Poring over college catalogs and guidebooks--retroactively, reminiscently or in search of simpatico surroundings for the pursuit of higher learning--is a fascinating and instructive experience, frequently causing one to marvel at the completeness of important information and factual minutiae presented. But there is one glaring omission in all this wealth of data: Nary one word will you find in any of it to tell you where the action is, what it's like and how to make the most of it. In this issue, we change all that, closing the information gap with A Swinger's Guide to Academe--a chart with accompanying text that tells it not only like it is but also where it is on a cross section of U. S. campuses. What to wear when you get there is fully surveyed in our annual Back to Campus fashion feature by Fashion Director Robert L. Green. For those charting a postgraduate course toward the business world, J. Paul Getty, our Contributing Editor, Business and Finance, assesses the increasing importance of liberal arts in The Educated Executive.
Playboy, September, 1968, Vol. 15, No. 9. 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, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 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, Robert A. Mc Kenzie, 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.
High society in Bangkok, Thailand, felt an unexpected tremor in the cultural explosion when American pianist Myron Kropp made his debut--and, in all probability, his final appearance--there late last year. Though this memorable musical event seems less likely to have occurred on a concert stage than in a Marx Brothers movie, a straight-faced (though a possible put-on) review--by critic Kenneth Langbell--appeared in The Bangkok Post. In order to do justice to the occasion--and to Mr. Langbell's admirably understated critique--we reproduce the latter here:
There must be something about the artist's easel and the desert's sand that releases the Dionysian in an Englishman. Witness Joyce Cary and T. E. Lawrence. Now add Alan Sillitoe's A Tree on Fire (Doubleday), a king-size joy of a novel that mixes gunpowder and rose madder, to set off an explosion that splashes blood and paint from Nottingham to Djebel-Djurjura. Sillitoe is the working-class incendiary who gave us Saturday Night and Sunday Morning and The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner. In his latest, he sends his inflamed proletarian abroad to help the Algerians in their fight against the French. Frank Dawley is one of the revolutionary jet set who must fly not to the latest playground but to the latest killing ground. Meanwhile, back in the mother country is his friend Albert Handley, a lower-class artist as full of sparks as a Catherine wheel, a man who wrote begging letters to keep his numerous brood alive when he was unknown and who still doesn't pay his bills after he's rolling in shillings. The novel shuttles between the two, artist and fighter, demonstrating that every artist must be something of a fighter to safeguard his art from fools, culturegrubbers and even his own family; and every fighter must be something of an artist, to know when and where to shed his blood. Occasionally, Sillitoe gets carried away by his own prose and writes like Thomas Wolfe (the first) at his least restrained. But for most of this ambitious and successful novel, the author creates a blaze that is as fierce and fine and funny as anything to come out of an English-speaking country in a long time. One of the most heartening things about it is that it employs sex as men and women generally employ sex and not as a trampoline on which a fad-satisfying writer can bounce and bounce and bounce. A Tree on Fire, the publishers tell us, is the second part of a trilogy. It doesn't matter. This novel supplies its own heat and light.
The rumor that underground movies have become respectable is belied by No More Excuses, a subterranean comedy that attacks the very foundations of society. Sans plot, film maker Robert Downey simply free-associates while editor Robert Soukis cunningly intermixes a collage of impressions testifying to the steep decline of American civilization. The damning evidence is pretty damn funny. Downey, a clean-cut anarchist who bills himself "a prince," essays the role of a Civil War soldier on the Union side, superficially wounded in the rump and transmigrated instantaneously--don't brood over these details--to modern, hustling New York. There, one of many birds interviewed in Manhattan's East Side "singles" bars explains the positive values of the scene: "I get laid quite a lot." Later, a portly trollop is being efficiently stripped and raped by a prowler--or perhaps he's a gymnast--when an ABC television reporter appears at the foot of the bed to ask the busy pair how they feel about Vietnam; the reporter, who happens to be a chimpanzee, then climbs upon the lady himself. The 1881 assassination of President James A. Garfield is documented--after a fashion: An occasional faggot, Downey's Garfield finally gets caught flouncing out of the women's washroom. And Allen Abel, the tongue-in-cheek leader of a society called S.I.N.A. (concerned with the Indecency of Naked Animals) urges that we "enclose the vital areas of all our pets," particularly if the brutes are more than six inches long or four inches high. Random shots of war's devastation suggest an idea or two rattling around within the chaos of No More Excuses, to the effect that man's bestiality on the battlefield is less amusing than his bestiality abed, and more dangerous. Though Downey approaches satire with the zeal of an undergraduate arsonist, his inflammatory humor might convert a few prudes and superpatriots to the cause of sexual revolution, or at least persuade them that they have little to fear from making love with the lights on.
