Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), February, 1985, volume 32, number 2. Published monthly by playboy. playboy building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States and its possessions, $54 for 36 issues, $36 for 24 issues, $22 for 12 issues, Canada, $27 for 12 issues. Elsewhere, $35 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 80322, and allow 45 days for change. Marketing: Ed Condon, Director/Direct Marketing; Jack Bernstein, circulation promotion director. Advertising: Charles M. Stentiford, Advertising Director; Jeffrey Kleinman, Craig Vander Ploeg, Senior Associate Managers: Jay Remer, National Alcoholic Beverages Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017; Russ Weller, Midwest Advertising Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago. Illinois 60611; 3001 West Big Beaver Road, Troy, Michigan 48084; Los Angeles 90010, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 4311 Wilshire Boulevard; San Francisco 94104, Tom Jones, Manager, 417 Montgomery street.
Be warned that a strong stomach and steel nerves may help you get through The Killing Fields (Warner), parts of which I had to watch through knotted fingers while writhing squeamishly in my seat. That's a backhanded compliment for producer David Puttnam, director Roland Joffé and everyone else involved in this harrowing drama about the horrors of war and peace in Cambodia from 1973 to 1975. Based on a New York Times Magazine feature by correspondent Sydney H. Schanberg, the movie is partly an affectionate, searching reminiscence of Schanberg's friendship with Dith Pran, a Cambodian colleague he had to leave behind after the Khmer Rouge revolutionary take-over. But Killing Fields is also an angry, bloody, unequivocal indictment of U.S. bungling and cover-ups in faraway places. Sam Waterston registers strongly as Schanberg, with Dr. Haing S. Ngor, a real-life refugee from Khmer Rouge terrorism, barely a step behind him as Dith Pran. Somewhat diffuse in the second half, when the two main characters' stories are a hemisphere apart, and musically somewhat heavily overscored at times, the film nonetheless picks you up, shakes you and sends you reeling home with troublesome food for thought as few movies do nowadays.[rating]3-1/2 bunnies[/rating]
Idol Gossip: John Huston's next directorial effort will be Prizzi's Honor, starring Jack Nicholson, Kathleen(Romancing the Stone)Turner and Huston's daughter Anjelica. Based on Richard Condon's novel of the same name, the project is a black comedy about a Mafia family.... Last month, in this space, I suggested that the Western may be making a comeback, launched by the production of Hugh Wilson's comedy Rustler's Rhapsody. Well, Clint Eastwood seems to have jumped onto the band wagon (or, in this case, chuck wagon) with Pale Rider. Co-starring Christopher Penn, Carrie Snodgress, Michael Moriarty and Richard Kiel, the flick involves a lonesome stranger (Eastwood) who gets caught up in a struggle between smalltime miners and the big mining companies. Naturally, the jury is still out on whether or not Westerns can make money in this day and age (the only real litmus test in Hollywood), so we'll just have to wait and see. If they do, expect a deluge.... Michael Douglas has been set to star in Embassy Pictures' film version of A Chorus Line, with Richard Attenborough directing.
If the Super Bowl were a sitcom, it would have been canceled years ago. The zebras aren't funny. Not funny enough, at least, to justify all those flags they throw that make your money sprout wings and challenge the Goodyear Blimp to a swirling dogfight. And the players haven't been any help. More often than not, one team shows up looking overcoached and undermedicated--or doesn't show up at all. Same thing would've happened if the Super Bowl had been an adventure series: canceled. The car chases between Pete Rozelle and Al Davis wouldn't have outnumbered the balloons and the choir groups.
Things are looking up for Don DeLillo, author of White Noise (Viking). His earlier work (seven novels, most notably The Names and Ratner's Star) was erratic--sometimes stand-back brilliant, sometimes turgid or just unintelligible. White Noise is terrific. It concerns Jack Gladney, a Hitler-studies professor (the book takes place in an unspecified near future) whose small-town existence keeps getting polluted by rabid technologies. His family is chased from its home by a chemical spill known as The Airborne Toxic Event. As events both airborne and earth-bound unfold, White Noise slips effortlessly between highflying satire and deep meditation. DeLillo's supporting characters are as colorful as ever, but in this novel, the center holds, and DeLillo takes his place as one of our finest novelists.
