At 52, the Reverend Dr. Billy Graham still seems an incarnation of the boyscout oath. Setting out to separate the man from the mystique, writer Saul Braun (whose most recent assignment for us was a portrait of Johnny Cash) attended Graham's press conferences, signed up for crusades and even digested an authorized biography; but Graham courteously and resolutely declined to grant a personal interview. He diplomatically refused to confide his reasons, but it's clear that he felt his appearance in Playboy would be improper. We don't. The subject of Nearer, Silent Majority, to Thee is, to us, very much a part of a society that seems to be pulling farther apart.
Playboy, February, 1971, Volume 18, Number 2. Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Company Inc., Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, 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 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Marketing: Nelson Futch, Promotion Director; Lee Gottlieb, Director of Public Relations. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 405 Park Avenue, New York, New York 10022; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611; Detroit, Robert A. Mc Kenzie, Manager, 2990 West Grand Boulevard; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter Street; Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Road, N.E., Atlanta, Georgia 30305.
One of the President's prerogatives is to appoint commissions of acknowledged experts to study urgent national problems and propose solutions. This poses a secondary problem for every Administration: how to gracefully ignore or tactfully reject such reports if they prove unpalatable. In the case of the President's Commission on Obscenity and Pornography, Mr. Nixon has an easy out. The commission was appointed by his predecessor, Lyndon Johnson, who packed it with scholars, intellectuals, Democrats and other undesirables well known among Nixon Administration insiders as incapable of recognizing The National Smut Peril, much less combating it. But let's assume for a heady moment that some hypothetical President decided to act on the commission's findings and support legislation based on its recommendations. And let us further assume that the U.S. were to actually repeal all laws regulating the manufacture, sale, importation or possession of pornography by and for adults—as Denmark has already done—on the strength of the commission's conclusion that it is socially and psychologically innocuous. What then. America? Those who persist in believing that pornography is evil will lake comfort in our pragmatic conclusion that legalized pornography could spell national disaster.
Ever since Tom Wolfe caromed onto the scene some years ago with a scathing, unfair and occasionally, funny attack on the "living mummies" of The New Yorker magazine, there has been a tendency among more conventional journalists to dismiss him as a fop with a poison pen. His chief interests were zapping the culturati of Manhattan's East Side and reporting the latest doings and undoings of Beautiful People and their imitators. It may have been a slender achievement, but as a trend spotter and pop sociologist among the overachievers, Wolfe was unexcelled. Now Wolfe turns truly serious (for him) and in twin magazine-length articles—Radical Chic & Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers (Farrar, Straus & Giroux)—he performs a public vivisection on two groups of pretenders to sociopolitical significance. One group consists of the practitioners of confrontation politics in the slums of San Francisco—the blacks, chicanos, Chinese, Samoan and other minorities who hanker to open their own "Ethnic Catering Service" out of public funds. A dramatic Mau-Mau act to scare Whitey, a lot of flak aimed at tender bureaucrats, and presto: A new anti-poverty cadre is born. Wolfe's second group of victims comprises the Peter Duchins, Carter Burdens, Andrew Steins, Leonard Bernsteins and other charter members of the Black Panthers Auxiliary, Park Avenue branch, whom Wolfe memorializes as the Radical Chic. A notable piece of reportage, the relentlessly detailed collective portrait focuses mainly on a fund-raising party for imprisoned Panthers at the Bernsteins' elegant Park Avenue duplex. By the time Wolfe is done, it has been taken apart piece by piece. Radical Chic will never be the same.
