In 1963, a little-known young English writer named John Le Carré published a novel called The Spy Who Came In from the Cold. It became an instant best seller and was followed by a steady succession of best sellers (among them The Looking Glass War and Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy) that established Le Carré as the reigning master of the spy thriller. So when we were offered the chance to extract something from Le Carré's forthcoming novel, The Honourable Schoolboy (to be published by Alfred A. Knopf in the U.S. and by Hodder and Stoughton in England), naturally, we jumped. The part we chose takes place in Southeast Asia, and particularly in Pnompenh, during the last days of the Cambodian civil war. That's all we're going to tell you about it (after all, it's a thriller), except that Le Carré, who, under his real name, David Cornwell, did a stint in the British Foreign Service, spent a couple of years researching the book throughout Southeast Asia during the recent unpleasantness there. Be assured, it's a hair-raiser.
Playboy, August, 1977, Volume 24, Number 8. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States, its possessions and Canada, $30 for three years, $22 for two years, $12 for one year. Elsewhere, $25 per year. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of Address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, P.O. Box 2420, Boulder, Colorado 80302, and allow 30 days for change. Marketing: Nelson Futch, Marketing Manager; Lee Gottlieb, Director of Public Relations; Michael J. Murphy, Circulation Promotion Director. Advertising: Henry W. Marks, Advertising Director; Harold Duchin, National Sales Manager; Mark Evens, Associate Advertising Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017; Sherman Keats, Associate Advertising Manager; John Thompson, Central Regional 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, 417 Montgomery St.
That's not what they mean by "flashing your card," dummy. A disgruntled customer at a Casper, Wyoming, store didn't hesitate to bare his feelings to the female cashier. We're not quite sure what prompted his behavior, but after she totaled his purchases, the 45-year-old man flopped his penis onto the counter alongside his Master Charge.
Voted in for coming up with a solution for a problem that doesn't exist: a doctor at a Southern medical school who told a symposium that there's no physical reason why men can't breast-feed babies. If a baby sucks long enough on a male's nipples, he claims, the stimulation will produce mother's milk--or, in this case, father's milk. There are hormonal drugs, adds the doctor, that can help turn men into breast feeders if sucking isn't enough to get the milk flowing.
In this modern age, it's easier for children to have sex than it is for them to have fun. Today, toys are complicated, computer-tested contraptions conceived by child psychologists and erudite educators. Dolls walk, talk, wet and have plastic penises. Games, guns, gadgets and gizmos teach kids how to count, kill, write and rape. The following is an advance peek at some of the contemporary playthings that are now in the planning stages.
Epic films about World War Two will be measured from now on against Joseph E. Levine's A Bridge Too Far, based on the late Cornelius Ryan's incisive best seller and produced on a stupendous scale, as if costly big-name stars were a dime a dozen (though Robert Redford reportedly earned at least $2,000,000 for several weeks' work; see page 92 for the inside story on a milestone in the making). Several real-life characters involved in one of the hairiest debacles in the history of modern warfare are portrayed by James Caan, Dirk Bogarde, Michael Caine, Sean Connery, Edward Fox, Elliott Gould, Gene Hack-man, Anthony Hopkins, Laurence Olivier, Ryan O'Neal and Maximilian Schell. If that's not enough for your money, there is Liv Ullmann in the film's only substantial female role--as a Dutch gentlewoman who gave over her house to the Allied wounded. Liv also doubles as narrator of the opening sequences, which set the stage for an airborne assault conceived back in 1944 by British Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery. More than any German, the villain of the piece is Montgomery--an offscreen presence whose egomaniacal zeal to beat the Russians to Berlin prompted a misbegotten plan to air-drop 35,000 English, American and Polish parachute troops far behind enemy lines. Their mission, part of Operation Market-Garden, was to take a bridge at Arnhem.
Dirty Duck opens with the bold claim that "this film has no socially redeeming values." Well, that's dead right, yet the movie has some value as a promising X-rated cartoon feature in the tradition of Ralph Bakshi's Fritz the Cat. Written, designed and directed by animator Charles Swenson, with music and most of the soundtrack voices supplied by the team of Flo and Eddie (Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan, two seasoned lunatics formerly associated with Frank Zappa's Mothers of Invention), Dirty Duck is built around the lustful fantasies of a shy insurance adjuster named Willard Eisenbaum, who inadvertently inherits a very large, lewd duck from one of his clients. Why a duck? "I was a turtle for a while, but things were a little slow," replies Dirty Duck. Then he and Eisenbaum embark upon a series of cartooned misadventures, encountering Captain America, bull dykes, harlots, screaming faggots and an armored tank equipped with a voice reminiscent of Humphrey Bogart's. Swenson's satire could do with some honing to round off the rough edges, though his style in animation is spare, original and wittily porno-cum-graphic. With luck and a little more practice, his Dirty Duck might take off like a big-assed bird.
