As we record a two-digit change in the calendar and move into the eighth decade of the century, we find that no matter where we look on the globe, we behold the familiar and distressing spectacle of men in conflict: in the Middle East, in Southeast Asia, in central Europe, in Northern Ireland, in China, in Japan, in Africa. And one of the most critical questions that must be resolved in the next few years is whether this pluralistic nation we call the United States of America can complete the task of molding its diverse components into a true union. With dissatisfied and ever more distrustful groups of citizens squaring off across numerous lines of demarcation, it appears that we are at a political crossroads: Will the divergent factions continue to pull farther and farther apart?
Playboy, January, 1970, Vol. 17, No. 1. 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, 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, 434-2675; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N. E., Atlanta, GA. 30305, 233-6729.
T here's one on every Christmas list: a jaded type who's been everywhere, bought everything and still expects a yuletide token of your esteem come December 25. If the nifty gift items proffered in our Eleventh-Hour Santa on page 211 don't fill the bill, this annual supplementary selection of grandiose goodies is guaranteed to blow the recipient's mind--and, possibly, a bank balance or two.
Once again, it is our pleasure to direct your attention to an array of impressive gifts designed to stir the mind and jog the spirit. From the publishing field this season, we have reaped a choice harvest, guaranteed to satisfy readers (and even some nonreaders) of the most diverse predilections.
The stage is a hexagonal stump of a platform, surrounded on three sides by variously colored benches for spectators; in the intervening space--which becomes a sylvan, aerial or undersea setting at the flick of a light switch--the gods of antiquity indulge in their favorite pastimes: Jove deflowers Io, who is transformed into a heifer by jealous Juno and guarded by Argus of the thousand eyes; Vulcan catches Mars making it with his wife, Venus, whom he has neglected in order to provide the war-god with suitable armor; and so on. The place is a storefront at 2259 North Lincoln Avenue in Chicago, which Paul Sills--first director of Second City--converted last October into a cabaret theater called The Body Politic (with backing from Mike Nichols and Elaine May). The production is a robust rendering of seven erotic tales adapted from Ovid's Metamorphoses by Arnold Weinstein. Under Sills's direction, the show maintains what poet Charles Olson would call a "high-energy discharge" at all points; it's a no-bullshit celebration of life and the forces that perpetuate it. In a risky maneuver that comes off well, the players substitute third-person narration for dialog most of the way, reciting the lines that describe their actions as they perform them; much of the total effect is due to the excellent pacing, staging and movement (the latter comes close to being choreography); and the energetic onstage happenings are augmented by Olympian offstage voices, strikingly suitable rock songs and a more-than-incidental score composed by Bill Russo and a pair of youthful troubadours--Chris Alport and John Guth--who get a staggering range of sounds from their electric guitars. The use of electricity for aural and visual emphasis reinforces the sexual tension that animates the production--and one leaves the theater with juices aflow; although the actors don't really make it, they mime it with enough soulful conviction so that it's all believable and beautiful. And that--for gods or humans, for antiquity or posterity--is where it's at. The scantily clad cast of six--Chuck Bartlett, Cortis Fejer, Jim Keach, Molly McKesson, Bernadine Rideaux, Tom Towles--swings into action at 8:30 P.M. Tuesday through Saturday, with additional shows at 10:30 on Friday and Saturday; tickets range from $2 to $3, and the experience is pure joy.
No Name City (Population: Drunk). Under that disarmingly wicked legend, scrawled on the gates to a gold-rush town, Paint Your Wagon sets a new style in $20,000,000 Hollywood musicals, which are customarily geared to the family trade. Not this time, by Gawd. Produced by author-lyricist Alan Jay Lerner from his Broadway show of the Fifties, with André Previn providing additional music for Frederick Loewe's original score, Wagon has a new lightweight plot and a nose-thumbing attitude toward moral conventions. While gold dust is plentiful, there's hardly an ounce of propriety to be found in No Name City, where Lee Marvin and Clint Eastwood extend their partnership as prospectors by settling down in a log hut with one wife between them--winsome Jean Seberg, playing a sexual pioneer gal who has been purchased from a Mormon for $800. Their easygoing ménage à trois causes nary a ripple of outrage in a community of saloons, bordellos and roughshod brawlers, who tend to look upon the town's brimstone preacher as a kind of freak. In this moral climate, small wonder that the populace bursts into enthusiastic song at intervals, or that the three principals look so relaxed while overturning some of the wholesome traditions of horse opera. The only real voice to be heard above the corn-pone beat of The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band is that of Harve Presnell, who handles the show-stopping They Call the Wind Maria. Jean and Clint sync their songs competently and Marvin talks his--pretty well, too, for an actor who has plenty of vitality but very little natural charm to take the rough edges off a role made to order for the late Walter Huston. While its offhanded affability keeps Paint Your Wagon rolling along, the bane of the enterprise is bigness as usual. Director Joshua Logan, who abhors subtlety, seldom uses just two horses or just one harlot when he can have them cheaper by the dozen.