What the Paramount Theater meant to an earlier generation of bobby-soxers conveys just a rough idea of how thousands of fringed and tie-dyed pilgrims of pop feel about Manhattan's Fillmore East. Fillmore marks the spot where The Who presented their dazzling rock opera, Tommy, long before the Woodstock Nation joined the tuxedo-and-tiara set to cheer the work in a historic one-night stand at the new Metropolitan Opera. As an emotional outlet for New York under-30s who live beyond earshot of Fillmore West—the high-decibel home office in San Francisco, where rock entrepreneur Bill Graham originally got it all together—Fillmore East opened in 1968 and swiftly became a more or less nonstop rock festival. Aspiring young musicians soon learn that to make it with audiences at the Fillmore is to Make It. Despite the lure of bigger money and stadium-sized crowds in concert halls from coast to coast, such star acts as The Byrds, Jefferson Airplane and The Grateful Dead keen coming back because Fillmore coddles them with superb sound systems and first-rate visual aids on a cycloramic screen, where Joe's Lights, or sometimes the Pig Light Show, rigs up all manner of mind-manipulating psychedelic surprises. Electricity, of course, is the lifeblood of the shows and Graham's programing of the performers he has wired for sound is excellent: hard rock, folk-rock, jazz, funky blues and hand-clapping Gospel groups are judiciously combined to broaden the range of what's worth while in American music. A majority of the Fillmore crowd still responds on the loud-is-good-and-louder-is-better level, but more sophisticated pleasures are there for those who want them. Stepping into the faded plush-and-gilt decor of Fillmore East, a former movie palace that relishes its past, the customer finds a spacious cavern with 2600 seats, and realizes that listening is "in," dancing is "out" (unlike the West Coast's Fillmore, where older tribal customs prevail). Bearded, longhaired ushers, wearing green football jerseys and looking deceptively casual, are as efficient as any phalanx of uniformed guards at Radio City Music Hall—and a no-drugs policy is strictly enforced. There's no specific prohibition, however, about people arriving stoned, which does wonders for the music on an off night. Performances on weekends only, with occasional exceptions, at 105 Second Avenue, in the East Village.
When The Flying Frenchman opened its red, white and blue front doors at Wabash and Chestnut a little over one year ago, Chicagoans applauded the food but found the crêpes-only menu a bit limited for evening dining. Now, the owners have broadened the selections and The Frenchman's gustatorial popularity—it's an excellent spot for both lunch and dinner—is rising faster than the free-floating balloon with wicker basket that serves as the restaurant's symbol. The interior of The Frenchman is a charmingly calculated clutter—some of it left over from the previous tenant, a night club named The Garage. Fifteen feet up one of the brick-and-dripping-mortar walls in the barroom hangs the tail end of an antique car. So it won't get lonely up there, a miniature reproduction of a hydrogen balloon dangles nearby. Red-and-white-check cloths cover the tables (a few with umbrellas) around which are comfortable pub chairs. And a platform with canopy helps create an angular, multilevel effect. The main dining room is equally casual, but slightly less campy; in summer, there's also a charming outdoor patio. Although the menu has expanded. The Flying Frenchman's specialty still is crêpes—there are more than a dozen to choose from, including Crêpe Riviera (beef, spinach, tomato, cheese sauce), Crêpe Fudienne (chicken with a mild curry sauce) and, for dessert, perhaps Crêpe Michel (custard, pineapple and chocolate sauce). For openers, however, we recommend the thick and delicious French onion soup. Noncrêpe entrees include turbot with avocado, coq au vin and boeuf bourguignon—all at reasonable prices. (The Entrecôte Maître d'Hôtel, at $4.95, is the most expensive entree on the luncheon menu, while for dinner, the Canard rôti à l'Orange, at $6, is the highest-priced main dish.) A small but select wine list is offered or you can order a carafe or half-carafe of the pleasantly adequate house wine. The Flying Frenchman is the informal counterpart of the same management's haute, cuisine establishment. Chez Paul, but shares more than ownership with its classier cousin; namely, a meritorious regard tor quality and service. It is open 11:30 A.M.-3 P.M. and 5 P.M.-2 A.M., seven days a week; the kitchen closes at 10 P.M. on Sunday. Reservations are recommended: 787-0577.
