It was a Chill Day with the hounds of spring lagging a hell of a long way behind winter's traces when a group of us from the Editorial, Art and Picture departments convened before the crackling fire in the Playboy Mansion's fireplace to braindoggle this issue's cover. Some hours later, with visions of summer icumen in after all, the meeting adjourned. Some days later, with several tons of sand spread on our studio floor and five lovely naiads basking 'neath the lights in bikinied and Bunniform array, this July cover was shot to celebrate high summer and the pleasures that pertain thereto.
Playboy, July, 1966, Vol. 13, No. 7, 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.
Finding it increasingly difficult to impress your friends these days? Does everyone you meet seem to be intimidatingly well-informed about current affairs, arts and letters, politics, sports? When you bring up the printed controversy between Kenneth Tynan and Truman Capote over In Cold Blood, do the hip cognoscenti rattle off, almost word for word, the verbal contretemps about the book that took place between critic and author at a New York cocktail party in 1960? Do they yawn as you launch into a dissertation on the secondary and tertiary symbolic levels of Fragonard's La Liseuse? Never before has the role of the raconteur been so tested in the status-seeking contest of one-upmanship.
The Duchy of Ellington has been revisited by the Queen, although this time it's only for a short stay. Ella at Duke's Place (Verve) is a single LP as contrasted with the multiple-LP Fitzgerald-warbled Ellington Songbook cut a number of years ago, but what there is is choice. Side one is made up of ballads, highlighted by such lovelies as Passion Flower and Azure. Side two is a swinger that reaches a crescendo on the capper, an infectiously upbeat Cotton Tail.
"Getting and spending," wrote William Wordsworth, "we lay waste our powers." The Big Spenders (Doubleday) by Lucius Beebe—completed just before his death a few months ago—takes the other tack. It is a joyful recounting of the pleasure of ostentatious spending by those for whom getting was no longer a problem. It is filled with characters such as the tycoon who completely forgot about a railroad he owned; the lady who did not exactly recall ordering 515,000,000 worth of redecorating on her estate but felt the bill was "rather less than she expected," after all; and the mining king who once wrote a memo cautioning himself not to spend over a million dollars the next day. Bon vivant Beebe approaches the world of the very, very rich with enduisiasm, knowledgeability, a thousand anecdotes and a straight face. His purpose—to illuminate the "genius" required to spend millions of dollars on worldly pleasures with total casualness and grace, as so perfectly illustrated in the chapter that ran in Playboy, Those Gilded Galas, January 1966. "What differentiates the truly big spender from the merely expensive spender," Beebe writes, "is that the money must be spent with a maximum of panache, in the greatest possible expression of the beau gesle." Beebe expresses pique at today's moneyed classes for their fear of having fun: "Instead of fancy-dress balls of revolting dimensions, or scandalous associations with French actresses, they are a pushover for family foundations. Among the inheritors of great names and great fortunes in America it is difficult if not impossible to find a living man who has given a dinner party at which nude chorus girls leaped from the innards of a lamb pot pie." In 15 chapters, which range from the great country houses of the East to the palaces of San Francisco's mining kings, from champagne-flooded New York restaurants to Chicago bordellos, from Paris to Palm Beach to Pittsburgh, Beebe follows the trail of the big spenders in private Pullman, gold-plated Rolls-Royce or triple-decked yacht, gorging on contrefilet of beef and diamond-back terrapin, buying entire restaurants to be guaranteed a good table, scarcely ever ordering liquid refreshment in anything less than Jeroboams, and purchasing everything from too-heavy-to-wear diamond necklaces to jewel-encrusted chastity belts. Occasionally, so rapid is the pace of narrative, Beebe forgets he has told this story or quoted that quote on an earlier page. The lost art of being rich was one that Beebe himself, with his modest personal fortune (he left an estate of §2,000,000), always strove to practice. It is nice to know that the author's will provided a 315,000 trust fund for the care of his Saint Bernard, T-Bone Towser 2d.
