This September Issue, introduced by Playmate staffer Teddi Smith in her fourth cover appearance, is our biggest (and, we think, our best) back-to-campus number ever. For undergrad and alum alike, we offer our annual Pigskin Preview which, for pictorial purposes, required logistical legerdemain of a high order. Twenty-two players plus coach had to be assembled in one place at one time from distant campuses in California, Florida, Louisiana, New York and points in between. The success of our Photo Department's Operation All-America is attested to by the unique gridiron shots herein. The success of prognosti-cator Anson Mount's predictions (his past picks rank him among the leaders as a teller of football fortunes) will have to be determined in the months ahead.
Playboy, September, 1965, Vol. 12, No. 9. 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.
Camp, for the information of those few who may not yet be with it, no longer refers to the manner, manners or shacking up of homosexuals, any more than it does to that quaint institution, a place in the country where parents can get rid of their kids for the summer. The word camp has now been appropriated by the heterosexual cognoscenti--to describe anything that's in laughably, outlandishly, irredeemably bad taste; so bad, in fact, that it's good, and/or so far out that it's in. Wedgies, Victor Mature movies, Forest Lawn, Lawrence Welk and souvenir ashtrays in the shape of the Statue of Liberty, for example, are all considered camp, because their quintessential squareness makes them almost a parody of tastelessness. But there's more to it than that. As Susan Sontag, a professor of philosophy at Columbia University, wrote in an article on camp for Partisan Review a few months ago, "When something is just bad (rather than camp), it's often because it is too mediocre in its ambition....The hallmark of camp is the spirit of extravagance." Among the shining examples of camp she lists to illustrate her point are Aubrey Beardsley drawings, Tiffany lamps, the gory stories and headlines in the National Enquirer and stag movies "seen without lust." Another camp follower, writing for The New York Times Magazine, listed Barbara Stanwyck, Monopoly sets in Italian, stereoscopes and Busby Berkeley's movie musical Golddiggers of 1933 with Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler. In an aesthetic sense, it would be very "high" camp, as they say in the trade, to collect Brillo boxes and Campbell's soup cans as objets d'art; but a pop-art replica of either, because it was created as a conscious and deliberate satire of the real thing, and has earned the kiss of death of public acceptance, would be considered emphatically noncamp. Which is not to say that camp can't be intentional and premeditated or that something can't be camp if it's popular. Both Stanley Kubrick's nightmare comedy Dr. Strangelove and Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg's erotic farce Candy, for instance, rank high in the hierarchy of camp, though both were made with satiric malice aforethought and both were huge commercial successes.
Theodore White's 1964 version of The Making of the President (Atheneum) is rather like the campaign itself--wordy, predictable and laden with piety. As if in parody of stylistic contrast between John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson, White's 1960 prose has gone slack. Rhetoric now passes for reportage. The new, unimproved White is capable of using the word "American" as a value-loaded adjective (as in "They made the wise American decision ..."); of calling a campaign speech "excellent" or "one of the worst" without bothering to tell why; and of converting simple propositions into rococo profundities (thus the purpose of the American space program is "to gain a lead in mankind's first primitive probing of the galaxies"). A considerable portion of the book is really a White Paper on the civil rights movement, which he correctly sees as a ubiquitous backdrop to the 1964 campaign, particularly during the long hot summer in Northern cities. But he fails to describe either the source of the heat or its intensity. Indeed, one senses that White covered the New York City civil rights movement not from Harlem but from City Hall, where he easily identified with the Establishment. He describes Mayor Wagner as a man "who has done as much for civil rights as any elected official of the United States"--a notion that will certainly astonish Negro leaders who are still trying to crack the mayor's opposition to the setting up of a civilian board to review charges of police brutality. Whenever White stops analyzing and starts reporting, he generates some of his 1960 fascination--particularly at the level of political gossip. We are fascinated, for example, to learn that it was by order of L. B. J. that the Kennedy memorial film shown at the Democratic convention contained no clips of Bobby. Beyond such tidbits, though, there is little that amuses and less that illuminates. One notable exception is White's account of the Goldwater-Rockefeller primaries, in which he establishes beyond reasonable doubt that divorce and remarriage were Rockefeller's undoing. Sitting in the gallery while Rockefeller addressed a hostile convention, White observed "a tall, thin, blonde woman, her fists upraised and shaking, screaming at the top of her lungs: 'You lousy lover, you lousy lover, you lousy lover!' "How did she know?
