Our Sun-Loving and lovely cover girl, Barbara Klein, leads off a July issue packed with pleasures attuned to the tempo of the summer season. Sand Blast! is a freewheeling itinerary for a motorized funbuggy day in the dunes, along with Thomas Mario's recommendations for fireside victuals and totable potables. Robert L. Green forecasts fashions for the Fourth---and thereafter---in Putting the Dash in Haberdashery; and The Outs and Ins of Sunmanship is a guide to the best in tanning aids for outdoors and in.
Playboy, July, 1969, vol. 16, no, 7. Published monthly by HMH publishing Co, Inc., Playboy Building, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the U. S., its possessions and Canada, $24 for three years, $18 for two years, $10 for One year. Elsewhere add $2 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, NI 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, 434--2675; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N.E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233--6729.
The minutiae chronicled daily by the mass media can easily give one the impression that the various social and cultural revolutions currently under way are in reality giant snowballs rolling downhill upon us and growing larger by the minute. To listen to some soothsayers, it seems that never in past ages were politicians so windy, litigation so complex, music so loud, crime so popular or men's hair and attire so extravagant. It appears that in all forms of human folly, we are approaching the point of no return, right here and now, and it is only a matter of time---maybe weeks, maybe only hours---before an outraged Deity begins hurling thunderbolts and triggering earthquakes; California, we are told, has been justly marked for early extinction. However, a casual search the other day through our old friend the Guinness Book of World Records reassured us that Americans of the present decade have no monopoly on freakiness. Andy Warhol's superstatic film epic depicting a day in the life of the Empire State Building, for example, was not only anticipated, in size of subject matter and single-mindedness of purpose but actually outdone---in 1846, when John Banvard completed a painting titled Panorama of the Mississippi. Banvard's mammoth production---destroyed in a fire in 1891---was 15,000 feet long, 12 feet in height and covered more than four acres. Neither Jimi Hendrix nor any other psyche-delicized guitarist has yet challenged the sheer power of the 33 112-pipe. Auditorium Organ in Atlantic City, which has sufficient volume to drown out two dozen brass bands. Oldsters who shake their heads over the rock sounds worshiped among the young might pause to consider that no teeny-bopper has ever paid $653 for a seat at one of the mopheads' concerts, as American music buffs did to see Jenny Lind in 1850---when a dollar, we are repeatedly told, was worth a helluva lot more than it is today. And no spaced-out aggregation doing the Tighten-up at a disco has ever grokked and grooved as did the burghers of Aachen, Germany, in July of 1374, when---in a fit of mass hysteria---they danced in the streets until injury or total exhaustion sent them to the side lines. Salvador Dali's mustache, certainly the most renowned in the Western world, hardly compares with the hirsute ornament on the upper lip of Masuriya Din, a Brahman of India, whose mustache measured 102 inches in 1962. Neither can any of our scruffiest longhairs hold a curler to Swami Pandarasannadhi, also of India, whose tresses---in 1949---trailed 26 feet behind him.
During the past nine years, The Second City has anti-established itself as Chicago's liveliest theatrical fixture, unique in its continuing productivity and determined satirical orientation. Performed six nights a week at North Avenue and Wells Street in the heart of Old Town, its current revue, Peace, Serenity and Other Impossible Things is a dynamic collection of absurdities, parodies and vignettes structured by director Michael Miller and performed by a cast equal to any in the company's history. Like such Second City predecessors as Alan Arkin, Barbara Harris, Avery Schreiber and David Steinberg, they employ improvisational methods to populate the stage with an improbable succession of freaks, madcaps, hypocrites and saints. The distinctive stage personalities of the actors are as varied as the characters they play. Pamela Hoffman is both girl and woman, honey-voiced and well equipped to handle all the female roles in the revue. Murphy Dunne is the son of a Chicago Irish machine politician who acts out his detachment through bizarre flights of imaginative unreality. And Martin