"It's a Gas—I mean it's glassy, man," was gremmie artist LeRoy Neiman's final judgment, in the appropriate patois, of the sun-splashed surfing scene he captured in this month's Man at His Leisure feature—six paintings alive with the color and excitement you'd expect in a Playboy midsummer issue. Acting as host and mentor for Neiman's month-long West Coast sketching-and-surfing safari was Bruce Brown, who had been busy collecting international kudos for The Endless Summer, his alternately rollicking and poignant semidocumentary cinematic exploration of two surfers' transoceanic search for the perfect wave.
General Offices: Playboy building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Return postage must accompany all manuscripts, Drawings and photographs submitted if they are to be returned and no responsibility can be assumed for unsolicited materials. Contents copyrighted (c) 1967 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc all Rights Reserved. Nothing may be reprinted in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, any similarity between the people and places in the fiction and semifiction in this magazine and any real people and places is purely coincidental. Credits: Cover: Model Venita Wolf, photography by Mario Casilli, other photography by: Rich Clarkson, P. 124; Alan Clifton, P. 47; Mike Dedulmen, P. 101; European art color, P. 69; Larry Gordon, P. 80-91, 97, 108; Arthur Knight, P. 3; Herman Leonard, P. 98-109 (7); James McAnally. P. 3; Patrick Morin, P. 125; J, Barry O'Rourke, P. 76-77, 104; Robert Parent, P. 3; Pompeo Posar, P. 60-61, 64, 98-109 (19); Richard Saunders, P. 3; Alexas Urba, P. 111, 125; Jerry Yulsman, P. 3 (3).
Playboy, July, 1967, Vol. 14, NO. 7, 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, 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, 3108 Piedmont RD., N.E., Atlanta, GA 30305 233-6729.
Research into the mind-expanding R power of the banana peel, the latest psychedelic substance to be discovered by the underground, had barely begun when the Food and Drug Administration declared that it was investigating this new yellow peril from the hippie world. For deftly putting the matter into perspective, our thanks go to Representative Frank Thompson of New Jersey—who, with the following speech, delivered last April while Congress was in full session, proved himself top banana among legislative put-on artists:
Trying to turn a movie into a Broadway musical comedy is about as upsetting to the natural order of tilings as trying to turn a butterfly into a cocoon. In the case of Never on Sunday, the attempt is doubly dangerous. Its success was largely environmental. The camera could lovingly yet casually show the colorful port of Piraeus, evoke the atmosphere of wholesome corruption and let the audience be swept away by the headiness of the ouzo, the lilt of the bouzouki and the Greekness of everyone and everything. All Illya Darling—Jules Dassin's musicalization of his movie—has going for it is Melina Mercouri, the throaty, sexy, larger-than-life star of Never on Sunday. Miss Mercouri is sensational. She may even be better on stage than on film. The fact that she can't sing loud, doesn't dance much, isn't called upon to produce more than two tears and pronounces her Hs like Ks ("Go home. Homer" becomes "Go kome, Komer") is beside the point. She is a presence, and the theater needs more of them. What Illya has lost is Greece. The show begins, imaginatively if somewhat precariously, with four bouzouki players hanging on a scaffold from the eaves; but otherwise the orchestrations and the spirit are much too Broadwouki. The Greek chorus line of husky men linking arms and clumping around the stage is souped up with acrobatics and plate jugglers. The scenery by Oliver Smith is not nearly Delphinitive enough and the lyrics by Joe Darion are touristy. Manos (Never on Sunday) Hadjidakis wrote the score; and although it is a cut above anything else in the show, except for its star, none of his new songs tingles like the old one, which stops the second act cold. The saddest thing about the musical is that it gives one second thoughts about the movie. Could anyone have really laughed at such flat dialog or been beguiled by a Silly-Putty plot about an American boob scout trying to intellectualize a happy whore out of whoredom? Maybe what the show needs is subtitles. At the Mark Hellinger, 237 West 51st Street.
