October's hare-raising cover hails an issue as sprightly as a brisk fall day. Social commentator-cartoonist Jules Feiffer's The Great Comic-Book Heroes (which--in much expanded form and profusely illustrated--will be published soon as a hardcover book by Dial Press) lovingly yet analytically recounts those halcyon days when ten cents bought 64 pages of incredible illustrated adventure. Feiffer recalls vividly his own efforts in the comic-book grist mills of the Forties. Jules tells us: "The schlock houses were the art schools of the business. Working blind but furiously, working from swipes from others, working from the advice of others who drew better because they were in the business two weeks longer, one suddenly learned how to draw. I'd meet, in those early days, other young cartoonists. We'd talk nothing but shop. A new world; new superheroes; new archvillains. We'd compare swipes--and then, as our work improved, we'd disdain swipes. We'd joke about those who claimed to no longer use them but secretly still did. Sometimes, secretly, we still did, too. Some of us would pair off, find rooms together--moving our drawing tables away from the family into the world of commercial togetherness. Eighteen hours a day of work.
Playboy, October, 1965, Vol. 12, No. 10. 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.
For those of you who are finding that knitting up the raveled sleeve of care is getting to be tough stitching these days, we offer the following tranquilizer: a telephone call to PLaza 9-1520 in New York City. After a few rings, a lush female voice in accents of equal parts liquid gold and pure Brooklynese gushes the greeting "Hello there, this is your lullaby lady. I'm so sorry you can't sleep. Let me suggest three of my best sleep coaxers ..." The voice then languidly lays out sleepy-time suggestions that end with a sales pitch to "come in and see your lullaby lady at the Norman Dine Sleep Center, 9 East 54th Street." This Morphean call to arms is but one of a myriad of recorded messages that await the dedicated dialer.
Casanova '70 is the kind of nonsuccess that comes straight out of success. If Italian pictures weren't popular, if Marcello Mastroianni weren't a world-wide smash, if producer Joe Levine hadn't collected a bundle from sexy imports, this color comedy would never have been made. They've taken what they think is the recipe--MM, beautiful babes, hilarity in the hay--and have tried to repeat. Result: Blueprintsville. Marcello is an army officer who can't function with females unless the situation is risky as well as risqué. When a girl just comes along peaceably to his hotel room, it's no go, but when he grabs one on a museum bed with a guided tour gathered just outside the drawn canopy curtains, zoom, zoom! And so on--including the way he cheats a deaf, jealous husband, dares the wrath of a dangerous Sicilian family by claiming he's a doctor and examining their daughter's purity, sends a wire to rush home a general whose wife he's wooing, hurries to a harlot who's jinxed a lot of Johns, sexcetera. The girls are gorgeous: among them, Virna Lisi, Michelle Merrier, Yolanda Modio and Marisa Mell, the alpine Austrian strudel. Enrico Maria Salerno makes a fine fink of a headshrinker. Mastroianni is never bad, but he has to hustle to keep this one hustling. There are laughs in it, but he and the scriptwriters must fight for them. Director Mario (The Big Deal on Madonna Street) Monicelli, who's done some dillies, slugs along with his star and scripters.
Nancy Wilson / Today--My Way (Capitol), the latest in Nancy's "My Way" series, shows no slackening in Miss Wilson's meteoric rise as a premier purveyor of songs. Offered here are the Burt Bacharach nifty, Reach Out for Me, the country-and-western tune turned standard, Dear Heart, the best-selling If I Ruled the World, and eight other items enhanced by wonder-girl Wilson.
