For years, we've rooted for the home teams without a score card. No more, thanks to Contributing Editor Kevin Cook. Cook, who has baseball in his blood and a pretty successful Rotisserie League team in his pocket, has produced Playboy's Baseball Preview. If you want to argue with his choices, good luck. As Cook points out: "I live within an hour's drive of the Dodgers', Angels' and Padres' home parks, so anyone who needs to reach me will have to do it before April third. Oh, yes, Oakland will get even in 1989." Speaking of score cards and getting even, those are also bywords of Geraldo Rivera's TV show. It is go-for-the-jugular entertainment, peppered with Nazis, flying chairs and plenty of macho fireworks. We sent Contributing Editor Bill Zehme to profile Rivera (painted by Ed Paschke, who was just honored with a retrospective show at the Art Institute of Chicago) in Just Don't Call Him Jerry. Zehme caught up with Geraldo on a skiing vacation in Utah. The bucolic setting slowed down TV's terror long enough, says Zehme, to get some perspective on why Rivera is the guy media critics love to hate. Of all the people who have tried to take him on, Geraldo gives Jay Leno high marks for doing it best. Rivera says he's "not afraid to be zesty." Neither is Zehme.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), May 1989, Volume 36, Number 5. Published Monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: $26 for 12 issues, U.S. Canada, $39 for 12 issues. All other foreign, $39 U.S. currency only. For new and renewal orders and change of address, send to Playboy subscriptions, P.O. Box 2007, Harlan, Iowa 51537-4007. Please allow 6--8 weeks for processing. For change of address, send new and old addresses. Postmaster: Send form 3579 to Playboy, P.O. Box 2007, Harlan, Iowa 51537-4007, and allow 45 days for change. Advertising: New York: 747 Third Avenue, New York 10017, Chicago: 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago 60611; West Coast: Perkins, Fox & Perkins, 3205 Ocean Park Boulevard, Suite 100, Santa Monica, California 90405.
Singer Karyn White came out of the gate so fast that our eyes didn't pick her up until she had already taken a lead on the fast track, which, in recording-industry language, is the Billboard listing of the top 100 records. Within a few months of the release of her first album, Karyn White (Warner Bros.), she had the number-one record on the black charts (The Way You Love Me). A second single, Superwoman, was a hit on both the pop and black charts.
At first glance, Cineplex Odeon's Jacknife--the moviemakers' spelling, not ours--would seem to be another drama about troubled Vietnam vets. That it is, but the movie, adapted by Stephen Metcalfe from his play Strange Snow and acted with melting warmth by Robert De Niro and Kathy Baker, works best as a contemporary love story. Baker is a Connecticut high school biology teacher who has neglected her own biological needs to keep house for her brother, De Niro's old Army buddy (Ed Harris). He's working as a truck driver and still drowning his sorrows in six-packs 15 years after 'Nam. Harris is volatile, vulnerable and every inch a match for his earthy co-stars. De Niro dominates, though, playing a violence-prone ex-GI nicknamed Jacknife who has the soul of a softie under his come-out-slugging façade. His gruff, tender scenes with Baker infuse saving humor and spontaneity into a screenplay that's sometimes muddled, sometimes a bit polemical. England's David Jones, who directed, wisely lets his camera dwell on performers so persuasive and engaging you'll be glad to forgive some confusion between the lines.[rating]3 bunnies[/rating]
Raquel Welch has always been a Playboy favorite, but she hasn't been seen in a major Hollywood movie since 1976's Mother, Jugs and Speed. Elsewhere, she has been doing amazingly well--her fitness videos are hot, she has starred in foreign films, triumphed in TV dramas and wowed Broadway in the tuneful Woman of the Year, a warm-up for her sizzling music video This Girl's Back in Town--and now her puzzling absence from the screen may be about to end. Raquel has just won the appeal on a $10,000,000 lawsuit, including punitive damages, against the MGM moguls who fired her in 1980 from the cast of Cannery Row and replaced her with Debra Winger. The film flopped; Raquel fumed and filed charges. "They maligned me, saying I was difficult and couldn't cut it as an actress. Being a so-called sex symbol made me an easy target." As for Winger, Welch says, "No sour grapes. I hear she was worse on the set than I ever dreamed of being, but she's very talented." Now that the MGM business, which Raquel believes "pretty much blackballed me" in Hollywood, is settled, she expects to develop some movie projects of her own. "Being a woman doesn't make it any easier, though. It's different for, let's say, Clint Eastwood. Maybe I should get myself a cowboy hat and a .44 Magnum and blow some heads off." She'd like to play high comedy but also hopes to do a serious film bio based on the stormy life of the late torch singer Libby Holman, whose career featured not only such hits as Moanin' Low and Body and Soul but charges (later dropped) of murdering her husband, an heir to the Reynolds tobacco fortune. Her own legal hassles behind her, Raquel vehemently notes, "Please understand, I am not a victim." Just ask MGM.