An Arabesque is defined as a "kind of ornament in which flowers, foliage, fruits, vases, animals and figures ... are represented in a fancifully combined pattern"—which catches perfectly the high spirit of the new movie of that title. At the center of the fanciful pattern is a scrap of paper. It contains a seemingly innocent ancient Hashimite inscription, but is actually a cipher detailing plans for the assassination of a Middle Eastern prime minister. A great many people want it—among them, not unnaturally, the P. M. himself; an oil baron as shifty as his native sands; and a gang of weirdly swinging rebels. Gregory Peck is the Oxford don engaged to decipher the inscription and he is, as they say, drawn step by step into a sinister web of intrigue and danger. Sophia Loren is the dangerous and intriguing lady luring him on. The game of hares and hounds is swift, quippy and played against the background of a London that was never lovelier. Stanley Donen's direction is surefooted, fast-paced and flashy. Among the high points are a chase through the London zoo at night, murder at Ascot, attempted murder with a steam shovel and a climactic chase with the worst of the wrong thinkers in a helicopter whilst our hero, our heroine and the P. M. are on horseback. This is commercial moviemaking at its inventive best—glamorous, exciting and amusing—pure fun and games, unadulterated by a single pretense to serious import.
While Batman rules the video waves, Broadway has pointed its ray gun at Superman: Zap! You're a musical. So why not? Musical-comedy heroes are usually square. Why not supersquare? Refreshingly, It's a Bird It's a Plane It's Superman plays Supe straight, not spoofy, goofy, campy, draggy or shaggy, but as the hardfisted, softhearted jerk that he is. Wearing his Supe-suit and a big-cheese smile, he waves to a passerby and announces—lest he be confused with anyone else on stage—"Hi! I'm Superman." Later he adds, with the full weight of his work in every syllable, "Being Superman is a full-time job." And so it is. He has to save Lois Lane, who is constantly in peril; Metropolis, which is constantly in peril; and this show, which is likewise. The score by Charles Strouse and Lee Adams is in and out, and the book by David Newman and Robert Benton is up and down. But there is no need to worry when Superman is flying across the stage in a single bound (aided by a single wire) and leaping into phone booths. As our hero, Bob Holiday is, of all things, credible—the perfect mixture of boy-scout blandness and supreme self-confidence. The show also boasts two supervillains, played by two superior actors. Slick-haired, slippery-smiled Jack Cassidy is a gossipy columnist on The Daily Planet, out to sink Supe because of journalistic jealousy (the Big S. monopolizes page one). Michael O'Sullivan, a carrot-haired clown with the face of a fallen soufflé and the body of a pastured dray horse, is a mad physicist who has lost the Nobel Prize ten times and plots to get even by desupering Superman. An added divertisement is Linda Lavin as Cassidy's lovelorn secretary, Sydney. In the show's best song, she tries to vamp Clark Kent to the tune of You've Got Possibilities. Mild-mannered Clark watches politely as she entwines herself about him, runs her fingers through his hair, removes his jacket, begins ... to ... unbutton ... his shirt. His shirt? Clark looks down in fright. It is not his virtue that is in danger, it's his underwear. Fortunately for Clark, the lady cops out. Superwhew! At the Alvin, 250 West 52nd Street.
I am a graduate of a large private university and am in love with a man who has had only two years of college—and those in night school. He is socially more adept than I am and, except for formal education, our backgrounds are fairly similar. He is four years older than I am and very much the boss in the relationship. He wants to marry me, and right now I'm all for it, but I have reservations about our future happiness because of his limited chances for the material success he seems to value highly. What do you advise?—Miss E. S., Atlanta, Georgia.
Political columnist Joe Alsop once said he envisioned hell as being an endless series of airport waiting rooms. Waiting around in dreary way stations can indeed become the fate of the traveler who tries to see everything in the world in one benumbing tour. Rather than touch base at a dozen spots, it's much wiser to plan a long trip with extended stays at just a few places, so each spot can yield its own distinctive flavor.
In 1957, the Supreme Court established, in Roth vs. United States, that, obscenity was not "speech" in the constitutional meaning of the word and therefore could not be protected under the First Amendment of the Bill of Rights, which, reads: "Congress shall make no law ... abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press." At the same time, the Court established a relatively liberal formula for recognizing obscenity, and in subsequent decisions, steadily made the criterion more liberal. On March 2, 1966, in a review of "Story of O" for The New York Times, Eliot Fremont-Smith hailed the free publication of that book in the United States as "an event of considerable importance" in that it served, "to fracture the last rationale of censorship, our late and somewhat desperate distinction between 'literary' pornography and 'hard-core' pornography."