Harvey Friedberg comes on like a grown-up New York bar mitzvah boy: sometime schlemiel, occasional loudmouth and generally nice guy. As the depressed young man who comes to confess his impending unmarried fatherhood, Friedberg is confounded by the senile, near-deaf, near-dead old priest who continually dozes off and then awakens thinking he's dead and en route to heaven. Burt Heyman, the religious side of this noncommunication, looks something like a mustachioed cartoon coyote and uses his pliant features in often brilliant characterizations. When interviewed as Bill Brute, a hunting-and-fishing expert on a TV parody called The Great Outdoors, he sneaks belts from his shotgun barrel, talks about duck hunting at Henry Cabot Lodge and discusses fishing at Lake Tfilin. "My favorite lure," he confides, "is the Spanish fly." In a black-humor finish, he urges support of the Guns for Youth movement sponsored by Father MacGregor, "the shooting priest," and tells host Art Sincere (Ira Miller), "Let's teach our kids how to pick up a gun and kill or maim safely." Miller, whose Mel Brooks wit resides in a body caught between fat and tall, is also featured in an irreverent take-off on our own Playboy After Dark TV show. He plays a head-bobbing, super-hip Hugh Hefner who, with pipe and Playmate in hand, strolls around, murmuring, "Groovy, groovy!" and jockeying for the best camera angles with sycophantic guests who cling to him like Siamese sextuplets. Through constantly clenched teeth, he introduces his date for the evening: "This is Cindy---my current piece." In a burlesque of "soul" music, the audience is introduced to Dirty Puddle---an aged blues harmonica player (J. J. Barry) who prefers marijuana to Medicare and still manages to stomp out arthritic rhythms between topples from his chair. Barry, who made several appearances last season on Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In, also revives one of his traditional Second City characterizations. As a flannel-mouthed Mayor Daley, he is trapped into a nocturnal bedside meeting with a visitor from the spirit world---a heaven-sent Yippie. This far-out apparition is played by Eric Ross, who, in a scene with Ira Miller, shows boundless stage energy as the mind-blown scion of an uptight suburban family. In these, as in all the revue's scenes and black-outs, Michael Miller has applied his tough critical judgment and theatrical technique to delineate and activate the cast's improvisational creations. Aggressive and vigorously direct, Miller prefers to punch rather than poke his satiric targets, and the company has achieved a new animation through his belligerent, Brechtian confrontations---merciless but, above all, hilarious collisions with the golden calves and sacred cows of those who occasionally forget how funny most of us really are.
Alienation of the young, class hatred, failure of the old politics, increasing violence, the pervasive feeling that individual attempts to alter things are futile---take all these things and you have what Arthur Schlesinger mildly titled The Crisis of Confidence (Houghton Mifflin), a valuable attempt to assess and analyze America's present crises and our reaction to their various symptoms. Schlesinger's strong dose of historical perspective can provide the liberal, conservative, hawk, dove, student and senior citizen with, at least, a base from which to attack one another within the democratic system. Moreover, he offers us a chance to regain our collective cool and indicates hopeful paths to reconciliation. His positive approach, no doubt, will be dismissed by the New Left and the New Right. As he says, "The New Left and, less clearly, the New Right share a common view: that is, that the American democratic process is corrupt and phony, that it cannot identify or solve the urgent problems, and that American society as at present organized is inherently incapable of providing justice to the alienated groups---for the New Left, the poor, the blacks, the young, the intellectuals; for the New Right, the lower-middle-class whites." George Wallace and Eldridge Cleaver, as exponents of each extreme, spread tar with the same brush. "For all their vast differences in values and objectives, they end as tacit partners in a common assault on civility and democracy." In 1961, John F. Kennedy said, "Before my term is ended, we shall have to test anew whether a nation organized and governed such as ours can endure. The outcome is by no means certain." The Crisis of Confidence isn't certain of any outcome, either, but it is a gut affirmation of faith in the ability of democracy to continue its self-conducting experiment.
