The use of mood enhancers in the movie industry has been an oddly accurate, if sometimes Byzantine, reflection of subtle shifts in the status of America's preferential drugs. For years, alcohol was far and away America's--and Hollywood's--favorite. Then came the Sixties. Hallucinogens and marijuana became popular underground drugs, and, eventually, that fact influenced the movie industry, both publicly and privately. On the back lots of Hollywood, choice Mexican grass became increasingly available. Cary Grant confessed that he'd dropped acid. Then, in the Seventies, while marijuana became virtually an institutional drug for millions, Hollywood nosed ahead, so to speak, of a trend in American drug consumption. We sent Contributing Editor Asa Baber to Los Angeles with an intact septum and instructions not to get himself killed in the process of bringing us back an inside report on cocaine dealing in Hollywood. His article, Behind Hollywood's Mirrors, will, among other things, inspire you to ask yourself the next time you see a really bad movie, "Am I witnessing mere incompetence or too much toot?" Accompanying Baber's piece is a timely sidebar, Will De Lorean Deliver Hollywood?
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), March, 1983, Volume 30, Number 3. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Bldg., 919 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Ill, 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States and its possessions, $54 for 36 issue, $38 for 24 issues, $22 for 12 issues. Canada, $27 for 12 issues. Elsewhere, $38 for 12 issues. 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; Michael Druckman, New York Sales Manager; Milt Kaplan, Fashion Advertising Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017; Chicago 60611, Russ Weller, Associate Advertising Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue; Troy, Michigan 48084, Jess Ballew, Manager, 3001 W. Big Beaver Road; Los Angeles 90010, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager. 4311 Wilshire Boulevard; San Francisco 94104, Tom Jones, Manager, 417 Montgomery Street.
Peter Matthiessen has thoughtfully produced In the Spirit of Crazy Horse (Viking), a sad and detailed look at an unromantic part of the wild West legacy. Crazy Horse was the 19th Century Dakota Sioux who liked to point out that the white man--and the Bureau of Indian Affairs-- had a keen sense of real-estate values. This book is about his modern counterparts in the American Indian Movement of the Seventies, primarily those on the huge Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota, and the old attitudes that punish them. In blunt terms, this is an account of assassinations and frame-ups of militant Indians, including Leonard Peltier, the A.I.M. leader who was convicted of murder. Matthiessen exposes questionable practices, in and out of court, to support his persuasive assertion that there is more than edginess rampant in the native American community today. From his vantage point, we aren't going to heal our Wounded Knees.
Ten Years That Shoobopped The World: In the late Fifties and early Sixties, lines of seemingly nonsensical phonetics called doo-wop frequently told the discerning pop or rock fan all he or she needed to know. That was back when rock 'n' roll was still a pulse on the circuit that ran roughly between the solar plexus and the groin--before anybody had thought of subjecting rock 'n' roll to music's stuffier conventions, such as thoughtful criticism, production values and a demand that musicians know how to play their instruments. Nobody knows where such terms as doo-doo-doo or bop-shoobop originated, but we know that many of them wound up in the record collection of contributor Diane Farrar, who put together the following short quiz on introductory doo-wop. The list is limited to doo-wop phrasings that appeared at the beginning of a song. Each, uh, phrase is taken from a top doo-wop hit, one per year, during the prime doo-wop years of 1955--1964. Sorry, no translations.
Reeling and Rocking: Bill Wyman has turned Mel Brooks down. Brooks wanted him to play one of the merry men in his forthcoming movie about Robin Hood. Said Wyman, "I'm too shy and too old for that sort of thing." . . . PolyGram Pictures has optioned the rights to Great Balls of Fire, the biography of Jerry Lee Lewis written by ex-wife Myra. . . . Charlotte Caffey of the Go-Go's says their goal for 1983 is to do a movie. If they can't find a story, they may try to tailor something to tie in with their next album. Caffey's not worried that none of the Go-Go's has any acting experience: "We don't need lessons; we're naturals," is how she sees it. . . . A sequel to Heavy Metal is in the works, with Al Brodax (producer of Yellow Submarine) directing. . . . Paul McCartney plans to star in a movie about himself. He has already written the script and the music for Give My Regards to Broad Street. A cast of 30 will include Linda and Ringo. . . . Are you ready for Ladies and Gentlemen, the Fabulous Stains? Producer Lou Adler's film stars former members of The Sex Pistols, Fee Waybill and Vince Welnick of The Tubes and Paul Simonon of The Clash. The Stains is a teenaged-girls group.
