Playbill the preparation of this Thirteenth Holiday Anniversary issue went through its last hectic weeks under the heady influence of the news that over 4,000,000 right-thinking types purchased our September Playboy--almost 1,000,000 more than last September. Such demonstrable success suggests, we think, that during the course of our 13th year, we provided more effectively than ever before a compendium of what interests the young urban male. Which made what is one of the toughest but most pleasurable tasks for us each January--the selection of the winners of our annual $1000 "best" awards among the year's contributors of fiction, nonfiction, and humor and satire--tougher than ever.
Playboy, January, 1967, Vol. 14, No. 1, 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, 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, New York 10022, MU 8-3030; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 155 E. Ohio Street, Chicago, Illinois 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 RD., N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
A while ago, in an After Hours discussion of the Guinness Book of World Records, we touted--as a public service to cocktail-party conversationalists--"floccipaucinihilipilification," the longest word in The Oxford English Dictionary. Floccipaucinihilipilification means "the action or habit of estimating as worthless," and fairly summed up our attitude toward words of its ilk--until recently, when we encountered no less than ten long fellows in a record-setting telegram that Guinness somehow overlooked.
Loves of a Blonde, enticing title notwithstanding, is just a human little tale about people in love and in trouble, and one of the most honest movies ever made. Milos Forman, the young Czech director who brought it to the screen, has a fetish about honesty, not only in the unadorned performances he demands of his actors but in the story material as well. Out of the most prosaic situations, Forman draws an abundance of warmth and humor. His blonde heroine, Hana Brejchova, plays an unsophisticated young girl who works in a factory town outside Prague. She seems dimly to know that she's pretty; her deep, dark eyes, her broad Slavic features and her appealing figure attract admirers her girlfriends can't get, but Hana scarcely knows what to do with them once they start hanging around. Life for the girls in their dorm is inexpressibly dreary until a detachment of soldiers establishes an encampment nearby. All the girls have high hopes, but the "boys" turn out to be mostly middle-aged, potbellied and bespectacled. The scene of their coming, clacking around a bend in a row of little electric tramcars, while a pickup band plays absurd martial music off-key, is one of the most endearing moments in a movie full of such artful deflations of man's pomps and pomposities. Vladimir Pucholt, as the boy who gets the girl, is the principal blemish on the piece--but he can't help it. Is it his fault that he's a callow youth with a healthy share of hormones? Is it her fault, eager little lady, that she's a sucker for romance and likes to be told she has a figure like a guitar by Picasso? Is it his plug-ugly parents' fault that, when she goes unexpectedly to visit the boy in Prague, they should take their baby darling into their own bed to protect him from a predatory female? The loves of this blonde, we gather, are likely to be many. Lucky lovers, for this is no cautionary tale, and it is no lament. It is, instead, a candid peek at man and his follies, and the laugh, we know, is on us.
If Peter Weiss' The Investigation were written about anything other than Auschwitz, about any trial besides the Frankfurt trial of war criminals, it might be easily dismissed as undramatic and stubbornly static. But Weiss is the man who created last year's sensationally theatrical Marat/Sade. Obviously, he has something more in mind than an untheatrical play (and by any critical standards. The Investigation is not only a poor play, it is directed and acted against its own best interests, melodramatically instead of starkly). Weiss' concern is not the horror but the dehumanization, the machinelike way with which the victims are dispatched. His belief is that the evil was not specific but general: We are all guilty. In dramatizing this point of view, Weiss has engaged in a dehumanization of his own. The dialog is taken directly from the Frankfurt testimony, but it has been culled to fit his purpose, which is partly to blur the distinction between witness and defendant. After all, he is asking, what is the difference between the duty-bound prison guards and the prisoners who were forced to participate in the execution of fellow prisoners? Both are guilty of a crime against humanity. But, of course, there is a difference between being an accomplice and being an instrument, just as there is a difference between "Nazi" and "Jew," although neither label is used in the play. Four million "victims"! Thirteen "accused"! It can be argued that the indictment, even unlabeled, deserves repetition; but one must ask what is the purpose of this particular repetition? For Weiss, it is a statement about collective guilt. For the audience, it is just one more repetition, valuable only to those who have had no access to the horror in some other artistic or journalistic form. At the Ambassador, 215 West 49th Street.
