Playbill make no mistake about it--the Ripon Society, a 2000-member progressive-Republican research and policy group, has President Nixon's seal of approval. Indeed, the highlight of the association's recent seventh-anniversary dinner was a telegram from the Chief, hailing Ripon's impatience with the "tired approaches of the past and its readiness to explore ideas whose time is coming." Just such an exploration is presented in this issue by Josiah Lee Auspitz, the organization's 29-year-old president. In For a Moderate Majority, he foresees the emergence of a young elite whose political involvement will lead the nation toward reconciliation, reform and social progress. After serving on the White House staff as research director of the President's Advisory Council on Executive Organization, Auspitz is now back at Harvard, teaching courses in government while completing work for his Ph.D. Another hopeful note is sounded in The Great Campus Manhunt, in which Max Gunther reveals how corporate college recruiters are hiring more postgraduate talent than ever before, despite increased student sales resistance and growing numbers of anti-business activists. While researching Manhunt on various campuses, Gunther spent a day talking to the students at Hofstra University's placement office. "After a while," he says, "it became apparent that many of them had a mistaken notion of my mission--they thought I was recruiting new employees for Playboy and were disappointed to learn that I was working on a story assignment. When I asked why they wanted to work for a magazine, they gave answers such as 'chance to influence people,' 'chance to make some kind of footprint in history.' The only thing that scared them was the possibility of becoming anonymous. Money was one of the last things on their minds, which seems to be symptomatic among a growing campus group."
Playboy, April, 1970, Vol. 17, No. 4. 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.
Just a beer-can's throw across the great highway from a stretch of unswimmable surf, the pinball and tilt-a-whirl world of Playland-at-the-Beach plays incurious host to a famous San Francisco rock dance hall, The Family Dog. The Dog is slightly inaccessible from downtown, but at this hospitable site, the neighbors are not the kind to be offended by hippie high jinks, and it's a prime choice for an evening of heavy rock. Not long ago, on a Tuesday night, we dropped in not for a dance but for the opening ceremonies of a three-night Holy Man Jam, a sort of summit meeting for hip-community religious figures from East and West. Threading our way through the crowd of 2000, past clusters of stretched-out hippie ascetics, we found a vantage point near the stagee--just in time, it turned out, to see a fire-eater and his backup band embraced one by one by a huge, bearlike chap in a bathing suit. "Stoned on barbiturates and Ripple wine," assayed a 14-year-old groupie, who was painted up as a lady of the evening.
Robert Townsend, chief executive of Avis Rent A Car during its try-harder days, has written a very funny manual--Up the Organization (Knopf)--with the serious purpose of dismantling the senseless hierarchies and useless institutions that characterize American business. Unfortunately, his reforms would cause mass unemployment: "Fire the whole personnel department. Records can be kept in the payroll section of the accounting department and your one-girl people department (she answers her own phone and does her own typing) acts as personnel (sorry--people) assistant to anybody who is recruiting." What about public relations? "Yes, fire this whole department, too. If you have an outside PR firm, fire them, too." And purchasing? "Yes, fire the whole purchasing department." As for management consultants, they are "people who borrow your watch to tell you what time it is and then walk off with it." Up the Organization is even harsher on that oddest of all business institutions, the board of directors. "I've never heard a single suggestion from a director (made at a board meeting) that produced any result at all." As for board meetings themselves: "Be sure to serve cocktails and a heavy lunch before the meeting. At least one of the older directors will fall asleep (literally) at the meeting and the consequent embarrassment will make everyone eager to get the whole mess over as soon as possible." Most books about business are poorly written, humorless and pointless. Let us hope that the encouraging trend begun by The Peter Principle and carried forward by Up the Organization will continue. A final quote from the quotable Townsend: "If you can't do it excellently, don't do it at all. Because if it's not excellent, it won't be profitable or fun. And if you're not in business for fun or profit, what the hell are you doing here?"
