"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...." Welcome to blast-off for 1991. At this time of year, we feel upbeat. We actually believe we can end pollution, feed the children, lower the prime rate, raise hemlines and even send Senator Jesse Helms to art school! OK, so we felt that way last year at this time, too. Was our optimism misplaced? Nelson Mandela got out of jail, democracy took hold all over eastern Europe and Hef and Kimberley had a baby! It's time to give cynicism a rest. Change is possible, and in this issue, we present living proof. First, consider our interview subject, Lee Iacocca. Twelve years ago, Iacocca was forced out of his Ford Motor Company presidency and took the helm of a very wobbly competitor. Now, of course, he's a legend—the man who saved Chrysler. His interviewer is Peter Ross Range, who also interrogated Ted Turner and Iacocca foe Akio Morita.
Playboy, (Issn 0032-1478), January 1991, volume 38, Number 1, published monthly by Playboy, 680 North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: $29.97 for 12 Issues, U.S. Canada, $43.97 for 12 Issues. All other Foreign, $45 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 8-8 weeks for processing. For change of Address, send new and old Addresses and allow 45 days for change, Postmaster: Send form 3579 to Playboy, P.O. Box 2007, Harlan, Iowa 51537-4007. Advertising: New York: 747 Third Avenue, New York 10017; Chicago: 680 North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago 60611; West Coast: 8560 Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA 90069; Metropolitan Publishers Representatives, Inc.; Atlanta: 3017 Piedmont Road Ne, Suite 100, Atlanta, GA 30305; Miami: 2500 South Dixie Highway, Miami, FL 33133; Tampa: 3016 Mason Place, Tampa, FL 33629
As a strait-laced Kansas City couple, Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward in Mr. and Mrs. Bridge (Miramax) provide a sympathetic and fascinating study of American Gothic mores some decades ago. Directed impeccably by James Ivory from Ruth Prawer Jhabvala's adaptation of tandem novels by Evan S. Connell, the film shows the same tasteful, fastidious touch the Ivory–Jhabvala team brought to A Room with a View. Set in the Thirties and Forties, it's a movie that brings forth such adjectives as lovely, sweet and enchanting. It has more pizzazz than you might expect, however, in dramatizing the gulf between the Bridges—both superbly played, with Newman exceptional as the elder Bridge, carefully suppressing his lewd nature—and their children, who have grown up in a somewhat freer social climate. Mrs. Bridge keeps leaving sex manuals where their only son (Robert Sean Leonard) will see them, until he leaves for service in World War Two. Daughter Carolyn (Margaret Welsh) marries the wrong guy, while their wayward Ruth (Kyra Sedgwick), a wouldbe actress, leaves for New York after Dad catches her screwing with a virtual stranger one night. Otherwise, nothing much happens, but Mr. and Mrs. Bridge creates excruciating drama from the smallest moments—such as the boy-scout celebration where a mother cringes because her son can't bring himself to kiss her. In a way, that's what this deliciously done movie is about, reminding us that little things mean a lot. [rating]4 bunnies[/rating]
A man who has seen Citizen Kane "at least thirty times," Hungarian-born cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond calls that milestone movie "a favorite picture that I go back to for inspiration." Zsigmond's own latest project is the imminent Bonfire of the Vanities, directed by Brian De Palma. "I like working with De Palma—he's a great director, but he gives you total freedom." Zsigmond, 60, compares Bonfire's cinematic style to the black-and-white Kane as "super-real, which implies low angles and low ceilings, a heightened, crystal-clear realism." Thrice nominated for Academy Awards, Zsigmond won an Oscar for Close Encounters of the Third Kind. He has also performed his visual razzle-dazzle on such hits as The Deer Hunter and Deliverance. "You have to do a body of work to get an Oscar," he notes. "They always think your first picture may be just a fluke."
Best Ask-a-Silly-Question Videos:Why'd the Beetle Cross the Road?, Why Am I Afraid?, Why Am I Doing This?, Why Am I So Tired?, Why Me?, Why Is It Always Me?, Why Is This Happening to Me...Again?, Why Can't I Fly Like a Bird?, Why Don't I Fall Up?, Why Do We Still Have Mountains?, Why Do Animals Look Like They Do?, Why Work?, Why Calibrate? and Why Drown?