John Lee Hooker is in better form than usual on Urban Blues (BluesWay), and he gets sympathetic backing as he runs through such gutsy items as Think Twice Before You Go and The Motor City is Burning, which puts you smack dab in the middle of the Detroit riot. T-Bone Walker's stylish way with a guitar is spotlighted on Goin' to Funky Town, a long instrumental that opens Funky Town (BluesWay); the eight succeeding selections easily maintain the mood and the standard. Otis Spann's The Bottom of the Blues (BluesWay) would be closer to the top if not for the band's intonation problems; outstanding are the slow, rolling tunes like Nobody Knows and My Man, on which Spann's wife, Lucille, makes a strong recording debut as a vocalist.
Everything on Broadway looks punier than ever, measured against the blistering impact of an off-Broadway revival of Eugene O'Neill's A Moon for the Misbegotten. This is merely the story of Josie, a big, loudmouthed country girl living on a Connecticut tenant farm early in this century. Josie is a virgin who pretends to be a slut because she fears her own womb-warm softness. The only men of consequence in Josie's world are a pair of boozers who endure the pain of existence by anesthetizing themselves with bourbon--her drunken father and her landlord, a has-been Broadway actor and incurable momma's boy, retired to the boondocks to play Oedipus in earnest as an act of atonement for his mother's death. Though weak on plot (the deed to the old homestead is the device that shakes loose sundry revelations), A Moon for the Misbegotten ranks as a masterwork roughly equal to its companion pieces, Long Day's Journey into Night and A Touch of the Poet, the first three plays in the long cycle O'Neill was working on when he died. This is his best writing, alive with prototypal American experience and anguished family biography, wrenched from him near the end while genius was burning white-hot. Director Theodore Mann, sensitive to the fact that the play's rough texture is no more than a clue to the truth about characters who speak their love in a stream of invective, keeps his actors exploring the human condition in depth. Salome Jens, as Josie, gives the kind of raw, touching, straightforward performance that transforms an offbeat ingénue into a major actress; and the corrosive humor of W. B. Brydon, as her addled old clad, seems almost to break out in boils. In such solid company, Mitchell Ryan, as the fugitive from Broadway, has to try hard to overcome his drawing-room blandness. We were nevertheless carried along, as he is, by the intensity and immensity of O'Neill's compassion. At Circle in the Square, 159 Bleecker Street.
In The Playboy Advisor, a reader referred in passing to performing sex in the "missionary position." I pride myself on having at least an average imagination; but after several months, my curiosity has reached the point where I have to know for sure. What is the missionary position?--R. B., Washington, D. C.
<p>Throughout his 17-year career as a moviemaker, Stanley Kubrick has committed himself to pushing the frontiers of film into new and often controversial regions--despite the box-office problems and censorship battles that such a commitment invariably entails. Never a follower of the safe, well-traveled road to Hollywood success, he has consistently struck out on his own, shattering movie conventions and shibboleths along the way. In many respects, his latest film, the epic "2001: A Space Odyssey," stands as a metaphor for Kubrick himself. A technically flawless production that took three years and $10,500,000 to create, "2001" could have been just a super-spectacle of exotic gadgetry and lavish special effects; but with the collaboration of Arthur C. Clarke, astrophysicist and doyen of science-fiction writers, Kubrick has elevated a sci-fi adventure to the level of allegory--creating a stunning and disturbing metaphysical speculation on man's destiny that has fomented a good-sized critical controversy and become a cocktail-party topic across the country. An uncompromising film, "2001" places a heavy intellectual burden upon the audience, compelling each viewer to unravel for himself its deeper meaning and significance. Its message is conveyed not through plot or standard expository dialog but through metaphysical hints and visual symbols that demand confrontation and interpretation.</p>
The Time: the present. The place: Upstate New York, a large room filled with pulsing, writhing, panting machines that perform the functions of various organs of the human body--heart, lungs, liver, and so on. Color-coded pipes and wires swoop upward from the machines to converge and pass through a hole in the ceiling. To one side is a fantastically complicated master control console.