There is a new thing happening to American films that reaches a climax in Husbands, a noteworthy if far from perfect movie by writer-director-actor John Cassavetes, who made a measurable splash with Faces. Cassavetes' Husbands, though unequivocally personal, owes a lot to cinéma vérité, neorealism, method improvisation and all those fine little foreign films that have used nonprofessional actors to rediscover simple truths. Here a moviegoer finds himself light-years away from the well-rehearsed and ordered world of such traditional films as Ryan's Daughter and Rabbit, Run (reviewed on pages 30 and 34). Husbands creates an illusion of total spontaneity, as if the characters were inventing themselves on the spot. Cassavetes, Peter Falk and Ben Gazzara share equally in the title roles, playing three middle-class married squares who go on a binge after the funeral of a buddy whose death leaves a hole in their foursome. Intimations of mortality begin to crowd them. They get drunk, throw up, argue, go to the gym. One stops home for a clean shirt and tries to strangle his wife. Finally, prolonging their game of extramarital hooky, they jump on a plane for London and make complete asses of themselves with assorted party girls (played winningly by Jenny Lee Wright and Noelle Kao, and still better by an unforgettable blonde named Jenny Runacre). That's about all the plot, but plot isn't the point of Husbands, which its promoters call "a comedy about life, death and freedom." It would be truer to call it John and Peter and Ben, back-slapping and boozing their way through a devastating put-down of the Middle-American male. These are the guys who have an insured home mortgage, 2.3 children and a life expectancy of 67.5 years—nearly all of it spent in an indefinitely prolonged boyhood. Though uncommonly believable, all the actors overdo it at times, perhaps because Cassavetes has not yet developed a directorial discipline to govern his style. Nearly every scene runs too long, sometimes crossing the line between spontaneity and self-exploitation by performers who hate to quit while they're winning. Yet, if Cassavetes begs our indulgence, he earns it with his pioneer efforts in a new, wide-open style.
Jesus Christ–Superstar is the most ambitious rock, composition to date—going beyond The Who's Tommy in size, complexity and emotional range. This 87-minute rock, opera employs a symphony orchestra, a rock band, a jazz combo, three choirs and a Moog synthesizer. Both on records (Decca) and in its first, truncated American performance last October at New York's St. Peter's Lutheran Church, Jesus Christ—Superstar is memorable for its bold melodic contours, its multilayered rhythmic structure and its incisive characterizations of Jesus, Judas Iscariot and Pontius Pilate.
Hammering Clifford Odets' mundane play about Noah, The Flowering Peach, into a musical comedy was a bad idea to begin with, and it's been made worse by clumsy execution. Two by Two, the new Richard Rodgers musical, exists largely as fodder for matinee ladies who can identify with Mrs. Noah. Sample gag: On the ark, an absent-minded mother says, "I've been thinking about our house. I forgot to close the windows." The worst part of Two by Two is Peter Stone's platitudinous book, full of such feeble gags and sentimental set pieces, which demean the material into situation comedy. Noah's age, 600, is milked for much more than it's worth—and this is one show that can ill afford to make the audience time-conscious. The flood happens during intermission, but the play seems to last 40 days and 40 nights. As for the music, the Rodgers score is sleep-inducing. One syrupy, false-folksy tune sounds like another, and Martin Charnin's lyrics bobble along with the music. Joe Layton's staging is at times ingenious, but also irrelevant. There are huge rear projections of old-master paintings. What does that have to do with anything? And there is an enormous amount of offstage crashing, bashing, clanging and banging. Danny Kaye struggles with the role of Noah and, considering the circumstances, performs well enough—but the part bottles up his effervescent talent. There are a few tiny, and much needed, moments of ribaldry—but mostly he is called upon to be sweet, sad and lovable. The rest of the cast, except for newcomer Walter Willison, who is in good voice as Noah's son Japheth, is merely adequate, which is more than can be said for the show. The verdict is noah. At the Imperial, 249 West 45th Street.
For four years, I have been a close friend of a girl, though there has never been any real romantic interest. The other night, I invited her over to my place for nothing more than conversation, but she brought along a bottle of rum. She drank, to get drunk and so did I, whereupon we had sexual intercourse. Afterward, she cried, slapped my face and took a taxi home. Later, she told me that site didn't expect a "friend" to act as I had. I would like our relationship to continue, but she won't allow it. How can I apologize for being human?—S. T., Minneapolis, Minnesota.
