Find yourself a nice comfortable high-backed easy chair, away from the windows; tamp a little cavendish into your bowl and pour yourself a snifter of brandy. You'll want to feel snug—and safe—when you read William Hjortsberg's Falling Angel, a murder mystery with a twist of voodoo—plus an ending that'll have you glancing over your shoulder for days. Our story is a condensation of the novel that will soon be published by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, and it's illustrated in the best tradition of the dime novel by Ron Villani. There are two parts, the second to be presented next month. You'll need the time to get your blood running again.
Tennis, Anyone? Stars Play at Mansion West Once again, the grounds of Playboy Mansion West were the scene of the annual tennis tournament benefiting the John Tracy Clinic, and celebrities turned out by the score—both to play and to watch the sometimes heated competition. At left, shutters click as host Hugh M. Hefner welcomes America's reigning sex symbol, model–video personality Cheryl Tiegs (see 20 Questions, page 176). Cheryl, it turned out, also showed a winning personality on the courts.
Playboy, October, 1978, Volume 25, Number 10. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States and its possessions, $33 for three years, $25 for two years, $14 for one year. Canada, $15 per year. Elsewhere, $25 per year. Allow 45 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Post Office Box 2420, Boulder, Colorado 80302, and allow 45 days for change. Marketing: Ed Condon, Director / Direct Marketing; Michael J. Murphy, Circulation Promotion Director. Advertising: Henry W. Marks, Advertising Director; Harold Duchin, National Sales Manager; Mark Evens, Associate Advertising Manager, 747 Third Ave., New York, N.Y. 10017; Chicago, Russ Weller, Associate Advertising Manager, 919 N. Michigan Ave.; 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.
Remaking Here Comes Mr. Jordan as an updated romantic fantasy called Heaven Can Wait sounded like a terrible idea when the announcement came out, but maybe Warren Beatty knows something the rest of us don't. He engineered Bonnie and Clyde and Shampoo into being, which helped put him where he is today—and he's way up there. Beatty's career should climb into even higher orbit with Heaven Can Wait. He produced it, stars in it, codirected it (with Buck Henry), helped write it (with Elaine May, no less). Who did what, exactly, would be tough to determine, but they must have been doing something right to produce a supernatural love story as bright, witty and engaging as any movie to appear so far in 1978. Some changes have been made—and mostly for the better, if memory serves—in the 1941 hit that starred Robert Montgomery as a prize fighter who dies before his scheduled time and is sent back to earth, only to discover that his remains have been cremated. With the help of Claude Rains (as Mr. Jordan, a celestial major-domo), Montgomery had to shop around for another body in which to spend the 50 years still owed him. Essentially the same plot serves for Beatty, who's now star quarterback for the Los Angeles Rams instead of a boxer. When he finds himself en route to heaven or wherever—confronted by James Mason, as a Mr. Jordan second to none, and Buck Henry, as an embarrassed Escort who has goofed on his timing—he is deeply indignant. "Cremated?" he protests. "Well, I'm starting against Dallas on Sunday!" The deceased but undead athlete, Joe Pendleton, ultimately chooses a temporary abode in the body of a conservative industrial tycoon who's about to be murdered by his conniving wife (Dyan Cannon) and his male private secretary (Charles Grodin). Subsequent events are both hilarious and timely, and Beatty delivers the warmest, most varied performance of his life. Julie Christie is a knockout as a militant English girl who captivates Farnsworth the industrialist when she demands that his company abandon plans to build a refinery that would destroy her native village. Mason, Henry, Cannon, Grodin, Jack Warden and Vincent Gardenia all contribute generously to a movie that bounces along with a very relaxed, old-fashioned air. Heaven Can Wait is alive and well and may give sophisticated comedy a fresh start.
