Mary Warren, the prettiest and most personable of the personnel in Playboy's Personnel Department, proves that she can wear more than one hat as she models ten gallons' worth of Stetson on our cover. Mary's other accouterments—a six-shooter and a Rabbit-starring sheriff's star—help announce The Girls of Texas, a wide-ranging words-and-pictures tribute to the loveliest fillies of the Lone-Star State.
Playboy, June, 1966, Vol. 13, No. 6, Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Co., 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.
Longtime readers of these pages may recall an After Hours essay (November 1961) in which we deplored the disappearance of such grand old silent-screen-star names as, so help us, Stanhope Wheatcroft, Ferdinand Tidmarsh and Mergenthaler Waisleywillow, and the emergence of drably uninspired modern-day movie monikers—Rock Hudson, William Holden, John Wayne and their innocuous ilk. It saddens us to report that subsequent delvings into vintage film archives have served to substantiate our original thesis even more picturesquely. Compare, for example, the appellational appeal of a Doris Day or a Sandra Dee with that of an old-time leading lady such as Francelia Billington or the redoubtable Octavia Handworth. Consider also the contrast between the alliterative inspiration of a fairly humdrum handle such as Marilyn Monroe, or even an offbeat one such as Marcello Mastroianni, and that of America's second-favorite Sweetheart in the Twenties, Miss Mary Miles Minter. Though not to be alphabetically outdone, MMM was bested in the triple-name game by a couple of even more unaesthetically yclept contemporaries: Lydia Yeamans Titus and Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree. For sheer unloveliness, however, it would be difficult—if not unthinkable, in this era of clean-cut, nicely named collegiate types such as Troy Donahue and Pamela Tiffin—to equal the names of such silent-era stars as Constance Crawley, Louise Glaum, Charles Ogle, Tempe Piggott and that slick customer, Ralph Slippery. We must confess to a certain perverse delight in such unabashedly evocative surnames—and to a grudging admiration for the chutzpah of their owners—but we can't find it in our heart to mourn the passing of an equally popular cinematic vogue of the early 1900s for overcute cognomens. Not even curly Shirley Temple could match such dimpled darlings as Jean Darling, June Caprice, Jewel Carmen and—believe it or not—a sugary ingénue named Louise Lovely. Nor could Diana Dors, even before she changed her name from Diana Fluck, hold a candle to such sultry sexpots of the silents as Dagmar Godowsky, Myrtle Gonzalez, Kittens Reichert and the inimitable Trixie Friganza. Though Miss Friganza's handle is rivaled nowadays only by that of Rip Torn for total improbability, neither could compete in the same league with some of the dillies we've unearthed from the cinematic past: Xenia Desni, Irne Gawket, DeSacia Mooers, lca Lenkeffy, Hedda Nova, Vola d'Arvil, Ora Carew, Wilmuth Merkyl, Mayme Kelso, Minta Durfee, Orme Caldara, Jetta Goudal and the exotic Lya de Putti, which sounds less like a person than an indecent proposal in Esperanto. Lest we leave anyone in suspense about it, the last name on our list (which belonged to an Austrian actor who immortalized the role of a lascivious vampire) seems to supply a suggestively affirmative, if somewhat enigmatic, reply in German to that brazen proposition: Gustav von Seyffertitz.
"Every man's life ends the same way," Ernest Hemingway once remarked to his close friend A. E. Hotchner, "and it is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguishes one man from another.'' In Papa Hemingway (Random House). Hotchner gives the details. The way Hemingway died was to kill himself with a shotgun in his Ketchum, Idaho, hideaway. He had attempted suicide at other times, and had gone to the Mayo Clinic, where psychiatrists had pressed buttons and sent electricity through his brain. They told his wife, Mary, that Ernest was 70 percent his old self, that he was free to go; but the first night he got back to Ketchum he did what he'd been wanting to do for months, perhaps years. In those dwindling days. Hemingway was suffering from delusions that made his friends cry. He thought the Feds were following him and tapping his phone, and that his friends were conspiring against him. But despite the delusions he remained canny, even lucid. His suicide, given his Life view, was a rational act. "Papa, why do you want to kill yourself?" Hotchner asked him. "What do you think happens to a man going on sixty-two," Hemingway answered, "when he realizes that he can never write the books and stories he promised himself? Or do any of the other things he promised himself in the good old days?" Years before, a reporter had asked him if he could sum up his feelings about death. "Yes," Hemingway answered, "just another whore." The way Hemingway lived, during those last 13 years when Hotchner was his frequent companion, was to try to keep doing the things he liked best: to write, to drink, to eat, to hunt and fish, to be with friends, to watch the bullfights and bet the horses. He kept taking Hotchner to old Hemingway haunts, so that the book is drenched in a strange nostalgic light—it is Hemingway's Madrid, Hemingway's Paris, Hemingway's Havana. At times his talk seems to parody his writings: "... these Cuban girls, you look into their black eyes, they have hot sunlight in them." At other times the talk is writing, as when he describes a bullfighter to Hotchner: "He goes cleanly over the horns, holding back nothing. But he has been gored so often he is nothing but steel and nylon inside." In the end, the book seems to have been written almost as much by Hemingway as by Hotchner. And that is high praise.
