"I have been labeled a mystic," anthropologist Loren Eiseley once said, "because I have not been able to shut out wonder when I have looked at the world." This sense of awe is lyrically revealed in The Last Magician, in which Dr. Eiseley exhorts man to renew contact with his animal-forest heritage. Internationally known in both the scientific and the literary fields, he has been the Benjamin Franklin Professor of Anthropology and History of Science at the University of Pennsylvania and Curator of Early Man at the University Museum since 1961. The Last Magician will appear as a chapter in his forthcoming book, The Invisible Pyramid, to be published this fall by Charles Scribner's Sons. Another distinguished scientist in the vanguard of those fighting to save the earth for all living creatures is the charismatic subject of this month's Playboy Interview. Population biologist Dr. Paul Ehrlich graphically describes what we must do to combat the dangers of overpopulation, depletion of the world's natural resources and the ever-increasing contamination of our environment.
Playboy, August, 1970, Vol. 17, No. 8. 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 and $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.
Not long ago, we ventured off-Broadway to catch a remarkable double bill--The Unseen Hand plus Forensic and the Navigators--that was soon to close but turned out to be better than the New York critics had indicated in their death notices. We didn't know, as we entered the Astor Place Theater's unprepossessing lobby, that the lean, long-haired drummer whaling away in the corner as part of a high-decibel group known as Lothar and the Hand People was the author himself: 26-year-old Sam Shepard, who also wrote Operation Sidewinder (reviewed on page 34), a savage comic-strip satire concurrently installed at Lincoln Center's Vivian Beaumont Theater; who had won a fistful of off-Broadway Obies for such short plays as Red Cross and Chicago; who had co-authored the scenario of Michelangelo Antonioni's controversial Zabriskie Point; and who had provided Oh! Calcutta! with one of its more effective black-outs, about a country boy literally killing his father with a graphic description of sexual delight. Though Shepard has been described by some as the "great white hope" of the new American theater, New York Times critic Clive Barnes found his latest works impossible to understand, adding that "Shepard writes good disposable plays, and may become known as the man who became to drama what Kleenex was to the handkerchief."
Irving Howe, eminent literary critic and political analyst, has the distinction of wanting to be true and humane rather than original and shocking. His latest book of essays, Decline of the New (Harcourt, Brace & World), makes a sober effort to re-evaluate the heritage of literary modernism. Addressing himself to the fabled "common reader"--the man who reads Joyce and Cervantes, Kafka and Thomas Hardy with the same discerning pleasure--Howe ranges from the virtues and limitations of the culture of modernism to the recent garbled history of the New York intellectuals. When he's enthusiastically in tune with his subject, as in his moving essays on Isaac Bashevis Singer, George Orwell and Ignazio Silone, he really does tell the common reader something new and illuminating: but when, as in his essays on Céline and so-called post-modern fiction, he ventures into adjoining territory, where sensibility and fantasy count for more than judiciousness and decorum, he becomes slightly pompous. On balance, though, he is one of our most intelligent critics and has here made a notable attempt to build a solid causeway across the bogs and badlands of the present-day intellectual scene. In the anthology Beyond the New Left (McCall), Howe appears in his second important role as socialist and democrat, writing a roundup introduction to this series of essays by political thinkers as diverse and exciting as Theodore Draper, Richard Lowenthal, Paul Goodman, Lewis Coser and Michael Harrington. Can the need of the young for roaring revolutionary psychodrama be tamed and brought into line with the patient politics of reform and reconstruction? Howe and most of his associates in this volume think that it can and should, that a "strategy of coalition" must supplant the "passions of insurgency." To this end, they have covered almost every aspect of today's New Left scene, from Fanon and Debray to Marcuse and the Black Panthers. Anyone wishing to get a clear report on these matters could do much worse than read this book. On the other hand, it's unlikely to set anyone's mind and heart throbbing with visions of a revitalized socialism. If Goodman is right and the world is undergoing a change in values as vast and earth-shaking as the Protestant Reformation (a review of his book on the subject starts on this page), with the young people confusedly reflecting this stormy transition, then a great deal of what is said here may be reasonable, even just, but finally irrelevant. Not only socialism but also such worthy notions as coalition politics (working inside the left wing of the Democratic Party) may simply be outmoded responses to a situation that has changed more radically than these middle-aged radicals can imagine or admit.
