OK--how many out there, during this country's Asian war, have managed to get themselves criminal records by civil disobedience in the name of peace? You don't have to tell us; we assume the answer is more than a few. The number includes the gentleman being apprehended at left--author Garry Wills. The scene is the Capitol building in Washington, D. C.; the time, earlier this year; and the event, a "celebrity" demonstration against the war. Wills--whose latest book, Bare Ruined Choirs, is reviewed elsewhere in the issue--made his antiwar gesture with no intention of writing about it; fortunately, he changed his mind, and in Imprisonment Chic, he relives the short jail stay that resulted from his activism.
Playboy, November, 1972, Volume 19, Number 11. 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; Robert A. Gutwillig, Marketing Director; Nelson Futch, Marketing Manager; Michael Rich, Promotion Director; Lee Gottlieb, Director of Public Relations. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Joseph Guenther, Associate Advertising Managers, 405 park Ave., New York, N. Y. 10022; Sherman Keats, Chicago Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Ill. 60611; Detroit, William F. Moore, Manager, 818 Fisher Bldg.; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Blvd.; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 110 Sutter St., Southeastern Representative, Pirnie & Brown, 3108 Piedmont Rd., N. E., Atlanta, GA. 30305.
From a letter sent by The Rolling Stones' office to promoters of their recent U. S. tour, here are a few backstage necessities that the Stones seem to regard as essential to survival: "Two bottles per show Chivas Regal. Teacher's or Dewar's Scotch; two bottles per show Jack Daniel's Black Label; two bottles per show tequila (lemon quarters and salt to accompany); three bottles per show iced Liebfraumilch; one bottle per show Courvoisier or Hine brandy. Fresh fruits, any of the following: apples, oranges, bananas, pears, grapes, peaches, strawberries, melons, apricots, pineapple, cherries, raspberries, blueberries, papaya, mangoes and rhubarb. Cheese, preferably not Kraft plastic. Brown bread, butter, cold meat, chicken legs, roast beef, tomatoes, pickles, etc. Alka-Seltzer."
Alexander Solzhenitsyn's August 1914 (Farrar, Straus & Giroux) is magnificent evidence that the great tradition of Russian realism still lives despite the repression of artistic freedom and the horrors of history. Indeed, it is precisely the horrors of history that Solzhenitsyn has chosen for the subject of his fourth novel, a panorama of Russia's entry into World War One. As he says in his preface, this is the small first installment of an immense work that "may take as long as 20 years," and which he probably will not live to finish. The reader of this imaginatively detailed, somberly inspired book, with its hundreds of sharply etched characters, its evenhanded treatment of far-reaching historical problems and its steadfastly ironic yet humane vision, must pray that Solzhenitsyn will live to carry out his great work. He has set out to re-evaluate in human terms the historical situation that produced the Russian Revolution of 1917 and all the miseries and misfortunes that resulted from that crucial event. But novels are not made out of intellectual programs, nor do they enthrall us because of their views; first and last, it is people, sympathetically imagined and re-created, who make a novel live and breathe, and Solzhenitsyn's pages are packed with students, generals, peasants, ladies of the aristocracy, all of them striving, either overwhelmed by history or trying with quiet, stubborn heroism to control as much of their destiny as their intelligence and courage can manage. One realizes, on closing this infinitely moving book, that most modern fiction has starved us, depicting people who either drift or are pushed along but who never--as in Solzhenitsyn's pages--take pride in their work and stake their dignity and value on their ability to perform it adequately. In this novel, the work happens to be the work of war, and the two central characters, General Samsonov and Colonel Vorotyntsev, embody in their different ways what Solzhenitsyn regards as an honest, realistic approach to the onrush of a historical calamity: Each does his job as well as he can; the war is a disaster, but Russia is duty bound to herself and her allies to honor its commitments--and each helps save something true and good from the rubble. But Solzhenitsyn's patriotism is far from jingoism; it is an effort to understand Russia's destiny in the world, not with the formulas of a ready-made theory but in terms of a whole land and its people; it is a form of tenderness, with the living Russians as its beloved object. Americans can only wonder at and envy such ideas and emotions; but then, we haven't had our love for our country tested by such an enormity as Stalin.
