At the end of October comes a day that kids everywhere await with almost as much uncontained excitement as they expend on Christmas: Halloween, when just a little bit of horripilation can scare up a paper bag full of goodies. Herein a bagful of goodies for you, with plenty of treats and nary a trick; and you're not required to look like a goblin (we'd prefer you didn't) or to wait till the 31st of the month. And no dull paper bag for you: Playboy comes in a colorful wrapper, this month featuring a beautiful bird with beautiful legs and an unusual pair of stockings.
Playboy, October, 1966, vol. 13, No. 10, Published monthly By HMH Publishing Co., Inc., Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., 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 Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Associate Advertising Manager, 405 Park Ave., New York, N. Y. 10022, MU 8-3030; Joseph Fall, Advertising Manager; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 155 E. Ohio Street, Chicago, Ill. 60511, 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 Rd., N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
Thanks to Telstar, the right of private enterprise to exploit outer space is now a firmly established principle--established, in fact, by a United Nations resolution. But A. T.&T.'s celebrated satellite is still the only privately owned space vehicle aloft, and the question is: What's taking private industry so long to get into space? In view of the priceless prime-time television exposure made available free of charge to NASA for its moon probes and orbital dockings, one can only wonder why those gifted with our fabled American know-how are not already locked in a tooth-and-nail competition for supremacy in space. Think what a flight to Mars, for example, could do for the Pepsi-Cola Company. For one thing, Pepsi could immediately rechannel all the funds it now squanders on TV advertising into its space program. There would be no need to spend millions trying to convince consumers that only squares drink Coke when the mere sight of the Pepsi-Cola rocket--designed, of course, in the shape of a Pepsi bottle emblazoned with the familiar label and topped with a red, white and blue bottle capsule housing Pepsinaut Joan Crawford--would inspire Americans of all ages to join the Pepsi generation forthwith. It would no doubt also send the Coca-Cola people back to the old drawing board to redesign their attractive but aerodynamically infelicitous bottle along the streamlined lines of an Atlas-Agena.
With The Wrong Box, producer-director Bryan Forbes delivers a rollicking farce in which some of Britain's more astute actors play the balmiest lot of mid-Victorian tintypes ever to fall off a mantel. Having dug up an old tale by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne, Forbes sweeps it far off its original course into a loony bin of a film with one of the funniest chase finales in years. All revolves around a trust fund to which the last survivor of a roomful of British schoolboys can lay claim. The picture stalls slightly in cutting down the field with a few too many bizarre deaths, but it is only a momentary pause. From there on, such occasional lapses serve only as breath-catchers, for what happens to the two surviving claimants and their heirs is completely mad. When John Mills, as the older of the two claimant brothers, lures his sibling to his sickroom and tries to murder him, Ralph Richardson, the intended victim, is much too serenely self-centered to know what's going on. Only when Mills, exasperated by this invulnerability, blurts out what he really thinks of him does Richardson stalk off, his feelings hurt. Catching the flowers from a vase Mills hurls after him, he says, "Too late for apologies." There follows an ingenious blend of the old wrong-body ploy that carries the picture to its riotous end. A rich assortment of characters is provided by such talented Britishers as Peter Sellers, Michael Caine, Peter Cook, Dudley Moore, Tony Hancock, Wilfrid Lawson and Irene Handl. Sellers' drunken doctor going softly to oblivion in a room full of cats is a comic inspiration. A mad murderer knitting in a railway carriage to hide his fear of the garrulous Richardson is a fine potty stroke. But then, everything about this film is flagrantly potty--and flagrantly enjoyable.
Another gem from The Genius is Ray Charles / Together Again (ABC-Paramount). Ray, with the Jack Halloran Singers and The Raelets, turns his pianistic and vocalistic attentions to a mixed bag of country-and-western (four tunes by Buck Owens), rhythm-and-blues and swingova, Charles' soul-satisfying variation on the bossa nova. No matter the genre, Ray's unique delivery is a delight.
