Our consciousness-expanding cover is not only a psychedelic celebration of the Christmas season but also a prelude to the pleasures to be found within--satiric, satyric, serious and seasonal. Adding glitter to the proceedings is a vintage portfolio of erotica by Aubrey Beardsley and four other masters of art nouveau. Another eye-filling visual adventure is our ten-page paean to The Bunnies of Hollywood. Suggestions for savoring the holiday season with fitting flair are provided by Thomas Mario's global guide to yuletide feasting, our annual panoply of mischievous Christmas cards and an eight-page gallery of gifts guaranteed to make even the most skeptical Scrooges believe in Santa Claus.
Playboy, December, 1967, Vol. 14, No. 12. 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.
There are now no fewer than six psychedelic churches in America--the League for Spiritual Discovery, Kerista, the Water Brothers, the Neo-American Church, the Church of the Awakening and, oldest of all, the Native American Church; and more seem to be sprouting, like magic mushrooms, every day. If this trend continues, it seems only a matter of time--say, Christmas 2067--until our entire culture will be turned on, church and state alike. And if some new Clement C. Moore--a latter-day apostle of Timothy Leary and his turned-on, tuned-in, wigged-out prose style--has a vision on the night before that date, he will almost certainly record it in language something like this:
There's nothing unusual about a Chinese husband and wife running a Chinese restaurant in an American city. But the Hungs, of Hollywood, California, aren't your run-of-the-fortune-cookie couple: He's a Ph.D. in applied mechanics and a top aerospace scientist--executive; she's an M.A. in business administration. Nor is their establishment--Mouling (6530 Sunset Boulevard, three blocks west of Vine)--a typical chow mein--lining dispensary: Its growing number of aficionados insists Mouling is far and away the best Chinese restaurant west of the Continental Divide, if not of the Hudson. Mouling's decor is comfortable and unpretentious. The restaurant's outdoor dining patio is highly recommended for balmy evenings; screened-off indoor booths remind first-time visitors of Charlie Chan movie sets. Mrs. Hung is always on hand to greet and advise about lesser-known dishes; and Mr. Hung often hovers in the background, between trips to the Pentagon or to various aerospace centers. Mouling emphasizes the Mandarin-Shanghai style of cookery; that is, the boldly spiced, richly sauced North Chinese style of which many devotees of low-keyed Cantonese cuisine are sadly unaware. The menu is as elaborate as it is epicurean. And if you have a vague idea of some concoction you'd like to see whipped up, you have only to define the dish and Mr. Hung, a master chef, will disappear into the kitchen to produce it for you. Don't be misled by the commonplace English names of the restaurant's specialties: Mouling's approach to even the most ordinary-sounding dish is innovative and imaginative. A few examples, only a few, of the Hungs' stunning concoctions: Hot-Sour Soup--a thick savory broth loaded with a bewildering number of meats and vegetables, splendidly spicy and tanged with vinegar; Chicken Salad--shredded chicken and bits of vegetables mixed with crisp brown noodles and treated with a bold, vinegary dressing, served cold; Cassia Pork--the delicate filling of this rolled-crepe dish consists of shredded pork tenderloin, egg, scallions, Chinese greens and dried (believe it or not) lilies. And on and on, from Sizzling Rice Soup to Twice Cooked Pork to Sweet and Sour Duck Strips. For dessert, let your taste buds be cosseted by the Sesame Balls and the Candied Apple (crisp iced coating on the outside, piping hot inside). Thanks to the Oriental expertise of the urbane Hungs, Mouling is rapidly becoming one of Hollywood's featured attractions. Open Sunday through Thursday from noon to 11 P.M.; Friday and Saturday from noon to midnight.