Locke-Ober's at 3--4 Winter Place is by now as venerable a Boston institution as the Handel and Haydn Society, the trust fund and baked beans with brown bread. The restaurant is an amalgam of two grand old 18th Century watering places that stood side by side on Winter Place, a Londonlike alley that's just a scone's throw from the Common and the heart of Old Boston at Tremont Street. Since 1894, when the wall between the two establishments was torn down, the decor has changed nary a tad and might today be described as funky fin de siècle: comfortable red-leather-backed chairs in the downstairs men's bar, stained-glass borders on the windows, a forest of elaborate bentwood coat trees, a long mahogany bar that's a wood carver's miracle, mirrors enough to shame Versailles and a marble Victorian nude who is charmingly indifferent to the naughty zephyrs that tug at her gauzy loincloth, somewhere in Arcady. One end of the bar is covered with polished-metal steam dishes with covers that can be raised by a system of weights and counterweights designed to reveal the traditional free lunch, which, alas, is no longer served. Locke-Ober's large, well-stocked menu leans slightly toward fish; broiled fresh scrod is the most popular item and special appetizers include Crab Meat Cocktail (flakes of crab meat from Gloucester reposing on a silver coquille shell) and Anchovies, Winter Place (anchovies in concert with chopped onions and pickled beets and garnished with chopped eggs). The piscatorial pièce de résistance, however, is Baked Lobster Savannah, a $16 entree in which the lobster meat is amalgamated with Newburg sauce, green peppers, mushrooms and pimientos and then shell-baked with parmesan cheese. Desserts include that old New England fave, Indian Pudding, and the extraordinary Sultana Roll in Claret Sauce, a Locke-Ober's specialty. The Sultana Roll has a distinct 19th Century taste, the sweetness of its vanilla ice cream marbled with maraschino cherries and pistachios joined to a tart lime sherbet and covered with the wine sauce. People have been known to drive all the way from Worcester for a taste of this incredible dessert. The noblesse oblige of Locke-Ober's white-aproned waiters is proverbial. Some, in fact, seem more like old family retainers. Leaning against their stations at the bar, they look as much like a Degas painting as it is possible in contemporary Boston. Overall, there is a yellowish-golden glow to the rooms. Silverware has never seemed so heavy nor table linens so thick as at Locke-Ober's, which is perhaps the finest restaurant Boston has ever known. It's open from 11 a.m. to 10 p.m. daily except Sundays and holidays. Reservations are recommended (617-542-1340) and all major credit cards are accepted.
The words black market have a whole new meaning in the movie world, where any film by or about black people is routinely pigeonholed as another example of color-conscious exploitation. A trio of new movies--though sensitive in some degree to racial injustice--proves the foolishness of such generalizations, for they are as varied in theme and treatment as any three films released without labels signifying their color. The most eye-grabbing entry is Super Fly, created by writer Phillip Fenty and director Gordon Parks, Jr., with ethnic flash and real feeling for the nervous rhythm of the drug scene in Harlem. Handsome movie newcomer Ron O'Neal plays Super Fly, a restless cocaine dealer who wants to make a fast $1,000,000 and get the hell out of a game ruled by sharks, killers, addicts and corrupt police officials. Though the acting is unpolished and the photography frequently self-indulgent, Super Fly scores with its secondary characters (Carl Lee, Julius W. Harris and Charles MacGregor in particular), who seem immunized by long exposure to Harlem's moral and social pollution. Like many freshman directors, Parks belabors certain effects, going well overboard in a long, irrelevant, yet remarkably sensual bathtub love scene between the hero and his chick (Sheila Frazier). Parks shows sensible restraint, however, in not moralizing about the evils of drugs. Instead, he scours the streets of Manhattan like a hip anthropologist studying social outcasts in their natural habitat.
