The packing cases of research material, cablegrams, rolls of film, maps, charts and pages of manuscript that flowed into Chicago from London-based Len Deighton for his premiere article as our Travel Editor, Playboy's Guide to a Continental Holiday, arrived just as word came that our January issue broke the 5,000,000-circulation mark. The largest overseas chunk of that record-breaking total was chalked up in Deighton's own British Isles, where over 100,000 turned-on young males buy Playboy each month. But our foreign readership is by no means limited to English-speaking nations: Close to a quarter of a million copies are flown into France, Germany, Sweden and Switzerland each month; such far-flung spots as Dahomey and Ruanda in Africa and the Falkland Islands near the tip of South America even receive a few copies. The selection of spymaster, bon vivant, gourmet and world traveler Len Deighton to fill the important post of Travel Editor at Playboy acknowledges our recognition that the magazine's readership is not only international in make-up but also internationally minded and very definitely attuned to the rewards of travel outside of the armchair. Deighton, of course, is the creator of Harry Palmer, the engagingly insolent secret agent, and five of the most literate espionage novels of our time--beginning with The Ipcress File in 1962 and including An Expensive Place to Die, the first appearance of which was as a serial in our pages starting in December 1966. After we lead these and his British paperback Len Deighton's London Dossier--the hippest guide to Hipsville, U.K., ever published--he seemed to us a most logical choice as the man to cover the world with a monthly feature for your enlightenment. A lifelong globe-trotter, Deighton flew with the R.A.F. as a photographer in his late teens, with BOAC as a steward in his 20s, and has been traveling ever since. "The idea of writing about my travels," he told us on a recent visit to our Chicago offices, "and of traveling in order to write about it is beautiful--but only if one can avoid the two great pitfalls of travel writing. The bulk of it is written either by Pollyannas who make every place sound like Shangri-La or by someone so world-weary that you wonder why he ever bothered leaving home. Even with its disappointments, traveling is always an adventure to me and I'm delighted to be able to share those adventures with Playboy's readers. I plan on telling it like it is--at least with me."
Playboy, May, 1968, Vol. 15, No. 5. 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 for 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 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.
Popular phrases such as "God bless you," "God save us," "God be with you" and "This marriage was conceived in heaven" all imply that the Almighty is pretty much running the show. If so, just where does His responsibility end? At what point must He take the blame when His inscrutable plans gang agley? A little-known citizen of West Palm Beach, Florida, took preliminary steps to answer that question when he decided to fight that great city hall in the sky.
Each generation of Negro writers, it seems, must bury its fathers. And just as James Baldwin tried to lay Richard Wright to final rest in his Notes of a Native Son, now in Soul on Ice (McGraw-Hill), Eldridge Cleaver attempts to lower the filial boom on Baldwin. To Cleaver, Baldwin is nothing more than an "intellectual buckdancer...titillating the guilt complexes of bored white liberals," a self-hating Negro with a "most shameful, fanatical, fawning, sycophantic love of the whites [who] cannot confront the stud in others--except that he must either submit to it or destroy it." The burden of Cleaver's argument in this book, which is a potpourri of love letters, autobiographical essays and personal position papers, is that the Negro male spirit has yet to break out and assert itself. White society, he charges, has set up a sexual and racial Maginot Line across which male negritude has not been allowed to venture. In effect, the white race has appointed to itself exclusively the "function of man's Mind," while relegating to the black the "function of his Body." By forcing the Negro to play the role of "Supermasculine Menial," he argues, it has placed his mind in "cold storage" and thus effectively castrated him as a potential revolutionary force. Not surprisingly, Cleaver himself, a former convict who has been in turn a Black Muslim, a Malcolm X-ite and is currently minister of information for the Black Panther Party in California, aggressively sounds all of the usual black-nationalist revolutionary war cries. But the fact that he is a self-generating writer, re-creating in print his own passionately felt experience and trying as much to educate himself as to educate others, gives his voyage of self-discovery as a black man an appealing freshness, even though he finally arrives at a familiar port of call.
