stream of letters from the lonely, courageous 40-year-old tyro. Those in this book run from 1931 to 1946 and have a different tone from those in Miller's previously published exchanges with Lawrence Durrell. Miller seemed sage, strong, advisory with his younger male admirer; here he talks as to an Earth Mother of Art, pouring out ambitions, exaltations, depressions, rhapsodies. Not all of the book can be unfailingly fascinating except to the most fanatic Miller fan, but most of it is worth nibbling at for those who know the Tropics. (In one letter he explains the zodiacal significance of those titles: "Cancer then is the apogee of death in life, as Capricorn is of life in death.") Especially interesting is the chance to trace in the letters the life that was being transmuted into his later books: the travels in Greece that became The Colossus of Maroussi, the return to America at the outbreak of war and the auto pilgrimages that became The Air-Conditioned Nightmare. Worth noting, too, are his intense interest in films and the surprising fact that when he reached Hollywood in the Forties, he scrabbled for scriptwriting jobs—on anything he could get—but got nothing. (Sometimes a writer's spotless integrity is the result of failure to sell himself.) These letters, copious and often imaginative, demonstrate once again that Miller is a man of generous gifts—in particular, the gift of gab.
My Funny Valentine/Miles Davis in Concert (Columbia), taped at Lincoln Center's Philharmonic Hall, is an artistic triumph for the trumpet titan. The five numbers that fill the LP allow Miles to stretch out comfortably and give free reign to his thoughts. Valentine, Stella by Starlight, All of You, I Thought About You and the jazz opus All Blues, are given the typical Davis attack—tentative on the surface but in truth forcefully determined. Although we can't get too enthusiastic about sideman George Coleman's tenor work, the rest of the quintet, and drummer Tony Williams in particular, contribute substantially throughout.
Baggy-pants comics with baggy-pants jokes, strippers in pasties, pasty-faced tenors singing off-key, almost everything off-color: Burlesque is back on Broadway. The show, This Was Burlesque, is billed as a "musical satire" based on the recollections of Grand Old Stripper Ann Corio. There is music, such as When You and I Were Young, Maggie, Blues, sung in two-part harmony to the guitar strumming of top banana Steve Mills, but there is barely any satire. What is funny (and best) about Burlesque, which had a three-year run off-Broadway, is what was always funny (and best) about burlesque: the girls, not the gags. With a look of intense concentration, to the beat of cymbals and drums, Marilyn Marshall tosses her tassels, two fore (atop) and two aft (below), twirling them at will in every conceivable direction, and several inconceivable ones. Kitty Lynne is the "exotic" cat-girl contortionist, who halts her peel to purr, "Peeeerrrow, peeeerrrow." Miss Corio introduces the strips (including, finally, her own) and the hoary old skits as affectionately as if she were handing out high school diplomas to her favorite pupils. When she participates in a scene, such as the troupe's take-it-olf on White Cargo, the nostalgia almost exceeds the scatology. The jokes are exactly, word and leer, as in the bawd old days. The only intentional burlesque of burlesque is Nicole Jaffee, a short, chubby, gumchewing chorine, who mugs and yawns her dizzy way through the classic routines, dances out of step, trips, strips ineptly, and even bumbles the bumps and grinds. The rest of the show is burlesque straight, if a little less raw than some of us remember. Long may the tassels twirl! At the Hudson, 141 West 44th Street.
If you're planning a theatrical evening in New York, it's a short after-dinner or post-show stroll between any of the Broadway houses and Señor A. Perez Blanco's Liborio (150 West 47th Street). Its decor is artfully designed to suggest the cool, high-ceilinged grace of Spanish Colonial architecture. From 4:30 P.M. to 9 P.M., full dinners, ranging in price from $4.25 to $7, are offered. After 9 P.M., the menu is à la carte with the top entree at $5.50. If your culinary vocabulary hasn't quite caught up with your Spanish accent, the English translation next to each of the 145 Spanish dishes on the card will help you impress your prandial playmate. You'll rate even higher with your partner if you can order one of the 13 Brazilian specialties unassisted—they're listed only in Portuguese, but if you send up an SOS, the waiter will be glad to explain what such tongue twisters—and pleasers—as Dobra-dinha o Rabada Mineira mean. We'll give you an assist on this one: It's tripe or oxtail as prepared in the Brazilian state of Minas Gerais. We launched our visit with a round of oversized daiquiris and a helping of Caldo Gallego that did honor to that Galician soup's great tradition, then we moved on to a couple of the more exotic entrees. Lechon Asadocon Moros y Cristianos is roast suckling pig (the Moors and Christians turn out to be, respectively, black beans and white rice), crackling on the outside and succulent inside, with a barely detectable touch of vinegar and sherry. Chilindron de Chivo is stewed baby goat in a marsala sauce we'd stack against anything France or Italy can offer. For dessert we selected an old Cuban favorite, guava shells with cheese, while our fair fare companion curled her taste buds around the traditional Spanish custard, Flan de Huevos. A strong Cuban demitasse topped it all off in pitch-black perfection. There is a brace of bands, spelled by Spanish guitarists in attendance after 8 P.M., and two fiery Latin shows are put on at 9:30 and 12:30. The customers supply their own terpsichore in between. Liborio is open seven days a week till the wee hours.
