Gracing our cover for the sixth time--and bedecked in more apparel than is her wont--is our frolicsome Femlin, snowman constructress extraordinaire. But in addition to Femlins and snowmen we bring you this March a bonus in fine fiction to brighten the days 'twixt winter and spring.
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.
We were reminded of the innumerable inconsistencies in the English language by a financier friend of ours who, during a recent luncheon get-together, happened to mention the prosperous economic downheavals of a stable postwar Western Europe. He then reminded us that the idea of altering or out serting various prefixes in the cause of semantic lucidity had originated in our own pages (June 1964 Playboy After Hours) and that he could think of no simpler technique for formulating a more limpid lexicon. Why, he pressed on pointedly, couldn't a successful son be undershadowed by his less resourceful father? Why not, indeed, we thought? Caught up by his enthusiasm, we began exploring whole new avenues of lexicographic invention.
Wilson Simonal (Capitol) marks the debut in this country of a bright new Brazilian vocal talent. Backed by Lyrio Panicalli's Samba Orchestra, Simonal's big baritone turns a batch of native tone poems into vinyl delights. Among the rhythmical Rio offerings is a pair from the pen of the gifted Antonio Carlos Jobim--Só Saudade and Inútil Paisagem--that spell bossa nova at its best. In the same Brazilian bag is Chris Connor Sings Gentle Bossa Nova (ABC-Paramount), although Chris' craft is at opposite poles from Simonal's. For one thing, she sticks to Tin-Pan-Alley-type tunes--A Hard Day's Night, Who Can I Turn To, Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte--which have been bossa-novated; for another, Chris' voice is low-key throughout, a point of view that is echoed by the background sounds charted and conducted by Pat Williams. The New Sound of Brazil / The Piano of João Donato (Victor) takes the composer-conductor-pianist north of the border for a session in front of a large aggregation led by Claus Ogerman. Admittedly, much of the innocent charm of the Brazilian melodis is lost in the lush arrangements, but Donato's spare, single-note keyboard contemplations turn the tide in the album's favor.
Cutting a suave swath through vile villains and wily women, Bond is back, in Thunderball. If you happen to be one of the two or three zillion buffs who get a bang out of Bond--and Sean Connery, who dumped Doris Day as filmdom's top box-office star in 1965--this one is an absolute must. There's one of those usual Spectre plots To Destroy Civilization As We Know It (this time the baddies have hijacked two atomic bombs from NATO and will mushroom-cloud Miami unless the Allies cough up an embarrassment of riches for ransom: $280,000,000 worth of diamonds). The film also features a fetching plethora of pretties, none of them overdressed, who romp with Bond--and with abandon--far more than in any of the previous Fleming flicks. And there is fistwork and knifework, pistolplay, spear-gun-play and sharkplay aplenty. But the tone has changed. The Bond films used to grip with gruesome action, using sex and giggles as a safety valve. Now it's less private eye and more like a Panavision comic book with nobody expecting anybody to be seriously scared or shook up--just tongue-in-cheekily whiz-bam-zoomed with square-jawed Connery, who has solidly jelled into the ideal embodiment of Superbond the Invincible, World's Number-One Operator. Since a good deal of the story takes place in the Caribbean, there's much carnival in evidence, but even more scuba-doings, which give us a chance to see a lot of a lot of lovelies. Chief among them are Luciana Paluzzi, a spicy Italian antipasto, and Claudine Auger, a tasty French pastry. With swinish suaveness, Adolfo Celi plays the mastermind menace who finally meets his wet Waterloo in a spectacular underwater donnybrook between his aquanaughties and the Navy's aqua-paratroops--led by Bond in a jet-propelled, rocket-launching Buck Rogers backpack. All in all, it's not only the funniest and farthest out but also the biggest and the best of the Bond bombshells. At presstime, we were informed that Connery has patched up his differences with the Bond producers and agreed to continue playing the title role in forthcoming epics. Good show!
