Since February of 1958, when we published a tripartite takeout on the beat world, the striving of youth to transcend ethical, social and artistic convention has become a far-flung and highly diversified phenomenon, often referred to as a "revolution." Some of the avant-gardesmen of 1958, however, are still on to what's happening. Herbert Gold, who authored one of the pieces in our survey of the Beats, provides us with the insightful text for The New Wave Makers, this month's portrait (with ten pages of photos by Eugene Anthony) of the self-styled Love Generation--the hippies who fight the establishment by dropping out of its constrictive mores. Gold--whose fictional evocation of the Bay City hippie scene, Peacock Dreams, appeared in last June's Playboy--claims to have witnessed not only "the first great be-in" (with his onetime fellow college student, now grand guru Allen Ginsberg) but also "the first rock-dance-light-show celebration where acid was put in the Jell-o." During recent travels in North Africa, Europe and the U.S.S.R., Gold explored the global aspects of this upheaval, on which he touches in his impressionistic prose portrait.
Playboy, October, 1967, Vol. 14, 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 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 S-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.
After successive waves of Negro jokes, Polish jokes, Italian jokes and--since the recent skirmish in the Middle East--Jewish and Arab jokes, it was almost inevitable that these harassed minorities would retaliate. The word is that a clever and anonymous cartel of Negroes, Poles, Italians, Jews and Arabs has pooled its creative talents to produce the last word in ethnic humor: WASP jokes. Like its irreverent forebears, the WASP joke (the acronym, for those who just got off the Greyhound, signifies "White Anglo-Saxon Protestant") pokes fun at the peculiarities--real and imagined--that characterize the WASP. These would include his innate predilection toward big business; Q--What do you call six WASPs sitting around a conference table? A--Price fixing; Q--What is the WASP version of the Holy Trinity? A--General Motors, Ford and Chrysler; Q--What do you get when you cross a WASP with a chimpanzee? A--A three-feet-high blond company president. Or his reading habits: Q--How do you keep a WASP uninformed? A--Hide his copy of Reader's Digest; Q--How do you keep him misinformed? A--Find it for him; Q--How do you tell a WASP at a nude party? A--He's the one reading The Wall Street Journal. Or even his politics: Q--What does a WASP consider the chief injustice in the world? A--Earl Warren; Q--Name a WASP war hero. A--General Franco; Q--What is the WASP's favorite tree? A--Birch; Q--Why do WASPs fear sunburn? A--Better dead than red.
Peter Ustinov is the dilettante's Da Vinci, a dazzling dabbler in most of the popular arts. In The Unknown Soldier and His Wife, he attempts a tragicomic epic about war and peace. How much more ambitious can you be? How much farther can you fall if you fail? The odd thing is that even in failure--and his new play is a failure--there are moments, particularly when the author stops acting pompous and begins attacking pomposity. His funniest invention is a prototypal Nazi-ish character named Inventor, who markets war wares through the centuries. As played fiendishly by Second City's Bob Dishy with a word-crunching German vaudeville accent, he is a panic. Most of the other characters are a trial: the unknown soldier (Christopher Walken), who gets chopped up in every battle; the unknown soldier's wife (Melissa C. Murphy), who gets knocked up before every battle; the archbishop (Howard Da Silva), who talks like a fortune cookie ("I will plant seeds in your mind which will blossom into a harvest"). Fortunately, the actors are several cuts above their parts. Brian Bedford, for one, plays generals, kings, dukes, a battalion of misguided war makers, and each is a completely individual impersonation. But too much of the play is bombast. By the second war, one gets the message: War is hell, especially for the fall guy. The ambitious Ustinov has little to add to this edifying piece of information. At the Vivian Beaumont, 150 West 65th Street.