Wait a Minim! is a lunatic entertainment—children's day at the funny farm. Eight devilishly talented youngsters, five boys, three girls, most of them African, all of them white—under the inspiration and direction of South African impresario Leon Gluckman—cut up, and come up with a show that is freewheeling, charming, and foolish in the best sense of the word. The few moments of spoken satire are rudimentary—short jabs at South African radical backwardness; but apartheid from that, the fun, mostly musical and sight gags, is outlandish and inventive. The cast of eight is not alone: It has traveled from South Africa to Rhodesia to London to Broadway toting at least 28 different kinds of musical instruments, including mbiras, timbilas, drones, kalimbas and bull fiddles. For those who can't tell a double respiratory linguaphone from a Japanese koto, let it be said that the instruments look like ski tips, bows and arrows, fly swatters, bulbous gourds, goitered guitars, elephant hooves and garbage cans; and sound, with plonks and palumphs, zizzings and zawzings, like a jam session of carpenters, plumbers and riveters. There are Xhosa fighting songs, Tamil lullabies, German Schuhplattlers, and even an occasional Italian aria and Irish folk song. Especially uproarious is the Izicatulo Gumboot Dance, performed by the company, led by Paul Tracey (who, with his brother Andrew, is responsible for most of the music) posing as a gangling, goony Englishman going native. With a maniacal grin, ears and hair flapping, arms churning, wearing large, sloppy, feathered galoshes, he clomps, flops, shuffles and gallops, fairly squashing the stage to sawdust. The show's outrageous humor scarcely sags for a minim. At the John Golden, 252 West 45th Street.
There's a saying in Hollywood: Why make a movie once when you can make it twice? Now they've done it to Stagecoach, the 1939 John Ford oater that never was much of a picture to start with (sure, it's got a reputation as big as all Texas, but have you seen it lately?) and shows no sign of improving with age. The remake doesn't have the directorial vitality of Ford nor the star quality of John Wayne, but it does have Cinemascope, DeLuxe color and the noisiest sound track since Gunga Din. It also has enough cornball characters to keep a dozen TV Westerns going for the next three seasons. There's the cheap prostitute named Dallas (Ann-Margret), the filthy old rumpot doctor (Bing Crosby), the U. S. marshal (Van Heflin), the pregnant young bride on her way to meet her husband (Stefanie Powers), the comic-relief liquor salesman with a runny nose (Red Buttons), the bank robber (Robert Cummings), the card dealer (Michael Connors) and the outlaw named Ringo (Alex Cord). They're on their way from Dryfork to Cheyenne, with time out for tears and some fancy shootin' with a Sioux war party headed by Crazy Horse. And a more boring group you wouldn't want to meet on the A deck of a transatlantic ocean liner. There is some good location work on the Caribou Country Club ranch near Boulder, Colorado; some wild action shots, including a hair-raising ambush and a couple of Indian massacres that look real enough to gasp at; and a lot of sincere camerawork by William Clothier, who is one of the few Hollywood cinematographers who know how to photograph the West the way it really looks. There is also the stagecoach itself, an authentic replica of the original Concord stage. It's the best thing in the film, and the camera photographs it everywhere—inside, outside, on the top, on the bottom and from an airplane. The unsavory crowd stuffed inside it is somewhat less fascinating. Bing Crosby and Robert Cummings should have quit while they were ahead. Alex Cord is no Duke Wayne, but he occasionally manages to cut a noble figure in the saddle. Stefanie Powers is unintentionally funny with a Southern accent that sounds like an Aunt Jemima commercial, and wait until you see how fast she recovers from having that baby on the road. Red Buttons is embarrassing in the kind of role that went out of style with high school mellerdramers. The less said of Ann-Margret the better. What was once a mildly entertaining sagebrush stew has become, in its reincarnation, just warmed-over gruel.
