Once again, it's time for our traditional Christmas feast of good reading and delightful viewing. And there's no better way to whet your appetite for the repast than to direct your attention (as if it need be directed) to the lady on our cover, Raquel Welch, who has become something of an American tradition in her own right. Or perhaps we should say her image has become a tradition, because, as you'll find out in Raquel, the woman behind the image wants to be known as something more than just a sex goddess. Considering her photographs by Chris Von Wangenheim and Tony Kent, she'll have to work hard just to tone her image down to that of demigoddess, but we admire her character. Speaking of characters, Al Pacino (of The Godfathers, Dog Day Afternoon) has a reputation for being uncommunicative, if not downright unsociable, when asked to be interviewed. But somehow Lawrence Grobel managed to win Pacino's trust and came away with this month's Playboy Interview, a very personal look at a very private actor.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), December, 1979, volume 26, number 12. Published monthly by Playboy, Playboy bldg., 219 N. Michigan AVE., Chicago, Ill. 60611. Subscriptions: In The United States and ITS possessions, $39 for 36 issues, $28 for 24 issues, $16 for 12 issues. Canada, $18 for 12 issues. Elsewhere, $25 for 12 issues. Allow 45 days for New Subscriptions and Renewals, change of address: send both old and new address 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.; L.A., Stanley L. Perkins, manager, 5721 Beverly blvd.; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, manager, 417 Montgomery st.
<p>Henny Youngman never cracked a better one-liner than the San Francisco Chronicle's deadpan report about the gay sequel to Marvin vs. Marvin in which "a Washington man is suing his male former lover for allegedly violating an oral agreement."</p>
With at least four of her movies in current release and several others imminent, Italy's phenomenal Laura Antonelli is threatening to become America's sweetheart in the sex-symbol division. Friends abroad keep insisting that Antonelli is already old news over there--meaning in worldly, jaded Continental Europe, I suppose--but that doesn't bother me. She is good news over here. And now that everyone's getting the message, we're apt to see some Antonelli films rescued from oblivion by distributors who wouldn't have paid a nickel for them a year ago. The latest is The Divine Nymph, an ambitious and provocative romantic drama made in 1976, with Laura bed-hopping between Marcello Mastroianni and Terence Stamp. Mastroianni plays the man who ruined her way back when, with Stamp as an urbane nobleman who becomes obsessed by her. His obsession is made understandable when Laura reclines nude on a sofa after their first hour of amore--smiling, smoking a cigarette and graciously ignoring any questions put to her about previous lovers she's had. This scene demonstrates, better than any other I can remember, Antonelli's special womanliness and eroticism. The script may indicate she's a minx, yet she comes out looking like a flesh-and-blood masterpiece. She has class as well as real acting ability, and so much presence that she dominates the screen even while sharing it with actors such as Stamp, always excellent, and Mastroianni, who can only be fantastic.
Travelers on the road between Llanfynydd and Abergorlech, in southern Wales, are often startled to see a gang of horseback riders dressed in checked shirts and denims, fringed vests and leather chaps, holsters, boots and ten-gallon hats: cowboys in Wales?
<p>Familiarity Breeds Contempt Department: We've never understood, quite, why the Sunset Marquis has been a legendary home for two generations of rockers doing time in Los Angeles. Could it be the absence of room service? The emphysemic air conditioning? The sweaty pool? It's some ineluctable appeal or other. When we were there last, Paul Butterfield was wandering poolside among occasional topless honeys. And it was the hottest new New Wave Brit group in a room below us that decided to crank up and jam just before dawn. In the elevator, on our way to check out, we saw, scrawled and then amended in a feminine hand, on the few square inches of wall not covered by decorator orange-fudge-swirl shag carpeting:</p>
The day of the digital LP has dawned! If you don't believe it, give a listen to London's new Mahler Fourth Symphony by Zubin Mehta and the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra. It offers amazing clarity of textures, stunning dynamic range and climaxes virtually free from distortion. Digital is the biggest thing to hit since stereo and can be enjoyed on any good conventional playback system.