There is a touch of elegance that rings true when it is genuinely gracious and not merely ostentatiously expensive. Gotham's The Ground Floor (51 West 52nd Street) is genuinely elegant. Located, logically enough, on the ground floor of the new CBS building (Mrs. Paley is said to have thought up the name), it successfully merges contemporary American decor with a European approach to cuisine. The late Eero Saarinen, who designed the whole building, used stark contrasts throughout, and the restaurant is no exception. Black walls, red banquettes, antique lights in modern reflectors--all add up to an unusual sense of intimacy in a very large restaurant. The service and food, under the direction of Ed Urbye, are both excellent. The menu is imaginative and fulfills its promise. Typical of the hors d'oeuvres are Hot Beef Marrow en Brioche Périgord and the especially succulent Norwegian Lobsters, Langoustines, Grillés Bourguignonne. The Green Turtle Soup Amontillado is peppery, but the Cream of Pheasant is as good a hunter's soup as there is around. The Turbot, served Poché, is, of course, flown in from England. Standards, such as tournedos, are superior, as are the game dishes. The selection is wider than usual for a restaurant of this quality. No surprise, though, is the dessert list--the Chocolate Mousse is done as a loaf, and the Marzipan Apple Pie is also unusual. The wine cellar is equal to the menu. Open for lunch and dinner, from noon to midnight; Saturday, dinner only; closed Sunday. Reservations are advisable, since the clientele is growing.
If you're in Manhattan of a quiet evening and you want to take a little trip but can't seem to get your hands on any LSD, dig Cheetah at Broadway and 53rd. The brain child of discotheque entrepreneur Olivier Coquelin, and backed by Adlai Stevenson's scion, Borden, Cheetah offers three hyperkinetic floors, one of which has 8000 square feet designed for gyration. The place is one large, colorful, noisy, exciting hot tin roof, in which cats from an isolated generation make the scene in a constant orgy of expanded consciousness. They are aided and abetted by a decor designed by Dr. Caligari. The whole thing seems to move, and indeed it does; the singers and musicians undulate, the dancers reflect the musicians, at least athletically, and the stage is a huge sonic launching pad. The whole ritual is accentuated by a lighting system that is directly geared to the sound. Each note on the scale actuates a different set of lights, which means that if you're deaf or deafened by the din (the noise level is so high that it almost transcends hearing), you can dance to the lights. But the dance floor is not the total club. The lower floor contains, in addition to the cloakroom and the world's finest Mod bathrooms, a library--sparsely stocked with foreign magazines--and a color-TV room, presumably for those patrons who want to decompress slowly on their way back to reality. While waiting for your coat, you can watch Scopitone. Upstairs, on the third floor, is the movie room, where underground films are shown. Since it is decidedly gauche to participate in Cheetah's activities in clothing ordinaire, there is a boutique at the entrance, where you may purchase properly styled clothes, or threads. Properly styled, of course, is Mod. Currently, only soft drinks are served, since the atmosphere is heady enough. Snacks, mostly hot dogs, are à la carte--served from hot-dog carts, that is. Cheetah, which starts its big guns at 9:30 p.m. and runs until 4 a.m., charges a mere $3 starting fee on weekdays, $4 on weekends. Open every night, including Sunday.
Norman Mailer's public "stunts," as he describes them, sometimes obscure the adventurous intelligence at the core of the man's work. He is also one of the most entertaining of contemporary writers in that his chronic contentiousness is powered by shrewd humor, an exact eye for the most vulnerable details of personal and national styles, and the saving grace of occasional self-mockery. These qualities are all present in Cannibals and Christians (Dial), a collection of his writings from 1960 to the present, stitched together with an italicized Argument (second and third thoughts after original publication). Featured here is his skewering of the Republican convention that nominated Goldwater, along with uncommonly provocative analyses of J. F. K. and L. B. J. There are also dissections of this Administration's journey into the quicksands of Vietnam, including a blowtorch response to a moderate anti-Administration statement by a group of Partisan Review intellectuals. The nonpolitical sections include stinging yet generous assessments of contemporary American novelists as well as insights into Mailer's long obsession with the novel as "the Great Bitch in one's life"--mercilessly tantalizing and fiercely demanding. In addition, he ranges over architecture, the nature of beauty, and various philosophical and eschatological preoccupations, some of them rather opaque. He ends with an eerie treatment of a prospective movie, The Last Night, which deals with nothing less than the end of the earth. The collection falters only when strings of what Mailer chooses to consider poems occasionally pop up like tiny, damp firecrackers. Most of the time, however, Cannibals and Christians seizes our attention with the passion of its author's craving for noncancerous life and with the quality of his prose ("Camp is the iridescence of the malignant and cancer cells are bizarre but beautiful under a microscope--they look like a shopping center in the night"). The verdict on Mailer as a novelist awaits new works. But as an essayist, he is already close to the top of the current class.