Fifty years ago, the Cocoanut Grove opened with a decor hallmarked by a tropic zone of palm trees and monkeys. Today, with a new name--the Now Grove--and sans cocoanuts and chimps, the club has gone Late Las Vegas. The change has been glitteringly grafted onto the venerable Ambassador Hotel on Los Angeles' Wilshire Boulevard; its new façade and interior done up in World's Fair Modern cheerfully ignore the parent hotel's Spanish motif that incongruously surrounds it. Aesthetics aside, the newly titled Grove has caught on with its policy of serving up superstars and full-blown revues. Ambassador president Hugh Wiley gave Sammy Davis Jr. the show-booking chores, with only one mandate--to pull them in, and he's done just that. Sam the Talent Booker wisely opened the Grove with the Sammy Davis Jr. revue. Then he booked the sensate and suave Diahann Carroll; the Jimmy Durante Show followed and, through the waning days of May, The First Edition put in an appearance. Scheduled to star were Anthony Newley, Sergio Mendes, Diana Ross, Ray Charles and Johnny Mathis. The room, with its 1000-plus capacity, can best be described as cavernous. Tiers of tables rise from all sides of the show floor. The walls are silver and black, the carpeting a blend of orange, purple and black. A wide bandstand--constructed to split amidships for a rising runway to carry the stars--dominates the room. When the backdrop of deep purple falls away, a battery of varicolored spotlights built into the production booth high above the tables takes over. The management boasts that there isn't a blind spot in the house, and, indeed, there may be none, from ringside to topmost tier. The music at the Now Grove is a moon shot away from the businessman's bounce of Freddy Martin, a Grove fixture for decades. The baton is now in the hip hand of George Rhodes, whose orchestra is well salted with such friendly jazz faces as guitarist Herb Ellis, trombonist Jimmy Cleveland and longtime Basie man Marshall Royal punching a requisite pizzazz into the saxes. What's more, the band, with its top-notch jazz-rock dance fare, works--not only in superb support of the shows but in getting the dinner audiences out onto the floor. For reservations, telephone 386-5522.
Readers who said they were never able to wade through Catch-22 should find smoother sailing through the movie version of Joseph Heller's brilliantly lunatic novel about a U. S. bomber squadron in Italy during World War Two. It's one hell of a film, shrewdly updated by director Mike Nichols and scenarist-comedian Buck Henry (Nichols' collaborator on The Graduate, who also doubles here in the role of Lieutenant Colonel Korn) to make meaningful satire for the Seventies. In the final scene of Catch-22, Alan Arkin as Heller's hero, Captain Yossarian, launches a frail yellow rubber raft onto the wide blue sea--making one last heroic bid to escape from war, venality, stupidity and all the well-established practices that threaten the very survival of mankind. It's a crazy gesture but one sure to be instantly understood by alienated youth and any among us who see, as Heller saw, a mad, mad world full of "people cashing in on every decent impulse and every human tragedy." Catch-22 on film is cold, savage and chilling comedy that inspires uneasy laughter about the sickness of the times, in the memorable tradition of Dr. Strangelove, and also firmly establishes Nichols' place in the front rank of American directors. Though obviously indebted to such European masters as Fellini, Nichols (shooting over schedule and officially over budget for a total of some $15,000,000, though unofficial appraisals range much higher) finds a free and fluid personal style that transforms the nightmare world of the novel into a turbulent stream of consciousness flowing from the feverish brain of Yossarian. The movie's subjective approach is inconsistent at times, and some minor details of plot may well befuddle non-readers; but mostly, the pieces fall into place with astonishing regularity. When a flight of B-25 bombers rises like starlings into a misty dawn and goes winging away while real birds begin to sing through the sudden quiet of an airfield, Catch-22 poetically and succinctly states its attitude toward the bloody violence to come--and an audience can relax, confident that sensitive professionals are in charge. Starting with Arkin, whose finest screen performance to date makes Yossarian seem a cross between Don Quixote and the Good Soldier Schweik, a mammoth company of actors delivers its cryptic dialog in the well-calculated and perfectly timed Nichols manner. Standouts include Anthony Perkins as the uncertain Chaplain Tappman; Richard Benjamin as Major Danby; Art Garfunkel (of Simon &) in a surprisingly able stint as the naïve Nately, who falls in love with a corpulent Roman streetwalker and intends to take her home to Long Island; Jon Voight, very sharp, indeed, as Minderbinder, the super-capitalist; and Bob Newhart, who all but steals the show in one inimitable scene as a neurotic major named Major. Orson Welles, Martin Balsam, Paula Prentiss, Jack Gilford and Martin Sheen also pop up from time to time, doing their bits to persuade you that Catch-22 would be an important event in any movie year. M.A.S.H., move over.