Newsbreaks: NBC has a couple of first-rate specials coming up in the next few weeks: The Bee Gees--with guests Willie Nelson, Glen Campbell and brother Andy--and Rod Stewart, guests to be announced.... A brand-new season of Soundstage begins in November on PBS with 12 shows.... Country goes disco: A new album by the Silver Spurz Orchestra will feature classics such as Tumbling Tumbleweeds and Happy Trails to a disco beat.... Egyptian president Anwar Sadat has hired French film director Roger Vadim to produce a huge peace spectacular at the foot of the Pyramids. Barbra Streisand has been invited to appear; Hamilton Jordan has not.... The record biz, like every other, has been hit with declining sales in recent months, except for Gospel records and religious music in general. The reason? Billboard hypothesizes it's the tendency for the populace to turn to religion--and religious music--when times are bad.... Singer Lou Reed has settled his differences with Arista head Clive Davis and is at work on a new album..... Marvel has issued a new comic book based on the Alice Cooper album From the Inside. Although the record chronicles Cooper's battle with booze, that part of the story is missing from the comic. It seems that the comics code authority thinks alcoholism is too controversial for kids.... Radio d.j. Steve Dahl and his antidisco army Insane Coho Lips tore up Chicago's Comiskey Park last summer. Now they're going national. His 45, Do You Think I'm Disco?, is, as he says, "skyrocketing up the charts," and an album will be ready on Ovation any day. Dahl says prorock rallies are catching on all over the country.
This is the first monthly column by Playboy's new Travel Editor, Stephen Birnbaum. A highly regarded expert at the delectable task of finding the right places, as well as the best ways to get there, Birnbaum will be contributing major travel articles to the magazine as well. He also makes regular appearances on NBC-TV's "Today" show and on the CBS radio network.
Question: Who reads the way a Rolls-Royce rides, endures for decades and stacks up as one of America's best fiction writers? Answer: John Updike. In his latest short-story collection, Problems and Other Stories (Knopf), Updike shows us once again that combination of smooth style and biting wit that makes him a continuous pleasure to read.
Idol Gossip: Hollywood is so hard up for film ideas these days it seems to be going for almost anything that has some sort of built-in following. Examples: In addition to the usual assortment of sequels, prequels, remakes and rip-offs, practically every comic strip, including Alley Oop, Conan, Popeye and Dick Tracy, is currently being filmized (word is Dustin Hoffman might play the cartoon sleuth); now even TV shows are being made into movies, the latest of which is something called The Gong Show Movie, starring and to be directed by Chuck Barris. How they plan to sustain a 90-minute feature on this premise is anybody's guess.... Marlon Brando, originally set to appear in the Superman sequel, has reportedly been written out of the script. Instead, Susannah York's part will be expanded. The reason we won't be seeing Marlon this time has nothing to do with the fact that he has gained a lot of weight. He's been written out, insiders speculate, so the producers won't have to pay him a percentage.... Olivia Newton-John will star in Xanadu, billed as "an original musical fantasy." ...Saturday Night Live'sJane Curtin will make the move to the big screen in A.I.P.'s How to Beat the High Cost of Living, co-starring Susan St. James, Jessica Lange and Richard Benjamin. The film concerns three women who, for various reasons, are unable to live within their means and rob a shopping center. With Curtin in this role, that leaves Gilda Radner as the only Saturday Nighter not to make the tube-to-screen transition in a starring role.
I live in an exclusive penthouse roof-garden condo, overlooking the great West Valley. My Building is also a "clothing optional" building, which means that those who dare may go bare--and usually do! I do my jogging and exercises early in the A.M. completely in the buff. Since there is no one around and the building is secluded, I don't worry. Recently, a young lady moved in below me. A few weeks ago, while exercising, I noticed that she was on the patio, nude, practicing some dancing routines. She was doing some leg lifts and body bends and other things, all the while my manhood was extending to enormous proportions. She just looked up at me and waved a greeting, and kept on with her exercises, as I tried to, also. I decided that I must have a shot at her just to satisfy my ego, if nothing else. She agreed. We dined at a nice spot, had a few drinks, and then I invited her to my penthouse for a nightcap and a little fun. We did the lovemaking games--touch and lick--had a few more drinks, looked at each other until we felt the time was right. She made herself comfortable on my water bed and motioned for me to mount her. As I was about to make my big entrance, I fizzled. I tried to regain my erection, but nothing happened. Finally, she put on her coat. I kissed her good night and saw her downstairs to her apartment. Next morning, I was doing my exercises--nude, as usual--as was she below me--nude, as usual--with a look up at me and a greeting, as if nothing had happened the night before. What did I do wrong?--L. A., Reseda, California.
