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Title: 100 New Yorkers of the 1970s
Author: Millard, Max
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "100 New Yorkers of the 1970s" ***

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Copyright (C) 2005 by Max Millard

100 New Yorkers of the 1970s

By Max Millard

Dedication: to Bruce Logan, who made this book possible.

Copyright 2005 by Max Millard



The interviews for this book were conducted from May 1977 to December
1979. They appeared as cover stories for the __TV Shopper__, a free
weekly paper that was distributed to homes and businesses in New York
City. Founded by Bruce Logan in the mid-1970s as the __West Side TV
Shopper__, it consisted of TV listings, advertisements, and two full-page
stories per issue. One was a "friendly" restaurant review of an advertiser;
the other was a profile of a prominent resident of the Upper West Side of
Manhattan. The honoree's face appeared on the cover, framed by a TV

The formula was successful enough so that in 1978, Bruce began
publishing the __East Side TV Shopper__ as well. My job was to track
down the biggest names I could find for both papers, interview them, and
write a 900-word story. Most interviewees were in the arts and
entertainment industry -- actors, singers, dancers, writers, musicians,
news broadcasters and radio personalities. Bruce quickly recruited me to
write the restaurant reviews as well. During my two and a half years at
the paper, I wrote about 210 interviews. These are my 100 favorites of the
ones that survive.

These stories represent my first professional work as a journalist. I arrived
in New York City in November 1976 at age 26, hungry for an opportunity
to write full-time after spending six years practicing my craft at college
and community newspapers in New England. I had just started to sell a
few stories in Maine, but realized I would have to move to a big city if
I was serious about switching careers from social worker to journalist.

My gigs as an unpaid writer for small local papers included a music
column for the __East Boston Community News__ and a theater column
for the _Wise Guide_ in Portland, Maine. I had learned the two most
important rules of journalism -- get your facts straight and meet your
deadlines. I had taught myself Pitman's shorthand and could take notes at
100 words a minute. So I felt ready to make the leap if someone gave me
a chance.

Full of hope, I quit my job in rural Maine as a senior citizens' aide, drove
to New York, sold my car, moved into an Upper West Side apartment
with two aspiring opera singers, and began to look for work.

One aspect of the New York personality, I soon observed, was that the
great often mingled freely with the ordinary. At the Alpen Pantry Cafe in
Lincoln Center, where I worked briefly, David Hartman, host of _Good
Morning America_, came in for his coffee every morning and waited in
line like everyone else. John Lennon was said to walk his Westside
neighborhood alone, and largely undisturbed.

The other side of the New York mentality was shown by nightclubs
surrounded by velvet ropes, where uniformed doormen stood guard like
army sentries. Disdaining the riffraff, they picked out certain attractive
individuals milling outside and beckoned them to cut through the crowd,
pay their admission and enter. The appearance of status counted for much,
and many people who lived on 58th Street, one block from Central Park,
got their mail through the back entrance so they could claim the higher
class address of Central Park West.

In early 1977 my shorthand skills got me a part-time job at the home of
Linda Grover, a scriptwriter for the TV soap opera _The Doctors_. On
the day I met her, she dictated a half-hour script to me, winging it while
glancing at an outline. My trial of fire was to transcribe it, type it up that
night and turn it in the next morning for revisions. I got little sleep, but
completed the job. After that I became her secretary.

Linda's soap work was unsteady, and to supplement her income she wrote
all the cover stories for _TV Shopper_. After I'd been helping her for a
few months, she accepted a full-time job as headwriter for a new soap. I
had told her of my ambition and shown her some of my writing, so she
recommended me to Bruce as her replacement.

For my first assignment, Bruce sent me to interview Delores Hall, star of
a Broadway musical with an all-black cast, _Your Arms Too Short to Box
With God_. I went to the theater, watched the show, then met Delores
backstage. The first question I asked her was: "Is that your real hair?" She
smiled good-naturedly at my lack of diplomacy and didn't answer, but
made me feel completely at ease. She led me outside the theater, and
without embarrassment, asked me to hail the taxi for us. Then she directed
the driver to a favorite soul food restaurant, where she stuffed herself
while I conducted the interview. She was as gracious in my company as
she had been on the stage while bowing to a standing ovation. Later, her
role in the show won her the Tony Award for Best Featured Actress in a

After completing my Delores Hall story, I was kept constantly busy at the
_TV Shopper_ for as long as I stayed in New York. At first Bruce gave
me all the leads, many of whom were people who had requested to be on
the cover. But soon I was after bigger game, and began to systematically
hunt down people whom I had grown up admiring. I scanned _People_
magazine each week to find out which celebrities were New Yorkers.
When I landed an important interview, I often visited the New York
Public Library of Performing Arts in Lincoln Center to study the clipping
files and prepare my questions.

A few interviewees were distant and arrogant, making it clear that they
wouldn't be wasting their time with me if not for the insistence of their
agent. A cover story in the _TV Shopper_ could possibly extend a
Broadway run for a few days or sell another $10,000 worth of tickets to
the ballet or opera. But the vast majority of my interview subjects were
friendly, respectful, and even a little flattered by the thought of being on
the cover. In general, the biggest people were most likely to be
unpretentious and generous of spirit.

It was thrilling experience to meet and interview the people who had been
my idols only a few years before. When we were alone together in a
room, I felt that -- if only for that brief period -- I were the equal of
someone who had achieved greatness. I had grown up reading Superman
comics, and one day it flashed on me: this is Metropolis and I'm Clark

My subjects probably found me somewhat of a rube. I didn't dress well,
I had little knowledge of New York, I asked some very simplistic
questions, and until 1979 I didn't use a tape recorder. So perhaps some
of the stars were put off their guard and revealed more of themselves than
they would have to a more professional interviewer. I was struck by how
single-minded they were for success. Probing their brains was like getting
a second college education. Their main message was: Don't waste your
life and don't do anything just for money.

Of course, many people declined my request for an interview. Among
those I fished for, but failed to reel in, were Richard Chamberlain, Isaac
Bashevis Singer, Bob Keeshan (Captain Kangaroo), Rex Reed, Halston,
Carrie Fisher, Russell Baker, Ted Sorensen, Joseph Heller, Margaret
Meade, Helen Gurley Brown and Ira Gershwin. Then there were the
Eastsiders and Westsiders too famous to even approach, such as Woody
Allen, Bob Hope and Mikhail Baryshnikov.

The person who did more than anyone else to secure first-rank interviews
for me was Anna Sosenko, a woman in her late 60s who owned an
autograph collectors' shop on West 62th Street filled with elegantly
framed letters, manuscripts and autographed photos of some of the
greatest names in the history of entertainment. Despite her treasures, she
always talked with one hand over her mouth to hide the fact that she had
practically no teeth.

For 23 years Anna had managed the career of cabaret superstar
Hildegarde Sell, and had penned Hildegarde's theme song, "Darling, Je
Vous Aime Beaucoup." Anna was still a formidable figure in showbiz;
every year she produced a spectacular fund-raising all-star show in a
Broadway theater that paid tribute to Broadway legends. Her 1979 show,
which I attended, included live performances by Julie Andrews, Agnes
DeMille, Placido Domingo, Alfred Drake, Tovah Feldshuh, Hermione
Gingold and Rex Harrison.

I met Anna through her friendship with Bruce Logan, and she became my
direct link to many stars of the older generation, including Douglas
Fairbanks Jr., Lillian Gish, Ann Miller, Maureen O'Sullivan and Sammy
Cahn. One phone call from Anna was enough to get me an appointment.