Funny comediennes--of the Phyllis Diller--Kaye Ballard stand-up variety--are a rare breed, but they've just added a bright new number to their ranks. Joan Rivers' recent stint at Chicago's Mister Kelly's revealed a hip wit sharper than most of her male-comic counterparts. The material is all her own (Miss Rivers was and is a comedy writer) and the petite blonde delivers it in a husky voice that gives you the impression she's about to clear her throat. Her hands had an unfortunate tendency to live a life of their own, fluttering and clawing off in all directions, but that was a minor and correctable distraction in the light of the rapid-fire funnies salvoed at the audience. Herewith a sampling: "My childhood friend, Jane, was really way out ... she carried Ban the Bomb signs--and that was in 1942 ... Kept cigarettes in her Crayola box ... Now she's married to a guy who's 30ish (that's 56 but loaded) and lives in a big house with a jockey on the front lawn--who's alive.... When my sister married a Cuban doctor, my father said, 'Gain a son, lose a tractor.' ... My 77-year-old cousin just got married to a 92-year-old man--they had to ... After the wedding party, they ran from the hotel to an ambulance while we threw rice and orthopedic shoes at them ... They had a two-week honeymoon at the Mayo Clinic ... It's hard for a girl in show business to find a husband, because everybody is either married or a dancer ... I hate to fly ... My flight from New York to Chicago was on a plane named the Flying Titanic ... Before we took off, there was a guy looking at the plane and shouting, 'If God had meant man to fly he would have given him wings!'--and he was the pilot ... We had a very negative stewardess; she told the passengers: 'When we ditch, watch out for sharks in the water and try to kill them with blunt instruments like your arms'--and we weren't even flying over water ... When I asked for a throw-up bag, she said it wasn't her aisle, and she sold me a magazine." Afraid to fly or not, Miss Rivers is off and winging.
Sammy Davis, Jr., can sing, dance, act, clown, mimic and play drums. As Frank Sinatra is supposed to have said, "He can do everything except cook spaghetti." Now it turns out he can even write, or at least talk, a good book. His 624-page autobiography, Yes I Can (Farrar, Straus & Giroux), which covers only the first 36 of his 40 years, is an "as-done-with" instead of an "as-told-to"; he was helped by his old friends, columnists Jane and Burt Boyar. But unlike the typical taped celebrity biography, it is not puffy, maudlin or melodramatic. It is candid, exciting, entertaining and, yes, ennobling. Davis as seen by Davis is a man of enormous talent and enormous fallibility, who lets himself be fooled by pseudo friends, who forgets real friends, who abuses his gifts, and is driven by an unrelenting desire to become a star and to be accepted by everyone, everywhere. "Well, I'm gonna do it," he vows early in his book. "And when I do, what'll you bet they'll like me, even if they hate my guts." Stardom comes early--too early for the narrative of the book, since his days as an infant and adolescent hoofer (from the age of two and one half) in his uncle's trio are the most enlightening parts of his story. But after years of "heartaches, frustrations and pain," Sammy makes it. One night at Ciro's in Los Angeles, he begins a performance as a featured act and ends it as a star. From this high point on, it looks like the remaining years will be a series of club dates, steadily increasing in importance and in salary, and a series of love letters to the people who helped him (Frank Sinatra, Eddie Cantor, his wife, his grandmother), and that all of it will be relieved only by running conflicts. When will he cut himself loose from the trio? When will the Negro press stop baiting him? When will he be able to go to El Morocco and be made to feel at home? What saves this part of the book is not so much the material as the attitude. Davis' mania becomes hypnotic: Soon the reader finds himself accepting the importance of acceptance; we wonder along with Davis why he must endure the "zingies," as he calls them, of outrageous fortune. In this are passages that could stand as short-short stories, some slangy and breezy, others touching as well as amusing, such as a visit to a Park Avenue party at which his patronizing host serves up a lavish buffet of champagne, caviar, foie gras and (for him) fried chicken. Yes I Can is not a confessional. Davis does not belabor his romantic life. But it is revealing--about success and its limitations. "Fame creates its own standards," Sammy concludes before he is famous, and then discovers otherwise.