There used to be two good reasons for visiting fiscal firemen spending time on Wall Street and its tributaries: The lairs of the burgeoning conglomerates were on "the street" and nearby were the fabled Fulton Fish Market restaurants. Now, the conglomerates have moved to glass palaces in midtown and there is a superb new seafood restaurant that will serve the needs of the most finicky of fish fanatics. Joe's Pier 52 (144 West 52nd Street) is owned by Broadway producer Joe (Applause, High Button Shoes, La Plume de Ma Tante) Kipness. The decor is a smashing mélange of nautical nugacity created by Frederick Fox, the Broadway scenic designer. Seaweed green, skyblue and yard-arm brown are the dominating colors, from the thick carpets up through the table settings to the beamed ceiling. Miniature sailing-ship models, figureheads from sloops and beautiful prints of whalers right out of Herman Melville are all so elegant that they make the clamshell and fish-net atmosphere of other seafood joints seem low camp. The menu appears to contain nearly everything edible that grows in salt or fresh water. The red snapper is particularly good--broiled in its own juices, like the other fish on the list. Joe's stone crabs, flown in daily from Florida, are a specialty served with a pungent mustard sauce. On Fridays and Saturdays, a huge Bouillabaisse Marseillaise is offered. After that, you'll find that you have little room left on board for even a minnow's share of the two flagships of the dessert menu--Mississippi Pecan Pie and Chocolate Cheesecake. The latter is so rich and good it must be illegal. Joe's Pier 52 is open all week from noon until two A.M. and reservations are definitely in order (245-6652).
If Déjà Vu (Atlantic; also available on stereo tape) turns out to be the last LP by the squabbling Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, it will be a shame. Not only does the many-headed group produce some of the most fluid and together rock music ever heard, they also tell it like it really is for young people via such eloquent compositions as David Crosby's impassioned Almost Cut My Hair and Stephen Stills's haunting 4 + 20; their interpretation of Joni Mitchell's Woodstock is enough to convince almost anyone that Woodstock Nation does exist.
Inquest deals with a subject of utmost political and moral concern, the conviction and execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg as atomic spies. Were the Rosenbergs innocent? Or, if guilty, how guilty? Were they villains or dupes? To what degree were they victims of the McCarthy era? What sort of people were they? None of these questions is answered satisfactorily in Donald Freed's play. It isn't so much theater of fact as a loaded position paper. Freed is so convinced that the Rosenbergs were victims that he forgot to write a play about it. As acted by George Grizzard and Anne Jackson, the pair were not only innocent but absolute innocents (a less humorous version of Sam Levene and Molly Picon). Freed divides everything into documentation from the record and "reconstructions" from reality. The documentation contains some fascinating material, much of it blunted by the acting and by Alan Schneider's misconceived direction. The reconstructions deal mostly with the couple's grossly sentimentalized home life. Freed has taken an urgent inquest and trivialized it. At The Music Box, 239 West 45th Street.
On a number of occasions, I have called a particular girl for a date. Each time, she pauses for a brief conversation with her mother, then gives me a reason for not being able to go. No hits out of five times at bat is a poor average and I'm really getting bugged with her mother's meddling. What can I do about it?--D. Z., Madison, Wisconsin.
