Playboy, August, 1966, Vol. 13, No. 8, 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.
We can remember a time when envelopes were useful carriers of private messages--enclosed within. We also remember, with a sense of nostalgia, those dear old golden-rule days when we could print Swagbk across the back of our "personal" letters, to assure the addressee that our sentiments were Sealed With A Great Big Kiss. But such romantic didos were kid stuff compared with the contemporary art of imprinting envelopes with Mad Ave ads and patriotic catch phrases. The once-homey postal cancellation, consisting solely of the postal station of origin (Stuyvesant, Calumet Park, Kedzie-Grace, Lincoln Heights, Ambassador, Gramercy Park and the like), has become a vehicle for sloganeers of every stripe, urging us to "Pray for Peace," "Keep California Green," "Buy U. S. Bonds," "Support Your Mental Health Association," "Own Your Share of American Business," "Visit the U. S. A.," "Give the United Way" and even "Be a Librarian." While many of these exhortations are of themselves innocuous, they do destroy a certain sense of privacy the mails should foster. The lover awaiting a billet-doux from his beloved, for example, ought not to be told, "Report Obscene Mail to Your Postmaster." He has better things to do--some, possibly, considered obscene by the postal authorities.
The musical Mame would seem to have all the ingredients of a supersmash: a heroine who has become an American folk figure, a diverse line-up of cartoonish supporting characters, an accomplished cast, colorful, showy costumes and a punchy, singable, beer-and-saw-dust title song by the man who wrote Hello, Dolly! But partly because of these sure-fire ingredients, Mame is only a half-smash. The material is too familiar. Auntie Mame has already been a hit as a book, a play and a movie. There are no surprises. The first and perhaps the second time the young orphaned Patrick Dennis was led by nanny-secretary Agnes Gooch into his wild Auntie Mame's chic-bohemian Beekman Place pad, there was a thrill of anticipation; but even if he doesn't know what orgiastic pleasures await him at his aunt's elbow, by now everyone in the audience does. An additional problem in the present version is that the actors playing the supporting roles are too strong. They tend to overwhelm Auntie. Jane Connell, with a baggy body and startled face, is hilarious as Agnes. Beatrice Arthur, with the voice of a wicked witch and the disposition of a barracuda, is outlandishly amusing as Mame's semipermanent house guest, actress Vera Charles. And Frankie Michaels as the young Patrick is that rarity, a child actor who is not self-conscious or pushy, and who can sing, act and not look silly steering a grown woman around a dance floor. This year's Mame, Angela Lansbury, still offers martinis to ten-year-olds, believes in progressive education (nudity in the classroom) and the happy, free, full life (at least six parties a week). But with her soft blonde hair, china-doll face and ingratiating stage manner, Miss Lansbury is a nice Mame to have around the house, a mild Mame, a tame Mame, as contrasted with Rosalind Russell's hard-edged camp queen. There are moments when, were it not for her stylish plumage (by Robert Mackintosh), Angela might fade right into the high-stepping chorus. When she and Beatrice Arthur belt out Bosom Buddies--a Sade-by-Sade song of friendship wherein each tries to outbitch the other--it is Miss Arthur who dominates. The score, by Jerry Herman, is tuneful and properly nostalgic. The title song is the best-in-show and also the best staged, thumped by banjos and sung and danced by Mame and a plantation full of Southern belles and beaux. But most of the songs (and the dances) are not memorable enough and most of Herman's funny lyrics are not funny enough. The humor is in the performances and in the remains of the dialog that authors Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee have salvaged from their play and from Patrick Dennis' book, which means that too much of the fun is re-rerun. At the Winter Garden, 1634 Broadway.