With every new LP, the Bennett band wagon keeps gathering new recruits. Tony Makes It Happen! (Columbia) should have them jumping aboard in droves. Accompanied by an orchestra conducted by Marion Evans and containing some of the best jazzmen in the business (Urbie Green, Joe Wilder, Joe Newman), Bennett applies himself with artful purpose to such superstandards as She's Funny That Way, Can't Get Out of This Mood and I Don't Know Why.
A fine Georgian house by moonlight.Night sounds; somebody typing somewhere; a jet passing overhead. And behind the camera, the noise of cars passing on the road, tires squealing on the curve. Then, the roar of a car coming too fast, faster, a hideous screech of rubber on concrete—a deadly pause—and the screaming crash of rent metal and shattering glass. Accident.Thus opens a brilliant movie—the result of a superb collaboration between Harold Pinter and Joseph Losey. Pinter's dialog—an abrupt, wintry exchange of vagrant notions at apparent random—and Losey's cinematic control—cool, curious, deliberately editorial—fuse impressively into a sad, cynical argument that human encounter is accidental in all its forms and bloodlessly cold and indifferent at best. Every action of the plot is a betrayal, undignified even by premeditation or hesitation. Pinter's people simply collide and recoil, loveless. Nor are these cruelly undirected people the dregs of an upward-bent society. They are a collection of Oxford dons and their decent wives, of beautiful and aristocratic young men and girls. And all their crude crowding of one another is set against the best of England—the dreaming spires of Oxford; the great houses of England's affluent antiquity; the soft golden green of English summer. Two dons, a weary wife, an arrogant boy and a complaisant girl languidly eat and drink and play their way through such a summer day—and lay the basis for the fearsome tricks they will yet deal one another—then stumble boozily off to their beds. Despite the almost unbelievable cruelty that follows, the setting and the situation ring disagreeably true in every respect. This is a beautifully made film, beautifully acted by Dirk Bogarde, Stanley Baker, Jacqueline Sassard, Vivien Merchant, Michael York and Delphine Seyrig. Pinter even wrote in a tiny role for himself, a parody of his staccato dialog out of his own mouth.
Paul Goodman is our most versatile (from poetry to city planning) man of letters, as well as our most provocative asker of radical questions about the nature of our society and the purposes of our lives. His newest book, Like a Conquered Province; The Moral Ambiguity of America (Random House), which consists of six lectures he gave on the Canadian Broadcasting system, has two main themes—the decision-making system in America and the rising tide of protest against it. In the first lecture, The Empty Society, he defines the way the system works—its tendency to expand for its own sake and to exclude human beings as useless: "Function is adjusted to the technology rather than technology to function." In Counter-Forces for a Decent Society (which ran in our March issue as The New Aristocrats), he speaks of the heartening civil-libertarian direction of the current Supreme Court and the quality of today's dissident young. The Morality of Scientific Technology, the third lecture, warns that "the organization of recent scientific technology has, by and large, moved away from the traditional research autonomy of science ... and under political, military and economic control." In Urbanization and Rural Reconstruction, Goodman illustrates how the system's approach to urbanization has been mindlessly careless of social costs "and even money costs." Among his solutions is the revitalization of rural areas to provide an alternative way of life for many now trapped in the cities. The Psychology of Being Powerless, the fifth lecture, differentiates between the ways in which various sections of the society react to their inability to govern their own lives. Those in the middle class, for instance, "retreat to their families and to the consumer goods—areas in which they still have some power and choice." And finally, Goodman asks, Is American Democracy Viable? He hopes so, citing his conviction that the abiding American tradition "is pluralist, populist and libertarian, while the Establishment is monolithic, mandarin and managed." But Goodman's hope of that tradition's regaining control is uncertain. Accordingly, he ends by warning his Canadian listeners, "For our sake, as well as your own, be wary of us."