<p>It's not another "Lady Sings the Blues," but once again a jazz singer's path has been star-crossed by drugs. Flora Purim, an immigrant from Brazil ten years ago, is now receiving the accolades that once went to Ella, Carmen and Sarah. (Downbeat polls have named her top female vocalist for three consecutive years.) Warner Bros. Records snatched her away from the more esoteric Milestone label with a multimillion-dollar offer. She's married to the brilliant Brazilian percussionist Airto Moreira and they have a daughter, Diana. But there are thorns in the bed of roses: a cocaine bust in 1971, 16 months in Terminal Island penitentiary, and now the threat of deportation. The Department of Immigration will send Flora Purim, as an alien and ex-felon, home, persona non grata, unless a deportation order can be blocked on humanitarian grounds. Writer Len Lyons talked to Flora to get her side of the story.</p>
Roger Kahn's new book about baseball, A Season in the Sun (Harper & Row), grew out of a series of magazine articles he wrote over the course of the 1975 season. His assignment was to capture the state of the game in America, an impossibly broad idea, and he decided the way to approach it was to "consider a winning major-league baseball team ... and match that franchise against a losing ball club.... Go ride the buses of the minors and live with young men who win and lose in solitude.... Look for someone born out of time, who spent his skills in the old Negro leagues, quite literally black obscurity. Contrast him with a white, who ran a baseball career into a fortune." Well, you can have the winners in this book, Walter O'Malley, Johnny Bench. We know their stories too well and even Kahn can't make them interesting or fresh. Ah, but when he gets down into the bush-league heart of the game, where they still play it for love instead of money, this is a wonderful book. Kahn travels to Arkansas to watch Wally Moon coach the John Brown University team, to Puerto Rico, where all the boys want to grow up to be Roberto Clemente, to Pittsfield, Massachusetts, where he watches what he calls the most exciting game of the year between two minor-league teams you never heard of. And if there is a single moment in the book in which Kahn the reporter finds what he went looking for, it is the one with Artie Wilson, a forgotten superstar from the Negro leagues. "Oh, but I loved playing the game," Wilson tells him, "loved it as a little kid round the sand lots in Birmingham and I loved it playing for the Acipico Cast Iron Pipe Company."
Twelve years ago, India and Pakistan were fighting over the Rann of Kutch, which is without a doubt the most worthless piece of real estate on earth. Rann means marsh, which is what the Rann of Kutch is half the year. It's a desert the other six months.
A co-worker recently brought an illustrated sex manual to the office. One of the chapters was devoted to orgies and how to surmount the problems that some-times arise. The section I liked best consisted of advice on what to do with two women. Specifically, if two women are afraid to go down on each other, a man can act as a go-between in a rather unique fashion. He stands behind one girl and places his penis between her thighs. (If that is uncomfortable, she can sit on his lap or they can nestle side by side.) The other girl kneels in front of the pair and performs fellatio on the tip of the man's penis. Apparently, in doing so, she also comes into contact with the other woman's sensitive regions. We were intrigued with the image, but we wondered: Is it likely to work?--T.R., New Orleans, Louisiana.
By now, there can scarcely be a man or woman--or child--in this country who is unaware that young children are being used as performers in pornography. Early this year, Dr. Judianne Densen-Gerber, a New York psychiatrist, began traveling from city to city, holding press conferences and displaying her collection of child pornography. In May, Sixty Minutes did a segment on child porn, the Chicago Tribune launched a series of frontpage articles with such headlines as "Child Pornography: Sickness for Sale," the FBI announced its own investigation and promised indictments in New York and California, hearings were scheduled by House and Senate subcommittees and, in Illinois, separate investigations were launched at state, county and municipal levels. There were raids on bookstores and theaters in New York, Chicago and San Francisco. Kiddie porn had arrived as a national scandal.
There they are: Neil Simon and Sidney Lumet and Robert DeNiro and Martin Scorsese and Gore Vidal and Robert Wagner and Natalie Wood and Charles Bronson. They are formally dressed, in small groups, talking their deals, talking about pictures, plays, books, The Industry, smack in the heart of Hollywood managerial power, the theatrical home of Sue Mengers, agent to the high and mighty. The doorbell rings. Conversations continue and no one pays any attention except Wagner, who notices the entrance of a scruffy-looking kid, 5'6" short, with messy hair, Pan-Cake make-up on his face, wearing dungarees, a very casual shirt, standing with a lady who is trying her best not to look tall. A smile turns the corners of Wagner's mouth. Other people turn to see who's come. Suddenly, they're all quiet.