Mort Sahl once observed that Eddie Fisher really wanted to be Frank Sinatra, but that he'd have to be Peter Lawford first--because, cracked the comedian, there is no short cut to greatness. In the most flattering sense, something similar might be said of the "new"Nancy Wilson. She seems headed determinedly toward the summit that is Lena Horne by way of the knoll that is Diahann Carroll. Miss Wilson's sheer sex appeal cut like a laser beam through the male division of the celebrity-rich audience in her recent return to Los Angeles' popular Cocoanut Grove. On display was a glittering new act cooked up by arranger Luther Henderson and special-material writer Bob Hergert. Conceive, if you will, a tipsily freewheeling Beer Barrel Polka or a put-on medley of current Mersey-rock. This from Nancy? This, indeed. What's more, she sold it madly to a capacity crowd feverishly nibbling from her palm. The ballads, of course, were there. Who Can I Turn To, More and the nowadays seldom-sung If You Are But a Dream nicely paced Miss Wilson's hourlong opening show, but it was the "special" tunes that really sought--and found--acceptance. A medley, for example, of what Miss Wilson termed "The Emerging Songs--the new culture, y'know," turned into delightful spoof as she churned out--with appropriately frugish gyrations--A Hard Day's Night, I'm Telling You Now, Eight Days a Week and I Know a Place. For treatment of the material, Luther Henderson won plaudits. As chief implementer of devices musical, pianist Ronell Bright was outstanding--simpatico to every Wilson nuance, bend of phrase, note. At the drums, the singer's husband, Kenny Dennis, proved a true helpmeet. Down to her exquisite gowning, it is certainly a New Image for La Wilson. Onstage, Nancy is now fancy; her patter verges at times on the razor's edge of coyness. She remains, though, a songseller of powerful individuality and a super show-woman.
The same disconcerting facts of financial life that have plagued the Broadway theater are now very much part of off-Broadway's existence. The hit-or-miss syndrome (a show is either a hit or a has been), endemic to the uptown stage, has wreaked havoc among even the most modest of downtown productions. Thus, the seeker after summer off-Broadway fare may find only three shows at his disposal.
In this era of way-out, ultraexotic restaurants, it's a refreshing change of pace to get back to basics. Whyte's is admirably old-fashioned in its concepts of service and turn-of-the-century culinary standards. First established 57 years ago at 145 Fulton Street in downtown Gotham, it still stands there, surrounded by quick-lunch caravansaries, as a bastion of good eating. It is matched in almost every respect by an uptown branch at 344 West 57th Street. Ray Hopper, the owner of Whyte's, quietly, warmly, but firmly oversees the entire operation and steadfastly refuses to allow any touch of ungraciousness to plague either of his houses--uptown or down. The menu, which has been enjoyed by Presidents, is simple fare, with emphasis on the piscatorial. The Mulligatawny soup is indicative of how Mr. Hopper runs his place; it's made with a touch of curry that's conjured up on the premises from an old Indian recipe. Number-one best seller in recent years has been the Finnan Haddie--unsurpassed even in Boston. Frozen foods are anathema; all vegetables are garden fresh. The bread and rolls are a special delight, made in Whyte's own ovens, slow-baked over hot bricks. The pastries, also home-grown, are multitudinous and mouth-watering. The fare is so completely American--and we mean that in the best culinary sense of the word--that even the many curry dishes have been successfully naturalized. The only Continental touch is the well-stocked wine cellar, with recommendations capably made by an experienced and well-trained staff. Whyte's on Fulton Street is open Monday to Friday, for lunch and dinner, until 9 P.M. Uptown on 57th Street, where an outdoor garden is available for dining during the warm-weather months, it's open for lunch and dinner from Monday to Saturday, from 11 A.M. to 10 P.M.
Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines or How I Flew from London to Paris in 25 Hours and 11 Minutes has a terrific basic idea. The producers have built replicas of the airplanes of about 1905 (what a collection!), and the planes are actually flown, or half flown, in this comedy about an air race from L. to P. at that time. Robert Morley is an English newspaper publisher whose daughter is plane crazy and whose flying boyfriend convinces the old man to put up a big prize for the race. It happens; Japanese, Italian, French planes and pilots arrive, and a too-typical Imperial German Army team. There's an American, too, of course, who flips for the lord's lassie. If they had only stuck to the marvelous material that was there, producer Stan Margulies and director (also co-author) Ken Annakin would have had a fine film about those kookie crates and the nervy nuts who flew them. But they wanted to make it Big--which meant long enough to have an intermission and sell "hard tickets," which meant Todd-Ao as well as Deluxe color. So they stuffed it with two sets of running gags (Red Skelton and Irina Demick). both fabulously unfunny; and they dug up all the Keystone Cops tricks that used to be done with tin lizzies--only now it's with patchwork planes. Warmed-over gags took over from comic reality. Stuart Whitman (the Yank) and James Fox (the Englishman) are right as race and girl-rivals; Sarah Miles, the girl, is mediocre; Alberto Sordi, Jean-Pierre Cassel and Terry-Thomas kid themselves. But Gert (Goldfinger) Frobe is sharp as the Kaiser's colonel. Whatever the film's faults, go dig those crazy aircraft.
This Is Damita Jo (Epic) and a fine thrush she is, with an outsized voice, astute phrasing and a swinging approach to a ditty. The ex-stalwart of Steve Gibson's Red Caps turns her attentions to such upbeat arabesques as Nobody Knows You when You're Down and Out, Bye Bye Love and Silver Dollar, with a fistful of ballads tossed in for good measure. Damita Jo is a joy.
A playmate of mine claims she can hear TV and radio programs through the fillings in her teeth. I'm beginning to wonder who she is listening to--me or Frank Sinatra. Is she putting me on?--S.P.C., Miami, Florida.
You can leave autumn leaves behind and jet-hop into spring by visiting some of the great resorts of South America this November. Many of them offer the triple treat of incomparable beaches; lavish after-dark facilities, combining gambling, dancing, entertainment and fine cuisine (not to mention a bevy of vacationing señoritas eager to be bowled over by un amigo norteamericano); and relatively easy access to S. A.'s most cosmopolitan cities. One of the smartest and liveliest areas is Argentina's Mar del Plata. Its 250 hotels include the luxurious Provincial (with the world's largest casino next door), and the better-than-average Horizontes, Hermitage, Nogaro and Royal. Additional diversion is provided by a good golf course and side trips to huge Argentine ranches at Chapadmalal and Ojo de Agua (a breeding center for world-famous Argentine race horses).
Our interviewer is the noted English drama critic Kenneth Tynan, whom readers will remember as the author of our September 1963 interview with Richard Burton, as well as of two Playboy articles: "Papa and the Playwright" (May 1964) and "Beat'e in the Bull Ring" (January 1965). Tynan writes of this month's charismatic subject:
Unlike Most of the cinematic world's current leading ladies, France's Jeanne Moreau, by her own admission, possesses few of the physical assets commonly considered prerequisites for projecting sex appeal. And yet La Moreau--as she was dubbed by the French press years ago--has been described by international film critics as "a slithering sensualist," "a cold, blasé beauty" and most of the other sexual superlatives normally reserved for only the most well-endowed filmic females. Eschewing any attempts to rank her among today's growing crop of celluloid sex goddesses ("Beautiful? Of course not. That's the whole point about me, isn't it?"), the 37-year-old Gallic femme fatale relies on her reputation as a versatile actress and out-spoken sensualist as the key to her charismatic charm. As she puts it, "When I am in love, it influences my pleasure in acting. Most people don't have the energy for passion, so they give up and go to the movies."
During That Vivid, unresolved summer in 1941 before the United States entered the War, I took a job as counselor in a coeducational summer camp near Jackson, Michigan; in fact, near Grass Lake, Michigan; in fact, even closer to Napoleon, Michigan. It was a summer of busy high skies and tireless sun, with times of dust and times of ardent dog-days heat, and the flower of feeling opening. I was moved by green and weather, and, even more, by the fact that I knew I was being moved.