We are six students at a Midwestern university. During an early-morning bull session, we unanimously agreed that there has been a noticeable decrease in our sex urges since the semester began. Rumor has it that the dining-hall kitchen puts an additive (saltpeter) into the milk, which serves to decrease the male sex urge. Is this a possibility?--G. S., Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Heading south of the border? Why not go really south? You can now drive clear through Central America, with side trips by air and water to unique points of interest along the way. First stop on the run south of Mexico City should be Oaxaca--not only for the superb hilltop ruins of pre-Cortesian civilizations at Monte Albán and Mitla but for the pool-side relaxation at the Hotel Victoria and the charm of evenings at open-air cafés in the main square. Stop in Tehuantepec if there's a fiesta and see the sadly beautiful Sandunga folk dance, a local specialty performed by the queenly Tehuana women. The Bonampak Hotel in Tuxtla Gutiérrez has good resort values and a large swimming pool--and is a fine base for trips to the extraordinary ruins of Bonampak, to the huge Sumidero Canyon and even, by air taxi, to the jungle ruins at Palenque. The Sumidero Canyon, which has been compared to the Grand Canyon, can also be reached by launch from the nearby village of Chiapa de Corzo. Upriver from here to Acala and thence by bus, one can take in Bali-in-Mexico, an Indian village named Venustiano Carranza, where most of the women still wear nothing but a tight wrap-around skirt.
Our interviewer this month is satirist Larry siegel. A regular contributor to Playboy for the past eight years, he has written prolifically for "That Was the Week That Was" and other TV shows, and is co-author of the smash hit revue "The Mad Show." He is also a congenital liar. For whatever it's worth, he writes of his subject:
A "Swinger," says Webster's, in typically laconic fashion, is "one that swings." Cast in the title role of Paramount's forthcoming cinecomedy The Swinger, provocative Ann-Margret plays the part of a would-be writer whose sextraordinary autobiographical prose prompts a prospective publisher to ask repeatedly: Does she or doesn't she? Rather than admit that her lusty life's story is nothing more than a plagiarized put-on when leading man Tony Franciosa and his publisher-boss Robert Coote start spying on her in an effort to establish her editorial integrity, she opts to stage a series of sexy shenanigans befitting the wildest of birds. The high point of The Swinger's subsequent high jinks has been preserved in this portfolio, wherein our bogus literary bawd and a coterie of bohemian tenants, who help her pay the rent on her hillside home in Laurel Canyon, join forces in fabricating an orgiastic voodoo rite for the benefit of her two skeptical shadows, who have stationed themselves outside a basement window. As the proceedings approach pandemonium, Ann-Margret doffs her duds in favor of a coat of paint and turns into a human paintbrush, writhing her way across a blank canvas in a Technicolor toast to the do-it-yourself tradition. Best known for her ingénue portrayals in State Fair and Bye Bye Birdie and, more recently, her starring roles as hard-boiled heroines in The Cincinnati Kid and Stagecoach, Ann-Margret takes to her celluloid unveiling in Swinger with the artistic ease of a true cinema sex kitten. The aesthetic values of painting with pulchritude alone are, of course, open to debate. Our own reaction reflects that hoary cliché: We may not know art--but we know what we like. And we like Ann-Margret.
I Suppose I should pretend that I'm writing this account to help others avoid the mistakes I made in the stock market. I am not that altruistic. The real reason is that I no longer want to pretend to myself that I was a victim of circumstances. I was a victim of my own stupidity and cupidity, and I want to be faced with all of the facts of my undoing. The only way I can prevent it from happening again is by writing down exactly what happened, step by step. If others find instruction in it, well and good. I made just about every mistake the novice in the market is likely to commit. And I lost a great deal of money.
It is a Curiosity of human ingenuity that virtually no new sensual pleasures have been invented in the whole of recorded history. With the marginal exception of flying--which as a concept is as ancient as any of which we have record--most joys of the senses were old stuff in Babylon in 2225 B.C. (and that includes speeding; they had laws against it). Even the forays of science-fiction writers into the vast field of sensual pleasure have been unexpectedly few in number and timid in concept. For the most part, their proposals have been limited to the vicarious enjoyment of the already known; Huxley's "feelies," essentially only a widening of the sensory spectrum of the cinema, is a fair example. But was everything old stuff in Babylon? After all, the people of that great city didn't have the motion picture. Nor did they have vibrators, TV playback units, distilled liquors, most drugs, refined foods and cooking techniques, general cleanliness, bottled oxygen, still photographs, and a great many other pleasures we take for granted.