Federico Fellini, whose flair for cinematic fantasy has produced such landmarks as La Dolce Vita and 8-1/2, pays homage to ancient Rome (circa A.D. 66) in his epochal Fellini Satyricon, loosely drawn from the fragmented classic of Gaius Petronius Arbiter, Rome's official "master of excess" during the reign of Nero. The work still describes the adventures of three exquisite bisexual boys: the blond student-hero, Encolpius, his lover, Giton, and former love and sexual rival, Ascyltus. But Fellini's Rome gives short shrift to individual actors. His episodic tale, with no straight beginning or end, is a fabulous trip into a totally decadent civilization that often bears striking resemblances to the world of today. Fellini is so circumspect about pressing his message home, however, that a viewer who is so inclined may just settle back and enjoy the spectacle as outright voyeurism--a gaudy theatrical side show peopled by whores, pimps, freaks, voluptuaries, rich vulgarians, conniving poets and pederasts. The boys do, indeed, encounter some bizarre types as they proceed from a vast brothel to an orgiastic banquet at the house of the wealthy Trimalchio, then on to a series of kinky escapades, which include Encolpius' brief marriage to a nobleman in charge of a slave ship; a meeting with an insatiable nymphomaniac; the kidnaping of a hermaphroditic oracle; and an encounter with a Minotaur in a maze, followed by a case of impotence so severe that Encolpius has to placate the god Priapus by bedding a sorceress whose mount of Venus emits fire. Because Fellini's particular talent, as evidenced in earlier epics, creates a modern mythology around the creatures of our cool contemporary society, a kind of aesthetic overkill results when he uses his genius to embellish the already extravagant blend of myth and profligacy that Petronius knew as Rome. Yet what Fellini means to say, in his matchless and self-indulgent way, is something about the eternal promise of youth in a time of violence and political upheaval. His venturesome, amoral young heroes would rather make love than make money or war. In the film's compelling climax, it is only the young who sail away to discover a new mode of life, while their greedy elders stay behind and honor the bequest of a scheming old poet whose heirs must devour his corpse.
Rock 'n' roll--like most musical idioms--is best performed by the men who created it. So it didn't surprise us to find that Carl Perkins on Top (Columbia; also available on stereo tape) is a stone gas. Backed by a hard-driving combo, the original Blue Suede Shoes man is togetherness itself as he wails on Superfool, Power of My Soul and eight other items. Continuing his comeback, meanwhile, is Elvis Presley, whose latest is a twin release, Elvis in Person (etched in Las Vegas) and Back in Memphis (both RCA; also available on stereo tape). In excellent voice and with stellar support (The Sweet Inspirations were present at the Vegas gig), Elvis brings it all back home on 23 tunes, ranging from All Shook Up to his recent number-one hit, Suspicious Minds.
Last of the Red Hot Lovers is Neil Simon's first all-out effort to write not just another hit comedy but a seriocomic play. It isn't quite serio enough to score in that double-edged genre, but it's amply comic to make it one of the delights of the season. Simon's hero is a fat, 40ish fish restaurateur--most admirably played by James Coco--who is happily but humdrumly married. He decides to have one dashing affair to give some dazzle to his ennui-filled life. In each of the three acts, red-hot comic Coco tries, desperately and ineptly, to vault into adultery. His first flop is with an oversexed, under-satisfied matron (Linda Lavin). Her face atwitch with impatience, she awaits his pass; but he is full of misgivings. For one thing, he's mortally afraid that they will leave some sign of disarray in his mother's apartment--the scene of all three trysts. The first scene is very funny and oddly touching, as the author reveals the nerve ends beneath the buffoonery. As if afraid of emotion, he quickly undercuts the moving moment with wisecracks. In the next two acts, the would-be seducer tries to make it with a paranoid post-teeny-bopper and with his wife's best friend. The actresses, Marcia Rodd and Doris Roberts, are adept, but the characters are less distinctive than the first. Their scenes are not really developments of a dramatic line, just two more amusing set pieces illustrating the restaurateur's complaint. Even with its faults, however, this is the prodigiously successful playwright's most adventurous work so far; a sign, perhaps, of less simple Simons to come. At the Eugene O'Neill, 230 West 49th Street.
I'm about to become engaged to the girl I've been dating for two years. Her father is an officer in the Navy and that's what she thinks she is, too. If I make a mistake, she's upset. If she's inconvenienced, she's upset. When we disagree, I have to do the making up. But I love her, despite the fact that she thinks she's the admiral and I'm the swabby. I'd like to be master of my own ship but don't know what to do about it. What's your advice?--W. A., Newport News, Virginia.