Color Me Barbra (Columbia) is, for the most part, of brilliant hue. The total picture is marred on occasion: C'est Si Bon—no strong tune to begin with—is a near disaster when taken at a deliberate tempo; and the treacly Romberg-Hammerstein antiquity One Kiss is a senescent sonata best left buried. But enough of the gloomy side. Chalk up as Streisand triumphs a kookie breakneck vocalization of The Minute Waltz; a vastly moving, French-lyricked Non C'est Rien; and a medley that runs from a delightful revival of Animal Crackers through a campy rendering of Sam, You Made the Pants Too Long (Triviaphiles will immediately recall that Ziggy Talent did the singing on the Vaughn Monroe original), to a regrettably slim slice of What's New Pussycat?. In toto, while not the best of Barbra, the LP is good enough by far.
Idon't know how I bump into these nutty females, but before I change the old bifocals, thought I'd get an outside opinion. The latest one has a nice figure and holds an interesting conversation. But all she likes to do is talk. When I get amorous, there's some response, but then the subject turns to her "very good friend" up on the DEW line. Since I'm getting too old to play games, I wonder if the game is worth the candle, or should I step out gracefully?—D. W., Winnipeg, Manitoba.
Why not rent your own tropical island? An offering we like is the 20-acre paradise of Young's Island, within sight of St. Vincent in the Caribbean, which comes complete with cottages for 20 guests, white-sand beaches, a 42-foot schooner for lazy days under sail and your own bamboo-marimba band. The entire island is for lease by the week from May through December. Its $2800 tab, which splits into $140 per person among 20 friends, includes a staff of 20, all meals, water skiing, fishing, skindiving and use of a nearby islet by the ruins of the old French fortress at Fort Duvernette.
In Berlin, where he was born in 1931, few would have foreseen much of a future, let alone a bright one, for Michael Igor Peschkowsky—better known today as Mike Nichols, the fastest-rising young director on Broadway and in Hollywood and the former first half of Nichols and May. Son of a Jewish physician who had fled from his native Russia to Germany, of all places, for sanctuary from Bolshevik persecution, he was bundled off to America on a refugee ship at the age of eight, soon after his grandfather, a vocal adversary of Hitler's National Socialist Party, was executed by the Nazis. A few weeks later, he was reunited with his parents in New York, where his father resumed the profitable practice he'd abandoned in Berlin—and changed the family name to Nichols. "By the time I spelled Peschkowsky," he explained, "my patient was in the hospital." Mike was sent to private schools in Connecticut and Manhattan, where he learned English and earned good enough grades to get into NYU.
He was as carried away as I was," Laurie confessed. "I felt his hands on my body, gentle but manly as he stroked the bathing suit halter encasing my breasts. I pressed my hand down on top of his, inhaling deeply so that my breasts swelled to his touch. We kissed again and I was filled with a yearning desire to go even further with our love-making. I moved my hand to my shoulder and pushed down the strap to my bathing suit. He buried his face against my bare breast.
Skiing in the Andes: Chile, the land of the ancient Incas, today attracts some of the world's foremost skiers to its towering, almost windless slopes of the southern Andes. Since Chile reverses the seasons of its northern neighbors, Andes-bound snowmen can take to the well-powdered runs any time after late June and continue schussing into mid-October. High on the list of top international ski resorts is Portillo, this year's host to the World Alpine Championships starting in July. Nestled by Lake Inca, almost two miles above sea level, Portillo affords our adventurous couple (above) scenic splendor as well as idyllically dry conditions for a session on the slopes. The posh Hotel Portillo offers $60-a-day suites, superb Continental cuisine, dancing and a relaxed atmosphere that contrasts perfectly with the brisk action on its 18 runs. At a ski carnival that comes to town in August, the daylight doings include slalom and jumping events, and the nights are rich with dolce vita roistering that brings the best Latin-fiesta spirit to the scene.
Logan Hesitated at the door, which was open, wondering whether his corduroy jacket and unpressed flannel slacks were suitable for the occasion. The only thing he knew about the party inside was that the host, an adman named Ted Denning, threw these weekly blasts on a kind of Noah's-ark principle: The guest list hopefully included one of everything, from karate instructors to college professors, fashion models to foreign agents. From the glimpse Logan got of the evening's mélange, it was certainly recruited from the more well-shod layers of city life, and while this suited his intentions, it also added to his nervousness. The parties Logan usually attended were held in lofts or basements, and he had almost forgotten that in other circles the mere wearing of a coat and tie (any coat and tie) was not by itself considered the height of fashion. He stood wavering between plunging into the mob or back into the street when Denning spotted him and hurried to the door. Within proper range the host fired out his hand, and his smile increased to cover what Logan suspected was a lack of recognition.