Not long ago, when Patti McGuire was visiting our Chicago offices, she happened to mention that she had always wanted to take a rafting trip down the Colorado River. Knowing a good idea when it hits us over the head, we promptly dispatched Playmate of the Year Patti, Playmate Hope Olson, Chicago Bunny Cindy Russell and Staff Photographer Richard Fegley to Las Vegas, where they caught a small plane to Marble Canyon, Arizona, the starting point of their adventure that would take them 200 miles down the river, through the Grand Canyon.
Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, we assemble at Lee's Ferry, Arizona, on the banks of a cold green river. Green because of microplankton. Cold (49 degrees Fahrenheit) because this water comes from the bottom of a dam 15 miles upstream--Glen Canyon Dam. We are bound for Pierce Ferry on Lake Mead, 280 miles down-river, through the Grand Canyon of the Colorado.
Deventer, Holland. June 1976. What was a few months earlier a city on the verge of bankruptcy now resembles a city under siege. Dutch, German, British soldiers stalk cobblestone roads. Tanks, jeeps, a variety of military vehicles squat swollen and ominous atop the modest Wilhelmina Bridge above the IJssel River. A row of bombed-out buildings sits on the Zandpoort almost directly underneath, while a carpet of rubble extends from the foot of these buildings across the underpass. This siege is the biggest thing to hit Deventer since the oil crisis.
Whatever happened to Him and Her, the robotlike visitors from outer space who were said to be recruiting migrant labor for other parts of the universe? Crowds gathered where they were rumored about to appear: and there were newspaper reports of people getting rid of all their earthly belongings in preparation for the big move and then disappearing. Despite the intense coverage by the media, certain questions never seem to have been asked. Who gave them permission to land? Did they register as aliens? Exactly what is our position on visitors from outer space?
Julia Lyndon is a serious information freak, a one-woman rumorcontrol center. And from the sound of the telephone ringing, everyone in the world has her number. Calm. Competent, our August gatefold girl juggles calls from Rome, Montreal, Provincetown, Los Angeles and Chicago, setting up a lunch date with one of her former teachers ("the one who went nude swimming at Truro Beach"), returning a business call from her copywriter ("It's not urgent; I was just making a bit of a panic"), cross-referencing two friends alone in a distant city ("I've already told her you'll call") and planning a rendezvous in Hollywood ("We can spend a day at the Malibu Riding and Tennis club"). The tool of Julia's trade is one of Ma Bell's best: a push-button phone with accessories for call forwarding, conference calls and call holding. "If someone is trying to reach me while I'm on the phone, which I usually am, I hear a beep, ask my party to hold, press the receiver and ask the second caller to hold. Sort of like tag-team telephoning." In a sense, Julia is in competition with the phone company. She is in San Francisco for a year, putting together a hip Yellow Pages, a directory of chic shops, haute restaurants and genuinely good places to go: "Are you interested in circus antiques and neat things? Try Hot Flash of American on Upper Market. What about Sherlock Holmes? You look like the type who likes detective stories. There's a bar and Holmes museum in Grosvenor Towers. We, can go there for drinks after dinner." Over a fine French meal at L'Etoile, Julia explains her fascination with and energetic pursuit of information. "It probably began in high school. I went to a small girls' school in Upstate New York. There were 300 courses available. You designed your own curriculum. When nothing's required, when you are doing what you've chosen, you have to devote all your energy to it. You can't make excuses. The cat can't eat your homework. I was tutored in Italian, Japanese history, Shakespeare. I booked movies for the film society. I was in pre-Olympic training for the equestrian team. But then I discovered cities. I began to major in weekends. Every Friday, my girlfriend and I would journey down to New York to see the Juilliard Quartet or to attend a gallery opening or a literary party. I financed those weekends by playing high-stakes backgammon in the parlors near Washington Square. I was hustling backgammon before Hef ever heard about the game. Also, on the Upper East Side I resold Victorian lace dresses that I found in Village thrift shops. I had a thing for Paul Poiret--a turn-of-the-century dress designer--and I would sort through discard bins, hoping to uncover an original. I did find one. The rest was profit. But I learned a basic survival skill by the time I was 14. I learned to personalize the city. When I go out, I make a point of meeting the person responsible for my evening's pleasure. The owner or chef at a restaurant. The artist whose work I admire at an opening or the man who runs the gallery. I try to add a who to the where. That way, I'm always visiting friends. It's a one-on-one relationship. Essentially, that's what I'm doing in San Francisco right now. I don't love this city, but I know it on a first-name basis." The talk moves on--a connect-the-digression rap involving the sense of theater in Los Angeles, the significance of spiral staircases, Japanese literature, the Italian commedia dell'arte, writing (she keeps a loose-leaf notebook of events that seemed to have been staged for her benefit) and, finally, back to names. "I have on occasion used an alias. Once, my girlfriend had her heart set on going to the Rainbow Room in New York for Easter Sunday brunch. The maître de looked at these two teenage girls, arched his eyebrow and asked, 'Do you have a reservation?' My friend was about to turn and leave, but I grabbed her hand. 'Yes, I'm sure my mother called in from Tarrytown.' 'What's the name?' 'Rockefeller.' 'Right this way.' We had the best table. Now, whenever I go back, I get treated like a Rockefeller. I guess this pictorial blows that, right?" Yes. We can imagine the gatefold stapled to the maître de's station at the Rainbow Room, with the warning: "This girl is not who she claims to be." But we suspect she'll get a table.
