Among the distinctions of the issue at hand--one especially notable, we think, for its fictional and pictorial delights--is its demonstration, in The Tate Gallery: Pictures by Polanski, of the special talents of Roman Polanski, cameraman behind Playboy's photographic essay on the cinemattractive Miss Sharon Tate. Polanski--the brilliant Polish film author and director (Knife in the Water, Repulsion) laureled in last October's On the Scene--directed Miss Tate in his just-completed horror spoof, The Vampire Killers.Not long ago he was chosen to be a guest director at London's Old Vic, and he is currently at work on a fifth film--making capital use of his long-term loan to the West.
Playboy, March, 1967, Vol. 14, No. 3, 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. Leder, Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Associate Advertising Manager, 405 Park Ave., New York, New York 10022, MU 8-3030; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave., 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, 3103 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
Other journals have commented on today's pervasive paranoia, the widespread suspiciousness that conspiracies--local, national and international--are all about us, and that no action, however simple-seeming or straightforward in its announced or apparent intent, may be taken at face value. Partly a reflection of general anxiety, partly the cynicism of the frightened and ignorant, who explain the world to themselves in terms of dark plots, this paranoid posture leads to some quite ingenious mythmaking, such as the now-famous Birchite assertion that Dwight Eisenhower, as President, was a conscious tool of international communism.
A Man for All Seasons was a fine play. It is, if anything, a better movie. For producer-director Fred Zinnemann has fleshed out the Tudor setting but has let Robert Bolt's play, adapted by the playwright, survive. In the part of Sir Thomas More, "A man of angel's wit and singular learning . . . a man of marvelous mirth and pastimes, and sometimes of as sad gravity--a man for all seasons," is that magical wedding of actor and role that won Paul Scofield so many plaudits on the boards. His performance is a dramatic event of the first magnitude--but when enhanced by Wendy Hiller as his wife, by Susannah York as his daughter, by Robert Shaw as Henry VIII, by Leo McKern as Thomas Cromwell and, most notably, by Orson Welles in his brief and brilliant appearance as Cardinal Wolsey--when all the principals jell so well into the quiet precision of the total work, it is impossible to know whom to credit most. Unless, perhaps, it be Sir Thomas More himself, who has been the perplexing subject of historians, philosophers and theologians for more than four centuries. More's dispute with Henry involved no clash of swords, no martial music. Henry was determined to divorce Catherine of Aragon, his first wife, to marry Anne Boleyn. Not only lust but dynasty was at issue, and if the Pope would not divorce him, Henry was resolved to create an English Church to do it. More, Lord Chancellor of England, could not accept this device. And although far from a willing martyr, he could not be swayed from his silent opposition--not by the pressure of the king nor by the loss of temporal wealth and power nor by the pleadings of those who loved him. The dialog is as abstruse and quicksilverish as More could make it, and Zinnemann was hard put to accommodate such cerebral stuff to the camera's demands. He is not always successful. A speech delivered into pelting rain against a background of storm-tossed trees is not a better speech for its agitated setting. What were they all doing outside on a night like that anyway? But such lapses are rare, noticeable only because they contrast so sharply with the success of the whole. The regal quality of the photography is enough to turn General De Gaulle into an Anglophile. There is a progress of royal barges, at first seen only as reflections in the water, a dance of golden lights and diamond points in the ripples of the Thames, which expresses in one stroke the full extent of the earthly pomp More was willing to forgo for the sake of the private conscience. In all the solemn considerations, however, More never pulled a long face. Approaching the scaffold, he asked for help climbing up the rickety stairs, but assured his escort that he would look out for himself on the way down.
