In a matter of weeks, it will be three years since the episode that has come to be called simply Chappaquiddick. It was the night that finished Edward Kennedy as a Presidential candidate. Or so everyone said, and his televised nonstatement on the subject, in which some listeners thought they heard a definite Checkers tone, only confirmed the feeling. But now, as we're nearing another election, there's as much talk about Kennedy as about anyone who's running. In Kennedy Rising, Jack Newfield argues that over the past 36 months, Teddy has managed somehow to free himself from the specter of tragedy and begin to act with a new, if fatalistic, independence--the independence of one who realizes that a third Kennedy in the Presidential spotlight could provide an irresistible temptation for an Oswald or a Sirhan to perform what Newfield grimly calls "the hat trick for psychotics."
Playboy, June, 1972, Volume 19, Number 6. Published monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States, 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: Victor Lownes, Director of Creative Development; 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, William F. Moore, Manager, 818 Fisher Building; 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.
The soul, we've always thought--and, for that matter, still think--is a spiritual concept that doesn't lend itself to scientific proof one way or another. But we're willing to reconsider, if $297,000 can prove otherwise. As you might have read in the papers, a 71-year-old Arizona gold prospector named James Kidd flat disappeared in 1949 and left a handwritten will awarding his poke to whatever individual or organization might produce "research or some other scientific proof of a soul of a human body which leaves at death." Predictably, the court executing his will was inundated by over 100 claimants assuring that they could fulfill Kidd's conditions; but after several years of legal wrangling, the money was awarded to the American Society for Psychical Research of New York, which persuaded the court that it was "best qualified and most suitable to carry out the trust expressed in the will of James Kidd." An appeal on behalf of one of the disappointed claimants is still pending, but in the opinion of the society's counsel, it is "totally without merit."
A couple of big publishing houses still have red faces over the Clifford Irving--Howard Hughes imbroglio--but one is smiling. That is Fawcett, which has just rushed into print a paperback edition of Howard, from the manuscript of which Irving apparently lifted certain anecdotes that lent the aura of credibility to his own creation. But even without that publicity bonus, this biography by 83-year-old Noah Dietrich--for 32 years chief executive of the Hughes empire--and his collaborator, journalist Bob Thomas, is absorbing in its own right. Written by a man who for three decades was privy to the intimate workings of Hughes's mind and the intimate details of his personal and business dealings, the book carries the stamp of authenticity. Dietrich was a self-taught accountant when the 19-year-old Hughes hired him in 1925 and quickly established himself at the youth's right hand. From then on, he was the person Hughes called upon to make the deals, solve the problems, straighten out the blunders and do the dirty work--of which there was quite a lot. As a result, Dietrich is a storehouse of almost incredible anecdotes about his ex-boss. In Thomas' workmanlike rewrite of the Dietrich memoirs, we see Hughes pouring millions into bad movies in order to maintain liaisons with stars and starlets; courageously test-piloting his own experimental planes and setting world speed records; writing a long memo outlining how Jane Russell's bra should be redesigned to emphasize her nipples; indulging in political chicanery up to the White House level; becoming progressively more reclusive, demanding and vindictive. Dietrich and Thomas make no attempt to psychoanalyze Hughes nor to assess his motivations; the book is a pellmell outpouring of anecdotes. Why did Dietrich put up with it all for so many years? Well, there was that half a million a year plus the perquisites of a maharaja--though Hughes never gave Dietrich the capital-gains arrangement he wanted. What seems to have kept him going almost as much as the money is what keeps the nation so preoccupied with Hughes: the fascination of wondering what bravura scheme will next come out of that locked, antiseptic--and, somehow, pitiable--room at the top.