Thanks to the Superior Court of Connecticut and a young man whose name will be Anonymous (due to his tender years and traditional legalese), our freedom of speech has once again weathered an attack by those narrow-minded people who would limit our constitutional right to express our thoughts and feelings. In a case titled State of Connecticut vs. Anonymous, the court affirmed--if on something of a technicality--the right to "give the finger."
Al Pacino is pacing in his camper, parked on Waverly Place in Greenwich Village, the location for the day's shooting of his latest, and most controversial, picture, "Cruising." While waiting for director William Friedkin to set up the next shot, he tries to relax by reading aloud all the parts from Bertolt Brecht's "The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui" to his hair stylist, secretary and make-up man. Down the street, behind a police barricade, he can hear the faint shouts and the shrill whistles of the gay activists who have gathered to protest the making of this picture, which deals with homosexual murders.
Never should have married a Christian, Bech thought, fighting his way up the Via Dolorosa. His bride of some few months, Beatrice Latchett (formerly Cook) Bech, and the Jesuit archaeologist that our Jewish-American author's hosts at the Mishkenot Sha'ananim had provided as guide to the Christian holy sites--a courtly Virgil to Bech's disbelieving Dante--kept getting ahead of him, their two heads, one blonde and one bald, piously murmuring together as Bech fell behind in the dusty jostle of nuns and Arab boys, of obese Protestant pilgrims made bulkier still by airline tote bags and of bored gaunt merchants with three-day beards standing before their souvenir shops. Their dark accusing sorrow plucked at Bech. His artist's eye, always, was drawn to the irrelevant: the overlay of commercialism upon this ancient sacred way fascinated him--Kodachrome where Christ stumbled, bottled Fanta where He thirsted. Scarves, caftans, olivewood knickknacks begged to be bought. Since his childhood in Brooklyn, Bech had worried that merchants would starve; the business streets of Williamsburg had been lined with disregarded narrow shops, a Kafka world of hunger artists, waiting unwatched in their cages. This was worse.
Irving Berlin had the right idea--there's nothing like a white Christmas. A blanket of fresh, white snow blots out the year's accumulated grime and complements the hopeful holiday mood. Well, you can have yourself a white Christmas, even if the weatherman fails to cooperate. No, this isn't a sly promo for winter tours of the arctic; this is about pouring elegant white potions at your holiday gala. If the idea intrigues you (continued on page 348)White Christmas(continued from page 171) but seems a bit limiting, a mental ramble through the wealth of white or clear spirits and specialties available should erase any doubts.
Face it; today's cocktail-party chatter requires a whole new vocabulary. Gone are the days when a repertoire of peace slogans, dope jargon and a mantra could get you through an evening. In today's post-Superman polite circles, you've got to be conversant with a completely different range of trendy esoterica: Kryptonite, gamma rays, web shooters.... Say goodbye to radical chic; it's time for a little comic relief.
On Certain Days, in certain light, the sprawl of ruined groves and bulldozed desert called Los Angeles can seem as cancer on the land, a featureless huddle of cities and towns whose tone and flavor merge beyond a veil of poisoned air. But then along comes as crystal morning, and a Raquel Welch look-alike driving by in a Rolls, and in a flash of understanding, a swaying of palms, the lure of Los Angeles becomes clear to you. You know that the promise of pleasure is all that unites this city of beautiful strangers.
"I Got A Call-Back for Quincy, but I'm still looking for work," she says. I here it. I'm at this sleek party in a sleek Trousdale Estates home, with sleek people around who are here because they know somebody or are somebody. I've been here maybe an hour. I'm listening to the beat of the action. I'm impressed, but the Quincy call-back is out of my league. I could chat her up and give her my card, but she's into the sexual elite of Hollywood, a closed circle of amazingly small dimensions. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, which counts in its membership most of the power and the glory of Hollywood, numbers around 4000. I'm not one of the dues-paying chosen.