A man named Jones in Graham Greene's The Comedians (Viking) says that he divides the world into two parts--"the toffs and the tarts ... The toffs have a settled job or a good income ... The tarts--well we pick a living here and there--in saloon-bars. We keep our ears open and our eyes skinned." Similarly, Greene divides his works of long prose fiction into novels and entertainments. The former are respectable and serious, the latter--well, entertaining. It is Jones' opinion that "the toffs can do without the tarts, but the tarts can't do without the toffs," which may be true of human nature but isn't true of long prose fiction. Greene's latest novel has the literary equivalent of a settled job and a good income: a concern for important issues such as dictatorship and communism, black and white, involvement and inertia. But its ears are seldom open, its eyes just partially skinned. Greene is too old a hand to be completely dull; but in writing a book that is nine parts toff to one part tart, he is only spasmodically entertaining. The locale he chose might have served him better: Haiti under the terrorist reign of Papa Doc Duvalier and the Tontons Macoute. His picture of a country falling to pieces is vivid and even frightening, but his characters are too weak to compete with their surroundings. The narrator, a white man who owns a resort hotel near Port-au-Prince, devotes the lion's share of his time and energy to a love affair with the German wife of a South American diplomat. The sole guests at his hotel are an American couple who hope to bring peace to the world through vegetarianism. And Jones, the only major character to take arms against the Tontons Macoute, is a soldier of fortune who has never soldiered before, much less been fortune's favorite. They are all of them pale and a bit unreal compared to the brutal facts of Haitian life. They are, in fact, not so very different from the characters in another recent book that centers on a Caribbean resort, Herman Wouk's Don't Stop the Carnival. And Greene, for all his accomplishments of style and thought, emerges here as little more than Herman Wouk with a troubled Catholic conscience.
The cactus is a Cinderella plant, an ugly prickling--tough, bristly, unappealing, until one day it blossoms a beautiful Cactus flower. In Abe Burrows' new play, based on a French comedy by Pierre Barillet and Jean Pierre Gredy, Lauren Bacall is the cactus, a starchy, antiseptic, efficient dental nurse, unyieldingly devoted to her boss and his practice. She looks, as one edgy patient describes her, "like a large Band-Aid." By the second act she has blossomed into Lauren Bacall, sexy, throaty, slinky in a spangled sheath, and capable of snaring any man or dentist--on stage or in the audience. Surrounding Miss Bacall in her transformation are some worthy comic actors: Barry Nelson as the dentist-lecher; Brenda Vaccaro as his kookie mistress; and Burt Brinckerhoff as Brenda's Beat-next-door. Author-director Burrows is a fast master of Broadway sleight of hand, but this time around his hand is too slight. There are some--but not enough--neat one- and two-liners. One-liner: "Tell me what she didn't say--word for word." Two-liner: Dentist to patient: "How does your mouth feel?" Patient: "My mouth feels fine. My teeth hurt." The gags, of varying viability, are distributed like play money among the cardboard characters who participate in this series of contrivances. Bachelor Nelson tells his girl he is married to avoid marrying her, then decides to marry her after all (and after her suicide attempt). But she demands to meet his wife to be sure she (the wife) wants a divorce. Nurse Bacall, who is already something of a wife in the office, is drafted to pretend she is the wife in the house. The incurably curious mistress then demands to meet the wife's lover--and so on, until the showing up of the liar-dentist and the predictable star-gets-star ending. Most of this is mildly amusing (more frivol than drivel), but none of it is hilarious until late in the game, when the actors stop shooting wisecracks and begin behaving like people. Nelson, outraged that Miss Bacall has spent a wild evening with young Brinckerhoff, fumes as if she really were his wife. "I saw him kiss your neck," he challenges. Imperturbable, she explains, "He's a friendly kid." It's a throwaway line and a refreshingly low-keyed moment of laughter. At the Royale, 242 West 45th Street.
My girlfriend, who has a great many fine qualities, does not count great beauty among them. Personally, I'm not bothered by this, but what do I say when she complains that I never compliment her on her appearance?--J. C., Los Angeles, California.
En Route to Europe for a spring vacation, be sure to allow a few days for a stopover at a country deceptively named Iceland. Among other benefits offered here are the world's blondest blondes and, during the month of May, almost 24 sunlit hours a day in which to enjoy them. No icy souls, Icelanders shake off their winter shackles with a special joie de vivre. The streets of Reykjavik are still crowded at two A.M. with revelers strolling from one party to the next after making the rounds of the town's eight jumping night clubs. Places such as Klubburinn and Rodull often feature top U. S. jazz combos; espresso and hot-chocolate spots such as Mokkacafe and Thorscafe are decorated with exciting, contemporary Icelandic art (for sale); but, more to the point, all these haunts are peopled with unescorted native pulchritude (the men are usually off fishing--for a livelihood--which leaves the hunting to you).