The _TV Shopper_ interviews and restaurant reviews -- a total of four
stories per week -- became my whole life, and I had little time for
friendships, hobbies or anything else. By late 1979, I realized that New
York City wasn't my natural element. It was too dog-eat-dog, too
overwhelming, too impersonal. I had grown dissatisfied with working for
the _TV Shopper_, and felt that I had squeezed the juice from the orange;
I had interviewed everyone I wanted to meet who was willing to sit down
with me. After interviewing my fifth or sixth broadcaster or dancer, things
began to feel repetitive. I pondered what Tom Smothers had told me when
I'd asked why the Smothers Brothers had split up as an act: "First you just
do it, then you do it for fun, then you do it seriously, and then you're

About this time I got an invitation from a friend in the San Francisco Bay
Area to move out West and give it a try. I told Bruce I was quitting.
When I gave the news to Anna, she said: "You might never come back."
She was right.

In my last couple of months as a New Yorker, I did as many interviews
as I could fit it. I left for Maine on Christmas Eve of 1979, taking all my
_TV Shopper_ stories with me, and flew to San Francisco on New Year's
Day of 1980. Using my notes, I wrote up my final interviews during my
early months on the West Coast, which accounts for some of the 1980
publication dates. Other stories dated 1980 were published first in 1979,
then reused; I have no record of their original dates.

When my parents moved in 1988, they threw away my entire _TV
Shopper_ archive. Fortunately, Bruce Logan had saved copies of most of
the stories, and at my request, he photocopied them and sent them to in
1990. About 10 stories were missing from his collection, and therefore
cannot be included here. Among the lost interviews I remember are Soupy
Sales, Dave Marash, Gael Greene, Janis Ian, Joe Franklin and Barnard

After 9/11, I began thinking a lot about New York, and started rereading
some of my old stories. My eye caught this statement by Paul Goldberger,
then the architecture critic for the _New York Times_: "This is probably
the safest environment in the world to build a skyscraper." I realized that
the New York of today is quite differently from that of the late 1970s, and
thought that a collection of my interviews might be of interest to a new
generation of readers.

In the summer of 2005 I finished retyping, correcting, and fact-checking
the 100 stories. Three of my interviews -- Isaac Asimov, Alan Lomax and
Tom Wolfe -- were originally published in two different versions, one for
the _TV Shopper_ and a longer one for the _Westsider_, a weekly
community newspaper. I have included both versions here. Also, my
interview with Leonard Maltin was not a cover story, but a half-page
"Westside profile." It appears here because of Maltin's huge future
success as a writer, editor and TV personality.

In the course of my research, I uncovered a lot of information about what
happened to my interviewees after 1980. Many have died, some have
grown in fame, and some have virtually disappeared from public records.
In a future edition of this book, I hope to include that information in a
postscript at the end of each story. In the meantime, I invite readers to
send me any information they have about these personalities by emailing
me at sunreport@aol.com.

Max Millard
San Francisco, California
November 2005


                             TABLE OF CONTENTS

Author, radio humorist, and president of the Fund for Animals

An Andrews Sister finds stardom as a solo

To star in Neil Simon's new musical

America's best-selling beauty author

Author of 188 books

Artistic director of the New York City Ballet

Drama and dance critic

North America's most valuable soccer player

Creator of the _CBS Radio Mystery Theater_

Creator, writer and producer of _Waste Meat News_

Oscar-winning lyricist

Governor of New York state

Food editor of the _New York Times_

Actor, director, producer, novelist, and Pulitzer Prize-winning dramatist

Star of _The Edge of Night_

The comedian and the man

Partner of nudes and _Time_ covers

The Met's super mezzo

A man for all seasons

Creator of The Phantom and Mandrake the Magician

Radio talkmaster and linguist

Star of the New York City Ballet

Screenwriter for _Popeye the Sailor_

Actress, director and singer

Actress turns author with _No Bed of Roses_

Founder of the women's liberation movement

Author of _Europe on $10 a Day_

Publisher and founder of _Mad_ magazine

Publisher of _Moneysworth_

78 years in show business

Design director of the new _Esquire_

Architecture critic for the _New York Times_

Broadway's super agent

Star of _Father's Day_ at the American Place Theatre

Star of _Your Arms Too Short to Box with God_

King of the Newport Jazz Festival

Executive director of Amnesty International U.S.A.

Chairman of Tiffany & Company

Restaurant critic for _Gourmet_ magazine

Star of _Dracula_ on Broadway

Creator of Batman and Robin

Star of _The Guiding Light_

Back on Broadway after 27 years

Author of _No Pickle, No Performance_

Dance critic for the _New York Times_

Owner of the Cafe des Artistes

Leading American pianist

Creator of Spiderman and the Incredible Hulk

Book critic for the _New York Times_

International lawyer

Sending songs into outer space

Author of _Serpico_ and _Made in America_

Film historian and critic

Creator and star of _Upstairs, Downstairs_

Co-starring with Steve Martin in _The Jerk_

Actor and social critic

Hottest rock act in town

Co-star of _Sugar Babies_

Opera superstar

Master of the flamenco guitar

Broadway star releases ninth album

Star of _Holocaust_ returns to Broadway in _G.R. Point_

America's greatest popular artist

Great portrait photographer

Journalist and first-time novelist

Commissioner of the National Basketball Association

Great lady of the movie screen

Star of _Same Time, Next Year_

The man with the golden voice

Author, editor and adventurer

Rebel filmmaker returns with _The Human Factor_

Congressman of the 19th District

Golden boy of American composers

Not just another kid

America's best-loved ping-pong player

World's most-recorded violinist

Monarch of the drums

Broadcaster, author and humanitarian

Author and Pulitzer Prize-winning composer

Director of the New York City Opera

America's foremost child psychologist

Photographer of the world's most beautiful women

Composer of the future

Veteran comic talks about _Love at First Bite_

Famed jazz pianist returns to New York

The big-hearted billionaire of _Annie_

Mr. New York to perform in Newport Jazz Festival

Opera superstar

46 years a doorman on the West Side

Founder and conductor of the Gregg Smith Singers

Queen of gossip

Stars of _I Love My Wife_ on Broadway

Publisher of Berkley and Jove Books

Anchorman for WCBS Channel 2 News

John-Boy teams up with Henry Fonda in _Roots II_

Pop artist and publisher of _Interview_ magazine

Theatrical attorney for superstars

Author and columnist for the _New York Times_

Avant-garde author talks about _The Right Stuff_

Violinist and conductor


Author, radio humorist, and president of the Fund for Animals


It's impossible to mistake the voice if you've heard it once -- the tone of
mock annoyance, the twangy, almost whiny drawl that rings musically in
the ear. It could easily belong to a cartoon character or a top TV
pitchman, but it doesn't. It belongs to Cleveland Amory, an affable and
rugged individualist who has been a celebrated writer for more than half
of his 61 years. Amory is also a highly regarded lecturer and radio
essayist: his one-minute humor spot, _Curmudgeon at Large_, is heard
daily from Maine to California. His latest novel, nearing completion, is
due to be published next fall.

_TV Guide_ perhaps brought Amory his widest fame. He was the
magazine's star columnist from 1963 to 1976, when he gave it up in order
to devote his time to other projects, especially the Fund for Animals, a
non-profit humane organization that he founded in 1967. He has served as
the group's president since the beginning; now it has 150,000 members
across the United States. Amory receives no pay for his involvement with
the organization.

The national headquarters of the Fund for Animals is a suite of rooms in
an apartment building near Carnegie Hall. The central room is lined with
bookshelves, and everywhere on the 25-foot walls are pictures and statues
of animals. Amory enters the room looking utterly exhausted. He is a tall,
powerful-looking man with a shock of greyish brown hair that springs
from his head like sparks from an electrode. As we sit back to talk and his
two pet cats walk about the office, his energy seems to recharge itself.