Mileage Update: In the Fifties, Miles Davis was the first in his field to wear Italian suits and shoes and drive a Ferrari. Thirty years later, Miles, in the flesh, was about 80 kilometers from Rome in Terni, an industrial city situated in the green hills of Umbria. Twelve thousand people jammed the town square as Umbria Jazz '84 (the main part of which takes place in Perugia) was kicked off with a free concert by the latest edition of Davis' band: Bob Berg, tenor and soprano saxes; John Scofield, guitar; Robert Irving, synthesizer; Darryl Jones, bass; Steve Thornton, percussion; and Al Foster, drums.
On Hot House Flowers (Columbia), Wynton Marsalis' trumpet improvisations satisfy, surprise but seldom burn with the intensity of, say, Miles Davis. We recommend the new album for Marsalis' sharply edited and well-controlled performances, heard against a 24-piece orchestra and a quintet of jazz players. Addressing mostly standards, Marsalis and his colleagues thoughtfully and economically enhance the melodies, sometimes allowing them to remain relatively unadorned. Robert Freedman's elegant, often imaginative arrangements are an asset. Simultaneous with the release of Hot House Flowers, Columbia has brought out the trumpeter's second classical LP, featuring soprano Edita Gruberova and Raymond Leppard conducting the English Chamber Orchestra. Interpreting material by Purcell, Handel, Torelli, Molter and Fasch, Marsalis is quite effective; he plays decisively, often brilliantly, adding to the evidence that he knows what music is about.
Reeling and Rocking: We told you a while ago that Bette Midler was going to star in My Girdle Is Killing Me, a picture about a faded movie star who is harbored by four eccentric women in their condemned New York apartment. What we've just learned is that the producers hope to sign either Tina Turner or Patti LaBelle to co-star.... Ringo and Harry Nilsson will revive the old Hope/Crosby road-film genre in Road to Australia, with Ringo's wife, Barbara Bach, playing the Dorothy Lamour role.... No surprise here: Columbia Pictures is reported to be developing two films for Michael Jackson, one a feature based on the Beat It video that would include all the brothers.... By now, 38 Special's full-length concert video should be in your local video store.... The Doors are working on their first feature-length home video, which will include performance material from their private archives--including a previously banned clip of The Unknown Soldier and onstage and behind-the-scenes coverage of the summer-of-1968 tour, when Jim Morrison was busted for inciting riots in five cities within a month.
Worst thing in the world happened the other day. I was looking for a book and came across a secret cache of letters. Well, OK, one letter. The boyfriend was in England, thousands of miles away, and here was this letter I'd never seen before. Girlish handwriting. What to do?
You always seem to give sensible answers to all questions that are submitted to your column, which I read religiously. Well, I have a good question and just know that others also wonder about this subject. I am 28 years old and, believe it or not, have not perfected the art of making love to a woman's private parts. I know that you always say to try to see what you and your partner enjoy, but with women's lib the way it is, the girls are likely to laugh at you if you don't have some knowledge of technique. Do you lick the entire area lengthwise or sideways? Do you just suck on her clitoris, or should you try the lightly-nibbling-on-it technique? Do you stick your finger inside her while doing the nibbling and sucking and licking, or is that too irritating? Is it all right to stick your tongue inside her, or should you concentrate on the clitoris (that is the most important part, right?)? Most important, if your girlfriend is extremely wet, how can you tell when she is coming? Most girls love to have oral sex, but I want to know what to look for so that I can determine what each lady enjoys. Please don't think that I am wasting your time--I sincerely want to know what to do and how to do it right. Pleasing a woman in the best way is what lovemaking is all about to me.--J. L. F., Fullerton, California.
The news last year that a certain U.S. Senator from the Midwest's principal corn-producing state had, in a spasm of "curiosity and weakness," visited a whorehouse wasn't really news. It had only the novelty of a racing-car crash that brings the crowd to its feet and turns the yellow caution light on until the mess is cleaned up. If not entirely predictable, such spills are inevitable, given the nature and the history of the sport: One Congressman is caught in an awkward position with a Federal employee in a men's room; another financially supports young men with dismal résumés but advanced degrees in sexual high-jinks; a senior Congressman retires when reporters discover that his secretary can't type but can give dictation--to the press.
<p>If anyone can be said to represent the spirit of an entrepreneurial generation, the man to beat for now is the charismatic cofounder and chairman of Apple Computer, Inc., Steven Jobs. He transformed a small business begun in a garage in Los Altos, California, into a revolutionary billion-dollar company--one that joined the ranks of the Fortune 500 in just five years, faster than any other company in history. And what's most galling about it is that the guy is only 29 years old.</p>
The Days Were Small, pointless epics, long wind-ups to punches that always drifted by cartoon fashion, as if each simple task were meaningless unless immersed in more theater and threat than bad opera.
