For more than 40 years, they have been the bodies and soul of Playboy. Now we bring you The Playmate Book: Five Decades of Playmates (General Publishing Group), a definitive collection of that enduring postwar icon--the Playboy Playmate. As a tribute this month, Assistant Editor Chip Rowe provides facts behind the figures in The Playmate Report. We also welcome back September 1995 Playmate Donna D'Errico in a pictorial by Contributing Photographer Stephen Wayda. D'emergence of D'Errico on Baywatch and Baywatch Nights is delightful.
Playboy (ISSN 0032-1478), November 1996. Volume 43. Number 11. Published monthly by Playboy, 680 North Lake Shore Drive. Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: U.S. $29.97 for 12 issues 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 6-8 weeks for processing for change of address, send new and old addresses and allow 45 days for change Postmaster: send form 3679 to Playboy, P.O. Box 2007, Harlan. Iowa 51537-4007. Advertising: New York: 730 Fifth Avenue, New York 10019 (212-261-5000): Chicago: 680 North Lake Shore Drive, Chicago 60611 (312-751-8000): West Coast. SD Media, 2001 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite 200, Santa Monica, CA 90403 (310-264-7575): Southeast: Coleman & Bentz, Inc., 4651 Roswell Road NE, Atlanta, GA 30342 (404-256-3800); Boston: Northeast Media Sales. 8 Faneuil Hall Marketplace. Boston 02109 (617-973-5050). For subscription inquiries. Call 800-999-4438.
Liam Neeson, with the title role in Michael Collins (Warner), plays the Irish patriot credited as the father of modern guerrilla warfare. Imprisoned after the historic Easter Uprising of 1916, Collins later formed a militia of freedom fighters who forced Britain to accept an Irish Free State, partitioned in a manner that alienated some of his followers and that remains a source of bitter controversy today. Written and directed by Neil Jordan (whose screenplay for The Crying Game won a 1992 Oscar), the movie has an A-team supporting cast: Aidan Quinn as Harry Boland, Collins' close friend and romantic rival; Stephen Rea as an informant aiding the rebels; and Alan Rickman as Eamon De Valera, Collins' mentor and future prime minister of the Free State of Ireland. Julia Roberts portrays Kitty Kiernan, the colleen whose shift of affection from Boland to Collins fuels the ultimate rift between them. The love story adds negligible interest to an epic that is essentially about patriotism, friendship and betrayal. Filmed on a grand scale by cinematographer Chris Menges, Collins is a fascinating slice of history that ends with most of the good guys dead, while the others carry on Ireland's awful struggles. [rating]3-1/2 bunnies[/rating]
The buzz is that Josh Brolin, 28, is a scene-stealing sensation in the imminent thriller Nightwatch, co-starring Nick Nolte and Ewan McGregor. Which means he won't be remembered only as the gay government agent who licks Patricia Arquette's armpit in Flirting With Disaster. "That made me the brunt of a few jokes," Brolin recalls. "It's just something we came up with. It started out with me kissing her toes. Being funny is a very neurotic business. It can be quite serious."
If sex in cinema is your thing (see page 128 for our yearly roundup) but adult videos aren't, you'll be happy to know that steam heat comes in a variety of ratings. Here's a guide to some searing movie scenes on video, featuring your favorite celebrities between the sheets--and elsewhere:
Multimedia CDs have yet to find the disc that can do for that medium what Sgt. Pepper did for stereo LPs. In fact, with marginal exceptions such as Bob Dylan and B.B. King, most multimedia releases are a waste. But Crossroads, Southern Routes: Music of the American South (Smithsonian Folkways) takes a big step in the right direction. The disc is an interesting survey of Southern music ranging from Delta blues to the Allman Brothers, civil rights to Cajun, Blue Suede Shoes to tejano, gospel to Mardi Gras tunes. Slip it into your CD-ROM drive and Southern Routes explodes. It may be the best introduction to the music of the South ever put together. The elements include a map, glossary, time line and biographies--all buttressed with a wide selection of photos, audio clips and a few video pieces. This is clearly a primer, but you can't understand much about American music without a solid background in the culture of Dixie.