Last month, a classmate fixed me up with a girl who he said was bright, good-looking and very liberal about sex. It all sounded too good to be true—and it was: Although the first two statements about her were accurate, the last was not. I made so many passes I felt like Johnny Unitas, but she sure wasn't any Ray Berry. She has avoided a second date, and I have heard from a mutual female friend that she considers me "the biggest wolf she ever went out with." The trouble is, I like her a lot and think that we could get a good thing going. How can I let her know that I was wolfing around only on the basis of false information?— W. G., Chicago, Illinois.
Americans abroad this autumn will be laying siege to Great Britain; what with the Redgrave sisters, Twiggy, Donovan, and the myriad micro- and miniskirts, it has been another year when much of the nation's imagination has been supercharged by Anglophilia.
If any single symbol could be said to epitomize the breadth and bizzazz of Britain's renaissance in the lively arts— and the disintegration of its age-old class system—it would probably be the unlikely face and form of blond, bespectacled Michael Caine, a cocky Cockney whose forebears have toiled for more than two centuries in London's Billingsgate fish market. In two short years, Caine's arrogant, earthy portrayals of lowborn blighters, in such films as "Alfie," "The Ipcress File" and "Funeral in Berlin," have escalated him from obscure penury to world-wide fame and considerable fortune—and set him in the forefront of young British actors of working-class origin whose robust masculinity has shattered the screen stereotype of the Briton as a stiff-upper-lipped aristocrat.
Something Marvelously Metaphysical takes place when an indoor meal, no matter how magnificent, is carried outdoors. Simply by crossing the threshold between living room and terrace, vichyssoise suddenly becomes creamier, champagne bubblier and fruit juicier. An alfresco dining room can be a terrace high above a city street, a stretch of blue-stone beside a swimming pool or a grass carpet under a patio umbrella. Wherever he holds forth, the host planning his party must remember above all else that the Italian word fresco means fresh, green or new; and that while sunlight and cool zephyrs and starry nights are all indispensable seasoning ingredients, a perfect menu should follow the fresh-green-new party line.
There is a Theological Underground. It is very old. Some of the most hallowed thinkers of both Judaism and Christianity have been members in their time. I suspect that Moses Maimonides, Thomas Aquinas, Meister Eckhart and Sören Kierkegaard were members. There is a simple qualification for membership: One must have ideas in advance of what the official religious establishment is able to accept. In the Middle Ages, membership—if discovered—could lead to ban, excommunication, burning at the stake or having one's tongue cut out. Today the penalties are more subtle; but in its own way, today's establishment can be as harsh as its predecessors.
The Cut of this Summer's seaside silhouette is stylishly simple. The regimented look of competition stripes on trunks and jackets as well as last year's baggy beach-boy-inspired jams are being deep-sixed. Coming ashore are plenty of bold new offerings, including slim-cut, low-rise nylon swim suits that couple nicely with colorful beach tops, thereby creating a mixed—not matched—ensemble. Trunks are available in brilliant-colored overall patterns, strong tiki and pareu prints and lively solid shades. If you want to add extra spice to your wardrobe, pick up a pair of wide-wale corduroy beach shorts in the hot new chili color. Pullovers to check out include cotton knit sweaters that feature geometric patterns or stripes in sun-drenched yellow, fire orange and terra cotta, and terry styles woven in bold, balanced designs. It's also a shore-gone conclusion that sleeveless sea vests will be worn in surf and on strand. Last, cap your new collection of waterside wearables with a cowboy or Daktari-type hat—it's the perfect way to top off the season.
Recently, police activity began to impinge upon my own life. I live in San Francisco's Negro district, and I could see about me a noticeable increase—prowl cars were more evident at all times. On weekend nights they seemed to be everywhere, stopping and questioning many more people than formerly.