John Fowles' best seller The Collector comes to the screen with all of veteran director William Wyler's wiles–maybe a few too many. A bit briefer would have been a lot better. The story, adapted by Stanley Mann and John Kohn, is about a cockney clerk who wins a pile in a football pool and extends his butterfly-collecting hobby to net a snooty girl whom he has worshiped from afar. He buys a lonely country house, chloroforms the chick and stashes her in the celler—not to attack her but to adore her. After her initial fright, she finds she's not the prisoner so much as the princess; and, sexually, she is perfectly safe with this conventional creep. It's mostly a two-character tale, and the moves and countermoves are nicely interplayed. What fouls up Fowles' concept is the heavy underscoring (particularly the musical score) and a somewhat rickety realization of the theme. The book was not really about a kidnaper, but about a captive of his class and condition, who wants to wipe out the world that divides him from the girl; to create an isolated context where they can be together, so she can know him and fall for him. She fails to fall, and there's a gruesome finale. Terence Stamp, the aptly named collector, is quietly grim and neatly nutty. Samantha Eggar, a moderate knockout, is moderately good as his prize specimen. If there ever was a color film that didn't need to be, this is it. Less length and clearer concept might have made The Collector a collector's item.
[Q] Nearly all the girls we date at our Midwestern college are fine where the physical aspects of love are concerned, but they lack the brain power necessary to make stimulating partners on other levels. Although we place a high value on sensual satisfaction, we feel there should be a sound intellectual relationship as well. Any suggestions?—E. D. and J. D., Canton, Ohio.
If the lyrics of your September vacation song include Autumn in New York, this month is an excellent time to visit Gotham-on-the-Hudson. Hotels will be experiencing their first relief from the peak influx of Fair visitors (Moses' Masterpiece, incidentally, will still be open for those who care to see it), and the weather is about as temperate as it ever gets in New York.
For 35 of his 40) years, Marcello Mastroianni was a name virtually unknown (and certainly unpronounced) outside of Italy, where he had earned something of a reputation as a promising actor on the Roman stage, and as a competent, if unsensational, second lead in third-rate Italian movies. Then, in 1960, film maker Federico Fellini decided that Mastroianni's rather dissipated good looks and worldly ways would be perfect for the part of a sensitive but weak-willed Roman journalist who ends up a member of the decadent café society he sets out to sensationalize in print. Fellini was right. The picture was "La Dolce Vita," and it made Mastroianni, in his 45th film, a major matinee idol almost overnight.
I want to Know: Is there anywhere a land of goodness and beauty? Once I thought there was. The streets were lined with oaks. The houses were cool and shuttered. Men and women sat on porches telling stories. I picked blackberries on red ditchbanks and sold them to a Negro who made wine. I fished and hunted, in still waters, in still forests. The summers were long, the winters short. With a girl named Flora I swung in a swing with a long rope, and a quarter arc of an automobile tire for a seat. The rope ascended up and up to the oaken limb, and I giggled when her dress billowed and I saw her thighs. The flesh was sweet and warm, in warm sunlight. We stood outside the Negro church and listened to the singing. We thought we knew them. They were loving, primitive and joyful, and they cooked for our mothers, cleaned our houses and dug our ditches, and at night went away. In the moonlight their skin shone like the leaves of magnolia. They sat on their porches at night, in a dark city, dark and silent. We sat on our porches, listening to grandfathers. We heard the crickets singing, and far away in the mist at the pond the croaking of frogs. We slept, we ate, we sang, we played, we loved, and went away.
When the pack at Laguna shoulders its surfboards out into the Pacific, it looks like anything but a fashion leader. But the fact is that, in leading the way in casual menswear, the coves and beaches of California have beaten the Eastern seaboard at its own designing game: When 200,000 surfers go down to the sea in style, they start a sartorial tidal wave that will make news from Balboa to Baltimore. The rakish aspects of California attire are apparent not only in beachwear, but throughout the entire sports wardrobe. By glomming the trail-blazing California styles pictured here, you can get a good look at the future of sportswear.