Amory's quest to protect animals from needless cruelty began several
decades ago when, as a young reporter in Arizona, he wandered across
the border into Mexico and witnessed a bullfight. Shocked that people
could applaud the death agony of "a fellow creature of this earth," he
began to join various humane societies. Today he is probably the best
known animal expert in America. His 1974 best-seller, _Man Kind? Our
Incredible War On Wildlife_, was one of only three books in recent years
to be the subject of an editorial in the _New York Times_ -- the others
being Rachel Carson's _Silent Spring_ and Ralph Nader's _Unsafe at Any

"A lot of people ask me, 'Why not do something about children, or old
people, or minorities?'" he begins, lighting a cigarette and propping one
foot on the desk. "My feeling is that there's enough misery out there for
anybody to work at whatever he wants to. I think the mark of a civilized
person is how you treat what's beneath you. Most people do care about
animals. But you have to translate their feelings into action. ... We're
fighting a lot of things -- the clubbing of the baby seals, the killing of
dolphins by the tuna fishermen, the poisoning of animals. The leghold trap
is illegal in 14 countries of the world, but only in five states in the U.S.

"The reason this fight is so hard is that man has an incredible ability to
rationalize his cruelty. When they kill the seals, they say it's a humane
way of doing it. But I don't see anything humane about clubbing a baby
seal to death while his mother is watching, helpless.

"One of our biggest fights right now is to make the wolf our national
mammal. There's only about 400 of them left in the continental United
States. The wolf is a very brave animal. It's monogamous, and it has great

One of his chief reasons for dropping his _TV Guide_ column, says
Amory, was because "after 15 years of trying to decide whether the Fonz
is a threat to Shakespeare, I wanted to write about things that are more
important than that." His latest novel, a satirical work that he considers
the finest piece of writing he has ever done, "is basically a satire of club
life in America. ... I sent it down to a typist here, and it came back with
a note from the typist saying, 'I love it!' In all my years of writing, I
don't think I've ever had a compliment like that. So I sent the note to my
editor along with the manuscript."

An expert chess player, he was long ranked number one at Manhattan's
Harvard Club until his recent dethronement at the hands of a young
woman. "I play Russians whenever I get a chance," he confides. "I always
love to beat Russians. I want to beat them all." Once he played against
Viktor Korchnoi, the defected Soviet who narrowly lost to world
champion Anatoly Karpov this fall.

"I think he threw that final game," says Amory of Korchnoi's loss. "He
didn't make a single threatening move. I think he was offered a deal to get
the kid and wife out. It was all set up from the beginning. I hate facts, so
I don't want any facts to interfere with my thesis."

Born outside of Boston, he showed his writing talent early, becoming the
youngest editor ever at the _Saturday Evening Post_. His first book, _The
Proper Bostonians_, was published in 1947. "Then I moved to New
York," he muses, "because whenever I write about a place, I have to
leave it." Nineteen years ago, he took on as his assistant a remarkable
woman named Marian Probst, who has worked with him ever since. Says
Amory: "She knows more about every project I've been involved with
than I know myself."

A longtime Westsider, he enjoys dining at the Russian Tea Room (150 W.
57th St.).

There are so many facets to Cleveland Amory's career and character that
he defies classification. In large doses, he can be extremely persuasive. In
smaller doses, he comes across as a sort of boon companion for
everyman, who provides an escape from the woes of modern society
through his devastating humor. For example, his off-the-cuff remark about
President Carter:

"Here we have a fellow who doesn't know any more than you or I about
how to run the country. I'm surprised he did so well in the peanut


An Andrews Sister finds stardom as a solo


Maxene Andrews, riding high on the wave of her triumphant solo act that
opened at the Reno Sweeney cabaret last November, is sitting in her dimly
lit, antique-lined Eastside living room, talking about the foibles of show
business. As one of the Andrews Sisters, America's most popular vocal
trio of the 1940s, she made 19 gold records in the space of 20 years. But
as a solo performer, she more or less failed in two previous attempts --
first in the early 1950s, when her younger sister Patty temporarily left the
group, and again in 1975, after her hit Broadway show _Over Here_
closed amid controversy. Not until 1979 did Miss Andrews bring together
all the elements of success -- good choice of songs, interesting patter
between numbers, and a first-rate accompanist. The result is an act that
is nostalgic, moving, and musically powerful.

"For years, our career was so different than so many, because our fans
never forgot us," she recalls, beaming with matronly delight. "I could
walk in anyplace in the years I wasn't working, and they'd say, 'Maxene
Andrews -- the Andrews Sisters?' Everybody was sort of in awe. So I was
always treated like a star of some kind. But it's nice to work; it's a
wonderful feeling to be in demand."

She is a bubbly, husky, larger-than-life character of 61 with ruddy cheeks
and a firm handshake. Deeply religious, sincere, and outspoken as always,
she remains first and foremost an entertainer.

"I stick to the older, standard songs by great composers," says Maxene of
her act. "You know -- Rodgers and Hart, Irving Berlin. ... My partner is
Phil Campanella, an extremely talented young man who plays the piano
and sings harmony. ... All the talking I do between the songs is ad
libbing. I have never been successful at trying to do material that was
written for me."

She's returning to Reno Sweeney on February 6 for a two-week
engagement, then filming a TV show titled _G.I. Jive_ before taking her
act to Miami and Key West. Nightclub work, she says in her high, bell
clear voice, "is not my future. I would like to get into concerts and I think
that's a possibility -- probably a year from now."

LaVerne, the eldest of the sisters, died in 1967. Patty stopped speaking to
Maxene five years ago because of salary disagreements for _Over Here_.
The contracts were negotiated separately, and when Maxene balked at
accepting $1000 a week less than her sister, the national tour was abruptly

"I never in my wildest dreams thought that we would separate, because
we've always been very close," says Maxene sadly. "When people say,
'You're feuding with your sister,' I say that's not the truth. Because it
takes two people to fight, and I'm not fighting anyone. She's just not
talking to me.

"It took me a long time to be able to handle the separation. I used to wake
up every morning and say, 'What have I done?' But now I just throw it
up to Jesus, and I leave it there. I hope and pray that one of these days we
can bring everything out in the open, and clear it up. I love Patty very
much, and I'm very surprised that she's not out doing her act, because
she's very very talented. She's been doing the _Gong Show_, which I --
it's none of my business, but I would highly disapprove of. I think it's
such a terrible show."

Maxene owns a house outside of Los Angeles, and was "born again" a
couple of years ago at the Church on the Way in Van Nuys, California.
When she's on Manhattan's East Side, which is often, she shares the
apartment of Dr. Louis Parrish, an M.D. and psychiatrist whom she
describes as "a true Southern gentleman."

The Andrews Sisters, who recorded such hits as "Bei Mir Bist Du
Schoen," "Rum and Coca Cola," "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree,"
"Apple Blossom Time," and "Hold Tight," arrived in New York from
Minneapolis in 1937 and took the city by storm with their wholesome,
sugar-sweet harmonies and innovative arrangements. Soon they were
making movies as well. _Buck Privates_ (1940, which featured Abbott and
Costello and the song "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," was Universal's
biggest moneymaker until _Jaws_ came along in 1975. "I didn't
particularly care for making movies," comments Maxene. "I found it very
boring and very repetitious, and certainly not very creative. But working
with Bud and Lou was a lot of fun."

Now divorced, Maxene has a 33-year-old daughter named Aleda and a 31
year-old son, Peter, who live in Utah. She has written her autobiography,
but it hasn't been sold to a publisher "because I refuse to write the kind
of books that they want written today. Ever since the Christina Crawford
book came out, that's all the publishers want. ... I think the trend will
pass, because we're really getting saturated in cruelty and lust and
whatever else you want to call it."