Monica Vitti, with the sign of Scorpio tattooed on her left thigh, would give Modesty Blaise a rather exotic air if it had nothing else, but it does have a good deal more to it. The British do have a way with spies, and although director Joseph Losey's wild sortie into that fashionable movie genre will not send cinematic philosophers searching for profundities, it may be the ultimate variation on the spyflick. The British Secret Service wants to protect $150,000,000 in diamonds on their way to a Middle Eastern sheik as payment for oil concessions, and they hire Modesty (Miss Vitti) and her Cockney knife-throwing partner (Terence Stamp) to see to it that the jewels don't fall into the hands of the archest archcrook yet devised for this kind of film, played with limp-wristed insouciance by Dirk Bogarde. He loves to drink something purple out of goblets with stems as long as his shinbones and with goldfish swimming within. Modesty's preference is for gowns lurid enough to make Hollywood garb seem drab, but no matter how long or how all-covering, they are wonderfully removable. Her partner, Stamp, fancies a variety of wigs--and the pair of them change, she from black to blonde, he from blond to black, ostensibly to keep the contrasts coming as fast as the tricks in this film that tries to outgimmick the most gimmicky and comes near succeeding. And despite Modesty's shortcomings, Losey does have a zest for ribbing not only the genre but his own picture, winding up with the most persistent cliché of moviedom--the race of the Marines (in this instance, read Bedouins) to the rescue.
A sterling example of warbling the way it should be done is to be found on Carmen McRae Live at the Village Gale / Woman Talk (Mainstream). Miss McRae, abetted by a small group, does a trio of Newley-Bricusse songs from The Roar of the Greasepaint--The Smell of the Crowd, the lovely Academy Award winner The Shadow of Your Smile and eight other tunes, all of which profit from their association with the songstress.
It's odd that Walker Percy should need an introduction to readers of American fiction, but in view of the eyedropper publicity given his National Book Award--winning novel, The Moviegoer, such is the case. Mr. Percy wrote a fine book in 1961, and it would be a pleasure to report that in his new one, The Last Gentleman (Farrar, Straus & Giroux), he has again wedded style to content with the same remarkable skill. Unfortunately, such a report cannot be reported. Percy is a serious, sensitive writer, and he has working for him a highly individual style and a first-rate intelligence. His principals (Southerners, for Percy is a Southerner and is palpably concerned with the "question") worry about their Southern selves in this wide, changing world. Williston Bibb Barrett, the sincere young hero of The Last Gentleman, does a great deal of worrying and exhibits a rash of peculiar symptoms because of it. In moments of stress he becomes acutely conscious of "ravening particles" in the air. Also, he is subject to recurrent bouts of amnesia, the onset of which he can predict by the frequency and intensity of his déjà vus. We first come upon Williston in New York's Central Park, where he is occupied in viewing a peregrine falcon and sundry other things with the aid of a $1900 German telescope "of unusual design." The instrument assists Will in getting a badly needed focus on life, and through this same high-powered medium he makes contact with a Southern family temporarily sojourning in the big city. Out of this contact come the two parallel developments that are meant to hold the divagating story in line: Will's love for luscious Kitty, and his companionship to Jaime, Kilty's dying brother. The life-and-death arrangement is not, of course, sheer accident, but neither is it especially illuminating. The prime concerns emerging from this novel involve being and propriety at the highest level. How shall a thinking, caring man act? The author provides no easy answers. Clearly he deplores evil in Dixie, but no more than he deplores the grubbiness of the fingers pointed at it. In The Moviegoer Percy painted a thoroughly credible and colorful background for the metaphysical quandary of the hero. In this novel he reverses the order. Metaphysics are broadcast wholesale, become, in a sense, the social action of the characters; and as a result the characters lose a needed dimension. They become points of view--Catholic, humanist, skeptic--instead of real people. Whether The Last Gentleman is, finally, successful or not depends on what you want from a novel. Certainly ideas abound--about God and man, life and death, morality and the South, salvation and sex. These ideas are well set forth, and they offer rich ground for cultivation. But if what you seek in a novel is a contained, unified experience, then Walker Percy's latest leaves something to be desired.
I have been dating the same girl for five years now, and although we have another three years of college to complete (we're both 19), I feel we've known each other long enough to predict a happy life together. She thinks we ought to put the nuptials off. How about it--are all early marriages doomed to failure?--G. P., Chester, Pennsylvania.
If you've always wanted a get-away-from-it-all vacation on a secluded Caribbean island, the time between October's worsening weather at home and December's tourist influx down there is ideal. That's when the islanders themselves relax and rest up for the next season.
"As rich as Croesus, as shrewd as a river-boat gambler, as tight as a new pair of shoes" ... "an alchemist under whose hand everything turns to gold or to controversy" ... "king of the wildcatters" ... "last of the real individualists"-- these are some of the kinder descriptions of Dallas multibillionaire Haroldson Lafayette Hunt, who even J. Paul Getty concedes is the richest man in the world. Some of the unkinder descriptions: "It isn't just that Hunt is to the right of McKinley; he thinks communism started in this country when the Government took over distribution of the mail" ... "If he had more flair and imagination, if he weren't basically such a damned hick, he could be one of the most dangerous men in America."