In the three years since biologist Paul Ehrlich wrote "The Population Bomb" --a chilling scenario of the world's fate if people and their principal by-product, pollution, continue to multiply unchecked--the book has sold 1,250,000 copies and its author has become the chief spokesman for what promises to become the most important campaign of the Seventies: the crusade to save the environment. Ehrlich is very much in demand; clubs, colleges, magazines and networks find his message of ecological doom so compelling that he can't possibly answer every summons: "I get around two dozen requests a day and I'm booked solid for the next year."
Peter was taking his plant for a walk. This morning the sun was out, for a change, and he had no classes. He carried it, swaying, in its pot down the flight of steps, his private companionway, that led from the Rue Monsieur le Prince to the Rue Antoine Dubois--a mews populated by cats where Brigitte Bardot had lived in La Vérité. He was a past master of short cuts as well as circuitous ways; though he had not yet traveled by sewer, he liked to pretend that some implacable Javert was trailing him. He came out onto the Boulevard St. Germain, greeted the statue of Danton and stopped to look in the windows of the bookshops selling medical textbooks, colored anatomical charts and dangling cardboard skeletons.
Every man in his youth meets for the last time a magician, the man who made him what he is finally to be. In the mass, man now confronts a similar magician in the shape of his own collective brain, that unique and spreading force that will precipitate the last miracle or wreak the last disaster. The possible nature of the last disaster the world of today has made all too evident: Man has become a blight that threatens to efface the green world that created him.
When 20th Century-Fox asked me to play the part of Myron--Raquel Welch's alter ego--in the film version of Gore Vidal's Myra Breckinridge, I showed the prescience to be very, very wary. I knew there had already been a great deal of trouble setting up this project--not surprisingly, since there are bound to be a few minor problems involved, even today, in adapting to the screen a novel about a transsexual who rapes a young man with a leather dildo and then runs off with his/her victim's girlfriend. First of all, there was the problem of casting: Would they get a man or a woman to play Myra? Vidal had talked of signing an international acting name like Vanessa Redgrave or Jeanne Moreau. Then Fox started testing for the part an extremely motley assortment of sexually ambiguous young men from all over the country. The studio was being pretty schizophrenic, though, because at the same time, it sent a script to Elizabeth Taylor; and whatever else Miss Taylor may be, she can't be mistaken for a man of any variety. When she wisely refused, Raquel Welch signed for the part. Raquel wanted the part so badly that she even tested for it, like some struggling beginner. Fox was so desperate to get Mae West, on the other hand, that it paid her $350,000, which was a great deal more than Raquel got for the picture.
After a few thousand years of searching, and right in time to coincide with the sexual revolution, mankind has found new drugs that may lead to the first true aphrodisiacs. Newspapers heralded the initial discovery with their customary enthusiasm for sexual topics: "Chemical Aphrodisiac is Found"; "Scientists Stimulate Sexuality." Even the researcher who first broke the news at a medical symposium, Dr. William O'Malley, betrayed a measure of excitement: "We have seen 70-year-old men with a frequency of intercourse at least twice daily. This compares with intercourse five times a week by an average 20-year-old, newlywed male. In all of history, we have never known a true aphrodisiac, so this was quite a surprise. This is probably the first time in the history of man that we have seen alterations of the fundamental biochemistry in the brain that produced hypersexuality."
Eldridge Pachman tested the popular conviction that large blue quantities of sky, sea and silence can heal and soothe a troubled mind. This notion proved false. He spent the first week of his vacation in Greece, in a small white Aegean hotel that lay stunned and bleaching in the sunlight; and he discovered in himself an incipient agoraphobia, the terror of open spaces. He spent most of the week in his room, where he could he on the bed and ruminate on his divorce, on the wife who was now spending his money the children who were so oddly indifferent to the sea change in their lives. Then he went to a Balearic Island, where the white buildings were at least splashed with scarlet and, purple foliage and where the coastal cliffs were penetrated by peaceful inlets with sandy beaches surrounded by pine. But he was no happier there. Luckily, he saw the colonel one day, and that was exactly what his brain needed: not healing and soothing but a mystery to ponder.
Modern Living flying in a balloon is the ultimate ego trip. No aeronautic spectacle could command more attention--except, perhaps, the arrival of a Martian space ship in Central Park or another moon-shot lift-off at Cape Kennedy. But even if the sight of a balloon didn't cause a commotion on the ground, the ride in a gondola built for two would be a private pleasure worth every bit of the effort it takes to launch an 80-foot-tall nylon "envelope" filled with hot air.