On a bleak, rainy morning in late January of 1968, a small group of convicts trudged through the dark, alluvial mud behind a levee that keeps floodwaters from the Arkansas River out of a mule pasture at Cummins Prison Farm. When they reached a spot marked by a 58-year-old black prisoner, Reuben Johnson, they dug into the earth and, within an hour or so, struck the first of three coffins uncovered that, day. The superintendent of Cummins, Tom Murton, told the press that the remains were those of inmates who had been secretly and brutally murdered under previous prison administrations; he also said there was evidence that as many as 200 other men were buried on the prison grounds. The governor of Arkansas, Winthrop Rockefeller, promised a full investigation. Instead, Murton was fired and the burial site was officially described as a paupers' graveyard. There was no more digging in the mule pasture.
"Lesbians are People." In, One of the four elevators serving the first ten floors, someone had carefully lettered a message on the inspection certificate. Susan Roth, going down in the elevator with Paul Merlo, of Cousins & Merlo, reached out and touched the little glass door that housed the card. The person, whoever it was, had opened the door and written directly on the certificate, on the line under the most recent inspection signature. Susan, with a glance at Merlo, tried to imagine a woman, in all seriousness, doing that. Merlo, for his part, must have been watching Susan, because when they were outside, walking east on 49th Street, he turned to her and said, "First graffiti—graffito?—I ever saw in a big-office-building elevator."
Kissing, the ancient Greeks believed, is the "key to paradise." If they were right, at least half the human race has been locked out of Elysium since the birth of mankind. They never learned to kiss at all.
It's all very well to pick up a wine or two on the way home from the office, but to fully appreciate the varied pleasures of the grape, you need a rack or a cellar filled with bottles that range from good to fabulous. Wine is one of the few commodities that hasn't been standardized—there are hundreds to choose from—and that, alone, is a reason to celebrate. There are times when you don't want the subtlety of a great wine but prefer the simple pleasure of a Valdepenas, the roughness of a Rhone. the lightness of a Bardolino. These and other inexpensive wines should be bought in mixed-case lots, so that you can broaden your tasting experience by sampling a variety of vintages while saving room in your cellar for more costly bottlings that require proper aging—good red Burgundy and Bordeaux, for example, which appear on the market three years after the harvest.
Ever Since she sang her way to first place in an amateur-night show in San Jose, California, at the age of 12, Fran Jeffries has been headed for acclaim. She scored initially as a headline singer at the Copacabana and other top night clubs, waxed romantic records and filled guest spots on TV variety series (Ed Sullivan, Tom Jones). Moviegoers took note of her singing and dancing talents in The Pink Panther and Sex and the Single Girl. Now, although Fran still sings for her supper in Las Vegas 12 profitable weeks a year, her career is about to take some new twists. First, there's a nonmusical role—"Well, I do whistle a little"—in Paramount's forthcoming A Talent for Loving, with Richard Widmark, Cesar Romero and Topol, the Israeli star of Fiddler on the Roof; then, a set of new recordings with what Fran describes as "a completely different thing for me—more of a bubble-gum sound than the ballads I used to do"; finally, there's talk of a TV series starring animal-loving Fran, the proud owner of a pet raccoon, as a lady veterinarian. Whether songbird, screen star or video vet, Fran is in great shape in our book.