Fats Domino, Bill Medley, Shirley and Lee, Dr. John, Lee Dorsey, Chris Kenner, Ernie K-Doe, Al Hirt, "Frogman" Henry, Lou Johnson, Herb Alpert, the Meters...what they--and others--have in common is that they all either (1) worked with Allen Toussaint, (2) received the benefits of his producing abilities or (3) made hit records from his songs. Toussaint, a retiring composer/ pianist who has been at the heart of New Orleans music since the Fifties, came out of the closet last year with his first vocal album, From a Whisper to a Scream (Scepter); it didn't go anywhere, but some critics hailed it--justly--as a thing of beauty. Now he's on Warner Bros, and, from the sound of Life, Love and Faith, we'd guess that Toussaint is the next Mr. Big Stuff of pop music. There's a beautiful catholicity to this LP: Out of the City (Info Country Life) is the blues, all sleek and modern; I've Got to Convince Myself has more than a touch of country-and-western; Electricity is as psychedelic as you could want; She Once Belonged to Me will remind you of the Beatles; Gone Too Far is pure New Orleans rock, with a haunting instrumental break that combines jazz and classical elements; My Baby Is the Real Thing sounds like something the Stones might do; Am I Expecting Too Much? is Jr. Walkerish, only better. In fact, no matter who Toussaint reminds you of, he's better. And everything here has his own touch: New Orleans black-magic rhythm; fully conceived melodies; and images that stick in your head, whatever the subject ("Crippled my soul with your hit-and-run"). The arrangements contain marvelous complexities of horns, voices and rhythm (no string sections here); but they're delivered with precision and every note means something.
While standing on the balcony of my apartment, I noticed that the girl who lives below me had her bedroom curtains open and was lying on her bed, playing with herself. I watched her for a few minutes, then went downstairs and knocked on her door to offer my services. She came to the door in a robe; and when I told her why I was there, she screamed and slammed the door in my face. Several moments later, the police were knocking on mine, though they left when I explained the situation. What I want to know is: What did I do wrong? --F. A., Miami, Florida.
There is no commonly accepted view of Jack Anderson. Easily the best-known--indeed, most notorious--newspaperman in America, Anderson is seen by his supporters as a tough cop on a tough beat, shining a searching spotlight into all the shady nooks and crannies of official Washington. His enemies see him as a journalistic mugger lurking in the shadows, waiting to rob all passers-by, guilty or otherwise, of their virtuous public images. For Anderson, there is no venality too small, no corruption too mind-boggling to rail against. His columns about generals shoplifting trinkets from Army PXs and mayors biting call-girls on the knee are written in the same high dudgeon as his headline-making revelations of political scandals on Capitol Hill and in the White House.
More Often than not, Henry Oates felt unloved and that he was obsolete because he was old and black. As for being black, he was more truthfully a rather pleasant shade of very dark brown, depending upon whether he was seen in the light of day or night. As for being old, he was only 45; but he liked to say that he was 50 as a sort of psychological priming for the eventuality.
Despite Formidable filtration plants in the major cities, most tap water today is undistinguished, barely worthy of the chemical formula H2O. Which presents a problem to those who don't wish to mix good whiskey with chlorine on the rocks, who like their rocks to be clear rather than cloudy and who enjoy their coffee strong and fresh rather than something akin to wormwood. The solution: bottled aqua--domestic and imported, sparkling and still--now offered at watering spots as divergent as supermarts, gourmet shops and health-food stores across the country.
After prolonged exposure to Gwen Welles, it is necessary to redefine one's ideas about star quality, charisma and those mysterious attributes that transform seemingly ordinary little girls into luminous love goddesses.