Asked about the changes in her life since her religious reawakening,
Maxene says, "Darling, everything has improved. My disposition has
improved. I used to be impossible for anybody to work with. ... I'm now
reconciled to the feeling that I am never alone, and that in Him I have a
partner, and that if I run into a problem that I can't solve, then I'm not
supposed to solve it -- because we're just mere mortals."


To star in Neil Simon's new musical


Bad timing. That's what had plagued me ever since I had tried to get an
interview with Lucie Arnaz last June. Back then, I was supposed to get
together with her downtown, but our meeting was canceled at the last
minute. My second appointment, set for August 31 in her dressing room
just before a performance of _Annie Get Your Gun_ at the Jones Beach
Theatre in Wantagh, Long Island, now seemed in jeopardy as well. I was
kept waiting nervously outside while the house manager insisted that Lucie
was engaged in "a very important telephone call."

But when the young star finally emerged, her face beaming with delight,
I found that my timing could not have been better. Lucie had just received
official word that a major new Broadway role was hers. As we sat down
to talk, Lucie was in one of those radiant moods that come only in times
of triumph. She had been chosen for the female lead in a new musical,
_They're Playing My Song_, which is scheduled to open in Los Angeles
in December and on Broadway in February. The show has music by
Marvin Hamlisch and lyrics by Carole Bayer Sager. The book is written
by Neil Simon.

"I'm a lousy auditioner -- at least, I thought I was," grinned Lucie. "This
new musical will be probably the pinnacle of what I've been aiming for.
... It's about a fairly successful lyricist who's not nearly as successful as
the composer she's going to work with. Neil Simon has always wanted to
do a play about songwriters. It's a very hip, pop musical. It doesn't have
regular Broadway-type tunes."

She flopped back on the sofa touching my arm from time to time for
emphasis, and chatted on in her mildly raspy voice. Finally she moved to
a seat in front of the mirror and invited me to keep talking while she put
on her makeup. There is a quality about her that suggests toughness, but
this impression melts away under her girlish charm. At 27, Lucie is
already an 11-year veteran of professional acting and singing. When she
performed at Jones Beach this summer, up to 8,000 people per night came
to see her.

Lucie first transplanted herself from the West Coast to the West Side on
a full-time basis last winter, although, she admitted, "I had a New York
apartment for four years which I would visit every couple of months. For
some sick reason, I really like New York. There's a lot of crazy people
doing strange things on the streets, but there's also a lot of creative forces

"I went to do an interview this morning for my radio show and it started
raining. By the time I had walked six blocks I was looking terrible, and
it suddenly occurred to me that I would never present myself like that in
California. In New York, who gives a damn if you've got water on you
when you come to work? On the West Coast, the things that aren't
important they seem to put on pedestals." Her radio show, which she
started this year, is a nationally syndicated five-minute interview spot
called _Tune In With Lucie_.

>From 1967 to 1972 she was a regular on her mother's TV show, _Here's
Lucy_. She has made countless guest appearances on other shows, and
performed lead roles in numerous musicals. Her parents, Lucille Ball and
Desi Arnaz Sr., were divorced more than a decade ago and have both

"My mother was here for opening night, then she stayed a couple of days
in New York. But she gets too lonely when my brother Desi and I go
away for too long. He was here for most of the summer. He was doing
a movie called _How To Pick Up Girls_. He played the guy who
supposedly knew all about it -- one of the two stars. He said, "It's funny,
I meet girls on the street, and New York has the most beautiful girls in
the world, and when they ask me what I'm doing here and I tell them the
name of the movie, they walk away and say, 'You dirty toad!'" Desi also
plays the groom in the new Robert Altman film, _A Wedding_.

"My father is now putting an album together of the music that was
recorded for the old _Lucy Show_. Salsa music is coming back now, so
he's been asked to make an album of those tapes."

Speaking of her hobbies, Lucie noted that "recently I started to build a
darkroom in my house. The key word is started. It's hard to get the time.
... And I have been writing songs for the last couple of years. I'm a
lyricist. I've sung them on things like _Mike Douglas_ and _Dinah_."

She enjoys all of New York, though at one time "the East Side gave me
the ooga boogas. Then I found a couple of places there that were nice."
On the West Side, she likes to dine at La Cantina, Victor's Cafe, and
Ying, all on Columbus Avenue near 71st and 72nd Streets.

When the five-minute warning sounded in her dressing room, Lucie had
to turn me out, but not before she divulged her philosophy about show
business. "Am I ambitious?" she echoed. "I don't know. There are people
who are willing to really knock the doors down and do just about anything
to get there. I'm not like that. Even now, when I go to the market, people
come up to me and say, 'Aren't you. ... ?' So I can imagine what it
would be like to be a superstar. No, I'm not really looking forward to


America's best-selling beauty author


As a young girl in Englewood, New Jersey, Adrien Arpel was determined
that one day she would transform herself into a beautiful woman. After
having her nose bobbed, she began to pester the ladies behind every
cosmetic counter she could reach, and by the time she graduated from
high school at 17, she knew more than they did. That same year she
opened a small cosmetics shop in her hometown with $400 earned from
baby-sitting. Today, at 38, she is the president of a $12 million-a-year
company selling more than 100 beauty products throughout the U.S. and

Not content with mere business success, she recently turned her talent to
writing her first book, Adrien Arpel's Three-Week Crash
Makeover/Shapeover Beauty Program (1977). It was on the _New York
Times'_ best-seller list for six months, and is still selling briskly in
paperback. Miss Arpel received $275,000 from Pocket Books for the
reprint rights -- the most ever for a beauty book.

"I have always been a rebel," she proclaims regally, dressed in a stylish
Edwardian outfit with padded shoulders at her midtown office. Quite
heavily made up, with hot pink lipstick and a Cleopatra hairdo, she looks
considerably younger than her age. The strident quality of her voice is
reminiscent of a Broadway chorus girl's, yet is delivered in a crisp,
businesslike manner. During the interview she rarely smiles or strays from
the question being asked. For some reason, she declines to say much
about her new book, _How to Look 10 Years Younger_, which is
scheduled for publication in April. Instead, she stresses the simple,
common-sense rules about beauty that have guided her career from the

Probably her two most important innovations are her exclusive use of
nature-based, chemical-free products (chosen from leading European
health spas) and her policy of try-before-you-buy makeup. Complimentary
makeup is offered every time a customer gets a facial at one of the
hundreds of Adrien Arpel salons, such as those on the first floor of
Bloomingdale's and Saks Fifth Avenue.

Whenever she opens a new salon, Adrien spends the entire day on her
feet, doing upwards of 35 facials with her own pale, delicate hands.

Upon being complimented for her attire, Miss Arpel gasps, "Thank you!"
with schoolgirlish delight. There is something almost surreal in her
creamy white complexion. "I think sunbathing is absolutely deadly, and
that there is no reason in the world for a woman to sunbathe," she says.
Moments later, she admits that "high heel shoes are not very good for
you," but that she wears them anyway, "because they're very fashionable.
They are something that really can be a problem -- if they're pitched
wrong. If you have a good shoe and it's pitched well, you shouldn't have
a problem"

Does she think it would be a good idea for women to give up high heels
altogether? "No, no. I don't think you'll ever get women to give up
fashion. So we can tell what's problems, what's really hazardous, what's
going to be injurious to your health, and what's going to just hurt a little

She never thought of writing a book until about four years ago, says
Arpel, because "every second when I was away from my business, I spent
with my daughter. Now my daughter's 16 and a half, and has a boyfriend,
and goes out, and doesn't want to spend every minute with me. This all
started when she was about 13." Adrien and her husband, manufacturer
Ronald Newman, moved to the New York metropolitan area right after
they were married in 1961, and acquired an Upper East Side apartment
last summer.