To Anthropologists tracing the early history of mankind, there are several tellate signs that indicate when a primitive society becomes civilized. Two virtually infallible indications (after the discovery of fire and learning to get in out of the rain) are the fermenting of liquor and the invention of games to help man while away the time between hunts. The story of his attempt to amuse himself by pushing objects along a board-game layout is almost as old as the saga of man himself.
In late February of 1902, when Prince Henry of Prussia arrived in New York City to accept the yacht built for his brother, Kaiser Wilhelm II, then ruler of Germany, he was asked by members of the press what sight in America he would most like to see. Bored reporters waited for the expected official reply: the White House, Niagara Falls or the Grand Canyon. Instead, Prince Henry answered, "The sight in America I would most like to see? I would like to visit the Everleigh Club in Chicago."
Heading Out for an evening's entertainment of cocktails, dinner and discothèque calls for just the right wardrobe. Braced against the chill autumn air, our man on the town strikes the properly stylish note for such an occasion. Showing the way to where the action is, he wears a herringbone chesterfield that lives up to the elegant requirements of its famous namesake. This classic is undergoing yet another one of its periodic revivals, and Playboy delightedly predicts that this well-deserved renaissance will give the old sartorial war horse a first place in fashion for the coming season. Worn without a hat, it imparts a bit of dash to a business suit. Fitted out with the correct gloves and hat, it could be worn to a coronation and not be a miss. Seen here in the historically correct semifitted cut with concealed buttons and traditional velvet collar, the style is also available in brown, bottle green and light gray, by Varsity Town, $80.
Shortly After Hobbs had crossed the Indiana-Ohio border, headed east, his ammeter needle veered over to the left and lay implacably against the peg. His warning light came on a full, startling red. He cut his radio, his heater fans and finally his dash lights, but his headlights yellowed and when he shone his flashlight on the dark ammeter, the needle had not moved.
Football is the most dynamic and exciting spectator sport in America. Baseball is suffering from hardening of the arteries. Boxing is dead, a victim of bad scriptwriters and poorer actors. Wrestling has long since become pure show business. One of the things that gives college football such vitality is the element of change. The game is constantly being improved, new coaching techniques are being introduced, new offensive and defensive systems are being invented. Small schools grow big; traditional patsies acquire new power and prestige. Conversely, yesteryear's football factories are being cut down to size by drastically raised academic entrance requirements. The population explosion is vividly affecting college enrollment and, in self-defense, college administrators are rapidly upgrading scholastic standards.
Man's Best Friends may be his dog, but the only four-legged love of September Playmate Patti Reynolds' life is a galloping gelding named Frankie. One of the Midwest's comeliest champion riders, Chicago-born Patti, who first graced Playboy's pages as one of The Bunnies of Chicago (August 1964), has spent the past year training her thoroughbred and trotting off with trophies and top honors at local horse shows in hopes of ultimately making the international equestrian scene. "Actually, there's no money in horse shows themselves," reports the charming ex cottontail, "but if you can take enough firsts and seconds against top notch competition, you'll usually wind up with an attractive offer or two to train one of the better-known breeders' stable of jumpers. After I'd worked as a Bunny for three years, I found I had enough cash saved up to buy my own horse and train him for a couple of seasons without having to worry about bill collectors' beating a path to my door. So I went out and bought Frankie, stabled him near Chicago's Lincoln Park, where we could work out every day, and started getting him ready for some of the regional meets. Within one year after his first public jump, Frankie had five gold cups and a drawerful of blue ribbons to his credit, and I had decided to spend the next few years of my life on the hoof." When our posting Playmate isn't busy putting her prancing pet through his paces or earning her next entry fee as a part-time model for a well-known local hair stylist, she spends most of her free time at Berlitz brushing up on her linguistic talents. "I've managed to acquire a working knowledge of Spanish and Italian so far," says Patti," and with a few more courses under my belt, I shouldn't have too much trouble trading tips with the European equestrian set. Next to horses, my second love is traveling, and if all goes well, I may be able to combine business with pleasure by working my way up into international riding competitions and a chance to clear the high hurdles in other parts of the world."