An unbeatable year-end escape from frost and snow is Playboy's place in the sun--the Jamaica Playboy Club-Hotel. Newest and most modern resort on the island, it's located just a Bunny hop away from both Kingston and Montego Bay. The Club-Hotel is close to some of the most beautiful spots on the island--Dunn's River Falls, Fern Gully, the Rio Grande River--but many of the island's beauties are sited on the Club's ten-acre grounds wearing special Bunny bikinis. Pleasure-packed days begin with golf outings, and they progress through swimming, skindiving, snorkeling, speedboating, tennis, shuffleboard or just relaxing on the 800-foot white-sand beach. No need to leave the strand for refreshments of any kind: Caribbean and U. S. cottontails will bring tall cool ones to you. Come sundown, the Club swings to a different tempo: The evening begins with a gourmet dinner--a palate-pleasing combination of the best of Continental, American and Jamaican fare in the crystal-chandeliered VIP Room. In the Playroom or on the Patio, catch spectacular night-club imports from the Stateside Playboy Club circuit as well as talented Jamaicans. On the beach, a roaring bonfire and torrid calypso band set the scene for a smashing nocturnal bash.
Until June 17, 1963, she was dismissed by many people as a litigious, belligerent, loudmouthed crank. On that day, however, the Supreme Court upheld her contention that prayer and Bible study should be outlawed in U.S. public schools, and Madalyn Murray became the country's best-known, and most-hated, atheist. She also became the churches' most formidable enemy when, undaunted, she promptly proceeded to launch another broadside at religion: a suit aimed at eliminating from tax exemption the churches' vast nationwide property holdings--a case which many lawyers concede she will probably win if it gets to the Supreme Court, and which, if she wins it, may be what one attorney has called "the biggest single blow ever suffered by organized religion in this country." Organized religion could hardly have an unlikelier nemesis.
Comic Books, World War Two, the Depression and I all got going at roughly the same time. I was eight. Detective Comics was on the stands, Hitler was in Spain, and the middle class (by whose employment record we gauge depressions) was, after short gains, again out of work. (I list the above for the benefit of those among us who, of the items cited, remember only comic books.)
"I'd rather be treated badly by a French girl," K. K. Wood once remarked, "than nicely-sweetly by an American." This must have had some specific reference to his experiences with Joseph E. Levine medieval epics, filmed in Europe just as he was coming out of his college-track phase, when he was a long, shy, graceful young man who had discovered that he photographed well mostly because he had discovered very little else about himself. Did his comment mean that a French girl had treated him really badly and he liked it? Or did it only mean that she had been bittersweet, cool and laughing, as French girls are said to be? Was he unsheathing his dagger as they sat around the pool on their half acre in Beverly Hills?
Unlike most of the current crop of Continental screen sirens who have ridden the crest of Europe's celluloid New Wave to cinematic success, France's Catherine Deneuve has relied more heavily on her acting than on her anatomy in her rise to the ranks of filmic femmes fatales. Since her initial appearance in these pages as one of Europe's New Sex Sirens (Playboy, September 1963), the pretty 21-year-old Parisienne has bypassed her promotional billing as just another in the long line of international cinema sex-pots to establish a reputation as a capable cinemactress, with leading roles in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg--last year's Golden Palm-winning film at Cannes--and her current film, Repulsion. The latter marks Mlle. Deneuve's debut in an English-speaking part under the dynamic direction of Polish impresario Roman Polanski, whose Knife in the Water earned him top honors at the 1962 Venice Film Festival and subsequent acclaim from the New York Film Critics Society for the year's Best Foreign Film.
The early life and times of Ralph Ginzburg sound like the plot for a Herman Wouk novel of a poor-boy hero about to make good. Born and bred in Brooklyn of Jewish immigrant parents, the young Ginzburg pushed a wagon in the garment district, waited tables in the Catskills, sold ice cream on the beach at Coney Island, and dreamed of being a millionaire by the time he was 30. He got top marks and played in the band at New Utrecht High School, hurrying on to the City College of New York at the age of 16, where he competed with the returning veterans of 1946. He earned straight A's as a major in accounting, but a journalism professor encouraged his writing talent and so "changed my life"; it was to be the first of a dramatic series of such occurrences. While still an undergraduate, he sold his first piece of writing (an essay about Nathan's hot-dog stand on Coney Island, where he used to take dates on Friday nights), became the editor of The Ticker, student newspaper of the college's business school, and managed to get his picture in the New York papers for suggesting that the business school be named after its distinguished graduate Bernard Baruch; it was. He was known on campus as "Windy," and, as one classmate recalls, "We always knew he'd make it." They were right, but they never dreamed how.
