Perhaps the only distinction between Republican Presidents and Democratic Presidents is their siblings. Quick, now: What is the name of Richard Nixon's brother, how much money did he earn and what was his most memorable remark? Give up? Nixon's brother is named Donald, the most he ever made at one sitting was a very questionable $205,000 loan from Howard Hughes and, to our knowledge, he never said a word, except, perhaps, "I didn't do anything wrong." No one will ever have trouble remembering that President Carter is the older brother of Billy, who, by the way, will make over $500,000 this year from personal appearances and whose quotable remarks include, "My brother and I get along fine as hell as long as he's in Washington and I'm in Plains." We sent good ole boy Roy Blount Jr. down to Plains to collect a few of the sayings of Chairman Billy. Photographer Tom Zuk and sculptress Judith Jampel supply the visuals.
Playboy, November, 1977, Volume 24, Number 11, Published monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In The United States and its possessions, $30 for three years, $22 for two years, $12 for one year. Canada, $15 per year. Elsewhere, $25 per year. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and mew addresses to Playboy, P.o. Box 2420, Boulder, Colorado 80302, And allow 30 days for change. Marketing: 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 Manger; John Thompson, Central Regional 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, 417 Montgomery Street.
Moviegoers at Philadelphia's twin Duke and Duchess theaters were treated this season to an unexpected sensation in cinéma vérité. While one theater was showing The Other Side of Midnight, the other featured Rollercoaster in Sensurround--a sound-effects process that makes audiences feel as though they're rumbling with what's onscreen. Running times for the two films coincided quite interestingly: Those steamy love scenes in The Other Side of Midnight were accompanied by roller-coaster sound effects from the theater next door.
When a publisher describes a book as an epic, we begin to get nervous. Is he talking about the creative energy expended in writing it, the scope of the work itself (a hero ventures out to save a nation) or the energy required to read it? Peter Tauber's The Last Best Hope (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich) falls solidly into categories one and three but misses category two. It's a sweeping account of the Sixties (for sweeping, read the collection of debris). There's a little bit of everything in this book: Vietnam, think tanks, the New Hampshire primary, rape, the Kennedy assassinations. The hero, Tyler Bowen, is a boy wonder who goes from a job as spokesman for a biochemical-warfare research center through a position with the McCarthy campaign to a rendezvous with the National Guard at Kent State. His brother, Willy, fights in Vietnam, is reportedly killed in action, then resurrected and returned to ponder the urban-guerrilla action at People's Park in Berkeley. Tyler's girlfriend leaves her husband, is raped, goes through the agony of the subsequent trial and later joins the Robert Kennedy primary campaign. A peripheral character goes on to become a Charles Colson type in the Nixon White House; and another friend provides spiritual and/or comic relief. There is a scattershot brilliance to the writing, like some Tom Robbins juggling act. Tauber stays closer to reality than Robbins but, even so, is prone to excess. To devote nearly 50 pages to the rape trial seems pointless; by the time the girlfriend gets through it, she is suffering shell shock, and so is the reader. Finally, the protagonist, in no shape to save the nation, retires from the political arena to watch with a special wisdom the sea change of the late Sixties. His description of the primaries is the best You Are There coverage we've read. Whether or not it belongs in a novel is another thing.
The Amazing Rhythm Aces take you somewhere. Like the best of novelists and few rock-'n'-rollers, they weave real worlds in your head, so authentic they seem to have been there all along. You may not know about them yet, but you've had your opportunities. They got a Grammy last year for their hit single, The End Is Not in Sight, and have three albums behind them, the latest being Toucan Do It Too. If you don't know their stuff, try this, and hear a slow bluesy shuffle, with lambent piano and shining guitar, in heartbeat rhythm:
Alan Arkin, Elaine May, Mike Nichols, Shelley Berman and Gilda Radner are just a few of the names that became household words after professional incubation with the Second City theatrical company, still alive and kicking in Chicago. The nationwide premiere of Second City T.V., a syndicated series already under way over various outlets (check your local listings for precise dates and times, which vary considerably), should add some new names to that illustrious roster. Jot down Joe Flaherty, Dave Thomas, Catherine O'Hara, Andrea Martin, Eugene Levy and John Candy as ringleaders among the regularly featured madcaps who will be distinguishing themselves in the months to come as the underground terrorists of television land. A sampling of early shows in the first 13 weekly half hours suggests that regular network TV will suffer the heaviest bombardment. With a revue format somewhat more structured than Laugh-In, maybe a shade less subversive--so far, at least--than Saturday Night, Second City gets going on every subject from "Sunrise Semester" to a dramatic hospital series called "Unnecessary Surgeon" ("No ailment too small, no fee too high" is the motto of a touchy doctor-hero who will remove anything he pleases), followed by a spin-off from the medical show, "Ted Gordon--Malpractice Lawyer." One of Gordon's most dramatic courtroom cases concerns a former male patient who checked in for a tonsillectomy and underwent sex-change surgery ("He enjoys being a girl!" is the theme of Gordon's ringing plea for the defense). A sequence identified as "Baa, Baa, Black and White Sheep" touts the adventures of a flying nun, who recruits a whole squadron of vicious airborne sisters to dogfight for our side during World War Two.Tunein.