Right up front, we'd like to make the point that a guy and a girl should dress exactly alike only when they are members of the same marching band. But with the fashion rules of the game being more liberally interpreted these days--to say the least--and both sexes in general being less uptight about crossing an invisible boundary that separates men's from women's wear, there are a number of similarities in what's currently being stashed in his and her closets. Most often, it's women's fashions that emulate those of the male. (How many guys do you know who like to step out in a long black evening gown and pearls?) An excellent example of this is the tailored suit, which looks equally good on both sexes. In the area of furs, however, men are only beginning to come to an appreciation of a long-standing favorite of women. Designers and manufacturers have taken note and are busily working furs of all kinds into more masculine styles, such as the fully lined coyote coat with an immense shawl collar pictured in this feature. At $8000, it's not something you might throw on when you're going out to walk the dog. It could be argued that women, too, were pulling on sweaters long before men discovered that garment's pleasures, versatility and utility in these days of lowered thermostats; but the point is that sweaters in styles from V-necks to turtles, crews and even cardigans look equally great on both sexes. And so does the splash and shine of silks and satins for let-loose times at parties and discos. But where we draw the line in this trend to male/female dressing alike is behind the bedroom door. Then is the time to put aside fashions and appreciate--vive la différence!
The hulk of a man with the beer in his hand looked like a drunk old fool,And I knew that if I hit him right, I could knock him off that stool.But everybody said, "Watch out--that's Tiger Man McCool.He's had a whole lot of fights and he's always come out winner. Yeath, he's a winner."
There is a serious side to Candace Collins. But it doesn't get much sunlight. Even when she tries, some internal alarm goes off that triggers an involuntary twinkle in her eyes. What follows could be a bit of corn-pone buffoonery from her country roots, a refreshing splash of her free-flowing wit or a simple, expertly guided trip down the garden path. Whichever way she goes, she leaves smiles in her wake. That's the Collins style. Not surprisingly, Candace is a very successful Chicago model. With her eyes alone, she could sell oil to Saudi Arabia--if she could be convinced to go there. Chicago is her home and woe be unto him who would denigrate her chosen city. When duty has forced her to leave, for assignments in Rome, Barcelona or the Big Apple, she has always left the natives, crying for more. Or simply crying.
When the party girls pop up out of the pastry at dessert time," the wealthy host of the stag event commented, "will the two of them be able to handle the maybe eight or nine guys who'll want to get laid?"
Cuba Has Always Produced Great Fighters among the little men: The immortal featherweight from Havana, Kid Chocolate, is a national treasure, and fight lovers will never forget Kid Gavilan's famous bolo punch. Cuban boxers take pride in their style and cunning. The objective is not only to knock an opponent out but to knock him out with class. Today the Grand Master of Cuban boxing is 6'5" reigning Olympic heavyweight champion Teofilo Stevenson. Jamaican born, soft spoken, polite, dignified (though somewhat condescending when giving interviews), Stevenson is an impressive figure. On his own turf, Stevenson's reputation as a ladies' man is legend. In the ring, the straight-up puncher addresses his opponents with disdain. And not without reason. I first sketched him destroying Duane Bobick at the Munich Olympic Games in 1972, then again at the Montreal Olympics in 1976, when he made short work of John Tate, today a ranking pro. In the 1979 Pan-American Games, Stevenson impatiently flattened both of his opponents in less than a round each. Among boxers, he's in a class by himself.
Last year, when we were putting together the 25th Anniversary Issue, we found ourself indulging in a little nostalgia. As we gazed upon a quarter century of gatefolds, we realized that it had been our privilege to be associated with some of the loveliest ladies of our day. Playmates who made Playboy: DeDe Lind and Connie Kreski, each of whom received more than 1000 letters from appreciative readers (a record); Jo Collins, who toured Vietnam; Liv Lindeland, the first Playmate to be photographed as a fully frontal nude (i.e., showing pubic hair). We wondered what had become of our favorite girls. The answer was simple: They became women. When we saw how some of them look today, as evidenced by these photos, our nostalgia turned to outright awe. Miki Garcia, Miss January 1973, offered this insight: "To be selected as a Playmate changes most girls' lives. We have a saying: Once a Playmate, always a Playmate." We wouldn't have it otherwise.