As a versatile musicologist, and trenchant social commentator, Nat Hentoff brings uniquely pertinent credentials to his dual tasks in this month's issue--as the author of "We're Happening All Over, Baby!" (on page 82), an insightful anatomizing of America's youthful new generation of anti-establishment social activists, and as interviewer of this month's controversial subject, about whom he writes:
Today's Young Businessman in the growing fraternity of high-flying executives conducts his commerce and pursues his pleasure in territories far beyond the reach of his earth-bound brethren. The whirling propeller, the whistling turbine can fly him and the companions of his choice straight to the bustling metropolises: in a few fleet hours, they can whisk him on a weekend whim from Wall Street worries to the long-shadowed woods of Canada or the balm of Palm Beach. Big deal or fair damsel--ripe but far distant--is within reach of the daring young executive in his flying machine long before the ground troops even learn where the action is.
In 1927 I was a 16-year-old Bricklayer trying to support my mother and seven brothers and sisters. We were living in a buggy flat above a grocery store in the Bath Beach Italian section of Brooklyn. My father had been killed four years earlier in the collapse of a New York building under construction. Mother had not received a cent for Father's death, because the contractor and the insurance carrier were in litigation as to liability. But Mother had positive faith in God and spiritualism and knew somehow that she would get the insurance money. Mother and I went once a week to the medium, Mrs. Miller, and communicated with Father. We believed he was in heaven guiding us. And Mother genuinely believed I was her pure champion and her son-saint on earth.
In 1959, a group of New York artists and sculptors created a theater-and-art form known as Happenings, which assimilates into an either scripted or improvised theatrical format every field of art from music to dance, to film, to poetry, to painting, to sculpture, to monolog. The first Happening--Allan Kaprow's 18 Happenings in 6 Parts--took place at the Reuben Gallery in New York. Seventy-five invitations were mailed to people in the immediate area telling them when and where to appear. A subsequent mailing included directions they were to follow as participants in this kickoff performance. Other Happenings took place in churches, basements, barns, back yards, stores and, on one occasion--the December 1963 performance of Claes Oldenburg's Autobodys--in a public parking lot.
The retraining courses for workers proposed by the present Administration may be a necessary step toward the Great Society, but, in our opinion, they should not stop at professional skills. There is also an art, a skill of living, and, as everybody knows from modern literature, movies and advice columns, this is the era of incommunicability between men and women. Everything has become more and more complicated. How can we cope with the complexities of modern world policies, social upheavals and automation if we must also confront the complications in modern conjugal techniques? The Great Society clearly needs reorientation courses for husbands and wives as well. To provide them, we dare propose a bold and sweeping change: tritalamonomy.
During the weekend of October 15 to 17, 1965, nearly 100,000 Americans--more than half of them students--demonstrated against their Government's involvement in the war in Vietnam. Close to 30,000 marched down New York's Fifth Avenue, while 14,000 paraded in the San Francisco Bay Area. Many of the latter tried to advance on the Oakland Army Terminal to hold a "teach-in" aimed at the military personnel there, but they were twice turned back by police. Protesters were in the streets in Pittsburgh, New Haven, Cleveland, Detroit, Seattle and Los Angeles. In Ann Arbor, 38 were arrested, including students and professors from the University of Michigan, as they staged a sit-in at Selective Service headquarters. Fifty students from the University of Wisconsin marched on Truax Air Force Base in an unsuccessful attempt to make a citizen's arrest of the commandant for acting as "an accessory to mass murder and genocide."
Tell me, Tommy," the elderly schoolmarm inquired of one of her fifth-grade students, "if you started with twenty dollars and gave seven of them to Nancy, five to Mary and eight to Judy, what would you then have?"