While The Coach House at 110 Waverly Place in Greenwich Village enjoys a great word-of-mouth reputation, it has never attained superstar status. Perhaps that's because le patron, Leon Lianides, minds the kitchen instead of courting publicity. Of course, that's also one of the keys to The Coach House's consistent excellence. Another is the fact that The Coach House doesn't overreach. The menu is eclectic, with American specialties heavily represented along with a smattering of French dishes--plus whatever catches Lianides' fancy. Although you can order à la carte or table d'hôte (the listings under each are quite different), most diners opt for the latter. The Black Bean Soup is deservedly renowned. But the star of the appetizer grouping is the Quiche Lorraine. It's rich, yet not dense, accented with herbs and the bite of pepper, in a flaky, buttery crust. One order is enough for two. A showpiece of The Coach House's menu, Mignonettes of Veal, country style, is available on the dinner at $13.75. Following Escoffier's dictum, thickly sliced, boned veal loin is braised, not roasted, with mushrooms, whole tiny onions and artichoke bottoms, then finished in the oven with whole glazed chestnuts. Another favorite among regulars is Steak au Poivre--prime shell steak impregnated with crackled black peppercorns, quickly pan-grilled, then flamed with cognac and served with a sauce that includes wine, pan juices and shallots. The Duckling with Brandied Cherries is also good and the Rack of Lamb is exemplary. Desserts are merely sensational. The most celebrated finale, Dacquoise, is more a confection than a pastry--mocha butter cream immured between thin layers of a nougatine crust. The Coach House's modest wine list is well selected, reasonably priced and ranges from red and white California vintages at about $6 each to such grands seigneurs as Mouton Rothschild, La Tache and Richebourg 1962s and 1966s that go for $35--$40, though one would think the 1966s are a bit premature. Reservations are essential (212-777-0303). The Coach House is open for lunch from noon to 2:30 p.m. Tuesday through Friday. Dinner is from 5:30 p.m. to 10 p.m. Tuesday through Saturday; from 4:30 p.m. to 9:30 p.m. Sunday. Closed Monday. Most major credit cards are accepted.
Bad news for the skeptics who predicted that The Godfather had to be a fiasco. Marlon Brando, of all people, playing the venerable chieftain of the Mafia family celebrated in Mario Puzo's florid best seller? And then all that publicity about a cop-out by Paramount production executives, who cravenly promised not to mention the Mafia by name. Well, doff your hats and stand clear, because Brando as the Godfather is beautiful and the movie itself is the ultimate big-town American gangster epic, a furious implosion of guts, ruthlessness, revenge and treachery. Quite faithfully adapted but notably improved by writer-director Francis Ford Coppola (in collaboration with author Puzo), The Godfather is hard as a fist and brilliant to the bitter end, triumphant in every particular--from Nino Rota's nostalgia-tinged music of the Forties to Gordon Willis' superb vintage photography. As for the actors, they are so ideally cast-especially James Caan and Al Pacino as the rising sons of Don Corleone, Richard Castellano as the loyal assassin Clemenza and Robert Duvall as the family's consigliere--that the movie's headlong energy never slackens, even during extended periods when Brando is off the screen. When he's on it, he takes over in more ways than one. Aged to look 60, heavily jowled and croaking life-or-death sentences with the weary authority of a patriarch accustomed to instant obedience even when he speaks in a whisper, Brando vividly underplays a role that just about locks up his reputation as the finest American actor, bar none. Yet, good as it is, his performance contributes only what is necessary to The Godfather, for director Coppola maintains a rhythmic balance between brutal gangsterism and ironically contrasting domestic scenes with the mafiosi, whose private lives are firmly rooted in respect for home, mother and the Catholic Church. There may be complaints that the movie glorifies criminal behavior by stirring admiration for Don Corleone's family of brutes and killers. More often, though, the Italian-American flavor turns poisonous with truth--as in a remarkable scene at an Apalachin-style meeting of family capos, in which Don Corleone and a I rival boss, each having lost a cherished son in gang wars, tearfully embrace in the interests of renewed peace and handsome profits. This harsh dramatic portrait of their breed may or may not be accurate, but some of Hollywood's shrewdest professionals have got it all together as a wickedly fascinating legend of our time. Inside stuff on the film and a number of related matters are to be found in Mario Puzo's freewheeling autobiographical The Godfather Papers and Other Confessions (Putnam).