Architect jim tittle's House is an inside job. From the outside it looks like a caretaker's shack, which it is officially supposed to be, as it is situated in an oil company's storage yard in the middle of Abilene. While the location might not be what most people consider prime, it suits architect Tittle perfectly. As he points out, "You can't see it from the street, and I don't have any yard to keep up."
In that year, Charles Journal, if that was his name, and he wasn't sure, had taken to going to a park, not the same one every time, and willing himself out of himself, and a long way off. It was surprisingly easy to do, and better, as an oblivion-producer, than alcohol or pot, except that it was harder to come back than to go. He knew why. He had walked a couple of sleeping-pill cases in his time. They fought coming back, they hated it. Oblivion is heaven, after all, it is the only heaven, and the loss of it is surely hell. So, certain of the root of the matter, he worked on it. He liked to think that if he could really learn to go and come back, in and out, he could teach the technique. He would be a benefactor to humanity, and he would be remembered, an immortal, unlike the nameless heroes who first drank spoiled grape juice and put fire to hemp. But, in the main, he thought of himself.
As far as our peripatetic lensmen are concerned, California's legendary Sierra Madre country is still a perfect place for prospecting. Perfect, that is, if it's a Playmate rather than precious metals that one treasures most. And things panned out particularly well for this month's gatefold when blonde and blue-eyed Linda Moon--the youngest of four rising Moons, whose family settled in Sierra Madre back in the spring of 1954--attracted our photographic attention. Just turned 18, this Michigan-born October miss has long been a confirmed Californian ("If I want to remember what snow looks like, all I have to do is face East and take in a few mountain peaks") and currently spends the better part of her waking day digging the healthy outdoor life and easygoing pace indigenous to this part of Pacifica. "Now that I'm out of high school," says Linda, "I suppose I should start thinking about taking a job or going to college. But right now I'm having too much fun sleeping late and soaking up lots of sun to concentrate on the serious side of things." So far, all play and no work has made Linda a doll girl.
This year, there is a full-scale revolution taking place in men's fashions. After several seasons of guerrilla warfare: the uprising is now out in the open. Fading fast is the Ivy-inspired "uniform" look with narrow ties, natural-shoulder suits, and shirts with small-spread collars. Coming on strong are a host of exciting new wearables designed to add a dash of sartorial independence to a gentleman's wardrobe. The look now is broader. Wide ties (up to 3 1/2 inches), in forthright polka dots, stripes and paisleys, will be coupled with dress shirts that feature higher-rising medium-spread collars and French cuffs. Both coordinate well with shaped double-breasted suits that have deep side vents, wider lapels and slightly squarer shoulders. Mod-and Western-influenced garb--including shirts with contrasting collars, rugged outercoats in suedes and thick corduroys, and slim-styled slacks worn with wide leather belts--is the top-drawer choice. Topside, cloth hats with British rolled brims are making headgear headlines. So join the ranks.
It was a Beautiful Afternoon. The sky was blue, the sun yellow, butterflies flitted, birds tooted, bees buzzed and, to cut a long story short, all nature smiled. But on Lord Emsworth's younger son Freddie Threepwood, as he sat in his sports car at the front door of Blandings Castle, a fine Alsatian dog at his side, these excellent weather conditions made little impression. He was thinking of dog biscuits.
In Bourges there once lived an exceeding small man yclept Petit, entrusted with the maintenance of law and order. Called the provost-royal, for at that time the king made his seat in this good town, the diminutive official presented such a countenance stern that the king in heavy-handed jocosity remarked, "Petit cannot laugh, for he is short of skin about the mouth."
Modern epicures have a perfect definition of theater. It's the link connecting the snack before to the supper afterward. The idea of a pre-theater appeasement rather than a full trencherman's dinner bolted down in time to make the 8:30 curtain gets a big hand from performers and audiences alike. And for generations the midnight supper after the show has been one of the most gracious of all ways to entertain.
1939. At a table in Havana's Floridita bar, I sat with Hemingway. His companion was a mannishly dressed blonde with a magazine figure and a neoclassic but hard face. She would have looked just right astride a jumper.