Not too long ago, La Chaumière, a small French restaurant on Chicago's Near North Side, underwent a metamorphosis in which it acquired a new name--La Cheminée (1161 North Dearborn Street)--new decor, a lot more floor space and an ambiance that makes dining a delight. The red-brick, walls and the red tablecloths are warm and inviting; the personnel, most of whom--wonder of wonders--are French, are efficient and friendly (but not overly familiar); and the luncheon and dinner menus are abrim with dishes to warm the cockles of a gourmet's heart. Dinner is à prix fixe at $9 and includes superbly prepared main dishes such as Steak au Poivre in flaming cognac, Poached Turbot with a Hollandaise Sauce that's exceptionally good, Roast Duckling with Orange Sauce and Beef Wellington. For openers, you can choose from among a piquant pâté, avocado stuffed with king crab and onion soup that's several cuts above the ordinary. The mixed-green salad offered with the meal has a vinaigrette sauce designed to turn on the taste buds. The luncheon menu is nearly as varied but far more modestly priced, with most main courses under $4. It was our good fortune to be there when the day's special was Vol-au-Vent, which was nothing less than splendid; preceded by a superior Quiche Lorraine and accompanied by a small carafe of entirely satisfactory white wine, it made for a first-rate luncheon, marred only by omnipresent canned music completely out of keeping with the surroundings. One other quibble: We wish the restaurant were a little less diffident in letting the public know where it is--the sign outside is minuscule and badly placed. As an added dividend, La Cheminée operates Le Grenièr, a piano bar located above the restaurant that featured, at this writing, the piano and songs of Bobby Harrison until 2 A.M. La Cheminée is open for luncheon during the week from 11:30 to 2:30 and for dinner from 5:30 to 11. Closed Sunday. For reservations, call 642-6654.
There's a mother lode of listening pleasure to graciously give or joyously receive this yule. The Boston Symphony Chamber Players (RCA) perform works that include Schubert's Piano Quintet in A, Brahms's Piano Trio in B, Op. 8 and Webern's Concerto, Op. 24, for flute, oboe, clarinet, horn, trumpet, trombone, violin, viola and piano (played by guest artist Richard Goode). All in all, a thoroughly rewarding recording. The Little Orchestra of London, under the baton of Leslie Jones, may be heard to excellent advantage in a six-LP album of Haydn's 12 London Symphonies (93 through 104) and a three-LP package of his Six "Paris" Symphonies (82 through 87), both sets on the Nonesuch label. The Little Orchestra is perfectly suited to the task and the over-all results are a delight.Music for Lute, Guitar, Mandolin (Turnabout) may lack an Andrés Segovia or a Julian Bream, but there isn't much else missing from this five-LP paean to those instruments. On hand are works by Vivaldi, Boccherini, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert and Paganini. Particularly interesting are the pieces for mandolin, an instrument long relegated to an inferior status. A beautifully packaged offering of Johann Sebastian Bach's Harpsichord Concertos has been put together for Telefunken's Das Alte Werk series. Gustav Leonhardt, the featured harpsichordist, performs with the Leonhardt-Consort and the Concentus Musicus. The sound reproduction is splendid and the instruments are from Bach's own era.
From the Second City, brought to New York by producer Bernard Sahlins, features the best material developed by the company in the past two or three years at its Chicago headquarters. While the show evokes a considerable amount of nostalgia for the Second City of old, the present cast offers a wide range of creditable comic performances. Burt Heyman scores with a merciless characterization of a literally spineless old priest; J. J. Barry is best as a doddering blues singer named Dirty Puddle; and Martin Harvey Friedberg provides a zany bit of pathos in his portrayal of a wacky, back-talking draftee. Along with Murphy Dunne, Ira Miller, Carol Robinson and Pamela Miller, it is an engaging group, but something of the spontaneous Second City esprit seems to have disappeared. There is a certain stodginess to their irreverence, and the company pointedly avoids satiric comment on the really pressing political and social crises of our time. The total effect is one of restrained good humor, but the show clearly lacks the sense of urgency and importance that makes theater live. From the Second City, in short, is for people who simply want to laugh. Those who seek some form of enlightenment in satire may prefer to go elsewhere. At the Eastside Playhouse, 334 East 74th Street.
An article recently said that the American male performs the sex act an average of 5000 times during his life span. While this figure seems a bit modest in personal terms, I consider it an excessive estimate when applied to the entire male population of the country. What do you know about this?--B. C., Palatine, Illinois.
Since the Twenties, when Theda Bara became America's first female sex symbol, Hollywood has searched unceasingly for young beauties who could fan the American male's erotic fantasies. In the Thirties, it was Jean Harlow; during the Forties, Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth took turns turning on film audiences; and in the Fifties and Sexties, respectively, Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor personified the U. S. sexual deity. As we head into the Seventies, a new cinema siren in the old tradition has emerged--brown-eyed, chestnut-haired, spectacularly structured Raquel Welch. It has taken the 27-year-old actress little more than four years to eclipse a multitude of pulchritudinous pretenders to the throne. Raquel's revealing photographs--the most famous displaying her 37-22-35 form swathed skintight in a doeskin bikini--can be seen not only in GI barracks but in captured Viet Cong bunkers as well. And comedian Johnny Carson has accurately called her "the kind of girl you'd take home to Mother and Dad--if they were gone for the weekend."