Before her Twin Peaks triumph, our December pictorial knockout Sherilyn Fenn pulled a stint as a Playboy Bunny and bared her assets in a number of films. As a public service, we rate them here (the number of cherries indicates what you see of Sherilyn).
Interesting names and unfamiliar titles, many of which didn't make it as theatrical features, keep cropping up in video stores. Blaze Starr—The Original: Yes, the real Blaze Starr in a campy blast from the past (1963) about a burlesque star at rest in a nudist camp, where frontal nudity (on camera, at least) is strictly taboo. Stick with the Paul Newman–Lolita Davidovich version.
"I gravitate toward comedies when I rent movies," says Jackie Mason, the kvetching host of the Jackie Mason's Town Meeting specials (debuting this month on HA! The TV Comedy Network). "I'm a great fan of Woody Allen films, especially Manhattan, Broadway Danny Rose and Take the Money and Run." Mason's quick to add The Sunshine Boys and A Night at the Opera to his vid hall of fame. "The old comedies are still the best," he explains. "Fifty years later, the Marx Brothers are still funny. It's not like a horse compared to a car." That's not to say Mason isn't moved by modern clowns. "I'm a great fan of Eddie Murphy," he says, citing 48 HRS. and Beverly Hills Cop. "There is more electricity when he's on the screen than in all the generators of Con Edison." Talk about a plug....
Tommy Conwell, having completed his second major-label album release, "Guitar Trouble," chose to review the late Stevie Ray Vaughan's final LP, "Family Style," a collaboration with his brother Jimmie Vaughan.
There are those among us who are mad for computers: nerds, technoids, techies, technocrats, byteheads, hackers—people who refer to foot traffic as "sneakernet." There are those among us who are slick with a mouse or play a mean keyboard but still look upon the computer as a means—not an end. But unless you're computerphobic or dead, there's some kind of software that will satisfy your needs or your whims. We'd like to share with you some of our favorite wares—some that have been around for a while that we're just discovering or rediscovering and some brand-new electronic wizardry.
What's going on here? The thinking man's coffee-table book? This year, there is a welcome change in the annual outpouring of those big holiday gift books. Instead of just presenting striking images in dramatically designed oversized formats, many of the best new picture books have genuine content.
I hereby declare 1991 the year when we finally ask women if they are sensitive enough for us! Yes, men, it is now time to turn the question around. What follows is a sensitivity quiz for the woman in your life. See how she scores. If she chooses anything but the last option in any of these examples, she is an insensitive broad who owes you a lot of loving. And she had better start to repay you right now. Even as you read!
There was a quiz in a recent USA Today that was supposed to test sexual literacy. One of the questions asked how long it took for sperm to reach an egg. The correct answer was five minutes. How can this be?—W. E., Los Angeles, California.
Simple Things You Can Do to Save the Sexual Environment
Sex is a form of personal expression that can thrive only in an environment that affirms sexuality—that grants citizens the right to know, the right to see, the right to find out, the right to play. Cripple the environment outside the bedroom and you cripple the sex that happens within.
We asked several prominent sexologists what they'd recommend to preserve the sexual environment. These men and women possess an advanced curiosity about sexual behavior and a willingness to share what they've learned.
The Third Annual Drug Test for Members of Congress
The Government's so-called war on drugs suffers from too much posturing and not enough constructive policy making. However, through a national educational effort—evidenced by thorough discussion in The Playboy Forum—some of us in Congress have been able to make some measurable progress. Clearly, the public is ahead of the politicians on this issue: It now recognizes that we will never prosecute our way out of the drug problem and that we must treat drug abuse as a health problem rather than as merely a law-enforcement problem.
There was a time in this country, believe it or not, when nobody had ever heard of Lee Iacocca. Hard to imagine today, when the name is as recognizable in American households as McDonald's, Frigidaire and MTV. Along with the original Henry Ford, he is the best-known figure in the history of American car building. From a scrappy car salesman toting flip charts up and down the Eastern Seaboard, Iacocca has risen to the number-one chair in the high-pressure chamber atop the Chrysler Corporation, along the way earning the status of national icon—a generic substitute for all that is right, or wrong, with the American automobile business.