My condolences to the millions of you who can't watch a pro football game without betting on it. But if not for you, the nation's bookies would have to find other ways to come by their Caddies, gold Dunhill lighters, star-sapphire pinkie rings and far-flung spring vacations. Good Lord, if not for your pro-football habit, that could be you on the beach in Puerto Vallarta.
Peter Beard is hard to categorize, a fact that no doubt delights him. He was born an American aristocrat, educated at American and British boarding schools, graduated from Yale. He abandoned his highborn station, however, and set out for East Africa--where he witnessed and photographed the decimation by modern civilization of the once wildly beautiful terrain and animal life. He chronicled his impressions in three books, Eyelids of Morning: "The Mingled Destinies of Crocodiles and Men"; Longing for Darkness; and The End of the Game: "Last Word from Paradise"--each, in its way, a eulogy for a particular area and its wildlife, with clear warnings to the next animals in line, human beings.
Richard Pryor is big enough now so that we take him at face value: talking in low, grim tones to Barbara Walters in prime time about growing up in his grandmother's whorehouses, how the prostitutes, one of them his mother, tapped on the windows to lure customers, how he was given his full name, Richard Franklin Lennox Thomas Pryor, by pimps, how he went home in tears after learning that he'd impregnated his teenaged girlfriend, only to hear his father blithely admit that he'd been having relations with the girl, too.
Some people like to have fun with singles. Bill Caruba has more fun than anybody. His book The Magic of Folding Money, a compendium of greenback constructions, gives full instructions for folding a dollar bill into rings, guns and all manner of trinkets. Here, for loyal readers, is one of Caruba's inventions--the Playboy Buck Rabbit. If you're less interested in folding money than in making it, move on; we can't guarantee our legal-tender lapin will multiply like you know what.
It was a year that would have brought transports of delight to Louella herself: screens full of happy, old-fashioned entertainment, Hollywood ballrooms aglow with rich, successful celebrities and tycoons and, best of all, the constant whisper of scandal, up to and including adultery, broken marriages and what used to be called shotgun weddings.
Ribald Classic: The Philter of the Shaman of Sungtao
In the first dynasty of Sung, in the days of Shihwanta Shan, even as today, the village of Taotan was avoided by travelers except the imperial collector of taxes, because it had so little to offer. The lowest of its citizens was Luwu the woolwasher. Orphaned as a child, she was loved by none, for although her body was finely formed, her unnatural face was her great misfortune. One eye was the size of a plum and the other no larger than a hazelnut; a great cleft in her lip revealed her teeth, the display of which is considered vulgar among Chinese, so that she was impelled from courtesy to constantly hold her hand before her mouth. And on her chin and throat were a score of hairy warts called tat ang, rabbit dung, which superstition held that her mother must have eaten with her rice while carrying Luwu.
Enjoy this college basketball season; the sport in its present form may not be around much longer. Like so many other institutions, it is being reshaped by the immensity of its own success. It is difficult for any activity that generates enormous amounts of cash to maintain a pretense of amateurism, and the pressures on college basketball and its players seem irresistible.
Once again, it's time to get the vote out. You'll be doing a lot of that next year; but for the moment, put aside your thoughts on Salt, oil and other political considerations and look over the ballot for our annual Playboy Music Poll. Remember those music critics whose ears you thought were filled with salt or oil? Or the ones who never even reviewed your favorite albums? Throw the rascals out by casting your ballot for the top vocalists and musicians of your choice--plus, of course, the pick of the crop in LPs. The lists of names adjacent to the ballot are there to jog your memory--but are by no means all-inclusive. If your choices don't appear, just enter their names in the spaces provided. But, please, if you are voting for someone who's listed, use the number beside the name. And when you've finished side one, flip the ballot over to your choices for the Hall of Fame and Best LP categories. Only official ballots count and they must be postmarked before midnight, December 1, 1979. Don't just sit there--vote!