Ideally, The American Businessman should work hard, make money and seek to expand. Sometimes, however, the American businessman loses money. When this happens, the businessman seeks to cut back. There are a number of legal ways to do this. There also is an illegal way to do this. The businessman can do a very bad thing and call on the services of an outfit that is in the business of burning down places that are not making any money and have insurance.
Ever since Captain Cook sailed past Diamond Head into Hawaii and found himself wined and dined luau style, this most festive of Polynesian parties has been internationally hailed as king of the cookouts. No one knows who tossed the world's first luau, but it's possible that some early insular Elsa Maxwell accidentally dropped a freshly killed porker into a fire and, finding it done to a turn, invited the neighboring wahines and kanakas over to sample it. The tradition has happily continued and now all shoreside luaus serve roast pig steamed for hours in an underground oven as a sacrifice to the goddess Pele. But there's no need to hop a jet all the way to Oahu to enjoy the doings. In the time it would take you to pick up your tickets, you can be serving up a full South Sea feast fit for Pele herself right in your own air-conditioned digs.
If you can imagine the spirit of a 13-year-old boy who was permanently cut off from his family, wandering in a strange land where a strange language was spoken, bearing a name not his by birth but now forevermore attached to him, you can also imagine what a dark and threatening world it must have seemed to him and how eagerly he would have cleaved to any promise of power. This was my father's condition in 1910. Love brings slow power, but violence, work and money make it come quick. Or so a boy might think.
An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but in cases requiring more extensive medical attention, Playmate Kelly Burke is continually called upon to supply just what the local physician ordered. As a medical buyer for one of California's largest pharmaceutical cooperatives, Miss June has spent the past three years helping to supervise the selection, of drugs destined to become shelf stock in hospitals and pharmacies throughout the Greater Glendale area. "My job can be fairly cut and dried one minute," says the 21-year-old brunette, "and then, in typical Ben Casey fashion, a nearby hospital phones in an emergency order and I'm suddenly off and running all over the place to find the required medicines."
First, the confession. Unlike most journalists, I never got drunk with Humphrey Bogart. I met him only once, at a Mayfair club in 1952, when I had just described his face in print as "a triumph of plastic surgery." He called me over to his table, where he was studiously noisy and three parts crocked. We did not love each other at sight, though I happily submitted to what John Crosby once described to me as "that basilisk authority of his." He overawed me because he was rich and raucous and because he ate nothing. He looked like "a great famished wolf," which is how Ellen Terry summed up Sir Henry Irving's performance as Macbeth. I decided later that I preferred the lines his scriptwriters gave him to the ones he ad-libbed that night.
There he stands in all his casual aloofness, a crafty, sly expression on his face, his eyes boring straight and dis+dainfully into those of the man with the gun. He is caught. The fellow's got the drop on him. What is there now for him to do but accept the humiliation that goes with being taken by surprise? But wait. He plays it cool for a moment, lets the fellow think he's captured, resigned. Then an odd move, a disconcerting comment, and he has his assailant disturbed. In that moment of hesitation, he makes a fast diversion with his foot, comes up sharp with his elbow, clips the startled man on the jaw, knocks him off balance, leaps upon him and—the tables are turned. Already the audience has rusded in anticipation of this move. The maneuver is as familiar to them as the slant of this fellow's jaw, and they love it—they tingle to it—even though they've seen it maybe a half-dozen times.
I am not one of those Africans who feel ashamed of their country because, in 50 years, it has made less progress than Europe in 500. But where we have failed to advance as fast as we should, it is owing to dictators like Chaka; and for this, we have only ourselves to blame. The fault being ours, so is the responsibility for the cure.
