Whew! Say goodbye to the Eighties. So long, Reaganomics. Adios to the sleaze factor. Catch you later, supply-side economics. Bye-bye, Bakkers, and ciao, Yuppies. We're bidding adieu with a sigh of relief. Our fond farewell, Decade Mania, is an over-the-shoulder look at the people and the stuff that helped us survive the past ten years. Optimists that we are, we're also saying hello to the Nineties with expert opinion on just what awaits us during the next ten—which, by the way, haven't yet earned a designer label. Figure one out and you'll win valuable prizes in our very own Name the Nineties Contest.
Playboy, (ISSN 0032-1478), January 1990, Volume 37, Number 1. Published monthly by Playboy, 680 North Lake Shore Drive, 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: 680 North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago 60611; West Coast: Perkins, Fox & Perkins, 3205 Ocean Park Boulevard, Suite 100, Santa Monica, California 90405.
Half a dozen star-caliber scene stealers compete for attention in Steel Magnolias (Tri-Star), almost certain to be the heart-tugging hit of this holiday season. Adapted by Robert Harling from his own hugely successful play about some Southern women facing life head-on in a small-town beauty salon, Magnolias on screen has soap-opera sentimentality squeezed out of it shamelessly by director Herbert Ross. But these are designer suds—make no mistake—with a cast headed by Dolly Parton as the beauty-parlor boss lady, plus Sally Field, Olympia Dukakis, Shirley MacLaine and Julia Roberts jerking tears and laughter under the driers. Some absent male friends and husbands—never seen in the play—materialize here (among them Sam Shepard, Tom Skerritt, Bill McCutcheon and Dylan McDermott) but only as foils for the womenfolk. My vote for feistiest performance goes to MacLaine as the local crank, with Dukakis ranked second, while Roberts takes the Terms of Endearment prize for smiling through and soaring toward stardom as the brave diabetic young bride who risks her life to have a child. Field plays her anguished mom, choking back sobs, but there's welcome comic relief by Daryl Hannah, of all people, doing her best work since Splash as a dim-bulb beautician who finds God. Moviegoers in search of emotional meltdown will find everything they need here for crying out loud. [rating]3-1/2 bunnies[/rating]
Being young, gifted, black, beautiful and showered with praise for your first major-studio release ought to give any film maker an emotional high. Lionized as the woman who lured Marlon Brando back to the screen for her stirring antiapartheid drama, A Dry White Season, 32-year-old Euzhan Palcy denies published reports that she charmed Brando into acting for free. "He had to be paid union scale, about four thousand dollars." And he did it because he admired the project and her previous film, Sugar Cane Alley, set in her native Martinique. "Marlon was great," she recalls, "but the first day, in a courtroom scene, was very tense. He's a myth; everyone just stared at him. But when I said 'cut' after the first take, he looked around and said, 'Now I am going to go pee.' Which made everyone laugh and completely changed the mood." Palcy, who speaks four languages fluently, made Season in Zimbabwe but did some furtive research in South Africa. "Tourists were coming to Soweto, I learned, because the government organized tours to come see the black people, as if they were in a zoo. My movie will not be shown commercially in South Africa—never." Palcy's dedication to changing racial stereotypes goes way back. "Ever since I was a little girl, a film I have always hated—though it's a great work of art—is Gone with the Wind. I can't bear the way black people are portrayed." Still, Palcy doesn't want to be labeled as a political film maker. "Next, I'm planning to do a comedy and a love story, both with black characters. The American studios say you don't make money in a film with black leading actors, except for Eddie Murphy or Prince, so I'll probably do those movies in Europe. You kick me out one door, I come back through another. I simply do everything I can without losing my soul."
You're Surrounded: With TV sound getting better and better, Toshiba now adds a Carver Sonic Holography audio system to its 32-inch MTS console (CX3287J). Its 40 watts of power include ten for use with a Surround Sound speaker system, behind the set or across the room—$2799.
Actor Barry (War and Remembrance, 'Til We Meet Again) Bostwick has the kind of schedule that demands catch-as-catch-can vid viewing. "So I always take my small VCR with me on location and rent wherever I can." An off-the-cuff sampling? "Jimmy Stewart in anything—especially It's a Wonderful Life and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Also, Jack Lemmon comedies like Some Like It Hot—such idiosyncrasy, such energy! My idea of a fun midnight is Attack of the Killer Tomatoes or black comedies such as Parents. I rent an X every now and then, but I'm more interested in the sexuality of foreign films, where the sex scenes aren't bracketed." As for the cult classic The Rocky Horror Picture Show (the role of Brad was one of Bostwick's earlier acting gigs), it's not available on tape—still playing to late-night audiences around the U.S., Canada and England, thank you.
Transfusion, anyone? Try Blood and Guts, Blood and Guns, Blood and Black Lace, Blood Brothers, Blood Sisters, Bloody Mama, Blood Couple, Blood Bride, Blood Wedding, Blood Debts, Blood Diner, Blood Hunger, Blood Feast, Blood Freak, Blood Frenzy, Blood Hook, Blood of Dracula's Castle, Blood of Fu Manchu, The Blood of Others, Blood on the Moon, Blood on the Sun, Blood, Sweat and Cheers, Blood, Sweat and Gears, Blood, Sweat and Tears, Bloodsuckers, Bloodsuckers from Outer Space, Bloodsucking Freaks, Bloodthirsty Butchers, Bloody Birthday, Bloody New Year and Blood Orgy of the She-Devils.
Serious Guitarist that he is, Joe Satriani has shown robust streaks of humor and rebellion in his jazzy rock. Heck, anyone who played lead guitar on Mick Jagger's solo tour can't be too sedate. Satriani paused while cutting his new LP, "Flying in a Blue Dream," to assay the latest from Jeff Beck, a Satriani hero.