Down in the depths of a Greenwich Village subbasement, a restive suburban matron (Anne Jackson) sits tied to a chair. She has been kidnaped by an off-duty postman (Eli Wallach), who confides that rape seems as logical a way as any to express his hostility toward the crippling frustrations of a conformist society. He wants her as a "sacrifice to the needs of my own primitive being." Well, up to a point, his chosen victim couldn't agree with him more. Soon she is selling her assailant a raffle ticket on behalf of hospitals so overcrowded that they have three patients for every bed. "Think about that for a moment," she suggests sensibly. As enlightened slapstick, The Tiger Makes Out affords Mr. and Mrs. Wallach an opportunity to do for Murray Schisgal's short play The Tiger what they might have done for the movie version of Luv, given a chance. The Wallachs performed both Schisgal pieces on stage, and their experience tells here in Eli's mad intensity as a postman gone berserk and in Anne's dry, hilarious portrait of a very average American wife and mother who feels she would like to exist "on more than one level." Stretching a slight prank out to twice its natural length cannot produce solid-gold comedy, but director Arthur Hiller conceals a good deal of the strain with ebullient pacing and a social satirist's view of its seedy New York locations. Author Schisgal's canny humor also buoys a cast of bit players, mostly recruited from Broadway, who keep popping up to suggest that the insanity of urban life is beyond remedy. However, The Tiger makes it Fun City, indeed.
Isaac Bashevis Singer's blending of Old Testament sonorities and New World insights comprises an art whose training began at birth and has gone on through the long hazards of being a Jew. Its elements are wit, perseverance and a 2000-year-old moral certitude. To Singer, these elements are as natural as drawing breath, and he endows the characters of his most recently translated novel, The Manor (Farrar, Straus & Giroux), with the same naturalness. The Manor begins in 1863, the year of an unsuccessful Polish rebellion against Russian tyranny. This time, it is Polish noblemen who are persecuted by the czar's police; the Jews get a break, for a change. One to benefit is Calman Jacoby, who leases the manor of dissolute Count Jampolski and begins a career of worldly success and private disaster. Spiritually, Jacoby lives within the strictures of the Talmud; but historically, he is in the midst of great cultural and political changes. It is a time of extremes, and the Jews of eastern Europe react either by entrenching themselves in Hasidism or by joining the Enlightenment. Jacoby and his family are caught up in these crosscurrents. Love, chance and apostasy form and break their deepest relationships; the old are confused, the young impatient. The author's gift for authenticity is nowhere more evident than in these personal crises. But there is a disturbing disjunction in the book: People appear, disappear and reappear at long intervals, with the result that the reader is constantly having to remind himself of who they are. Distracting though this is, it doesn't seriously diminish the impact or eloquence of a novel that captures with fidelity and richness the ethos of a time and a people. A chapter of The Manor, titled The Courtship, appeared in the September issue of Playboy.
It's been another good month for the Commonwealth. A Hard Rood (London), the second album by John Mayall's Bluesbreakers, finds the English quartet in excellent form. Peter Green, on vocal and lead guitar, has proved a fitting replacement for better-known Eric Clapton; and Mayall's singing and multiple instrumentalizing (organ, piano, harmonica, five-and nine-string guitars) is at its usual high level. Also, as on the first LP, the best tunes tend to be Mayall's own--especially A Hard Road, Another Kinda Love and Living Alone. One of the best and biggest single hits of the year, A Whiter Shade of Pale, leads off the premiere LP by Procol Harum (Deram). The quintet sustains the same high level on the remaining nine songs, all originals, as it romps behind the crisp singing of leader Gary Brooker. The latest outing for Herman's Hermits, Blaze (MGM), is a startling breakthrough, as the tightly organized quintet tackles its most ambitious material to date, including its hit version of Donovan's Museum. Other winners are Upstairs, Downstairs; I Call Out Her Name; One Little Packet of Cigarettes: Last Bus Home and the big Don't Go Out into the Rain. Similarly, Flowers (London) is the best-balanced release so far by the Rolling Stones, though it does contain several numbers available on previous LPs. Standouts include Backstreet Girl, Mother's Little Helper and Ride On, Baby. Meanwhile, Eric Burdon and The Animals are stirring up Winds of Change (MGM)in an album that is characterized as fully by failure as by success. Mick Jagger's Paint It Black and Burdon's own apropos introduction for it, Poem by the Sea, both featuring intense backup from John Weider's electrified violin, lead highlights that encompass the blues-based Hotel Hell and Anything and the upbeat Good Times and It's All Meat. The quintet has taken to composing most of its own material and, though highly tuneful and well arranged and executed, the offerings mostly suffer from weak lyrics. Still, this is a promising LP and well worth hearing.