For her own health and beauty regimen, Adrien begins her typical day
with jumping rope. She thinks weight training for women is "terrific," but
considers jogging the best all-around exercise. "Now, jogging has its
negatives. I get up very early in the morning, and if you jog while it's still
dark out, it can be dangerous. I also have long hair, and you have to wash
your hair after you jog. So for someone that works, I find that I can only
do it three days a week."

She has a facial twice weekly. "Facials are not luxuries. They are
necessities to peel off dead surface skin. ... Air pollution is the reason. If
it wears away stone on buildings, think what it can do to the skin." A
facial, she explains, consists of "all different sorts of hand massages to
deep-cleanse the skin with coconut-like milk, or some sort of sea kelp
cleanser. Then there's a skin vacuum which takes blackheads out --
electric brushes with honey and almond scrubs which clean out the pores.
And at the end, a mask. Nature-based again -- orange jelly, sea mud, or

Arpel believes that a woman's makeup should be largely determined by
her profession. She reveals a humorous side when asked whether a woman
stockbroker, for example, should always dress conservatively. "Well, if
she was wearing a see-through blouse and no bra in her office, I'd
certainly think she had poor taste," she laughs.

A nonsmoker who consumes little alcohol, she confesses to at least one
vice: "I drink two cups of coffee in the morning, sometimes more. Also
not wonderfully good for you -- but I never said I was a hundred percent


Author of 188 books


In 1965, when the Science Fiction Writers of America held a national
convention to vote on the best science fiction ever published in this
country, they sifted through hundreds of nominations dating back to the
1920s before coming up with the winners. _Nightfall_ (1941) received the
most votes for a short story and the _Foundation_ trilogy won for the best
series of novels. The author of both works: Westsider Isaac Asimov.

Had Asimov died 25 years ago, his fame would still be secure. But he
remains more active than ever. He is, among other things, one of the most
prolific authors in the world, publishing an average of one book and three
or four magazine articles per month.

He is sitting at an electric typewriter in his West 66th Street penthouse
when the doorman informs him that two visitors have arrived. Asimov is
expecting a single reporter; but he says OK, so my roommate John
Cimino and I get on the elevator. We stop at the 33rd floor. Asimov, clad
in his undershirt, meets us at the door, hangs up our coats, and takes us
into the living room adjacent to his working area. Along one wall is a
glass-enclosed bookcase containing the 188 books Asimov has written in
his 40-year literary career.

"This is my section of the apartment," he says. "The blinds are down
because I always work by artificial light." I tell him that John has come
along to ask questions about science -- Asimov is an expert in more than
20 scientific disciplines -- while I will be asking about science fiction
Asimov complies, and after about 10 minutes, he opens us completely and
gives each answer with enthusiasm.

He has lost a little weight recently, and in fact had a mild heart attack
earlier this year, but Dr. Asimov is as creative as ever -- perhaps more
so. One of his latest projects is _Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction
Magazine_. It first appeared on the newsstands early in 1977 and has
since built up a broad readership throughout the U.S., Canada and Great

"It was the idea of Joel Davis of Davis Publications," says Asimov. "He
publishes _Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine_, _Alfred Hitchcock's
Mystery Magazine_, and many others. He decided that science fiction was
doing well and that he wanted a science fiction magazine -- something
with the name of someone, like Ellery Queen. ... He asked me if I was
interested. ... I wasn't really, because I had neither the time nor the
inclination to edit the magazine."

Asimov found the time. He and Davis worked out a formula for the
author to lend his name and picture to the magazine cover and to become
the editorial director. Asimov writes the editorials and some of the fiction,
answers readers' letters and helps with the story selection. George
Scithers, the editor, has a major role in deciding the magazine's contents.

_Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine_ began as a quarterly and if all
goes well, will soon become a monthly. Some of its contributors are
writers in their 20s who are publishing their first stories. Containing many
illustrations and almost no advertising, the 200-page magazine is available
at numerous Westside newsstands for $1.

Born in Russia and raised in Brooklyn, Asimov graduated from college
and published his first short story while in his teens. For many years, he
taught biochemistry at Boston University. In 1970, he returned to New
York and settled on the West Side. He is married to a psychiatrist and
psychoanalyst who practices under her maiden name of Dr. Janet Jeppson;
her office is on the opposite end of the apartment. She too is a writer,
having published a science fiction novel and some stories.

"The West Side, as far as I'm concerned, has more good restaurants than
any other place on earth, though I have not been to Paris," says Asimov,
who hates flying. He made a trip to Europe last year on the Queen
Elizabeth II -- and came back on the return voyage. "It wasn't a
vacation," he says. "I gave two talks each way and I wrote a book."

The IRS, he says, cannot believe that he doesn't take vacations. "In the
last seven years," he testifies, there has been only one time -- two days in
June of 1975 -- that I went on a trip and didn't do a talk. And even then,
I took some paper with me and worked on a murder mystery. You see,
a vacation is doing what you want to do and to stop doing what you have
to do. .. But I like what I, so I'm on vacation 365 days a year."

Asimov's biggest writing project these days is his massive autobiography,
which he expects to finish by the end of the year. "It will probably be in
two volumes," says Asimov, grinning, "which is unreasonable,
considering that I have led a very quiet life and not much has happened
to me."

* * *


from _The Westsider_, 12-1-77

Morning has come to the West side. In a penthouse high above 66th
Street, a middle-aged man enters his study, pulled down the shades and
fills the room with artificial light. Reference books at his elbow, he sits
down at his electric typewriter and begins to tap out sentences at the rate
of 90 words per minute. Fourteen hours later, his day's work complete,
Dr. Isaac Asimov turns off the machine.

In such a way has Asimov spent most of the past seven years, ever since
he moved to the West Side from Boston. In a 40-year literary career
stretching back to his teens, he has written and published 188 books,
including science fiction, science fact, history, mystery, and even guides
to Shakespeare and the Bible. Asimov has also written more than 1,000
magazine and newspaper articles, book introductions and speeches.

Though his pen has never been silent since he sold his first piece of fiction
to Amazing Stories in 1939, Asimov is now enjoying the most productive
period of his career. Since 1970 he has written 85 books -- an average of
one per month. He does not dictate his books; nor does he have a
secretary. Asimov personally answers some 70 fan letters per week, and
he gives speeches frequently. He also finds time for the press.

The following interview took place on a morning late in October in the
sitting room adjoining his study. Along one wall was a bookcase
approximately 6 by 8 feet containing Asimov's collected works.

Question: Dr. Asimov, have you set any goals for yourself for the next 10
years or so?

Asimov: I'm afraid I don't generally look ahead. Right now my
autobiography is the big project ... . I have no ambition whatsoever
outside of my writing. I expect to write as long as I stay alive.

Q:        Could you say something about your autobiography?

A:        It's longer than I thought it would be. As soon as I get you out I'm
going to deliver pages 1374 to 1500 to Doubleday. I'm hoping to get it
finished by the end of the year ... . It will probably be in two volumes --
which is unreasonable, considering that I've led a very quiet life and not
much has happened to me. I guess the only thing is that I tend to go on
and on when I'm on my favorite subject.

Q:        What made you choose the West Side to live?

A:        I can't honestly say I chose the West Side. When I came to New
York in 1970, I lived where I could, which happened to be the West Side.
But now that I'm here, I like it. I was brought up in New York and went
to Columbia ... . I've always identified myself with Manhattan. My
publishers -- almost all of them are in Manhattan. Taxis are available at
any time. I West Side, as far as I'm concerned, has more good restaurants
within walked distance than any other place on earth, though I have not
been to Paris. I have learned to tolerate the traffic and the pollution and
the litter. When I go to the East Side it looks dull by comparison.