Besides being the performer who made "My name José Jimenez" a permanent part of the American comedy scene, Bill Dana, a man of many faces, has cornered enough credits as a writer, producer and entrepreneur to rank him as a quadruple-threat man. Dana the writer--who served as head scribe for his own weekly TV show and last season's video spoof Alice in Wonderland (Or, What's a Nice Kid Like You Doing in a Place Like This?)--earned his first yuk turning out gags for fellow comics Don Adams and Steve Allen back in the early Fifties. In fact, it was Bill who came up with Adams' original "Would you believe" joke. "It was for a TV skit called 'The British in India,' " Dana recalls, "and Don had just been confronted by the infamous Surat Khan, who wasn't about to believe that his Thugee warriors were surrounded by Bengal Lancers. So I had Don say, 'Well, would you believe Gunga Din on a donkey?' "In his role as businessman, Dana recently ad-ventured into the mad, mad Mad Ave world by teaming up with crony Adams again ("No one can accuse me of not getting Smart") to form an agency that already boasts a sizable billing. Though busy diversifying, bachelor Dana still finds time to retain top executive billing at the West Coast offices of the CIA (California International Artists: a talent agency managing performances for the Tijuana Brass) and Bill Dana Productions, Ltd. (which producer the Jimenez records). In addition, Bill the producer is the brains behind this season's big new Milton Berle Show and an upcoming José Jimenez TV cartoon series. Nor has Bill the performer forgotten the shy little guy who helped make this financial boom possible. "José's latest record, The Jewish Astronaut, José Jimenezcheuitz," quips the always-on Dana, "should be one jell of a jit."
Despite the relative anonymity on these shores of the artists turning out movies in post-War eastern Europe, 32-year-old Roman Polanski--an estimable product of the Polish National Film Academy at Lodz--has needed only four years and a trio of brilliantly executed feature films to establish an international reputation as a director of the first rank. In 1962, having just completed his Lodz apprenticeship with the release of the widely acclaimed surrealist short Two Men and a Wardrobe, Polanski quickly proved himself a cut above the East-West competition by walking off with highest honors at the Venice Film Festival for his first feature-length effort, Knife in the Water. Given leave to garner additional laurels on the capitalist side of the Iron Curtain, Bolshevism's boy wonder went to London, where he won over any remaining skeptics among Western critics with his virtuoso handling of the Hitchcock-style thriller Repulsion. His third and most recent triumph, Cul de Sac, a British-based black comedy, found him once again headed down the awards trail--this time as the 1966 Berlin Festival's first-prize recipient. Filmdom's new long-haired leading light can claim the added distinction of having written the original filmscripts for all of his screen successes to date and will soon supply further evidence of his consummate moviemaking skills when he stars in another self-scripted effort, a horror spoof, The Vampire killers. But rather than rest on his cinematic credits, the diligent director-cum-writer-cum-actor is spending his few free hours completing production schedules for his next film, Cherchez la Femme, and plans for a forthcoming gig as guest director at the Old Vic. Accused of being inflexibly opinionated ("Because I am sure"), Polanski need not defend his opinions; his finely wrought films speak for themselves.
In the hit film The Russians Are Coming The Russians Are Coming, the jittery Soviet sailor says to a startled couple vacationing on a New England island, "Please not to be afraid, we are nobody." But nobody he isn't. He's Alan Arkin, and these days that's somebody. For Alan Arkin, at 32, is a master comedian who, over the last seven years, has quietly built himself a reputation and a career of impressive proportions. Arkin made his professional debut in 1959 with the Compass Players' improvisational theater in St. Louis and joined Chicago's Second City revue a year later. Then it was From the Second City in New York, a few minor roles on and off Broadway and a brilliant breakthrough to star billing in Carl Reiner's Broadway comedy Enter Laughing. Arkin left laughing, carrying off the 1963 Tony Award and winning that season's New York Drama Critics Poll. Arkin was back again last winter, romping in his low-key comedic fashion through the long-running Broadway production of Murray Schisgal's Luv and, again, piling critical accolades on top of popular acclaim. This seeming ability to please critics and public alike also characterizes his movie career, where not only The Russians but a hilarious short, That's Me, made with Andy Duncan, is currently riding high. Last month, Arkin teamed up with Murray Schisgal again to open ABC-TV's much-heralded Stage 67 with The Love Song of Barney Kempinski. It was the kind of part Arkin could revel in: that of a harried schlep trying desperately to get to his own wedding in a high-camp chase through the streets of Manhattan. Now Arkin, an established success, is impatiently marking time till he begins to bring alive the prized role of Yossarian in the motion-picture rendering of Catch-22. A "nobody," indeed!