Before Sophie's Choice (Universal), Meryl Streep seemed to me, at best, an accomplished but somewhat asexual star, too cool for my taste. All previous doubts are banished by her scintillating, bravura performance as the heroine of William Styron's best seller. Adapted for the screen by Alan J. Pakula, who also doubles as director and coproducer, Sophie's Choice is emphatically a breakthrough role for Streep. If they had written parts like this for Garbo, she might still be acting. Meryl commands our belief that she's a Polish beauty back in 1947, a refugee struggling with English in a halting but eager accent, though reluctant to discuss her wartime experiences. Behind Sophie's vulnerable façade lie many dark secrets about who and what she was during the holocaust and how she survived it. In postwar Brooklyn, she shares her bed with a romantic, brilliant American Jew named Nathan, who has a few murky secrets of his own. Broadway's Kevin Kline, best known for his flashy stints in hit musicals, scores a knockout movie debut as Nathan. Add plaudits for boyish Peter MacNicol as the budding novelist Stingo, Sophie's point-of-view character (and, obviously, author Styron's self-portrait), whose friendship with the mad, mysterious couple upstairs marks the beginning of maturity, the end of innocence.
Jesse Owens ripped through my living room the other day, taking four gold medals out from under Hitler's nose. Then Franz Klammer banged out the greatest downhill in the history of man. In between, headed to the kitchen for a beer, I missed the Immaculate Reception.
Idol Gossip: Shirley MacLaine and Debra Winger will co-star in Paramount's Terms of Endearment, the screen adaptation of Larry (The Last Picture Show) McMurtry's novel about the relationship of a mother and daughter over a 25-year period. . . . Preston Sturges' 1948 classic Unfaithfully Yours will undergo the remake treatment by 20th Century-Fox. The story of a symphony-orchestra conductor who becomes insanely jealous when he suspects his beautiful young wife of philandering with a handsome violin virtuoso, the new version will feature Dudley Moore as the conductor and Nastassia Kinski as his wife. The original starred Rex Harrison and Linda Darnell. . . . Isaac Hayes has been signed to star in Tiburon, an action thriller about an ex-CIA agent hired to locate a stolen nuclear warhead. Hayes's most recent appearance was in John Carpenter'sEscape from New York. . . . Jackie Gleason, Paul Williams, Pat McCormick and Colleen Camp star in Universal's third installment of the Smokey and the Bandit series, this one titled (since Burt Reynolds isn't in it) Smokey Is the Bandit Part III. Word has it that Gleason, in one of his dual roles, will be made to look like Burt, a feat that, if possible, should handily win the make-up artist an Academy Award nomination. . . . Tommy Lee Jones and Michael O'Keefe will star in Paramount's Savage Islands, concerning the supposedly true story of Captain "Bully" Hayes, the American buccaneer whose roguish exploits on the high seas have become, according to the press release, "legend." . . . John (Rocky) Avildsen will direct Ladies' Night, starring Christopher (The Blue Lagoon) Atkins as a college student who earns his tuition by moonlighting as a male stripper.
There's a revolution in this country, and men are taking it on the chin. I'm talking about unemployment. A higher percentage of men than of women have lost their jobs over the past couple of years, and the trend is not likely to reverse itself any time soon. Many male-intensive industries (steel, automobile, agriculture) are in deep trouble. Men have been laid off by the millions, and the biggest questions they face are "What will be done to and for me?" and "What will I do for myself?" It is interesting that those questions face both blue- and white-collar workers everywhere.
I am a young woman in my late 20s. I was married for five years, and after my divorce, I realized that my sex life with my husband had been a farce. Quite by accident, I entered into a relationship with another woman. She taught me things that released the full potential of my sexual response. It was a transitional affair; we moved on to other things; and now I have a problem. I am essentially heterosexual and I want to have relations with men, but I'm afraid to tell them what I've learned about sex, or the source. Is there a way for me to get around my hang-up? How do you give directions without being indiscreet?--Miss B. A., Washington, D.C.