The Ford Motor Company, several racing seasons ago, began a serious sortie into the rarefied atmosphere of international competition. It built—via its Advanced Vehicles division working out of Ford of Britain—a formidable GT that was soon making its weight felt on two continents (Ford Flat Out, Playboy, August 1964). Now its lineal descendant has been transformed into one of the sleekest, swiftest and costliest street-and-sport machines ever to tool down the pike. If you'd like one of these low, low (40 inches) Fords with the high, high (around $18,500) price tag, and time is hanging heavy on your hands between visits to your broker and your polo stables in Old Westbury, the company's English affiliate in Slough, whence springs the GT40, invites you to pop over for a fitting. One will suffice, but a knowledge of your dimensions is required—the semi-reclining seats are in fixed position, so the pedals have to be adjusted to the driver's configurations. Of course, you could mail them the necessary data, but as long as you do have the time, and you are investing a sizable sum (the exact price will depend on what you put in or leave off), there's no sense in not doing things right. The original intent of Ford was to get its 4.7-liter V8 racer, holder of Le Mans lap record and scourge of Sebring and Daytona, into the hands of private owners who were eager to add a Ford GT to their racing equipage. The target figure was 50 machines, the minimum number needed to qualify for international racing's "S" (Sports) category. However, they've been gobbled up as though they were Batmobiles, so that figure's been raised to 100, enough to bring furrowed brows to the opposition on racecourses all over the world. While building the racing version, the company detected a distinct interest in the GT40 as a street machine, albeit a rather exotic one. A number of things had to be done to domesticate the beast so that it was civilized enough to supply the creature comforts while still retaining most of the superbomb characteristics of the 200-plus-mph prototype. For starters, the engine was detuned so that it now produces a smooth 335 bhp at 6250 rpm, more than enough horses to get it up to a 165-mph gallop. Special exhaust silencers have been incorporated and they cut down the decibel count considerably. Softer brake linings and a 25-percent reduction in the stiffness of the shock absorbers do away with most of the bone-jarring aspects of the GT40's strictly competition sister ship. Such grand-touring niceties as air-cooled seats, a choice of over 150 paint colors, an electrically heated windshield, a single variable-speed wiper blade that operates efficiently at 200-mph speeds and a complete complement of gauges—all angled toward the pilote's eye—pack a lot of luxurious driving pleasure into the ground-hugging profile. Packing luggage in is another matter. Currently, owners are having to make do with the two heat-resistant luggage lockers installed on either side of the rear-based engine. Future models will carry a U-shaped locker that will up the luggage load to a minimum of three pieces, but when one is at speed in the GT40, a satchel more or less hardly seems of moment. Slough, as of this writing, has turned out a mere handful of these roadworthy rockets, so if you do decide to put your money where your garage is, the odds are overwhelmingly in favor of your being the first one on the block to have one.
She Was Lovely and graceful and serene, but it wouldn't have mattered if she were none of these. All that mattered was that she was female. And that mattered very much, indeed, for she was said to be the last woman.
New York in the Twenties: color it white, a dazzling, blinding white for the Great White Way, Gotham's answer to Paris, where die suckers flocked like lemmings, where cider and seltzer passed for champagne, where the rumrunners' pistolas boomed louder than the music that filled the theaters, dance halls, speak-easies and cabarets from the Palace to Princess Oui Oui's; color it black for Harlem, the iris of the city's eye, focusing and reflecting the mirror image of a post-War population mad for fun and glad to be alive; color it red and green for the Harlem cabarets like The Bucket of Blood and The Green Parrot, stamping grounds of the gunions, gangsters and Feds of those antic times; color it green and silver for the big-sized green bills and the piles of silver dollars tossed up on tables, bars and bandstands night and day by a city that needed no excuse for a party; color it blue for the times between when the jazzman, hung over and beat, lay down in his room alone, and when the Georgia peapicker and the Alabama field hand, bored with the flush toilets, elevator jobs and white folks' kitchens, remembered Southern mornings down home. But no matter where you hailed from, you never stayed blue long in the Promised Land, where the wild women and the raw whiskey could make a boy feel like a man overnight.
In a time like ours—witnessing the revolutions of space, weaponry, automation, anticolonial nationalism and our own civil rights movement—the best foreign policy for America would have to possess an imaginativeness and self-confidence equal to so revolutionary an era. The core issue on which this imaginativeness can be tested is that of China—its claims, ambitions, expansionism, its view of the world and the world's view of it. Almost overnight, if it willed to do so, America could transform its own standing in the world by taking the lead in welcoming China into the world community of nations. Communist China today cannot enter into the potential world consensus because it is outside the community of nations. It is not part of the United Nations, nor of the disarmament talks and agencies, nor of the technical, scientific and cultural bodies through which the diverse intellectual currents of the world run and are interchanged.