A World of Pleasurable ease has been carefully carved out of 900 square feet of living space in the decorous duplex apartment seen above. Energetic Arizona real-estate developer Irving Shuman wanted his bachelor pad to combine simple maintenance with elegance of appointments. He found the answer in this compact contemporary designed by Miles Stahm of Stanley M. Stein Architects in Phoenix. One of eight bilevel apartments in a secluded courtyard off a busy downtown street, these digs offer the repose of a country lair without missing a beat of the excitement of urban life. Top left: A view across the living room into the dining area and an open kitchen space that more than cares for Shuman's culinary needs. The walls are composition cork and local Mexican lava stone, bringing a warmly natural look to the functional lines of the apartment. Top right: A custom-designed fireplace of exposed aggregate and concrete forms the focal point of the room. The stairs lead to the second-floor sleeping quarters. Above: For all its compactness, the room's sliding windows opening onto a swimming pool are a sizable 16 feet high. In an unusual commingling of design and decoration, the pad was completely fitted out with matching furniture and fixtures. Even the pillows in the capacious conversation pit were color-selected by designer Stahm. Bachelor Shuman had only to hang his art collection to personalize the place into one uniquely his own.
Despite the improvements, the Pentagon in 1970 was still the Pentagon, with more places to walk than places to sit. Not that Jones had a legitimate gripe. The cubical cave they had assigned to him as an office would have been more than adequate for the two-three days he himself had estimated. But by the end of the third week it fit him like a size-6 hat and choked him like a size-12 collar. Annie's phone calls expressed eagerness to have him back, but there was an edge to the eagerness now which made him anxious. His hotel manager had wanted to shift his room after the first week and he had been stubborn about it; now he was marooned like a rock in a mushroom patch, surrounded by a back-to-rhythm convention of the Anti-Anti-Population Explosion League. He'd had to buy shirts, he'd had to buy shoes, he'd needed a type-four common-cold shot, and most of all, he couldn't find what was wrong with Oracle.
Five Thousand years from now, when future archaeologists are picking and scraping among the shards and midden heaps, attempting to piece together the mosaic of the rich, full life led by 20th Century man, they will come across many a mystery that is impenetrable even to those who lived through it. A cracked fragment of a Little Orphan Annie Ovaltine Shake-Up Mug, a Shirley Temple Cream Pitcher, a heavily corroded Tom Mix Lucky Horseshoe Ring, an incomplete set of Gilbert Roland--Pola Negri simulated sterling-silver teaspoons with embossed autographs--all these and more will undoubtedly be key items in a file marked: Inexplicable religious artifacts found in great numbers; no known relation to the philosophical currents of the time. But we know better, don't we?
In view of our Government's continuing interest in the physical fitness of the nation's youth, we have elected to submit October Playmate Allison Parks as pictorial proof of what frequent doses of sunshine, fresh air and physical exercise can do for the shape of future generations. A blue-eyed brunette from Glendale, California, 21-year-old Allison spends her weekday mornings soaking up the sun's first healthful rays while assisting her father in the care and cultivation of his ranch-size floral nursery in nearby Sun Valley. Then it's back to her Glendale homestead for our opulently endowed October miss, where she conducts an afternoon enterprise of her own: teaching preschool-age children to swim in the family's big back-yard pool. "I almost feel guilty about charging their parents for lessons," she told us, "since I get just as much of a kick out of spending all that time in the water as the kids do. But I know what I'm doing is worth while, because any child who can overcome his fear of the water before he's six will never panic in a sink-or-swim situation later on in life." Besides her daily diet of landscaping and aquatic training, this month's classically constructed (36-24-36) outdoor miss has recently expanded her off-hours interests to include flying. Each weekend, weather permitting, Allison joins a local group of fellow aerial enthusiasts who call themselves the Sky Roamers and logs in a few more air hours toward her private pilot's license. "Until I started flying, my big dream was to own a hot sports car someday," reports the attractive amateur aviatrix. "Now, I couldn't care less about cars--except as the quickest means of getting to and from the airstrip. The moment I took over the controls for the first time, I was hooked. There's something almost ethereal about sitting in a cockpit thousands of feet above the earth with nothing around to distract you."