In this corner, soppy love stories about doomed girls and the grieving guys they leave behind are pretty far down on the list of favorite things. But anything can work when the chemistry is right. So, if you have tears, friends, prepare to shed them without embarrassment for Bobby Deerfield--a sensitive, poetic and intelligently understated romantic tragedy (freely adapted by Alvin Sargent from Erich Maria Remarque's novel Heaven Has No Favorites) that makes the Ali McGraw--Ryan O'Neal Love Story look like bubble bath. Director Sydney (They Shoot Horses, Don't They?) Pollack never compromises by trying to soap up Bobby Deerfield with hard-sell sentimentality, superficial excitement or even a strong story line. While the hero--played with impressive single-minded intensity by Al Pacino--is a champion racing driver who competes at Monte Carlo and Le Mans, there's scarcely 15 minutes of footage wasted on whizzing round the track. Deerfield unfolds as a series of compelling one-to-one encounters between Pacino and Marthe Keller--as the doomed beauty he meets in a sanitarium where he goes to visit an injured friend--or between Pacino and France's Anny Duperey, as the cool, possessive camp follower who shacks up with him in style and roots for him on the curves. One of the scenes most packed with insight and revelation, however, is a painful lunch Deerfield has with his reproachful brother from Newark (Walter McGinn), part of a past life that he can hardly remember. Very little happens, actually, except that Bobby--a man who is emotionally half-dead, whose human relationships are as mechanical as the Formula I car he drives or the TV and magazine commercials he grinds out for extra bread--starts coming to life again through his love for an elusive, unpredictable jet setter who acts as if she had a schoolgirl crush on danger. Far from being smitten by Bobby's macho speed-king image, she feels he might be too boring a companion for an entire weekend. "You spend your whole life trying not to die," she tells him, carving a notch in his consciousness with her screwball gaiety and promiscuousness and quietly desperate joie de vivre. As the vibrant Lillian, fading away with an unnamed disease that seems to be leukemia, Swiss-born Keller adds lots of mileage to her track record (following Marathon Man and Black Sunday) as a European actress clearly destined for big-time stardom over here. Sublimely classy but not quite beautiful by conventional Hollywood standards--neither was Ingrid Bergman, neither is Liv Ullmann--Keller plays this difficult role with such electric, glowing vivacity that she even steals scenes from Pacino, a remarkable feat in itself. Could be, of course, that the movie's moments of truth borrow a little magic from the well-publicized offscreen romance between Keller and Pacino--percolating before your very eyes, with some of Europe's storybook scenery as a backdrop. No matter. If Cupid's arrow, tastefully guided by Pollack, can score a bull's-eye with material that comes that close to being pure bull, the audience wins in the end. And Bobby Deerfield is a triumph of taste over tear-jerking.
As Barbara Broadcast, Annette Haven plays a best-selling author who has done a lot of balling and distilled it into book form. She sits in an elegant restaurant, being interviewed for the umpteenth time, and casually summons a waiter to place her order for number 17. That's his cue to whip open his fly and ejaculate, when ready, onto milady's crisp green salad. Elsewhere amid a roomful of more conventional diners, a waitress lies flat on top of a table while a male customer eats her with relish until he has to come up for air. Will there be anything else? he is asked. "No, thanks, just coffee." Barbara Broadcast takes time out, later on, for a heavy bondage sequence starring porno's busybody Jamie Gillis as the master, Constance Money as his chained sex slave. Which happens to be some footage left over from the filming of The Opening of Misty Beethoven, last year's number-one hard-core hit by producer-director Radley Metzger, who persists in billing himself as Henry Paris. With Barbara, in a complete switch on the trendy move toward strengthening porno with a strong story line, Metzger dispenses with plot, character and conventional continuity to fashion a surreal spectacular that is sexually stunning if you just float along. Don't look back. Barbara Broadcast may simply reflect Metzger's utter boredom with the task of pretending that sex movies are actually something else; it could also mark a breakthrough into pure, unabashed pornography, a sensual trip to destination zero--funny, sophisticated, set to pulse-quickening music and as far out as 2001: A Space Odyssey or Star Wars in the earth-bound world of hard X.