A Journalist who writes on a subject that in any way involves sex--as I have often had occasion to do in the past decade on teenage marriages, campus marriages, marriage problems in general and subsidiary issues such as homosexuality--would be a fool not to consult with the Institute for Sex Research, that famed institution founded in 1938 and incorporated in 1947 at Indiana University by the late great Dr. Alfred C. Kinsey. Being no fool (I hope), I have consulted regularly with the Institute. I often call my friends on the staff long distance, and many a time I have flown to Indianapolis and rented a car at the airport to pay a personal call at the Institute, which is on the university campus at Bloomington, an hout's drive to the south.
A Problem that weights almost as heavily on today's college student as avoiding an economics class that starts before ten in the morning is deciding what to take back to campus with him for the coming scholastic year. Most college catalogs are stuffed with information on everything from lab fees to university drinking rules. But in none of these otherwise estimable publications can the curious student find a reliable guide to correct dress for on and off the campus.
Sammie Leads Me into his casino and tells me to choose my table. Play is desultory at all of them; it is the middle of the Las Vegas dinner hour. The combo is serenading us with twangy country music: The harmonica and fiddle go into a wild hoedown finale and the kazoo rides after their medley like a posse of hornets.
Although Genghis Khan's armies have never been credited with venturing west of the Crimea, the latest cinematic version of the mighty Mongol and his men raping and pillaging their way across the Asian plains finds them on location in West Germany. Starring Omar Sharif in the title role, Columbia Pictures' new version of Genghis Khan is another addition to the current filmic trend toward epidermal epics. It features the talented services of James Mason, Eli Wallach, Stephen Boyd, Françoise Dorleac, Telly Savalas and a host of winsome West German fashion models and actresses displaying their appealing all as comely Cantonese concubines who introduce the conquering Khan's warriors to the joys of communal bathing. Although the high jinkery pictured on these pages was cut from the final version of the film, our photographer has preserved what were some of the film's more memorable moments.
They Managed three different flamenco caves after dinner, which ended at 2:30 A.M. In each of the side-street cafés, faces lit when they entered, and the gypsies invariably said "íHola Señorita Barbará!" Or simply "íOlé Barbará!" In each of the places they visited, the guitarristas came immediately to the table to play what seemed to be carbon copies of her favorite songs. Twice, on loud demand, she got up to perform what appeared to Alec a very creditable flamenco, with loud hand clappings and frequent íOlés! and íAy, qué tias! from the performers as well as from the few dark men who rested against the bar and drank manzanilla. At the table, whole armies of bottles of manzanilla disappeared as the flamenco singers and guitarists produced private performances for Barbara, with glares of rebuke from the leader if a rival group started a song for another table in another part of the room.
Since the 1890s, when it really was hard to do properly, skillful gear shifting has been the hallmark of the expert and the measure of the difference between the men and the boys. After all, a bright ape could be in taught to steer; in fact, bright apes have been taught to steer. Lindsay Schmidt, owner of an 1800-acre farm in Australia, uses a chimpanzee named Johnnie as a tractor driver, and has for years. Johnnie can steer a straight course over a plowed field, turn the tractor at the end of the furrow and keep this up all day. A couple of years ago a Southern highway patrolman was obliged to take into custody an ape who was going to Florida for the winter at the wheel of an Austin-Healey. His friend and owner was sitting beside him, apparently to read the road map.
Ribald Classic: The Reward of the Quick-Witted Miller
A Youthful miller near Paris was enamored of a lovely young wench named Fabienne who lived in his neighborhood. To speak the truth, he was more loved by her than she by him, for he only pretended an attachment to her to obtain what favors he could. For her part, Fabienne was more than willing to be deceived. She loved the miller to such an extent that she neglected the usual coyness of her sex and sought him out at his chamber to take her pleasure.