Play that Funky Music Department: Still have holiday gifts to buy? Need a good idea for the would-be musician in your life? Call 1-800-33 Tapes or write to Homespun Tapes, Box 694, Woodstock, NY 12498. Happy Traum, folk guitarist and owner of Homespun, says that every self-taught musician gets to the point where he or she needs more input. You can get audio and video tapes that range from Dr. John Teaches New Orleans Piano to Country Guitar Styles, by Merle Watson.
Rarely does one title stand out in the dazzling seasonal avalanche of oversized holiday gift books. But this year, the book to buy for anyone who loves rock and roll is Rolling Stone: The Photographs (Simon & Schuster), with a preface by Tom Wolfe. From the raw sexual energy of Steven Meisel's cover shot of Tina Turner to the poignancy of Annie Leibovitz' last portrait of John Lennon, this is a stunning visual record of the past 22 years. Rolling Stone creator Jann Wenner writes that his magazine set out "to document the rise of American youth culture," and it also captured the changing spirit of our times in pictures.
I don't mind admitting that I had bitten off all my nails and my heart had developed an alarming palpitation over the past several months as I waited for the first issue of The Monumental, America's Daily Sports Paper, an exciting new, forward-looking publication devoted to providing the complete results of iceboating and quoits, plus good writing.
The Nineties are upon us. Whatever else happens in the years ahead, this will be the decade in which fathers claim and take their rights. We will organize, lobby, endorse and demand. We will be a force.
I have noticed that my past few columns have been typed from the depths. I have written about the horror of rejection, about the hideousness of romantic confusion, about flailing around in sexual limbo.
The gal behind the check-out counter bends down to write your telephone number on your check and, while doing so, gives you the most wonderful view of the valley between her breasts. You see a lovely wearing a swimming suit with a crotch that barely covers her labia and pubic hair and doesn't cover much of her rear cheeks. Her nipples are erect and protruding through the material. At the mall, you see a very beautiful gal in short shorts and no bra; as she walks, her breasts are bouncing like small basketballs. The woman ahead of you in the grocer's check-out line is braless, and as she removes her grocery items from her cart, you catch several glimpses of her breasts—including the nipples. A lovely in a miniskirt is sitting with her legs crossed, and as your eyes travel up her shapely legs, they stop about one half inch from the down of her mons. My question is, How does one observe all these fine views and let the gals know of your appreciation of what you see—without appearing to be a dirty old man? (I'm 34.) Any suggestions?—R. D., North Platte, Nebraska.
California Representative William Dannemeyer inserted a passage into the Congressional Record titled "What Homosexuals Do." Representative Andy Jacobs of Indiana protested to the House Ethics Committee, saying that the passage is hardly the stuff of parliamentary language and should be expurgated. Dannemeyer won; the statement stands—and is printed in part herewith for your edification.
The Second Annual Drug Test for Members of Congress
The following drug test has been mailed to members of Congress. It is designed as an educational tool to dispel any false notions about our current war on drugs. The first Drug Test for Members of Congress was published in your November 1988 issue, and the feedback was universally positive.
Last year, there was an ad in Artforum magazine announcing the first exhibition of Andy Warhol's drawings since his death in 1987. Of all the famous, and infamous, images that might have been displayed to represent the man's work, the one selected was Warhol's interpretation of the Playboy Rabbit Head, which appeared on the magazine's January 1986 cover. It was an appropriate choice. The image neatly characterizes the career of a commercial artist who appropriated cultural icons, made them his own artistically and gained fame and fortune in doing so. It also acknowledged the long-standing relationship between Warhol and Playboy.
On a weekend trip with their girlfriends, two bikers agreed to bet on who could make love more often in a single night. They took adjoining motel rooms and decided to carve a notch in the wall after each round. Jethro performed at ten o'clock, at two A.M. and at six A.M., each time making a scratch in the wall. After breakfast, Clyde went into Jethro's room and looked at the wall. "Unbelievable!" he cried. "One hundred eleven! You beat me by four."
Look! Up on the stage! It's leather, it's cigarette smoke, it's obscenity, it's misogyny, it's a blow-dried duck's-ass hairdo, it's—the Diceman! Make no mistake, Andrew Dice Clay, the Brooklyn-born comic who begins his shows with the immortal words "So, I got my tongue up this chick's ass ..." became an American hero faster than a speeding bullet with his album and HBO comedy special, both titled "The Diceman Cometh." Last fall, on a mini–concert tour, he sold out a 17,000-seat show in New York's Nassau Coliseum. And since Clay likes to spread his considerable macho and self-possession around, he also acts: "Casual Sex?" "Crime Story" and the upcoming movie "Ford Fairlane"—he's Ford. An additional, not insignificant credit is his being permanently banned from MTV because of his performance during last summer's video-awards ceremony. Contributing Editor David Rensin met with the Diceman in his Los Angeles apartment. On hand to greet him were Clay's moxie/magnificent girlfriend, Trini, and his road manager/best friend, Hot Tub Johnny West. "Finally." says Rensin, "Dice strolled into the living room, requested hot coffee and lighted the first of many cigarettes. He sent Hot Tub off on errands, took phone calls from Gene Simmons and Billy Joel ('So? These guys dig me, OK?') and told Trini to take a shower. From the look in his eyes, I could tell he was feeling a little dirty, too."
"Hot Sky"—It's Greenhouse days on the high seas in the Heat-Plagued year 2133 and there has just been a mutiny on the squid ship Calamari Maru. Life on the bounty was never like this—fiction by Robert Silverberg