Art Kane's novel and often bizarre approach to photographing the female form has appeared in such diverse publications as Vogue, Harper's Bazaar and the German magazine Stern. And now, climaxing a 25-year career, his first collection of "my favorite photographs of women" will soon hit the bookstores. It's called Paper Dolls (Melrose)--"the title was selected long before the television show," Kane says--and nine of the photos you'll see on this and the following pages are on the book's cover. The idea of photographing women in masks came to Kane accidentally: "I'd just (text concluded on page 68) finished a shoot for Bazaar Italia," says the New York native, "and my stylist was on his way to a baseball game in Central Park with a red catcher's mask in his hand. The mask seemed strange and sort of ritualistic, so I asked the model to let me take a few shots of her wearing the mask, stripped to the waist. The result was astonishing. I felt as though I'd expressed a feminist conflict: a woman trapped in a male symbol. And still, the femininity is so strong that it overwhelms these symbols. I tried every kind of mask I could find. Ironically, the shot with the catcher's mask didn't make the book selection."
Today's Denims hug a wide range of people, but a century ago, their home was on the range. Jeans go back to 1849, when disgruntled miners approached tentmaker Levi Strauss, the patron saint of denim. "These work pants of ours just aren't tough enough," the miners complained, "and nylon hasn't been invented yet." Strauss tried canvas, then turned to a French fabric called serge de Nîmes. De Nîmes became denim. The miners loved it. Cowboys took to it and denim rode off into the sunset, waiting for Marlon Brando and James Dean. In the Fifties, more than 100 years after their invention, blue jeans turned chic. Alienated young heroes wore them in the movies. Young movie fans wore them in the streets. The Sixties protesters threw off the shackles of the bourgeoisie and threw on bell-bottoms. Pretty soon, everyone was wearing them. And now that the Eighties are well under way, it's clear that the denim revolution won't shrink or fade away. Jeans show up in fashion shows and on movie stars, in the mall and in the Oval Office. Why? Because of the comfort, style and durability of this legendary fabric. The cut and the finish may change, but denim's here to stay in shirts, sweaters and jackets as well as jeans. In short, it's perfect for the hardest work or the most casual kind of romance; and we'll take romance every time.
Twenty-nine of us showed up, 29 members of the 1966 Green Bay Packers, the team that Vince Lombardi took to Los Angeles in January 1967 to beat the Kansas City Chiefs in the first Super Bowl. We went back to Green Bay a few months ago for our first full-scale reunion in almost 18 years. The group included six members of the Pro Football Hall of Fame and just as many legitimate millionaires, none of whom had made his money, or even a good share of it, on the football field. Willie Davis was there, a Hall of Fame defensive end, my former roommate and now a member of the board of directors of MGM, one of my favorite people in the world. So was Jimmy Taylor, a Hall of Fame running back, also once my roommate, now a successful Louisiana businessman and one of my least favorite people. Fuzzy Thurston, my fellow offensive guard, who had just won a battle with cancer, showed up, and so did Forrest Gregg, another Hall of Famer, now struggling through his first season as head coach of our old team. Also on hand was the man he had replaced, our Hall of Fame quarterback, Bart Starr, who several months earlier had been fired as head coach of the Packers. Ray Nitschke, a Hall of Fame linebacker, showed up, and so did Herb Adderley and Willie Wood, a couple of great defensive backs. When we were introduced at the Green Bay--San Diego game, Herb, another Hall of Famer, was in such good shape that he raced halfway to the center of the field, spun around and backpedaled at full speed the rest of the way. Willie Wood, on the other hand, had gained so much weight that one of the guys yelled to him, "Hey, come over here, Willie, so we can take a group picture of you!"