In the several years of their secret affair, Vivian, George Allenson's third wife, had had ample opportunity to observe how little, in relation to his second wife, he was to be trusted; but he had not expected her, once they were married, to perceive him as untrustworthy. He was 20 years older, also, and he had not imagined that this superiority in experience, and in the relaxed poise that proximity to death brings, might be regarded as a deficit—in eyesight, in reaction time, in quality of attention. Throughout their vacation trip to Italy, Vivian was vocally nervous in the car, sitting beside him clutching the map while he, with growing confidence and verve, steered their rented subcompact through the Italian traffic, from one lovely old congested city to another. He was even mastering the Italian trick of turning a two-lane highway into a three-lane by simply passing right into the teeth of the oncoming traffic. Whenever he did this, she shrieked, and now she was worried about their running out of gas, and kept urging him into gasoline stations. Far as they had come, from Venice to Ravenna to Verona, they had not yet replenished the tankful that came with the car.
There are those who like to watch. Photographers do that for a living. A good one is happy—sometimes even eager—to explain what it is that he does. A great one knows when to shut up. Helmut Newton is a great photographer. Even when he was among the pouts and poses that shooting fashion demands, he elevated the form beyond its winsome artifice. He didn't blink when the careful ironies and subtleties reflected through the lens of his camera back at him. He has always been receptive to the disturbing, visually arresting images that insist themselves upon us. Helmut Newton is a man in search of erotic emergencies. When we asked him if he would like to explore voyeurism—that most personal of photographic tasks—he responded with the images you find on these and the following pages. Here you will see a man whose camera doesn't shudder when it encounters a woman with a proud bosom and impressive thighs as she exposes herself to her surprised, cigar-smoking older friend. Join him as he peeks into a dressing room where glamourous women talk about the men in their lives—and underthings.
On a midsummer's night in Baghdad, soon after the ceasefire in Iraq's long war with Iran, Mohammed Abid stood outside his restaurant by the Tigris River, poking a net at the last fish circling in a tiled tub of water.
The winter-weight white tuxedo is the new alternative to the basic-black penguin look. Stick with a traditional shawl-collar single- or double-breasted model updated with a lower button stance—as the great Wayne Gretzky has done here. Then accessorize with a white or off-white wing-collar formal shirt and a black bow tie or a jewel-toned formal vest and a colored bow tie. If you do go back to black, the brocade dinner jacket—as Gretzky wears overleaf—is an elegant look that we especially like. Wear it tieless with a banded-collar shirt and some great studs.
The case opened like this: A woman came to the Nick Harris Detective Bureau & Academy in Van Nuys, California, where Milo Speriglio is director in chief. The client was attractive, 30ish, rich, divorced, childless, worried. "It's about my boyfriend," she said. Then she told what she knew about Salvatore.
[Q] Playboy: We're double-parked outside a bar down the street from the Federal Reserve Bank. The bond trader we're tailing is nursing a gin and tonic; we know because we just went inside and checked. To pass the time, titillate us with tales of the lifestyles of the rich and suspicious.
Playboy's History of Jazz and Rock Part Two: Hot Jazz from Storyville
Electric Shoes! They were called St. Louis flats and Chicago flats, with cork soles, no heels, and decorated with lucky designs. The real sports implanted tiny light bulbs in the toes, attached to a battery in their pockets. When they saw a sweet Jane coming up the sidewalk along Liberty Street, or drinking in The Pig Ankle or 25's or some other Storyville honky-tonk, they'd blink their shoes to say, "Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name?"