Walking Happy is a musical version of Hobson's Choice, the old Harold Brighouse play (and Charles Laughton movie) about a shoemaker's spinstery daughter who chooses her father's lowliest apprentice and lifts him by his own bootstraps. She marries him and they beat her father in business, to boot. The time is 1880, the place an industrial town in England. Set designer Robert Randolph has created an ingenious storybook construction that swings apart, shifts swiftly from neighborhood pub to narrow, hilly streets. The actors are in keeping with the surroundings: Louise Troy as the pushy daughter; George Rose, padded to Laughtonish girth, as the autocratic father; and, particularly, Norman Wisdom as the put-upon cobbler. An English music-hall comedian in his American stage debut, Wisdom is woefully ugly, with a badly whittled face, a bag-of-bones body, knobby knees and big feet. He acts with his feet--shuffling, tripping, colliding, sliding. Forced by bullies to dance on a barrelhead, he watches fearfully as his feet assume a life of their own. Tapping and clogging, singing and clowning, Wisdom walks away with the show, but his load is heavy--about one hour and six songs too heavy. Adapters Roger O. Hirson and Ketti Frings have retained solid chunks of Hobson's Choice, which are colorful enough to make one want to see the whole play, but pop tunesmiths Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen have spliced the scenes together with a spiritless score. Steadfastly un-English and unwitty ("You're always bacchanalian/You make Nero seem Episcopalian"), their songs quite literally stop the show--dead in its tracks. At the Lunt-Fontanne, 205 West 46th Street.
As a leaf falls into a river, its reflection rises to meet it. Vladimir Nabokov's revised autobiography, Speak, Memory (Putnam), captures this "delicate union," the "magic precision" with which memory meets life. The stuff of these memoirs consists of tutors and governesses, youthful poems and love affairs, chess and butterflies, pet dogs and family walks--the 20 years of warm security in his aristocratic Russian family, the 20 years of cold exile in Western Europe before coming to America in 1940. But he holds the lamp of art to "life's foolscap," and his true subjects are the shadows it casts: the prison of time, the key of consciousness, the escape into the timelessness of imagination, the loss of childhood, the instability of reality and the transformation of nostalgia into art. As a child he pursues a butterfly--and captures it, 40 years later, in Colorado. As an artist he pursues beauty--and captures it, surmounting time, in words. This book is marred by the familiar Nabokov posturing: the peevish invective, the haughty disdain, the occasionally pedantic vocabulary graying his otherwise lustrous prose. Having lived through two of the greatest upheavals of the 20th Century--the Bolshevik Revolution and the rise of Nazism--he seems to regard them as merely vulgar interruptions of his delicate preoccupations. Yet this is the most tender and radiant of his books. After staring fervently at the incandescent light of his childhood, he is suddenly plunged into darkness--and the afterimage glows luminously in his inner eye. With the precision of an artist, the passion of a scientist, he evokes "wisps of iridescence" with dazzling exactness, with loving delight.
England's premier balladeer is in fine vocal fettle on Matt Monroe / Here's to My Lady (Capitol). The Monroe musical doctrine is devoid of frills and fancy stuff as he straightforwardly gets to the heart of matters such as When Sunny Gets Blue, Nina Never Knew and When Joanna Loved Me.
During the summer, I am able to see my fiancee on two or three weekends only. I am faithful to her but puzzled by the fact that during the long drives to her town, I am constantly distracted by the girls I see--so much so that I've come close to picking up some of them. I forget all about this when I'm with my fiancee and back home (during the school year we're at neighboring colleges). Do you think my feelings en route mean the relationship is shallow?--J. W., Flushing, New York.
Tired of Resorts? Try a private cruise. You and a few convivial companions can charter a luxurious yacht--complete with captain and crew--for less money than you might imagine. There's an unusual variety to choose from: Chinese junks are available in Hong Kong for short excursions; schooners can be rented in South Sea ports; sleek sloops offer the opportunity to island-hop in the Caribbean; and, if you so choose, a luxurious motor yacht will whisk you and your friends from one Greek island to another. Costs per day per person start at $3.50 for the Chinese junk and continue up to $110 for the 147-foot Greece-based motor yacht Daska. It comes with a uniformed crew of nine who will arrange everything from buffet lunches complete with taped music and chilled wine on secluded beaches to candlelit dinners while the boat is anchored close by the resort town of your choice.
Our interviewer is England's eminent drama critic Kenneth Tynan, whom readers will remember as the author of previous playboy interviews with Richard Burton and Peter O'Toole, as well as several trenchant Playboy articles. Of this month's larger-than-life subject, Tynan writes:
I'm A Bloodhound. Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you I'm a meticulous researcher, an untiring zealot, a ruthless bloodhound when pursuing facts. I'm not a professional musician, granted; not even a gifted amateur; but my fondness for music can't be disputed and my personal fund of musical and musicological knowledge happens to be huge. All the more remarkable (wouldn't you say?) that no catalog, no concert program, no newspaper file, no encyclopedia, no dictionary, no memoir, no interview, no history of music, no grave marker has rewarded my efforts by surrendering the name V.I. Cholodenko.