Recently, I divorced my wife of three years and, quite frankly, I feel lousy. We used to get it on every night and, though the relationship turned bad toward the end, the sex was always great. Now I might as well be a monk. I thought it would feel great to be free of that woman, but now I'm not so sure. Can this sudden abstinence be dangerous to my mental or physical health?--K. S., Dallas, Texas.
Louis XIV never got tired of doing it in bed. The Sun King, who was one of the great fuckers of the 17th Century, had 413 fancy beds in which to enjoy his countless seductions. Also, the ruler had the entire wealth of France to play around with, so his beds could be rather fantastic.
Most people lament the failure of our criminal-justice system to protect society against thieves, armed robbers, rapists and murderers, who too often can rack up dozens of arrests and several convictions without ever going to jail--or staying there for very long before resuming their criminal careers. A conspicuous exception to this pattern is Thomas Francis Mistrot. By 1968, at the age of 22, he had been convicted of two coin-machine burglaries and a minor marijuana offense and sentenced to life in the Texas state penitentiary. Through the efforts of Playboy and a state representative, he was released two years ago, was working hard and seemed well on his way toward making a new life for himself in the South Texas city of Victoria. But now, because of a parole violation as petty as his other crimes, he may be headed back to prison for up to 25 years. It can't be said that the criminal-justice system doesn't protect society against Tom Mistrot.
As we go to press, Henry Kyemba (pronounced Chemba) is hardly a household name in the United States. In Uganda, however, he was just that, since only former president Milton Obote and his notorious successor, Idi Amin, are better known. Americans, too, are about to get to know him better. He has written the first authoritative inside account of Amin's brutal rule, "State of Blood," published in September by Grosset & Dunlap and Ace Books.
No Doubt about it, it's been an eventful year in the world of Playboy, and the ladies who attend to keyholders in Clubs across the land have been busier than ever. Probably the busiest Bunny of all was Toni Larkin, who was training recruits for the new Playboy Club in Dallas. We combed the Lone Star State in the Great Bunny Hunt and turned up 80 long-stemmed Texas beauties guaranteed to make your mouth water and your whiskers twitch. You can find them at the Dallas Club, located on the second floor of 6116 North Central Expressway--the home of the N.F.L.'s Dallas Cowboys. (Hope those boys will be able to keep their minds on their game.) The new Club is lavish--featuring a Continental sidewalk café, a glamorous showroom (that offers top entertainment) and fine dining. In addition, there's dancing in the Living Room--a dynamite disco. The dance floor got a major workout on August third, when no less a personage than Hugh M. Hefner himself welcomed the black-tie-and-evening-gown crowd. Opening ceremonies are the thing these days. Last December, the Rabbit empire continued its international expansion via a Club in the exclusive Roppongisection of Tokyo. The (text concluded on page 256) Bunnies (continued from page 117) Japanese have taken kindly to the world of Playboy. The Japanese edition of the magazine is a success, and any day we expect to see the first transistorized Bunny. Work is in progress on a lavish 33-story, $50,000,000-plus hotel complex in Atlantic City, New Jersey.
They may never do a TV series on it, but all God's children have roots . . . the edible kind. Our infatuation with roots goes back hundreds of thousands of years. They were among the first food sources for the evolving primate ever since. We, know they're nutritious, crammed with such neat stuff as minerals, fiber and, often, vitamins.
It was a minor news item: "Due to heavy rains in the Jerusalem area, the airport at Atarot has been closed for the clay." The item had been slipped into the newscaster's file only a few minutes before he sat down in front of his Kol Yisrael microphone to read the 11-A.M. news.
The first thing--well, maybe the second thing--you notice about Rita Lee is that she's tall. The first thing is that she's blonde and beautiful. But she is right up there, standing over six feet in her three-inch heels.
Having the hots for his luscious new secretary and knowing she was superstitious, the man interrupted dictation one morning to say, "Whatever can I do to shake the feeling that something unpleasant is going to happen to me today?"
A man named Coe once lived here, but it could have been Gatsby. A vast lawn sprawls beside the gray-stone English country manor bounded by red maples and rhododendrons, just waiting to be filled with careless revelers dressed to the nines and dancing cheek to cheek to a melancholy saxophone. But the glamor long ago moved east to the Hamptons and west to Manhattan and (continued on page 154) Nice Guys (continued from page 151) this estate on the north shore of Long Island is now a placid arboretum.