Your favorite book emporium is a trove of good gifts at this season of the year, stocked with volumes that, long after the wrappings are discarded, will stand as a tribute by the giver to the taste of the recipient. Here are but a few of them:
A rich reward of recordings for Christmas giving and getting, these multiple-LP packages are bound to please the audiophile, no matter what his musical persuasion. Beethoven's Nine Symphonies (Columbia), in a seven-LP album, are performed by the Philadelphia Orchestra under Eugene Ormandy, with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir heard on the Ninth. In toto--monumental. Mozart's Piano Concertos, Volumes I and II (Epic)--the first half of an ambitious project that will encompass all of the concertos at its conclusion--are played by the estimable pianist Lili Kraus, with Stephen Simon conducting the Vienna Festival Orchestra. The sound throughout the six LPs is splendid and Miss Kraus appears more than equal to the formidable task she has set for herself. For an apt demonstration of the universality of music, we recommend The Seven Symphonies of Sibelius (Epic), which finds the Finnish composer's works sensitively delineated by The Japan Philharmonic under the baton of Akeo Watanabe. On five LPs, the album is a highly successful affirmation that distance lends enchantment. For the modernist on your Christmas list, there's New Music for the Piano (Victor), wherein Robert Helps plays the compositions of two dozen contemporary composers, including Milton Babbitt, Alan Hovhaness and jazz star Mel Powell. Dedicated listening is often required for the more avant-garde works dotting the two LPs, but it can be a rewarding experience. At the other end of the musical spectrum is Baroque Masters of Venice, Naples & Tuscany (Nonesuch), a three-LP album containing performances by instrumentalists of the Società Cameristica di Lugano. The works of Vivaldi, Tartini, Alessandro and Domenico Scarlatti, Pergolesi, Cimarosa and Boccherini are represented in this delightful musical evocation of an era. Equally captivating is the three-LP set Valenti Interprets Masters of the Harpsichord (Westminster). Fernando Valenti, in a virtuoso display, breathes new life into the works of Bach, Handel, Mozart, Rameau and Scarlatti. For another dazzling display of virtuosity, we recommend Handel's 15 Sonatas for Violin with Harpsichord (Everest). With confrere Malcolm Hamilton at the harpsichord, violinist Henri Temianka exhibits an artistry of the first magnitude; his thoughtful interpretations of the sonatas are filled with fragile grace.
I have an ideal husband except for one thing. He insists on letting our young female collie sleep in the same bed with us, and whenever we make love she barks, cries, whines, jumps around and generally carries on. My husband thinks this is cute, enjoys her animated presence and says I am being puritanical to object to it--that I should "let the animal in me" respond. Well, I'm not exactly the inhibited type, but three in a bed I don't need. In fact, it's become a real drag. My husband has great confidence in your liberal-mindedness and has agreed to let you arbitrate, being sure you'll decide in his favor. Am I being too stuffy about it, do you think, or is there something to be said for my old-fashioned ideas of privacy?--Mrs. S. S., Brooklyn, New York.
If you've always wanted to visit an ex-ode country as the guest of royalty, now's your chance to do so. A tour of India has been organized that takes travelers through this ever-changing land by plane, limousine and--of course--elephantback, all the while escorted by an Indian prince. Your royal rovings will include a personal servant and personalized stationery and linens. On the tour you'll move from one maharaja's palace to another for VIP visits to the nearby sights such as the fortress-palace at Amber, the Taj Mahal and the red sandstone walls and white marble palaces of Agra.