Q:        I see that your science fiction story "Nightfall" has been made into
a record Albert. And I also remember the movie version of your
_Fantastic Voyage_. Do you have plans for making movies or recordings
out of your other science fiction works -- for example, the _Foundation_

A:        Fantastic Voyage was the other way around; my book was made from
the picture ... . The Foundation series has been turned into a radio show
in Great Britain. There have been other stories of mine which were turned
into radio shows in the 1950s. I have expensive pictures under option.
Whether anything will turn up in the future I don't know, and to be
perfectly honest, I don't care. I am perfectly happy with my writing career
as it is. I have complete control over my books. When something is put
into the movies it can be changed, often for the worse. I might get nothing
out of it both money, and I have enough money to get by.

Q:        How to did the new Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction magazine get

A:        It was the idea of Joel Davis of Davis Publications. He publishes
Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine,
and many others. He decided that science fiction was doing well and he
wanted a science fiction magazine -- something with the name of someone.
He had seen me, because I had brought in some stories for Ellery Queen.
He asked me if I was interested ... . I wasn't really, because I had neither
the time nor the inclination to edit the magazine. So he hired George
Scithers to be the editor and made me the editorial director ... . It's been
a quarterly to begin with. The fifth issue, which will go on sale in
December, will be the first of the bimonthly issues. After the second year
it will be a monthly if all things go well.

Q:        Could you tell me something about your family life?

A:        My wife is a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, and she has her office
in the other end of this apartment. She's the director of training at the
William Alanson White Institute on West 74th Street. The name she
practices under is Dr. Janet O. Jeppson -- that's her maiden name. It's
Mrs. Asimov but Dr. Jeppson. She's also a writer. She's published a
science fiction novel and a few short stories and has a mystery novel she's
trying to sell.

Q:        Do you stimulate her writing by your own work?

A:        If anything, I inhibit it. She was a writer for years before she met
me. If she weren't married to me, she would probably write more. In fact,
I encourage her. But it's hard when your husband writes as fast as he can
type and publishes everything he writes.

Q:        Do you have any children?

A:        Yes, I have two children by my first marriage -- a boy 26 and a girl
22. He's working at a gas station and the girl is a senior at Boston College
... . When she left home at 15, I said the only thing I ask of her was not
to smoke. So she's done that. What else she does, I don't know, but she
doesn't smoke.

Q:        I realize that you are considered an authority in at least 20 branches
of science. Have you ever done in original scientific research?

Q:        I am still assistant professor of biochemistry at Boston University,
though I no longer teach. Yes, I did original research from 1946 to 1958
... . I could not with honesty say I accomplished anything of importance.
I am not a first-rank researcher -- perhaps not even a second-rank
researcher. It surprised me too. I found that my heart was in writing.

Q:        Where do you go for vacation?

A:        I don't go on vacation really. I sometimes go off to do a talk and I
try to make that a little vacation. I work. In the last seven years there has
been only one time -- two days in June of 1975 -- that I didn't do a talk.
And even then I took some paper with me and worked on a murder
mystery. You see, a vacation is doing what you want to do and to stop
doing what you have to do ... . But I like what I do, so I'm on vacation
365 days a year. If I had to play volleyball, fish, etcetera, that would be
real work. In fact, the IRS can't believe I don't take vacations. If they can
figure out how to write one book a month and still take vacations ... . I
do travel, although I never fly. Last year I crossed the ocean on the QEII
without stopping. But, I gave two talks each way and I wrote a book.

Q:        Since you live week three blocks of Lincoln Center, do you attend the
performing arts?

A:        I am a very ill-rounded person. I am fascinated by what I do. And
what I have done is to try to take all knowledge for my province, but I
have tended to concentrate on science, mathematics and history. In regard
to art, I can't even say I know what I like.

Q:        What do you think of abolishing mandatory retirement, as Congress
is considering? What will it like when people keep working indefinitely?

A:        That was the condition until the 1930s. This forced retirement is a
product of the Great Depression. We're moving back to situation that has
always existed for mankind, which is to let people work as long as they
can. If the birthrate continues to go down the percentage of young people
will be smaller. I think that computerization and automation will alter
completely the concept of what is work. We're not going to think of jobs
the same way as we used to.

Q:        Do you think you could ever retire?

A:        There might well come a time, if I live long enough, when I can no
longer write publishable material. Then I will have to write for my own
amusement. Rex Stout's last book was written when he was 88 years old.
P.G. Wodehouse was writing pretty well in his early 90s. Agatha Christie
was falling off in her 80s ... . I had a heart attack this year. I might keep
writing for another 30 years. But if for some reason I am no longer able
to write, then it will certainly take all the terrors of dying away, so there
will be that silver lining ... . So far, I detect no falling off of my abilities.
In fact, this year my story "The Bicentennial Man" won all the awards.

"Is there anything also you'd like to ask me?" Said Asimov when I had
run out of questions. At that moment the telephone rang: he told his caller
that no, he would, regrettably, be unable to accept an invitation to speak
at Virginia because it was too far to go by grain. "It's more my loss than
yours," he said.

When I assured Asimov that there were no more questions, he disappeared
into his study and emerged with a copy of his latest science fiction book,
The Bicentennial Man and Other Stories. He signed it and presented it to
me. As he walked me to the elevator he took a peek at his watch. His
parting comment was: Let's see, I have to be downtown at 11:30. That
gives me 1:30 minutes to dress and 10 minutes to write."


Artistic director of the New York City Ballet


To some people he is known as the Shakespeare of dance -- a title that he
probably deserves more than anyone else now living. But to his friends
and colleagues, he is simply "Mr. B" -- George Balanchine, the ageless
Russian-born and trained choreographic genius whose zest for living is
matched only by his humility and his sense of humor.

Balanchine has almost single-handedly transplanted ballet to American soil
and made it flourish. What's more, he has played the central role in
making New York the dance capital of the world, which it undeniably is
today for both classical and modern dance.

Now in his 30th consecutive year as artistic director of the New York City
Ballet, Mr. B. shows no signs of slowing down. He continues to direct
most of the dances for his 92-member company and to create new
choreographic works of daring originality. He continues to teach at the
School of American Ballet, which he cofounded in 1934 with Lincoln
Kirstein. And Balanchine can still, when he chooses, write out the parts
for all the instruments of the orchestra. Yet he thinks of himself more as
a craftsman than a creator, and often compares his work to that of a cook
or cabinetmaker -- two crafts, by the way, in which he is rather skilled.

I meet George Balanchine backstage at the New York State Theatre during
an intermission of one of the season's first ballets. It's not hard to guess
which man is Balanchine from a distance because, as usual, he is
surrounded by young dancers. When he turns to face me, I see that he is
dressed simply but with a touch of European elegance. The man is small
of stature and quite frail in appearance. His English is strongly accented
yet easy to understand. A smile seems to be forever playing on his lips,
and when he converses with someone, he gives that person his full,
undivided attention.

"Why has dance become so popular in New York?" He gazes at me from
the depths of his eyes."I don't know why. People get used to us. It took
30 years to train New York," he says with feeling. "Maybe you can train
Los Angeles. You cannot train Boston. You cannot train Philadelphia --
there are too many big men with big cigars."

Soon he is improvising on the theme. "Certainly New York is
representative of America. All America should pay taxes in New York to
make it beautiful. Because in Europe, everybody wants to be in New York
to show off. ... I think that I will suggest to senators and presidents and
everybody to pay taxes to New York."

Mr. B, who left his native St. Petersburg in 1924 and spent the next nine
years working as a ballet master throughout Europe, was persuaded by the
American dance connoisseur Lincoln Kirstein to come to the U.S. in
1933. Since then, Balanchine has toured the world with the New York
City Ballet. He finds the home crowd, however, to be the most

"We are here 25 weeks," he explains. "It's always packed. In Paris, you
cannot last two weeks. In Los Angeles, in London, they do not like the
dance so much as here. In San Francisco, there were five people in the
audience. We showed them everything. They don't care. They're snobs.
They only want a name. In New York, it's different. In New York, they
like the thing for itself."