You'd know him with your eyes closed--nobody in show business screams quite like minister turned comedian Sam Kinison. Currently touring, writing a screenplay and recording a third LP (on the heels of his classic version of the golden oldy "Wild Thing"), Kinison chose to review--are you ready for this?--"American Dream," by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young.
Money's too tight to mention department: Yoko Ono has announced an agreement with Marigold Enterprises to market John Lennon prints, scarves, aprons, stationery, coffee mugs, watches and more. What, no lunch boxes?
These days, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous chronicler Robin Leach is saving his pennies to build a dream house in the Caribbean. The main room, he says, will be for video viewing. He'll need the space: Leach has 500 video titles in his collection. "My tastes are eclectic and eccentric. I've got my two favorites of all time--Breakfast at Tiffany's and Orson Welles's The Third Man. I love Hitchcock's North by Northwest, the Marx Brothers' A Day at the Races and I own the entire James Bond series. I also own videos from the golden age of TV--The Best of Ernie Kovacs, the Steve Allen shows, Your Show of Shows with Sid Caesar." Eclectic, for sure, but where's the eccentric part? "British oddball comedies," says Leach, smiling, "like the sexy English series about a girls' school called St. Trinian's." So much for champagne wishes and caviar dreams.
Best Thrill-a-Minute Video:Ankle Injuries;Windiest Video Title:Awakening to Life Through Truthful Relationship & On Pain, Perfection, & the Work to Relieve Suffering;Best Jim-and-Tammy-Alternate Video:Pests & Diseases;Bottom of-the-Barrel Horror Video:Dracula's Dog;Best It's-a-Living Video:Filipino Stick Fighting.
Screen Test: While video fanatics await HDTV (high-definition television), Sony is offering its 1DTV (improved definition television) monitor/receiver. Priced at $4000, the KV-27FX10 uses digital magic instead of standard interlace. On a standard TV, two separate sets of scanning lines alternate every 60th of a second. Sony's IDTV memory puts all the lines on screen at once. The result: a near-perfect picture.
Shirley MacLaine's Inner Workout: The old lady of New Age teaches the Oriental method of aligning your chakras--the human body's seven energy centers, which control an individual's sense of well-being. Beats the hell out of doing deep knee bends. Shirley, phone home (Vestron).
Robert B. Parker's latest novel, Playmates (Putnam), is about a basketball point-shaving scandal at a Boston college, and, as Spenser detective stories go, this one is light on violence. But what eloquent violence! Parker describes the frozen moment at the end of a gun fight: "In the slow motion of crisis time, it had unreeled in ponderous elegance, and the crystalline immobility that followed was intensified by the lingering smell of gunfire, like an olfactory echo of the big bang."
I thought I'd get my nails done, so I went to one of those nail salons. I figured that since a Nails R Us or a Nails for Days has opened on every street corner of metropolitan U.S.A., there might be something to it. Not that I hold with manicures; I find them pointlessly evanescent. But my neighbor Mrs. Fishbein, who does have beautiful nails and a doting husband, had constantly encouraged me to try one. And you fellas would like to be a fly on the wall when we gals are getting all pink and cozy and pretty and chatty.
