Our bond bombshell (Secret Agent 36-24-35) keeping you cunningly covered on our November cover presages a ten-page takeout on James Bond's Girls, an eye-popping pictorial rundown of the ladies who make the cinematic 007's screen life a thing of beauties. Accompanying text is by Richard Maibaum, scriptwriter for all of the Bond flicks. The on-screen recipient of the girls' favors, Sean Connery, talks about his acetate alter ego and what is now his not-so-private life in this month's exclusive Playboy Interview.
Playboy, November, 1965, Vol. 12, No. 11. 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.
The rule of simple sentence structure is that the subject come at the beginning of the sentence and the rest of the sentence be taken up with what is said about the subject. The same rule ought to apply to a discussion of chastity, but the fact is that when we even mention the term, the first idea that comes to mind is that it has something to do with sex. We begin here by reminding you that sex is a strong and sometimes disturbing power or force in a man's life, and that like any other power or force, it can cause a lot of trouble unless it is controlled. Chastity is the control of sex and is defined simply as 'abstention from unlawful sex activity.'"
It is frequently said that James Baldwin writes much better essays than fiction, and his new collection of short stories, Going to Meet the Man (Dial), confirms this opinion. Does this indicate, as many critics claim, that the struggle within Baldwin between the artist and the spokesman may never be resolved? That the tender anger, the delicate agony in Baldwin's tormented essays must inevitably become abstract and lifeless in his fiction? On the basis of this collection alone, the answer is yes. Baldwin's favorite themes appear in the stories: the inability of those who would live not to suffer as well; the ways in which we escape or endure or go under; brothers and sons and lovers; blues and hymns and jazz: and behind it all, the conviction that all men are ultimately equal precisely in that they are all unique. These themes throb and bleed like open wounds in his essays, but in his fiction they too often seem like textbook illustrations of those wounds, almost as if Baldwin knows too much about suffering to allow himself to re-create that suffering in his characters. What is so painful in his essays becomes in his fiction an agony contained, a misery constricted. One feels that Baldwin cheats his pain by swaddling it in parable. In the first story, for instance, a young Negro boy, forbidden to play in the street, sneaks downstairs while his mother isn't looking, gets into a fight and receives a cut on his forehead. In an essay, Baldwin would movingly persuade us that one has a choice between aloofness and life, between withdrawal and scars. But the story somehow diminishes this truth by imprisoning it within a metaphor. The great writers of fiction give one the sense that they discover truth in the very process of creation. But to our nation's shame, we have left little for the Negro to "discover." Perhaps Baldwin simply knows too much to write fiction; perhaps he will always leave his readers with the feeling that he is putting things in, not finding things out. But his personal tragedy, that his art is diminished by his role as spokesman, may work for our salvation. For Baldwin is at his best when he addresses our society directly, reminding us of what we do not know we know, and in the anguished grace of his vision, forcing us into a confrontation with suffering.
Frank Sinatra takes on a new role as a musical spokesman for the geriatric set with September of My Years (Reprise). The title tune sets the tone for the album which includes Hello, Young Lovers, Last Night When We Were Young, This Is All I Ask, and that premier paean to the passing years, September Song. The arrangements are by conductor Gordon Jenkins, and the mellow Sinatra pipes are perfect for the material. The result will have a universal appeal.
The Jockey Club, a plush retreat on the first floor of Washington, D.C.'s, Fairfax Hotel at 2100 Massachusetts Avenue N.W., along the city's famous Embassy Row, is just a portfolio's throw away from the White House and the State Department. Here international, political and diplomatic celebrities commingle with some of the finest food in town. Because of the Club's cosmopolitan clientele, the fare is largely Continental with a French flair. From the plentiful list of hors d'oeuvres, we sampled Crêpes à la Jacques, a seafood concoction in a piquant cream sauce, and Artichoke Filled with Purée of Oysters, which sounds forbidding but tastes superb. Soup is not the strong part of The Jockey's bill of fare, but it is more than adequate. A rich Cream Sénégalaise is the best in the house.
In Darling—a well-written, finely made film about the sex life of a gorgeous girl—Julie Christie, who was the swinger in Billy Liar, is a London model who would like to be good and who is not really bad; she just has nothing to hold onto, except men. She was married young, then meets a highbrow TV interviewer-writer (Dirk Bogarde) who is married and familied; they start playing house. He is serious about it: she would like to be. But when she gets bored (he spends his spare time working on a novel instead of novelties) she takes up with a big PR man (Laurence Harvey). One fling leads to another, and before the opus is over, she is married to a middle-aged Italian prince in a Florentine palazzo, with seven stepchildren and a quirk for Dirk. She flies back to London and gets, in more than one way, her comeuppance. As a story, it steams along: The people are people, the dialog is daggery, the camerawork is wild, the direction by John Schlesinger (A Kind of Loving and Billy Liar) is full of terrific touches. The trouble is that the film is supposed to have meaning, and as a comment on the moral torpor of our times, it's either too heavy or too thin. Shots such as a close-up of a fat woman picking meat out of a sandwich while a charity speaker talks about world hunger are a bit fatuous; and the orgies, as usual, seem too well organized. Miss Christie is great-looking and can act OK. Harvey is suitably sleek. Bogarde is first-class. Darling isn't as deep as it makes out, but it's a fast two hours.