This is the year Sharon Tate happens. A screen newcomer with three films to be released in 1967, Sharon shows best in Roman Polanski's The Vampire Killers, a slap-sick unreeling of macabre carrying-on. Says director Polanski, who last year shocked moviegoers with Repulsion, "What kind of film is The Vampire Killers? It's funny!" A man of many talents, Polanski, who co-stars in his new movie, personally photographed Sharon for the pages of Playboy. Depicted here is her sudsy tete-a-Tate with a frightening film ghoul who, like us, finds Sharon a tasty dish, indeed.
That Winter seemed to last forever. At the end of March the ground was still frozen. Walking home from a night shift at the mill, I huddled my head into the collar of my jacket to shelter my cheeks and ears from the biting cold.
For Don Devine, a 26-year-old Illinois bachelor, the tropics are but an hour's drive from Chicago. Here, on the banks of the placid Fox river, Don has decreed and erected a multidomed paradisiacal pleasure palace complete with an abundance of flowing water--two interior cascading waterfalls plus a swimming pool, plus a fine view of the river.
The First National Fiduciary Imperialist Trust Syndicate Cartel Pool Combine
The Average Person who owns a share of American business--Wall Street jargon for "Playing the market"--is either a bull or a bear. He buys and sells haphazardly for the short or long run, depending on the way the market looks. But the really smart investors are in a third group of ultraconservatives called chickens. We never make a move in the market unless we are covered for every contingency. I had the opportunity to explain this theory to a customers' man at Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner & Smith who had been calling me for a year, asking to handle my brokerage account. "Do you have any special investment problems I can help you solve?" he finally asked on the phone one day. "No," I explained, "I'm just afraid of being wiped out by peace." "Your fears are premature," he said confidently. "You haven't bought any stocks yet."
It was just six years ago that Pierre Cardin introduced his first collection of clothes for men, in Paris. Since then, the Cardin look has grown in worldwide acceptance and importance, so that today, here at home, it poses a very real threat to the supremacy of the ubiquitous Ivy look.
Generously configured Fran Gerard is a girl for the stars. She works with them--as an astrologer's assistant in sunny Southern Cal--and lives by them. Born under the sign of Aries, Fran should be warm, outgoing, charming and strong-willed--and she is. And, living as she does under her planet, Mars, she has been instilled with "a great deal of natural courage, a love of pioneering, testing, experimenting, investigating"--at least, according to her sign. "I guess that's why I've always liked the science," says the pretty assistant stargazer who tends the office for a Hollywood astrology teacher. "We're forever searching the cosmos for new meanings." Our plenipotent Playmate is as versant with combos as with cosmos: "Charlie Parker's Ornithology was the greatest single ever made," says Fran, "and I think E. S. P. by Miles Davis is the best LP." Sinatra is her favorite singer ("especially on Cottage for Sale"). "Actually," she says, "I have lots of favorites, like artists Marc Chagall and Salvador Dali. They capture so much of the glory of the universe in their work, but don't think I'm being stuffy; I like Batman, too." Fran credits another favorite, a book, with being the source of all this happiness and satisfaction. "It's The Magic of Believing by C. M. Bristol. It helps you to think positively." The positively smashing Miss Gerard's idea of a perfect man? Clark Gable. "Remember him as Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind? He was too much," says Fran appreciatively. In an athletic mood, she is apt to try her hand at skiing or swimming. "I think you have to keep fit," she says. Our agile astrologer tends to put mind over matter, even though in this case the latter (39-24-36) must be described as heavenly: "I like to think the stars are right about me," says Fran, gesturing toward the mystic chart. "It tells me here, for instance, 'Much of your beauty is centered in your natural poise, in the way you hold your head, sometimes tossing it high in defiance, at other times bringing your piercing gaze to bear on the speaker. You are a natural-born leader, work well with other people and always know how to achieve group ends.' I hope I don't sound too immodest if I say I think that's true."
The prof was telling his eight-A.M. class, "I've found that the best way to start the day is to exercise for five minutes, take a deep breath of air and then finish with a cold shower. Then I feel rosy all over."