Dr. C. Everett Koop, Surgeon General of the United States, is a man who refuses to toe the party line. A darling of the New Right, he first surprised the nation with his repot on AIDS: "At the beginning of the AIDS epidemic, many Americans had little sympathy for people with AIDS. The feeling was that somehow people from certain groups 'deserved' their illness. Let us put those feelings behind us. We are fighting a disease, not a people."
Do you know of any dedicated defenders of First Amendment freedoms? Give them the recognition they deserve by nominating them for the 1989 Hugh M. Hefner First Amendment Awards, which were established in 1979 to honor people who protect our First Amendment rights. Winners have included journalists, educators, lawyers, publishers and entertainers, though eligibility is not restricted to those professions. Award winners receive as much as $3000.
I don't know about you, but I can think of a few world organizations that could find better ways to spend their time than issuing proclamations about sex. The Vatican is one; the United Nations is another.
The basic point about Susan Sarandon, 42, movie actress, political activist, world-class beauty, star of "Bull Durham," "A Dry White Season," "The January Man," "Pretty Baby" and "Atlantic City," is that no one has ever put her into a neat box. And if film stars are, indeed, expected to be narcissistic, career obsessed and dim, then Sarandon busts the stereotype by being intelligent, nonconformist and deeply involved in the world around her. She is the movie star who doggedly lives by her own rules: She owns a modest Greenwich Village apartment and eschews the cliquishness of Hollywood--a material girl she's not. She picks her movies with no particular career goals in mind but because she happens to like a part or need the money. She is about to bear her second out-of-wedlock child, whose father is Tim Robbins, her "Bull Durham" co-star, a man 12 years her junior.
They were an oddly assorted lot: Her Majesty's secretary of state for war, John Profumo; Captain Eugene Ivanov, a Soviet naval attaché; a pair of tempting teenagers named Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies; a social-climbing osteopath, Stephen Ward, who often acted as procurer for his posh pals; and the gossip-hungry British tabloid press. But by the time the story had unraveled in the fall of 1963, their intertwined relationships had cost Ward his life and the Conservative government of Harold Macmillan its lease on power. Great material for a movie, right? But only now is the story reaching the screen, in "Scandal," starring Bridget Fonda, Joanne Whalley, John Hurt and Britt Ekland. It was written by Michael Thomas, the Australian writer who reported on "The Decline and Fall of Okker Chic" for the March 1987 Playboy; here Thomas reveals how a boyhood obsession with Christine drove him to do it.
No one cooks snails like the French, and no one designs beautiful automobiles like the Italians. Where the magic happens is in Turin, an industrial town at the northwestern edge of Italy, at the foot of the Alps. It is there that the great automotive-styling companies such as Pininfarina, Ghia and Bertone create the heart-stopping looks of the Ferraris, Maseratis, Lamborghinis and a host of other, non-Italian marques that have become our universal objects of desire. Within this congregation of elite industrial artists, there is one who stands so far above the others in creativity, output and world-wide influence that he is referred to by a single word. It is a word that other artistic circles reserve for rarities such as Horowitz and Picasso. The word: maestro. Giorgetto Giugiaro is his name. He's a reserved 50-year-old son of a Piedmontese church artist (he was helping papà with frescoes before he was a teenager) who 21 years ago cofounded (with Aldo Mantovani) the inordinately successful company called Italdesign. He has often been called the greatest designer since the death of another Italian, a guy named Leonardo da Vinci. That may not be altogether as hyperbolic as it sounds. If Da Vinci were alive today, he would doubtless be designing the most significant objects of the era--cars. And probably washing machines and hair driers and cameras and bikes and TV sets and sunglasses, too. For the record, Giugiaro designs shavers for Philips, TV sets for Sony, cameras for Nikon, motorcycles for Suzuki, watches for Seiko, bottles for Martini & Rossi, tennis rackets for Maxima and, yes (Italians will be Italians), a new shape of pasta for the Neapolitan company Voiello. As for automobiles, he has created such luscious, slippery beauties as the De Tomaso Competizione and Mangusta; the Maserati Ghibli, Bora, Merak, Quattroporte and Boomerang; the Alfetta GT/GTV; the BMW M1; the Isuzu Impulse and I-Mark; the Lotus Esprit; and the gorgeous, though star-crossed, De Lorean DMC 12.