Bogart fans who thought Paul Newman's Harper a worthy attempt to recapture things past will have a fine time watching P. J. As a cut-rate private eye, George Peppard is better casting than Newman, because he looks meaner and less well bred. P. J. Detweiler is an ex-Marine who is down on his luck professionally but still has a sting in his tail for anyone who threatens his own rough-cut code of honor. Though not above a $200 gig that requires him to be photographed en déshabillé in a motel room with a client's estranged wife, he resents being hoodwinked by an industrial overlord (Raymond Burr) who lures him down to a Caribbean hideaway to commit murder. Ostensibly, he has been hired merely to keep the tycoon's out raged relatives from bumping off a mistress (a honey of a Gayle Hunnicutt) whose flamboyant presence might well prove irksome to a man's wife, nephew or other heirs apparent. There are no lie-roes on this assignment; and before P. J. gets the villains properly sorted out, a flow of rich red blood hurries the action along: One thug is dismembered in a subway mishap and the sleuth himself is clobbered by a pack of sadistic fairies in a gin mill known as The Gay Caballero. Writer Philip Reisman, Jr., neither shrinks from violence nor overlooks the use of dialog as a deadly weapon. Some of the best lines fall to Gayle, a dark velvet beauty with a voice to match and a nice flip way of summing up how safe she feels with her paid protector: "Like I was stark-naked on a Greek freighter."
Messrs. Sinatra and Ellington together--who could ask for anything more? Francis A. & Edward K. (Reprise) is a knockout of an LP. The Chairman of the Board seems overjoyed by his surroundings and the Duke's men, charted and conducted by Billy May (who does an amazing job of capturing the Ellington sound), are superb, whether in ensemble or soloing. The tunes--with the exception of All I Need Is the Girl, which does nothing for us--are worthy of the performers: Follow Me, Sunny, I Like the Sunrise and Yellow Days are particularly outstanding.
Every Broadway season since 1961 has been enhanced by a Neil Simon hit of one magnitude or another. This year, with his ideas running so thin that most playwrights would have fled to the Bahamas for a well-earned rest, Simon went right ahead and wrote another one. Wrote three, in fact: a trio of feathery skits--booked together as Plaza Suite--that just might blow away if it weren't the funniest show in town. The single setting is a seventh-floor suite in the dowager empress of Manhattan's luxury hotels, the Plaza, where several couples check in to demonstrate aspects of the mating game. Viewed from the business end, many of the evening's gags are stage-crafty setups rather than mother wit, but any threat to the party mood is quickly corrected by director Mike Nichols, the fastest gun in the East for pumping physical life into a script. Maureen Stapleton and George C. Scott, the only important members of the cast, face each other in all three rounds. For the low-keyed opener, Maureen wrings wry pathos from the plight of a matron attempting to enjoy her 23rd (or is it the 24th?) wedding anniversary with a bored peacock of a husband whose infidelity disappoints his little woman in more ways than one. There is less substance in the middle segment, where Scott camps as a jaded Hollywood producer on the make for his former high school sweetheart--Maureen, as a Tenafly, New Jersey, housewife propelled into bed by vodka stingers, fan-magazine dreams of glory and a wistful suspicion that "you'll go back to Hollywood and have a big laugh with Otto Preminger over this." The climax, a bonanza of slapstick farce, concerns a bride who has locked herself in the bathroom while the band plays on for the guests downstairs and her parents fight a losing battle to retain their sanity. Here, father Scott's manic fury, as he contemplates the tab for what promises to be a once-in-a-lifetime fiasco, recalls images of crazed movie scientists trapped in burning castles. He's a four-alarm fireball. At the Plymouth, 236 West 45th Street.
It was not by chance that Dr. William H. Masters and Mrs. Virginia E. Johnson chose staid Little, Brown & Co. to publish "Human Sexual Response." Anxious, almost to the point of obsession, that there be not a jot of titillation or a tittle of prurient interest connected with their potentially sensational book, the gynecologist and his psychologist associate sought--and found--a publishing house whose credentials for conservatism and circumspection were utterly beyond reproach. Accordingly, the proper Boston publisher covered the text in a plain brown wrapper, did not spend a penny on trade advertising and released an unprepossessing 15,000 copies to booksellers in April 1966. Little, Brown hoped only to reach a modest percentage of the estimated 250,000 American physicians for whom the book was primarily written as a text on the physiology of human sexual response.
During the last hour of the night, the charge nurse looked in at the critical in room 11, intensive-care section, coronary. She scowled and made an ugly, displeased mouth and hastened to replace the dislodged I. V. needle in the vein inside the elbow of the right arm, immobilized by the straps, the board and the side rail of the bed. She checked the glucose drip, made a small adjustment of the flow valve, checked oxygen supply, listened to the ragged labor of the pulse and went off and found the pretty little special drinking coffee in the treatment room and joking with the red-headed intern.