In this day of the country cliché and the bluegrass shuck, it's almost unheard of to find an album that is as musically right as Sittin' In (Columbia). Kenny Loggins, with Jim Messina and company, has moved beyond countrified rock to something a lot more polished and interesting. Saxes, oboe, steel drums, fiddle, concertina and mouth harp periodically enter into things with such aptness that one can hardly conceive of these songs--all of them inventive and well written--being played differently. Through much of the disc, Loggins and Messina sing together with fine harmonic control; the band plays with a very tight sound, yet it's relaxed. If you've been a nonbeliever, this one should change your feelings about country rock.
The transformation from poem to play of Allen Ginsberg's Kaddish is not complete. Video-tape projections are used to fill gaps in the narrative. Often these images heighten and counterpoint the excruciating events on stage; sometimes they merely mark time. But whatever category of theater Kaddish creates for itself, it's an enormously moving experience. This is the harrowing portrait of Ginsberg's mother, Naomi--fighting despair, "learning" to be mad and finally falling into insanity. It's also the drama of her self-concerned husband and their confused sons--trying to understand and unable to cope. Allen's mother, with her moments of piercing lucidity and of violent paranoia, is larger than life but monumentally human. Even as she swims in and out of asylums, she is full of love and lingering vanity, insisting with girlish innocence that she is "the most beautiful woman in Woodbine." All the actors are fine--but the evening belongs to Marilyn Chris as Naomi. She gives a radiantly painful and poignant performance. The play, first staged at The Chelsea Theater Center, has moved to Circle in the Square, 159 Bleecker Street.
What do you suggest I do about my girlfriend, who has become a Jesus freak? We have dated for many months and love each other, but now--because of her new-found beliefs--she insists that we no longer sleep together. She says that if I wish to bed down with other girls, that's up to me, but I prefer making love to the one I love. How can I convince her to see things my way?--H. C., Atlanta, Georgia.
Motor racing may be the most popular spectator sport in the world: In all its forms, from quarter-mile drag races to 24-hour endurance tests, it draws more than 50,000,000 paying customers a year. You could add all the regular season admissions for major-league baseball to those for pro football, counting every ticket sold at every ball park and stadium in the U. S., and still not reach that figure. Only horse racing claims to attract greater crowds and many of them are lured more by the promise of the pari-mutuel window than by the love of horseflesh. In America, the biggest auto-racing event is the Indianapolis 500, which brings out 300,000 people for one day; but for millions of the sport's aficionados, especially in Europe, the name of the game is Grand Prix. It's in a league by itself, with the most demanding tracks, the most sophisticated machines and the greatest drivers, who compete not once a year but 12 or 13 times, from early in the year until November, on four or five continents. The man at the top of that heap, the undisputed champion of Grand Prix racing, is a 32-year-old Scotsman named Jackie Stewart, who earns more money than all but a few corporate presidents. Around the world, he's as famous as any movie star. He's the dinner guest of royalty; when he walks through an airport anywhere in Europe, Africa, Asia or South America, people chase him for autographs. All this, as he himself says, "just for driving around in circles."