It is precisely two p.m. in the little township of Sidney, Ohio, a gingerbread hamlet 30 scenic minutes north of Dayton's city limits. As the clock strikes the hour, Beautiful Dreamer chimes from the Shelby County courthouse bell tower. For Sidneyite Stacy Leigh Arthur, it is a fitting song—perfectly fitting, in fact. For although Stacy is a small-town girl by day—watching after the kids, running errands, checking in with the Main Street ceramics studio she and her husband own—by night, she dreams of hitting the big time. Funny thing is, Stacy's dreams keep coming true. Yes, our Miss January is actually a Mrs.—a double Mrs., to be exact. First and foremost, she is Mrs. James Arthur, devoted wife of a local businessman who divides his time between renting out commercial space and being a Stacy fan. But she is also Mrs. Ohio, a title that was bestowed upon her last June at a state-wide competition held near Columbus. The pageant's youngest contestant and the only one ever to win the crown on her first try, Stacy will travel to Moscow this month. There she'll represent the Buckeye State in the Mrs. America pageant, which will take place concurrently with the Mrs. U.S.S.R. pageant, both to be globally televised. Ohio is crossing its fingers; Sidney is beside itself. Talk about your hometown girl making good. A high school bride, a mother at 19, Stacy settled in Sidney two years ago after a decidedly nomadic childhood. "We moved from Illinois to Michigan six weeks after I was born," explains Stacy, "and then six more times before I was fourteen. And it was always small towns," she adds, tossing back a thick forest of blonde hair and laughing. "Small towns with guys who constantly wanted to find out what the new chick looked like." In 1987, Stacy had a baby, opened her studio and, for a while, all was well. But in one of the few not-so-happily-ever-afters of her life, her first marriage hit the rocks in 1988 ("It was a mutual thing," she says. "No hard feelings"). That's when she met Jim Arthur—also newly single, with children—who was buying the building in which her shop was located. An admirer, Jim proposed to Stacy the day her divorce was final; they were married four months later. Learning that Stacy had always been a fan of beauty contests, Jim decided to help her enter some and became her manager. "Without him, I wouldn't have been able to make it," she says now. "He always (text concluded on page 199) Buckeye Beauty (continued from page 124) told me that if I had patience, I'd get what I was dreaming about."
Two friends went off on their annual hunting trip to the north woods. As they sat around the campfire late one night, a huge animal suddenly crashed through the underbrush, heading right for them. One of the men dashed for safety behind a large boulder, but the other began to try to outrun the growling beast.
There were children in swimsuits. The fire hydrant down the block was still open, its nozzle pouring a cascade of water into the street, and whereas not a moment earlier the kids had been splashing and running through the artificial waterfall, they had now drifted up the street to where the real action was. Outside the building where the blue-and-white Emergency Service truck and motor-patrol cars were angled into the curb, there were also men in tank tops and women in halters, most of them wearing shorts, milling around behind the barricades the police had set up. It was a hot night at the end of one of the hottest days of the summer; the temperature at ten FM. was still hovering in the mid-90s. There would have been people in the streets even without the promise of vast and unexpected entertainment.
The sounds of practice at Thomas & Mack Center, Las Vegas, Nevada, seem much the same as any other season. Sneakers squealing on hardwood, the grunts of young men as they push, pivot and soar, the sharp sting of the practice whistle. To many, though, the bounce of the ball is hollow this fall, because the best team in college basketball, the reigning national champion, has been dethroned before the season's first jump ball.