Fidel Castro, the tempestuous, charismatic fomenter and continuing prime mover of the Cuban revolution, may be the most hated dictator in the Western Hemisphere, but he is his country's indispensable, man, a ubiquitous despot who supplies the energy for nearly every phase of contemporary Cuban life. Besides holding the posts of prime minister, secretary of the Communist Party and commander in chief of the armed forces, Castro has placed himself in charge of the Cuban agricultural program and spends as much time studying the uses of fertilizer and theories of cattle breeding as he does reading Marxist-Leninist texts. Working an average of 18 to 20 hours each day he is always on the move: inspecting farmlands, mediating disputes, expounding ideology and above all, exhorting his people to harder work, greater sacrifices--and intransigent animosity toward everything American. Despite the ever-present threat of assassination, he despises caution and mingles impulsively with the masses throughout the island, often to the dismay of his bodyguards.
<p>The great eye floated in space. And behind the great eye somewhere hidden away within metal and machinery was a small eye that belonged to a man who looked and could not stop looking at all the multitudes of stars and the diminishings and growings of light a billion billion miles away.</p>
The Most Bewildering Characteristic of the present moment of history is that things are happening faster and faster. The pace of change in human affairs, originally so slow as to be unnoticed, has steadily accelerated, until today we can no longer measure it in terms of generations: Major changes now take place every few years, and human individuals have to make several drastic adjustments in the course of their working lives. Where are these breathless changes taking us? Is change synonymous with progress, as many technologists and developers would like us to believe? Is there any main direction to be discerned in present day human life and affairs? The answer at the moment is no. Change today is disruptive; its trends are diverging in various directions. What is more, many of them are self-limiting or even self-destructive--think of the trend to explosive population increase, to overgrown cities, to traffic congestion, to reckless exploitation of resources, to the widening gap between developed and underdeveloped countries, to the destruction of wild life and natural beauty, to cutthroat competition in economic growth, to Galbraith's private affluence and public squalor, to over-specialization and imbalance in science and technology, to monotony, boredom and conformity, and to the proliferation of increasingly expensive armaments.
The Little Group of serious thinkers in the bar of the Angler's Rest was talking about twins. A gin and tonic had brought the subject up, a friend of his having recently acquired a couple, and the discussion had not proceeded far when it was seen that Mr. Mulliner, the sage of the bar, was smiling as if amused by some memory.
"Vingt-neuf; noir, impair et passe!" Lost again. Easy now, don't show it. Don't get "wheel panic." Keep cool like a pre-War Russian grand duke. There goes your bet. The croupier skillfully rakes in the losing stakes without disturbing the winning ones.
A wild character, obviously high and wearing a Mexican hat, though he wasn't Mexican but, in fact, Boston Irish (which can be just as wild), edged up to me at the Green Hornet the other night and said abruptly:
This Big Envelope arrived from Polynesia and in it I found a copy of a French-language newspaper published on the island of Tahiti. Half the front page and all of the second were devoted to a wild and scurrilous attack on me.
What's the Almost Magical and universal appeal of a masquerade party? Perhaps it's the romance, the late-night dally with a damsel in disguise. Perhaps it's the actor in us, the chance for a night of pseudonymity, with our workaday psyches left behind. And, perhaps most of all, it's the lure of the unexpected, an evening when the host's living quarters become one huge harlequin-in-the-box of surprises. But whatever the appeal, one thing is certain: Masks and costumes have been worn-- whether for pomp and circumstance or for fun and games--in virtually every culture and every age, and they've always been associated with celebration and larger-than-life goings on.
If you were called down to the office of the district attorney in your home town and were asked by him where you ate lunch on a certain date three years ago, with whom and for what business purpose, you would probably tell him politely that it was none of his business--and he would be powerless to do anything to you for taking this attitude. If a police officer, or indeed the police chief himself, walked into your office and asked to see your business records, you could with equal impunity refuse to show them to him. It may therefore come as a sobering thought to consider that there are over 15,000 employees of a single Federal agency, earning salaries of $5000 a year and up, each of whom can not only force you to reveal such information but who can arrange to send you to Federal prison if you refuse.