Chairs: We see them every day. Often we sit on them. Sometimes we have them reupholstered. Occasionally, we even find coins under their cushions. Lately, however, the common chair has emerged as a heinous weapon, an instrument of death. Fiendish lunatics now use chairs to bludgeon human skulls! In hellish rituals, chairs are hurled at the heads of innocent victims, rendering them helpless or--worse--lifeless. Chairs: Are we sitting ducks? Or ducking seats? That's the focus of the next three paragraphs.
Don't let the name fool you. There's nothing lazy about a pair of loafers. This shoe style has been around for decades; the classic penny-loafer look, in fact, dates back to 1936, when Willard and John Bass introduced Bass Weejuns to the American public. Since then, the slip-on has undergone many changes, including the addition of tassels, kiltie fringe and perforations, along with the use of mixed leathers and exotic skins such as ostrich and crocodile. This season, shoes are lighter in weight and softer, which makes them well suited for the easy-fitting clothes you'll be wearing.
<p>Monique Noel remembers being three (she remembers even further back--a couple of hundred years further, in fact--but more on that later). She recalls being a toddler who resented the gray skies over her native Oregon. Miss May, even then, was a sun worshiper. "Oregon is beautiful," she says, "but it's wet and gray. I had to get out of the rain." The year she turned 18, she folded her umbrella and fled south. It seldom rains in her Southern California stomping grounds. She plays on Venice Beach and works in Hollywood. A New Ager who believes in reincarnation and recalls a past life or two, Miss May was not about to spend this one looking for silver linings in storm clouds. "When the time came to move, I didn't just move, I ran!" she says. "Life is too short to wait for what you want." She plans to devote this life, or at least its next decade, to her budding career as an actress. A chance meeting with a casting director led to her first screen bit, as a member of a beauty bevy in the upcoming Patrick Swayze vehicle Road House. Next up is a Carl Reiner comedy, Bert Rigby, You're a Fool--her first speaking role. "I was so nervous driving to the audition, I was just trying to remember the title. Stanley Clark, You're an Idiot? No! The part called for a girl in a swimsuit--I think the swimsuit took precedence over acting credentials. Anyway, I got the part. I play Corbin Bernsen's date, and my one line is counting his sit-ups." Asked if Bernsen is a sit-up machine, Monique lights up. "We started at ninety-seven," she says, laughing, "but he's still a hunk." Has rubbing elbows with Swayze and Bernsen spoiled her for other leading men? "I've got a long list of hunks I want to work with," she sighs. Miss May may not yet be a star, but she is in no hurry. Except at Venice Beach, where on off days she zips up and down the boardwalk on roller skates--a Mozart tape in her Walkman and a grin on her face.</p>
Don't count Donny Lalonde out. The former World Boxing Council light-heavy-weight champion may have relinquished his crown to Sugar Ray Leonard last November at Caesars Palace, but he didn't take the loss lying down. Although business holdings and acting (he'll be starring in the film Abraxas this fall) take up much of his time, Lalonde has vowed to win again in the ring. In the meantime, he has the perfect build for showing off one of today's hottest new fashion looks--lightweight, unconstructed suits that are as laid back as Lalonde himself. It's a unanimous decision. This guy's a winner--and so are his knockout clothes.
From the beginning of Time, Man has been on the move, ever outward. First he spread over his own planet, then across the Solar System, then outward to the Galaxies, all of them dotted, speckled, measled with the colonies of Man.