Considerable sympathy is stirred up for two tragic misfits of the Great Depression era in Bonnie and Clyde, based on the real-life story of Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow, who lived, stole cars, robbed banks and ultimately died together in ambush back in the days of rumble seats and bread lines. Both director Arthur Penn and producer-star Warren Beatty, outdoing any of their previous films (and, incidentally, getting the jump on In Cold Blood), put lightning excitement into a David Newman--Robert Benton script that never settles for mere sensationalism. The study of character is sometimes obviously slanted in the culprits' favor; but more often, they seem natural children of the social environment from which they spring, and their violent odyssey of crime rips along like an open roadster taking every corner on two wheels. Beatty plays Clyde as big, beautiful, dim and impotent, a lout who lapses into a life of violence partly for sexual release. As his frustrated paramour, a restless little Texas nobody with a yen to write maudlin poetry between gun fights, Faye Dunaway is fine, too, and here has a role that should fix her grit as well as her girth in the public eye. The best of it may be that the hard-luck feel of the Thirties touches every frame of film. In one prickly vignette, Bonnie and Clyde invite a weary dirt farmer and his hired man to help shoot up a ramshackle old house from which the farmer's family has just been evicted by the bank--and the resentment felt by the dispossessed of any era suddenly yields echoes of the protests heard more recently in Watts, Newark and Detroit.
The reports of Mort Sahl's professional demise have been greatly exaggerated. Somewhat muted in recent years (Sahl claims an establishment conspiracy has kept him from the public ear), the rapid-fire, sweater-swathed comic has come roaring back, bigger and brasher than ever, if we can take his recent stint at Chicago's Mister Kelly's as any gauge. For instance, on doctors: "The A. M. A. has branded faith healer Oral Roberts a quack. It's opposed to any cure that's rapid." On the middle-class thinking of psychiatrists: "Doctor, my life's a living hell." "OK, have curtains made." On CIA head Helms: "Helms' job is to keep secrets--even from the Warren Commission." On Jews: "Until the Israeli war, American Jews had tried to assimilate; they'd stopped being everybody's conscience and started to like pro football." A line from the menu at Las Vegas' Caesar's Palace: "I, Caesar, invite you to have a nosh." On the intellectual status of the news media: "Jim Garrison at a press conference quoted Virgil as saying, 'Let justice be done though the heavens fall,' whereupon the Newsweek reporter queried, 'Virgil who?'" On the Zen philosophy of the Haight-Ashbury set: "When a cop asks a kid, 'How old are you, son?' the kid answers: 'I am time itself.'" On Fact magazine: "Fact has made a business out of attacking Sucaryl." On Human Sexual Response: "That can really turn you off. The charts look like the airconditioning scheme for the Pentagon." On his own political sympathies: "I lean to the left--to correct for the nation's drift." On his sexual proclivities: "Sex is terrific ... if memory serves." Obviously, Sahl is very much alive and kicking.
After Watts exploded in August 1965, Budd Schulberg went to that ghetto, trying to find out whether there was "anything one person--not an organization, but just a single person--can do." He started the Watts Writers Workshop, which has since expanded into the Frederick Douglass Writers House, about which you read in the September issue of Playboy. Eighteen of the 30 members of the Workshop are represented in From the Ashes: Voices of Watts (New American Library), edited and with an introduction by Schulberg. The collection can best be described by a statement of one of its contributors, Harry Dolan, during Senator Ribicoff's hearings on urban decay in the summer of 1966: "I tell this to you now, you being all of white America, so that you will not be able to say, as the Germans tried to say when they were told about the concentration camps and the gas chambers, 'We did not know!'" From the Ashes is a powerful distillation of black rage and pride. ("We the American Negro," proclaims Sonora McKeller in her essay, "are slowly but surely becoming an individual nation.") But the book is more than raw material for sociologists and urbanists. Among these 18 voices of Watts are authentic writers, men and women creating a literature transcending this time and their embattled place in it. Excerpts from novels in progress should lead astute publishers to find out more about James Thomas Jackson, Harley Mims and Birdell Chew. There is also a formidable essayist, Johnie Scott, whose The Coming of the Hoodlum, a relentlessly self-probing account of his journey from Watts to Harvard, should certainly be expanded to book length. The poetry of these writers is less substantial, but there are bursts of jagged light, as in Johnie Scott's The Suicide Note. Although much of the prose and poetry is rooted in the jungle of cities, there are also evocations of Southern childhoods, most notably Birdell Chew's The Promise of Strangers, an almost unbearably clear, simple tale of innocence and horror. Budd Schulberg has shown in From the Ashes what he, as one man, not an organization, could do--he made it possible for at least some of the voices of Watts to be heard.