This year, as you may or may not know, marks the 25th anniversary of the termination of what Still must be called the most titanic struggle of all mankind: World War Two. Oh, there have been wars before and wars since; and, unfortunately, there will continue to be wars. But until and if there is a World War Three, the epic confrontation with the Axis powers must unquestionably stand as the supreme war of them all.
The Micronesian Archipelago of Truk would have fired the imagination of Joseph Conrad: several dozen luxuriantly tropical isles, linked only by fuel ships that traverse the intervening waterways once every few months, bearing provisions ranging from cigarettes to rice. Moen, the second-largest island, is a roughhewn American outpost and is graced, improbably enough, by such rare fauna as Sharon Olivia Clark. It's a long way (about 8000 miles) from Norman, Oklahoma, where Sharon earned her degree in sociology; from St. Louis, where she later read manuscripts for a publisher of medical texts; and from Los Angeles, where she was living when she decided to strike out for more exotic regions. Inviting us along for the ride, Sharon went native earlier this year to experience life as it's lived on an "island paradise" in the Pacific and to teach English to local high school students. The quality of life on Moen, Sharon quickly discovered, is very different from that in the States: "Home" is a Quonset hut (so is the classroom where she works); transportation on the otherwise impassable roads is by motorcycle; and the mercantile community in her village consists of a general store, a commissary where frozen meat is sold, plus three other establishments that deal in canned goods. The climate is idyllic; the temperature averages 85 degrees and the lagoons are bluer than blue. Yet since our return to the States soon after shooting the accompanying picture story, Sharon wrote (Moen can't be reached by telephone) that there's trouble in paradise--a circumstance she attributes to the American Government, which administers Truk under a trusteeship. In addition to introducing the' tin can and other pollutants, American culture has done much, in Sharon's opinion, to undermine the Trukese way of life: "Instead of helping the natives develop their fisheries, the Americans are giving them Government jobs and turning Truk into a bureaucratic welfare state. We've taken our own economy and set it down on top of theirs. The locals accept this, but with undertones of resentment." And the presence of the Peace Corps, she feels, does little to counteract the effects of this subtle colonialism: Too few of the Corps men are involved in the crucial fishing industry. What aggravates the situation and gives the future a gloomy cast, Sharon says, is a lack of communication between the administrators from across the sea and their charges--who, she claims, "act sluggish when they're around the Americans, giving them the mistaken impression, after a while, that the islanders are all lazy." Sharon recognizes, however, that the American way of life, which seems so out of place in Truk, is her own: "I've learned that I don't really groove on the 'simple life'--much as I hate to see it destroyed. I like to see cars moving on four-lane highways. I miss the movies and skiing trips; I even miss the changes in climate." Sharon is also frustrated by her teaching job: "It's difficult to find reading matter in English that's relevant to these kids." Accordingly, despite her affection for the islanders, Sharon is planning to return to the States. But she doesn't regret her adventure; it's given her a new appreciation not only of America's fast-paced culture but also of the need to apply the brakes on occasion and take time out for a self-renewing interlude of ease--South Pacific style.
A man returned from a convention and proudly showed his wife a gallon of bourbon he'd won for having the largest sex organ of all present. "What!" she exclaimed. "Do you mean to tell me you exhibited yourself in front of all those people?"
When the Vice-President of a big Wall Street investment firm recently described the bond market as "a great American tragedy," he was not exaggerating. Day after dreary day this past May and early June, virtually every bond in the country enjoyed a market value less than its purchaser had paid for it. The money tied up in bonds was more than sufficient to retire the national debt--and hardly a penny of it represented profit. The collapse was so total that it could only compare with the great stock-market crash 40 years earlier. Between August 1968 and May 1970, corporate bonds--traditional shelter for widows and orphans--fell an average of 30 percent; municipal bonds--those issued by cities and towns--fell 34 percent. In both cases, this was the worst decline of the 20th Century.