Offering an encore to their successful collaboration in last year's Rachel, Rachel, Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward (Mr. and Mrs., if anyone needs to be reminded) score again as co-stars of Winning. Its emblem the symbolic winged wheel of the Indianapolis Speedway, Winning has a much higher metabolism than Rachel, with all the brash and hectic excitement of a day at the races sensibly used as mere background for a personal drama that is probing, poignant, tightly written (by Howard Rodman) and as indigenous to America as hot dogs with mustard. Whatever else may be said of the Newmans---and much can be said for their relaxed, sensitive way of milking emotional nuances from a scene---they seem to have an eye for material strongly spiked with audience identification; and they have also entrusted themselves to a more-than-promising young director in James Goldstone. Paul and Joanne play a pair of bruised characters who first meet late one night at an Avis office in a small town; she is facing the drab end of a working day behind the counter; he has picked up a $12,000 purse at the stockcar track, got drunk and now wants to pick up a girl. "I've got a son who's five foot, six inches tall," she tells him; but by morning, her lust for life and independence has so thoroughly conquered her misgivings that she telephones home to announce her imminent departure for a speeddrome in California ("Mother, I am not leaving Avis in the lurch," Joanne insists plaintively). The devil-take-all romance ends at the altar, and the problems of marriage are the real issue of Winning---the eternal sticky problem of "making it" in the broadest sense without losing sight of one's private self en route to the big win. "Now I'm drivin' good, and my life is crap," says Newman when his own moment of truth comes, when he has roared to victory in the "500" but doesn't much give a damn after finding the insecure wife he loved and neglected in a motel room with his swinging teammate (Robert Wagner). Newman effortlessly projects the nice-guy image of an average American male who has trouble putting his feelings into words. He is an inarticulate lover, secretly fearful and never wholly in control unless he's living by the seat of his pants, with both hands on the steering wheel. Director Goldstone explores the chemistry of the hero's muddled relationships in a series of subtle clashes between man and wife, man and machine and---by no means least---man confronted by a worshipful stepson (a talented teenaged stripling named Richard Thomas) who is smarting from wounds left by severed family ties. Lent authenticity by a score of big-name drivers, the film's excellent racing scenes are so intricately meshed with the psychological drives behind them that they become doubly powerful as drama---rooted deep in the gut of a sometime loser. Winning pores over reflections from that coveted silver trophy and shows us a few faces, all beautiful and warm.
We've got a seams-bursting grab bag of guitar albums this month: Further Adventures of Jimmy and Wes (Verve; also available on stereo tape) finds organist Smith and the late guitarist Wes Montgomery heading up a quartet (they're joined by a big band on one track, Milestones) that takes care of its business from the opening bars of King of the Road to the closing strains of Mellow Mood.Goodies / George Benson (Verve; also available on stereo tape) kicks off with a tribute to Montgomery, I Remember Wes, and builds a solid blues-bossa-funk-soul structure from there, abetted from time to time by the delightful harmonica harmonics of Buddy Lucas. The Sweet Inspirations contribute their vocal talents to You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman. The ubiquitous Gabor Szabo is with us once again on More Sorcery (Impulse!; also available on stereo tape). Recorded at the Jazz Workshop in Boston and at the Monterey Jazz Festival, the LP has Szabo stretching out in a quintet context. There are three Gabor originals on hand and such diverse items as Merrill-Styne's People and Lennon-McCartney's Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, all of which are handled with innate good taste. And now we'd like to welcome a new name, John Bishop, to the ranks of first-rate guitarists. Bishop's Whirl (Tangerine) gives ample evidence that the gentleman has a bright future before him. With organist Newell Burton, Jr., and a rhythm section in tow, Bishop's high-voltage electric output encompasses everything from the Miles Davis mover Freddie the Freeloader to that seemingly unworkable bit of treacle from Romberg and Hammerstein, When I Grow Too Old to Dream. Bishop's ability to turn the latter into a triumph is an indication of his talent.
When Russell Parker's legs gave way and he found he couldn't even take a proper bow, he quit the vaudeville stage cold. It was the only heroic, or at least semiheroic, moment in his life. Then he settled down into a quit Harlem barbershop and let his martyrish wife kill herself supporting him. As Lonne Elder III's Ceremonies in Dark Old Men begins, Mrs. Parker has been dead for three years and daughter Adele has assumed the martyrdom. While Parker waits for customers who never come, taps out a memory of the old days and sneaks games of checkers with a crony, his two sons sink further into indolence and hostility. The elder, Theopolis, is a con man; the younger, Bobby, is the coolest thief in Harlem. The barbershop, clearly, is "a place built for us to die in." Into this environment of impotence and desperation comes Mr. Blue Haven, an icy operator dressed entirely in blue, from his socks to his shades. Parker's seedy back room is converted into the headquarters for Blue's Harlem Decolonization Association, a fancy cover-up for Theo's bootleg whiskey and Bobby's raids on neighborhood stores. Suddenly, the family comes to life: Adele swings, Theo sweats, Parker is reborn. Eventually, the dream world has to collapse. It does---and the end is heart-stopping. When Elder's play was first produced earlier this year for a limited run by the Negro Ensemble Company, critics rushed to nominate it for a Pulitzer. It was difficult to believe that this was actually Elder's first professionally produced play. Now, completely recast and slightly restaged by the original director, Edmund Cambridge, Ceremonies remains a solid, mature, wise work---full of humor and compassion, yet with an iron-hard edge. Parker is not just a textbook black father, emasculated by matriarchs, but a full-bodied, funny, terribly sad human being who knows exactly what's waiting for him downtown: total rejection. With his depth of feeling and specificity of atmosphere, Elder reminds one of Sean O'Casey and, like O'Casey at his best, Elder would seem to be actor-proof. The new cast is, with one notable exception, not a match for the original, but that does not seriously impair the play's effectiveness. Outstanding in the new cast is Billy Dee Williams. He is so strong as Theo that he makes the character assume an importance almost greater than his father's---which, oddly, seems no distortion. After all, it is Theo's predicament, too. There are also ceremonies that dark young men must perform. At the Pocket, 100 Third Avenue.