When Blonde Victoria Drake decided to run for president of Stanford University's student body, she launched a whistle-copping campaign based on a well-proportioned platform of 38-22-36. Un-Victorian posters of her nude figure (shown on our opening page) and a self-sexplanatory campaign button (take another look at the "o" in Student Body) soon cropped up on campus to carry Vicky's message to the voters. Since Stanford's student population is mostly male (5-to-2 ratio), the posters disappeared almost as fast as they were tacked up, and are still being sold at campaign headquarters (a room in one of the men's dorms). From a starting field of five candidates--plus several write-ins--our body politic emerged with a plurality of the votes. Lacking a majority, however, she was forced into a runoff election with Denis Hayes, a history major whose efforts--though decidedly less flamboyant than Vicky's (she had appeared at dorms and fraternity houses, dancing topless and making off-the-buff speeches)--gave him the presidency. Vicky, who's financing her education by working as a topless dancer at The Morgue, a Palo Alto night club, doesn't mind that Denis won: "There are no hard feelings. Actually, I was just offering a little distraction for book-weary students." Although she lost the election, in our book Vicky's every inch a winner.
Man is at least a million years old and beginning to look it. He has lost most of the hair that once covered his body and kept him warm without his having to decide on the color and the fabric and whether to have two buttons or three. Back in the old days, he had only one button and it was permanently set in the center and unaffected by styles. Nor was there any question about whether to have side vents or a center vent. Year after year, he went along with the same old center vent, and it worked very well.
This fall, Pierre Cardin has turned his--and our--attention to the creation of an eminently elegant wardrobe of wearables specifically designed for the American man about town. Particular note should be taken of the suit and topcoat offerings: Both extend to stylishly correct new lengths and include such details as higher armholes and narrow sleeves. Cardin's felt hat, worn with the suit and topcoat, adds a jaunty touch that is both practical and good-looking.
"In times of such turmoil," said a particularly unctuous politician during homecoming festivities at a major state university last fall, "when all kinds of undesirable elements are attacking our most hallowed traditions, it is nice to see at least one part of the American scene untouched by rabble-rousers and revolutionaries. Thank God for college football! There aren't any long-haired New Lefters or black militants on our football squad. Football players are disciplined. They know how to get along together."
Begin. This is Carter, John Henry, Captain, U.S.A.F., Moon Shot One. Re-entry having been effected, this craft is now 30.25 minutes away from touchdown at Point Pin Point and all systems are go, I am in good health, discounting a possible mild case of space euphoria, am observing Earth at this moment, repeat have Earth in range on my view screen, reception clear, and a mighty pretty gal she is, too, my oh my, smiling up at me, big as life, right underneath me, fat and sassy as ever, a sight for sore eyes Old Mother Earth, I'm telling you. This here is Carter, John Henry, Cap--or did I identify myself already?...Anyway, this is Atlanta's favorite son and--excuse the expression--fair-haired boy, a genuine Yankee Doodle Dandy, born on the Fourth of July, 1945, full-fledged citizen of the U.S. of A. and the first man to set foot on the Moon. Correction. First man to set foot on the Moon and come home to tell about it. The real first man on the Moon was my buddy, that other John Henry, and since I've got (continued on page 118) John Henry (continued from page 115) another half hour till I touch down and there's still about 600 feet of tape left on the reel here, I figure I may as well tell you all about it. Because once I home in for that famous pinpoint landing this fancy new chariot is capable of, once I get down there where those cameras are snapping and the band is playing and all the big brass is standing at attention and the biggest brass of all is waiting to pin a medal on my chest ... by that time, it will be too late.