Ever since Alexander Graham Bell (or was it Don Ameche?) invented the telphone, mankind has been plagued with all sorts of hang-ups, from missed calls to wire taps. Happily, there's no longer any reason to be bugged, provided you're wiling to lay out some long green for one or more of the nifty machines pictured here. They may not be quite as out-rageous as Marcia Wallace, but you can be sure they'll do their job without any back talk.
Love may be a four-letter word, but it wasn't the four-letter word we heard most often at the movies this year. Under tremendous fire from church groups, their own Motion Picture Association of America and, especially, from local politicos out to make a name for themselves, Hollywood studios in 1977 beat a noticeable retreat from the rampant nudity and semiexplicit sex scenes that had adorned their movies for almost a decade. If Black Sunday had been made a few years earlier, we would no doubt have seen, during that scene in which Israeli commando Robert Shaw discovers Palestinian terrorist Marthe Keller in her shower, everything that the Shaw character saw. Aiming for a PG rating (which, ironically, was denied because of excessive violence), the film's makers proffered merely a head-and-shoulders shot of Keller recoiling in terror. In Sam Peckinpah's Cross of Iron, a German platoon captures a Russian strong point that is manned by women. It's hard to believe that in the ten or so minutes reportedly cut from the (text continued on page 200) Sex in Cinema (continued from page 156) film--a sequence that includes a rape and the sadistic bludgeoning to death of a Russian soldierette, as well as the castration of a German soldier by a team of outraged female Bolsheviki--the action was not a good deal more explicit than the R-rated release prints would indicate.
August 28, 1972: This morning, I ate a good breakfast of orange juice, French toast, crisp bacon and a pot of hot coffee and then surrendered to the U. S. Marshal at the courthouse in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. He handcuffed me, shackling the cuffs to a steel bell chained round my waist. We drove off on a dusty road to the Federal prison camp at Allenwood, about 15 miles away. The day was hot and cloudy. When I arrived, they took everything I owned--clothes, the works--including my diving watch and the gold ring I inherited from my father. In its place, they gave me my Federal prison number--00040. "It's yours for life," one of the guards explained to me.
It all began on a wintry morning in early December 1891. James Naismith, an instructor at the Y.M.C.A. Training School in Springfield, Massachusetts, faced the problem of devising an indoor activity that would dissipate the excess energy of some of his phys-ed students. He had a workman nail a couple of peach baskets to the rail of the gymnasium balcony, divided the rowdies into two teams, outlined a few rules (no running with the ball, no tackling or eye gouging), handed them a soccer ball and told them to try to throw it into the baskets.
One Palm Sunday, Cicero, who was the pastor at San Marco near Perugia, gave his customary denunciation of the seven mortal sins. When he arrived at the sin of lust, he paused, then said, "My brothers, I am tormented with a great curiosity. During Lent, when I confessed your wives, every woman swore that she had been faithful to her husband. And yet, on the other hand, almost every husband in town confessed to having slept with another man's wife. Now, I'd like to have someone come to confess the answer to this miraculous paradox."
With the holiday season not too far away, your ice bucket once again comes into its own as an indispensable item for entertaining. If you're in the market for a new one, avoid the too-cute conversation piece that looks like a hollow log or a French chamber pot. An ice bucket, above all, should be functional; it should keep your cubes cold and crisp and it should be large enough. Nothing can kill a cocktail party faster than running out of ice. An ice bucket usually falls into one of three categories: the overgrown Thermos-bottle type, the kind in which one container nestles inside another for insulation purposes or, the simplest of all, a clear-glass container. Choose one that either coordinates with your decor or becomes an accent; something glass and chrome, perhaps, set among antiques.
Known for his innovative clothing sense of fabrics, colors and styles, Paris-based designer Jean-Charles de Castelbajac is making his youthful mark on the American scene. And if he has his way, the men's fashion market will feel his presence just as much as the women's. "The most important thing I would like to do in men's clothes is to break the tradition that a businessman must wear a tie and a workman wear a particular uniform. When President Carter can be seen in jeans, the world is fast learning that respectability and elegance are related to the person, not to what he wears. I want to give men a way to express themselves--to show their fantasies other than by wearing a pink tie or a turtleneck." To don Castel-bajac's clothes is to express more than a little whimsy, but then, Americans in large numbers are already wearing warm-up suits and other active sports gear everywhere but the places they were designed for. His message that clothes should be both practical and fun is manifested here, for instance, in the superwarm and comfortable nylon reversible parka (lower left) that, through the use of four basic colors and two zippers and by reversing the sleeves, is, in effect, four jackets. Castelbajac's styles are available in several major U. S. stores and he has plans in the works to open his own shops--first in Los Angeles in 1978 and in New York sometime after that.