You'll have to Talk Louder--I have Sand in My Ears
The Fat Man in the battered fez pales slightly under his mahogany tan and leans toward me, revealing watermelon sized sweat stains spreading down from the armpits of his rumpled white-linen suit. "Be careful, monsieur," he whispers, nodding his head toward the corner table. "The big legionnaire, he is very mean when he is drunk--"
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Hubert Humphrey was running for President, of course, and he was flying from Washington, D. C., to Youngstown, Ohio, to speak to the national convention of the College Young Democrats. There were going to be a lot of empty seats on the chartered 737...and there were going to be 25,000,000 Americans between the ages of 18 and 24 eligible to cast their first Presidential votes in 1972...and more than 6,000,000 of those young voters were college students....Well. One of Humphrey's "youth advisors," 24-year-old Mike Grimes, got the idea: Invite some college-newspaper reporters to fly along, chat with the candidate, have a few laughs, just like the big guys from The New York Times and The Washington Post, then....
Even if You're Among the ever-dwindling few who have not read Dr. David (Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex but Were Afraid to Ask and Any Woman Can! Love and Sexual Fulfillment for the Single, Widowed, Divorced... and Married") Reuben, you've undoubtedly seen him. Seldom has a member of the medical profession been so visible as has Dr. Reuben. Even before his first book became a best seller, he was hitting the talk shows. Overnight, he became America's number-one sex maven, renowned as the man who, fearlessly, singlehandedly and wittily, had taken sex to the dry cleaner's and hung it up for all to see on television.
Everybody Knows writers are crazy. They jump off bridges and boats, finally, or drown in gutters, and before that they shoot themselves in the legs with machine guns, stab their wives on purpose and are pretty much the heaviest juicers at the cosmic party.
As He Drove the rented Ferrari up the coast toward Santa Barbara and disaster, Andy was increasingly aware of Margaret's anxiety about the weekend ahead. She'd been silent for the last ten miles but had been lighting one cigarette from another, and her tightened neck cords meant panic was on its way.
Back Around the turn of the century, an emigration epidemic known as America fever swept Sweden, with thousands pulling up stakes every week. It eventually waned and almost died out, but three years ago native Lenna Sjööblom caught it--and left her homeland in search of adventure across the Atlantic. "I'd finished school," she says, with characteristic Swedish inflections, "and I didn't want to just settle down and get married before I had seen America. So I got a visa and came to Chicago to visit a cousin." But what was intended to be only a short stay stretched into permanent residency for our Playmate, who has launched a successful career modeling for magazines, newspapers and catalogs. "The modeling work may have influenced my decision to stay," says Lenna, "but I think it was more the freedom here. Though I miss my parents and brother very much and Sweden will always be my home, I couldn't move back unless the government changed. The country's becoming too socialistic for me; like, I think it's wrong that people must pay such high taxes, even if that does make some public-welfare programs possible." Government policies, however, haven't prevented her from returning annually for family reunions and the traditional Midsummer Eve festivities. This past summer, Lenna spent a month in Sweden, touring Stockholm (a short distance from the Sjööbloms' home in the village of Järna), relaxing at their summer house on the Baltic Sea and trekking north to their mountain retreat. "We had a great time," says Lenna, "and I found out how much I appreciate my relatives. Even now, I'm still a bit homesick for them, but I'll get over that. Besides, there's always next summer."
An engaged couple had gone to the same physician for premarital examinations and the prospective groom stopped at the doctor's office after work to obtain the results. "I'm afraid that I have both bad and good news for you," said the medical man. "The bad news is that your fiancée has gonorrhea."
When John Ferguson sets his Alley Oop jaw and says, in low, flat tones, "There are no friends on the ice. I didn't want any friends. I didn't give any favors, I didn't want any favors," he speaks with the somber finality of a judge pronouncing sentence. Tough talk pervades the world of professional hockey; all the pent-up macho instincts of the generally gray and docile Canadian psyche seem to have been concentrated on this simple, grandly violent game. Every man who ever pulled on a pair of the absurd short pants that tradition has cursed on hockey players considers himself tough.
There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. --Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
Prison is The "In" Thing this year. More than one person said nervously, "Think what Tom Wolfe could do with this!" We were, after all, going to jail with the Beautiful People, being taken into fashionable custody. Richard Avedon never had a hair out of place throughout the whole polite ordeal; I bet even his mug shot was flattering. We had the very den mother of radical chic, Felicia Bernstein, along with us. Large as her apartment is, she could not invite a whole jail in for the evening. This time she would not be able to gratify her sewery yearnings from afar; she had to move right on down, not only to Washington (comedown enough) but into the city's jails--all the way, dans la bone down.