Balanchine does not write down his dances. How, then, does he remember
such works as _Prodigal Son_, which he created almost 50 years ago and
revived this season for the New York City Ballet? "How do you
remember prayers?" he says in response. "You just remember. Like
Pepperidge Farm. I know Pepperidge Farm. I remember everything."

He dislikes excessive terminology. "I used to be a dance director," he says
in mock lament. "Now I have become a choreographer. Choreographer is
the wrong title. Because dance is like poetry, see?"

_Prodigal Son_, in which the biblical story is danced out dramatically, is
an example of a ballet with a plot. But the majority of Balanchine's works
are based purely on music and movement. "The literary thing does not
always work," he says. "You cannot move. There's very few stories you
can do."

Tchaikovsky and Stravinsky are the composers he most likes to use for
new dance works. The late Igor Stravinsky, a fellow Russian expatriate
who was his longtime friend and collaborator, once described Balanchine's
choreography as "a series of dialogues perfectly complimentary to and
coordinated with the dialogues of the music."

In spite of his fondness for Russian composers, Balanchine has no
hesitation in naming Fred Astaire as his favorite dancer. "No, I don't use
his ideas because he's an individual." says Balanchine. "You cannot use
his ideas because only he can dance them. There is nobody like that.
People are not like that anymore."

A resident of West 67th Street, Balanchine shows even more than his
usual exuberance when speaking of the West Side. "It's the best side. It's
like the Rive Gauche (in Paris). We have the best hotels, like the Empire,
the best restaurants -- Le Poulailler (W. 65th St.) has such good French

"We have no strikes here, nothing," he continues, grinning widely.
"Everybody's very nice, friendly. They help each other. I invite
everybody on the East Side to come here. They don't come because
they're snobs. The West Side? It's the cleanest side. Also there is no
crime here. There's no police here."

died 4-30-83, born 1-22-04.


Drama and dance critic


He's still the most famous drama critic in America, if not the world.

His name has not yet disappeared from the subway walls or from the signs
in front of the theatres along Broadway. And even though Clive Barnes
was recently replaced as the _New York Times'_ drama critic, he remains
the most-quoted authority in the newspaper ads. He is still the _Times'_
dance critic. He still does his daily radio spot on theatre for WQXR
Radio. He still lectures around the country and writes a column for the
_London Times_. At 50, Barnes does not mind the slightly calmer pace
his life has taken.

"I don't know why I was replaced," he says. "Papers have these policy
decisions. I suppose they wanted a change. They wanted to split the two
desks, dance and drama."

A refined, affable Englishman, Clive Barnes welcomes me into his West
End Avenue home and invites me to sit down and have some coffee for
five minutes while he puts the finishing touches on an article. His slim,
attractive wife Trish and his 15-year-old son Christopher talk to him while
he works. Soon the article is finished and he is relaxed in an armchair,
ready to answer questions. He holds a pen in his lap and occasionally
clicks it as we talk.

"Really, I much prefer New York to London," says Barnes, who spent the
first 38 years of his life in the British capital. "I'll never leave New York,
ever. When I first came here visiting before I came here to live, I adored
it. It's just been a very long love affair between myself and the city."

Born the son of a London ambulance driver, Barnes won a scholarship to
Oxford University, and while a student there began to write reviews on
theatre and dance. Following graduation, he worked in city planning for
10 years while moonlighting as a critic of theatre, dance, films and music.
Thus he built up a reservoir of knowledge in all the major performing
arts. In 1965, several years after Barnes got into full-time journalism, he
was doing such an impressive job as dance critic for the _London Times_
that the _New York Times_ made him a handsome salary offer to fill the
same role for them. Two years later the _Times_ offered him the post of
drama critic as well. Barnes kept the dual role until this year, when the
"new" _New York Times_ asked him to concentrate strictly on dance.

"Certainly American dance is the most important in the world, and has
been for at least 25 years," he says. "The reason for this is that you have
a very strong classical tradition, as well as a very strong modern dance
tradition. This is the only country in the world that has these two
traditions, and they intermesh, so that you have George Balanchine on one
side and Martha Graham on the other. This means that American dance
is astonishingly rich."

Barnes feels that Americans' television-viewing habits have made them
more appreciative of the subtleties of dance movement: "That same kind
of visual orientation that has made spectator sports what they are spins
off, and spreads over to things like dance." He notes that dance in New
York appeals more to the young -- to people who have been reared on
television. Broadway audiences, on the other hand, "tend to be
menopausal, and opera audiences to be geriatric."

Barnes finds the West Side the ideal place to live because of its proximity
to his work. Trish, herself an expert on dance, usually accompanies him
to opening-night performances. "We can get to any Broadway theatre in
10 minutes," he says, "or walk to Lincoln Center. I can get to the paper
in about 10 minutes. The West Side has changed a little over the years.
I think it's gotten rather nice."

On nights off, Barnes enjoys going to the Metropolitan Opera or to a
movie. His son Christopher loves rock music and hates drama. He also
has a 14-year-old daughter, Maya. The family enjoys dining at many
restaurants in the Lincoln Center area, including Le Poulailler on 65th
Street near Columbus.

I ask Barnes if he can think of any plays that have been forced to close
because of unkind reviews. "That would presume it was an important play
which the critics misunderstood and killed," he says. "I don't think this
has actually happened. A play that gets awful notices by everyone is not
the victim of a vast critical conspiracy. It's usually a bad play. Harold
Pinter's _The Birthday Party_ got bad notices in London but it recovered
and went on and became successful."

For those who miss Barnes' views on theatre in the _Times_, his radio
broadcast can be heard on WQXR (1560 AM and 96.3 FM) Monday
through Friday, right after the 11 p.m. news.

Trish, Clive's biggest supporter, has no complaints about being the wife
of a celebrity. "It's very enjoyable, actually," she says with a wide smile.
"You meet fascinating people and see all the best things there are to see."


North America's most valuable soccer player


Last October, when Brazilian soccer virtuoso Pel‚ played his final game
as a professional, nearly 76,000 fans filed into Giant Stadium in East
Rutherford, New Jersey to bid farewell to the man who had almost single
handedly transformed soccer into a major American sport. It was a fitting
cap to Pel‚'s career that his team, the Cosmos, won the North American
Soccer League championship last season over 23 other teams.

But while the Brazilian superstar was reaping most of the publicity, one
of his teammates, Franz Beckenbauer, was quietly getting things done. It
was probably he, more than anyone else, who won the title for the
Cosmos -- not by scoring goals, but by controlling the midfield with his
pinpoint touch passes and setting up the offense to go in for the shot.

In May, 1977, he shocked the sports world by quitting his West German
team, Bayern Munich, and signing a $2.8 million contract to play with the
Cosmos for four years. And though he missed one-third of the 1977
season, Franz still received last year's Most Valuable Player award for a
league encompassing 600 players from around the world. This season
again, thanks largely to his efforts, the Cosmos clinched their division title
and are a heavy favorite to repeat their victory in the Soccer Bowl -- the
Super Bowl of soccer. This year the Soccer Bowl will be held in Giant
Stadium on August 27. To be in that game, the Cosmos must first win in
the playoffs, which begin on August 8.

Beckenbauer is so famous in Germany that he finds it impossible to lead
a private life there. His fame is well deserved: Franz starred for the West
German national team in the 1966 World Cup finals and the 1970
semifinals, and captained the team when it won the World Cup in 1974.
During his 12 seasons with Bayern Munich of the German Soccer League,
he was named German Footballer of the Year four times and European
Footballer of the Year twice, and was runner-up on two other occasions.