The team of Cain and Kral was never better than on Lovesick (Verve). Jackie and Roy, the parties in question, would lend class to The Lambeth Walk or Barney Google, let alone the top-drawer twelvesome purveyed here. There are a brace of beautiful Alec Wilder melodies, a like number of bossa novas, Rodgers and Hart's joyful Mountain Greenery, the lyrics of which are still unsurpassed, and sundry other goodies. Let's hear it for Jackie and Roy.
Sex is one of the major topics of discussion of a campus protest group to which I belong, but it's turning into a tough thing to talk about. It seems that after participating in the more involved discussions, we sometimes become terribly stimulated and, in fact, our sessions often deteriorate into orgies. I would like to know how we can discuss important sexual problems without this outcome.--C. I., Nashville, Tennessee.
If you're planning a ski trip to Canada at Christmastime, this is the year to avoid crowds congregating at the dominion's popular eastern resorts. In the western province of Alberta, Canada's two best-known national parks--Jasper and Banff--offer the visitor slopes as challenging as any in North America.
On February 17, 1967, the New Orleans States-Item broke a story that would electrify the world--and hurl district attorney Jim Garrison into a bitter fight for his political life. An enterprising reporter, checking vouchers filed with the city by the district attorney's office, discovered that Garrison had spent over $8000 investigating the assassination of President Kennedy. "Has the district attorney discovered valuable additional evidence," the States-Item asked editorially, "or is he merely saving some interesting new information that will gain for him exposure in a national magazine?" Stung, Garrison counterattacked, confirming that an inquiry into Kennedy's assassination was under way and charging that the States-Item 's "irresponsible" revelation "has now created a problem for us in finding witnesses and getting cooperation from other witnesses and in at least one case has endangered the life of a witness."
The room was full of naked blondes. An even dozen of them were sprawled across the blood-soaked Persian rug like so many big, beautiful, broken dolls--and the weasel-faced kid with the wild purple eyes was coming at me, fast, a smoking cannon in each crippled fist. I knew he was kill-crazy. Twelve natural blondes had died under his guns in the last five minutes, and I was next.
In 1921, just five years before he was to begin work on Lady Chatterley's Lover, D. H. Lawrence wrote The Fox, a powerful novella depicting frustration and fulfillment. Now, almost a half century later, producer Raymond (The Leather Boys) Stross brings Lawrence's story to the screen for the first time.
An Invisible starship stood at rest near a canal. If the eye could have seen it, the sight would have been one of immense beauty, for it was a thing of harmonious circles: an outer rim, hollow and transparent, in which the crew of four lived and worked and looked out upon space and suns and exotic worlds; contained in this circle, another, the core of powerful engines whose surging, flaming energy propelled the ship across galactic distances. And all of this unseen.
Whenever a foreigner visiting Great Britain is, tempted to fault English cooking, John Bull has an unassailable comeback: his British breakfast. The sumptuous arguments on its behalf are still found in English country homes, where seemingly endless rows of bone-china tureens and silver chafing dishes are banked on the English sideboard. The evidence is incontestable: scrambled eggs and gammon, tender kidneys in madeira, fried lobster cutlets, deviled pheasant legs, cold partridge, warm currant buns, berry preserves and fragrant honeys either from the Scotch heather or from flowers that seem to have been especially grown for the English breakfast table. And busy Londoners, having to offer a daily challenge to the cold drizzle and fog, won't settle for the skimpy victuals otherwise known as the Continental breakfast; they fortify themselves with platters of fried eggs, squired by plump sausages, large rashers of bacon, grilled tomatoes, racks of hot toast and huge-cups, sometimes pint-size, filled these days more and more with coffee rather than with tea. It's, an infinitely rich vein of breakfast ideas for Americans reconnoitering new ways to celebrate Sundays and holidays.