I have been going with my fiancée for six months, but we did not make love until last Saturday night. We had come back to her apartment from a party at which we'd had a lot to drink. Because of that and our excitement, we failed to lake the necessary precautions (in spite of the fact that she was at the height of her fertility cycle). Early the next morning, we decided that some precaution was "better late than never," so I picked up some vaginal suppositories that are supposed to kill sperm after intercourse. My question is this: Who should get the Green Stamps the druggist gave me with the purchase?--L.O.J., San Francisco, California.
If you've only recently decided to attend the Tenth Winter Olympic Games in Grenoble, France, from February 6 to 18, you'll still be able to acquire accommodations within easy commuting distance of Olympic sites. The Alpine towns of Aix-les-Bains and Chambéry--both about an hour's drive from Grenoble--plan to provide daily transportation to the games. If you're a ski buff, head for France's famed Alpine winter havens of Courchevel, Val d'Isère and Tignes--all of which will be sending buses into Grenoble for the Olympically inclined. If you'd rather be based in a sizable, swinging city, plan to stay in Geneva, Switzerland, 90 miles northeast of Grenoble: During the Olympics, a high-speed train will make daily runs to Grenoble (and back) in less than two hours.
There are few television personalities as engaging--and none as paradoxical--as Johnny Carson, the suave, boyish, 42-year-old star of NBC's "Tonight Show." Five nights a week, for 90 minutes--under the scrutiny of nearly 10,000,000 viewers and a studio audience of 234--Carson wittily and assuredly converses with guests ranging from Bobbie Gentry to Bobby Kennedy, in a style so ingratiating that the average viewer, according to one psychologist, feels he belongs to the "Tonight Show's" "family" and is taking an active part in the proceedings. Out of the camera's range, however, Carson maintains a passionately private life that has earned him an unenviable reputation as an up-tight, lonely misanthrope. The puckish star, who often affects a whimsical naïveté while on the air, also proved himself to be an exceedingly tough hombre in his celebrated walkout last April; convinced that NBC had violated his contract by showing reruns during an AFTRA strike, Carson refused to go back to work when the strike ended and won a new contract that reportedly guaranteed him an income in excess of $4,000,000 for the following three years.
One light shone late in the dark bulk of the Vogel-Paulson Research Laboratories. Mice of all colors and genetic backgrounds slept in their cages. Monkeys dozed, dogs dreamed, classified albino rats waited predictably for the morning's scalpels and injections. Computers hummed quietly, preparing gigantic responses on shadowed floors for the morrow. Cultures spread like geometric flowers in shrouded test tubes; city-states of bacteria vanished in aseptic dishes washed by scientific night; surprising serums precipitated obscurely to dash or reward the hopes of daylight. Chemicals secretly traded molecules behind pulled blinds, atoms whirled unobserved, cures and poisons formed in locked rooms. Electromagnetic tumblers guarded a million formulas in safes that reflected a gleam of steel in stray rays of moonlight.
When Lancelot Bingley, the rising young artist, became engaged to Gladys Wetherby, the poetess, he naturally felt that this was a good thing and one that should be pushed along. The sooner the wedding took place, in his opinion, the better it would be. He broached the subject to her as they sat dining at the Crushed Pansy, the restaurant with a soul.
Fortunately for all forward-looking hosts mapping out a food-and-drink party, the so-called shrinking would has steadily grown into a world without end. There was a time when every holiday menu was carefully meshed into old unchanging grooves: the roast gobbler with the chestnut stuffing, the doughty goose with the inevitable apples, the steamed plum pudding with the brandy. Four and twenty black-birds could sing only after they were baked under a conventional piecrust. Today, men who've feasted on chukar partridges, Alaskan bear and Scotch grouse and who've regularly explored gourmet centers, whose shelves are loaded with Indian pappadums, African mangoes and (text continuied on page 128) Portuguese anchovies, know that at this time of the year the world is, indeed, their oyster.