I've been dating a young lady who lives in a girls' residence. Since I live with my parents, the only place we can be alone is in a motel or hotel. However, she gets quite flustered by the deception involved, and is particularly annoyed that I falsify a "Mr. and Mrs." in the registration book. What do you recommend?—D. H. M., Van Nuys, California.
This January, if you can't decide between skiing on the slopes or on the surf, combine both with a vacation at the pleasure capital of the Middle East, Beirut. Though its shore is washed by the warm Mediterranean, Lebanon's chief city is only two hours by car from snow-packed mountains. Here, among the famed 6000-year-old Biblical cedars, are a number of modern and luxurious winter resorts: The Cedars, Laklouk, Faraya, Sannin and Dahr el Baidar. The charm and elegance of French-speaking high society adds chic to the atmosphere.
The Playboy Philosophy is sometimes referred to by its critics as little more than a rationalization, apology or promotion for this publication. But the basic beliefs about our society that we have been expounding in this series of editorials were well established long before we published the first issue of Playboy.
The Bahamas have long been a favorite retreat for vacationing cosmopolites in search of a sunny sanctuary from the tumult of 20th Century city life. Those hapless hundreds who made the mistake of going to the islands last March, April or May, however, might well have wished they'd stayed at home, for the tiny archipelago was in a state of siege—occupied by an invading army of newspaper reporters, magazine writers and photographers from nearly every major publication in America, England, Europe, Canada, Australia and Japan; TV camera crews from ABC, NBC and B.B.C.; silk-suited press agents and swim-suited starlets; bit players, extras, makeup men, cinematographers, script girls, set designers, electricians and assorted hangers-on. The white beaches were festooned with cables and bristling with sound booms; the surf was aswarm with masked men in orange scuba suits armed with spear guns. Moored offshore were a small fleet of futuristic two-man submarines and a huge, sleek, 95-mile-an-hour hydrofoil camouflaged in the shell of a luxury yacht. And the Olympic-size swimming pool of a nearby home was stocked with a school of tiger sharks.
It's not often that I resent beauty in a woman, but I resented it in Etta Fleger-Hollmann, and please don't forget the hyphen. She was about 30, mein hostess of that ritzy Kitzbühel weekend; she moved in a black ski-pants-and-sweater outfit which, without trying or stretching at all hard, defined lazy grade-A curves; her cheekbones were the kind that don't ripen so sensuously until a woman is beyond her 20s; her blue eyes hit yours at a direct and yet noncommittal angle; she had the loose black mane and haphazard bangs that usually go with a very young face but which here added up to a total effect that was annoyingly close to excellent.
When we Published our first photo feature entitled The Nude Look (July 1960), it was mainly intended as a show of pent-up male indignation over post-War feminine fashions. Fed up with the efforts of international couturiers and female fashion mags to keep sex out of milady's styles, we added a touch of transparency to their more famous creations—the "trapeze," "sack," "balloon," et al.—in order to shed some light on those facts of life that had unfortunately remained hidden for so long. We didn't suspect that our parody pictorial would prove so prophetic so soon, but when the first topless bathing suits hit the beaches last year, we joined the rest of mankind in hailing the advent of an age of limitless revelation. This coming holiday season, when men of vision go gifting the girls, there will be an eye-arresting array of ensembles to choose from, as evidenced by this ten-page unveiling of the latest in ladies' see-throughables.
The Publication of the Warren Report on the assassination of President Kennedy seems to have answered all important questions of fact about Lee Harvey Oswald in the minds of everyone but chronic skeptics and conspiracy enthusiasts. Indeed, the case against Oswald has been at least 70 percent conclusive since January 1964, and yet the rumors, theories, dark allegations and nagging doubts have mounted steadily in the face of it. Why have so many people expended so much tortuous logic over so few inconsequential holes in that case—holes most of which have now been effectively plugged? Why do these disbelievers continue to disbelieve even after they have read the over 800 pages of the Report itself? And, finally, why do most of us still feel that somehow something is missing that would make this tragic event comprehensible?
Plain Talk does not a highball make, nor honest words a lush. Which, translated, means that we (yes, you and I) are probably inhibited about calling liquor, and drinking, and drunkenness by their real names.
Sking, that most frolicsome and fashionable of winter sports, demands that the skier sport the most fashionable of winterwear. On the slopes the requirements are strict, but it is afterward, when he wants to relax with a warming drink and pliant companionship, that the well-accoutered ski infatuate will really want to be on his sartorial mark. The slopeside stylings shown here fit the bill admirably.