As if there weren't enough controversy in our time, people are now fighting about intelligence—not the CIA type but the kind that Webster's Dictionary defines as: "the faculty of understanding; the capacity to know or apprehend." What could be debatable about that? Listen:
In this age of affluent overkill, most American industries seem to operate on the premise that each year's model has to be bigger and better—and more expensive. Fortunately, the high-fidelity business remains a maverick. Though it never ignores the top of the line, where price is seldom an objection, it is one of the few industries that year after year offers a consistently better (and usually lighter and smaller) product for less—despite inflation, increased costs and the firmly ingrained belief that it's the American Way to charge whatever the traffic will bear. By way of improvements, in recent years the industry has adapted transistors for use in tuners and amplifiers, improved the operation and increased the number of control features, and chipped away at distortion levels. It currently turns out stereo receivers that cost less and deliver better performance than some of the top-rated amplifying systems of just a few years back. But progress, though steady, brought nothing dramatically new—nothing that would make you perk up your educated ears. Nothing, that is, until the Los Angeles hi-fi show of October 1969, when Scott, Telex/Viking, Crown International and a number of others introduced four-channel—quadriphonic—stereo. At the time, some authorities regarded this development as important as that of stereo itself; others felt that it was vastly overrated. Now, 16 months later, more manufacturers four-channel—quadriphonic revolution and a number of prerecorded-tape manufacturers are turning out four-channel equipment; as a result, the handwriting is on all four walls. Four-channel stereo is not only here to stay, it will dominate the scene in the years to come.
I'm afraid I have some shocking news to report. It pains me, as a Congressman, to criticize my fellow House members, but someone must let the public know how this august body missed its chance to bring Soviet Russia to her knees, to win the Cold War without sending American boys to fight anywhere—simply by extending a line of credit to the Fiat automobile company for $50,000,000. Because the money would have been paid back with interest, we could have turned a profit, in the best capitalist tradition, while saving the world from communism; but Congressional shortsightedness has thwarted this opportunity to rip down the iron curtain and toss it into an American junk yard.
A decade ago—it seems almost like ten light-years—movie sex spoofs always seemed to star Doris Day as the virginal career girl who invariably headed off Rock Hudson's pass. The sex farces of the Seventies promise to treat the same subject far more candidly—and graphically. As if to offer proof of this premise, Cinerama will shortly release The Statue, a none-too-serious, one-tracked sex romp that simply could not have been made in the early Sixties. In his 83rd movie, Oscar winner David Niven portrays Alex Bolt, a "glottologist" who, at the start of the film, has invented a universal language that he calls, appropriately enough, Unispeak. For his efforts, Bolt is awarded the Nobel Peace Prize and is to be additionally honored by a statue of himself that will stand outside the American embassy in London. Fittingly enough, our ambassador—played by erstwhile Man from U. N. C. L. E. Robert Vaughn—commissions the glottologist's equally respected sculptress wife to create her husband's likeness. Rhonda Bolt, portrayed by voluptuous Virna Lisi, produces what turns out to be the real star of the show: an 18-foot-high marble statue of Niven in the nude. (Actually sculpted by a team of Italian artists, the statue weighs 500 pounds and, during filming, was secreted in a specially guarded room at Rome's Cinecitta studios, where part of this English-American coproduction was shot.) Although Bolt is at first flattered by the painstaking artistry of his wife's labors, he notices on closer examination that not every feature of the statue seems to be modeled after his own. Specifically, Bolt becomes more than mildly upset when, after checking out the statue and himself, he concludes that his wife has fashioned the private parts of the statue's anatomy (parts he refers to as "Charley") after another man—with whom she, presumably, has had more than casual relations. When Bolt confronts his wife on this score, she not only heatedly denies the accusation but also offers to prove her devotion to Bolt by inviting him to make love to her then and there. The glottologist decides to go along with her wish, but, much to his dismay, discovers he's become so obsessed by the thought of his mate committing adultery that he can no longer function in bed. Bolt comes to the conclusion (the best he can do under the circumstances) that all will be well once he discovers the identity of the male model—and also whether or not his wife has been unfaithful. To aid in his investigation, he gets from the housekeeper a list of all the men who have visited his wife's studio in the past year, and begins running down every suspect. One of his sojourns takes him to an English rock musical where, during the finale, the cast—and members of the audience—strips onstage, giving Bolt the chance to inspect the show's leading man. Sorry, old man. He next travels to Rome, where, aside from encountering some smashing signorine, his sortie meets with equal failure. Next, he tracks down an artist with insatiable sexual appetites whom, he has reason to believe, Miss Lisi may have satisfied more than once. Bolt finally finds his man secreted in a monastery and gets him out in the open, so to speak. But after photographing the painter's "Charley," he sees he's come up again with the wrong man. Bolt's search for Superstud takes him to France, to yachts in the Aegean and finally back to Italy, where he unveils the solution to the mystery, much to his and—the producers hope—the audience's satisfaction. It's all done with tongue planted firmly in cheek and plot planted firmly in the burlesque-blackout genre. About the only offcolor sight gag or innuendo overlooked by director Rod Amateau was to give his picture the title it really deserved: Where's Charley?