The Works of Five Artists--England's Aubrey Beardsley, Australia's Norman Lindsay, Austria's Gustav Klimt and Germany's Franz von Bayros and Franz Christophe--comprise this Playboy portfolio of vintage erotic art. Like the turned-on art of today's hippies, art nouveau began as a reaction to the up-tight moral and aesthetic values of "square society." Lindsay's rococo creations--drawn during the Twenties in Australia, where the antisexual vestiges of Victorianism outlived its influence in Europe--are among the most outstanding and erotic examples of this hothouse genre. But the baroque and whimsical devisings of Beardsley, which are enjoying a psychedelically inspired renaissance in popularity, perhaps most extravagantly epitomize the sensuous fever-dreamworld created by these underground artists of their day. Aware from adolescence that he would die young of tuberculosis (he did, at 26), Beardsley determined to be a succés de scandale and carried dandyism to such parodic lengths that Oscar Wilde called him "the most monstrous of orchids." Yet he was a masterful, revolutionary decorative illustrator. For all of Beardsley's archness and grotesquerie, and that of his colleagues, art nouveau's erotic masterpieces possess a frenzied beauty that belittles--and yet humanizes--the repressive society that spawned and then banned them.
A Singular and well-observed feature of war is for the view in retrospect to depart radically from that which attended the beginning. Dangers that at the outset of hostilities seemed to justify the most sanguinary steps, in the perspective of years seem slight, sometimes frivolous. And prospects that at the beginning of conflict seemed easy and brilliant come to measure only the depth of the miscalculation. The case of men who in the past 30 years have planned expeditions against Moscow, Pearl Harbor and Pusan--not to mention Haifa and Tel Aviv--sufficiently establishes the point. At the same time, war turns reason into stereotype. Acceptance of what in the beginning is an estimate of national interest becomes an article of faith, a test of constancy, a measure of patriotism. At least while it lasts, war has a way of freezing all participants in their original error.
"Russians Solve UFO Mystery." For years, I have opened The New York Times with the fear skittering around the back of my mind that I might find that quote. In my occasional dreams, the story under the headline explains that the Russians have found some previously unthought-of, unstartling explanation for unidentified flying objects; or, worse, that they have made first contact with an alien civilization conducting reconnaissance missions to our planet. Either story would shake America so hard that the launching of Sputnik in 1957 would appear in retrospect as important as a Russian announcement of a particularly large wheat crop.
A Mong the States, California ranks third in area, second in population, first in Playmate production--and it's still developing its physical and human resources. Looming large in the latter category is our Christmas Playmate, Lynn Winchell, a 20-year-old San Fernando Valleyite who calls Northridge her home. Lynn combines public-relations activity with salesmanship and secretarial work for the Noram Development Company, which is profitably engaged in creating a residential oasis on the shores of the Salton Sea. A three-hour drive through the desert from Sherman Oaks, where the company's main office is located, the Salton Sea is really a huge, saline lake--"You can't see across, let alone swim the distance, but there is another side." Miss Winchell, a finely developed five-footer, does paperwork during the week and on weekends shows prospective buyers their prospects, accompanying them on a daylong charter-bus tour that includes lunch at a yacht club overlooking the sea. "Sales are going smoothly," says Lynn, "but there's still land available."
Worried about their lackluster sex life, the young wife finally persuaded her husband to undergo hypnotic treatment. After a few sessions, his sexual interest waxed anew; but during their lovemaking, he would occasionally dash out of the bedroom.