The day Morgan Myles arrived in L_____ as the new county librarian, he got a painful boil under his tongue. All that week he was too busy settling into his new quarters to do anything about it beyond dribbling over his mother's hand mirror into a mouth as pink and black as a hotel bathroom. Otherwise, he kept working off the pain and discomfort of it in outbursts of temper with his assistant, Marianne Bolger, a frail, long-legged, neurotically efficient, gushingly idealistic, ladylike (that is to say, Protestant) young woman whom he hated and bullied from the first moment he met her. This, however, could have been because of his cautious fear of her virginal attractiveness. On his fourth day in the job, he was so rude to her that she turned on him, called him a Catholic cad and fled sobbing behind the stacks. For 15 minutes, he went about his work humming with satisfaction at having broken her ladylike ways; but when she failed to come trotting to his next roar of command and he went tearing around the stacks in a fury looking for her, he was horrified to find her sitting on the floor of the Arts section still crying into her mouse-sized handkerchief. With a groan of self-disgust, he sat on the floor beside her, put his arm around her shoulder, rocked her as gently as if she were a kid of 12, told her he was a bastard out of hell, that she was the most efficient assistant he had ever had in his life and that from this on, they would be doing marvelous things together with "our library." When she had calmed, she apologized for being so rude and thanked him so formally, and so courteously, and in such a ladylike accent that he decided that she was a born bitch and went off home in a towering temper to his mother, who, seeing the state her dear boy was in, said, "Wisha, Morgan love, why don't you take that gumboil of yours to a doctor and show it to him? You're not your natural nice self at all. You're as cranky as a bag of cats with it."
George Skidmore tosses the tennis ball too far back over his head, arches up awkwardly and serves, the ball just catching the top of his racket. But the ball wobbles over the net. "Geez, the damn thing went in," he says to himself.
Once upon a time, all lady authors had to have horse faces, gray bangs and legs shaped like claret bottles. And authors of erotic novels had to be rheumy-eyed fat men who lived in lonely hotel rooms, kept cats and probably drank a lot. If these notions were ever true, they aren't any longer--as browsers in a Paris bookstore recently discovered when they came across a new-model author in the flesh, Catherine de Premonville, dressed in nothing but the ballpoint pen with which she was autographing copies of her novels.
Roaring like a Stegosaurus, a yellow monster crashed into a green country store and knocked the front out. A church spire tilted silently and fell off like a hat. Bricks exploded, dust hid the sun. With a flash and a boom, a big brass ball put a hole the size of a cow in a medieval parapet. Then the monster reappeared and, snarling its gears, took down a water tower. "You are witnessing," a voice intoned, "the death of the back lot at MGM." I switched off the TV set. I had been in Hollywood less than 24 hours but already I was weary of disasters.
When Barney Rosenzweig got back to L. A. from his European vacation at the end of March 1970, he found the movie business in terrible shape. During the two months he had been away, lazing lavishly with his girlfriend, Jeannine, a delicious little Malibu blonde, from one pleasure center to another, the bottom had fallen out of the economy in general and a policy of tight money was in full squeeze. The major studios, with their huge overheads and age-old concepts of deficit financing, were cutting back drastically on production, the independents were scrambling to find any kind of backing, and the unemployment rolls were swelling. Barney should have been worried. He was out of a job, his personal financial reserves were low and all he had to peddle was the shooting script of a movie called Who Fears the Devil, with which he hoped to establish himself as a successful independent film maker.
A Place as prosaic as Kansas City isn't often associated with movies, but the makers of Prime Cut chose it for two reasons: Long a center for meat packing, K.C. also shares a problem endemic to other American cities--mobsterism. In the film, Chicago gangland enforcer Nick Devlin (Lee Marvin) is sent to bring a K.C. clan into line. Led by Marion (Gene Hackman), the Mary Ann Meat Company is a front for a drug and white-slavery ring, and most of the "meat" sold by Marion is of the tenderloin variety: Teenaged girls are raised at a phony orphanage for auction to bawdy-houses. While at one such auction, Nick befriends Poppy (Sissy Spacek), a young thing bound for the meat rack. Prime Cut features Angel Tompkins (who enlivened our February issue) as Clarabelle, Nick's former mistress and Marion's wife. Suffice it to say that Nick and Marion resolve their personal and professional differences--with all the gentility of a stampede.