The question is: Are we going to put some of the "bunk" back? After a long fight against dangerously overinflated or fake values, stultifying conventions, ready-to-wear opinions, blinkers and illusions; after a brave struggle against all kinds of iron chastity belts wrapped around our minds, are we now reaching the point where debunking has become overdebunking—a kind of moral, political, ideological overkill, with the result that our search for "truth" has led us to a new kind of phoniness, no less destructive and false than the virtuous "lies" of yesteryear? I begin to feel very strongly that it is impossible to destroy illusions completely and totally, and that it's wrong to attempt it—no less absurd than the pursuit of total victory in a total war. All we can do is to choose our "beautiful lies" and then attempt to give them some kind of approximative truth. There is no such thing as Truth, a universal truth, an unshakable, foolproof, final truth. All our notions have to be constantly revised, and that includes all our moral "unshakable" values. There are only arrangements with human nature, attempts at peaceful coexistence with certain aspects of our psyche that simply do not allow any kind of total victory, unless victory is achieved over man himself. There can be no "final solution" to man. I even doubt if there are such things as natural good values and natural bad ones: Everything is of our own making. The kind of pursuit of total truth, of total realism on which, for instance, to choose a comical example, the Actors Studio technique is based, is a fallacy, and a dangerous and destructive one to boot. The contemporary pseudo-Freudian crusade against inhibitions is another typical example of the oft-forgotten fact that any kind of dignity, decency, generosity or idealistic outlook is in no way a natural, beautiful golden fruit growing in the splendid garden of our being, but to a considerable degree the result of inhibitions, frustrations, discipline, restrictions, of a constant "rape" of our instincts, of a terrific, painful struggle against nature. Yes, against nature: The belief of Jean Jacques Rousseau and of the 19th Century anarchists, such as Kropotkin and Bakunin, in the good savage, was long ago exposed as a total fallacy. Without falling prey to undue pessimism, we find it nevertheless a fact of life that civilization is man's attempt to control the facts of life and himself. The unrepressed, uninhibited individual can in no way be called civilized, and let me say at once that the only thing that matters to me here is not civilization itself, but happiness. For anyone who comes in contact with the generation in their 20s today, it is difficult not to conclude that some of the greatest beauty of life is no longer available to them, and that in the process of overdebunking sentiment, romanticism, phoniness, patriotism, the heart, myths, mothers, fathers, love, humanism, God, purity and about every kind of arbitrary value, the only aspiration left to them now is nirvana, which is the coward's suicide. It is, of course, impossible to blame them. This spiritual no man's land is the result of centuries of totalitarian beliefs. It is difficult to express in one article the full hatred, rancor, and dismay felt by me when some of these completely bewildered, unhappy and lost youths in their 20s come to me with their Freudian jargon, their deliberately monosyllabic 300-word vocabulary. The hydrogen bomb and racial discrimination make for the only solid ground left under their feet, in the sense that to oppose these monstrosities gives them at least some kind of aim and consistency. Needless to say, I am deeply attached to them, and I have written a whole book—The Ski Bum—about one of those knights-errant of the total void. Lenny, the ski bum of my book, whom I know well, is a typical product of the overdebunking process, of psychological, ideological and moral overkill.
Althogh stripped by Alaska of its title as the Union's largest state, Texas has clung tenaciously to its image as the land of wide-open spaces, whose inhabitants still do things with a bravura flair for "larger-than-lifesmanship." Once a wild, bottomless reservoir of untapped resources and unlimited financial possibilities, the Lone-Star State continues to attract an abundant supply of enterprising young men and women in search of new frontiers and fortunes. To the scientist, it's the burgeoning headquarters of NASA and America's space-age industry. To the investor, it's the traditional stamping ground of the nation's great livestock herds and the repository of its greatest oil reserves. To the politician and an endless stream of attendant lobbyists and journalists, it's the home of L. B. J. and the heartland of a new breed of statesmen and administrators. And happily for male travelers who venture within that state's far-flung borders, it's the mailing address of that tall, tantalizing, sun-kissed, openhearted species of American femininity: the Texas girl.
There lived once in Florence the cobbler Petruccio and the miller Augustino, who had between them a friendship knit of great depth and truth. Likewise, each had a woman wed—both young and of exceeding fine architecture—between whom there was also a bond beyond breaking. Nevertheless, it chanced that on a certain occasion the cobbler, longing for a change of pasture, decided that on the ladder of desire the comely Caterina, wife of Augustino, ranked a rung above his own spouse, Salvaggia the fair. Accordingly, at a time opportune, he made known his passion to her, receiving in an ambiguous reply neither denial nor encouragement.
Whether you're a confirmed globe-girdler who's always on the wing or just a man planning his annual two-week vacation, you'll want to be well turned out no matter where you roam. The knack of how to arrive ready to get going and look fashionably correct with all your gear in top-drawer condition is quite simple—select well-coordinated, trouble-free wearables and then pack them properly.