European and Japanese manufacturers will continue to be locked in a no-holds-barred sales battle in 1991, and they're going to offer performance at every price level. But don't count American makes out yet. Last year, Buick outscored every other U.S. marque in the respected J. D. Powers car-quality survey. Lincoln seriously challenged Cadillac for the domestic-luxury crown. Ford purchased Jaguar, and that means the big cat is sure to extend its claws even further into the luxury-car market. Chrysler brilliantly redesigned its line of hot-selling minivans, introduced the powerful Jeep Renegade and the Dodge Stealth, a sleek, sexy machine at a remarkably affordable price—about $30,000. With more than 50 competing makes and 500 overlapping models to choose from, Playboy has once again assembled a panel of six automotive experts (their bios and photos are on page 195) to evaluate 1991 cars in a variety of categories. And we've introduced a new feature to our annual roundup: Playboy's Car of the Year award. The winner, Acura's revolutionary all-aluminum two-seater, the $60,000 NSX, is pictured overleaf. Panelists, start your opinions. Hottest Sports GT Under $20,000: Last year's winner in this category, the spunky, supercharged Volkswagen Corrado, once more leads the pack. "The Corrado has that slight element of difference that can only come from being conceived in a vacuum like Wolfsburg," said Len Frank. "I like the harsh suspension and the tight—for (continued on page 195)Open Road(continued from page 140) me—seats. My second choice? The Suzuki Swift GTi, because it's great fun, offers tremendous gas mileage and embarrassingly good performance. It's kind of a born-again Mini-Cooper." David Stevens also opted for the Corrado, commenting favorably on its "stubby boy-racer bravado and kiss-my-acceleration rising spoiler. What's more," he said, "it feels European, and that's kind of nice for a change." Brock Yates cast his vote for the MR2, observing, "Toyota's reliability replaces traditional Continental under-hood zaniness with mid-engine madness—a feature formerly reserved for the gold-plated crowd." Ken Gross chose the Isuzu Impulse: "With its Lotus-tuned suspension, Isuzu's flashy—and affordable—Impulse makes a good driver out of a tyro." Lyn St. James favored the Mustang GT: "It's a real kick to drive. Macho, but so subtle anyone can drive it—even my mom." John Lamm called Mazda's Miata "the sweetheart of the pack," praising its quick-folding top and "the best sports-car shifter ever. I recently drove a Miata back from the desert on a warm summer night. Top down, going like hell on a twisty road.... Take me back; I loved it."
A lost soul, a newly divorced soul, turns up on her big brother's doorstep in Hollywood in the spring of 1967. She doesn't know what she wants to do with her life, doesn't think she's pretty enough to be an actress, doesn't feel she's smart enough to be much else. A decade later, she's a television star of the first magnitude, the Laverne of Laverne & Shirley. A decade after that, she forges a bright new career by directing the hit comedy Big; then she directs the upcoming movie Awakenings, which is based on an erudite book by the neurologist Oliver Sacks.
Hap Kliban, who died this past summer, was known to most people as the cartoonist who became a one-man industry by drawing striped cats. Naturally, most people thought he loved cats, and he did love his own cat, Cow. What he hated were letters from cat lovers telling him "something really funny" that their cat had done. He hated cute cat letters and he hated lawyers. Way more than car mechanics, agents, art schools, the East Coast, snow, bamboo musical instruments, ancient ruins and anyplace with pine trees. He also hated almost every restaurant he ever entered, but when he found one he liked, he stayed. He loved Big Sur, Hawaii, the sun, the beach, chess, books and guns. Yes, guns. He loved to shoot mud, not decoys. He liked the way it splattered. He also loved sleeping late, hanging out with his wife and friends, painting water colors and drawing cartoons. He sold his first cartoon to Playboy for $35 when he was just a beatnik with a drawing board. Cartoon Editor Michelle Urry was leafing through his notebooks, came across his cat sketches and persuaded him to do a book. At present, four books of his cartoons are in print. Explaining his work is like trying to answer the Japanese journalist who asked, "Explain to me, strange humor." What can you say about "Turkish Vibrating Soup" or "Better Living Through Plywood"—Kliban captions? The cartoons on these pages all appeared in Playboy and give some taste of his work. But just a taste. Hap had a vision beyond imagining. He did better than march to a different drum, he walked to it.
New year's Eve, the biggest party night of the years, offers numerous opportunities for celebration. You can catch the midnight mob scene and surround yourself with strangers in silly hats tooting horns in your face; or you can skip the impersonal mayhem and host your own year-end gala.
Playboy increases your purchasing power by providing a list of retailers and manufacturers you can contact directly for information on where to find this month's merchandise in your area. To buy the apparel and accessories shown on pages 98–101 and 225, check listings below to locate the store nearest you.
Of all the resolutions that you've made for 1991, staying in shape probably tops the list. To keep that new shape sharp, and to get you motivated, here's a selection of the latest looks in belts—rugged woven and braided styles that are a cinch to win you compliments as well as support your pants. Styles as wide as one and a half inches are hot right now. That's slightly wider than last year's belt of choice, the Western conch. Pants/belt combinations to try include a narrow braided belt with rustic corduroy slacks or with a cashmere sweater tucked into tweed trousers. Also check out woven nubuck, a skin with a velvety, suedelike texture that will give your suit or sports jacket a casual feel.