Most of them wince when you call them expatriates. Few are genuine émigrés. They are Americans, they'll be quick to tell you, Americans who just happen to live or to work abroad. Most intend to return home someday. Many don't remember how they happened overseas in the first place. The familiar American wanderlust took hold of them at some point, but instead of carrying them westward, it guided them beyond the continental U.S.A. Taxes may have had something to do with it. ("If the income-tax exemption for the first $25,000 earned overseas each year were ever revoked, you'd suddenly see a lot of repatriates," an American broker in (continued on page 136)Worldly Americans(continued from page 125) Paris once told me.) The lure is strongest for professionals and those who manage the foreign branches of American corporations, but the U. S. cash base is just as important for those who choose to live abroad in search of new existential pleasures or a second start in life. Whatever their motive, it remains a remarkable fact that this vast continent, so recently subdued, which only a century ago was still a great magnet for Europe's burgeoning masses, should have grown too small for so many so soon.
When Debbie Davis was graduated from Burbank's John Burroughs High School, she wasn't sure what she wanted to do. She toyed with a couple of fairly promising choices: going to college or becoming a stewardess. But what she finally did--looking back, she wonders why--was to go to work as an information operator for Pacific Telephone. Now, at 20, Debbie says, "I don't know how I lasted there almost two years. We were completely locked up inside all day, and I need to be outdoors." Not surprisingly, Debbie spent nearly every off-the-job moment in the California sun. One day last year, picking herself up from a water-ski splashdown near Long Beach, she spied a boat that looked slightly different from the usual mass-produced models--and two men aboard who looked familiar. The boat was a Spectra Marine custom cruiser made of hand-laid fiberglass reinforced with marine plywood, and the men--designer Bud Bailey and company president Ed DeLong--were the fathers of two girls she'd known in high school. At that time, Spectra Marine was a fledgling firm; but within a few months, business had tripled (thanks to a string of racing victories and wide publicity attending Playboy's gift of a Spectra 20 to Sharon Clark, 1971 Playmate of the Year) and DeLong had to expand his staff. So he offered Debbie a job--first on weekends, giving test rides at his waterfront sales office in Long Beach, then as full-time girl Friday. Predictably, since DeLong is a friend and sometime business associate of photographers Bill and Mel Figge, Debbie soon came to our attention. We now commend her to yours.
I had occasion to choose one man from a list of five candidates for promotion to a top executive position. Accompanying the mass of reports and documents concerning the five men was a covering roster that listed them according to the length of their experience. The first man on the list was far and away the most experienced, in the sense that he'd held executive positions nearly five years longer than his closest rival. Had I been content to use amount of experience as the sole yardstick, he would have been my choice. According to legend, the Roman emperor Hadrian once found himself in an analogous position. One of his generals, the story goes, felt overdue for promotion. He took his case to the emperor and cited his long service as justification. "I am entitled to a more important command," he declared. "After all, I'm very experienced--I've been in ten battles."
Model A wore gold in his ear, in his teeth, around his cigarette holder; and on the black rhino horn of a finger was his Creole ring. Asked why he chose an English girl 32 years younger than he, Model A once replied, " 'Cause in old age I would prefer to smell perfume than liniment." As for Sandra, her temper did not provide her reasons; she married him. When Georgina was born, like perfect honey but slightly paralyzed, it simply made the two of them hold hands more.
Among the rediscovered joys of the past, the coolest at the table these days is freshly frozen ice cream--your own thing, churned in the tradition-honored freezer bucket. This is not to say that store-bought ice cream isn't enjoying a renaissance of its own. Gourmet brands are flourishing and ice-cream parlors are proliferating. But freshly made do-it-yourself ice cream is to most of the packaged stuff as fresh Beluga caviar is to baby food. Even an ice cream as simple as French vanilla--when unencumbered with gelatins, starches, stabilizers and all the other additives--will send taste buds soaring anew. Vary the basic vanilla theme with imported chestnuts in syrup or diced guava shells and you'll introduce your crowd to some of the world's most fabulous desserts.