The McElroys were swingers. They lived on Fifth Avenue in a big new duplex full of long white sofas and pop paintings, and they adored the Beatles, but they liked the Rolling Stones even better. They gave big parties that went on and on. Sometimes Andy Warhol and his friends came to the Mc-Elroys' parties, although the times they did not come were more numerous than the times they did. Mr. McElroy had made a bundle in Long Island real estate, and the society columnists knew him as one of the zingy new art collectors. Mrs. McElroy wore her skirts well above the knee and had her hair cut like a boy's on one side and like a girl's on the other. Nobody could believe she had an 18-year-old son by a previous marriage. She did, though.
Around the board, from start to finish: Top to bottom: Chin-up bar fits most door frames, by Healthways, $8.95. Tensolator provides bodybuilding isotonic tension, by Thoylo, $24.50. Five-spring chest pull, $6.50, and lightweight rowing apparatus, $4.25, give your morning exercises an added boost, both by Healthways. Verve unit reduces measurements of waist, hips, abdomen and thighs without loss of weight, improves muscle tone while you rest, by Relax-acizor, $307. Sauna-King portable steam bath on wheels may be used in any room, requires no additional plumbing or special electrical wiring, temperature can be regulated from 150 to 400 degrees, seat is adjustable, by Master Distributors, $299.
International Gastronomists have unanimously crowned French cooking the king of cuisines; for no matter where peripatetic food fanciers dine--be it Lisbon, London or New York--outstanding menus in the language of the land are interlaced with Gallic culinary terminology. Why French and not Flemish or Finnish or Fiji? Simply because France has contributed more to cooking in the past hundred years than any other country; therefore, many Gallic creations have no translatable equivalent in any other language. And great dishes deserve their native tongue. Chateaubriand by any other name would sound silly.
Predictions about the future of America during the next generation are likely to be in one of two sharply contrasting moods. On the one hand, the orthodox liberals foresee a Great Society in which all will live in suburban comfort or the equivalent; given a Head Start and Job Training, Negroes will go to college like everyone else, will be splendidly employed and live in integrated neighborhoods; billboards will be 200 yards off new highways, and the arts will flourish in many Lincoln Centers. On the other hand, gloomy social critics, and orthodox conservatives, see that we are headed straight for 1984, when everyone's life will be regimented from the cradle to the grave by the dictator in Washington; administrative double talk and Newspeak will be the only language; Negroes will be kept at bay by the police (according to the social critics) or will be the pampered shock troops of demagogs (according to the conservatives); we will all be serial numbers; civil liberties and independent enterprise will be no more.
Missouri may evoke images of Harry Truman to the historian, Stan Musial to the baseball fan, Mark Twain to the bibliophile, Charlie Parker to the jazz buff and even the Gateway Arch to the tourist; but to connoisseurs of female pulchritude, the Show-Me State has recently shown just one thing--beautiful Bunnies. The Playboy Club in St. Louis had been entertaining keyholders for almost two years when the opening of the Kansas City Club conferred on Missouri the distinction of being the first state in the Union with two links in the ever-expanding Playboy key chain. Two Playboy Clubs means two hutchfuls of cottontails, a fact of which swivel-necked Missouri males, from St. Louis' Gaslight Square to K.C.'s Baltimore Street, are joyfully and frequently aware.
Seven years ago, John Barth's The Sot-Weed Factor, a kind of exuberant American Candide, gained a reputation as a "special" book, one of the most original novels to come along for some time. Giles Goat-Boy, Barth's latest, is an even more improbable comedy--and a great popular success at the same time. It is the story of a world divided into East Campus and West Campus, both of which possess ultimate weapons in the form of giant computers. The hero is George, or Giles, who thinks he is a goat. In the course of ten years and four books, Barth, now 37 and a professor of English at Buffalo, has risen faster in the scale of literary ranking than any other American fiction writer. Book Week's poll of 200 prominent critics placed him among the 20 best novelists to appear since 1945, and The New York Times recently called him "the best writer of fiction we have at present." Barth likes living in Buffalo, because, as he says, "The lake's polluted. The elms are blighted. The weather is gothic. The place is full of the phosphorescence of decay." He is brilliant in the classroom and he enjoys teaching, though he says, "Graduate students and critics unnerve me; they are much more learned than I and they can't believe how much a writer operates by 'hunch' and 'feel.' " One of his constant questions to himself is, "How can I turn literature upon its ear?" As a student, Barth worked in the Classics Library at Johns Hopkins, where he both lost and found himself in the stacks. He describes them as a "splendrous labyrinth" where he could "intoxicate and engorge" himself with story. His favorite among the great "spellbinding liars" was Scheherazade of the Arabian Nights, and what he saw in her stories was "dark, rich circumstances, mixing the subtle and the coarse, the comic and the grim, the realistic and the fantastic, the apocalyptic and the hopeful." That could also be a description of his own work.