In the course of her eventful acting career, Julie Newmar has enlivened such comic roles as Stupefyin' Jones in the film version of Li'l Abner, Katrin in The Marriage-Go-Round (for which she won a Tony as Broadway's best supporting actress) and Catwoman in the Batman television series. Miss Newmar has been anxious to break out of her comedic mold for some time now and recently, Julie--all 5 feet, 10-3/4 inches of her--jumped at the chance to play an enticing Apache in the upcoming sagebrush saga Mackenna's Gold. In addition to Miss Newmar (who was a prima ballerina with the Los Angeles Opera Company when she was 15), the Columbia film's all-star cast includes, among others, Gregory Peck as Mackenna and Omar Sharif and Keenan Wynn as bandits who try to extract from Mackenna the route that will lead them to the legendary Valley of Gold. Julie's part calls for not one line of dialog, but nevertheless--as this Playboy pictorial amply demonstrates--she has no trouble making her cinematic presence felt.
When the first Indianapolis 500-mile race was run in 1911, the Speedway management thoughtfully provided 3000 hitching posts for horses and the house was priced 50 cents, $1 and $1.50. No provision is made for horse-borne trade today and the price spread is $5 to $35. What else is new? The track is still the same flattened oval laid out in 1909, two and a half miles around, the long straights five eighths of a mile, the short ones one eighth, the turns one quarter, banked at 9 degrees, 12 minutes, to be safe at 90 miles an hour--but if you don't go through them at 140 now, you're obstructing traffic. They still proudly call it the greatest race in the world, which it isn't, and never call it the oldest closed-circuit race in the world, which they proudly could; a big brass band still plays Back Home Again in Indiana before the start and a bugler sounds taps in memory of the 46 lives the race has taken down the years. Quiet in their cars, 33 of the toughest professional athlete-performers alive, from lumpy-knuckled, short-fused veterans of the dirt tracks, happy at the pinnacle of their profession, to ice-cold Scots and Sassenachs jetted in from the Grand Prix other world, more at ease in the cream-and-gold, blood-and-fire ambiance of Monaco, here out of pride and for the loot, all wait to hear the courtly anachronistic command, "Gentlemen, start your engines!" The hundreds of balloons float up from the infield, the cars circle the track once under restraint, a noise like no other noise the world knows is turned on and they go, hoping, each, to get through the crowded first five miles without signing on for a ten-car lash-up, with the biggest crowd that annually comes together for any purpose anywhere watching. Indianapolis seems to be indestructible. Here the chariots will always run. A. J. Foyt, a three-time winner, says, "I think of it in the same way I think of the Kentucky Derby: It's the only one. There are other tracks running, sure, and in the next few years there'll be more, and bigger, and better. But this one, this one is Indy." The place has survived wars, depression, neglect and, lately, such assaults as the Foreign Invasion, the Ford Revolution and the Terrible People-Eating Turbine Car, and still it flourishes. Long live the great round-and-around and the sacred ten-pound bricks!
Stately, Slim Joseph Strick, director of the film Ulysses, climbed onto the stage of the Salle Cocteau. He sat down at the press-conference table on which someone had placed a statuette no bigger than a Hollywood Oscar: James Joyce in brass, seated with his backside turned to the director.
Ever hear of a little game consisting of three walnut shells and a pea? People are still trying to guess under which shell the pea is hidden. I see by the papers that a man pulled into a gas station in Blackwood, New Jersey, and made $40 teaching the service attendant the mysteries of the sport. Then there were the two grifters on the race train to Havre de Grace who made $1000 convincing the passengers that they couldn't find the little joker. Good thing, too, or the passengers might have lost the money foolishly at the race track. I've a notion my old friend Neversweat must still be around, although I haven't seen him for years.
Hanging wrong all winter had creased his summer sports coat so badly that one lapel flopped over all the way down to the middle button and looked like hell. He slipped into another coat, lifted the disabled garment onto his shoulder and started for the new cleaners/laundromat place on the corner. Distance alone differentiated one of these places from another--none was worth a damn--so he used the closest one. The new place was hot and steamy inside, machines slushing and spinning along the walls; it was like any other. The girl came over.