Piracy, or stealing from the classics to inject some quality into the standardized hump and grind of hard-core films, has become S.O.P. for porno peddlers. Writer-producer-director Kenneth Schwartz openly acknowledges that Fiona on Fire owes a lot to Laura, the glossy 1944 thriller with Gene Tierney as the mysterious beauty, supposedly murdered, who nevertheless exuded such allure that detective Dana Andrews fell hopelessly in love with her. Fiona has pretty much the same plot: a missing girl; a smitten detective (Sam Dean standing in for Andrews); a woman's dead body, face blown away; mistakenidentity. What's been added, of course, is graphic sex. Fiona in flashbacks, with some of her closest associates caught from time to time flagrante delicto. As such things go, it's a superior job of plagiarizing a time-tested story, erotic and provocative. The weak link is Fiona herself, played by former Playboy Bunny Amber Hunt (see The New Girls of Porn in our July 1977 issue), who happens to be dead wrong for the part. Amber is feisty, shapely and sexy in die manner of a precocious baby sitter who just might make out with the man of the house. But haunting mystery is not her bag, which diminishes Fiona on Fire so drastically that Schwartz might have been wiser to call it I Dreamed I Was a Teenaged "Laura."
Previews: The new TV season will see the launching of 21 weekly series entries when the annual network battle for prime-time supremacy begins on Monday, September 11. Scheduled are comedy and variety shows, miniseries, televised novels and the usual choice of English imports in Public Broadcasting's classy cultural ghetto.
Good evening; I'm Carol and your waiter will be Rasputin," was the cowgirl's opening line at Molly Murphy's House of fine Repute, a funky Oklahoma City restaurant (1100 South Meridian) where an all-star cast of costumed waiters and waitresses dishes out theatrics along with beef and seafood specialties. In a city that named its airport after Will Rogers, you expect a certain amount of levity, but when your dinner is served by a white-robed, bearded man with one blackened eye, a dagger tucked in his sash and an evil leer second only to the one Lionel Barrymore wore in his MGM portrayal of the mad monk, you don't laugh.
As anybody who has the slightest interest in jazz knows, there are no flies on reed man Phil Woods. A superb studio- and sideman. Woods is currently the leader of a group that continues to make its presence felt on the music scene.The Phil Woods Quintet / Song for Sisyphus (Century) is a direct-to-disc recording that burnishes an already brilliant sound. The alto and soprano work of Woods provides a steady stream of surprises; one should never take his line of attack for granted. The title tune, composed by Woods, is a moody thing, reflecting, perhaps, the uphill struggle to make it in the jazz biz on his own terms. Along with pianist Mike Melillo, guitarist Harry Leahey, bassist Steve Gilmore and drummer Bill Goodwin, Woods has gone a long way toward proving that it can be done. What you need is talent to spare. The rest of the session encompasses everything from Irving Berlin to Django Reinhardt to Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker. Woods & Co. do them all proud.
Previews: What is there to look forward to on the fall book list? Plenty! Nonfiction books run the gamut from the very serious Criminal Violence, Criminal Justice (Random House), subtitled "Criminals, Police, Courts and Prisons in America," by Charles E. Silberman; through the witty Auto Ads (David Obst/ Random House), pictured here, by Jane & Michael Stern, a fascinating survey of 75 years of car advertising; to the sublime Brother Billy (Harper & Row), by Ruth Carter Stapleton, the very last word—maybe—on the First Brother. And, of course, there is lots in between: By Myself (Knopf), by Lauren Bacall, a "star" bio actually written by the star; James Jones: A Personal Memoir (Double-day), by his friend Willie Morris; Carl Sagan and numerous associates put together Murmurs of Earth: The Voyager Interstellar Record (Random House), the story of the attempt to communicate with possible extraterrestrials by placing a record aboard the Voyager spacecraft; A Dangerous Place (Little, Brown), by Daniel P. Moynihan, about the seven months the Senator served as U. S. Ambassador to the UN; and a completely new People's Almanac #2 (Morrow), by David Wallechinsky and Irving Wallace, everyone's favorite pop encyclopedists. Fiction fares well, too: The Coup (Knopf), a new John Updike novel, concerns the rise and fall of an imaginary African kingdom; Larry McMurtry's latest, Somebody's Darling (Simon & Schuster), is about the Western frontier—Hollywood; more horror is due from Stephen King, the author of Salem's Lot and The Shining, in The Stond (Doubleday); Herr Nightingale and the Satin Woman (Knopf), by William Kotzwinkle, is a sassy love story illustrated by Joe Servello with Thirties pulp-romance drawings; and a new one from Patrick Anderson (who gave us The President's Mistress), called White House (Simon & Schuster), convinces us that the Washington novel is alive and well. From here, all of the above look like good reading.