<p>In Mexico, the hour before the bullfight is always the best hour of the week. It would be memorable not to sound like Hemingway, but in fact you would get happy the night before just thinking of that hour next day. Outside the Plaza Mexico, cheap cafes open only on Sunday, and huge as beer gardens, filled with the public (us tourists, hoodlums, pimps, pickpurses and molls, Mexican variety--which is to say the whores had head dresses and hindquarters not to be seen elsewhere on earth, for their hair rose vertically 12 inches from the head, and their posteriors projected horizontally 12 inches back into that space the rest of the whore had just marched through). The mariachis were out with their romantic haunting caterwauling of guitar, violin, song of carnival and trumpet, their song told of hearts which were true and hearts which were broken, and the wail of the broken heart went right into the trumpet until there were times, when drunk the right way on tequila or Mexican rum, it was perhaps the best sound heard this side of Miles Davis.</p>
"Oh, My God!" croaked a network-TV director in New York. He seemed to be strangling in his turtleneck shirt. It was the evening of Election Day, 1966, and the director's world was caving in. Here he was, on the air with the desperately important Election Night coverage, competing with the two enemy networks to see whose magnificently transistorized, fearfully fast electronic computer could predict the poll results soonest and best. Live coverage: tense-voiced, sweating announcers, papers flapping around, aura of unbearable suspense. The whole country watching. And what happens? The damned computer quits.
At the Massachusetts Institute of Technology there sits a giant computer, its lights constantly blinking and its dials endlessly churning out new numbers, on which some unknown technician has fastened one of the buttons now so popular among the hippie set. The button reads:
By a remarkable appellative coincidence, October Playmate Reagan Wilson's escort, when his father's business finds him in Los Angeles, is apt to be the California governor's son, Michael. Lively as she is in conversation about sports or theater or books, Miss October nevertheless exhibits an abiding disinterest in politics. "Mike and I are more likely to talk about real horses than dark horses," says Reagan, an active San Fernando Valley equestrienne. "My own horse, Popcorn, is stabled back in Missoula, Montana, but that doesn't keep me from getting out on the trails almost every afternoon. Besides being fun, riding is the best way to keep in shape," Reagan adds, as if there must be some secret to the grace of her 40-25-35 figure.
This year, we've divided our fall and winter clothing selections into three schools of sartorial thought--traditional, European and avant-garde. Thus, the well-dressed urban male can compare styles and judiciously choose which type of attire suits him best. Traditionally speaking, we predict that the bastion of clothing conservatism--the Ivy League suit--will be resplendently updated to a bolder array of patterns and colors. Other changes in the League standings will include the widening of lapels and the deepening of vents, so that suit and sports coats can extend to new lengths of stylishness. On the international fashion scene, coming transatlantic innovations will include a veddy British contour-tailored cut in coats that should be worn with cuffless slacks that flare slightly at the bottom. Proceeding farther out, you'll find this year's offerings in military-and Edwardian-inspired avant-garde garb ideal for creating an individual--but not extreme--contemporary look, a look that could easily wind up as tomorrow's traditional wear. For further fashion enlightenment on the coming trends in fall and winter apparel, check the action on these seven pages.
A top Jazz leader has recorded an album called If You Can't Beat 'Em, Join 'Em!, in which he does songs out of the pop-rock-folk bag of such luminaries as Petula Clark, Bob Dylan and the Beatles. Many rock groups are making jazzlike improvisations central to their acts. A number of combos have integrated jazz instrumentalists and rock musicians. Jazz critics have begun nodding approvingly in the direction of other contemporary musical idioms. A national jazz magazine has begun covering pop.
Arlo, Great White Hunter, at midnight, poked a bored finger (attached to a bored hand attached to a bored arm attached to a bored Arlo) toward Fred MacMurray and Madeleine Carroll. It could not be said there was viciousness or even vindictiveness in the movement. But as Von Clausewitz said in Volume II of Vom Kriege, any positive action, even if ultimately incorrect, is better than indecision and no action at all. Fred and Madeleine were feigning animosity for each other as Arlo pocked the off button.
There seemed to be no airplane. There was just this parachutist sailing down through a cloudless sky. His face was masked. His chute was decorated with psychedelic-ecstatic colors. And below him, as he sailed so free, 20,000 grokkers said Ooh and Ah.
One may morning, a comely Tibetan maiden was walking along a mountain path on her way to a distant market. Noticing a figure sitting beside the road and remembering her mother's warnings about the impulsiveness of men, she hesitated. But then, observing by his red robe and belled hat that he was a monk, she felt she had nothing to fear and went forward, only bowing her head in recognition of his holiness.