A Horn Blew outside the garage and Tom climbed out from under the Ford on which he was working in the grease pit and, wiping his hands on a rag, went out to where the Oldsmobile was standing, next to one of the pumps.
The tall and angular person--man or woman?--had come into town not by the road (which the winter had made nearly impassable for months) but northward through the Midnight Forest, which was still more impassable.
" 'Sometimes the Viets have a better success with a megaphone than a bazooka,' " says the narrator of Graham Greene's novel about Vietnam, The Quiet American." 'You and your like are trying to make a war with the help of people who just aren't interested.'
Want to nero in on a fresh idea for a year-end fling? Then we have just the thing, by Jupiter: an antic take-off on Roma Antica, that swinging citadel of the Caesars. Ancient Rome was, of course, the center of Western civilization some 2000 years ago and even its most august citizens were noted for throwing bacchanalian bashes that lasted far into a fortnight. While you'll probably want to limit your fete to one night of uninhibited merrymaking, that's no reason to cramp your Roman-style banquet giving--as the photos on these pages attest.
A yuletide toast! Lift the brimming beaker to that much maligned and badly misunderstood figure in Christmas lore, Ebenezer Scrooge. A heavy too long in hearthside morality tales, Ebenezer deserves an immediate rehabilitation, if only for one reason: His classic two-word description of Christmas is so elegant, so succinct and so true that saying anything more seems almost redundant. "Christmas? Bah, humbug!" As another Santa season closes, my deepest impulse is to echo his eloquent sentiment, adding only a W. C. Fieldsian cane swat at the nearest beaming Tiny Tim.
Early in the sixties, a coterie of European designers--led by France's Pierre Cardin--fashioned the explosive styles that eventually jolted American males out of their sartorial slumber. Today, of course, Stateside clothing trends are still strongly influenced by what's being showcased in European boutiques and designers' salons. In order to ascertain what prevailing fashion winds are blowing across the Atlantic toward our shores, we recently took off for a fact-finding tour of the Continent and England that included extensive stopovers in Paris. St.-Tropez, London and Rome.
On November 7, 1968, the then President-elect paused in his victory statement to recall a campaign vignette that he said had touched him. At the end of a long day of whistle stopping in Ohio, Richard Nixon said, he had seen a teenager holding up a sign bearing the legend Bring Us Together. "That will be the great objective of this Administration at the outset," he announced, "to bring the American people together." Reporters subsequently discovered that the girl with the sign had picked it up more or less to have something to carry. And now, one year after his inauguration, many thoughtful Americans are wondering if the President didn't do much the same with his slogan. In the four essays that follow, three dynamic leaders and one of the country's most respected opinion makers assess the small progress Nixon has made toward the accomplishment of what he said would be his first goal--healing the profound divisions of the American people--and suggest bold ways in which he still might do so. Senator George McGovern, in Reconciling the Generations, outlines the steps that the establishment must take if it is to recapture the respect of the young and calls for a renewed dedication on the part of young idealists to the possibility of meaningful change within the democratic system. In Sharing the Wealth, Cesar Chavez, the head of the United Farmworkers Union, maintains that any government will exploit its poor until they assert their humanity by developing economic and political independence. In Uniting the Races, Julian Bond--the charismatic young Georgia legislator and civil rights leader--focuses on the same concept: He insists that our varied minority groups must amass some of the power that white America has monopolized for so long, and that the Federal Government must begin enforcing existing egalitarian legislation if there is to be racial peace in this country. Finally, New York Times political analyst Tom Wicker, in Forging a Left-Right Coalition, examines the social ideals that this country's conservatives and progressives hold in common and suggests that Presidential initiatives might swell this rivulet of shared beliefs into a libertarian political mainstream. Together, the four articles comprise a blueprint for reconciliation. Translated into action by the Administration and the Congress, their recommendations would enable the President, however belatedly, to make good on his pious victory promise to the American people.
When I was teaching at Dakota Wesleyan University 15 years ago, the country was disturbed by "the silent generation" of college students. Young Americans seemed to be fitting too easily into lives of personal gain while ignoring the deprivations suffered by their fellow man abroad and at home. In the early Sixties, these misgivings turned to enthusiasm for the new activism of the young. Inspired, perhaps, by an appealing young President, youthful idealists seemed more moved by causes than by careers, more interested in the Peace Corps than in the stock market, more attracted to adventure than to self-aggrandizement.