Let us consider one scenario: It is October 1971. There are fewer American soldiers in Vietnam now, only about 225,000, and fewer casualties, too—about 25 a week. But still the war continues. It has continued despite the American incursion into Cambodia in the spring of 1970 to wipe out enemy sanctuaries. It has continued despite the American incursion into Laos in the spring of 1971 to wipe out enemy sanctuaries. "They don't know when they're licked," the Secretary of Defense observes of the enemy that summer. "They're dead, but they won't lie down."
Those Concerned about the lack of communication between young and old will be heartened to know that 21-year-old Vancouverite Willy Rey, unlike some of her contemporaries, talks freely with her parents and actually digs life at home. "I've been close to my folks since we moved to Canada from the Netherlands. That adjustment really drew us together." Besides her preference for living under the parental roof, Willy has some strong opinions that campus radicals would regard as pure establishment. "Many of the activist groups are so fanatical," she feels, "that they ignore all reason in their desire for change." Though some of her peers might want to alter her views, we imagine few would disagree that the rest of Miss Rey should remain exactly as it is.
Rendering unto the Press: The first of two Billy Graham press conferences I attended took place in February 1970 at the Penn Garden Hotel, across the street from the new Madison Square Garden, and also across the street from a restaurant that has a tank full of live perch in its front window. After coming out of the press conference, I watched the fish for about an hour. There were maybe a dozen of them in the tank. I soon observed that most of them huddled fearfully in one corner, packed together like commuters. They barely moved. Two or three others swam around seignorally in an ill-defined middle ground occupying about one third to one half the tank.
As soon as the whine of the Boeing 707's four jet engines stops, the door opens and a man hurries down the steps, followed by a cluster of aides. They cross the ramp, still damp from a late-afternoon Washington shower, and enter a waiting helicopter. Lifted by whapping blades into the darkening skies over Andrews Air Force Base, the chopper heads northwest to land at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Air Force One (any Service (text continued on page 129) aircraft in which the President is a passenger is given the designation One) is, of course, the world's best-known executive jet. It is office, bedroom, communications center and magic carpet. What Air Force One is to the President of the United States, more than 1000 other jets are—in varying degrees—to company executives, entertainers, high-level salesmen and engineers: They offer their owners increased maneuverability, expanded corporate horizons and greater opportunity for either in-transit work or relaxation between high-pressure appointments. The most famous privately owned jet—Hugh Hefner's DC-9-32—has enabled its proprietor and his staff of Playboy executives to scout new resort sites, whisk celebrities from one coast to the other for Playboy Club or television appearances and even embark (continued on page 208)Executive Jet(continued from page 129) on an African safari in total comfort and convenience, all the while maintaining constant communication with headquarters in Chicago.