The Shangri-Las were the Riot Grrls of their era. They were gum-snappers who wore their hair so high it would embarrass the B-52's. They sang contrived but convincing scenarios of juvenile delinquency and conflict that defined the tragicomic in rock. On The Best of the Shangri-Las (Mercury/Chronicles), Leader of the Pack, Remember (Walkin' in the Sand), Out in the Streets, Give Us Your Blessings and, above all, Give Him a Great Big Kiss, have more good dialogue than a Quentin Tarantino script.
Some neorockabilly bands sound as if they're on downers and some sound as if they're on uppers. Reverend Horton Heat proves on It's Martini Time (Inter-scope) that this is the foremost practitioner of the second type of band. Playing music at the speed of punk but with real finesse in the guitar, the group creates an aura of demented sexuality amid psychedelic frenzy. Jim Horton Heath, vocalist and guitarist of the Rev., also knows how to do way more cool stuff with his voice than the usual howling. He acts out his stories and observations with a compelling combination of ennui and intensity. I particularly enjoyed his sense of humor in Generation Why, which quotes the riff from My Generation to ask this question: "Generation A, Generation Z/Who the hell are you to put a label on me?" Heath also gets it right in That's Showbiz, a catalog of the humiliations endured nightly by performers who haven't quite made it. I hope he doesn't have to endure them much longer.
Toni Braxton debuted as the cute black woman next door--very much tailored to appeal to the vast majority of women who are neither ghetto nor glamour. She backed up the marketing with strong, heartfelt singing.
Crowded House should have been contenders. The New Zealand trio fronted by Neil Finn has been writing bittersweet pop masterpieces, including their American hit, Don't Dream It's Over, for a decade. But now that their superb Beatlesque compositions are fashionable, the band has decided to call it quits with the release of Recurring Dream: The Very Best of Crowded House (Capitol). Gems such as Fall at Your Feet and Better Be Home Soon display a Lennon-McCartney melancholy in the verses that's resolved in the choruses. Even the three new tracks included here display a haunting vulnerability that's light years beyond Oasis and the rest of the Britpop pack.
In the seven years since De La Soul made a splash with daisy-age hip-hop, they've struggled successfully to affirm their racial loyalties without surrendering their defiant sense of play. And despite a few personnel changes, they sound confident on Stakes Is High (Tommy Boy). Tough, smart and densely grooved, the new album is both uncompromising and familiar--solid music from veterans who no longer worry much about their image. They cast a cold eye on what gangstas claim is reality, most tellingly in a mean satire on Kurtis Blow's The Breaks, rewritten for the age of crack and AIDS.
Anchored by the first Buck Owens recording in this decade, a convoy of country rockers have gathered for Rig Rock Deluxe: A Musical Salute to the American Truck Driver (Diesel Only/Upstart Records). Owens' curled drawl still sounds fine on Will There Be Big Rigs in Heaven?, a new honky-tonker written by his keyboard player, Jim Shaw. Other highlights are Sixties hitmaker Kay Adams linking up with Nashville's BR5-49 on Mama Was a Rock (Daddy Was a Rolling Stone), Dan Baird and the Yayhoos' high-strung truck anthem, Highway Junkie, and the white-line fever of Rosie Flores, Toni Price, Dale Watson, Kim Richey, Wayne Hancock, Jon Langford and Lou Whitney trading off on the 1963 Dave Dudley classic Six Days on the Road. Is it We Are the World? Not quite. It's We Are the Wired.
George Jones is the greatest male country artist since Hank Williams Sr. Hell, he's arguably the most soulful singer in American music. Jones' latest album, I Lived to Tell It All (MCA) is most satisfying. It was named after his autobiography, in which Jones' life resembles an old-fashioned country song. He spent decades lost in booze and drugs before being saved by the love of his wife. His new album tells Nashville to take its big hats and shove 'em. This is a therapeutic collection of tearjerkers and drinking songs that prove there are no answers at the bottom of a bottle, and every note rings true.
A Danish jazz guitarist with avant-garde leanings studies in Gambia, returns to Copenhagen, forms a small orchestra to combine his interests and voilà: Pierre Dorge's New Jungle Orchestra. In Dorge's hands, the guitar becomes a jazz-mad African gourd harp. The music suggests a dialogue between Thelonious Monk and Charles Mingus, Frank Zappa, King Sunny Ade and, of course, Duke Ellington--who led the first Jungle Orchestra in the Twenties. Dorge finally has an album in the U.S., and it's among this year's best: Music From the Danish Jungle (dacapo).