Best known for his four filmic portrayals of British superspy James Bond, actor Sean Connery comes in out of the cold for a pair of steamy, if frustrating, scenes in the current Warner Bros. farce A Fine Madness and proves he doesn't need a secret agent's credentials to succeed—up to a point—with the fair sex. In this case, Sean portrays the part of a would-be poet named Samson Shillitoe, whose masculine magnetism leads him into more pandemonium than pleasure. During an early-reel stint as a rug shampooer, Sam finds himself floored by a blonde and bosomy receptionist—played by Sue Ann Langdon (above)—and their subsequent sexy gambol across a suds-filled office costs the beguiled bard his job. Later, during an all-expenses-paid stay at the local laughing academy, our hero happens to catch the roving eye of the chief psychiatrist's wife, Jean Seberg, during his daily dip in the sanitarium's ripple bath. More than willing to aid in the patient's therapy, she quickly doffs her duds and joins him in the tub for an impromptu watery romp—a breach of hospital etiquette guaranteed to gall her spying headshrinker husband and separate the screw-loose rhymester from his marbles when the final vote is taken on subjecting him to a prefrontal lobotomy. But even without 007's license to live it up, Sean's sex appeal saves the day as the medic's faithless mate—with fondest memories of their brief bathtime dalliance—decides that even an addled paramour is better than none at all and prevents the staff surgeons from inflicting on her laureate lover the unkindest cut of all. The following four pages offer cinemaphiles proof that the heady Connery charm needn't be bottled in Bond.
The Day Arnold Palmer Was Blackballed at the Fairwood Golf and Tennis Club
Harry! A bourbon and water. And this time don't drown it ... Well, you fellows can do whatever you want to ... I don't pretend to be the only man on the Greens Committee, but if you ask me, I'd ban every single one of these touring professionals from Fairwood right now. Who thought up this ridiculous idea of a two-ball tourney with professionals, anyway? I mean, that pro-am tournament Bing Crosby runs at Pebble Beach really cuts it thin enough. But my God! When you set up a tournament where a pro and an amateur actually play side by side and take alternate shots at the same ball, then, for my money, you come pretty close to ruining the whole spirit of the game. Are we really sure (continued on page 145) Arnold Palmer (continued from page 81) that is the sort of thing we want for Fairwood? Are we? I mean, that is a game that calls for the kind of teamwork you can't expect when you harness a sportsman to a professional. One thing I do know—Arnold Palmer will never be allowed inside this club again as long as there is a breath left in my body ... Who did you play with today, Ralph? ... Billy Casper! Now, I hear he's a real gentleman. But fellow, you can have this Palmer.
When it comes to having a ball, 19-year-old Tish Howard—who recently debuted at coming-out galas on two continents—is undoubtedly our most accomplished Playmate to date. The debutante daughter of well-to-do West Coast parents ("Dad is a top scriptwriter, Mom is a successful painter, and I'm just a great spender") who make their home in both Palm Springs and Los Angeles' swank Holmby Hills section, Tish made her official high-society bow late last year amidst a bevy of other blue-blooded Angelino belles, then traveled to France in December as one of this country's comelier invitees to Versailles' 1965 International Debutante Ball. Currently eschewing a life of leisure in favor of devoting her summer to trying on a fashion-designing career for size, Tish is a better-than-average art major at a small Southern California college. "If I can keep my grades up for another couple of years," she says, "there's a strong chance of my being accepted as an apprentice designer by one of the top French or Italian couturiers after graduation. Hitting the books has meant having to pass up a pair of invitations to deb balls this summer in Vienna and Monaco; but if I'm going to be serious about getting anywhere in a field as competitive as contemporary feminine fashions, my studies had better come first."
What we are as a family is a lot of enemies who make fun of one another, imitate one another, belittle one another and laugh our heads off about the absurdities, pomposities, follies and general all-around ridiculousness of one another.