Savvy hosts know how to finish dinner with a flourish. After the café, or with it, they present a sensuous spirit in a round-bowled, footed goblet known, of course, as a snifter. What happens next is best described by an observation from France's high-proof 19th Century diplomat, Talleyrand: "We hold the glass in the hollow of the hand, we warm it up, we shake it in a circular movement so that the liquor exhales its perfume. Then we sniff it, we inhale it, and then, dear sir, we leave it on the table and speak about it." The wily Talleyrand and his guests (concluded on page 148)Power Snifters(continued from page 83)Power Snifters undoubtedly discussed weightier matters, too. Even today, important decisions are made and heavy deals cut in the relaxing balm of what corporate cognoscenti call the power snifter. No suggestion of dirty tricks here. It's just that after the brittle tensions of eyeball-to-eyeball negotiations, the civilizing warmth of the snifter suddenly makes savage antagonists aware of each other as fellow humans and the guards come down. Obviously, a power snifter can't be just any old glass. You want it made of leaded crystal and of a sensible size; a 5-oz. to 6-oz. capacity is recommended. It's small enough to nestle comfortably in one's palm, yet large enough to contain the fragrant vapors rising from the glass so they can be enjoyed in a leisurely fashion.
Piece Of Cake. When I suggested to Playboy that I write a piece about cocksurety, I had complete confidence. Not that Playboy did: The editors worried that I was inexperienced, likely to turn in something beneath their standards. I said, "Hey, Muhammad Ali was inexperienced when he fought Sonny Liston." They worried that I wasn't a "big name" writer. I said, "Once the word gets out on this story, I will be."
There are only a few professions in which you can be considered a seasoned veteran before you become an adult. Chess master and Mousketeer come immediately to mind. And, of course, fashion model. Indeed, as a model, you can be a phenom, a rookie, a seasoned vet and all washed up in the course of your senior year in high school. So those who survive, like Cherie Witter, are special.
I am not a surgeon, not even in fantasy. Nor have I any expertise or interest in the technology that makes modern surgery possible. Yet two months ago, I watched for a week as heart surgeons plied their trade. I watched because my daughter had had heart surgery as an infant and the doubt and mystery surrounding that operation wouldn't leave me. I watched because opening the body and touching the heart, a notion once unthinkable to me, had become personal.
You saw it years ago in Playboy's Electronic Entertainment Wall, Switched-On Superwall and Playboy's Wonder Wall--a marvelously compact combination of modern electronic miracles integrated into a single unit "for the urban man of tomorrow." Well, you can stop holding your breath, gentlemen; tomorrow is today and seeing is believing--as one look at the five state-of-the-art audio-video systems pictured on these pages will attest. All can be purchased as shown; some, such as the 11-foot Cy Mann Horizon Wall, with a mirrored fascia that rises at the press of a remote-control button, are sold minus equipment. The Bromley-Jacobson ADA System 56, on the other hand, resembles a NASA command center and comes fully equipped with dual video monitors and enough audio gear to sonically set the most critical fidelity buff on his finely tuned ear. Let the sights and sounds begin!
Hate to Grim everyone out, but you don't make passes at women in 1985, you audition for them. Your come-on had better be a quick job résumé: age, income, previous experience, negative Wassermann and that your apartment-building doorman has his own booth outside. We're all pressed for time, jomoke, so you've got about one minute to sing scat and impress her (or she, you). Men aren't objects of love or lust; they're closer to some competitive service industry now. What can you do for her career, social life, class status, for her tipped uterus? It could be as depressing as postage meters are to a stamp collector.
I Have been thinking a lot about getting dressed lately, I don't know why. It used to come naturally. I guess it could've been the advertisement I saw in The New York Times, where a man in a tweed coat and a tie was standing in a cow pasture to express an unhurried view of fashion, or it could've been a letter I received recently from Miss Gail Everley of the College of Saint Mary in Omaha, Nebraska, objecting to a newspaper column I had written about having once gone barefoot to the Queen of Hearts Ball.
If you see a woman you like, you cannot go up to her, show her your body and your VISA-card credit limit and say, "How about me forever?" You have to take her on a date. The same is true if you're already dating a woman. Women cannot be left in the case, like fine shotguns. There are no parking garages for girlfriends. You have to date them some more.
You have met a horrifyingly attractive woman and have somehow managed to charm her into accepting your invitation to dinner at an intimate French restaurant, where you have at least a nodding acquaintance with the menu, the wine list and the maître d'hôtel.