When Mary Steichen Calderone, a public-health physician and grandmother of two, became director of the newly formed Sex Information and Education Council of the United Slates in May of 1964, she scarcely anticipated that within four years she would be accused of corrupting children and countenancing communism. For Dr. Calderone and the other founders of SIECUS, their aim had been nothing more sinister than "to establish man's sexuality as a health entity." According to their statement of purpose, this means: "to identify the special characteristics that distinguish [human sexuality] from, yet relate it to, human reproduction; to dignify it by openness of approach, study and scientific research designed to lead toward its understanding and its freedom from exploitation; to give leadership to professionals and to society, to the end that human beings may be aided toward responsible . . . assimilation of sex into their individual life patterns as a creative and re-creative force."
Francis Dows did not go along with the generally accepted principle of our century that a teacher has a moral obligation to like his pupils. Affection was not necessary to the training of tigers, seals nor even of dogs, so why should it be to the instruction of such brutes as made up the eighth grade English class at St. Christopher's? Of course, he had to be careful to avoid being caught, by parents or even by the boys themselves, in any open display of animosity. It was a kind of parlor game and one that the latter, God bless them, thoroughly enjoyed. They were always doing their exuberant, whooping best to drive him into open country.
In the second half of 1968, a new mood of realism about the financial impact of the Vietnam war began to emerge in high-level Government conferences and in the national press. The most notable example was a report delivered by Daniel Patrick Moynihan that said the budgetary savings from the war's end would be totally consumed through the early 1970s by current and proposed military and domestic programs, given projected population growth. Little money would be left over for social reform. The effect of the report was to dash the hopes of many socially conscious Americans that the billions of dollars being spent in Vietnam could be turned to urgent and exciting new projects as soon as the war is over.
If the coming age is to call forth the best energies in the country, those who are engaged in politics must adopt a position that fits reality. Unfortunately, such a stance is not to be found in any existing doctrine--liberal, radical or conservative--and I would like to describe a politics that will be more suited to the realities of the new decade than those outmoded ideologies. My position is engaged, moderate, progressive--and Republican. And since my reasons for adopting it are neither autobiographical nor mystical, I expect that they can be shared by a large number of people.
Myra Van Heck is involved in the world of gambling, by nature as well as by profession. Occupationally, the 23-year-old British beauty is a roulette croupier at the London Playboy Club. But contests of all kinds are her forte, because her clearly stated ambition is to be rich and famous and to retire early. Since beauty contests have a way of bringing their winners precisely those rewards that Myra professes to seek, she entered the Miss England Contest. "I went for a giggle with all the other girls," she said. But the blue-eyed brunette was soon smiling brightly in all her Britannic majesty as the queen of the event. "I never dreamed of entering a beauty competition before that," said the regal Bunny. "Though it started as a lark, it turned out to be a serious thing--and hard work when, the competition actually began." As a result of her victory, there was more work in store for Myra. She became one of the 62 girls representing their respective homelands in the 18th annual Miss Universe Pageant at Miami Beach. Though she didn't carry the crown away after that event, Myra did emerge as the most candid contestant of the hour. When asked about the tight schedule of activities the entrants were required to attend, Myra snapped: "They don't even give us time to go to the bloody bathroom." But when one of the pageant's chaperones told a television reporter that the girls had no time to watch TV, Myra reversed field. "She's fibbing," Myra said of the chaperone. "We watch the telly every night to see if we're on." Upbraided for her bluntness, the lovely Myra said, "I'm not going to change the way I talk for any beauty pageant." After the contest, Myra returned to Bunnydom and her gig at the gaming tables. "It's as interesting as any job can be," she says. "And it takes a certain amount of intelligence to control all the action at the board. You have to watch the spinning wheel, the ivory ball, the stack of chips and the bettors--all at the same time. It's really a challenge." After becoming one of the crowned heads of the Commonwealth, there followed an inevitable increase in Myra's responsibilities around the Bunny hutch. In addition to other new duties, she began working days as a teaching assistant for the director and general manager of the London Playboy Club, Peter Ryan, who lectures on business management at a nearby polytechnical school. The subject of his course is a matter for close scrutiny to the many British businessmen who attend: It's a study of the growth of Editor-Publisher Hugh M. Hefner's Playboy empire. Though Ryan does most of the talking, Myra is a capital asset in keeping the class attentive. Queen Myra may not be wealthy or famous enough to retire just yet, but when she does take her turn at the leisurely life, we'll be the first to agree that she's entitled to rest on her royalties.
Lucy, please save this whole tape. This is a tough letter to write and I may not get it right the first time. But I want to save any false starts, just for the record. No need to transcribe the false starts, if any. Just file the tape, after you type up the final version. The letter goes to Howard J. Faxton, at that Holiday Inn north of town. You can check the proper address. I'll want hand delivery on it.