The new reformation of Christianity is already under way. It is bringing with it changes incomparably more sweeping and profound than those of the 16th Century. Both in America and abroad, churches have plunged into a tempest of theological innovation, liturgical experiment and social activism. Nuns infuriate religiously inclined bigots by carrying placards in racial demonstrations. Theologians formulate secular interpretations of the Bible. Trap drums and electric guitars pulsate in chancels. The former world capital of anticommunism, the Vatican, openly questions America's war in Vietnam. In dozens of American cities, churches organize poor people to battle city hall. What's going on? Will the new reformation bring a new division of Christendom?
Nearly a millennium has passed since Leif Ericson and his cohorts tested the wrath of the Atlantic, but the Scandinavians remain an adventurous breed. Surrey Marshe, our Miss January, is a latter-day Viking who left her native Denmark a year ago (at the time, Surrey had never heard of Playboy) and, with the wages from a brief modeling career in her purse, flew to New York City, where she soon found a home as a Playboy Club Door Bunny. The flaxen-haired graduate of a Scandinavian mannequin school told us in free-flowing English, "It was always my dream, to come to America. I love to go to strange places and meet strange people, without any special plans or much money in my pocket." Living in the American metropolis is a "big adventure" for 19-year-old Surrey, who matured into Playmate form on a farm near Aalborg, where her family (she's the youngest of three children) raised the usual barnyard fauna. The unmelancholy Dane enjoys New York from dawn to dawn, whether she's dining in an Oriental restaurant, absorbing the sights and sounds of a discothèque while sipping a daiquiri with a date, strolling solo through Manhattan on a rainy afternoon or passing the time in her 40th Street apartment, which she shares with two roommates and her snow-white poodle, Frosty. Surrey is equally dexterous at knitting (she fashions clothes not only for herself but for friends as well) and picking out tunes on her guitar ("I grew up singing--our family always sang together, mostly religious songs, and when I was alone on the farm I would sing to myself"). A skiing enthusiast, she had little opportunity to perfect her form on Denmark's modest hills, and was obliged to frequent the more satisfactory slopes of her neighboring Scandinavian countries; since her emigration to these shores, Surrey has found New England's nearby mountain ranges more than adequate for practice and pleasure. Miss January still dreams of further travels; an excursion to Miami ("It took 32 hours by bus") has whetted her appetite for warmer climes, and she envisions herself journeying to California--then, perhaps, across the Pacific, on a good-Samaritan mission to the Far East. "I would love to be a nurse in a place like Hong Kong or Formosa," says Albert Schweitzer's fairest disciple (Surrey has read each of the doctor's books at least twice). For the nonce, though, Miss January is happy to have had one dream fulfilled, and is likely to stay ensconced in New York--welcome news to patrons of the Manhattan hutch, where Miss Marshe would be sorely missed.
From the lavish sexuality of Marilyn Monroe in our first, undated issue, 13 years ago, to the warm Danish beauty of this month's Surrey Marshe, the Playmate of the Month has delighted and intrigued millions of Playboy readers. Editor-Publisher Hugh M. Hefner told one interviewer recently that he did not consider the Playmate feature per se an art form, but there is no doubt that the girls have become a fact in this generation's consciousness, an embodiment of a new feeling toward the female, an American phenomenon. The notion of asking a number of the best-known contemporary painters and sculptors to transform the idea of the Playmate into fine art was a natural one, given the centuries-old tradition of the nude in art and the current concentration among artists on the facts of everyday life. Conceived a year ago by Hefner and Playboy Art Director Arthur Paul, the project brings together 11 topflight fine artists with a spectrum of experience ranging from the radical European discoveries of the century's first decades to today's American-led experimentation. The 11 were not asked to use specific materials, nor to interpret any single girl--indeed, most chose to depict All Playmates, in uniquely personal ways. Only Larry Rivers (whose Playmate construction has been asked for by New York's Whitney Museum) chose to reproduce a particular girl, 1965's Playmate of the Year, Jo Collins. Many materials--plexiglass, epoxy resin, wood, metal and wire, as well as paint on canvas--were used in the final works. "Every contributor," Paul says, "had quite definite feelings relating to the Playmate phenomenon and, indeed, some had used the centerfold pictures as 'inspirational copy' before." The artists and their creative responses to our commission are shown here and on the following eight pages.