The Californians, wrote O. Henry 60 years ago, are not merely inhabitants of a state--they're a race of people; and one of the loveliest specimens of that species is 19-year-old September Playmate Dru Hart. In transition from the leisurely pace of growing up in the San Fernando Valley to the rush and responsibility of her new life as a career girl in Los Angeles, Dru manifestly embodies the effervescent enthusiasm and vitality O. Henry attributed to the denizens of that swinging state. Whether at a ball game in Chavez Ravine (she's a self-admitted baseball nut) or in the course of her hectic days as personal secretary to prominent Los Angeles attorney William Anderson, Miss September enjoys both with a native-Californian gusto. Dru--"It's short for Drucilla, which makes it obvious why I like to be called Dru"--also digs such mixed-media recreation as rock 'n' roll, surfing and water-skiing with the endless-summer set. Her notably informal speech pattern further places her firmly in the tuned-in generation: "Without making a big thing out of it, I guess I do try to groove to the fun side of life as much as possible. But, at least for me, it doesn't take a chemical or even surroundings like the Sunset Strip to flip me out. Unless the Dodgers have a big home series--I've been mad about them ever since they came to town when I was nine--I spend most of my warm-weather week-ends on camping trips with friends. We usually split for a place I discovered with my family--a long, beautifully clear lake called the Cachuma Reservoir about a hundred miles up the coast. We sleep overnight on the banks and then hike up into the hills. You're so completely detached from the city, it's easy to imagine how isolated the first settlers must have felt." Dru currently maintains a small apartment in Van Nuys, halfway between her family's home and Los Angeles, but she's looking for a larger place in L. A. "to fill with big bright paper furniture, plastic cushions and a huge stereo system." Although she's satisfied at the moment with her career as a lawyer's girl Friday, she says she might abandon the staid surroundings of law offices and courtrooms for something more glamorous. "If fashion photographers weren't quite so obsessed with tall, emaciated girls," says Dru, "I'd like to try my luck at modeling. And I'm turning on to acting, too. For some time, I've thought about joining a little theater group; I wish now that I'd taken some dramatic training in school--it would help. But I'll have to see how things turn out when I move to L. A." With what Dru has going for her, things should turn out just fine.
September Hath not only 30 days but also the sweetest-tasting, most enjoyable clambakes of the whole year. Men who entertain are ready to toast the fact that the gnats have fled, the weekend traffic jams have been unraveled and the teeming shores are now unteemed. The best and timeliest way we know of celebrating is to cruise to a deserted cove, light up a beach fire and place on the glowing coals bundles of soft-shell clams, live lobsters, split chickens, golden corn on the cob and potatoes lavishly rubbed with butter. The merry quintet of foods that make up the modern shore dinner is reminiscent of pre-Puritan Indian parties that, tradition has it, glorified the end of the summer's harvest with a whole day's catch of seafood. It was steamed over white-hot stones and seaweed. Intended as a sacrificial offering to tribal gods, the heaping feast was usually rescued before it was completely incinerated and went instead into the bellies of heap-big chiefs.
J. D. Opened his eyes. A woman was talking to him. A man began talking to him. Through the pain in his head, in his eyes, he saw his own living-room ceiling. Who were these people? Why was he on the couch? On the coffee table sat an empty Jack Daniel's fifth and two glasses. Why two? The voices went on talking to him. "Yes?" he asked.
According to Time-Honored (if not entirely reliable) Horatio Alger tradition, almost any ambitious young man, with a lot of good fortune, could quickly reach the top of the ladder in the business world. The principal ingredient in the formula for success was luck: a careening carriage being pulled wildly along a street by a team of runaway horses--and, of course, inside the carriage, the terrified, nubile daughter of a multimillionaire. The young man needed only to fling himself on the horses' harness and, by dint of courage and brawn, bring beasts, carriage and the terrified, nubile daughter to a safe halt just short of disaster.