Among the high priests of California's temples of Savings and Loan, the biggest loner of them all is 53-year-old Bart Lytton, who marches in nobody's parade but his own. This attitude has built for Lytton a huge financial empire, a position of prominence in politics (once chairman of the Democratic State Finance Committee and twice a delegate to national conventions), substantial recognition as a philanthropist and patron of the arts, and a well-earned reputation as the most flamboyant figure in American finance. His spectacular promotions have included plastering his name on the back of almost every bus in Los Angeles, festooning his headquarters with $450,000 in modern art ("Art is as fundamental to the conduct of business today as is central heating or plumbing"), and building a visual-arts center next door to a night club—and not far away from a Lytton loan office. Brash, bold and bullish, Lytton quite understandably is not overloved by his competitors. "Everyone has a cross to bear," a contemporary remarked recently, "and ours is Bart Lytton." This attitude bothers Lytton not a bit. "If you can't join them," he philosophizes, "lick them." Lytton served as a newspaper reporter, a press agent and a screenwriter (Hitler's Madmen, Bowery to Broadway) before entering the world of finance. In 1949 he came to the lucrative conclusion that, like any salable item, money could be merchandised, and on this premise established the first Lytton Company. A series of mergers has since resulted in the Lytton Financial Corporation, whose assets of $700,000,000 rank it fifth in the nation. "Think of it," he says. "At the moment I control more than half a billion dollars. This staggers even me."
For Batman and Robin, the Batphone in stately Wayne Manor emits an urgent beep; for Bill Dozier, the executive producer of the campy A.B.C.-TV series, it has a happy cash-register ring. As the president of Greenway Productions, Dozier summoned cartoonist Bob Kane's Dynamic Duo to the small screen last January; at this writing they are just shy of video Valhalla (Nielsen rated Batman number two in total viewers). To make sure that Batman retained his comic-book image, Dozier insisted that the Caped Crusader stick to deadpan do-goodisms ("Poor deluded girl"), while leaving the juvenile gee-whizzeries ("Holy Hotfoot!") to Robin, the Boy Wonder. In doing so, Dozier has touched off a Batman craze that, come summer, will explode to CinemaScope proportions with the release of a full-length, full-color Batman flick that will introduce the Batcopter and the Batboat. "The adults look for laughs," says Dozier, "but the kids really identify with their crime-fighting heroes." Identify the kids do—as they pick store shelves clean of Bat products, adding a multimillion-dollar fringe benefit to the already highly profitable undertaking. However, successful ventures are nothing new to Bill Dozier. A top executive for many years at Paramount and RKO studios, Dozier saw eye to eye with C.B.S. in 1951 and switched over to turning out such TV hits as Studio One, Danger, Perry Mason and Have Gun, Will Travel. Now, with Wednesday- and Thursday-night TV audiences safely tucked under Batman's wing, Dozier will splash next season's video screen with other reconstituted childhood characters. "The Green Hornet is scheduled for September," Dozier has announced, "and Wonder Woman won't be far behind." Zowie!
The voice in the U. S. House of Representatives had the honeysuckle tones of the Old South, but the words bespoke a new breed of Dixie legislator: "Those chosen to lead have failed to lead. Those whose task it is to speak out have stood mute. And in so doing, we have permitted the voice of the South to preach defiance and disorder. We have stood by, leaving the field to reckless and violent men." Not one to stand by for long, 38-year-old Charles Longstreet Weltner, sophomore Democratic Congressman from Atlanta, Georgia, stood up on the House floor to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the Ku Klux Klan by leading the demand for a full-fledged Congressional investigation into its sheet-shrouded activities. A member of the often malodorous House Committee on Un-American Activities, lawyer Weltner has brought a sense of juridical restraint to committee procedures without vitiating its investigative powers. The Weltner-inspired probe was credited with exposing resurgent Klan activities in the South and publicly pinning the responsibility for racial violence directly on K. K. K. leadership. As a result of the hearings, Klan Imperial Wizard Robert Shelton (Playboy Interview, August 1965 issue) is facing a court date this month to defend himself against a contempt-of-Congress charge. Weltner, a modern moderate with impeccable Southern credentials, including a great-grandfather slain at Fredericksburg, was the only Deep Southern Congressman to vote for the Civil Rights Bill of 1964. "I caught hell on that one," Weltner said afterward. But since then he has caught the interests of politicians on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line who clearly see Weltner as symbolizing the emergent new South.
"On the Secret Service of his Majesty the Queen"—More Tsooris for secret agent Israel Bond, locked in combat with, you should pardon the expression, tush—part I of a new oy oy seven adventure by Sol Weinstein