In Recent Prepublication announcements of The Flag, third novel of a 37-year-old Englishman from Coleshill, Bucks, publishers Harcourt, Brace & World include a confounding group of photos. One shows a crewcut guy with jaw of stone and eyes of steel; another a rumpled, mustached middle-ager with a look not of steel but of irony; and another of a professorial graybeard. This variorum of false faces represents, respectively, Spectre's assassin in the Bond bombshell movie From Russia with Love, the cocky Irishman in The Luck of Ginger Coffey and the mock-mad scientist in Duerrenmatt's play The Physicists. The publishers, who upstage themselves further by billing Robert Shaw as actor and writer in that order, despite The Flag's rave reviews in the British press ("Quite beyond the capacity of other contemporary novelists"--Scotsman), provide a fourth photo of him minus the make-up, at home with Mary Ure. Up to his neck in conflicts between his careers, Shaw is slowly but surely coming around to the idea that for him the pen is mightier than the star on a dressing-room door. "Deep down I know that acting is inferior to writing," he says, and though his own acting is superlative, its purpose is in the main remunerative: "I act now to buy time as a writer." Shaw is currently buying time as Henry Fonda's costar in Warner Brothers' forthcoming epic Battle of the Bulge. "Six children [by two wives] need a lot of supporting. Sometimes I think it would be sensible to do a Fall of the Roman Empire sort of thing and live single-mindedly ever after at the typewriter." Why doesn't he? "Bad work as an actor affects my writing. It also," he adds with a grin, "affects my golf game, and I'm a lousy putter to begin with." That may be, but he's got a strong drive, and all of the approach shots.
Purple Passages from plays by Edward Albee and poems by LeRoi Jones, uncensored interviews with dope pushers, prostitutes and homosexuals, critiques of U.S. foreign policy in Vietnam, classes in astronomy and the stock market, music from Bach to bluegrass--that's a random sampling of the divertisements afforded to devotees of FM by California's Pacifica Foundation, an audacious broadcasting enterprise headed by a 46-year-old ex-electronics manufacturer and English professor named Hallock Hoffman. Also, until recently, a Pacifica commentator on the institutions of democracy, Hoffman now does double duty as the foundation's president and as secretary-treasurer of educator Robert Hutchins' prestigious Fund for the Republic. Both esteemed and execrated for its progressive programing, Pacifica braved the rising tide of television in 1949 to pioneer the concept of subscription FM--which provides blessed relief from the distraction of commercials. It's underwritten mostly by taxdeductible contributions from 28,000 of its 1,300,000 listeners, who volunteer an annual average of $21 a piece for the privilege of savoring the rich intellectual and aesthetic smorgasbord served up 18 hours daily on its stations in Berkeley (KPFA and KPFB), Los Angeles (KPFK) and New York (WBAI). Considering the bland diet of jukebox AM and ho-hum FM fare offered these days, that's quite a bargain.
If TV soothsayers are correct in their predictions, Get Smart, a cloak-and-gagger videopus debuting on NBC this fall, should attract heavy laughs and weighty Nielsen ratings. As Maxwell Smart, Secret Agent 86, a bumbler of heroic proportions, comic Don Adams, who was a click as the hapless house dick Glick on The Bill Dana Show, hopes to achieve a new pinnacle of imperfection. His investigative gaucheries will now be international in scope as he locks horns (and Rube Goldbergish gadgetry) with the dread minions of Kaos, who are out to rule the you-know-what. This will be Adams' first fling as top banana of a TV show since he doffed his Marine greens after World War Two and set off in search of showbiz' elusive bitch goddess. A decade ago, the quiet, crewcut Adams came up with an onstage comedy character who has appeared in sundry incarnations since then--a brash know-it-all who convincingly and comically conveys the message that he knows nothing. Among his pet portraits of the last few years (during which he set some kind of a record for TV appearances as a guest jester--9 with Garry Moore, 20 with Steve Allen and a clutch with Jack Paar and Perry Como) were those of a relentless prosecuting attorney whose barside manner puts judge, jury and defendant to sleep, and an off-base umpire-school teacher determined to make the National Pastime a thing of the past. His house-defective Glick go-round and his impending trench-coated cutup are simply situation-comedy extensions of his stand-up self. When asked to compare his Get Smart characterization with his semiserious counterspy counterpart, Napoleon Solo, Don deftly deadpuns, "Anything he can do, I can do badder."
"The Great Comic-Book Heroes"--Superman, Batman, Captain Marvel And All The Rest Of That Marvelous Crew In A Nostalgic Account Of Whence They Came, Who Created Them, And Why They Occupied A Special Place Apart In The Fantasies Of Our Youth--By Jules Feiffer