On Tuesday night, May 9, 1961, to the astonishment of Miami's big-hotel owners, some 2500 Floridians with Rabbit-escutcheoned keys in their pockets and Southern belles on their arms queued up eight abreast along a two-block section of U. S. Highway I--known to Miamians as Biscayne Boulevard. It was first night at the second Playboy Club, and though the Club had filled its 300-person capacity faster than you can say jack rabbit, more than a thousand of the boulevardiers and their ladies in waiting somehow found room at the hutch that night.
Mother Chang, one of the Sung dynasty's wiliest matchmakers, kowtowed at the feet of her rich and handsome patron, Li King. "O noble sire," said she. "By the great Buddha, I pledge that I can bring you to bed with lovely Lotus Petal. And you need only place one hundred gold pieces in my teakettle."
In a World where the supply of quality caviar is slowly dwindling; where truffles are becoming more and more scarce; where the diminishing lobster is fetching a king's ransom, we are indeed happy to report that the oyster, one of nature's most succulent bounties, is on the increase. Only two years ago oyster prophets of gloom were mourning the loss of the disappearing mollusks as the annual crop grew smaller and smaller. Oyster famines aren't new. Although man is the biggest of all the oyster's predators, until recently he has been by no means the smartest nor the most persevering. Historically it has been the subforms of sea life, particularly the starfish, the drill and the sponge, that managed to get to their oysters before man. Even birds, such as the oyster catcher, have always been able to fly circles around oystermen. Eschewing complicated gear, they merely waited for the low tide to expose the oyster beds and then swooped down for their fresh oyster cocktail. In Africa, hungry chimpanzees completely ignore the caveat of the R-less months and have been known to make pilgrimages hundreds of miles for a fresh shore dinner. Thanks to new oyster-farming techniques in this country, man is able to protect oysters from those low lifes and keep the tasty little fellows for himself. The catch last year was hiked to something like a whopping 2,000,000 pounds. This year oyster prospects are even brighter.
Short, sorrowful-eyed, thin-as-a-breadstick and 40ish, French show-business phenomenon Charles Aznavour would seem an unlikely candidate for anybody's matinee-idol list, but the songwriter--singer--music publisher--actor heads up nine corporations, has scores of employees, a brace of châteaux and the Gallic equivalent of $2,000,000 that prove otherwise. He has jam-packed Paris' Olympia and New York's Carnegie Hall with his female followers who have a limitless capacity for songsmith Aznavour's lovelorn lyrics and melancholy melodies as purveyed by vocalist Aznavour. His tunes (he's written over 500 of them) are as familiar to Frenchmen as La Marseillaise. His rave-reviewed screen role, as the marked-for-death musician in the hit French flick Shoot the Piano Player, established him as an actor of considerable talent and further underlined his amazing box-office appeal. The husky-voiced Aznavour comes by his talents genetically; his mother and father (Armenians) were actors and Charles rates his father as one of the only two good Armenian singers extant. Aznavour's first big song smash, J'ai Bu (I Drank), set the downbeat keynote for his future successes. His latest entrees into America's pop charts, Venice Blue and For Mama, indicate that the Aznavour proclivity for the doleful ballad continues unabated. For Charles, it's doing what comes naturally: "My songs are autobiographical. One finds love once in a thousand meetings. I must be one of those who will never find it." If he cannot requite the near-hysterical affection of the hundreds of thousands of females, young and old, who adoringly yell "Sharl! Sharl!" at him from the other side of the concert hall's footlights, Aznavour (who's scheduled for a three-week stint on Broadway this month) can find comfort in the silver-lining aspects of his loveless plight as he wends his way to the bank.