For the past couple of months, we've asked the Playmates questions about power and envy--questions about who's on top, so to speak, in their relationships with men. It seems only natural to follow up now with a topic at the heart of the matter. Is money an aphrodisiac?
Crimes are classified according to their relative severity, their degree of heinousness and the depravity of the criminal. First-degree murder is considered worse than second-degree murder, which is considered worse than manslaughter. Recent Illinois court decisions have made clear that (at least in Illinois) murder is apparently somewhat less evil than cohabitation.
In 1977, not long after taking over the White House beat, Sam Donaldson was staked out on the West Wing lawn, waiting for Saudi Crown Prince Fahd to arrive for a meeting with President Jimmy Carter. Like the rest of the Washington press corps, Donaldson was working on deadline, and, growing impatient, he soon broke into song; keying his basso profundo to the occasion, he was already several verses into "The Sheik of Araby" when none other than President Carter emerged from the White House to ask ruefully whether or not the ABC-TV correspondent was enjoying himself. Donaldson nodded, then shot back, "Get the oil!"
There's a stolid E. F. Hutton office a block from the Atlantic on the eastern coast of Florida, where the sun turns the air to steam every afternoon. Bright-shirted families trundle metal pails and folding chairs down the sidewalk that leads to the beach; one keeps expecting the people to stop and lean toward the building, trying to eavesdrop on the financiers inside.
Two receptions are achurn in fair-sized ballrooms on the top floor of the Bellevue Stratford Hotel in Philadelphia. Guests slosh back and forth from one to the other. New guests foam in. By stair, mostly. Half the elevators are out of whack, one with a cargo of Democrats captive inside it. They can't be much worse off in point of comfort than those of us up here, but one condoles their piteous lack of booze.
How many people can stay up all night studying for a mid-term in political science, take a quick shower and then show up for an interview in complete control--charming, sparkling, witty? And still look as good as Alana Soares? None that we can remember.
It was a time when people walked the nation's streets with orange-foam pads clamped to their ears and antennae bouncing above their heads. The newspapers of the day told of several thousand men and women who had allowed themselves to be paired off and married by the leader of a religious cult, while on television there was a show that featured actual couples discussing their actual sexual problems with an actual therapist. Hundreds of consumers mistook a dishwashing liquid for lemon juice and squirted it into their drinks.
Sleeping in a T-Shirt and undershorts may be fine for the boys at boot camp, but we're happy to report that the men's pajama market is alive and, well, kicking--as martial-arts superstar Chuck Norris demonstrates on these pages. Norris, whose seven previous films have grossed more than $200,000,000, currently stars in the Topkick/Orion feature Lone Wolf McQuade. But it's a sure bet he won't be alone for long, as the pajamas in which he's kicking up a storm bear little resemblance to the baggy bedroomwear of yore. In fact, most can do double duty as late-evening lounging togs. Some take their styling cue from jogging or warm-up suits, while others are more elegantly tailored for sharing a carafe rather than a karate kick by the fire. If you don't believe us, just ask Norris. . . nicely.
If you could be any financial concept in the world, which one would you be? Inflation? Hedging? Dis-intermediation? (Sorry; "rich" is an adjective, not a concept. You've got to pick a concept.) If you were smart, you'd pick compound interest. It never fails to dazzle.
The day Mike got busted was a typical day on the studio lot. Everything seemed normal -- for Hollywood. The studio executives who had the habit sent their secretaries down as often as five or six times a day to pick up a gram of cocaine per visit. It was a shrewd move to send the secretaries. That way, the executives never held the substance. They snorted the cocaine immediately and left Mike to do the holding. That was part of the deal.
Arthur Jones is a man of many interests. The inventor of the hottest exercise equipment began his career as a World War Two bomber pilot and afterward began to seek out real adventure. He flew free-lance cargo missions all over Central America and Africa, tracked big game and hosted a TV show called "Wild Cargo" in the Sixties. He holds strong views on subjects as diverse as pumping iron and geopolitics. He regales listeners with tales of mercenary strike missions and coups that failed. He boasts that he has eluded hit teams that emerging nations have dispatched to stalk him, but when pumped for details on the subject, he demurs. Apparently, if you have to ask the price of danger, you can't afford to take the chance.