"Being a model is fun," says Playmate Elizabeth Jordan, "but it's also hard work. Most people don't realize how difficult and exhausting it is to hold a single pose for the better part of an hour, but every model does." When Liz, 23, returns from a photo session--she's been featured on the covers of national magazines, has posed for fashion spreads and millinery ads and has modeled her hands--she relaxes by painting. "I'm an old-school art lover--I like realism." she notes. "The two painters who have most influenced my own work are Picasso in his Blue Period--when he was sane--and Van Gogh." Miss Jordan will shortly move from Los Angeles to Arizona, where she plans to do little but paint for "at least several months." Elizabeth's other avocation is teaching Indian youngsters how to draw, Part Cherokee herself. Liz is outspoken on the subject of Indian affairs. "Our Government has consistently maltreated, and then ignored, the Indians. More Federal aid to Indian education and housing would rapidly change their status as second-class citizens." Miss Jordan's been doing volunteer work at the Los Angeles Indian Center and intends to do more of the same in Phoenix. In addition to her artistic and charitable endeavors, Elizabeth, an avid equestrienne, plans to purchase a horse while in Arizona--her favorites are Appaloosas and Tennessee Walking Horses. Concludes Miss Jordan: "I'm really looking forward to long rides into the Arizona desert. I'm not a city girl at heart: I like the wide-open spaces."
Cape Kennedy has gone now, its gantries rising from the deserted dunes. Sand has come in across the Banana River, filling the creeks and turning the old space complex into a wilderness of swamps and broken concrete. In the summer, hunters build their blinds in the wrecked staff cars; but by early November, when Judith and I arrived, the entire area was abandoned. Beyond Cocoa Beach, where I stopped the car, the ruined motels were half hidden in the saw grass. The launching towers rose into the evening air like the rusting ciphers of some forgotten algebra of the sky.
What am I doing here? Sitting inside an aluminum pod, 29,000 feet high and traveling at 600 miles per hour toward Stockholm. Below me are neat Danish farms and, a few inches ahead, a disembodied hand waving the flight-information sheet languidly over the seat back.
As Frank Sinatra Might have Sung, it was a very good year for gatefold girls. Still, when the time came to select the winner from the past dozen, the multitalented and stunningly structured Angela Dorian made September the issue to remember. So turned on were we by Angela that we needed no tie-breaking assistance from Playboy's readers (a write-in contest evoked in 1963. 1965 and 1967). Even so, our unanimous accolade only echoed the many unsolicited letters that rated TV actress Angela number one in the Playmate pantheon. "Quite a few of the letters were from guys stationed in Vietnam," she told us. "I only wish I could visit them all and thank each one personally. I may be too much of a pacifist to accept the reasons why they're fighting, but I'm too much of a woman not to want to help boost their morale." Angela has had hardly an idle moment since her September unveiling. In addition to extracurricular endeavors (writing poetry, dancing, composing songs and doing pen sketches), she has recently helped her cinematic career by completing a featured role in Roman Polanski's suspense thriller Rosemary's Baby, starring Mia Farrow and John Cassavetes. It's the start of a seven-year contract with Paramount Pictures, calling for two films a year. "It's nonexclusive," Angela is quick to state. "I want to be available whenever a good script comes along." She has also added to her two-dozen-plus small-screen appearances by playing Florence of Arabia, a bejeweled belly dancer who undulated on the set too late (text concluded on page 206)Playmate of the Year(continued horn page 134) to save the now-sunk Batman series. "I'm gald I had the chance, though. It's not often a job is that much fun. We ad-libbed most of it and had a ball."
For three years, Leandro remained desperately faithful to Cintia. He had left Venice on a trading voyage to the Orient and his head had whirled as he walked through the bazaars seeing the lovely, miniature, supple Annamese girls all around him. Or the soft, brown women of Luzon; or the exotic, inviting girls of Cathay. Though his brow often broke out in sweat from the feverish itch he felt in other places, Leandro remained a virgin.
Whether you're Attempting a virtuoso reading from an oversize restaurant carte or composing a dinner for four in your own galley, your performance will be enhanced considerably if you know that while vichyssoise, breast of guinea has a under glass and parfait with marrons are all crème de la crème, the same guinea hen would have even greater drawing power if it were preceded by a clear green turtle soup and followed by a fruit bowl and cheese tray.