After she had become famous and was living atop a hill in San Francisco, the picture was pinned to the wall, along with a sooty American flag, a Dylan for President banner and a poster of archhippie James Gurley in American Indian dress. It shows her as a shiny-cheeked girl in Mary Jane shoes and white bobby socks, hair cropped short. She stands before a white frame house, her eyes squinching up in telltale fashion, as she proudly holds up a Sunday-school graduation certificate from the First Christian Church of Port Arthur, Texas.
Two men stood on one side of a thick glass wall. "You'll be airborne," Svetz's beefy red-faced boss was saying. "We made some improvements in the small extension cage while you were in the hospital. You can hover it or fly it at up to fifty miles per hour or let it fly itself; there's a constant-altitude setting. Your field of vision is total. We've made the shell of the extension cage completely transparent."
He came in alone on the executive jet, Gus and Kelly up front. First time he had ever been the lone passenger. Wyatt Ross all alone, amid the leathery black luxury of the lounge chairs. Strange not to have the members of the strike force along. Geri Housner, incomparable executive secretary. Stanley Silverstaff, knowing ratios and leverage and cash flow. Stannard on legal. Haines on systems analysis, product mix, production potential. Nucleus of the team, other experts added as needed.
Just a decade ago, an ad seeking "the 30 most beautiful girls in Chicagoland" appeared in the Chicago Tribune. From the hundreds who answered the call, 30 were selected to become the world's first Playboy Bunnies. Since the opening of the Chicago Club in 1960, the Playboy empire has experienced its own population explosion, spreading eastward to London, westward to San Francisco, south to Jamaica and north to Montreal. Now there are 800 Bunnies staffing 17 metropolitan Playboy Clubs, two resort Club-Hotels and even a superluxurious DC-9-32 jet airplane, Hugh Hefner's Big Bunny. Late last year, in anticipation of its tenth-anniversary celebration, Playboy Clubs International inaugurated a Bunny Beauty Contest and selected a Bunny of (text concluded on page 172)Bunnies of 1970(continued from page 125) the year--Baltimore's lovely Gina Byrams. The difficulty of selecting one reigning beauty out of 800 boggles the mind, but Playboy, ever game, is preparing for another go-round. The finals for the next Bunny Beauty Contest are planned for November at the Playboy's finest--a selective sampling of the Year will be chosen. Balloting in individual Clubs began July first and will continue through Labor Day, with top vote getters in each Club being judged by local panels of experts. The 19 winners of these semifinal contests will appear in the November pageant at Lake Geneva.
The History of the royal Bonapartes of Holland has always been attended by the most piquant rumors of amorous intrigue. Louis Bonaparte, king by grace of his brother the great Napoleon, was a man of shabby character who was married to Hortense de Beauharnais, the lovely daughter of Napoleon's empress. Although Queen Hortense felt only disgust for her husband and lived as far away as possible from him, she nevertheless managed to present him with three pretty children. Louis, despite his aversion to family life and his preference for the company of young men, would grow angry at the appearance of each new babe and would accuse the queen of immoral behavior.
Chi Chi Rodriguez is a small, compactly built man with an unsmiling face, copper colored from the suns of a thousand golf courses, and he doesn't believe in wasting time. Looking very trim and natty, a small-brimmed white Panama planted like a muffin on his brow, he addresses the ball, brings the club back behind his shoulder in one long, beautifully vicious sweep and whacks the ball on a low, rising line over the uphill fairway of the tenth hole at Indian Wells. Somebody whoops and a couple of hundred other fans crowding around the tee applaud appreciatively. Chi Chi turns to the crowd and says, "I was born poor and here I am, on my first hole, a rich man." The crowd laughs.