Dave Soldier has named his band and album The Kropotkins (Koch), and I approve of all bands who name themselves after Russian anarchists. In this case, I also approve of their anarchic approach to folk music, as they reinvigorate tradition with a looseness that borders on chaos and harkens back to the great jug bands of the Sixties.
The magic of Pakistani devotional singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, who is currently in the running for world's greatest vocalist, has never been clearer than on the prolonged improvisations of Intoxicated Spirit (Shanachie). Recording in Pakistan for his core audience, he lets loose as he rarely does in the West. In case you wondered, this is what the fuss is about.
Paul Theroux, prolific novelist and adventurous travel writer, sparks controversy and speculation with his new novel, My Other Life (Houghton Mifflin), the fictional memoirs of a man named Paul Theroux. This is a literary curiosity that falls somewhere between Norman Mailer's Advertisements for Myself and Clifford Irving's fraudulent autobiography of Howard Hughes.
Do women have a special locus in the brain, possibly a node or even a nodule, that gives them a greater power than men to see the concealed, hear the mute, grasp the unfathomable? Is there really such a thing as women's intuition?
Last week my boyfriend and I were invited to a party. We were already late when he became quite amorous. I eased him away, saying we'd continue later. He agreed, but asked me for a favor. Hoisting up the hem of my short dress, he removed my panties and slipped them into his jacket pocket. Surprisingly, being pantyless really excited me. Over the course of the evening, my boyfriend constantly flirted with me. The public foreplay made me feel more horny, especially when he put his hand in his pocket. Whenever he looked at me, I felt as if I were being undressed. When I was so wet I couldn't stand it anymore, I whispered to him to take me home. We didn't make it to the bedroom, and I never got my panties back. What do you make of this?--C.M., New York, New York
I am sitting in the Blue Angel--my favorite New York strip joint--watching the slender blonde onstage step out of her G-string. The Blue Angel is intimate and smoky. Male and female patrons crowd together at small tables where flames wobble on colored votive candles. A curtain of veils separates the busy lap-dancing parlor from the main room of the club. This is where I relax.
It began with a hit man's handbook. When a hired murderer, James Edward Perry, was convicted of killing a woman, her disabled son and the son's nurse, court documents revealed that the murderer had followed instructions provided in the book Hit Man: A Technical Manual for Independent Contractors. The family of the mother and son, plus the nurse's family, sued the publisher. This seems to have started a trend.
"The most recent time I had sex," said one 22-year-old woman in Ohio, "my fiancé and I watched an X-rated video. While it was on we also read erotic stories to each other. While I was reading to him he began to massage me and kiss me tenderly all over my body. Soon he was performing oral sex on me. After I had an orgasm, I performed oral sex on him. After he came, we watched the rest of the movie and ended up having vaginal intercourse. Having multiple orgasms was quite invigorating for both of us."
Exceptional actor and eloquent Irish talker that he is, Liam Neeson has described his profession as an "ancient craft of rogues and vagabond make-believers." The fact that he can toss off such a phrase sets him apart from most of today's actors, not to mention today's movie stars, who are apt to define ancient history as their last flop, agent or spouse. But Neeson's distinctions encompass more than his silver tongue, his massive physique--once a promising amateur boxer, he stands 6'4"--and his lightly ironic, slightly rueful sense of himself as a working stiff-cum-certified celebrity. His moving portrayal of Oskar Schindler, the flamboyant yet complex hero of Steven Spielberg's "Schindler's List," earned him an Oscar nomination. He won the role after Spielberg saw him in the 1993 Broadway revival of Eugene O'Neill's "Anna Christie"--opposite Natasha Richardson, who is now his wife--and was struck by his powerful, lyrical presence as the drunken, seafaring coal stoker Mat Burke.
Americans grew nervous about terrorism this past summer. Someone set off a huge truck bomb that killed 19 U.S. servicemen. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms busted members of a militia unit, the Viper Team, that packed enough explosives and firepower to take down part of Phoenix. TWA flight 800 disintegrated off Long Island, killing 230. Then a pipe bomb went off during the Olympics in Atlanta, leaving one person dead.