It's that time of year when frostbitten city dwellers break the winter ice by hopping a jet pointed south. Our smartly attired escapees, above, get their vacations off to a flying start wearing and toting the latest look in resort garb and carry-on travel luggage. The lead-off sun seeker, at far left, deplanes in a textured cotton-and-Terital-blend two-button single-breasted suit with notched lapels, patch pockets and deep center vent, by E. S. Aubrey, $135, a Kodel-and-cotton broadcloth shirt with long-pointed collar and two-button cuffs, by Holbrook, $9, a paisley-patterned wool tie, by Turnbull and Asser, $15; plus a leather 20-inch two-suiter with zippered compartments, by Harrison, $60. The next happy wanderer is on the right trek in a belted,geometric-weave, single-breasted cotton safari suit with deep center vent, button-through flap patch pockets and handy fatigue-type pocket located in the trouser leg just above the knee, $150, a paisley-and-chain-link-print cotton shirt with long-pointed collar and two-button cuffs, $35, both by Bill Blass for PBM, and a pair of calfskin boots, by Italia, $28. He's carrying a leather-trimmed canvas one-suiter with a locking outer pocket and brass fittings, by Gucci, $75, and a shoulder-strapped tote bag of elephant-grained leather that features a 13-inch outer pocket, by Harrison, $40. His fair-weather friend comes on in a geometric diamond-weave Terylene-and-wool-blend single-breasted suit with notched lapels, flap pockets and deep center vent, by Corbin, $125, a Dacron-and-cotton durable-press shirt with long-pointed collar and French cuffs, by Hathaway, $12, a textured-weave dotted silk tie, by Bert Pulitzer, $12.50, a wide-brimmed felt hat, by Tenderfoot, $12, and a pair of buckled, simulated-alligator slip-ons, by Pierre Cardin, $35. At his side is a canvas bag that converts into a single-strap shoulder bag or a knapsack, by Atlantic Products, $25. The last smart-looking sun worshiper has just landed and already has the situation well in hand; he's wearing a lightweight knit wool tunic suit with zippered front, by Bijou de Bruestle for Rafael, $160. His attractive carry-off—the other one—is made of vinyl-covered duck over a lightweight aluminum frame and features a shirt compartment, full inner lining and combination-lock closure, by Lark, $85
It was a bright spring morning, the flowers of the Garden District were lush and open, and Baskin, unhappy with life among his numbers and equations, got out of bed slowly, dressed and walked toward his laboratory at the university. Small premonitions rode around inside him, he felt fatigued and his memory—that cavernous storehouse by which he lived—was spinning out of control. As he walked, he peered up into the leaves arching overhead, into a deep foliage that was unmistakably New Orleans, yet he saw something else: a distant ranch, his mother, the vivid snow-tipped buttes, a high pasture and the gray sweet clouds that always lingered down the length of the valley beyond his childhood house in Montana.
Dealing, or the Berkeley-to-Boston Forty-brick-Lost-bag Blues
Synopsis: I'm Peter Harkness, and all of this started one day when I flew into San Francisco on temporary, very unofficial leave from classes at Harvard. In my hand, I had a special aluminum-lined, double-locked suitcase; in my sports coat, I had a bulge caused by $2500 worth of 20s; in my head, I had the Berkeley address of a man named Musty, one of the biggest and most efficient marijuana dealers on the Coast. My job was fairly simple: I would give Musty the bank notes; Musty would give me ten bricks of dope. I would soak them in Coca-Cola to kill the pot smell, wrap them in foil, pack them neatly in my suitcase and fly back to Boston. I would then hand the suitcase to John in Cambridge. Simple, except that the scenario didn't play the way it was written.
In the ancient town of Grenoble, in an old street called the Rue des Clercs, there used to stand a fine stone house with a mysterious carving over the doorway. The coat of arms itself, which bore a lion de gueule on a field of or, had nothing strange about it; it was simply the escutcheon of the Carles family, who had built the house. The shield, however, was supported by a stone angel, who held one finger to his lips as if warning to silence. Few passers-by ever realized that the angel's secret was an unpunished murder.
In June of 1970, New Hampshire's Franconia College startled the academic world by announcing that its new president would be a bespectacled, long-haired youth named Leon Botstein. At 23, he became the youngest man in the history of American education to hold such high office. "The trustees were concerned with my qualifications, not my age," says Botstein. "The appointment was quite a surprise and I vowed at least two things on hearing the news: that I would put as much effort into the job as possible, and that I would get to know everyone on this campus." Since coming to the 250-student minicollege in August, Botstein has made good on both counts: He's on a first-name basis with most of the students, and he's working at a harrowing pace. "Aside from attending to administrative duties and teaching two history classes, I also, as the voice of the college, address public gatherings. I recently discovered I put in a 15-hour day—seven days a week." Botstein has always been a willing—and brilliant—functionary. A graduate of the University of Chicago (where he was lead violin in the school's orchestra), he earned a master's degree in history at Harvard, where he also expects to get his Ph.D. Botstein's ascension to the Franconia presidency came about entirely through coincidence. While working last year as a special assistant to the president of the New York City Board of Education, he was married to the former Jill Lundquist; when the couple visited Jill's brother, a student at Franconia, Leon was asked by the college's search committee to recommend administrators for the Franconia job. Botstein did—and, in the process, himself became one of 17 candidates for the $16,000-a-year position. "Aside from my academic qualifications, I think I was selected because of my energy, although by the time I'm 30, I may be burned out and ready to start at the bottom somewhere else." At the rate he's going, we feel certain Botstein will find room only at the top.