One Begins in familiar ways: a Civil Service test, a training school and, later, the excitement of one's first fires and the fancy of wearing the uniform and helmet. I began this way, becoming a fireman, setting out to serve the citizens while serving myself some needed solitude; but lately, I'm ambushed with dreams and visions. This sort: I'm in the company of a beautiful girl in a room filling with smoke. We exchange a love glance, her fingers brush my face, we start to embrace, then, disconcerted by the smoke, we look for a way out. She takes my hand as I lead her around the walls, searching for a door; she wears a translucent gown, flowing like flame itself, and her dark hair spills over her shoulders. Then, the room stifling, we grope and panic; somewhere in the next few moments, terrified, our hands lose grip, and when I finally kick through the thin wall with my heavy rubber boot, she fails to escape with me and I lose her.
If Any Single Film could be said to epitomize what happened to sex on the screen in 1972, it would have to be Ernest Lehman's production of Portnoy's Complaint. Not coincidentally, since its gestation period spans all of four years, it could also be said to summarize the changes in basic concepts of how to handle sex in the movies between 1968 and the present. Lehman, an award-winning screenwriter turned producer, had been offered the book early in 1968, when the era of permissiveness in films was just getting under way--aided in no small degree by his own dam-bursting adaptation of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?--and the old Production Code was being honored more in the breach than in the observance; it was soon, in fact, to be displaced altogether by the present system of ratings and classification. Reluctantly, Lehman decided to pass. "I had no idea then how to turn it into a movie," he said later, "but I knew it would make one hell of a picture." When, after some months, a treatment did occur to him, his studio (20th Century-Fox) lost no time in trying to obtain it.
When Napoleon Bonaparte was elected first consul for life in 1802, he sent an embassy to the Sublime Porte. His hope was to re-establish French prestige in the Near East and to win the good will of the Ottoman Empire. For this mission, he chose three able young men. The senior envoy was Georges Cassin, a shrewd merchant--though inclined to be a bit careless about details. Vicomte d'Annecy was a proven soldier, a veteran of the Italian campaign, whose assignment was to become acquainted with the Turkish generals. Emile le Breton, the third of the trio, was a good civil servant and the son of a landed Norman family.
Over his Desk in the grungy old campaign headquarters behind the Capitol was a beat-up poster of Charlie Brown wailing, "Why can't I be rough and tough like all the other managers?" The legend, somewhat surprisingly, fit McGovern campaign manager Gary Hart, who exuded a hesitant shyness, despite his piercing eyes and confident words. "We're on the way," he said. "All we need now are about 40,000,000 votes and $25,000,000" That was the week after the Democratic Convention, before the staff moved to plusher surroundings befitting a Presidential campaign--and before things started to go wrong. Since then, the 34-year-old former Denver lawyer, who orchestrated the primary operations and "played the convention floor like a pipe organ," has had more hanging over his head than a Penuts poster, not least of which is the Tom Eagleton fiasco. Hart readily admits his foul-up: "I take the blame for not setting up a committee on selection; I should have thought of that." But the fact remains he didn't, and such high-level bungling still seems inexcusable to many, especially in view of Hart's experience. No neophyte, he was initiated into Presidential politics in 1960, working for John Kennedy in New Haven. Eight years later, after graduation from Yale Law School and a stint in the Justice Department, he hit the big time as a Western coordinator for Robert Kennedy and, in 1970, he joined McGovern, figuring--against all the odds and polls--that he'd picked a winner. "I wouldn't have worked for George McGovern if I didn't feel he had a chance," Hart said early in the primaries. He still believes his man--with Sargent Shriver--can pull it out this month. But unlike other staffers who aspire to higher office, Hart claims "no ambition whatsoever to get into the Government. I plan to write two books on the campaign--one factual and one fictional." We've no doubt he's hoping that both versions will have happy endings.