When we had the pleasure of introducing our readers to Playmate Donna D'Errico, she was driving a limo in Las Vegas. That was September 1995. For any Vegas-bound vagabonds who had hopes of hitching a ride with Donna, we have bad news: She and the limo have parted company. But you can still get a lift from Donna twice a week, and you don't even have to get off the couch. Donna has become superhot, landing a dual role that puts her in the television spotlight on both the hit show Baywatch and its spin-off series Baywatch Nights. Not bad for someone who only a year ago was thinking about moving to Los Angeles and hoping to do some acting.
When I get to the steps of my lakeside home, the door is open. I slowly walk in, my hand reaching for the phantom weapon at my side, everything about me extended and tingling as I enter the strange place that used to be mine. I step through the small kitchen, my boots crunching the broken glassware and dishes on the tile floor. Inside the living room with its cathedral ceiling the furniture has been upended, as if an earthquake had struck.
There are a number of basics men need for protection in life: umbrellas, shoes, condoms and, on chilly nights, sweaters. This winter, we suggest you pull on one--but don't get flashy. The best are simple knits in subtle colors. Some great looks: a ribbed or waffle knit with a contrasting pattern, such as a black background with a white design. Try a bulky ski sweater with a roll-down or mock turtle-neck in one of this season's hottest prints--retro snowflakes--or a tightly knit merino sweater with a smooth finish. This year you can even try a sweater set (they're not just for women anymore) that consists of a cardigan and matching turtleneck or mock turtleneck. In terms of material, the most delicate fabrics are plush cashmere (the higher the ply, the more luxurious the knit) and soft mohair-- their opposite is rugged, water-resistant and almost indestructible boiled wool. And if you are into nostalgia, try a sweater made of yarn. They're stylish and warm, just like grandma used to knit.
It was at her Hollywood "coming out" party at Romanoff's that Italian screen siren Sophia Loren gave her Yankee rival, Jayne Mansfield, this killing look. Playboy published the picture in November 1957 as part of a "feud for thought" pictorial we ran on the two stars. Sophia grew more coy as she became more famous; Jayne was never demure. Moments after this photo was taken, Jayne inhaled and fell out of her dress. That picture also found its way onto Playboy's pages.
Playboy's History of Jazz & Rock Part Ten: Everything Old is New Again
Here we are, in the second half of the Nineties, looking at the following musical facts: Charlie Watts, the drummer for the Rolling Stones, plays in a jazz group. Wynton Marsalis and Seiji Ozawa teach kids the principles of composition and musical form, jazz and classical. Beck, the 26-year-old singer whom many consider to be one of the freshest additions to the Nineties, listens to country bluesman Fred McDowell and mixes poetry, hip-hop, rock, soul and folk into his music. Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra are back and big. What's going on here?
When Pat Robertson recruited Ralph Reed in 1989 to organize a grassroots lobby of evangelical conservatives, the brash young political operative pursued a smart strategy of "flying below the radar" of liberals, Democrats and the media. For the first couple of years, as the Christian Coalition developed, scarcely anyone noticed what Reed was doing. But as his efforts succeeded--and as he boasted of his ambitions--even the most obtuse Americans realized the religious right was taking over a major political party. And many people found that prospect alarming.