"Politically, the Negro is just coming out of the Civil War," says 38-year-old John Conyers, Jr., the Michigan Democrat from Detroit whose two terms in the House of Representatives have done much to speed that process. Filling the power vacuum left by Adam Clayton Powell, he has rapidly emerged as Congress' most responsibly militant Negro leader. His belief that the battle against poverty and discrimination comes before the Vietnam conflict has repeatedly put him at odds with the Administration; but Conyers is a veteran of many such struggles. Born in Detroit, he saw combat in Korea, earned a law degree and toiled as a Congressman's legal assistant before entering the political wars himself. Squeezing through the primary a slim winner, he went on to a landslide victory in the election itself and soon became the first Negro to serve on the House Judiciary Committee, where he worked hard to bolster the ill-fated 1966 Civil Rights Bill and successfully fought attempts to delay enforcement of the one-man, one-vote principle until 1972. Though a member of the committee that investigated Powell last spring, Conyers was the only Negro in the House to oppose his expulsion during debate. Deeply concerned with the deepening plight of the urban ghetto even before the fiery eruption of his own district last July, Conyers warned prophetically: "Tensions have accumulated like gasoline rags in a closet, and they can explode anywhere." Proclaiming that existing legislation "is like applying a Band-Aid to a cancerous growth," he condemned a pending anti-riot bill for seeking scapegoats instead of solutions. His plan for erasing the ghetto: Pull out of Vietnam and apply the money saved toward jobs, housing and education. The Full Opportunity Act--which he proposed--could do just that, but it would cost a staggering 30 billion dollars annually. As Conyers inexhaustibly insists, however, the time has come to progress "from legal equality on paper to social and economic opportunity in reality."
Few pop singing groups are as aptly named as The 5th Dimension, since its nom de disc not only reflects the high-flying quintet's ethereal sound but also emphasizes the fact that each of these five young vocalists adds a unique dimension to the over-all effect. Before joining forces in 1966 as the Versatiles, however, not one of them had won recognition commensurate with his musical abilities. LaMonte McLemore (right) had been a photographer and baseball player; Ron Townson (center) had circled the globe as a Gospel singer; Billy Davis, Jr. (left)--who grew up with LaMonte and Ron in St. Louis--had a varied background in Gospel and rock. Florence LaRue (second from right)--who, along with Billy, had toured with Ray Charles--taught school, while Marilyn McCoo earned a business degree at UCLA. Upon adopting their present name, the five dented the charts with their first single and then hit the top with the aptly named Up, Up and Away. (It won four of the recording industry's coveted Grammies.) They have turned on audiences at Carnegie Hall, Hollywood's Whisky à Go Go, Vice-President Humphrey's birthday party and the Chicago Playboy Club (as part of its recent Festival of Stars). Says Marilyn: "At first we were going to sing in the evenings just for enjoyment. Needless to say, it got a little out of hand." The group's signature is an imaginative interplay among voices, set against engagingly intricate instrumental backgrounds. Believers in the Now Generation's credo that love is where it's at, the group conveys its message through the medium of hyper-Mod attire, throbbing strobe lights and precision dance routines. While their stamping ground is the pop world, the soaring singers rightly believe they possess soul and reject any suggestion that they've made it by singing "white" material. If anything, the group has hit upon a fresh-sounding integration of many bags, which has prompted thousands of fans to get their biggest musical kicks by taking The 5th.
"Almost everybody thinks of himself as nobody--a cipher, not even a cog," Tom Stoppard told a reporter in New York last fall after the Broadway opening of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, his first play. "I feel I am like that." He shouldn't. Following R. and G.'s debut at the Old Vic in London last spring, the tall, then-29-year-old Czechborn playwright found himself compared to great and lesser artists ranging from Shakespeare and Samuel Beckett to Lewis Carroll and Walt Disney. The cause of all the excitement is a tour de force that makes theater-of-the-absurd antiheroes of two of the most inconsequential characters in Hamlet. Summoned to Elsinore by a messenger they can hardly recall, the courtiers bumble into Shakespeare's lines for them on the few occasions when the palace intrigue sweeps their way. The rest of their time is filled tossing coins, engaging in alternately bawdy and profound encounters with the group of players whom Hamlet uses to "catch the conscience of the King" and pursuing some of the most circuitous mock-philosophic disputations since Waiting for Godot. In Shakespeare's Denmark, things are rotten because an upstart has murdered his king-brother and seduced the queen. In Stoppard's world, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern discover rottenness in their helplessness against a fate they fail to understand. A few critics have belabored R. and G.'s dependence on both Shakespeare and Beckett, but Stoppard has been too busy to hear them. Home and Dry, which centers on an uninventive inventor entirely of Stoppard's invention, opened in London late in March; a third play is scheduled for July production; and the screenplay of his first novel, Lord Malquist and Mr. Moon, is in the works. Stoppard's judgment of himself as a nobody notwithstanding, he can't resist reveling in his sudden success. "Question: Mr. Stoppard, what is your play about?" he asked himself in a mock interview for barmates after the Broadway opening. "Answer: It's about to make me rich!"
John Kenneth Galbraith, The protean economist, author, advisor to JFK and former Ambassador to India, views the war and the national mood, politics and the intellectual, in an exclusive Playboy Interview