This month in New York, just a few blocks from where it all began four and a half years ago, Columbia Pictures world-premieres its long-heralded film adaptation of the hit musical Funny Girl. The poignant story of comedienne-singer Fanny Brice's ill-fated love for gambler Nicky Arnstein and her subsequent rise to fame in the Twenties, Funny Girl combines the potent talents of Omar Sharif and super-songbird Barbra Streisand in a screen-debut replay of her star-making role on Broadway. In addition to the much-publicized kissing scene between the ancestrally incompatible stars, much of Funny Girl 's footage is devoted to the lavish stage spectaculars that were the trademark of Florenz Ziegfeld, whose Follies made Miss Brice an international star. Producer Ray Stark (who just happens to be married to Miss Brice's daughter, Frances) and director William Wyler--trying his hand at a musical for the first time--have created a stunning celluloid version of the Follies; in keeping with Ziegfeld's own specifications, Funny Girl's chorines are as statuesque and as extravagantly endowed as were their predecessors in the original line-up. In this exclusive Playboy pictorial, the glamorous girls of Funny Girl reveal themselves as more than capable of making the Twenties roar once again.
A few months ago, the superintendent of the building where I have an office drew me aside as I was going to the elevator. "Listen," he said very softly, "I shouldn't be telling you this, they told me not to, but a couple of FBI guys were asking about you yesterday."
In France there lived a king who proclaimed that the knight who showed himself best in the art of jousting for one whole year would receive his daughter in marriage and half his kingdom to boot. This announcement caused a great stir among all the young nobles. The beauties and riches of half the kingdom, however, scarcely compared--in their eyes--with those offered by the body of her lusty Highness.
Within the past year, the nation's college campuses, hitherto among the bastions of sartorial conservatism, have been taken over by an explosive assortment of revolutionary attire and accessories. Nehrus, tunics, shaped suits, wide ties, medallions and non-traditional garb are being worn from Berkeley to Boston. This is not to say that the natural-shoulder button-down look has dropped out of school; the Ivy image is still strong, but there are upbeat new fashion courses a student can take and still be a candidate for the best-dressed list.
When the Alarm clock woke Ralph Stewart that morning, there was a diaphragm in the bed. Karen's, of course. Looking at it, Ralph wondered if she knew it was no longer with her. No, probably not. Had the week at her mother's made her forgetful?
What every red-blooded male wants to know is, "Where does my alma mater stand in the ranks of the sexual revolution? Is it in the vanguard or are there other schools that put fewer restrictions on life, liberty and the pursuit of heterosexual happiness?" To answer these questions, we conducted a two-year study of the morals and mores on 25 American campuses--specially selected to present a national cross section. We corresponded with faculties at these schools and then checked with knowledgeable students--to discover both the official policy and the unofficial reality. We studied the limitations and opportunities presented by each school's location (its proximity to the happy hunting grounds of other schools and of nearby metropolitan areas), the male-female ratio and whether the coeds are mostly swingers or are only interested in the capture of a degree--or a husband.
Henry David Thoreau, a man of notable calm and one I have for years been trying to emulate, never with much success, once observed in his journal that his neighbors in Concord "sometimes appear to work themselves into a state of excitement over remarkably little."
A Sensual Señorita named Marisol carved out a place for herself in the pantheon of contemporary art when she created, three years ago, The Party--an assemblage depicting 15 life-size guests at a cocktail party. Since then, Marisol's work has attracted considerable international attention--and many big-league commissions. Soon after her sculpture of Playboy Editor-Publisher Hugh M. Hefner graced the cover of Time magazine in March of 1967, her three-dimensional renderings of heads of state--characterizing, among others, L. B. J. as a harried businessman and Charles de Gaulle as a nine-foot buffoon--provoked controversy throughout America and Europe. Marisol (whose name means "sea and sun" in Spanish) is no stranger to the Continent: Born Marisol Escobar in Paris of wealthy, globe-trotting Venezuelan parents, she studied art in Italy and France, then the U.S., before her first one-woman show--of small bronzes--was held in New York in 1957. Five years later, Marisol had become expert at, and famous for, creating highly stylized and often satiric assemblages--a craft calling for such mixed-media skills as painting, sculpting, wood carving, carpentry and plaster casting. One such figure bears--and bares--a lifelike derrière for which Marisol has received a number of compliments. "I'm usually the only one around," she says, "when I need a model." A model of discipline as well, Marisol works daily in her Broadway studio from late morning until midnight, interrupting her regimen only for parties and gallery openings--to which she is usually escorted by such friends as film maker Andy Warhol (in two of whose flicks Marisol has guest-starred). Now a full-fledged celebrity, she admits, "Success once scared me, but I now realize it's nothing more--or less--than having an artist you respect praise your work." It also doesn't hurt to know that hundreds of museums, galleries and collectors are clamoring for you to doll them up.