How can we narrow the gap between the wealthy and the poor in this country? What concrete steps can be taken now to abolish poverty in America? There are a number of things that President Nixon could do immediately, if he wanted to. In terms of our own grape pickers' strike, he could tell the Pentagon to stop shipping extraordinary amounts of grapes to Vietnam--the Government's most obvious tool in its attempt to break our strike. And he could improve the lot of all the farmworkers in the Southwest--easily, under existing legislation--by putting an end to the importing and exploitation of cheap foreign labor. The Immigration Service has allowed almost 500,000 poor Mexicans to flood across the border since 1965. Absorbing this number of resident aliens would not be detrimental if they actually became residents, but most of these workers return to Mexico after each harvest season, since their American wages go much farther there than they would in this country. They have no stake in either economic or political advances here; it is the domestic farmworker who wants our union, who wants better schools, who wants to participate in the political system. Our poor Mexican brothers who are allowed to come across the border for the harvest are tools in the Government's and the growers' attempts to break our strike.
This country, which was "discovered" by white men over 400 years ago and "founded" by them in 1776, always was and still is, in the eyes of most of its citizens and rulers, a white man's heaven. In The Federalist papers, John Jay wrote, "Providence has been pleased to give this one connected country to one united people ... a people descended from the same ancestors, speaking the same language, professing the same religion, attached to the same principles of government, very similar in their manners and customs." Under Jay's philosophy, black men were designed by Providence to work for white men; Indians, who were unsuited by Providence to be slaves, had to be exterminated; and Mexicans, being neither Indian nor black, became cultural enemies holding territory that the expansionist white man coveted. America gave birth to the rhetoric of democracy while it breathed life into what became institutionalized racism. European immigrants came here to escape oppression and their young became oppressors.
It isn't easy to know, these days, just what is happening in American politics. This dawned on me as early as 1966, when I covered the campaign of Robert Scheer, the New Leftish Ramparts magazine editor, who was then running for Congress--in the Democratic primary--from the Oakland-Berkeley district of California. Scheer, an outspoken anti-war candidate, was not running against some right-winger nor even against a Republican Babbitt but against Representative Jeffery Cohelan, a liberal New Dealer who had had a 95 percent voting record in the ratings of the Americans for Democratic Action.
The Good, The Bad and The Garlic Starring Tony Randall
An Italian western filmed in Spain with an out-of-pawn Japanese camera using substandard exposed polish film, processed and edited courtesy of a rexall drugstore in Poughkeepsie, New York, based on a luke short short story from the annual luke short short story annual and produced by the United States treasury department as a tax loss.
If someone were to ask me for a short cut to sensuality, I would suggest he go shopping for a used 427 ShelbyCobra. But it is only fair to warn you that out of the 300 guys who switched to them in 1966, only two went back to women. The 427 is probably the fastest production car in the world and it will always keep you interested, because unless you own real estate near the Bonneville salt flats, you'll never see the top end. In 1951, when Tom McCahill broke 100 miles per hour in a Jaguar XK-120, motor-racing fans were so excited they were running up and down the Venetian blinds. But the Cobra is an honest 180-mph production car. It's not even production--it's immaculate conception.
Synopsis:Retired London bank manager Henry Pulling, attending the cremation of his mother, was surprised to encounter his aunt Augusta, whom he hadn't seen in over half a century. When she took him back to her flat to share some sherry, they were greeted by Wordsworth, his aunt's very large black "valet," who, it soon became obvious, took care of more than the housekeeping. On leaving the flat, Henry discovered that he had left behind a package containing the urn holding his mother's ashes. When Wordsworth returned it to him, Pulling noted it had been tampered with. The next day, Henry discovered why; the police called on him and he learned that over half the urn's contents had been replaced by pot. Later, his aunt informed him that Wordsworth had disappeared and she was enlisting Henry to accompany her to Istanbul, first stop Paris. She did not reveal her reasons for going, but he was led to believe they involved a certain Mr. Visconti, who seemed to have figured prominently in his aunt's past. On the way to Paris, Aunt Augusta exhibited an amazing knowledge of sex practices in every corner of the globe and an uncommon concern over getting through customs, arranging for Henry to take her red suitcase through customs for her. When someone whom Aunt Augusta called her banker showed up at their Paris hotel rooms, she had Henry fetch her red case and then leave the room--but not before he noticed that the bag was crammed with ten-pound notes. Henry, pondering the situation as he strolled along the Boulevard des Capucines, was taken aback to come upon Wordsworth. It was a most unsatisfactory meeting, with accusations being hurled. Henry was glad to get away and more than astonished to have Wordsworth pop up again at the Gare de Lyon, just as he was boarding the Orient Express to join his aunt and continue their mysterious journey. To Henry's relief, Wordsworth did not accompany them. As the train pulled out, Pulling discovered that his aunt had a new friend--a very young lady with the improbable name of Tooley, who was also on her way to Istanbul. It was while they were passing from Swilzerland into Italy that Tooley told Henry what amounted to a short life story--a father in the CIA, a boyfriend she hoped was waiting for her in Istanbul, a feeling that she was pregnant and the fact that the strange-smelling, strange-looking cigarettes she was sharing with him were pot and had been sold to her in Paris by a fellow who could have been none other than Wordsworth. On arriving in Milan, Aunt Augusta was met by one Mario, a white-haired chap who called her Mother and proved to be Mr. Visconti's son; he gave her a parcel in a plain brown wrapper just before the train pulled out. Reminiscing about her life in Rome and Milan with Mr. Visconti, Henry's aunt made it perfectly clear (although Henry had an extraordinarily difficult time getting the message) that she had once been a parttime prostitute. When Henry remonstrated with her about her "sordid" past, Aunt Augusta took the offensive and denigrated him for leading a mean, purposeless life. Pulling left his aunt's compartment in a daze.