When we came into the alley, the children stopped playing. They stood poised, watching us. There were two-story brick buildings on both sides, with wooden stairways that shut out all but a thin blue strip of sky. Filthy rags and broken bottles lay on the concrete pavement. There were women sitting on the doorsteps, some of them together, talking, but most of them alone, sitting still, ignoring the heat and the buzzing flies.
Now that the sun season is almost upon us, it's time we again cast ourself in the role of fashion seer and predict what we believe will be stylishly wise investments for the months to come. As readers of Playboy know, the word suit is no longer limited to a matching jacket and trousers. Shirt suits in various fabrics, including satin, synthetic blends and shiny knits, will continue to be worn in place of conventional models when the occasion is relatively casual. (The shirt can be worn open to the waist, if you've the build for it.) During working hours, of (text concluded on page 111) course, you'll want to play it fashionably safe and wear a more conservative look--perhaps a two-button, shaped suit, classic white, oyster and gray being the most popular shades. (We also foresee that light-colored linen suits will return in wide-lapelled singie-breasteds that feature bellowed patch pockets, wide straight-legged trousers--some with pleats--and deep cuffs.)
"I get stale if I stay too long in one place," says Playmate Barbara Hillary. "In fact, it really doesn't do me any good to just go from city to city; I need to keep changing the total character of my surroundings to feel challenged." Milwaukee-born Barbara has followed her nomadic impulses far and frequently in her 21 years, sampling everything from the urban sophistication of Manhattan to the frontier rigors of Alaska. "I don't feel the split between country and city the way some people do," says Miss April. "I find something I like in just about every environment." Part of the lure of New York was her job as a Bunny at our hutch there. "I loved it. It's great experience for a young girl; I got to know all kinds of people--girls I worked with and customers I served--and I learned a lot from them." Like many of the Club Bunnies, Barbara also did some free-lance modeling and acting, appearing in a number of television commercials and one full-length A.T. & T. documentary film. After nine months, she left for Florida and a more leisurely life style. Our sunny Miss April found her destination--St. Petersburg--warm and relaxed, full of all those diversions eulogized in the airline ads. "I love the sea. I guess I love it the way poets do, for its mystery. That's what I dug about Florida, the beauty of the sea, the solitude of a quiet beach." After the Midwest, New York and St. Pete, our pioneer Playmate decided to investigate the last frontier--Alaska. "I first went up there to visit my sister and her husband, who live in Juneau--right on the Gastineau Channel--and I liked it so much I stayed and worked for a few months as a camp counselor. I've been back a couple of times since then. I'm like the natives, who have a difficult time explaining why they love the place to skeptical outsiders. It may be cold, remote and primitive, but I think it's great. It's dean and wild; you really feel like you're on the edge of civilization, where things are a little dangerous. I was chased by a bear once at camp; that's really more excitement than I need, but it makes a good story." Back in the more prosaic confines of Milwaukee, Barbara intends to return to Alaska. Readers will certainly agree that she would make a bounteous addition to the already abundant resources of the 49th state.
If montreal were located in Europe instead of in North America, it would probably be as popular with Americans as London and Paris, for Canada's biggest city is also one of the Western world's most beautiful and stylish metropolises. For some reason, however, proximity has bred relative indifference and neglect and, with the exception of the Northeastern states, America knows and cares little about Montreal. But that's changing fast, thanks to such disparate developments as Expo 67, the Quebec separatist movement, last fall's police strike and resulting mass riot, baseball's National League expansion and John and Yoko's Bed-in for peace.
Hard-Drinking, high-living Eddie (the Knoxville Bear) Taylor, a man not above challenging a destitute widow to a game of nine ball for her last loaf of bread, ran into pure and pious Irving Crane a while ago in Washington, D. C. Crane, rested and looking his usual well-groomed best, had just won the world championship in pocket billiards and was in the capital to present a series of exhibitions to local Servicemen.