There was a time when even the most fashion-conscious of men winced at the thought of having to buy new shoes. Unless a chap were privy to a master customizer, he faced a doleful session of "breaking in." Throughout history, men had to do the best they could: the elegant English monarch James biffed around the palace in his slippers rather than hold court in a pair of new patrician pumps. But soft leathers, modern materials and sophisticated new stylings have come to the rescue, and "breaking in" is now something more appropriately left to briar pipes and cow ponies. Today's foot-loose fellow leaves his beefy brogans for tramping an occasional moor while he goes for smooth slip-ons and soft suedes, now as at home at the conference table as at the cabana. Even in formal evening shoes, you'll find the cobbler has done his awl to make them comfortable from first fit to final frug. Seen here, artfully conjured alone and then photographed in action, are some of the newest styles in modern footwear--the softest shoes since Eddie Foy.
Dr. John Tenorio was one of the 500 researchers at St. Christopher's Hospital and consequently he nursed fierce ambitions for fame and money. Driven by a profound faith in his fellow man, he was inventing a new disease. He could see that the public would not accept another killer like cancer or heart disease, and in his carrel he bent over a large drawing of the human figure, inking long red arrows to the sites of every ailment he could find in his pathology handbook to see if any region had been slighted. He could find none. Mankind was already pretty well diseased up. He despaired.
The Three Transatlantic treats shown above--Rossana Podesta, Christiane Schmidtmer and Shirley Anne Field, in the usual order--are exemplary examples of the wave of European actresses who are currently making a sizable splash on both sides of the ocean by combining refreshing good looks with creditable acting abilities. In recent years, Europe has all but totally eclipsed the U.S. as an abundant source of bountifully endowed talent, closing the Hollywood sex-star gap created by a noticeable lack of home-grown product. And Playboy has kept its readers apprised visually and verbally of the latest distaff stars rising on the European horizon. In October 1965, we rendezvoused with Gaul's golden-haired Catherine Deneuve (France's Deneuve Wave), now captivating U. S. audiences in Umbrellas of Cherbourg and shocking them in Repulsion. In the interest of maintaining international relations on an unbiased basis, we are presenting herewith a similar pictorial tribute to the trio of film lovelies, above, from three other European countries. (At this point, it should be noted that shortly after Mlle. Deneuve's in-the-altogether posing for Playboy's photographer David Bailey, she and Dave became man and femme; and though our blessings went with them, we decided that henceforth, in order to avoid connubial complications in our photo ranks, we would keep a closer eye on our photographers while they keep a keen eye on their subjects.) And now we recommend that the reader give our present three lensed lovelies the first, second and third look-overs they so richly deserve.
Ribald Classic: The Purple Grapes of Queen Julishka
In the golden days after the Turks had been driven from Hungary for the final time, there ruled over the vast Puszta region the queen Julishka, who was so endowed of face and form that all men, even the pious, summarily succumbed to her charms--all except one.
In the History of the contemporary theater, there exists no more arduous and lengthy role than that of the sexually obsessed, professionally undone counselor-at-law Bill Maitland in John Osborne's Inadmissible Evidence which opened on Broadway after a long London run. Nicol Williamson--who has portrayed the fading fortyish barrister since the drama's inception--crossed the Atlantic with the play, bringing with him the British Critics Award and accolades such as "the greatest piece of acting of this or any other year," "magnificent," "stunning," "the great actor of his generation." The tall, blond, 28-year-old Scotsman prepped for the theater in Birmingham before joining the Dundee repertory company, where his abilities brought him an invitation from bright English directorial light Tony Page to join him at London's Royal Court theater. While there, he made his mark in Gorky's The Lower Depths, Donleavy's The Ginger Man, Beckett's Waiting for Godot and a slew of B. B. C. dramatic roles. But it took Inadmissible Evidence (a three-hour play which has Williamson on stage all of the time and talking for most of it) to thrust the intense young man into the limelight. Throughout the drama, his character's nerves are stretched taut as a stage flat, fraying Williamson's own nerves to the breaking point (he has on occasion berated the audience for arriving late, once delivered an onstage diatribe against the management for having made him go on when he felt he couldn't, and was involved in a violent offstage altercation with producer David Merrick), but he claims he doesn't "suffer" through the performance itself. Williamson as Williamson does suffer, however. He was intimidated by New York ("It's frightening when you're on your own in an unfamiliar city") and clings to a romanticism tinged with Weltschmerz in his attitude toward the opposite sex ("I keep waiting for the woman, knowing she'll never appear, knowing I'll have to go and look for her"). But he has supreme confidence in his acting abilities, having stated flatly: "I'm the one actor who will ever change anything--like doing Shakespeare the way he should be done." When asked if there were any other living actor he admired, Williamson answered candidly and succinctly, "No."