Since "Rowan and Martin's Laugh-in" took firm hold of the Nielsen ratings, "beautiful downtown Burbank"--as that California metropolis is sarcastically referred to on the show--has become the butt of countless quips by people who have never even approached the city's limits. Indeed, Burbank was strictly a laughing matter for us (conditioned reflex) until we met honey-haired Jill Taylor, at which point our respect for the place increased a hundredfold. For Jill, however, life itself is but an extended laugh-in, and she couldn't care less what Dan Rowan, Dick Martin and their viewers have to say of her home town. A recent graduate of Burbank High School, where she was chosen senior-class queen, 18-year-old Jill is proof that not all of America's young people are clawing at the social structure or trying to find their own bag--and then crawl into it. She's in no hurry to commit herself to a course of action, be it employment or further schooling; she's convinced that our present nation in flux will straighten itself out in due time; and, while she admits the possibility is ever-present, she doesn't believe that California is about to tumble into the ocean. However, Jill would never claim to be an authority on politics--nor geology. Her thing is having fun in the sun with her friends and, in moments of solitude, amusing herself by sketching fanciful outfits: "If I ever do settle on a career, it'll have to be designing or modeling fashions--or maybe both. But for now, I'm more interested in having a good time." One reason that Jill isn't in a hurry to become a professional designer is that the current unisex craze turns her off: "I'm old-fashioned about things like that--I appreciate the difference." So do we, and we were glad, indeed, that Jill didn't prove to be old-fashioned when we asked her to grace our January gatefold.
Noticing that her husband's relationship with the alluring miss across the street was becoming more intimate, the suspicious wife awoke one morning to find herself alone in bed. Angered, she dialed her attractive neighbor and bellowed into the phone, "Tell my husband to get his ass across the street."
Way back in the fall of 1956, we presented Playboy's Penthouse Apartment, by far the most successful and mail-garnering modern-living feature we had ever published, and the first in a series of Playboy Pads--actual and projected. Although we have featured a great variety of dwellings, they all have had the same specific design purpose: to appeal to the urban bachelor who believes a man's home is not only his castle but also an outward reflection of his inner self; a place where he can live, love and be merry, entertain his friends with parties big and small, play poker with cronies from the office or relax alone with a fond companion. Now, 13 years after our first penthouse design appeared, and with a new decade dawning, we are again projecting our concept of the pinnacle of urban living, this time a duplex penthouse that combines the latest technological and architectural advances with an idea that's as old as the hills--the Roman hills, that is. Houses in ancient Rome were often built around an atrium, a central courtyard, that provided air and sun, and could yet be enjoyed in privacy. Our duplex penthouse uses the atrium concept but is otherwise a model of modernity. Its first level provides for the more gregarious pursuits of the owner, both within its walls and on its garden and patio-terraces. The second level is reserved for his more intimate, private activities, and provides him with unroofed patio-terraces from which he may enjoy the sun and stars, the surrounding urban scene and seasons. Both first and second levels are oriented around the two-story atrium.
A 16-year-old boy in Tokyo is symbolic of the dissent that is sweeping Japan. Japan has become identified with U. S. militarism, and some say Japan is now thoroughly subdued by the U. S. military approach to world problems. Japan is a huge U. S. Air Force base. It is also the only means by which the Seventh Fleet replenishes its supplies and is able to continue its operations in Far Eastern waters.
"Beauty is a commodity that is used and then thrown away when something better comes along," declares lovely Jeanne Rejaunier, who lived through ten years of oncamera commercials before quitting to write The Beauty Trap. Broadly based on her modeling experiences, Jeanne's novel both reflects and denounces what she calls "the American dream--a culture which places a premium on beauty, success and status, and which lives by the images Madison Avenue dictates." Jeanne, who refuses to be caught in the trap, has never relied solely on her looks: She mastered three languages as a child, studied piano, violin and voice, and won her share of ribbons in equitation. A Vassar graduate, she also attended the Sorbonne, the University of Pisa and Rome's Goetheschule. After leaving the modeling scene, Jeanne moved to Hollywood, landed several movie and television roles and enrolled in a creative-writing workshop at UCLA. Now working on four more books, she has been asked to star in the film version of The Beauty Trap, but says, "I haven't made a decision. Anything that takes me away from writing has to be carefully weighed." Her little leisure time is spent with two calico cats, Tabby and Kimmy, and riding her horse, Red Pepper. Regarding the bridal path, she feels that "the conventional type of marriage, for the sake of society, is not for me. All too often, women forfeit their individualism. I won't do that." Whatever her future holds is certain to be founded on more than pulchritude. As Jeanne put it when she posed for us among some auto wrecks, "Beauty be-comes tacky if there's nothing behind it but junk, and ends up--like all material things--in the junk yard." Predictably, there's no such fate in store for this beauty.