As far as British cinemaphiles are concerned, the greatest example of American largess since lend-lease has been a 33-year-old Philadelphian named Richard Lester. Pound by pound at Britain's box offices, Lester has spent the past two years establishing firm claim to the title of cinematic clown prince over the current international crop of comedy directors, with a record of four financial hits in as many filmic attempts. The balding young impresario first entered the directorial limelight in 1963, when his initial cinemacomedy effort, The Mouse on the Moon, proved a successful spoof of the Russo-American space race. Shortly after, Beatle baiters the world over were confounded by Lester's A Hard Day's Night, wherein he managed to transform the famed quartet of torso-twisting troubadours into first-chair film comedians. His latest box-office bonanza, Help!, again places Lester in the redoubtable role of bossing the Beatles, a role he so enjoys that he switched tailors and showed up on location dressed in the latest Mods' menswear. "I like individualism," says Lester, explaining his prowess in handling England's notorious band of mop-topped minstrels, "so I'm inclined to be on the side of youth, of rebellion, of playfulness." But his greatest cinematic coup to date occurred earlier this year, when The Knack--a film which took Lester only eight weeks to film but several months to edit, and which caused a cinema critic to praise him as a director with "a painter's vision and a special knack in the cutting room"--won the coveted Golden Palm Award at the 1965 Cannes Film Festival. Before finding his moviemaking métier, Lester made a peripatetic jack-of-all-trades tour of the arts, which began soon after his graduation from the University of Pennsylvania at 18 ("I was one of the brighter idiots"). It took him all over Spain, France and North Africa earning a living as a café pianist and strolling guitar plucker; then deposited him without a farthing on Britain's balmy shores, just in time to get a foot in the door of that nation's newly formed commercial television industry and subsequently write and direct the medium's first original video musicomedy, before going on to direct the prodigious Goon Shows. Currently shooting the forthcoming film version of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, Lester is still criticized by some for his breakneck film pacing. His response: "The worst thing a director can do is to underestimate the speed of an audience."
A Boston Bull who moves like a cat through the market maze of money management is Gerald Tsai, Jr., the aggressive head of the Massachusetts-based Fidelity Capital Fund. Tsai (sounds like sigh) lately has been playing one of the hottest hands on Wall Street. A native of what is now Red China, the 36-year-old Tsai took over the growth-fund portfolio of the Fidelity mutual group in 1958 and, starting virtually from scratch, worked its holdings up to more than $240,000,000. Tsai runs against the grain of most mutual-funds group managers who believe in wide diversification with bulging files of hundreds of different issues. Tsai runs with a sleek list of stocks that rarely goes more than 50. "I want to be in a position to move into a stock when I see value," Tsai says. By keeping his portfolio trim with highly marketable issues, he can move quickly when the time comes. When Tsai does move, it's often in a lightning stroke: If he "sees value," he buys and buys quickly without haggling over a fraction of a point. When it's time to sell, Tsai can get out fast and is willing to sell below the market price in the interest of speed. This kind of quick action pays rich dividends if the dealer's timing is just right. Happily for the holders of Fidelity Capital Fund, Tsai has one of the keenest senses of timing in the market. Tsai's own personal stock as an analyst is so high that he is one of those rare men who kick off a flurry of activity on an issue just on the basis of a rumor that they are supposed to be buying--or selling. In the animal terminology dear to the heart of the market, Tsai aligns himself with the bulls: In spite of market reverses this summer, he looks for the Dow Jones Industrial Index to rise to nearly 1000 by the end of the year. But regardless of what the averages are, Tsai's delighted fund holders expect him to be well ahead of any general market levels.
Hollywood! Dreamsvillle, U.S.A.! Tinseltown! Where unknown young men and women from all over the Land Work and Play, Praying that someday they will become Actors and Actresses! Hollywood! Where Sandra Dee, Connie Stevens, Troy Donahue, Carroll Baker and Fabian Work and Play, Praying that someday they will become Actors and Actresses! Into this Baghdad on the Pacific Steps Solly, the Agent, with our Heroine --