Idol Gossip: Orion Pictures (the independent movie company formed by ex-UA execs) is prepping Heart Beat, set to Star Nick Nolte, Sissy Spacek and John Heard—it's a love story involving Beat Generation characters Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady and Carolyn Cassady. Spacek has also been tagged to play Lorettn Lynn in the singer's biopic Coal Miner's Daughter.... Frank Zappa will be one of the first hosts of Saturday Night Live this season. Rumor has it that there'll be some changes in the Weekend Update format.... F. lee Bailey has written a first novel, Secrets, set for December publication. It's about a veteran lawyer arrested for murder.... English actress Nicola Pagett (she played Anna Karenina in the PBS series) is being considered for the title role in The Vivien Leigh Story. If she lands that role, she's a cinch to get the Scarlett O'Hara part in MGM's sequel to Gone with the Wind.... The first installment of Pete Hamill's Sam Bris-coe series, Dirty Laundry, will hit the bookstore racks this month. The series involves a former newspaper columnist turned free-lance writer who unwittingly gets himself involved in some Raymond Chandlerlike dilemmas and turns into a private dick.... The latest rage in Hollywood seems to be Dracula pix. Frank Langella, who played Drac on Broadway, will star in Universal's film of the play. George Hamilton will Star in Love at First Bile, a comedic treatment with Hamilton in the lead sans fangs. Ken Russell is also prepping a Dracula flick and Paramount is developing one based on Anne Rice's best seller, Interview with the Vampire.... Director Jeannot Szwarc says he's looking for "a nice little love story" to direct after the rigors of Jaws 2. Sounds familiar—Steven Spielberg said the same thing after completing the original Jaws and wound up with Close Encounters.
My wife and I met another couple and after only three visits, we were playing strip checkers. When we were all naked, we changed partners and started making out like newlyweds right in front of each other. I was really getting it on with the other girl and I looked over at my wife and her partner and it looked like they hadn't lost any time, either. I asked the other girl if she would like to go to the bedroom and she answered yes. To my surprise, her husband entered the bedroom after we had been balling about five minutes and blew his stack. My wife and I got dressed and left, knowing that we would never see them again. Two days later, they came over to our house and we sat around drinking all after-noon. All four of us just sat there like bumps on a log, making conversation. The subject of what happened that night hasn't come up again. It was the first time my wife and I ever did anything like that so we don't know why the other couple still sees us. Do they want to start the relationship again? How can we bring this out into the open? We're not sure what they want.—B. R., Lake Jackson, Texas.
Have you ever seen mud wrestling? Two nearly naked women grapple with each other in an ooze-filled ring, attempting to pin each other down. One dame locks her thighs around the other's head. Breaking loose from this face-smothering hold, her opponent quickly retaliates. Her powerful arms grab her opponent's nude torso in a breast-crushing bear hug. As the two battling babes slip and slide through the sludge, the men in the audience hoot and holler, caught up in a horny full-fledged frenzy. Howard Cosell swallows his microphone. For sure, mud wrestling was designed with one purpose in mind: to exploit to the utmost the kinky sexuality of the event.
New Credit Rights for Women: Passage of the Equal Credit Opportunity Act in 1975 was one thing; how to exercise one's rights under that law is quite another. This 73-page manual covers just about every aspect of the subject—the different kinds of credit, how to obtain it, remedies for discrimination, even what to do about defective products, fine-print surprises and strong-arm bill collectors. Send $2.75 (plus ten cents to cover state tax in Illinois) to Consumer Credit Project, Inc., 261 Kimberly, Barrington, Illinois 60010.
