In This, our lucky 13th Christmas issue, Playboy readers will discover the most glittering yuletide package we've ever assembled. The lovely face framed by the die-cut Christmas ornament on our cover belongs to last October's Playmate, Allison Parks. Toying playfully with the bauble's ribbon, Allison gets the Playboy Rabbit in shape for an appropriately festive appearance.
Playboy, December, 1965, Vol. 12, No. 12, 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.
All of us find the bounds imposed by conventional English occasionally stifling, but every so often a writer comes along and does something about it. The latest--and hottest--is a perceptive young man named Tom Wolfe, best known for his trenchant takeout on The New Yorker (in the New York Herald Tribune Sunday supplement) and a widely heralded collection of observations on the pop culture scene: The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby. Wolfe's frisky, flashy and flamboyant style utilizes dots, dashes, neologisms, Latinisms, italicisms, hipsterisms and--yes!--endless exclamations!!! In the spirit of St. Nick, we've postulated--pow!--how such a traditional example of writing as ... Clement Moore's A Visit from St. Nicholas ... might have fared if Tom Wolfe ... had zonked it!!! Superfantastic!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Director Tony Richardson, after a bitter experience a few years back, left Hollywood muttering that "revolution would have to come from without." Returning after his blockbuster triumph with Tom Jones (made in England) to direct the Martin Ransohoff production of The Loved One for MGM, he presumably decided that revolution was possible from within, for not only has he kicked the local film industry around in a wildly satirical and insanely embellished adaptation--by Terry Southern and Christopher Isherwood--of the Evelyn Waugh novel, but in taking off on Southern California's burial practices and the general American preoccupation with beautiful death, he has aimed straight for the jugular vein. The casting is oddball all the way: Robert Morse as a transplanted English poet who learns the facts of death in California: Anjanette Comer--a real comer--as the beautiful and voluptuous cosmetician of the Whispering Glades Funeral Park; Jonathan Winters in dual roles: (1) the grasping, lecherous boss of the funeral establishment and (2) a ne'er-do-well agent who opens a cemetery for deceased pets; John Gielgud as a studio designer and, later, as a corpse candidate for interment at Whispering Glades; Rod Steiger as Mr. Joyboy, mother-doting chief embalmer; Liberate as a mincing coffin salesman. The film bull's-eyes on several satirical targets--not only the burial industry, but the space agencies, nepotism in the film studios, momism, and the reckless pursuit of outdoor life and outdoor death in California. It's hilarious at least half the time, funny enough for most of the remainder, and occasionally a bit sluggish when Richardson lingers on a point too long or whacks it too broadly. If the movie is the success it deserves to be, Richardson will have taken a significant step toward his revolutionary goal.
Ray Charles / Country and Western Meets Rhythm and Blues (ABC-Paramount) is The Genius at the top of his form. Backed by the Jack Halloran Singers and the Raelets (combining their voices on three of the bands), Charles divides his time between the two musical idioms which, apparently, are rapidly losing their dividing line. Among the C&W/R&B gems: I Like to Hear It Sometime, Blue Moon of Kentucky, All Night Long and Watch It Baby.