Looking at the decade that has just passed, even from close range, no one could fail to sense that there was something very special--and terrible--about it. The Sixties weren't just another ten years of our lives. Generational continuity vanished; the quality of behavior was radically altered. This alteration showed itself most dramatically, most beautifully and most brutally in the children of the decade, those who were in their teens at its inception and came of age toward its close. They were different, perhaps fundamentally, from all the generations that preceded them; and it is by watching them that their elders are beginning to realize how really different the world is--and will be.
One day, Martin Gans found himself driving out to the Long Island funeral of Norbert Mandel, a total stranger. A habit of his was to take a quick check of the obit section in The New York Times each day, concentrating on the important deaths, then scanning the medium-famous ones and some of the also-rans. The listing that caught his eye on this particular day was that of Norbert Mandel, although Gans did not have the faintest idea why he should be interested in the passing of this obscure fellow. The item said that Mandel, of Syosset, Long Island, had died of a heart attack at the age of 73, leaving behind two sisters, Rose and Sylvia, also one son, a Brooklyn optometrist named Phillip. It said, additionally, that Mandel had served on an East Coast real-estate board and many years back had been in the Coast Guard. An ordinary life, God knows, with nothing flashy about it, at least on the surface. Gans read the item in a vacant, mindless way, but suddenly found his interest stirred, a fire breaking out with no apparent source. Was it the sheer innocuousness of the item? Of Mandel's life? He traveled on to other sections of the paper, sports and even maritime, but the Mandel story now began to prick at him in a way that he could not ignore; he turned back to the modest paragraph and read it again and again, until he knew it by heart and felt a sweeping compulsion to race out to Mandel's funeral, which was being held in a memorial chapel on the south shore of Long Island.
Astrologers are in strong disagreement over whether or not we are yet living in the Age of Aquarius. The Playmates of 1969, along with so many of those who graced centerfolds of years past, seem to lend themselves strongly to the camp that believes we are well into Aquarius, with its incumbent freedoms of expression and life style or, in other words, a period of 20 centuries or so in which the thing to do is--your own thing. For many of last year's girls, being a Playmate has opened up fresh vistas. July's Nancy McNeil, who just turned 22 under the sign of Sagittarius (frank, honest and gregarious), was a bridesmaid when she was tagged as a most likely Playmate. Since Nancy appeared in the gatefold, she's discovered that she has a real talent for dealing with people and is now on her way toward a promising career in promotion. Nancy also found that small planes are her bag. She was up in a single-engine job for the first time recently and says, "It was the wildest experience of my life." For a look at last year's other highflying Playmates, let your radar scan the following pages.
I was five years old when I volunteered to stooge for the local conjurer at a Christmas party. "What a nice little chap," he said. taking me on his knee. "But I think he needs oiling." He produced a mammoth oilcan and threatened me with it. I screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed. Never again have I screamed so loudly or so continuously. The magic show had to be abandoned, then the party. I screamed all the way home; I screamed when they were putting me to bed; and I screamed in my sleep for several nights to come. Was I, I ask myself, a normal child? Certainly. I have a natural horror of stooging.
There is a controversy in American law that reflects the uncertainty and division of contemporary American society. A universal and understandable concern with the rising rate of crime has led to a frustrating search for solutions. The frustration has bred drastic and desperate demands, among them, various proposals to alter the Constitution --or recent Supreme Court interpretations of it--in the hope that, thereby, law and order may be "restored." Some of the proposals have been made into slogans; for example, "Take the handcuffs off the police." Even more sophisticated suggestions are based on the idea of "liberating" officials from constitutional restraints. These critics do not put forth merely new and much-needed devices for the prevention of crime, such as better training and higher pay for the police. sufficient manpower for effective patrol or improved techniques and equipment. They propose to alter the fundamental balance established in the Bill of Rights between the powcr of government and the autonomy of the individual. The Bill of Rights is to be adjusted to meet our concern over crime. In particular, the Fifth Amendment has been attacked as a luxury we cannot afford in the current crisis. Even such an eminent jurist as Henry Friendly of the Federal Court of Appeals, Second Circuit, has gone so far as to propose a constitutional amendment to reverse recent interpretations of the self-incrimination provisions of the Fifth Amendment, fudge Friendly has been joined in this demand by others in the judicial and law-enforcement professions. One of the most outspoken is former governor of New York Thomas E. Dewey, who has said, "We could get along just as well if we repealed the Fifth Amendment." In a time of such panic-inspired rhetoric, it is necessary to examine the reasons for our constitutional protections.