Except that he was quite well dressed and plainly prosperous, the man a yard or two ahead of me as I walked along Piccadilly looked exactly like my old friend Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, and I was musing on these odd resemblances and speculating idly as to what my little world would be like if there were two of him in it, when he stopped to peer into a tobacconist's window and I saw that it was Ukridge. It was months since I had seen that battered man of wrath, and though my guardian angel whispered to me that it would mean parting with a loan of five or even ten shillings if I made my presence known, I tapped him on the shoulder.
Well, Men, it's finally official. Science has confirmed what most of us have suspected all along—anyone with half a brain can carry on a conversation. And it doesn't matter which half of the old fig one uses, the left or the right.
Bogash was dead, and Riley as good as, and Sergeant Harran was someplace in the cornfield with a bullet-shattered leg, so Private Tommy Dowd was alone with the decision to either attempt to rejoin his company or surrender. He was relieved when the tall sheaves began sprouting the gray-green uniforms of the enemy, and his only option was to discard the carbine and put his hands into the air. He was 20 years old, and the four-man patrol mission had been his first serious combat exercise. It had ended badly, but at least it had ended.
"He that goes to law holds a wolf by the ear," wrote a cynical Britisher of the 17th Century; but his imagery would only provoke laughter from honey-haired Heather Ryan, who is equally at ease poring over volumes of legal history or sprinting through California's Chevy Chase Canyon at night, with an ocelot and a pair of Doberman pinschers as her escorts. "I have a passion for anything that's wild," declares the 20-year-old Kentucky native, who currently resides at her family's Glendale home, on the brink of the canyon: "It's pretty desolate out there, but we're lucky that we have no close neighbors, because the ocelot often screams at night." When Heather takes to the hills of an afternoon, she usually carries a book of the Kon-Tiki and Seven Pillars of Wisdom ilk. "I am," she says, "fascinated by adventure, and I suppose it pervades most of my tastes. I like actors like Paul Newman, Charlton Heston and Steve McQueen, because they usually portray men who are as untamed as my ocelot." And while Miss July prefers rugged outdoorsmen, she dotes only on dates who are also possessed of keen intellects. "My perfect man would be someone like Lawrence of Arabia—without the hang-ups," she says. Heather will soon be entering her sophomore year at Glendale College, after which she expects to complete her undergraduate studies in law at UCLA. But Miss July—who has worked for an insurance firm, an industrial supply company and is presently on the payroll of the Jay Ross dress shop in Glendale—dreams of modeling and is by no means committed to the advocate's vocation: "I'm really too emotional; and if I were a divorce-court lawyer, I'd always side with the men." When she's not using her spare time to figure out her future, Heather enjoys tussling in the canyon with her exotic pets ("It beats just sitting around, which is what 99 percent of American women do"), thereby keeping herself in exemplary shape (361/2-20-35). Speed-loving Heather admits to driving her 1966 Mustang faster on occasion than the law prescribes. She's a frequent visitor to Sacramento, where—after visiting with her grandparents—she takes in the motorcycle races ("I've logged a few miles myself, but the big bikes are just too much for me to control"). Though she hasn't had much exposure to the psychedelics-freedom-love movement currently the kick among West Coast youth, Heather recently witnessed a mass "love-in" at Elysian Park: "I'd never seen such a crew—everybody walking about and presenting the most unlikely gifts, like fruits and flowers, to each other." Heather isn't fond of densely populated scenes, however, and prefers the open-air solitude of the desert—where she occasionally motors to hunt rabbits and quail—or the seashore at Palos Verdes or Laguna, where she delights in skindiving or just relaxing on the surf-soaked rocks: "Coastal rock formations turn me on somehow, and I feel at home when I'm surrounded by them." We agree; and our latest centerfold theme is, indeed, Heather on the rocks.
Agency V.P.: OK, gang, here at B. B. Y. & R. we've lived through a lot of changes that have rocked the ad dodge. We saw B. O. come, we saw it go. We outlived the quiz scandals. We know where the yellow went. Westerns are out, monsters are dying—heh-heh—and the tigers are getting just a little bit mangy. But the think people tell us that culture is in. I know you're all wondering: How do we field this one? Our client, Culturtronics, is poised, ready to sell all kinds of highbrow goodies to a mass audience. Now, how do we grab Joe Public and hit his hot button? How? Here's our first commercial for legitimate theater.