Indignation has a Natural Rhythm, it boils up and over and is gone. And so protest movements have trouble keeping going. It is sometimes amazing how quickly the life can go out of them merely by a sudden switch of attention to something else. And one protest movement's gain is another's loss. The civil rights movement has already lost some of its momentum, because public interest switched to Vietnam. Will the indignation over Vietnam subside? There are many who hope so, and many who are willing to provide helpful distractions, new targets, real or illusory, for public concern.
On the evening of February 13, 1945, 733 British Lancaster bombers dropped 650,000 incendiary bombs on Dresden, Germany, creating a firestorm that could be seen 200 miles away. Next morning, 311 American Flying Fortresses blasted the still-flaming city with high explosives, while escort fighters strafed survivors. The city burned for seven days and eight nights, and an estimated 135,000 persons were killed in the holocaust. While Winston Churchill was later to write that Dresden was "a communications center for Germany's Eastern Front," other observers--both during and after the War--claimed it was a civilian target of no strategic importance. Regardless of its military value, Dresden symbolized a drastic change in Allied attitudes toward the rules of war. Before Dresden, the large-scale destruction of civilian population centers was taboo; after Dresden, it became an implicitly accepted--although seldom discussed--weapon in the armory of modern warfare. Almost 22 years after Dresden, with the deliberate bombing of civilians once again not a threat but a distinct possibility, Hochhuth, now at work on a new play based on the destruction of Dresden, attempts to grasp the implications of this Allied "atrocity." The following was written in London, in February 1965, while Hochhuth--accompanied by David Irving, author of "The Destruction of Dresden"--gathered material for his forthcoming play.
The Limousine is one of the many things the French have devised to make good living better. It originated, as a carriage, in Limousin, and it's not Limousin's only contribution: The district grows the oak staves so essential to the aging of cognac. The French also devised the coupe de ville--the town car with a tiny cabin for two, or at the most four, mounted on an elegantly long chassis, abruptly cut off just behind the chauffeur, who rode, with the footman, if the equipage was really of the first rank, with nothing to keep the weather out but wool underwear and a windshield. The town car has gone for good, and until not too long ago it looked as if the limousine, essentially a big sedan with a glass division between passengers and hired help, had joined it in oblivion. It was the Depression of the 1930s that shelved the limousine, almost forever. Conspicuously consuming as a yacht, and a lot more evident, the limousine does not flourish when the proletariat is prowling around the barricades. In the late 1930s, some of the more stubborn of the monied, particularly in New York, commissioned from bespoke coachbuilders, notably Brewster, miniature limousines built on small chassis, often the Ford V-8, thinking to deceive the serfs standing in the bread lines and stay the hands that held the half bricks; but while many of these were elegant little things, they really weren't limousines in anything but a technical category. A Volkswagen dealer in Pomona, California, took this notion to the end of the line a few years ago by removing the back windows of a VW sedan, replacing them with a classic blind rear-quarter arrangement in black fabric, complete with landau folding irons and a tiny rear window. The same thing has been done with a Renault, but it can't really come off: A limousine must be big.
Commercial Morality: I would rather my child see a stag film than The Ten Commandments or King of Kings--because I don't want my kid to kill Christ when he comes back . . . I never did see one stag film where anybody got killed in the end. Or even slapped in the mouth.
Lenny Bruce fell off a toilet seat with a needle in his arm and he crashed to a tiled floor and died. And the police came and harassed him in death as in life. Two at a time, they let photographers from newspapers, magazines and TV stations step up and take pictures of Lenny Bruce lying dead on the tiled floor. It was a terrible thing for the cops to do. Lenny hated to pose for pictures.