When they left Moretonhampstead on their way to Tavistock, there was a brief moment of sunshine, lighting up the bare rolling hills all about them; but the clouds closed in again almost at once. England's Dartmoor was appropriately gloomy and forbidding. They rode in silence, Mildred scowling at the overcast firmament, Harry appraising the terrain, which fascinated him: hill after low barren hill, clothed in nothing but grass and bracken, with frequent stark outbursts of rock but not a single tree to justify its name of Dartmoor Forest. Still, it was everything Thomas Hardy had promised; or was it Lorna Doone? Anyway, it was great.
Playboy's recent Trek to the Sunshine State proved doubly rewarding when it not only provided our staff writers and photographers with a hutchful of commendable cottontails for last month's pictorial essay on The Bunnies of Miami, but also focused our attention on the potential Playmate form of Bunny Pat Russo. A Miami-based rabbituette for the past two years, Miss November is a chestnut-haired Connecticut Yankee who grew up in Stamford, then served a short stint as a Manhattan mannequin for the Barbizon studio before heading South to trade high fashion for Bunny satin. "Like most Northerners, the one thing I can't stand is cold weather," she told us, "so Florida and I hit it off right from the start. After I'd spent my first warm winter in Miami Beach, autumn in New York was just another pretty song as far as I was concerned." When she's not busy Bunny-hopping through her night's duties or basking at the beach, the stately (5'7") hutch honey prefers a stay-at-home schedule of painting with oils, reading science fiction and listening to classical recordings ("I'm not a complete longhair, but I'll take Bach or Bartók over Streisand and the Beatles any day"). As for the man in her pending plans, our homebody beautiful has her rabbit ears set for a "sincere guy who plays for keeps." Fair enough game, we'd say—a game worth the winning.
Count Giovanni Lurani of Italy is a significant figure in the world of the automobile. He was a notable competitor before the Second World War, he is an eminence of the Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile, author of a biography of Tazio Nuvolari, and a connoisseur. When he appeared in Monte Carlo for the Grand Prix of Monaco this year driving not a Ferrari but a Lamborghini, he created an instant small stir. The word sifted through the Principality, and people who knew him began to think about asking for a ride. In the ordinary way of things, a car would have to be gold-plated and running on six wheels to attract attention in Monte Carlo, but whenever Lurani's Lamborghini was parked on the drive before the annex of the Hotel de Paris, there were five or six people peering into it, and a wealthy Englishman who has owned the best of everything down the years told me he had decided he would have one as soon as he could get it. One was reminded somewhat of the time J. P. Morgan walked across the floor of the Stock Exchange arm in arm with a broker, thus providing the man instantly with unlimited credit and many new friends.
The Blonde was on the train again, the third or fourth Monday in a row. Jacobs saw her at once as he entered the car. She sat alone in an aisle seat, bold and bright and watchful. A widow, maybe, with little lines of independence at the corners of her eyes. The commuters in their gray suits glanced at her in morning weariness, like spent, inadequate lovers.
Positively the Latest wish fulfillment, as you know, is something called the James Bond syndrome, a vicarious mass desire to achieve 007 status. I confess sharing it. Writing screenplays for the Bond films, I can hardly avoid identifying with him. Could anyone? Who wouldn't want to be the best-dressed man, most sophisticated diner, luckiest gambler, top secret agent and greatest lover of his generation all rolled into one? And what woman could resist projecting herself into his arms? Bond and his women have become fantasy figures arousing powerful empathic responses in both sexes. The wish for pleasurable excitement without the headaches of its problems is universal. But let's not overintellectualize. It might spoil the fun—which is all that the novels and films are meant to be. A great deal of it derives from Bond's doings with the dames.
There once lived in Italy Don Battimo the physician who, more given to the service of beautiful women than of those palsied or sore with plague, one day by fortune's circumstance met at the market place the comely Massimilla—and immediately his heart became impaled.
SINCE SAMUEL F. B. MORSE CABLED IMMORTAL MESSAGE IN 1844 QUOTE WHAT HATH GOD WROUGHT QUERY UNQUOTE TELEGRAMS HAVE BECOME FAR MORE THAN UNIVERSAL MEANS OF URGENT COMMUNICATION STOP WITH LEAN STACCATO METER AND SPECIALIZED VOCABULARY OF RUNTOGETHER ABBREVIATIONS HAVE BECOME ART FORM AS DISCIPLINED AS JAPANESE HAIKU STOP UNLIKE HAIKU HOWEVER HAVE ALSO BECOME MATCHLESS MEDIUM FOR HUMOR INTENTIONAL AND OTHERWISE AND FOR SENDERS' SCATHING WIT PAREN OF WHICH TELEGRAPHIC BREVITY IS SOUL END PAREN STOP RE AFOREMENTIONED REFER SOONEST FOLLOWING COMPENDIUM OF CROSSED WIRES AND TELEGRAPHED PUNCHES COLLECTED FOR PLAYBOY BY TELEGRAMMARIAN JOYCE DENEBRINK WHO SENDS SINCEREST REGARDS