After centuries of supremacy as the capital city of the world, Paris—despite London's determined assault on the throne—still comes closest to satisfying the multifaceted desires of the sophisticated male. In beaux-arts or haute cuisine, in lavish entertainment or zesty joie de vivre, or—most important of all —in chic and complaisant females, the incomparable City of Light most closely approximates the masculine ideal of what big cities are all about. To appease virtually any appetite, be it cerebral, cultural, gustatory or sexual, Paris offers superabundant satisfaction—gracefully and without reproach.
Death and taxes have long been recognized as the only sure things worthy of a cautious man's faith or wager, and we know some individuals who are suspicious of these. (There is a movement afoot to add the Green Bay Packers to the list, but that seems a trifle premature.) Yet a considerable number of other propositions have outcomes so certain that they warrant the interest of even the most cautious of men. These are "sure things," and they result in gain for the initiate by causing his ill-informed prey to become intrigued—and indebted. Not ruined or overdrawn at the bank, however, for these are gentlemanly swindles meant for rewarding diversion rather than malevolence.
Surfing long a religious cult for wave worshipers, has lately not only won coast-to-coast status as a bona-fide sport (there is even a surfing Hall of Fame) but has also inspired a burgeoning subculture that includes rock-'n'-roll songs, magazines, and films such as Bruce Brown's excellent surfing odyssey, The Endless Summer In Southern California, where American surfing was incubated, hordes of "stoked" (hooked) surf devotees, single-minded as lemmings, strap their 25-pound boards atop their cars every day and head for the beaches. playboy's nomadic artist LeRoy Neiman, who spent a month on the surfers' trail, from San Onofre to Malibu, found their life a robust one: "They live for the sport. Surfing has made Muscle Beach a memory. The surfers' beaches are a kaleidoscope of Hollywood types, 'beach bunnies,' rebellious hipsters and myriad adolescents, some arrayed in wet suits, some bristling with surfing pins, Maltese crosses or good luck and other contemporary finery. There are professionals who represent board manufacturers in tournaments and form-conscious aesthetes who, in their own idiom, 'please fear' by riding the 'heavies' on their 'big guns'—surfboards built for big waves." Veteran surfers get their biggest kick from "getting locked in the curl" (above) or riding inside a ponderous wave. Right: As motorcyclist-musicians provide gratuitous background sounds, Malibu surfers traverse The Pit, a favored rendezvous, on their way to the waves. "The boards and costumes create a symphony of colors," observes Neiman. "In the overcrowded water, however, play gets rough sometimes as surfers jostle for space; 'surf birds'—female wave riders—are on their own. On a good, or 'glassy' day, pandemonium rules."
last summer Jim Ryun ran the world's fastest mile and this summer he could conceivably break every middle-distance track record. Beyond that, he has carried—without seeming corny—the ancient athletic virtues of self-punishing practice and genuine modesty into a decade alien to them. "Back at the beginning," Ryun told playboy, with a rare note of pride, "I was working harder than most milers do at their peak." The beginning was five years ago this past spring, when he was a skinny 15-year-old running six miles through the streets of Wichita each morning. The practice followed a five-A.M. paper route even in the most miserable Kansas weather ("It was boring," Ryun has since said, "especially when I had to run alone"), and his no-nonsense, fundamentalist background had ill prepared him for wisecracking bystander reactions ("What are you doing out in your underwear, kid?") he sometimes encountered. Ryun suffers from inner-ear damage severe enough to make the sounds of other runners and shouted-out quarter-mile times indistinct; but by the end of his junior year, he had become the first high schooler to run a sub-four-minute mile. And after deciding as a freshman at the University of Kansas that he wouldn't try in every race to live up to the sportswriters' puffery about him, Ryun even began to lose a little of his reticence. On the California Sunday last July when he took the record from France's Michel Jazy in 3:51.3, he was relaxed and confident enough to say, "When I win, I always feel I could have gone faster." Ryun keeps private any predictions about his fastest potential mile, but it is already obvious that he can manage the hazards of fame as masterfully as he handled himself when he was a high school sophomore running alone: Commenting on the mob of fans he had to outrun for three blocks after the record race, Ryun said simply, "I think the event is overemphasized."