Somewhere in the United States tonight, the chances are a young man is planning to kill several people. He would be in his early 20s, mild-mannered, polite and rather studious. He would likely be married but not satisfactorily. He might be attending college, though on a basis both accelerated and irregular. Once in recent years, he would have spent time in apparently aimless wandering; friends will recall later that, yes, now they remembered he once disappeared for a while. They will also remember that he was "the quiet type," didn't say much; and one, a neighbor who knew him when he was a child, will remember that he did odd things and that there was something vaguely "unhappy" or even "unhealthy" about his home life with his parents. But his mother will tell reporters he was a "perfect" son; his pastor will recall that he sang in the choir; and a grammar school teacher, that he was a "model student." A psychiatrist he visited voluntarily a few years ago will find in his records routine notes: "loveless childhood," "severe anxiety and tension," "low affect," "seems flat," "relates poorly to authority figures," "feels inadequate," "paranoid trends." The records (continued on page 249)Criminal Mentality(continued from page 165) will show that what appeared to precipiate his visit to the psychiatrist was trouble with his wife, and that the psychiatrist urged him to return next week at the same time--but he never did.
The best thing about The Wicked Dreams of Paula Schultz is the presence of Elke Sommer in the title role. The weirdest thing about the flick--an upcoming comedy thriller about a zaftig East German track star who hops, skips and jumps her way to freedom over the Berlin Wall, not once but twice--is that it includes no dream sequences at all, despite its title. Never a magazine to avoid dispelling ambiguity where we find it, Playboy decided to take a not-too-serious look at the inner reality of Paula Schultz while performing the pleasurable task of exploring the outer reality of Elke--dreamy territory, indeed, first brought to our readers' attention in The Nudest Elke Sommer, in September 1964. "During the two days of shooting that produced these photos," West Coast photographer Frank Bez told us, "Elke and I kept Paula's feisty character and hopes for freedom uppermost in our minds. We did make a real attempt to illustrate the dreams Paula would most likely have had. Since she is young, beautiful and trapped, the dominant themes in the shots are sex and freedom. On the other hand, neither Elke nor I had any pretensions about making profound Freudian analyses." In that spirit, we can only suggest a vigorous nod to the pleasure principle and a leisurely perusal of the next seven pages. Pleasant dreams.
A year or two ago, a London Sunday newspaper read mainly by English working people published a questionnaire in which the editor asked whether they believed (a) in heaven and hell, (b) in reincarnation or (c) did not know. To his surprise, the yes answers for reincarnation led handsomely over those for heaven and hell. Of these readers, except in agricultural areas, hardly one in 20 attended religious services, even irregularly; and if large numbers sent their children to Sunday school, this was mainly to get them clear of the house on an afternoon traditionally sacred to marital rites. The American attendance rate, on the contrary, has risen spectacularly in the past two generations and is now claimed to have reached more like 11 citizens in every 20. Reincarnation, in fact, has not made much head-way in the States, heaven and hell still being an unalterable dogma in church, chapel, synagogue and mosque--with, of course, such generous modifications as purgatory and limbo. American orthodoxy has been encouraged by a gentleman's agreement between business and religion; for most institutions and organizations hold that such beliefs produce a more reliable type of worker in all grades. A small minority of America's reincarnationists, mostly converted by theosophists trading as popular astrologers, were given a boost in 1956 by the publication of The Search for Bridey Murphy. This, you will perhaps remember, was the story of how "Ruth Simmons," a young Colorado housewife, gave a hypnotist named Morey Bernstein many verifiable details of her previous incarnation as a Belfast Irishwoman living about 150 years before.
"Kongratulations upon buying such a fine products! You have choosed wisely upon procuring our very fine patented (Pend.) devices. The guarante which accompanies herein is unquestionably good for one year or less. If fuse is not twisted? Note base of green color is not easily found to be crackable. To operate correctfully merely plug into standard U. S. (A.C.) two pronged electrics (110 V.). Immediately your Deluxe Yuel A-Go-Go Tuneful Musical Revolving Puncture-Proof Table-Model Aluminum Xmas Tree should begins function. (Deluxe Model 2-A is capable of being folds. If excessive care is observed. This provide storage.)"
I was on my way to Montreal to deliver a lecture. It was midwinter and I had been warned that the temperature there was ten degrees lower than it was in New York. Newspapers reported that trains had been stalled in the snow and that fishing villages were cut off from civilization, so that food and medical supplies had to be dropped to them by plane.