At home when the wind blew from the east, she could wake up and smell the coffee. The aroma didn't come from the kitchen, though. It came from the Gevalia coffee factory on the seafront of the Swedish town of Gävle (which sounds like Javla), birthplace and hometown of Ulrika Ericsson. Ulrika's parents and younger sister still live there. Her father is a paramedic, her mother runs a day care center and sister Pernilla is at school studying to be a makeup artist. When Ulrika was younger the family traveled across North America, staying in Winnipeg with her pro-hockey-player uncle, Willy Lindstrom, while his NHL team, the Edmonton Oilers, won the Stanley Cup for the second year running. But what Ulrika remembers more vividly are Memphis and Graceland--"that was before they allowed visitors inside the house," she says--and Disneyland and Hawaii. Now she lives in Florida, across the street from the beach in Fort Lauderdale. There, early risers may find Miss November in-line skating with her dog, Casper, who is part greyhound, part Border collie. "We take turns being in front," she says. "Casper's a very competitive dog. It's in his genes. He doesn't like to fall behind, so I sometimes let him tow me to keep him happy." Swedes have a reputation for forthright common sense and a taste for ancestral nostalgia, and Ulrika is no exception. As a sportswear and swim-wear model she has all the work she can handle, and she loves her career in front of the cameras. "You're always meeting new people in this job, and you never stop learning. It gives me freedom and lets me travel, and for now that's what I need," she says in her matter-of-fact Swedish manner. "But one day I'll have to try something else. A new challenge. The Vikings understood that good looks don't last forever. Their idea of success was to die young, go to Valhalla and fight with the gods against the giants." She laughs. "That's not my plan, far from it, though I have always loved reading about Viking mythology. When I was a kid my friends would be out playing and I'd stay in our backyard on a blanket in the sun with a pile of books. It probably sounds as if I was a dreamy loner, but that was my idea of happiness--reading about Odin and Thor, having fantasies of living in an old castle long ago. If we could travel through time, that's where you would have found me, somewhere back in the 11th century." In the 20th century, Ulrika has a different kind of fairy tale: "to live on a farm, some old place deep in the countryside with horses and dogs, and someone I love--to make everything perfect." Until that time it's hard work and daily exercise, with music for inspiration: Stone Temple Pilots and Metallica to stretch the muscles, Vivaldi and the chants of Tibetan monks for relaxation. Ulrika skates most days, plays squash and lifts weights. Is it worth the effort? Did the Vikings have horns on their helmets?
While paying his fare in cash at the airline ticket counter, the vacationer came up 25 cents short. "I'll find someone to borrow it from," he told the agent, and he quickly made his way to the closest lounge. Spotting an obviously mellow fellow at the bar, the traveler walked up and said, "Excuse me. Can you spare a quarter? I'm trying to go to France."
Dawn. The air is brackish, though this place is miles from water. The four high-rise towers hulk amid a hardened landscape of brick, of tar and pavement broken by weeds, of crushed Coke cups and candy wrappers, of fly-about newspaper pages. A silvery bedding of broken glass, the remnants of smashed bottles, glitters prettily--one more false promise. It is a time of uncommon quiet. In the night, there are often sounds of life at the extreme: outcries and drunken yells, machines at volume. Sometimes gunfire. The day brings voices, children, the many stand-abouts, the species at large. Now the wind is up, whistling in the fence links and on the bricks. At the prospect of motion, the man walking this way looks up abruptly, but there is only a dog huddled in a gap between the buildings that, out of some animal instinct, has determined across the distance of a hundred yards to have no truck with him. A single used tire sits, inexplicably, on the cracked blacktop of the play yard.
There's nothing rational about an automobile that takes months to build, costs in excess of $135,000 and holds only two people. Which is why Aston Martin Lagonda Ltd. sells its cars worldwide as fast as they can be hand-crafted in England. That handsome sum buys a distinguished racing heritage, superb craftsmanship and pedigree. Stirling Moss and Jimmy Clark raced Aston Martins. James Bond drove one. So do the current Prince of Wales and Sweden's Prince Bertil. Jordan's King Hussein is an enthusiastic owner. Welcome to the fast fast lane. The marque's history extends back 83 years to a simpler time when Lionel Martin and Robert Bamford co-owned a London garage and sold Singer cars. When the two decided to build a sports car, they named it after the hill where Martin and Bamford had competed in a Singer Special. Although Aston Martin's reputation grew over the next two decades, the small firm didn't sell many cars. It was bought in 1947 by a British engineer named David Brown, who also acquired Lagonda, another low-volume British sports car manufacturer with a reputation for clever technology. Brown's vision for Aston Martin guided the company through an era of producing successful, technically advanced competition cars. (continued on page 150) Great Aston(continued from page 111) By 1959, a racing DBI had won the prestigious 24 hours of Le Mans. Remarkably, tiny Aston Martin was competing against and beating larger and better-financed firms such as Jaguar and Ferrari. In 1958, the DB4 coupe garnered rave reviews for its all-aluminum, twin-cam six engine. But you still had to be a sports car enthusiast to appreciate Astons--until 1964 and a movie titled Goldfinger. When Secret Service armorer "Q" presented James Bond with a gad-getized silver DB5, we all knew it was just a matter of reels before Bond would use the car's razor-edged hubs, front-mounted machine guns, smoke-screen apparatus and ejector seat to particularly good advantage.