The Human Body has appeared throughout modern times in the visual arts primarily in abstract forms. Some avow that representational art is now on its way back; but it seems hung up for the moment on soup cans, soft watches, plaster of Paris and pseudo-psychedelic effects. Which makes the continuing career of Alberto Vargas all the more remarkable: Over the past five decades, his straightforward renderings have unflinchingly asserted the natural beauty of the human figure--specifically, the female. Vargas' women have always been irresistibly real, from the desirable, dissolute flappers he painted in 1920 to the liberated lovelies he portrays today. The life story of the Peruvian-born painter is by now familiar: He honed his skills during 15 years of painting posters with painstakingly wrought impressions of Flo Ziegfeld's showgirls, an abbreviated stint as a star sketcher in Hollywood and an especially productive period--cut short by legal hassles--as a regular contributor to "Esquire" before his work first adorned these pages in March 1957. It didn't take long for Vargas and Playboy to realize their mutual admiration, and the artist's relationship with the magazine quickly became a permanent one. Now in his eighth decade--like the turbulent century to which he has given a small but valuable note of stability--Vargas shows no signs of slackening production; and as the accompanying illustrations, which span the past decade, indicate, he remains as sure-handed as ever.
Morocco has, in the course of the past decade, become a buzzing mecca for visitors who want to experience the Arabian nights (and days) in a western-flavored and dazzlingly beautiful setting. Its biggest cities--Casablanca, Marrakesh and Tangier--all have distinctly different characteristics yet retain the singular mystique and aura of intrigue that has been associated with Arabic lands since time immemorial. The country's beaches, meanwhile, have won to Morocco's side a new generation of sun worshipers who have only recently discovered the nation's magnificent strands. The novice visitor to Morocco is instantly and rewardingly jolted by the culture collision he observes: Morocco's society and customs, from its veiled women to its extraordinary cuisine down to its tolerance of kif smoking, are experiences that stay with the traveler. LeRoy Neiman, Playboy's artist on the go, recently made the Moroccan scene and reports: "Morocco is a beautiful, beautiful land, in almost every respect. I've been to beaches all over the world, and at Agadir--particularly in the confines of the Club Méditerranée, the mostly French vacation club--the beaches are sensational. Moroccans themselves are fascinating; there's a keenness, a superalert intelligence always operating when you talk to them. And they are classically attractive: Arab women have the same look of exotic allure that caught the fancy of Van Dongen in his paintings at the beginning of the century; the men still possess those proud, fiercely untamed qualities that inspired Delacroix 150 years ago. Of the cities I visited, I liked Tangier best; it's hilly, scenic, on the Mediterranean and is also the epitome of everything goes. Casablanca--fascinating during the day--seemed ominous at night: One constantly hears tales of travelers being waylaid in this flat, sprawling city. Marrakesh is a delight, because its market place is probably the world's most exciting and unusual. But so many things I encountered in Morocco seemed new and unusual; I think it may be one of the last places in the world where one can experience true adventure."
The mist from the waterfall spray hung, lazy in the air; caught fire; settled gently on her dark hair, bronze shoulders and breasts; finally, ran in drops like small tears and fell from her nipples. Lakat was sad. She knew that her parents were right to scold and the village was right to mock her. Most of the other girls her age had already borne a child; she alone was a virgin. They did not understand, but Lakat could not tell them without bringing death to herself and shame to all her people.
In Reviewing our editorial content for 1969, we found that the wealth of fiction, nonfiction, humor and satire published by Playboy proved to be an embarrassment of riches when it came to picking the winners of our annual awards. With the number of categories increased to include citations for best major work, best new writers of fiction and nonfiction, best essay and best satire, eight contributors will this year receive tokens of our appreciation and respect--for each, a $1000 monetary prize and an engraved silver medallion encased in a clear Lucite prism (shown at left). Along with our awards, we also include mention of those writers who, in our editorial poll, came closest to the winners. We hope that Playboy readers will concur with our choices, and ask them--and our other contributors--to bear in mind that the process of selection necessitates the exclusion of much that is praiseworthy.