Our story thus far: on the dread planet poontang-our fearless asstronaut, vaginella, has been felled by the giant android slave of cumquat, king of the teenie-weenies!Wheee! mountains of ass- and it's mine, all mine!Now-search her thoroughly, men!Ah! reviving, is she?... Quickly, then! strip her and stake her out!No, me!The least you guys could do is take off those horned helmets!We've found something, sire!By the moons of ishtar! It's captain meteor's magic finger ring! so that's where he lost it!
New is probably the most overused word in marketing today. And no industry is more adept at the art of creating artificial newness than the auto biz. G.M. isn't going to tell you its "New!" 1980 Camaro and Firebird will celebrate their tenth anniversary in the same basic form. Ford isn't hinting that its "New!" Pinto has entered its ninth year virtually unchanged.
Los Angeles is one American city where community standards seem to change with every exit ramp on the freeway. The staid John Birchers down near Disneyland coexist with the bareassed beach folk near Malibu and the wealthy hedonists of Beverly Hills. Over in Hollywood, the dream merchants unreel a stream of jiggle epics, taking sex (and violence) off the streets and putting it into the homes of millions. Is there a single, real Los Angeles? When we asked 552 randomly selected people between the ages of 18 and 40 to rate the sexual temperature of their city, we discovered an unusual consensus. Angelenos think they're sexy: They rated themselves a tropical 79 (only Miamians rated themselves higher). L.A.'s opinion of the rest of the country was somewhat more conservative: It rated Miami a mere 64, Chicago a 71, New York a 77 and Las Vegas an 83. The average of the ratings (75) is higher than those we obtained in New Orleans (71) and Chicago (74) but much lower than the average we obtained in Miami (83). The war between our two sunshine states heats up.
Despite its image, Los Angeles is not permissive legally when it comes to sex. During the past decade, sex became a political issue; from strong community pressure came new local laws and staunch new prosecutorial efforts. L.A. is a town in which laws are enforced, vice cops do their jobs with almost demonic zeal.
We are entering an age in which the line between science and fantasy seems to be fading rapidly. Over the past 20 years, reports from the international scientific community have transformed what once seemed myths--communication of mind to mind, the continuity of consciousness after death, interstellar communication, the likelihood that there is a Loch Ness monster--into real possibilities. These are weird and wonderful things, and they all add up to one big message: We can't say we've reached the bottom line on any theory of how the universe works.
No, portnoy...not to your place, not to my place! I don't want sex with you!sex? I'm not even thinking sex. I just want to chat. For instance, I'm into egyptology. You know, girls like pharaoh fawcett-majors.
Christmas comes but once a year, and that can be more than enough when you've got a number of young lovelies on your yuletide gift list. So this season, rest ye merry, gentlemen, and shop early; the suggestions below--from a battery-powered compact to a fox fur jacket--provide a price range from inexpensive to wallet busting. But lest you feel left out, old Saint Nick, there are some nifty items in this issue's annual gift guide that make presents perfect for you, too.
Just as you've been knitted, tweeded and textured to a fare-thee-well, along comes the next fashion trend to whet your senses; light waves. Whether it's the subtle glow of velvet or the high electricity of satin, you'd better believe that dazzle is coming back to menswear. And that includes suits and ties made of those jazzy iridescent fabrics that were once anathema to anyone interested in building a wardrobe of quality. No, iridescent looks won't totally usurp other fabrics; they're just shining examples of the richness of choice you'll have this coming spring. But for right now, here are two colorful outfits to brighten the dark months. Check them out and see if they don't put a gleam in your dates' eyes, too.
With fuel costs rising through the roof, solar energy, as a cheap and effective way of heating homes, is being looked at with more scrutiny. But what if you don't want those odd-looking heat collectors that resemble disembodied skylights decorating your roof? Take a tip from Tom Smith, whose two-story house in the High Sierras near Lake Tahoe is a passive solar-energy gatherer. It works this way: The sun heats Smith's 300-square-foot-greenhouse, the hot air rises and circulates around and under the house, creating a thermal blanket. At night and on overcast days, the heat absorbed by the structure's mass is released and keeps the place toasty. Last February, Smith's utility bill was $31.75. His next-door neighbor's was $228.03. OPEC, eat your heart out!