When I was a little boy and we lived in Chicago, I had a whole basement full of toys, and the one I remember most was a set of electric trains—passenger trains. Each car more than a foot long, with all the accessories, signals going up and down, stations, blinking lights, water towers and coal chutes—the works. Then the Depression came, and my father lost his business, and we had to move to California.
In the world of entertaining there is no more delightfully flexible potable than a good punch in the mouth. This protean party favorite can assume any festive task to which it's put. Made with light moselle or Rhenish wines, it can beguile your guests with a light, delicate flavor that rests easily on the tongue. Switch to the heavier-duty stuff of brandies and rums and it can smoothly make for jolly high spirits and flowing conversation.
I threaded my way through the midtown, midday sidewalk traffic that eddied and surged over and around the clutter of construction paraphernalia. It was desperately hot. My wash-and-wear suit clung to me like some rancid, scratchy extension of my clammy skin. All around me New York was busily, roaringly, endlessly rebuilding itself, like some giant phoenix rising from the red-hot ashes of its dead self. New York's incurable Edifice Complex blooms mightily in midsummer.
It was after his escape from the infamous E People that Balfour's usefulness to the Section came into question. Balfour, meanwhile, was in a bar, where he had ordered Irish on ice. Just on the corner, waiting for a bus, he had seen what he thought was an A Person. He didn't know if it was male or female, but of course it hardly mattered, not even to another A Person, they were so timid.
There are in America today probably fewer than 50 specialists in the art of the build-up. All of them are public-relations experts. Each of them has handled many cases, but they don't like to talk about their work. In fact, the subject of the build-up makes public-relations men nervously uncomfortable. They now have august professional societies with impressive codes of ethics, and they look upon the build-up as the first nonbarber surgeons must have regarded the old red-and-white poles.
Going contrary to the cogent advice of Horace Greeley, July Playmate Gay Collier—a pleasingly proportioned (36-23-35) Californian with keen hazel eyes for a dancing career—plans to go as far East as her talented footwork will take her. Twenty-two-year-old Gay was born in New Orleans, lived in Guam and Nagasaki while her father—currently a North Hollywood attorney—fulfilled his Service stint in the Judge Advocates Corps, then gravitated to the Golden State where she has been diligently developing her ballet and modern jazz-dancing techniques for the past eight years. As she told us: "My first objective is to land a dancing role in a Broadway musical. After all the years I've put in on toe shoes, I figure it's time I started making the rounds of New York agents' offices and tried putting some of that practice to work. Eventually, I hope to go to Europe and try out for one of the finer ballet companies, like the Ballet Russe or the Royal Ballet, and I've already put my Playmate-photo prize money in a special overseas 'ballerina-or-bust' savings account." Our artful July miss spends her few dateless nights decorating her new Burbank bachelorette pad in a Spanish Baroque motif, reading Durrell's Alexandria Quartet and knitting ski sweaters ("Anything's better than TV"). Her favorite kind of evening includes Cantonese cuisine, a Peter Sellers movie, and "a guy who doesn't try to make an impression." We're impressed.
New York is for lovers, it's on their side, he thought, stretched out cooling by her flank; but not for this parched lover. He suffered the thirst of the yearning man who had drunk from a cool, tempting, secretly corrupted spring. There was salt on his tongue. He thrust himself onto his back—thinking position—and thought himself into a mote of dust idly floating in the brilliant late-afternoon sunshine that suddenly poured into the room through the blinds. He left Helen, lovely Helen, fainting for only a moment into the damp trench made by her body in the bed; he became mere idle dust; he floated; he swirled. It was the best he could do. No use trying to sleep.
If you belong to that international fraternity of peripatetic young males who enjoy following the girls who follow the sun, you'll find the Riviera's sundrenched beaches and coastal highlands the happiest possible hunting grounds for the female of the species. From the tiny seaside village of Le Lavandou, at the western tip of France's resort-studded Côte d'Azur, to the naval port at Spezia, some 200 miles away on the easternmost fringes of Italy's fashionable Riviera di Levante, you'll always be within arm's reach of an eye-filling array of bikini-clad femininity. The Riviera's contingent of female sun worshipers is almost as unlimited as it is uninhibited, and the young male with a modicum of loot can afford to be as discriminating as he chooses in selecting companions with whom to share his itinerary.