One of the Ancient Japanese martial arts is called ninjitsu. Adepts in this discipline can run into a wood and disappear, make themselves invisible even to alert and careful men; they can hide under water for six hours, jump their own height from a standstill, climb 30-foot sheer walls. Michael Haynes' first wild thought, when the man in the green-brown suit materialized soundlessly beside him in the woods, really it seemed out of thin air, was of ninjitsu. But that was in the first second, or half-second; then he saw the man's face, and knew that he knew it; and then, with perhaps three seconds gone, he remembered the name: MacKinnon. Charles J. MacKinnon. A high school chemistry teacher.
Not until she was 20 did the lovely, leggy (5'8") daughter of Henry Fonda finally decide to follow in her talented father's footsteps. Why the delay? "When people asked me why I wasn't an actress," she recalls, "I would tell them if I couldn't be the best, I wouldn't be an actress." Following a brief stint at New York's Actors Studio, she made her debut on the boards in There Was a Little Girl and walked off with a Drama Critics Award, even though the play folded in its third week. Today, after five Broadway bows and several starring film assignments (including the title role in the award-winning Cat Ballou), Jane--already ranked as one of Hollywood's leading lovelies--is being converted into a Continental femme fatale by Roger Vadim, former husband and movie mentor of France's foremost cinematic sex symbol, Brigitte Bardot. Jane, married to Vadim shortly after their first filmic collaboration, in Circle of Love, will soon receive maximum exposure in his La Curée and make her own Bardot-like bid for international acclaim.
Before I do what I must do, I suppose it would be a good idea to leave behind an explanation. I generally detest suicide notes. They tend to be pathetic, often mawkish monuments. But then, most suicides themselves are pathetic and mawkish--the puerile resolution to a neurotic stupidity.
To most fledgling food fanciers, the mere mention of Italian cuisine all too often conjures up weighty images of veal parmesan and chicken cacciatore served up with brimming bowls of hot pasta--fine, filling fare in their proper places, but by no means do they indicate the full extent of Italy's Lucullan art, which adjusts itself to seasonal changes with imaginative aplomb. In summer, Roman gourmets wisely pass up heavy offerings and feast instead on light dishes of succulent shellfish, salads and seafoods in delicate sauces. Many of the viands are so easy to whip up, in fact, that they don't need cooking at all, but just the lightest sort of Italian hand to quickly prepare them in a fashion ordained by the season. This easygoing Italian culinary attitude stands the natives in good stead during the dog days, when a casual picnic in the country is a must. In tiny Italian villages, as well as in the booming metropolises, you can see sporty little FIATs (to say nothing of sporty big Ferraris) racing through town with parcels of mussels and rice salads, tomatoes stuffed with seafood, chicken pepperoni, ricotta and Spanish pies, and a thousand other forms of rich vivande on sale at neighborhood groceries all helping to make athome cookery and picnic preparation presto, presto. And those shops that hungry explorers in Italy have recognized by the welcome sign salumeria are now springing up like wild garlic across the United States. Dangling from their ceilings are forests of ready-to-enjoy foods--salamis, dried or fresh, thick or thin, mild or peppery; and pear-shaped provolone cheeses in rope nests, ranging in size from little provoletti to giants weighing in at hundreds of pounds. As a summer substitute for weighty hot-weather vittles, try your light Italian hand on such foodstuffs as luscious corned legs of pork called zampino, slices of paper-thin prosciutto to wrap around wedges of ice-cold melons or figs, freshly baked loaves of crisp Italian bread, and bottles of sweet red and yellow peppers well pickled in vinegar. The bachelor who wants to prepare fresh Italian salads, sandwiches and cold platters has an endless variety from which to choose.
Synopsis: The proud country of Israel, as well as Secret Agent Oy Oy Seven, Israel Bond, were really up against it this time, and it would require all of the latter's leonine courage, low-grade wit and sexual irresponsibility to pull them out.