Of all the Exploits in French literature—including those of Jean Genet, Jean Valjean and Dumas' Count of Monte Cristo—few can compare for high drama with the autobiographical adventures of Henri Charrière, the 63-year-old author of the international best seller Papillon. Convicted in 1931 for a murder he still denies committing, Charrière—or "Papillon," as he was nicknamed in the Paris underworld, for the butterfly tattooed on his chest—was sentenced to life imprisonment in France's colonial penal colonies. After more than 12 years and eight unsuccessful escape attempts, he finally leaped from Devil's Island into the sea, swam to mainland Guiana and reached freedom—and repatriation—in Venezuela. While many critics dismiss his highly publicized adventures as wildly improbable (in fact, two books disputing them have been published in France), Charrière vouches for the validity of his memoirs. "I have material proof that what they say is false," he says, "and they have no proof that what I say is false." Not one to overlook any angles, Charrière recently sold Papillon's movie rights to Robert Dorfmann, coproducer of Z, and has completed a sequel, Papillon Surfaces, which is scheduled to appear in May. The audacious author has also written—and starred as an aging rogue in—Popsy Pop, a film with Claudia Cardinale and Stanley Baker, plans more books and screenplays, and ultimately hopes to repay Venezuela's kindness in granting him refuge by investing in the development of a vacation complex there for middle-income tourists. Despite a pardon by the French government, as well as his literary celebrity and the multimillionaire status it's brought him, Charrière still considers himself "Le Papillon—the eternal fugitive, the symbol of love, of life in nature and of disobedience—which doesn't have to take orders and can fly wherever it wants, do whatever it wants. Even when I was imprisoned, it was only my body, never my mind. That was always free."
At 29, he may be his own hardest act to follow. In the past year and a half, Stacy Keach has scored on Broadway, as Buffalo Bill in Indians; on film, first as Horner in End of the Road, then in the title role of The Traveling Executioner and, more recently, in an improvisational cameo as the 120-year-old third Wright brother in Brewster McCloud. Of his latest venture—as the protagonist in Frank Perry's Western Doc, recently completed in Spain—Keach says: "Doc Holliday is the most demanding role I've ever played. He's probably the most definitively incurable romantic in the history of American movies." Doc, which may be entered in the Cannes Film Festival this May, co-stars Faye Dunaway as Katie Elder. Despite the suddenness of his success, Keach is no neophyte. Since childhood in Savannah and Los Angeles (where his father was a drama coach and a performer on radio's Tales of the Texas Rangers), Stacy has been geared to showbiz. His long-range goal: to become America's best classical actor. "I've always wanted to do all the great roles of Shakespeare." He has played many of them, in repertory and festivals from coast to coast—and it was in the title role of 1967's Bard-inspired satire, MacBird!, that Keach first gained national attention. But other interests currently compete for his time. Foremost among them: getting married to folk singer Judy Collins, directing a TV documentary vignette (based on letters left behind by former in mates of Alabama's Kilby Prison, where Executioner was filmed, and intended for showing on National Educational Television) writing screenplays and composing music. He's also studying singing, though he discounts for now the idea of vocalizing on-stage. Our guess: If any new medium presents a sufficient challenge, Stacy is likely to tackle it. Ask the ex-agents who told him, years ago, that his facial scars—the result of harelip surgery—would forever prevent his becoming a leading man.