Several months ago, my girl and I were caught making love by her uncle, who is a Baptist minister. He wrote to the college she is attending, which is run by the same denomination, and asked that she be punished for her "licentious behavior." The college promptly expelled her. Although we were deeply in love before this incident---I still love her very much---she feels our affair is to blame for her troubles and says she wants to break it off. Is there anything I can say to her to get back into her good graces?---S. H., Atlanta, Georgia.
Sporting a sinister grin that seems more suited to a post-office wall than to a movie billboard, and often behaving as boisterously off screen as he does on, Rodney Stephen Steiger has always rubbed Hollywood's establishment the wrong way. When he was still scuffling for parts during the early Fifties, he liked to hang out at Schwab's drugstore, wearing rumpled clothing and two days' growth of beard, rather than hobnob with the other upward-mobile movie hopefuls in a Don Loper original. On those few occasions when he was seen in the "right" places, he tended to put ketchup on his filet mignon and, if properly motivated, was known to stand up and sing in the most sacrosanct restaurants. His emotional acting style---the result of his New York training---set him apart from the docile Thespians molded by the California studios, and some of his passionate characterizations alienated the studio heads themselves. Many moguls felt personally insulted by his scathing portrayal of a Hollywood demagog in "The Big Knife," a film that exploded movie-star shibboleths the same way Steiger does in real life. Happily, the industry's lingering animosity ended last year when, after some 30-odd pictures, he was awarded an Oscar for his abrasive performance as the red-necked Southern sheriff of "In the Heat of the Night."
The Train had come down from Boston and it was jam-packed when it stopped at New Haven. She had her crap spread out all over the seat---two valises, a guitar and a duffel bag---as if she were going on a grand tour of the Bahamas instead of probably just home for the Thanksgiving weekend. I had come through three cars looking for a seat, and when I spotted her living in the luxury of this little nest she'd built, I stopped and said, "Excuse me, is this taken?"
"Feelings Aren't Nice." To most of the people in the U.S., the message has been drummed in: Cover up your feelings, don't give yourself away, hold back, stay cool, because your feelings will get you into trouble. But now there is another message coming through---let go---and it comes from unexpected people in unexpected places. It is often spoken without words.
It Was Audible, visible, tangible, yet impossible to grasp. Early Wednesday morning, August 21, 1968, someone knocked at the door of our hotelroom and shouted: "We're occupied!" For a moment, I thought he wanted to cancel our reservation, although the time and method of letting us know seemed somewhat unorthodox; besides, the tone of voice was too emotional for any conventional announcement. Before we could take in what it was all about, we heard the first shots, and the words "We're occupied!" acquired their true meaning. The shots were live and numerous, and they swept us back 23 years and a few months to the time when the Allied Armies entered Germany. The shots declared categorically: Europe knows no peace, it exists in a state of varying armistices. Here, in Prague, an armistice was being broken.
Tom Bailey's Income before taxes in 1955 was $7500 per year. Only recently married, he owed $10,000 on his house, $1500 on his automobile and had other debts---for furniture, home appliances and so on---totaling more than $3000. Yet no one---least of all Tom Bailey and his wife---considered him insolvent.
There's no denying, that the best way to acquire a golden glow is to spend a month or two lounging on the beach or at poolside. But even if your summer schedule is booked solid with indoor conferences---or you spent your vacation skiing last winter---there's no need to show up at the office looking pale-faced. On the shelves at men's-toiletries counters everywhere are a host of suntan oils, sprays, foam mousses, creams and fast-tanning lotions that can be used either alfresco or under a sun lamp, and a variety of bronzing gels (available in various shades) that instantly impart the burnished look of a great and year-round outdoorsman. All are specifically designed for men who have no use for strongly scented feminine ointments or greasy kid stuff.