The Cool Tycoon: A $250,000 underground epic film is about to be shot in Greenwich Village. Hundreds of klieg lights attached to the great arch cast eerie shadows in the fountain. Microphones hang from the trees. Electrical cables leading from huge generators crisscross the pavement. Over 200 paid extras, dressed in authentic Visigothic armor, fill the benches. One hundred union technicians respond to commands shouted by Andy Anger, the 16-year-old director, through his megaphone. He is standing atop an enormous crane that is dollying into position. Attached to the top of the crane is a tiny, battered pre-War 8mm movie camera.
The Right of Privacy, greatly cherished in the American tradition, is fast disappearing. We pay lip service to it and yet dishonor it in practice. As we pile high in apartments, as electronic surveillance increases, as the tentacles of government spread, Big Brother invades the precincts of our homes, audits our conversation and looks more and more over our shoulder.
The First-Floor Playmate Bar of the Los Angeles, Playboy Club creates a lively sense of déjà vu in any Playboy reader. Among the collection of bigger-than-centerfold transparencies set into the room's walnut paneling are most of the dozen-plus past and present Hollywood Playmate-Bunnies--including the nine gatefold girls who currently don satin ears each night. The number, a record among all the Clubs in the key chain, is a testament to the remarkable ability of both the Hollywood hutch and Southern California to attract beautiful girls.
A Potter who is a true artist in his work will never create two jars that are exactly alike. According to his materials or his mood, he must always vary the shape, the color, the texture or the glaze. Allah, in his infinite artistry, can likewise never create two things that are exactly alike, and you will thus find that even the villages of distant Anatolia, however monotonously similar their immediate appearance, are all different in some way, if you only take the trouble to study them carefully. The village of Bok Köy, for instance, is thus named "Village of Turds," like many other such settlements built on the banks of a sluggish, malodorous and evil-colored stream. But the particular village of Bok Köy of which I am now thinking distinguishes itself from all other Turkish villages of the same name in that all its male inhabitants are endowed with quite remarkable physical gifts.
My brother came last night to say goodbye. I am 24. He is 20. I don't worry about the Army, because I have a wife and a son, 14 months old.He doesn't worry about the Army, because he has a record: one auto theft, one forgery, one insanely bungled safe heist. Two out of three, felonies. One year parole, six years' probation. He's not supposed to leave New Jersey, but when he's downtown, illegally, he drops by to talk. He rings my bell and wakes me up.
Even before the Charles Lloyd Quartet played the opening bars of its first number, success seemed preordained. Lloyd, a sartorially impeccable 29-year-old tenor saxophonist and flutist, whose gentle and outgoing nature is echoed in his music, had already established a solid record of achievement as composer, arranger and soloist. He put in three explorative years with Chico Hamilton's restrained chamber-jazz combo, then, in 1964--1965, as an essential element of one of altoist Cannonball Adderley's best groups. Since 1965, when Lloyd's foursome was born, the accolades have poured in and Lloyd has become an idol of the hip and the hippie alike among the young, without sacrificing the favor of older jazz fans. In two years, the Quartet has made six trips to Europe and crisscrossed the U. S. four times. Lloyd seeks "to involve people in my music, excite and bring them to me," he says. "Jazz must come to that--direct communication between one person and another, drawing them closer together." Last year, when he became the first jazz musician to play San Francisco's famed psychedelic teen-dance Fillmore Auditorium, the kids were so turned on by the Quartet's passionate and probing free-form improvisations that they stretched out on the floor to listen. The group has scored other triumphs, too, in its brief existence: top honors at numerous American and European jazz festivals, hit jazz LPs, including Forest Flower and Love-In, and the first concert ever presented in the Soviet Union by an American modern-jazz combo. The Quartet is also credited with being a solid commercial success, unusual for an experimental group, though it really is hard to pin the avant-garde label on Lloyd's music, which reveals influences as diverse as the blues and Bartók as often as it does reflections of Ornette Coleman and the late John Coltrane. Says Lloyd: "I want to extend music beyond its previous limits, while retaining the lyrical, earthy feeling." The Charles Lloyd Quartet is well on its way to doing just that.