Two days before the Palomino club in Los Angeles sponsored its first Dolly Parton Look-Alike Contest, Dolly Parton was wondering whether or not she should attend. She'd been to some others in different parts of the country and she'd been mostly disappointed. In Los Angeles, however, it might be different. But she knew if she attended, she would also enter. And she was wondering if there was any chance she might lose. "Wouldn't that be hysterical?" she said. "But I doubt if I would. I mean, I look too much like her."
A native New Jerseyite, Denise Creedon is moving west by stages. First she spent a couple of years in Austin, attending the University of Texas; then, in 1972, she went to California on vacation—and stayed there, settling down in the town of Agoura, where she designs custom wall decors. But whenever she gets a chance, she heads even farther into the setting sun—to Hawaii, where she frolics with her friends the dolphins. It all began when Denise, who has a master diver's certificate, started studying to earn scuba instructor's credentials. She met some people who were interested in saving whales; they all started making a film and—well, we'll let Denise tell about it in her own words.
Rum is the most misunderstood, and perhaps the most ubiquitous, of alcoholic beverages. There are rums from Australia, Barbados, Brazil, Cuba, Haiti, Hawaii, Java and on down the alphabet, including every dinky sugar-cane island in your Rand McNally. And each, member of this far-flung family of spirits is different from the others to some degree. Rums range in intensity from white and virtually tasteless to rich, pungent and mahogany-hued. Recently, Statesiders have latched on to the charms of the blond Puerto Rican and Virgin Island distillates. But we seem to be missing the boat on the lusty, sonorous yo-ho-ho ruins—the stuff that spurred Paul Revere on his wild jaunt and fired the blood of Blackbeard and his pack of malcontents. And that's a mistake!
It Happens all the time. You can't walk anywhere with Marcy Hanson without being stopped by one of her fans. This one happened to be a young girl of about nine. She sidled up to Marcy and gave her a big hi, followed by a Charo-style cuchi-cuchi bump and grind that got embarrassed halfway through and ended up a blush. A combination of audacious sensuality and cowgirl innocence, Honey Bee Novak—in miniature—rolls again.
Americans do not enjoy sex totally. We are a driven people. There is a post–New Testament God keeping score on our bedroom games, and the newest version of the Protestant ethic is, "Thou shall pursue a full, active, regular, frequent, satisfying, varied, exciting, healthy, normal sex life." We have had our sexual revolution, but we are still governed by the style, if not the rules, of Puritans and Victorians; we are compulsive, anxiety-ridden, competitive, relentlessly self-improving, perpetually self-critical. The morality has changed but not the habit of moralizing. Sex, of all human activities, should be the one we enjoy most freely, yet it is one of the most ruled and regulated. The old regulations made people feel guilty; the new ones make them feel inadequate.
The phrase attitude dressing really sums up the current men's fashion mood. Wear suspenders over a suede shirt with a skinny tie and your collar open; or wing it (the collar, that is) with a suit or sportswear that reflects how you feel that day. With each succeeding season, the essence of dressing for this decade comes into sharper focus, and no more so than now. The current mood results from the melding of many elements, including a new appreciation for classicism (particularly, fine British fabrics), a virtual elimination of the "rules of dress" as we once knew them, a sophisticated sense of eclecticism and the confidence to put it all together and develop your own look.
Flashback, three months. A man parks his car on 21st Street near the Dorchester and waddles toward Spruce—woozy, been drinking since noon. He is humming Brazil. It is always Brazil. Not the Aurora Miranda Brazil but the Ritchie Brothers'. " 'We stood beneath an amber mo-o-on.' "
In Case You Haven't been paying attention, last month we brought you ten pages of coeds from five schools in the N.C.A.A.'s far-Western Pac 10 Conference. This month we bring you ten more pages of coeds from the remaining five Pac 10 schools—the University of Southern California, Stanford University, the University of Arizona, Oregon State University and Washington State University. As we said last month—and pay attention this time, (text continued on page 272) Girls of the Pac 10 (continued from page 163) bozo—we decided to divide this pictorial into two installments, because there were just too many lovely ladies to feature adequately in one issue—20 is about all anybody can be expected to handle in one sitting.