From coast to coast, beachniks like to go down to the sea in style, togged out in the latest of shoreside wearables. Surfers and sunners alike, in all corners of the country, will want a large and diversified wardrobe for surf and strand to take care of their water-borne needs. This year's summer-swimwear splash will be bigger than ever, with bright color combinations straight from a Gauguin palette. The tropical look of oversized floral prints has drifted from Polynesia to our own shores. Beach sports this season are going big for "jams"—loose-fitting, knee-length trunks that look like chopped-off pajama bottoms. Corduroy trunks in solid or multicolored patterns are another new arrival on the scene. Many top them off with a coordinated buttondown pullover or a multicolored velour. The guys and gals pictured here having their own beach ball are attired in the very latest in swimwear—a refreshing array that will make you make fashion news from Portland to Palm Beach.
I have been in business a long time, and I've seen a sizable chunk of the business world. It has been my experience that the majority of businessmen are honest, and that they conduct their business affairs honestly, adhering to the spirit as well as the letter of the law.
In her first starring role, as Honeychile Rider—the child-of-nature heroine of Dr. No—Swiss screen siren Ursula Andress emerged from the sea like a latter-day Venus, thus serving advance notice, to connoisseurs of comeliness, of her impending reign as the queen of contemporary cinema sex goddesses. Coming up quickly through the ranks of filmdom's celestial bodies, she received subsequent star billing opposite Frank Sinatra (Four for Texas) and Peter O'Toole (What's New, Pussycat?,) then secured her status as the screen's high priestess of pulchritude in the title role of She. Today, just three years from the date of her initial cinematic conquest as a Bonded beauty, Ursula is the acknowledged sex star ne plus ultra and a current able-bodied screenmate of such leading Lotharios as Marcello Mastroianni (The Tenth Victim), Jean-Paul Belmondo (Up to His Ears) and George Peppard (The Blue Max). Already the subject of the longest Playboy pictorial feature ever devoted to any one fair lady (She is Ursula Andress, June 1965), she makes a resplendent return this month in an up-to-date photographic report on her rapid ascent to the summit of international box-office acclaim. Even in her off-camera moments—such as the above between-scenes shots of the bikinied bombshell gamboling with first co-star Sean Connery and going it alone—Ursula gave early evidence of her future claim to a cinema queen's crown. Later likenesses of the unadorned Ursula—including the life-sized painting of her below, by artist Ben Stahl, which provided the Four for Texas sets with a most provocative prop—prompted one film producer to refer to her stellar anatomy as the "greatest example of Swiss architecture since the Alps."
The Royal Ascot, English nobility's most elegant turfside event, is a gala four-day gathering traditionally timed for mid-June. Presided over by the Crown since 1711, it offers British bluebloods the chance to sport fair-weather finery while rooting home a favorite thoroughbred in the famed Hunt Cup and Gold Cup races. The spectators' attire is almost as colorful as the jockeys' multicolored silks, with gentlemen donning traditional morning coats, top hats and waistcoats while their ladies fair top off late-spring ensembles with oversized chapeaux especially created for the occasion. The gentry keep track-based bookmakers and the pari-mutuel windows in the Royal Enclosure operating at a brisk clip. LeRoy Neiman, Playboy's artist laureate, toting brush and palette to post and paddock, has captured the pageantry on and about the track. He reports: "Ascot, which lies about 18 miles due west of London, is the perfect spot for a royal running. The grandstand sits atop the meadows like a white-lace ruff on a green-velvet cape. Opening day, all roads are bumper tight with Rolls-Royces, Jaguars and other gleaming marques as the British peerage heads for the racecourse. The Queen officially opens the meeting by taking a once-around-the-track in a horse-drawn carriage. Then she adjourns to the royal box to cheer on her own royal entry."
The Robust young student Alceste went to Paris to study and found lodging with the pompous logician Gabon. This Gabon had as his ward a beautiful girl of 19, Lucinde, of whom he was passionately jealous. And not without reason—for it was known she had jousted in the past. Noting the student's handsome physique and roving eye, Gabon warned him: "Confine your mind to your studies and your person to your room. Lucinde is learning the ways of virtue so that she will be worthy to be my wife." And with this fatuous suggestion, Gabon was off to his carafe at the corner café.
On a Weekday Morning, the urban bachelor often has barely enough time to gulp down a cup of coffee before going out to face the world. But on a summer weekend, the gourmet worth his seasoned salt is in the mood to socialize in the sun and may get his partying started early by judiciously combining potation and collation.