Synopsis: The kingdom of Chanda, once a peaceful never-never country of elephants, parasols, temples, handsome brown people and the mysterious spirits called phi, has changed. Since the war began in Vietnam, there have been many newcomers doing many strange things in Chanda. There are, for instance, the official Americans, all with something different on their minds. Colonel Kelly, the military advisor to the king, has decided to raise American prestige in the land by acquiring an elephant--which will "show the slopeheads we understand their country." He has sent for Marine Master Sergeant Danny Campo to do the job, and Campo has latched onto Harry Mennan, a cowboy spotter pilot, to help out. There is also Coakley, an Ivy League whip who is the mission's State Department clerk and who fears the imminent arrival of an inspection team under General Grider. Coakley, it should be noted, has kept no files whatsoever. En route with the general are foreign-service officer Walter Glover and Margaret, his assistant both in the office and in bed. Unofficial American types include Charley Dog, who drifted in after a couple of busts in the States. And then there is Dawn, a voiceless beauty of much-mixed ancestry who got there by way of a Special Services entertainment troupe. A number of people represent other nations in Chanda as well: Tay Vinh, a cultural attaché from North Vietnam, who knows a lot more about artillery than about poetry; Alexander Nadolsky, the Soviet ambassador; Marya Pleisetskya, a diligent Soviet military attaché-watcher; and Andreas the Greek, who combines hotelkeeping with a one-man spy service. There is also Buon Kong, the wise and venerable Chandan philosopher.
She stands below you, at the foot of the steps that have been wheeled up to the door of the jet. She's wearing a rather dowdy ground-hostess uniform and a modified overseas-style cap set almost squarely on her head and looks much as you might expect--buxom, dark-haired, dark-eyed and slightly stocky. But, contrary to the Broadway-Hollywood-musical-comedy version of Israeli life in which beautiful girls dance in a circle and sing "Shalom, shalom" to all visitors, this girl--the first Israeli you have encountered--says only, "Please stand here until all the passengers are off the plane," and then marches you across the concrete ramp to the (text continued on page 150) doors of the terminal building.
Last Spring, a friend of mine handed me part of a computer print-out and told me, "It's off a machine in California that uses a program called Dr. Otto Matic--get it?--and when you run it, the computer talks back, to you as if it were a psychiatrist. Isn't that a trip?"
There was a certain guido in Naples who had a secret madness, an obsession of the most absurd kind. Yet he was a handsome, courteous gentleman, well educated, prosperous and wellborn, and no one suspected this fantasy of his. In fact, if it had ever been spoken, any listener would have taken it as no more than a joke in bad taste. Guido had fallen in love with the queen.
A complaint sometimes voiced by owners of even the highest-priced Detroit hardware is that they can barely leave their driveways before running across virtual duplicates of the machines they're piloting. Sensing the need for something to set one apart from the rest of the traffic without going overboard financially, several small but enterprising California car builders not too long ago came up with what they felt was a wise solution to a problem that involved both aesthetics and status. They evolved fiberglass auto bodies--turned out at a relatively modest unit cost, despite a limited "production--that could be purchased in kit form, assembled by the do-it-yourselfer and bolted to an already existing frame in fairly short order. The result of this skin graft, at first applied only on Volkswagen and Corvair chassis, was to turn tortoises into tigers--visually, at least. A few constructors then took the next logical step (what with the American predilection for performance) and designed chassis and installed power plants that came close to matching the svelte, swift look of the bodies covering them. Interiors were made sports-car functional, with no-nonsense instrumentation and (text concluded on page 236)Class with Glass (continued from page 156) low-slung bucket seats. In most cases, current machines can be purchased in three stages of completion: in the economical assemble-it-yourself kit; with the body completely assembled and ready to bolt onto a chassis; or in the ready-to-roll condition of the quartet of vehicles Playboy has pictured.
Mike Frazier, the young personnel manager of Grey Advertising, Inc., sits in a library cul-de-sac at Harvard University. He is prospecting. His mission is to find bright Harvard men who, upon graduation, will be willing to work at Grey as account-executive trainees. He studies some sheets of paper supplied to him by the university's job-placement office; the résumé and academic history of his day's first prospect. On paper, the prospect looks ideal; he's a student of high academic standing and apparently enormous energy, a man involved in extracurricular activities and part-time work, a man with drive and ambition. A man, evidently-- ah, beautiful!--to whom might be applied all those grand hyphenated labels that the business world esteems so highly: a self-starter, a go-getter, a take-charge guy. Exactly the kind of man to be an account executive in a big New York ad agency.