The day before Yom Kippur, Oyzer-Dovidl opened his eyes even before the morning star had appeared. On its perch the white rooster, soon to be slaughtered in atonement for his owner's sins, started crowing fiercely, sorrowfully. Nechele's hen clucked softly. Nechele got out of bed and lit a candle. Barefoot and in her nightgown, she opened squeaky bureau drawers, flung open closets, burrowed around in trunks. Oyzer-Dovidl watched with astonishment as she puttered about laying out petticoats, linen, odds and ends. No one airs out clothing on the day before Yom Kippur. But when Nechele wanted something, she didn't ask permission. It was months now since she had stopped shaving her head. Strands of black hair stuck out from under her kerchief. One strap of her nightgown had slipped down, revealing a breast white as milk with a rosy nipple. True, she was his wife, but such behavior ends in evil thoughts.
In Music, classic forms often end with a recapitulation of what has gone before. Always in search of harmony as well as invention, Playboy has again prepared its annual exposition of Playmates past. These 12 variations, classical forms all, on the prettiest of themes should provide a suitable body of evidence for selecting a Playmate of the Year. Though entries come from as far a field as Austria and Great Britain, California's cup ran over in 1966, as an impressive number of our gatefold girls were uncovered in the Golden State. Californian Tish Howard, who was already twice a debutante when she made her Playboy debut in July, has postponed her projected career in fashion design and is scheduled for a junket this month to the Jamaica Playboy Club, where she'll be hostess at a convention of the Canadian Admiral Corporation. Miss July's biggest thrill as a Playmate came unexpectedly in the L. A. airport one day last summer as she was about to embark for Chicago: "A young man had just bought a copy of Playboy at the newsstand, when he noticed me--and he spent the next five minutes trying to decide if I really was the girl in the gatefold. But I guess he was just too shy to find out."
In the last few years, have become the delight of New York's international jet set, springing up in spectacular profusion all over Gotham. Le Club (left), most exclusive of these pulsating pleasure domes, was the first "pure" (records-only) discothèque in Manhattan. It still flourishes in the smart East 50s, under the guidance of publisher-social arbiter Igor Cassini. Playboy artist LeRoy Neiman was impressed with the Old World flavor of Le Club. "It suffuses the whole atmosphere," Neiman said. "The joys of the dance are celebrated in a 16th Century Flemish tapestry of heroic proportions. Opposite it, over the hearth, is a full-length portrait from the Louis XVI era. Looking down on the fruggers is a set of regal deer heads, surrounded by antique hunting horns and firearms. The only overtly modern furnishings are the vertical speakers flanking the tapestry. The members, all socialites and celebrities, dress with studied formality." Of course, there are discothèques that are more accessible to Manhattanites with a contemporary terpsichorean bent. Sybil Burton's Arthur remains de rigueur on the disco circuit. Ondine--which, like Arthur, has a live-music policy--appeals to the madly Mod set, while the Andy Warhol spirit of the East Village is vested in The Dom. And ebullient teeny hoppers of all ages are their own best entertainment at The Scene, Downtown, Trude Heller's or Cheetah. Says Neiman, "Whatever their differences, all of these clubs manifest a common spirit. The people who frequent them are out for wiggy kicks, and they're full of adrenaline--but they go about it with style and aplomb. The male discothèquenician has become much more fastidious about and aware of his appearance since the antediluvian Peppermint Lounge phase of the rock revolution. Clothes may not make the man, but apparently they help make the woman; and today's young blade tends to be as modest about his out-of-sight Mod outfit as a peacock is about its plumage."
Lenny Bruce's Death was no more untimely or uncalled-for than the unbearable and cruel attacks upon his life and livelihood by a guiltily indignant society. He tore the skin off every phony reaction in this human existence of ours.
Let's go camp-ing with our heroine and Benton Battbarton. At this point, you might well ask, "but what is 'Camp'?" well ... you might call something "Camp" when it's so bad, it's good; so out, it's in; so down, it's up; so to, it's fro; so tweedledum, it's tweedledee-at this point, you might well ask, "but what is 'camp'?"...no matter whatever it is, it's what our adventure's about.