At A Press Conference last March at New York's Hilton, months before the ghetto riots of 1967 alerted the nation's leaders to the possibility of violent insurrection by the Negro masses, John Usher Monro announced that he was leaving his post as dean of Harvard to direct freshmen studies at Miles College--an impecunious, unaccredited Negro school near Birmingham. Alabama, with an enrollment of 1000. While The New York Times hailed his act as "a poignant reminder that the essential battles for human and civil rights call for hard work every day in the year," Dr. Monro, 54, insisted that his new job was one of "enormous reward" and that he had done all he felt called to do at Harvard. Tough, dedicated and self-effacing, Monro has always been where the action is. After winning a Bronze Star at Okinawa in World War Two, he joined the administrative staff at Harvard, his alma mater, as an advisor to returning veterans. During the next 21 years, in a multitude of official roles, he struggled to bring underprivileged students to Cambridge and assisted them in making the grade--and the grades--all of which endeared him to his charges. The switch to Miles came after three summers of working with the school's president, Dr. Lucius H. Pitts, to prepare incoming Miles students for the trials ahead: Out of 400 in each new class, about a third usually have the skills and motivation necessary to graduate. Minimizing the consuming demands of his new position, Monro praises the fortitude of the young Negroes who accept "the grueling task" of overcoming educational handicaps. Though he admitted that he might even have to help write new textbooks for Miles, he hasn't regretted his move: "I like the people, I like the South ... and I want to live here." He also wants to see the Negro community develop "institutional strength" without sacrificing its identity--a new Monro doctrine for uniting the Americas, black and white.
"I'm a sort of a Ukrainian Cary Grant," deadpans 1966 Oscar winner Walter Matthau (Best Supporting Actor, in The Fortune Cookie) while commenting on his nonmatinee-idol mobile countenance. "I could be anyone from a men's-room attendant to a business executive." Endowed with a disturbingly familiar, you-look-like-a-guy-I-knew-in-the-Army face, 47-year-old Matthau had been almost typecast as a minor cinemenace in Hollywood gangster and Western pictures until writer Neil Simon asked him to co-star as an inveterate gambler and lovable slob in the 1965 Broadway smash The Odd Couple. Matthau proceeded to steal the show from veteran show stealer Art Carney, earning unanimous plaudits from theater critics. Unlike his poker-playing stage counterpart, former gambler Matthau has courted Lady Luck for the last time ("Once I lost $183,000 in two weeks. I spent six years in paying it off.... I'm solvent and plan to keep it that way."), now prefers to stay at home with his second wife, Carol, and four-year-old son, Charlie, at Malibu Beach. Matthau also may have swapped the sporting life for domestic life because of a heart attack suffered while filming The Fortune Cookie several seasons ago ("I start up the stairs in one scene weighing 198. I was out for six weeks, so by the time I reach the top step, I've lost 26 pounds. Nobody noticed, because I acted heavy.") This year, as top banana in the Hollywood film farce The Guide for a Married Man, Matthau got his first screen chance to play a leading man and he carried it off with comedic brilliance. "Fifteen years ago, I couldn't be a leading man," Matthau comments candidly. "Now they're going for the actor who maybe doesn't look grand but who can act." After completing the screen version of The Odd Couple, Matthau was signed to star in two forthcoming 20th Century-Fox productions: a George Axelrod sex satire, The Connecticut Look, and opposite Barbra Streisand in Hello, Dolly!. So who needs to be handsome?
Agent 0007, Area Code 212! James Bomb! What are you doing here, Jimzie?I've given up international espionage, Annie, My Pet. The field's too crowded! Solo! Helm! Flint! Blaise! ... Too much competition! ... Too little opportunity for advancement!-Had no choice but to get into this work. You'd be surprised how few positions are advertised in the times under "s" for "Secret agents with cruel mouths and licenses to kill."