"Have you ever heard of the madman who on a bright morning lighted a lantern and ran to the market place calling out unceasingly: 'I seek God! I seek God!'--As there were many people standing about who did not believe in God, he caused a great deal of amusement. Why! is he lost? said one. Has he strayed away like a child? said another. Or does he keep himself hidden? Is he afraid of us? Has he taken a sea-voyage? Has he emigrated?--the people cried out laughingly, all in a hubbub. The insane man jumped into their midst and transfixed them with his glances. 'Where is God gone?' he called out. 'I mean to tell you! We have killed him--you and I! We are all his murderers! ...
This summer, urban males who'd rather jet than jog across the Great Plains will be styling up their wardrobes with wearables right off the range. Togs with a touch of the Old West are now creating their own trends by giving the rest of the country a new look in casualwear. Pictured on these pages are fashion firsts, just as sartorially acceptable in Chicago as in Cheyenne. They offer a comfortable change for both the summer months and the early fall. The perfect garb for roughing it on the patio or adventuring well armed with picnic basket and cooler of champagne, Western wear combines the dash and practicality of outdoor-oriented styling with the sophisticated action look that's attuned to the times. This season, traditional Western fabrics, including canvas and denim, set the pace for the stampede of new fashions. Cowboy denim shirts have multiple buttons on the cuffs, buttondown collars and a tight, tapered look. Wear them with trim-fitting, prefaded blue jeans that come already looking well worn. Other slacks we favor include Western models that keep their press while offering such range-country touches as extra-wide belt loops that easily accommodate a brass-buckled cowboy belt. Another style to set your sights on is a multistriped sleeveless pullover that makes an ideal accessory for yachting or riding and features a rawhide-laced neck placket that can be drawn closed when the weather gets rough. Western-look sports coats have a rugged flair that makes an elegant change from the usual summer scene that's often been dominated by madras. One item we've been boosting is the bush jacket. Wrangler-rigged adaptations are now appearing, in colors such as a soft moss green, that combine the spirit of Kenya with the flavor of Wyoming. The Western look is coming on strong in cardigan sweaters. A six-button lamb's-wool model goes well with worsted slacks and makes a welcome fashion innovation for cool treks into the mountains. So fill out your summer wardrobe with spirited wearables that have already won the West and are now rapidly conquering the rest of the country.
Susan Denberg, our striking Miss August, joins a long and lovely line of Playmates whose centerfold appearances have preceded their cinematic debuts--a comely clan that includes such gatefold delights as Jayne Mansfield (February 1955), Stella Stevens (January 1960), Donna Michelle (December 1963), Jo Collins (December 1964) and Sue Williams (April 1965). Susan, a honey of a blonde, will make her filmic bow this fall in the celluloid version of Norman Mailer's recent best-selling novel An American Dream. Born and bred in Klagenfurt, Austria, where her family still operates a chain of electrical-appliance shops, 22-year-old Susan came to California less than a year ago by way of London and Las Vegas. As she told us, with just the slightest trace of an umlauted vowel or two to give away her native Teutonic tongue: "By the time I was eighteen, I'd had it with the provincial ways of Klagenfurt; so I kissed Momma, Poppa and my two kid brothers--Ulrich and Reinhard--goodbye and headed West like your Horace Greeley advised all young people to do. My first stop was England, where my childhood ballet lessons and the fact that I was a blonde combined to help me land a job in the chorus line of the Bluebells of London. When the group went on tour, I went with them as far as the Las Vegas run at the Stardust, then decided to stay on in the States and have a go at every young girl's dream: a movie career."
My father has never mentioned his father's name. " 'He' hit me for whistling like a peasant, 'he' brought home a carp for the holiday, 'he' took me to the rabbi, but I didn't want to go." He did this or that. What my father has left me of my grandfather is a silent old man with a long white beard, a horse, a cart, a cow, a mud-and-log house--an Old Country grandfather fixed in my mind like a Chagall painting. That's not enough, of course. The stylization of art does not satisfy the craving for history.
There is no evidence of a fake ink blot appearing anywhere in the West before the year 1921, although Napoleon was known to have had great fun with the joy buzzer, a device concealed in the palm of the hand causing an electric-like vibration upon contact. Napoleon would offer the regal hand in friendship to a foreign dignitary, buzz the unsuspecting victim's palm and roar with imperial laughter as the red-faced dupe did an improvised jig to the delight of the court.