"A guitarist of exceptional brilliance and persuasion." "A sensation!" "The audience was overwhelmed, astonished, unable to believe its ears." Classical guitar aficionados who have idolized the venerable Andres Segovia for generations may be taken aback to learn that those critical plaudits were not heaped on the primo virtuoso, but on John Williams, a prodigy barely past his teens. However, the praise came as no surprise to Segovia, the man solely responsible for the unprecedented prominence of the classical guitar in this century. According to him, the musical cult he had spawned was no cult of personality; the instrument, he said, "did not begin with me. It will not end with me, either." In 1958, at Williams' London debut, the king accordingly dubbed his heir apparent. "A prince of the guitar," said Segovia, "has arrived in the musical world." Achieving such guitaristic eminence can easily be underestimated these days, since music (of a sort) can be made on the instrument with chords of childlike simplicity. Part of the difficulty in playing concert music, as opposed to pop, explains Williams, is the need to "overcome the unique technical difficulties--for example, anatomically awkward finger positions--and a hairline control of dynamics (the making of sounds by feather-touching the strings)." How well he has succeeded is attested to by critic Irving Kolodin: "The ... warmly vibrant sound he produces is proof not only of the skill he commands in touch and stroke, but also of his possession of a highly critical sense of what he wants to hear." Williams knew what he wanted to hear at the age of seven (in 1948), when he began taking lessons from his father in Melbourne, Australia. When his family moved to London in 1952, Dad gave way to Segovia, who accepted the young virtuoso for training. Williams' London debut was followed by regular concert tours throughout Europe, Japan and the U. S. A., supplemented by frequent TV/radio appearances and two critically acclaimed LP records for Columbia. Currently, Williams is teaching guitar at London's Royal College of Music, but how long he can remain in these cloistered confines is problematical. As Segovia said, "God has laid a finger on his brow and it will not be long before his name becomes a byword."
The best-known grade school dropout in Wichita, Kansas, is stubby, bullnecked William Powell Lear, who never made it to the eighth grade. Yet he now heads a multimillion-dollar corporation that manufactures and sells executive jet aircraft to people like Frank Sinatra and enterprises like the Fuller Brush Company for $595,000 apiece, including the ashtrays. (His graceful jets are among those pictured in The Contemporary Planesman, Playboy's in-depth survey of executive flight, beginning on page 64.) This jet-propelled King Lear was born in Hannibal, Missouri, but he left town early, restlessly heading north in his teens. Before the age of 40 he had commanded a half-dozen engineering and manufacturing firms, some of which flourished, while others did not. In 1954 he won a Horatio Alger Award, despite his growing reputation as a stay-out-all-night man who spent almost as much time encircling assorted blondes as he did experimenting in his laboratory--behavior that perhaps did not fit into the accepted Alger tradition of much work and little play. In the early 1960s Lear, by this time a millionaire and already thrice married, bounced into commercial aviation with customary chutzpah. Convinced that there was a brilliant future for the jet in private as well as in military and commercial airline flight, he acquired a plant in Switzerland and began to assemble the first Lear Jet. In 1962, he moved his factory to Wichita and tripled its production. Yet, because of increased costs, he was forced to work his way through his own personal fortune of $10,000,000 to keep his business in the air. Like all Alger heroes, Lear bounced back with admirable elasticity. Today he employs 2000 hands, has all his money back, anticipates sales of $85,000,000 in 1966, and has moved into diversification. (His Lear Jet Stereo Cartridge System is now optional equipment in Ford and Chrysler cars and is also available for homes, boats and planes.) But forthright Bill Lear takes all this in stride, candidly admitting that among the things he likes best, one is colored green. "At my age , some men like to sit on the beach," says he. "Some enjoy golf, others sports cars. Some like yachting, bridge or clipping coupons. But for me the best of life is the exercise of ingenuity--in design, flying, finance, business--plus a little fun besides."