Last Fall, Daniel Lewis, assistant head of an Eastern insurance firm's finance department, received a nasty shock soon after reporting to work one Monday morning. Lewis, who helped oversee the company's investments, was unexpectedly called in by his boss and told that the corporate powers were so delighted with his work that they wanted to let him try his hand at selling as well. Furthermore, the department head stated, he was to begin his new assignment within a week. The brief meeting ended with the supervisor's handing over a list of prospective clients.
If There Is Any Short Cut a girl can take to becoming a Playmate, it's joining a wedding party for which the bridal pictures are shot by Glendale's William Figge Studios. Nancy McNeil, our pretty colleen for July, is not only the third Playmate discovered exactly this way, she's also the 16th to be found and photographed by Bill Figge (usually with Ed DeLong). For Nancy, it all started when she was a bridesmaid in a friend's wedding. "The luck of the Irish was certainly with me that day," she recalls. "After the ceremony, the attendants were posing with the bride for pictures when Bill Figge and his wife asked me if I'd like to audition for Playmate. At first I thought they were putting me on, but it turned out they were really on the level." At that time, Nancy was working at a local branch of the Bank of America, and it became increasingly difficult for her to get time off for shootings at the studio. So when the Figges found themselves in need of a girl Friday and asked Nancy if she was interested, she accepted with alacrity. "It's a completely different experience," she says. "The bank was so large I felt lost in it. But the studio is smaller and a more informal operation---which suits me fine. And we have a lot of fun, too, like celebrating birthdays and other occasions with after-hours champagne parties." At home in her Alhambra digs, Nancy's interest in gardening keeps her happily occupied. "Any living thing," she says, "adds warmth to a home. When I was little, I had pets around the house---no cats or dogs, but chickens, ducks, fish, rabbits and turtles. You know, turtles have a lot more personality than most people think. One of the two I've had was a real jerk; when you entered the room suddenly, he'd pull in his head and hide. But the other one was very friendly and funny to watch. I'd put him on the floor and he'd try to eat the gold flecks in the tile. Since moving to an apartment, though, I've switched from animals to flowers---moss roses, nasturtiums and zinnias. I've found that digging around in the dirt has a relaxing effect on me; and there are times when I really need to unwind, because I inherited my father's temperament. Everything's fine when I'm happy; but if I'm not, watch out! It must be the Irish in me." The Irish in Nancy is also responsible for that top-o'-the-mornin' look in her eyes, which---along with her other attributes---inspires us to echo the ancient cry "Erin go brath!"
"Some of my best friends are robots," a physicist told a gathering of automation enthusiasts in Europe several years ago. "And I'll even let my daughter marry one---as soon as you fellows come up with a model that can speak well enough to say 'I do' at the appropriate moment, see well enough to put the ring on the right finger, emote well enough to kiss her properly and work hard enough to support her in the manner to which she has become accustomed."
Today, a new breed of vehicle roams where conventional conveyances fear to put their freads. Dune buggy, beach buggy, bush buggy, fun buggy or sports buggy, call it what you will. The name varies, but it usually describes a short, snub-nosed machine resembling a cross between a sports car and a jeep; one that rolls on fat tires and packs a rear (usually air-cooled) engine housed in a curvy, colorful fiberglass body.
Sam was only a voice to me, a rich, reverberating baritone. His whispers themselves possessed a solid, rumbling quality. I often speculated, judging from his voice, what he might look like: The possessor of such a voice could be statuesque, with curls falling on his nape, Roman nose, long legs able to cover the distance from my bed to the bathroom in three strides, although to me it seemed an endless journey. I asked him on the very first day, "What do you look like?"
Once in the days before anything much was invented, the handsome Roondag of Roon decided to take a wife. Having so decided, he collected 21 magnificent gifts and made plans to visit the Knarlak of Knarr, who was the father of three unmarried daughters.
"The Army Corps Of Engineers is public enemy number one." I spoke those words at the annual meeting of the Great Lakes Chapter of the Sierra Club, early in 1968; and that summary supplied an exclamation point to a long discussion of the manner in which various Federal agencies despoil the public domain.
Sejong, the great king of the Yi dynasty, is kindly remembered for his promulgation of the Korean written alphabet. He is less kindly remembered for his prohibition of the remarriage of widows. They tell the story of Spring Moon, a young widow who lived during his reign, as clever as she was rich and beautiful.