When she was ten, Lana Cantrell, daughter of a Sydney, Australia, bass player, was already knocking them out down under as a soloing songstress at jazz concerts. Now 23, this slender, saucy Aussie with a voice that fills the room—whether she's playing to 300 or 3000—is America's fastest-rising chanteuse. On RCA Victor's And Then There Was Lana, her first LP outing (see this month's Playboy After Hours), La Cantrell displays a voice, all 110 percent of it, that clings crisply, lovingly and effortlessly to a lyric. Lana came to the U. S. three years ago, after having gone about as far as she could go in Australia. "I'd been on all the television variety programs there," she reports. "But Australian show business is so limited, I decided it was time for a change—so here I am." One of her first moves in the U. S. was her best: Lana signed on to tour the Playboy Club circuit. "There is absolutely nothing like it in the world," she says. "Working the Clubs taught me almost everything I know as a performer." A well-traveled young lady, Lana recently represented America at the Polish Song Festival, one of Europe's increasingly prestigious music competitions. "I went there by myself and met some swinging Russians," she says. "It was such a ball, I'd love to go back someday." And the Poles would love to have her back: Lana walked away with first prize, singing I'm All Smiles. With a slew of television and club dates coming up, Lana seems set for superstardom. Already enjoying the rewards of a winner, she has accumulated a pad in Manhattan's posh East 70s and a white Jaguar XK-E. ("On Saturdays, I take the car out for exercise—sort of like walking a dog.") Her next step? "I want to do a Broadway show more than anything else," she says. "A hit musical is the singer's symbol of success." The transition should be easy for showstopper Lana; music critics have already given her a pressbook full of rave notices.
Having to bear the name of an artistic colossus would intimidate most men; film director Michelangelo Antonioni, however, wears the appellation with assurance. But while his 16th Century namesake celebrated the divine aspects of humanity, the 54-year-old Antonioni—in such cinematic studies of obscure communication as L' Avventura, La Notte, L'Eclisse, Red Desert and Blow-Up—has chosen to portray the emotional impotence of modern man in the mechanistic world he has fashioned. "I don't think there is any love in the world," Antonioni has declared, while asserting that anyone who "looks reality in the face" cannot be a pessimist. In the recent and highly successful Blow-Up, Antonioni's second film in color and his first in English, a super-Mod London photographer discovers, by enlarging long-distance shots of a couple romancing in a park, that a man has been murdered; but the shock eventually evaporates in the flesh-and-pot vapidity of his life. The aristocratic Antonioni, a former film critic with a business degree who now shares a Roman apartment with his frequent leading lady, Monica Vitti, is so painstaking a craftsman that he has landscapes artificially colored to reflect his characters' mental states. No fan of American movies, and unconcerned with profit (the only material possessions in which he takes pride are several paintings and an Alfa Romeo), he once turned down a Hollywood offer when he found he would not have complete autonomy. While critics debate the merits of his work, Antonioni tries to remain aloof; he does not like to explain his films, he considers critics "idiots" and regards actors as "cows" who must defer in all matters to the director's better judgment. As deliberate in speaking as in directing, Antonioni—who claims to be amused only by sex—has merely hinted that his next film may be "very violent." We can only hope that means another blowup is in the works.
F. Lee Bailey, Headline-grabbing counsel for sam sheppard, carl coppolino and "the boston strangler," talks about coddling criminals, capital punishment and unjust convictions in an exclusive Playboy Interview