When crooner Tony Bennett signed up early this year to play the role of a press agent in Paramount's forthcoming movie The Oscar, it looked like a long, hot summer under Hollywood's klieg lights. The role calls for not a note of song from a singer born to vocalize and, understandably, Tony was brought down by the prospect of a hiatus from singing during July, throughout August and most of September. Enter the Hollywood twist: At a party for Dean Martin held in the Los Angeles Playboy Club's Penthouse, Tony wound up--inevitably--on stage singing for the folks. And--inevitably--this led to a most unusual, perhaps unique, arrangement with the Club's management to secure Tony's talent during his Hollywood stay: Bennett's Ralph Sharon Trio (Sharon, piano; Hal Gaylor, bass; Billy Exiner, drums) would work at the Club on a regular nightly basis while Tony was making the movie; Tony, in turn, would show up to sing informally (with underheralded billing) any night he felt like it. It goes almost without saying that he felt like it several nights during the week and every weekend. It made Hollywood history during August and September. Tony's closing night was as informal as the others as he ran through 25 minutes of Bennettiana ranging from a medium-grooving Makin' the Scene to his closing trademark, One for My Baby. Looking spruce and lean, Tony was "on" from bar one. He poured himself into the lyric of Yesterdays and followed it with a slightly up-tempoed version of Richard Rodgers' Take the Moment, which was embellished by a swinging, intelligent Sharon piano solo. If you're in a night club digging Tony Bennett, what do you request? What else? I Left My Heart in San Francisco was given a miraculously fresh handling by Bennett who, with faithful trio at hand, segued right into I Wanna Be Around and wound up back in San Francisco. By then requests were streaming in, but Tony launched into One for My Baby, perhaps on the assumption he was through for the set. The audience would have none of it, particularly after digging Exiner's romping shuffle beat behind the singer. It put the customers in the mood for more of the same. This turned out to be a tender chorus or two of It Amazes Me, in the course of which Tony's astonishing level of communication with his audience was tellingly evident. Once more, dear friends, into the breach for the bow-off with a One for My Baby reprise. Again, no dice. Fervid applause evoked an emotion-laden Who Can I Turn To, with the singer vibrating to each lyrical Tony Newley syllable. The audience then settled for autographs from the star before he finally escaped. "I've had a wonderful summer," Bennett said later. "It started out to be just work on the picture. Then, before I knew what was happening, this Playboy thing came up and I had a ball."
John F. Kennedy, according to his close friend and special counsel Theodore C. Sorensen, "was the kind of President who would want a great book written about his Administration." Sorensen's Kennedy (Harper & Row) is not "a great book," but it is solid; and it shares with its distinguished subject a respect for reason and a fear of sentiment (lest it lapse into sentimentality). Sorensen's analysis of the Bay of Pigs failure, for example, is a model of logic and thoroughness. He observes that the plan the President approved "was diplomatically unwise and militarily doomed from the outset," but "what he thought he was approving appeared at the time to have diplomatic acceptability and little chance of outright failure." This chapter alone justifies the book. Sorensen writes with genuine devotion to his man; his bias is explicit: "Having formed a strong attachment for John Kennedy, I cannot now attend an attitude of complete detachment." Yet he has given us much objective history, and considerable insight into the mind of John F. Kennedy. "He had a disciplined and analytical mind," Sorensen writes. "Even his instincts ... came from his reason rather than his hunches.... He was neither willing nor able to be flamboyant or melodramatic." Sorensen himself has uncannily assumed these Kennedy qualities in his book.
We are three college juniors with a unique problem we hope you can solve. We have all had intimate relations with a 23-year-old noncoed from a nearby town. She has spent a number of weekends at our apartment. No problem. But the other day a good friend told us that he intended to propose to this girl. He has no idea of our connection with her. Should we level with our friend, try to discourage the girl after he proposes, or just not interfere?--R. F., M. M. and C. T., Cortland, New York.
A relaxing week or two can be spent this February by cruising and fishing in pellucid waters in a charter boat off the coast of Florida. A typical beginner's run--comfortably close to shore--is down the Inland Waterway, and then along the Keys; or across the state by the Cross Florida Canal to Lake Okeechobee and on to the resort cities of Florida's west coast. Seasoned yachtsmen usually head out to the Bahamas. Bimini is only 47 miles from Fort Lauderdale--a matter of four or five hours on a good clay. West End on Grand Bahama Island--about 45 cruising miles from Palm Beach--is now doubly alluring because of the new gambling casino scheduled to open in early January.
two of secret agent israel bond's most fearsome foes -- general gregori bolshyeeyit of the dreaded russian kgb and his hired assassin, torquemada labonza, the man with the golden gums--join diabolical forces to rid the world of kosher counterspy oy oy seven
he was still reeling under the kaleidoscopic daze of office bash, holiday mood and his own sharp sense of time rushing past ... now he found himself a continent away from home and ready for who-knows-what?
W hat is the true value of pop-op art? ... our year-end adventure revolves around this question ... wherein our blue-eyed darling discovers that a discussion of "pop" does not necessarily concern her paterfamilias.