Fifteen years ago, after providing a manufacturer of multicolored condoms with the product name Rainbeaus, Richard Lewis left the world of advertising to begin a career as a stand-up comedian in New York City. Now, after countless club dates, movies, TV specials, series, upwards of 30 guest appearances on "Late Night with David Letterman" and considerably more visits to psychotherapists, Lewis has found his place in the comedy hierarchy as the hilarious, if neurotic, Prince of Pain and Bad Posture. Inevitably clad in black, galvanized by anxiety, his long hair flowing behind him like exposed nerve ends, Lewis paces, twists, winces, scowls and races his way through a series of wildly funny, fast and furious raps, focused on the people and the events that have turned him into a therapist's darling. He was getting ready to shoot "Anything but Love," a new television show for ABC, when writer Dick Lochte met with him in his press agent's Hollywood office. "The energy level rose dramatically when Richard walked into the room," Lochte recalls. "He's always on the move. He wanted to prowl as we talked but was worried that the tape recorder wouldn't pick up his side of the conversation. So he stayed seated. Until then, I wouldn't have thought it possible for a man to pace while sitting down."
Sure, you can drink your best single-malt Scotch from a jelly jar, but it won't taste nearly as good as it does served neat, on the rocks or with a splash in a cut-crystal glass. The same goes for that symbol of sophisticated quaffing, a dry martini served as cold as the winds of Alaska straight up in a stemmed martini glass. The right glassware brings to cocktails, vintage wines and fine liquors the same touch of class that a beautiful table setting does to fine food. Pictured here are seven shining examples of fine glassware. While most are meant to be used with a specific beverage, the cut-crystal old fashioned glass by Waterford is ideal for whiskey or water. Bottoms up--with class glass!
Forty-five million Russians can't be wrong, though quite a few were taken by surprise when, as one critic observed, glasnost came "storming out of the gate," gloriously embodied by Natalya Negoda in Little Vera (see review, page 20). One astonished Moscow movie maven called director Vasily Pichul's controversial film an act of cultural terrorism--as if someone had dropped a bomb into the lap of Mother Russia. There has been nothing quite like it in the annals of U.S.S.R. cinema. In London, the Red-hot film event was summed up under a banner headline welcoming "Vera the Terrible." Small wonder that Natalya was hailed in Montreal as "the Soviet Union's first sex star." Thus came worldwide fame to 25-year-old Natalya, who won a Best Actress award at Chicago's 24th International Film Festival for her title role as the wayward, sultry Vera in the film that was also honored in Chicago as Best Picture. Drugs, nudity, promiscuity and domestic violence are the previously taboo subjects that seem second nature to Vera, a rebellious working-class girl in the bleak port city of Zhdanov. She sheds her clothes, sleeps around, drinks, pops pills, otherwise generally testing the limits of censorship and contemporary community standards behind the Iron Curtain, of all the unlikely places.
Nineteen Eighty-Eight was The Year the Ball Died. After a 1987 season in which the hitters feasted, the hurlers reasserted themselves with a little help from a ball that went nrf. It was also The Year of Bleeding Blue. After a summer in which the Mets and the Athletics strode from coast to coast, rumbling "Fee, fi, fo, fum," they were struck down in quick succession by a gimp, a choirboy and 23 Dodgers dwarfs. If 1988 proved anything, it was that baseball is too whimsical for predictions.
Clear the desk for action. The age of the electronic organizer has arrived and out go overstuffed daily diaries, little black books bursting at the seams and portfolios that look as though they've been forcefed steroids. Hand-held devices such as the Wizard from Sharp Electronics, shown here, are a veritable sorcerer's apprentice, with memories that can be expanded with the addition of IC software cards. The Wizard, for example, has a basic I.Q. of 32 K RAM that can be expanded to a genius 96K. And it can store as many as 600 names, numbers and addresses and can even cross-reference and sort listings (as in blondes, brunettes and redheads?). It's a wizard of a device.
"Campus Racism"--Disturbing news: Many blacks experiencing tension and hostility from their white classmates have turned their backs on the promise of integration--special reports by Trey Ellis and David Dent