A startling new polling technique developed by Dr. H. B. Harass has cast grave doubt on the reliability of current opinion polls. Dr. Harass, distinguished statistician and president of the National Institute of Band Wagon Mathematics, disclosed the existence of a vast segment of the American public undiscovered by previous polls.
When we ran our Playmate story on Norway's Liv Linde--land, we reported that she--like her viking ancestors--had come to America inquest of adventure. In the months since her gatefold debut, she's found it. As our story faded out, the aspiring actress was just preparing to launch a movie career with a role in The Love Machine. Since those premieres--in our pages and on film--Liv, whose name appropriately means life in her native tongue, has seen her hopes of Hollywood success more than fulfilled: She has accumulated an impressive list of credits on the small screen (Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In and The Odd Couple) and on the big one (The Marriage of a Young Stock-broker and Evel Knievel). Adding to her movie roster, Liv recently completed Save the Tiger, in which she portrays Jack Lemmon's Danish mistress, and she's now shooting Another Day at the Races with Dean Stockwell. As if all this--plus drama, speech and dance lessons--weren't enough to keep her busy, Liv managed to squeeze in a host of television commercials and loads of personal appearances around the country at colleges, store openings and festivals; one highlight was riding on a water-borne float in the San Antonio Fiesta River Parade. More recently, she has represented the famous Desert Inn of Las Vegas as its Miss Desert Inn of 1972. But this seemingly hectic schedule in no way stopped Liv from pursuing another aspect of her acting career. Last summer, in the Hollywood lull before shooting for the new television season got under way, she found time to star on the stage. She had told us earlier that someday she hoped to reverse the customary showbiz route by moving on from films to the theater--and she wasted no time in doing just that, performing for six weeks in an El Paso stock production of Marriage-Go-Round. Liv enjoyed acting before a live audience and plans another stock stint this summer, if the right offer ("closer to Los Angeles") comes her way. But as this issue goes to press, we must fade out once again, before she heads back to the stage and before she makes her bow as Playmate of the Year. For the announcement of Liv's selection, a champagne luncheon in her honor was planned for May 16 at the new Playboy Club in Chicago's Playboy Center, where the co-hostesses were to be several past Playmates of the Year, including Claudia Jennings (1970) and Sharon Clark (1971). At the luncheon, Liv was to be presented to a corps of press, radio and television personalities by Editor and (text concluded on page 216)Playmate of the year(continued from page 158) Publisher Hugh M. Hefner, who also was to present her with a special $5000 cash prize from Playboy. The queen's ransom by no means ends there; her bounty includes:
Once upon a time, there was a king of Rocc' Aspra who was married to a woman of almost incredible grace and beauty named Nardella. But one day in the 17th year of their marriage, she fell ill of a fever, failed quickly and died. The king, who had always been a headstrong, full-blooded man, seemed nearly demented at his loss. He tore his hair, pulled out his beard and wandered on the battlements cursing the stars.
The students clustered around Paolo Soleri have to strain to hear him. His voice never rises much above a whisper, and even after 20 years in this country the accent of his native Italy thickens it. Periodically, light planes pass through the desert sky; motorcycles putter off to town on the road just beyond the low dunes; ceramic and metal bells clunk and gong with the wind. But no one's attention wanders.
Having served honorably in the Armed Forces, where it wore like iron and didn't scratch, chino has made the transition to mufti in grand style. At left is an attention-getting example of what's happening with chino today; a white safari suit with stand-up collar and zip-front closure, pockets and jacket cuffs; by Yves St. Laurent, $130. At ease, men.
My name is Michael Kelly Jones, I shall pretend, as I did many years ago in a book called Brainstorm, and the writer whose by-line appears on this declaration is serving again, as he did then, as my ghost, my alter ego and guardian of my identity.
Anthony Herbert, the controversial lieutenant colonel who was removed from his Vietnam command after reporting acts of brutality, discusses his resignation and the army's reaction in a candid Playboy Interview