Sara Patricia Atkinson, who many keyholders think is the best Bunny in the Atlanta Playboy Club, is all the sweetness of the South rolled into one caramel package. She's blonde and blue-eyed, with a gentle voice, a delicate mouth and a smile that could melt Sherman's statue. When you talk to Sara, she speaks shyly of her devotion to her family, her childhood on her father's farm in rural Georgia and her feeling of cozy security at the Atlanta Club.
Our urban guy has suited himself--and his admiring companion--with the latest look in warm-weather wearables. His choice is linen--a material that for the last few years has been conspicuously absent from the summer scene. Now being reintroduced with double-breasted dash, it offers an elegant sartorial change for the sultry season. Our man's Dacron and linen suit comes with deep side vents, pearl buttons and belt-looped trousers, by Palm Beach, $65. His shirt features a medium-spread collar and barrel cuffs, by Truval, $5, while his English silk foulard tie is hand-blocked, by Reis of New Haven, $4; the English silk pocket square has a hand-rolled edge, by Dumont, $2.50.
By summer solstice, nothing could be finer than to settle down on the portico with a frosted 16-oz. mint julep. A classic libation hoary with tradition, the julep used to create headaches for bartenders long before the hangover. Old-time devotees of Dixie's favorite cup insisted that "true" juleps were born only after mixologists took the most hallowed steps--pummeling mint leaves with a pestle, smashing ice in a canvas bag and being sure the concoction "aged" properly before serving. Thus, by the time it was ready, many an eager sampler had succumbed to the heat. Even so, England fell victim to the julep's traditions when one William Trapier of South Carolina visited Oxford University in 1845. While roistering with a jovial band of upperclassmen, Trapier retorted to their cry of "What'll you have?" with the obvious Deep Southern answer--and then taught John Bull's boys the authentic julep recipe. So pleased was Trapier with the way his advice was heeded that he established an endowment providing for a round of juleps to be served up annually in the junior common room--a tradition that persists to this day. He also gave the lads a handsome Georgian silver quart cup, thus setting a shining example as to the proper vessel for sipping juleps. But today's party-minded host will gladly swap convention for conviviality when offering up the minty refresher. For him, we recommend the following formula--a recipe essentially authentic but tailored for contemporary men nurtured on such dry refinements as martinis and brut champagne.
Miss Bryfogel and the Case of the Warbling Cuckold
The sticky-sweet, Body-warm taste of pornography lingers in the soul long alter the fires have been banked and the shades drawn. Where did it all begin? What ancient cave man drew the first dirty picture on the wall of his dank granite hole and then, cackling fiendishly, scuttled off into the darkness? Even today, deep down in our innermost recesses, there is a hot, furry little something that peers out at us with tiny, red-rimmed eyes, reminding us with its lewd chittering that we are still scrawling graffiti on the walls of our caves.
Ribald Classic: An Unusual Cure for a Pain in the Eye
A noble knight, of the country of Holland, became passionately enamored of a young and beautiful chambermaid who was in the service of a charming, well-run hostelry. Because of his desire for her, he arranged to spend some time at this inn to better pursue the objective toward which he was disposed.
If our troops overseas during World War Two did much dreaming about the girl back home, it was in spite of, not because of, the movies they saw. Throughout the War years, films dominated their lives. GIs were trained by them, indoctrinated by them and learned from them the dangers of V. D. From Stateside camps right up to the front lines, they had available to them the latest Hollywood releases in vast profusion. Stars and starlets entertained them in U. S. O. shows. They even learned to shoot their M-Is by practicing on mock-up targets bearing the likeness of Betty Grable. The platinumed Miss Grable, the favorite pinup girl of the War years, typified the new style in sex symbols--curvaceous, longlegged and bosomy. Rita Hayworth, Lana Turner, Jane Russell, Carole Landis (dubbed the "ping" girl, for some reason) and, in a vest-pocket edition, Veronica Lake shared both the Grable attributes and the Grable popularity. These were definitely not "girl next door" types; and while some psychologists, such as Martha Wolfenstein and Nathan Leites, have maintained that what the Wartime heroine actually represented was home and mother, most GIs found it far pleasanter to fantasize them-selves as Errol Flynns rescuing these gorgeous creatures from their Nazi or Nipponese persecutors in eager anticipation of their grateful reward. If thereupon they had turned out to be mother, or even the girl next door, the disappointment might well have been unbearable.