Her electric hair, hip slang and midi-fashions suggest that Caroline Coon is a social butterfly rather than a social worker. This pretty 23-year-old is the cofounder of Release, a London-based, youth-oriented welfare agency that provides service round the clock. Over two years ago, Caroline abandoned a lucrative career in modeling (you may remember her well-publicized men's-magazine uncoverage, reported by Time and Life) and, with friend Rufus Harris, organized Release to help young violators of Britain's drug laws. "Too many kids were getting busted and doing time because they didn't have the right information," says Caroline. "The straights wouldn't even admit a problem existed, so the kids were on their own." She knows what that's like: When she was five, her parents sent her to ballet school and at 16 she left home--and school--for good. "But the strict discipline at school," she says, "did help keep me together enough to stick with what I'm doing now." For those who come to Release, it's a good thing she did: The agency has capably handled more than 2000 cases to date. Last spring, Caroline and Rufus published the first Release Report on Drug Offenders and the Law, stating that on marijuana and hashish charges, none of their first offenders went to prison (as against 17 percent nationally) and, of all their cases, only 10 percent went to prison (compared with 26 percent nationally). Release recently expanded its staff and services to include counseling on contraception and abortion; and advice on other legal problems is dispensed by volunteer lawyers twice a week. After her long work week is over, Caroline studies sociology and psychology and makes frequent radio and TV appearances for the cause. Because Release is different from what Caroline calls "the straight agencies," it is effective; she and her co-workers think, talk and dress like the kids they try to help. Certainly for Britain's troubled youth, Release is the best thing that's happened in a Coon's age.
An unemployed college dropout in the fall of 1967, New Yorker Jann Wenner had an idea for a rock publication that would do more than supply teeny-boppers with pinups and sing-along lyrics. It would be well written and carefully edited, with respect for the intelligence of the audience it was aimed at--"the new America," as he called it--and would frequently deal with subjects not directly related to music, since he felt this was "only the tip of an iceberg of cultural change." With this conception--formed while gaining experience as a music critic and columnist for UC's Daily Californian and as a staff writer for Ramparts--Wenner approached jazz-rock columnist Ralph Gleason and free-lance photographer Baron Wolman for help with the practicalities of the project. Gleason matched Wenner's $3000, and the budget for the project totaled $7500 after a little help from their friends. Along with an aggregation of volunteers, the threesome started work on Rolling Stone (the title taken from the old saying) in a loft office over a printing plant in San Francisco. The publication's stature rose steadily; so did the circulation--now over 125,000 and gaining 5000 subscriptions monthly and its influence in the rock world. A put-on review appraising a nonexistent album by "the Masked Marauders" as an authentic jam of such artists as John Lennon, Bob Dylan and Mick Jagger stirred so much comment that a group of pseudonymous mimics decided to cash in by recording the LP. They did; it sold 100,000 copies. Having launched a British edition, Wenner, now 24, hopes to publish new periodicals with similar formats on different subjects--but only if political trends don't continue toward the right. If they do, he has already made "all contingency plans necessary to leave this country." Though Wenner views this as "a high possibility," he's philosophically undaunted: "I'm prepared for a life of change; nothing lasts forever--even misfortune."
His conviction that a film director should give actors the freedom to find what's best in themselves has made John Cassavetes, at 40, an acknowledged master of the traditionally authoritarian director's craft. Unlike many equally successful but less gifted colleagues, however, he has had to prove his ability many times over. It was in 1950 that Cassavetes, fresh from the American Academy of Dramatic Art in his native New York, started in summer stock; he quickly progressed to television, acting in about 100 live dramas and starring in a series, Johnny Staccato. After several grade-B-movie roles--and a memorable one in Edge of the City--he directed Shadows, an improvised, experimental film that won him a director's gig at Paramount. But multitudinous hassles with "the bankers" of Hollywood left many with the impression that Cassavetes was finished in filmland by 1963. Two years of obscurity followed before he launched a second acting career that soon included roles in The Dirty Dozen and Rosemary's Baby. His incentive was a film of his own, Faces, shot with hand-held cameras in his house and that of his mother-in-law--while the bill collectors growled outside. Completed after four years of personal sacrifice, Cassavetes' brutally real dissection of a middle-class marriage not only vindicated his "catalytic" method of directing but also proved a box-office smash: Its gross may hit $8,000,000. Cassavetes was suddenly deluged with Hollywood offers, but found that the bankers were still reluctant to grant him artistic freedom--so it was with Italian money that he, Ben Gazzara and Peter Falk began filming Husbands. Slated for release next month, it tells the story of three men who, after a friend's funeral, take off on a binge that leaves them painfully aware of their own mortality. The still-uncut result was hailed in London as a work of genius--which may portend that Cassavetes will never again have to scramble for his scratch.