Erica Jong may have long ago conquered her fear of flying, but in 1984, those perennial spoilsports, the prudes, seemed to be suffering more severely than ever from their own special phobia: fear of fun. Imagine: Somebody, sometime, might have had a photo taken au naturel. Somebody else might have showed a bunch of teenaged girls a tape of male go-go dancers wearing (gasp!) bikini trunks. (OK, the teacher in this case did win her job back, but a hearing officer ruled the tape "inappropriate for classroom viewing.") Somebody else might have (horrors!) Done It and Got Caught, with the evidence showing up nine months later. Well, say these modern Mr. and Mrs. Grundys, "Punish them! Make them pay!" At the rate they're going, we may yet see the return of that antique treatment for transgressors, stoning. Repression, after all, starts with little things, such as trying to keep contraceptives out of teenagers' hands and playboy off the shelves of your local 7-Eleven.It seldom stops there. To all of these self-appointed censors, we say a resounding "Phooey!" Time magazine may have tried to bury the sexual revolution in 1984, but the next report we read, in Parade magazine, revealed that the first study of American sexual behavior ever conducted with a national probability sample had found that revolution to be thriving. Concluded Parade's editors: "Traditional ideas of what constitutes normal and abnormal sexual behavior are no longer universally accepted." Nearly half the survey's respondents were into sexual experimentation--a lot of it. Interestingly, a similar percentage of that group considered itself religiously "very devout." This may come as a surprise to the Reverends Jerry Falwell and Donald Wildmon, a pair of uptight clergymen who obviously don't agree with poet William Blake that "the nakedness of woman is the work of God." Actually, their contention that they represent mainstream America reminds us of the work of Hans Christian Andersen. Like the little kid in Andersen's tale, we're not afraid to say to thesewould-be arbiters of American mores, whose claims have no more substance than did the imaginary fabric in which the fairy-tale monarch wrapped himself, "The emperor has no clothes!"
For 16 years, director Brian De Palma has paddled a very successful life raft in the midst of Hollywood's mainstream. His subjects have included menstruation and telekinetic wrath ("Carrie"), assassination, conspiracy and paranoia ("Blow Out"), a razor-flashing drag-queen shrink ("Dressed to Kill") and a demonic Cuban cocaine lord who has a mild case of fantasy incest ("Scarface"). His newest film, "Body Double," is a murder mystery involving a woman who works in porn films and a man who is compelled to watch her through a telescope while she masturbates. We sent Jim Jerome to De Palma's New York office. Jerome reports: "For all the frenzy, titillation and terror in his movies, De Palma is strikingly, almost meditatively serene. He makes tight but peaceful eye contact, barely fidgets, and his conversation is gracefully streamlined and precise. There is nothing wasteful or tentative about the man. Nor is he explosively chummy. In our initial meeting, he dispensed with introduction and handshake. 'In here,' he nodded toward an inner room. And so we began."
Forget Victoria Principal and the other girls of Dallas. Forget the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. Forget Farrah, Cybill, Jaclyn. Forget Lynda Bird Johnson. They are only the best known of the Lone Star lovelies. A few years ago, we hired Texan David Mecey as a Staff Photographer. For months, he badgered Playboy to send him back to his home state with film in his camera. Finally, we gave in. He traveled to Houston, Dallas and Austin and interviewed more than 700 women. With the help of one or two additional photographers, he brought back this collection of fantastic females. "Texas is a body-conscious state," he reports. "The weather's warm and these women spend a lot of time playing hard, keeping themselves fit." Texas, the eyes of the nation are upon you. Yee-hah!
The last time we saw Paris, we'd left our little black book and some equally critical corporate data back in a stack on our desk. What we should have done, of course, was take the information with us--only in a small package. So pictured here are some compact solutions that should improve your memory back home and on the road. From the genteel Economist Diary (J.F.K. had two: one for his desk and one for his briefcase) to the British Filofax (one stopped a bullet that would have killed the English officer carrying it during World War Two) to a portable yet powerful minicomputer, life can be made simpler again. And all your troubles can be packed in a single old kit bag.
When the deep purple falls over sleepy high-rise walls, it's time you slipped into something more comfortable--and we're not talking about a hot tub or a dry martini. Supple lounging robes are returning to men's wardrobes, along with smoking jackets, silk pajamas and other luxurious male wrappings that make late-night lingering by the fire--as well as Sunday-morning brunches à deux--a sensuous delight. The positive state of the economy (at least it's positive as we write this) has certainly contributed to the rekindling of after-dinnerwear. Here's a wrap-up of buying tips: For entertaining at home, pick a robe that's mid-calf or ankle length. Shorter terry and seersucker styles are fine for the beach or the health club. Think rich. For some, an expensive robe is a one-time purchase, so if you're going to be a bear, be a grizzly. Buy the best. Growl!