During the exuberant Twenties and the decades following, living patterns--including fashions in drinks--were dictated by well-connected socialites and the cafés and clubs they frequented. But this is a different world. Today, styles and trends, especially in alcoholic beverages, are often conceived in campus hangouts and fraternity houses, from the tables down at Mory's to the bar at the University of Houston's Delta Upsilon house. There are no words to describe these new bibulous patterns accurately, but off the wall is a good start. You can also try macho, meshuga, prankish and innovative. How else would you interpret such stunts as the Scorpion Bowl--a group gulp--and the Flaming 151 Shot. The latter calls for downing a measure of 151-proof Puerto Rican rum in a shot glass--while it's aflame! Mercifully, not all campus temptations are so flamboyant. Keg beer and white wine get a play at collegiate get-togethers, particularly on weekdays. Punch is the preferred potion for fraternity-house parties and mixers. Serious drinking tends to be relegated to weekends, après-exam nights, the last day of classes, athletic confrontations with archrivals and visitors' days--when Dad or some other gainfully (Continued on page 166) Tables down at Mory's (Continued from page 127) employed adult picks up the tab. You won't find any mustache burners at Mory's, the adopted home of the Yale underclasses for more than a century. If nothing else, Mory's knows decorum. The name, incidentally, honors the original proprietors, Frank and Jane Moriarty--English publicans who provided hospitality with "none of the sad trappings and miserable pomp of the saloon," according to a local historian.
Jim Mckay wasn't there. It's his loss, because the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat never were more memorable than on that mid-October day when Playmates gathered at Playboy Mansion West, as Howard might say, "to bring the competitive fervor into the idyllic groves amid the cogent contours of that unique landscape." But Howard wasn't there, either. What he missed was the sight of 20 unquestionably physically fit girls from around the country gathered for the first, and probably annual, Playmate Play-offs--to pit muscle against muscle, sinew against sinew, thigh against thigh in a series of the most diabolical athletic events ever devised. The three-day extravaganza was video-taped for broadcast on The Playboy Channel, so, naturally, everything had to move in clockwork fashion. Sure. What was immediately apparent was that there were two different athletic philosophies at work, one group following the Simmons-Fonda ethic of bean sprouts and stretching, the other adhering to the tenets of modern Marxism. Groucho, not Karl. What was also clear was that, in the words of any football announcer, these girls came to play. When it was over, our gorgeous Playmates sported bruises, numerous bumps and scrapes; four had made visits to UCLA Medical Center's emergency room.
The video revolution has its drawbacks. Along with the excitement of owning a tape and/or disc machine, escaping from dungeons and dragons while crouched behind a game console or watching Playboy Video comes a Medusalike clutter of wires and, all too often, mediocre picture reception because a high-tech signal can't be picked up through low-tech equipment. But fear not, video junkie; the industry has responded. Component TVs that separate the unit into a monitor and receiver are now available, and they improve reception significantly. In addition, there are a variety of switchers to choose from that consolidate your wires into one unit. Remember, neatness counts--and the products here will help.
The good news from shirt manufacturers this spring is that collar styles have loosened up and there's a tremendous spectrum of looks from which to choose. The bad news, of course, is that you'll have to be as rich as Niarchos to stock up the way you'd like. Happily, ancient dictums, such as never wear a buttondown shirt with a bow tie, no longer apply. Credit the change to the yout' of America (as Casey Stengel used to say), who taught us to play with clothes (a skinny leather tie worn with a knit short-sleeved polo shirt and a pair of jeans, for example), and relaxed business executives who have eased dated and deadly office dress codes. Who says you can't have fun in a shirt and tie?
"Ancient Evenings"--One of America's premier contemporary writers takes an unaccustomed step into the distant past for his newest novel. Here, the first of two segments about one of Pharaoh's generals placed in charge of a harem of 100 queens--by Norman Mailer