It was at the age of 11, in 1956, that pianist Lorin Hollander made his Carnegie Hall debut and established himself as a Wunderkind of classical music. Thirteen years later, Hollander made history by playing Bach and Prokofiev on an electronic piano in a different musical mecca: Bill Graham's rock palace, the Fillmore East. This experimental venture grew out of the red-bearded virtuoso's conviction that the classics had been killed for his generation by the stultifying atmosphere of concert halls and by what he calls "the worst musical-education process in history." No devotee of rock himself, Hollander deplores record companies that cynically attempt to manufacture musical tastes for the young and musicians who add elements of pretension to the rock idiom, most of which he feels is" 'best written on the bathroom wall.'" Yet he believes that the popularity of the guitar (an "intimate" instrument) and the initial impact of the new drug culture--which encouraged kids to concentrate on what they were hearing--have done much to involve people in music. Hollander's Fillmore gig was the steppingstone to a unique, tripartite career that finds him working the concert circuit ("I dig it on some levels"); bringing his expertise and pithy analyses of classic composers to the colleges, where he plays to capacity audiences; and--best of all--visiting classrooms in the black ghettos ("We try to feel each other's existence"). Although New York--born Hollander plans to continue his musical missionary work, he and his wife left Greenwich Village and moved to the coast of Maine, where Lorin hopes to find a serenity comparable with that embodied in the tradition he's working to save: "If classical music dies out, it will not be the fault of the music. It's too great a music to die." In an age of artistic overkill and pliable aesthetics, Hollander is doing his very best to keep it alive.
With the Premiere of a celluloid psychedelic trip titled End of the Road, 44-year-old Aram Avakian has joined the small but dynamic group of Hollywood film makers who may bring the money back to movieland. Like most of that creative crew, he's served an arduous apprenticeship. After Yale University and military service, the GI Bill financed his studies in literature at Paris' Sorbonne. But then his application to a Roman film school was rejected and he found little critical or commercial acceptance for his short-story writing style. Thinking he needed a change of venue, Avakian returned to his native New York City and tried a host of television and film jobs--a few of which paired him with his brother, composer and music director George Avakian. Then Aram joined the production staff of Edward R. Murrow's TV series See It Now and, later, teamed up with lensman Bert Stern to make low-budget documentaries. The latter alliance produced the award-winning Jazz on a Summer's Day, which encouraged Avakian to form his own cinema company; it went bankrupt the same year. He landed an assignment as film editor of Girl of the Night and so impressed its producer that he was hired to direct Lad: A Dog. Differences with his boss, however, got him canned at mid-shooting. Film editing again, he spliced The Miracle Worker and won himself a succession of directing offers. Avakian's belated debut as director of a feature-length film--artfully adapted from John Barth's novel The End of the Road--united screenwriter Terry Southern with actors James Earl Jones, Stacy Keach and Dorothy Tristan (Avakian's wife) in what one critic called a "mind-blowing movie." A calculatedly absurd collage of abortion, adultery and death, End is just the beginning for Avakian's hallucinogenic brand of screen sorcery: He's busy making preparations to direct two films that just might be next year's cinematic double-"header."
As Hawkeye Pierce, the womanizing, irrepressibly insubordinate Army surgeon in M. A. S. H., Donald Sutherland achieved instant stardom at 34--after spending a mere 20 years in the business. An actor even before he entered the University of Toronto, the 6' 4" Canadian went to England upon graduation, where he enrolled at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. Sutherland remained in London until 1967, when he won the attention of critics as one of The Dirty Dozen. He then scored brilliantly as a dying English aristocrat in Joanna, and offers began pouring in. Five films later, Sutherland earned his starring role in M.A.S.H., the most important--and enjoyable--movie of his career thus far: "There we were, having a ball reliving the Korean War on a ranch in Malibu. But we had absolutely no idea whether the movie would be a tremendous success or an enormous bomb." Since then, Sutherland has completed three more films--including the satiric swashbuckler Start the Revolution Without Me. "I rented a house in Beverly Hills for my wife while I was in Yugoslavia for Kelly's Warriors," he says. "She'd contributed money to the Black Panther free-breakfast program for kids, and while I was robbing a plastic bank in Yugoslavia, 25 FBI men broke into the house and arrested her on a charge of buying grenades for the Panthers." The case was thrown out of court, but to Sutherland, the episode is symptomatic of "a wave of political repression sweeping across America." Without copping out, however, he is more interested in cinematic than in political activism. "The old Hollywood type of movie--based on entertainment as escape--is dead," he feels. "Films now amplify reality, and that excites me." Sutherland recently signed a contract to direct as well as to act, in which capacity he expects--and can be expected--to continue manning the barricades of Hollywood's movie revolution.