In bygone days, there was an entrancing lady in Naples called Zilya. Because she was half Saracen, she was arrogant and cruel and because she was half napoletana, she was clever and lovely beyond compare—or at least that was the way those who knew her explained it.
The following short interview was conducted by frequent Playboy contributor John Hughes, who has known Cheryl Tiegs for three years. He reports: "We talked in the morning in her suite at New York's Sherry-Netherland. Cheryl had just showered and was fresh, bright and scrubbed. She sat hunched over, with her elbows on her knees, gestured frequently with her hands, smiled a great deal and answered most of my questions quickly and impulsively. I found her to be a warm, intelligent woman who is so beautiful that I'm sure she could stop an elephant's heart at 30 paces."
Coproducer Robert Lantos and director George Kaczender hope that their film, In Praise of Older Women, after its September world premiere in Toronto, will be the break-through work that finally puts Canadian movies on the map—with a boost from its magnetic male star, Tom Berenger. "For too many people," Lantos observes, "Canadianism is identified with boredom." Older Women boasts a number of realistic love scenes, but Lantos feels he won't have censorship problems—except maybe in Ontario. "After all, Pretty Baby was banned there."
Sometime back in the forgotten Sixties, it was decreed that Americans should no longer travel to Jamaica, especially if they were white. La revolución had come to the black Caribbean and you can bet your blue eyes you weren't wanted.
Health clubs are serious business. Flamboyant, hyped up at times, but serious. Too many people join them on a whim and never return to use them. Before doing your bit for national fitness, resolve these questions in your mind: Do you really want to devote three days a week to working out in a gym? Do you really have the time to do it, all good intentions aside? If both answers are yes, the first person to talk to is your doctor. Because of our national eating, drinking and drug-taking habits, and because the heart-attack danger zone is now at the age of 35, anyone embarking on a strenuous fitness program should have a complete medical checkup and consider a heart stress test to show how much physical exertion he can handle.
In the past six years, I have written applications for Government and private-foundation grants totaling over $12,000,000. These grants have been awarded in education, health care, energy development, manpower and employment, counseling, fine arts, law enforcement and a wide variety of other areas. The fact is, the Federal Government each year gives away over 20 billion dollars for an incredible diversity of projects, large and small. The smallest grant I obtained was for $6000 (it went to a teacher who wanted to try out a new curricular approach); my largest was for $1,200,000 (for a physician to build a new clinic in an isolated rural area). As a professional grant writer, I wrote those projects for others, but there is no reason why you cannot do the same for yourself.
Hello I'm just a Robot. Do not be afraid. It is just a Robot--Toot!Is mister portnoy here? he's writing for "space wars II" and asked me to meet him here. Do not be afraid. It is just a Robot. Better belive it! Honk!
Have you heard the old joke about the muscular guy at the beach who was showing off his build by lifting a girl with each arm? A 97-pound weakling delivers the punch line, "Did you see the dolls on that boob?" Nobody is laughing these days at men with good bods: Being in shape gives them more self-confidence; and when they're in bed—well, what girl was ever turned on by a paunch? Shaping up, however, requires effort. But the good news is that there are some contraptions available to help make the procedure relatively painless. Press on, Arnold!
Twenty-three-year-old tennis pro Vitas Gerulaitis can play in just about any clothes he wants—thank you very much—and still beat the pants off most opponents. What he wears here are fresh from the drawing board of a bright new British talent, Paul Smith. The styles combine classic British fabrics and patterns with au courant tailoring. The layered look, you'll notice, also continues to score big points. Game, set, match.
How you choose to separate a cork from a wine bottle is a matter of personal aesthetics. Some oenophiles prefer the simple approach: a single-lever corkscrew that lifts the cork (you hope) in one swift motion. Others opt for something more elaborate: the professional barman's cork puller, perhaps, that clamps to a table and can pull the corks from a case of wine faster than you can say André Simon. The Corky is a fun gadget that pumps air into a bottle, eventually popping the cork. But enough. With all these bottles open, who'd like a drink?—Hollis Wayne