The Fastest Man on wheels in stock-car racing—a sport that tallies up higher annual attendance figures than does the national pastime—is a soft-talking, hard-driving 27-year-old country boy, Richard Petty, from Randleman, North Carolina. The son of three-time NASCAR champion Lee Petty, Richard proved he was a chip off the same high-powered block just five years after entering NASCAR's Grand National racing circuit by steering No. 43, his Chrysler-sponsored Plymouth, to victory in the 1964 Daytona 500, breaking records at every turn (154-mph average for 500 miles) in the process. He eventually captured the NASCAR national championship that year, as well as locking up a trunk full of qualifying marks at other tracks along with $100,000 in winnings. "I guess I inherited my daddy's way with the wheel," Richard drawled after totaling up his lucrative laurels. But at the end of the 1964 season, NASCAR officials temporarily stalled the Petty cash drive by banning the brutish Chrysler hemispherical-domed engine (they called it nonproduction) from further competition. With power to burn, Richard spent most of 1965 burning up the drag strips with No. 43 Jr., a hungry hemi-engined Barracuda that greedily ate up all competition. After NASCAR reinstated the hemi, not-so-poor Richard immediately got back on the right track with another Daytona win. Petty spends his off-track time with his wife and children at their Randleman home that's right next door to poppa Petty (he manages the racing team), brother Maurice (he builds the engines) and the family's auto speed shop. "Equipment is 75 percent of a driver's success," Richard once stated. What he was too modest to add was that it's the other 25 percent that brings home the bacon.
For years hi-fi buffs took as Holy Writ the idea that separate components were the only acceptable makings for a proper rig. Consoles, went the argument, were just high-priced pieces of furniture with low-grade electronics housed in even lower-grade cabinetry. Until Canadian furniture designer David Harrison Gilmour came on the scene, this was, with few exceptions, true. In 1956, he teamed up with Peter Munk; they pooled $3000 and went into business, dedicated to the then-unique proposition that good sound deserved to be served up in quality furniture. Munk would handle the electronics, Gilmour the cabinetry. This year the two are celebrating a tenth anniversary, and their brain child, the Clairtone Series, is growing every day. Gilmour now busily oversees a seven-acre computerized Ontario plant engaged exclusively in the manufacture of top-quality cabinets for the Series. With sales topping $11,000,000 this year, Clairtone is the world's largest specialist in stereo equipment. The chef-d'oeuvre of the line is the revolutionary $1600 Project G, which Gilmour calls "the most important development in the high-fidelity industry since the first phonograph." With separate sound globes mounted outside of the main cabinet, the Project G literally turns the room in which the unit is being played into part of the console. Turn the speaker-loaded globes directly at the listener and he enjoys the intimacy of a supper club; turn them toward the walls and the room becomes a vaulted cathedral filled with sound. In a first bid for the mass-market appeal, Gilmour is now bringing out a successor, the Project G2, for $995. With a fistful of international design awards and a jangling cash register, he clearly enjoys his reputation as the man who brought a new shape to sound.
A living exemplar of practice making perfect, lean and lanky James Coburn put in six years of yeoman's service as a top Hollywood supporting actor before taking a firm fix on starring-role status in one of the year's campiest cinematic spy spoofs, Our Man Flint. As Derek Flint, filmdom's farthest-out secret agent, Coburn singlehandedly saves the world from the take-over tactics of Galaxy's maddest scientists by relying on his trusty cigarette lighter with 82 different and devastating functions, his expertise in everything from cooking to karate, and his unflinching faith in such democratic ideals as the pursuit of happiness—a pursuit made merrier by his four-member staff of lovely female house companions. Off camera, he shares his flinty filmic counterpart's tastes for fast cars ("My wife and I have the only his-and-hers Ferraris in the neighborhood") and fancy footwork ("With several years of judo under my belt, the fight scenes in Flint were a snap"). Bitten by the acting bug while preparing for a film director's lot at Los Angeles City College, Coburn set out for New York in 1954 and gradually worked his way up from TV commercials to regular guest shots. With the fading of live television, Coburn returned to Hollywood and earned his first screen credits playing ride-on roles—before getting his big box-office break in 1960 as The Magnificent Seven's sinister knife-throwing Texan. Then came a slew of diverse supporting roles (The Great Escape, Charade, The Americanization of Emily) until 20th Century-Fox chose him for the lead in its new superspy series. Currently starring in What Did You Do in the War, Daddy?, Coburn will soon be up to his old world-saving, womanizing tricks again in F Is for Flint—to reaffirm 20th Century's contention that its spy's the limit.