"Don't Look Now, but someone in front of you is standing alone and singing," he warns in a warmly wobbly voice, while plunking on a piano with considerably more exuberance than accomplishment. If the combination sounds lukewarm, then you haven't heard Biff Rose, a happily hip 31-year-old troubadour whose cheery head music---on such electric matters as his mother, the hippie philosophy, acidhead cops and amorous amoebas---is as fresh and engaging as his technical skills are shaky. The public obviously enjoys the former more than enough to overlook the latter. His two LPs,The Thorn in Mrs. Rose's Side and Children of Light, are selling well; he turns up frequently on TV variety shows; he's heavily booked for college dates; and he hosts his own free-form radio happening called Biff Rose Raps. Everything, in short, is coming up Rose for a guy who until a year ago would have headed any booking agent's list of those least likely to succeed. Brought up in various sections of the South and graduated from Loyola in New Orleans, he got started singing folk songs at a Michigan dude ranch, where he worked as social director. A stint with the Army playing banjo in a Special Services unit turned him on to performing professionally; and after getting out, he hit the coffeehouse trail, eventually joining Glenn Yarbrough on a long college tour. "But I was falling apart, and finally I dropped out completely. Meditated. I sat at the piano, and finally I started playing my own stuff. It was weird and freaky, but it was mine---and it felt good. I knew in a while they would see it, because it's my life." They did. A record contract with Tetragram-maton was followed by a guest shot with Johnny Carson---and Biff was on his way. His message is a welcome one: "Life," he sings, jauntily off key, "is celebration."
Wall Street's latest whiz kid, Gilbert Edmund Kaplan, is a hiply sideburned 28-year-old communicator who is rapidly establishing himself as the financial world's most important new source of investment information. In 1967, Kaplan---who felt money managers needed a journal that would entertainingly inform them about investments---quit his job as director of economic studies for the American Stock Exchange to publish The Institutional Investor. A controlled-circulation magazine available only to professional investors, I. I. is edited by George J. W. Goodman ("Adam Smith" of The Money Game fame) and specializes in a superslick, almost pop approach to finance. (One recent cover carried a child's drawing to illustrate an in-depth report on the Fidelity group of mutual funds.) Kaplan also publishes Investment Banking and Corporate Financing and three business directories and is founder of the annual Institutional Investor Conference. The second conference, last January, was the largest such convocation ever held in the U. S., drawing over 2500 registrants at $175 a head. But Kaplan's most ambitious project to date is VideoForum, a TV-tape service offering forums, interviews and debates on investment ideas, corporate finance and economics. Although it costs $5300 a year to subscribe to the electronic "magazine," more than 100 firms have already signed up. VideoForum's quick success can be traced directly to Kaplan's administrative talents. "The most frustrating aspect of any job is often the time lag between an idea and its execution," he says, "but around here, we have no red tape. Which is why we've done so much in a short time." Adds the native New Yorker, "Wall Street is no place for a drone. If you've got an idea that will work, you don't have to worry about knocking down closed doors."
With A String of triumphs unique in New York's feast-or-famine theater history, producer-director Hal Prince, at 41, is firmly ensconced at the pinnacle of his profession---despite the chest thumping of such flamboyant showmen as David Merrick. Prince's 17 shows to date---including Damn Yankees, West Side Story, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, Fiddler on the Roof and Cabaret---have earned not only a Pulitzer Prize and a record number of Tony awards but a tidy average profit of 249 percent per show. The only child of a New York stockbroker, Prince developed both his business acumen and his creative talents at the University of Pennsylvania, where he wrote plays and organized a radio station. After graduation, he worked as a TV scriptwriter, then as an assistant stage manager for George Abbott, one of musical comedy's prime potentates. Within six years, Prince had established himself as Broadway's Wunderkind with his first independent production, The Pajama Game. In 1957, he took another great leap forward by coproducing West Side Story, which dealt with previously taboo themes and introduced revolutionary concepts in the use of music and ballet. He put himself on the line again in 1963, when he decided to become his own director. The collaboration of Prince and Prince, which began with She Loves Me, was also responsible for the super-success of his latest hit, Zorbá. King Hal is currently directing the first of three films---a black comedy called The Dreamers---for the motion-picture division of CBS. Though he has no intentions of forsaking live theater (he will produce and direct The Dark on Broadway this fall), film making promises to become his principal pursuit. Judging from his theater record, cinema buffs can expect an unbroken skein of Princely productions.