"When It Comes To Feeling, those were what I call the good old days," says Al Green, thinking back to when he sang the Gospel with his father and his four brothers. "There was more of everything--but less money." When he split, at 17, to do pop music, he was "the terrible little kid who broke up the good, old-fashioned family group." Green, 25, still has doubts about whether or not he made the right move: "I like the spiritual line better; it's a comfort. But you have to figure out the ins of the business, to improve your financial status. Of course, I know that's a poor excuse--finance." But now it's cool with his folks back in Grand Rapids: "They say, 'You're so beautiful, we knew you could do it.' " After one hit record and several years of chitlin-circuit obscurity, Al got a break when he did a Midland, Texas, gig--where nobody got paid, but people got to feeling so good they walked around on tables--and he met Willie Mitchell, the canny Memphis bandleader who directs Hi, Green's recording label. Another break came when Al began to write: Tired of Being Alone became a 1,000,000 seller, then Let's Stay Together sold over 2,000,000 in the U. S. alone. Every Green release since then has turned to gold, and he's playing the circuit--the Forum, the Copa, the Latin Casino--which, as he says, ensures long life in his business. On the road all the time, Al rests before a show ("If it doesn't go right, I just go offstage and get sick"), then stays up till four A.M. to write ("That's the only time I can do it, when all the other people are asleep"). The "other people" include his eight-piece traveling band, most of whom he found in a combo that he calls "the worst I'd ever heard"; but he liked their spirit, hired them on the spot and rehearsed them relentlessly. Now they sound, as Al might say, "mighty fine." As for the future, film offers are coming in and Green is interested, but he says, "I couldn't feel wholehearted about anything but singing."
He Was Ordained an evangelist at three. A year later, billed as The Child of God, he was faith healing and performing marriages with his father's fundamentalist Gospel show. His name is Marjoe (an abbreviation of Mary and Joseph) Gortner, and when he retired at 14 from the church-and-tent circuit to the Southern California underground culture of his own generation, he never thought he'd hit the sawdust trail again. But eight years later, buoyed by hippie idealism and an overdose of naïveté, he went back to the people "to preach a God for today." However, "the folks didn't want to hear that," he recalls, "so I decided to give them what they wanted: 'Hell with the Lid Off.' " Eventually. Marjoe quit to study acting at the American Place Theater in New York. But there was a summer of Gospel bookings left and when he appeared on Village Voice columnist Howard Smith's radio show and astonished the host with his confessions of greed and hypocrisy on the circuit, Gortner soon found himself agreeing to let Smith and fellow Voice staffer Sarah Kernochan, two untried film makers, record his final put-on rip-off ride. The resultant documentary, Marjoe, was received with a standing ovation at the 1972 Cannes film festival and the critical praise has been flowing unabated ever since. Gortner, however, has left that road behind for good. His autobiography will be coming out next spring, and he's considering film and Broadway-stage roles. The flamboyant style of his preaching, reminiscent of the rock gyrations of Mick Jagger, may also be a key to similar success within the counterculture; currently, he's working on an album and planning a concert tour. "It's going to be a kind of rock show and Gospel revival," he says, "sort of like Joe Cocker's Mad Dogs and Englishmen with religion. I'll sing, preach, play music and try to get the audience reelin' with the feelin', just like my tent shows." As Gortner is fond of saying, "Glory gee to beezus."
Our Anthony Herbert interview sparked a controversy that not only revived the national discourse on war crimes in Vietnam but provoked an intense reaction from the United States Army. In addition to the letters that we published last month and in this issue, we received responses from Major General John W. Barnes, former commander of the 173rd Airborne Brigade and the officer who relieved Herbert of battalion command; and from Major General Winant Sidle, Chief Information Officer of the Department of the Army. Barnes wrote on behalf of himself, Sidle on behalf of the Army. We have abstracted the generals' most pressing points and asked Herbert for rebuttals. We present this exchange not only because it allows both sides to be heard but because it strikes at the heart of how the Indochina war has been prosecuted and why, once committed to it, America has remained engaged so long.