Our most popular Playmate ever--Miss July 1955--was right under our nose. She was Playboy's Subscription Manager; Janet Pilgrim. (The slightly out-of-focus fellow in the background of her centerfold shot, above left, is Hugh M. Hefner.) She posed again in December of that year and in October of the next year, the only three-time Playmate. Readers asked for more, but the subscription orders were backing up.
He is the kind of guy moms dream their daughters will bring home--a respectable, conservative, well-balanced young man with a future. If that makes him sound kind of dull, well, Chris O'Donnell isn't concerned. He's far too busy acting. Still in his mid-20s, he has already made 11 movies. Two of these, "The Chamber" and "In Love and War," will be released later this year. O'Donnell grew up in a large Irish family in suburban Chicago and majored in marketing at Boston College. Although he received no formal training as an actor, a series of modeling jobs and commercials--including a 1987 McDonald's spot in which he served Michael Jordan--led to his being cast alongside Jessica Lange in Paul Brickman's "Men Don't Leave" in 1990. Two years later he played opposite Al Pacino in "Scent of a Woman." His performances thus for have shown him to have a simple, unmannered style that allows his co-stars plenty of room for showboating. Despite making big action pictures such as "Batman Forever," O'Donnell still likes to appear in quirkier, small-budget films such as "Circle of Friends" and "Mad Love," which have boosted his image as a romantic lead. Writer Greg Williams met O'Donnell in London, where the actor was filming "In Love and War" with Sandra Bullock and director Richard Attenborough. Says Williams, "It's clear that Chris O'Donnell isn't smitten with Hollywood. His priorities are like those of any normal guy: his family, girlfriend and buddies. When I met him at his hotel in London, it was evident he was tired from his long day. Despite an early call the next morning, he let a bunch of his friends, who were visiting from Chicago, stay in his room."
For most of 1996, sex in mainstream movies appeared stuck in look-don'-touch mode: a strip-joint scene here, a flash of breast there. Then along came Crash, shaking up audiences at the Cannes Film Festival with its explicit, orgiastic parade of swingers whose carnal desires are ignited by automobile smashups and scar tissue. Although David Cronenberg's kinky auto-erotism shocked many festivalgoers, the film picked up a Special Jury Prize "for its daring, audacity and originality." It will arrive Stateside to create more controversy, inevitably carrying an NC-17 label from the Motion Picture Association of America's ratings board. Crash takes a giant step beyond the minimal sexuality of Striptease, Demi Moore's coyly camera-shy and highly paid exercise in on-screen breast-baring. Similarly, much of the big-screen heat appeared to be generated by lap dancing or ultrasafe phone sex--the latter in Spike Lee's Girl 6 (Theresa Randle selling horniness on the horn), The Truth About Cats and Dogs (Janeane Garofalo making out on the wire through mutual masturbation with Ben Chaplin) and the Spanish-made Mouth to Mouth (an imported example of giving lip service to primal urges).
Below is a list of retailers and manufacturers you can contact for information on where to find this month's merchandise. To buy the apparel and equipment shown on pages 20, 30, 32, 76--79, 110, 120 and 169, check the listings below to find the stores nearest you.
Half the fun of fooling around in the kitchen is having an excuse to stock up on macho gear and gadgets. Porsche Design's Luci & Ombre by Barazzoni line of cookware pictured here is made of stainless steel, aluminum and titanium and is as tough and sleek as a 911. Computer technology has been given a culinary spin in microwave ovens, which now come programmed to cook the perfect baked potato or bag of popcorn, as well as in Brother International's Kitchen Assistant, a 6"x8" electronic cookbook in which you can store, organize and access recipes. (It will even print out a shopping list.) Or make like a ninja chef wielding high-carbon stainless-steel cutlery from Lamson Sharp or Spyderco. Tonight, let her take out the garbage.