"What the world needs now is no more junk," says Joseph Strick, the intransigently independent producer-director of Ulysses. As long ago as The Savage Eye (his award-winning 1959 film essay on Los Angeles), Strick dreamed of transforming James Joyce's classic into a motion picture. Others, including Joyce himself, had thought about it; but the potential wrath of the censors over its outspoken eroticism made the task too hot to handle. When the puritanical Production Code was scrapped in 1966, however, Strick was finally able to bring his dream into sharp focus on the screen--with virtually all of the original four-letter dialog intact. Strick's interest in cinema began during World War Two, when he spent over three years in B-17s tracking enemy submarines with a movie camera; by War's end, he was hooked on film making. Financially unable to produce the pictures he felt compelled to film, he commercialized his scientific knowledge by promoting companies that developed high-precision instruments, and sold out when he had amassed enough money for his movies. He plunged headlong into feature films and made The Savage Eye, The Balcony and then Ulysses. Invited to show the Joyce epic at the 1967 Cannes Film Festival (see Ulysses at Cannes, Playboy, May 1968), Strick angrily withdrew the film when the festival director sanitized about 20 of its subtitles. (He shrewdly avoided U. S. censorship problems by the unique expedient of releasing Ulysses nationwide for a three-day run, then decamped before the bluenoses got organized.) Currently, Strick is hard at work on writing the screenplay for Emile Zola's classic La Terre and directing Justine, from Lawrence Durrell's magnum opus, The Alexandria Quartet. He feels that "an artist works for himself; the film maker should be in touch with his conscience and not with the public." He's clearly in touch with both.
Two years ago, songwriter Jim Webb, then barely 20, was just another struggling kid trying to make it in Los Angeles. A $50-a-week button pusher at a tiny Los Angeles recording studio, Oklahoma-born Webb had dropped out of California's San Bernardino Valley College and was living in a cheap apartment where he slept curled up in a blanket on the floor. Then, in quick succession, he turned the end of an affair with a longtime girlfriend into the bittersweet ballad By the Time I Get to Phoenix and--inspired by a nonpsychedelic trip in a balloon--wrote the superhit Up, Up and Away. The two songs, as recorded by Glen Campbell and The 5th Dimension, respectively, garnered a total of eight Grammy Awards--and Webb now heads a burgeoning $350,000-a-year corporate complex ranging from music production and publishing to talent management for a stable of young songwriters who he hopes will duplicate his success. "I'm doing the same thing now I was two years ago--writing songs." Webb told us: but since 1966 he's moved into a 22-room Hollywood pad equipped with gym, recording studios and the business meeting rooms in which he now has to spend much of his time. "At first, I didn't see the poetry in business--my mind isn't mathematical--but there's a delicacy, an art, to it," he says. And the haunting imagery of last summer's MacArthur Park, written for actor Richard Harris, proves that Webb's busy executive schedule hasn't impaired his musical sensibilities. A near-compulsive worker, he has literally dozens of projects in the works--including several songs for Barbra Streisand, music and lyrics for an upcoming movie version of Peter Pan, an avant-garde musical film and a TV special starring the composer singing his own songs. "It's taken a long time to work up the guts to sing," says Webb, for whom a long time is a matter of months and confidence an attribute to which he's earned full right.