Some Years Ago, the sine qua non of casual shoes was the penny loafer. Then expensive leather tennis shoes started to show up off the court as much as on, the whole world began to get hip and the age of jock-look sportswear was born. That look kicked off a trend that is particularly evidenced in today's footwear, as shoes designed for all sorts of outdoor activities, from athletic fun and games to hiking and camping, are currently being worn for anything but what they were originally intended. Not only are they comfortable but the styles are surprisingly good-looking and, of course, very functional. As Neil Armstrong said, it's one giant step for mankind.
Are you living with a lady? Thinking about maybe living alone or moving in with a different lady? Before you tell your roommate to start checking the apartment listings, you'd better study the new rules of the cohabitation game.
Pro Football has long been two games--the matching of brawn and speed on the field and the more complex (and often more entertaining) battle of avarice and swollen ego played off-field and off-season by players and management.
Director Just Jaeckin is fast becoming the Woodward and Bernstein of French cinema. Or perhaps the Masters and Johnson. His first film--Emmanuelle--was an erotic vision of life in the foreign service. His latest film, Madame Claude, is a kind of X-rated Z--a story of a political sex scandal and the subsequent cover-up. The film is described as "a collection of strange characters and unusual situations." Photographer Helmut Newton interprets some of those situations in the pictures shown here. The moral: Behind every powerful man stands a good woman. Or is that in front of? Below?
It seemed an ingenious idea for a swimsuit. A couple of bits of fabric looped here, passed discreetly through there. Less is more, as they say. But how could lovely Karen Hafter have foreseen the drawbacks? Indeed, there didn't seem to be any--except that it did occasionally get snagged. On passers-by. Somehow, the temptation to loosen a loop here and there was greater than their appreciation of Karen's ingenuity. That would have discouraged an ordinary girl. But Karen is obviously not ordinary. So she tried again. Simpler this time, with just one length. Down and through and around and tied neatly with a half hitch, or was it a sheet bend? Something nautical. But still not as secure as she would have liked. To give up at this stage would have been unthinkable. Did Edison give up? Did Einstein give up? Certainly not. But they were never splashed with cold water. That can dampen a girl's enthusiasm. Enough of this, Karen decided. All that is needed is a little something behind the ear. The best swim-suit, after all, is the one you're born with.
In Our Town, there once was a prim little woman--quite pretty enough, I suppose--who pursed her lips and turned up her eyebrows at everything she saw. For her, no other women knew how to speak well, how to walk or how to dress themselves gracefully. As for men, this one had great, clumsy feet; that one had dirty, scraggy legs and a dog's complexion; a third had a face like a ghost's. And that, no doubt, was the reason her husband had a temper like a Turk's.
Last October, when we first announced the premiere Playboy's Playmate Photo Contest, we had no idea how many good photographers there were in America, nor how many beautiful women would leap at the chance to have their photo in playboy. Now we know.
In this age of the ubiquitous turn-on, one of the most rewarding can be the type of illumination you choose for a room. Well-designed floor and table lamps are like shining sculptures; individually, of course, they reflect your particular taste in light sources and, collectively, their total output establishes the visual mood for whatever room you're in. And when selecting any desk lamp, beware of gimmickry. Many lamps today are design objects rather than quality light-producing instruments. No matter how much the looks of the desk lamp turn you on, it first has to be judged as to whether or not it helps you see and read.
From beginning to end of a stereo system, or--as the technos put it--from input to output, there are some new products of more than passing interest vis-à-vis the dozens that are announced periodically.
Whether from some residual primitive instinct in man to assert his animal origins or simply from the vagaries of fashion, mustaches and beards have a way of growing back into popularity from time to time. Today, facial hair is again back on top.
If you'd like to while away the warm-weather months doing something more challenging than chugaluging mint juleps, you might check out the three sporty items pictured here. They have something in common, as all three can be mastered with virtually no experience. But if you take the trouble to practice a bit, you'll be surprised at what each of these babies can do. The portable Aqua Scooter, for example, is capable of pulling an accomplished snorkler at speeds up to five miles per hour behind its compact two-cycle engine. The Sail Bike has reached upwards of 38 miles per hour during tests on dry lake beds. And the WindSkate? Well, you haven't lived until just the breeze and thou have taken to the tarmac. And think how good that Julep will taste afterward.