Posed After Hours in The Daisy, his private-membership Beverly Hills discothèque, among well-modeled examples of the clothes with which he has changed the American girlscape, Jack Hanson is allowed the hint of self-satisfaction in his smile. With little more than a sensible piece of masculine psychology ("If a girl has a cute fanny, she wants to show it off") as principal, the former bush-league ballplayer put models in tight-fitting dresses and in what he soon was calling Jax slacks, in a Beverly Hills shopwindow in 1952. "Nobody was designing clothes for the kind of figure I like--long legs, trim hips and a small waist," Hanson told Playboy. "I couldn't understand why." Teenagers, though, and then celebrities on the order of Audrey Hepburn and Jackie Kennedy understood the Hanson look perfectly, and soon the world at large did, too: A major retail league of eight Jax stores now stretches across the country for the slender fraction of the female population that can afford his few junior sizes of dresses, suits and slacks. With that expansion still in progress, Hanson has built vertically in recent years, creating a West Coast glamor fiefdom capped by the club, which lists George Hamilton, Jane Fonda and Dean Martin on its Hanson-controlled roster. Martin's wife, Jeanne (in white boots), and daughters Claudia and Deana (second and third girls from right), Tina Sinatra (with cue) and three models surround him here, as the Hollywood hierarchy has surrounded him for a decade. Owner also of the small-circulation, quality film mag Cinema, Hanson at 47 is soft-spoken, personable and--far from being in awe of his customer-cronies--amused by the seriousness with which they sometimes treat him: "The three most important men in America," ex-Jax salesgirl Nancy Sinatra told one writer recently, "are Hugh Hefner, my father and Jack Hanson."
It has taken America six years to discover The Avengers. Since 1961, the show's Mod mayhem has delighted a sophisticated British audience with its hip and slightly far-out antics; but after importing the cloak-and-robber series for an abbreviated run last summer, ABC shelved it to unveil its new fall schedule. Now, with the anemia of that schedule firmly demonstrated, The Avengers has made a deserved return (in living color), because it is one of the small handful of consistently inventive, offbeat and thoroughly entertaining programs on television. The Avengers themselves are a rather insouciant duo who have a quite undefined but binding man-date to protect the Empire in times of dire peril. They are sly, indomitable and eccentric--and the show is done with an audacious flair and flippancy that make the U.N.C.L.E. crowd look like a bunch of dull coppers. Patrick Macnee as John Steed is a dapper, derbied courtier--veddy British--with no visible means of support and a slight propensity for stumbling at crucial moments. But the star is definitely Diana Rigg, who, as the widowed "Mrs. Emma Peel" (her husband was a test pilot). exudes more sheer sexuality than American TV has previously handled. (She has made British viewers all but forget the show's first female lead, Honor "Pussy Galore" Blackman, who defected to play with the bad guys until James Bond straightened her out in Goldfinger.) "Mrs. Peel" is an erotic stylization, rather than a character, in pants suits, miniskirts and an incredibly kinky wardrobe. Her other great attribute is that she is one of the neatest brawlers anywhere: She karate-chops villains by the roomful, barely mussing her leather fighting suit. There are no holds barred for Miss Rigg or for the show's uproarious style. It's all high-wire melodrama, good-humored fetishism and flamboyant self-mockery. We hopefully expect it to be with us for a long while.
"How To Abolish The Personal Income Tax"--Bishop James Pike Takes On Tax-Exempt Religious Institutions, Jack Anderson Tackles The Oil Companies And Pete Hamill Examines Organized Crime: Three Virtually Untapped Sources Of Enormous Revenue That, If Equitably Taxed, Would Wipe Out Most Individual Income Taxes