Although he made his first sale at 14 and hit the best-seller lists at 26 with his science-fiction thriller The Andromeda Strain, Chicago-born Michael Crichton has taken some unusual digressions for a writer. After he was graduated summa cum laude from Harvard and lectured in anthropology for a semester at Cambridge, he returned to his alma mater to take a degree in medicine--although he doesn't plan to practice. "I simply lost interest in being a doctor and became more concerned with the conceptual questions of medicine and science." While studying to not be a doctor, Crichton wrote so copiously that he used pseudonyms, to make sure his patients never suspected he was devoting less than full time to their infirmities. One of his books--A Case of Need, by "Jeffery Hudson"--won an Edgar award as best mystery of the year from the Mystery Writers of America. During this period, Crichton also worked on Andromeda, published under his own name just prior to his graduation from medical school last June. The three-year effort produced a story of the terror caused by an outer-space plague brought into the world by characters entirely plausible to anyone who ponders the perils of cooperation between science and the military. "I never expected Andromeda to do as well as it has," says the author. "I thought it was too technical. But it put me in a position to do what I want to do creatively. It's given me the prestige I need to get into projects that interest me." Currently a postgraduate fellow at the Salk Institute in La Jolla, California--where he does basic research into the effects of biological breakthroughs on society--Crichton has immersed himself in such projects. "I'm doing a novel on dope traffic with my brother. He's 20 and has a perspective on the thing I can't get." Also in the works: a screenplay and a nonfiction book on medicine. Beyond these efforts, Crichton looks forward to film production. "I want to construct a unified production setup where the person with the idea can follow through from conception to fruition." Being equally at home with science and fiction, the person with the idea is most likely to be Crichton.
"I race for the fun of it," says 30-year-old world champion Grand Prix driver John Young (Jackie) Stewart. "But I'll be the first to say that this is a deadly serious business--and should be conducted that way." The long-haired racing driver's life style is in the best jet-set tradition, but the evidence that he practices what he preaches in his dangerous trade is his track record. Of the eleven Grands Prix run in 1969, Stewart won six--a feat exceeded only once in the half-century history of the sport, when the speedy Scot's compatriot, the late Jim Clark, won seven in 1963. Jackie's younger years were an open invitation to his present occupation: His father owned a garage; his mother enjoyed motoring over the moors in modified sports cars; and his older brother raced professionally all over Europe. But after the last Stewart had a spate of death-grazing accidents, Jackie's mother forbade her younger son to set foot in a race car. He wasn't very put off by the prohibition, since he had dropped out of school and was busy becoming one of the best skeet shooters in the world; between 1957 and 1962, while living at home, he won nearly every trapshooting title in the British Empire. Then one day the traps became tiresome and he simply stopped shooting. It was then that he heeded friends' suggestions and turned to the race track. In 1964, after a brilliant professional debut, he joined the European racing circuit and moved into a London flat with Clark. As a rookie Formula I driver in 1965, Stewart took the Italian G. P. His next successes were mingled with smashups, making him a conscientious campaigner for safety as well as speed. His skills highly honed by 1968, he took the grandes épreuves of Holland, Germany and the United States, just missing the crown he would wear the next year driving a Matra-Ford. Away from work, Stewart relaxes at his $240,000 six-acre Swiss villa with his wife, Helen, and their two sons. He also hunts pheasant in Czechoslovakia, golfs in France, fishes for salmon in Scotland and, suited by Savile Row, goes dancing at the in-est London discothèques. It's obvious why, on or off the track, Stewart is a hard man to keep up with.
If anyone is likely to write a theological dissertation comparing Abraham, Isaac and Jacob with Groucho, Chico and Harpo, it is comedian-actor-writer David Steinberg, whose satirical sermonettes proved offensive to the CBS censors and prompted the Smothers Brothers' cancellation. Despite the controversy, Steinberg was signed last fall as host of ABC's Music Scene, an uptempo version of Your Hit Parade featuring top rock artists and satirical comedy by Steinberg and a company of youthful cohorts. Though his earlier television exposure had been mainly confined to sermonizing, Music Scene has allowed him to explore the idol-smashing comic perspective he displayed as an actor at Chicago's improvisational Second City. Born in Winnipeg, Manitoba, in 1941, he first came to Chicago at 15 to study at the Yeshiva Theological School, pursuing the Talmudic interest instilled in him by his father--a sometime grocer, sometime rabbi. Alter a UNESCO scholarship sent him to Jerusalem's Hebrew University, where he earned his degree in Hebrew literature, he returned at 18 to complete a master's degree in English literature at the University of Chicago. Four years at The Second City followed and then Steinberg started satirizing on his own, at New York's Bitter End, at the Troubadour in Los Angeles and, finally, on such network shows as Johnny Carson's, Dick Cavctt's, John Davidson's and the Smothers Brothers'. He also scripted a critically acclaimed television special, This Is Sholom Aleicliem, starred in two ill-fated Broadway plays, Sidney Poitier's Carry Me Back to Morningside Heights and Jules Feiffer's Little Murders, and appeared with Poitier in the film The Lost Man. Now, banking on his Music Scene popularity, Steinberg is planning to star in a comedy film with music, which he co-authored with Cy Coleman. The plot centers around a New York "gypsy boy"--male chorus dancer--struggling in the insular milieu of Broadway musicals. Happily, in whatever David Steinberg does, he works at the upper limits of his intellect, making this 28-year-old talent a special commodity in a business that too often opts for inanity.
Are you enjoying my party, Benton? You'd better take some champagne while you can. Everyone's been grab grab grabbing it up!I'm not Benton. I'm Solly. And I don't drink. I smoke.I'm Benton.You smoke too much, Solly! And those horrid cigars! … ugh! Look at Lance Silverthin back there. See how stylish he is when he smokes.