But Franz is somewhat of a quiet, shy man, who does not like the
limelight. In New York he can be himself, and walk the streets
undisturbed, thinking about his wife and three children in Switzerland,
who will be joining him this month for a long visit.

I meet Franz on a July afternoon after a practice at Giant Stadium. As we
sit talking in the locker room, many of his teammates walk by and wave
to him or call his name. He is an extremely popular fellow both on and
off the field -- which explains why 72,000 people showed up for a game
last May commemorating Franz Beckenbauer Day. With his courtly
manners, he has rightfully earned the nickname "Kaiser Franz."

He could speak almost no English when he arrived in New York less than
two years ago at the age of 31, but has learned remarkably quickly. "My
mind was, soccer in the United States, it's easier to play. But it's not so
easy as I expect," he says, in his slightly hesitant but perfectly
understandable speech. "You have so different things, like Astroturf. You
have to play in the summertime. It's so hot. You have to make big trips,
like to Los Angeles. Sometimes it's more difficult to play here than in

When asked to compare soccer with American football, he says, "You
can't compare. It's a much different sport. As an American footballer,
you must be not a normal man. You must be maybe 200 pounds, and 6
foot 3, 6 foot 4 or 5. Everybody can play soccer -- big, tall, small -- if he
is skilled enough, if he has the brain to play.

"I started when I was 3, 4, 5 years old. I don't know exactly. But you
know, after the war, nobody has money. Soccer is the cheapest sport. No
courts, nothing. So we all start to play soccer, and after I was 10 years
old, I went to a little club in Munich. When I was 13 years old, I moved
to Bayern, Munich, and when I was 18, I was a professional."

Franz smiles at the mention of Manhattan. "When I signed the contract,
they asked me where I wanted to stay. In the suburbs? I said no, I want
to stay in the city. A friend of mine knows a businessman who lives
beside the Central Park. He is most of the year outside the country. The
apartment was free, and he let me have it for six months. I was very
lucky. I like to walk around the park to watch the people. I have been to
Lincoln Center a few times, and of course different shows on Broadway.
But I never saw a city like New York. You have so many good
restaurants. It's unbelievable."

During the off-season, Franz does some promotional work for both
Mercedes-Benz and Adidas, the sporting goods company that
manufactures, among other things, a Franz Beckenbauer soccer shoe. As
a result, Franz, who will be 33 next month, is not at all worried about his

"You know, when I started with soccer as a professional," he explains, "I
had an aim. I said when I'm finished with soccer, my life will be
different. I can say, 'I want to do this and this,' and not 'I must do this.'
When I finish my career, I would like to go through the United States in
a mobile with my family, to see all the states. That's for sure."


Creator of the _CBS Radio Mystery Theater_


During the 1930s, a comedy called _The Rise of the Goldbergs_ was
second only to _Amos & Andy_ as the most popular radio show in
America. Its success was due largely to the efforts of a young man from
Brooklyn named Himan Brown, who co-produced the series, sold it to
NBC and did the voice of Mr. Goldberg. He had started in radio drama
while in his teens, and soon after graduating from Brooklyn Law School
as valedictorian, decided to make radio, not law, his career.

During the next three decades, as producer of _Inner Sanctum Mysteries_,
_The Thin Man_, _Grand Central Station_, _Nero Wolfe_ and other
series, Brown became the Norman Lear of radio. But by 1959, it was all
over: the last network radio drama was forced off the air by the onslaught
of television. Brown, however, kept up a personal crusade for radio,
pounding on the desks of every broadcast executive he could reach.
Fourteen years later, in January 1974, his dream was realized, and radio
drama was reborn with the _CBS Radio Mystery Theater_.

The 52-minute show, it turned out, was long overdue. Within weeks, CBS
received 200,000 fan letters from listeners. Currently the _Radio Mystery
Theater_ can be heard in New York on Monday through Friday at 7:07
p.m. on station WMCA (570 AM). It is heard seven nights a week on
approximately 250 other stations across the country. Brown, the
producer/director, oversees every phase of the operation, from hiring the
writers and actors to directing and recording sessions from a control booth
at the CBS studios.

"I have never stopped believing," he says, "that the spoken word and the
imagination of the listener are infinitely stronger and more dramatic than
anything television can offer." He is a silvery-haired, distinguished
looking gentleman with a mischievous twinkle in hie eye and an endless
capacity for humor. Ruddy-complexioned and vigorous, dressed in a gray
pinstripe suit and a crimson tie, he approaches his work with an infectious

On a typical weekday, Brown arrives at the sound studio at 9 a.m. with
a batch of scripts under his arm, which he hands out to a group of actors
assembled around a table. Many are stars of the stage or screen -- Tammy
Grimes, Julie Harris, Tony Roberts, Fred Gwynn, Bobby Morse, Roberta
Maxwell, Joan Hackett. "I get the best actors in the world, right here in
New York," he notes with pride. "They work for me in the daytime and
on Broadway at night."

As the cast members go through a cold reading. Brown interjects his
comments: "Do a little more with that. ... Don't swallow your words
there. ... Cross out that line." The actors laugh and joke their way
through the session; Brown is the biggest jokester of all. Finally everyone
takes a break before doing the actual taping. Brown calls his 91-year-old
mother on the telephone and speaks to her in Yiddish for some time. Then
he answers a questions about his discoveries in sound effects.

"In the 1930s I was doing _Dick Tracy_, a very popular show. For sound
effects we had several doors. One of them screaked, no matter what we
did to it. I like to think that door was talking to us, saying, 'Make me a
star,'" he says with a smile.

The creaking door later became the signature for _Inner Sanctum
Mysteries_, and is now employed as the introductory note for the _Radio
Mystery Theater_, along with host E.G. Marshall's compelling greeting:
"Come _in_." Himan Brown also created the sound of London's foghorns
and Big Ben for _Bulldog Drummond_, the laugh of the fat Nero Wolfe,
and the never-to-be-forgotten train that roared under Park Avenue into
Grand Central Station.

When the recording session get underway, Brown observes the performers
through the thick glass of the control booth as they stand around a
microphone, reading their line with animation. From time to time he stops
the action and repeats parts of a scene. "It's all spliced together
afterwards," he explains.

In the late 1940s, Brown began to produce television dramas, such as
_Lights Out_ and the _Chevy Mystery Show_. He built a large TV studio
on West 26th Street for that purpose, which for many years he has leased
to CBS for filming the soap opera _The Guiding Light_.

For most of his career, Brown has been a resident of the Upper West
Side. The father of two, he is married to Shirley Goodman, executive vice
president of the Fashion Institute of Technology. He has long been
involved in community affairs and charitable organizations, including the
Federation of Jewish Philanthropies, the National Urban League and the
National Conference of Social Work. Brown is constantly in demand as
a public speaker, a fund-raiser, and a creator of multimedia presentations.

His plans for 1980 include reviving the _Adventure Theater_, a children's
radio with that he last did in 1977. "The best thing about radio drama,"
he joyfully concludes, "is that we can take you anywhere, unhampered by
sets, production costs, locations, makeup, costumes, or memorizing lines,
and make you believe everything we put on the air. ... The screen in your
head is much bigger than the biggest giant screen ever made. It gives you
an experience no other form of theatre can duplicate. It's the theatre of the


Creator, writer and producer of _Waste Meat News_


Every Saturday at 11:30 p.m., millions of Americans tune in to what is
indisputably the boldest, the most innovative, and frequently the most
tasteless comedy show on television -- NBC's _Saturday Night Live_. But
for the 400,000 residents of Manhattan who have cable TV, there is
another program -- also aired at 11:30, but on Sunday evening -- that is,
in its own way, even more offbeat.

Known as _Waste Meat News_, the half-hour satiric revue has been a
regular feature of Channel D since April, 1976, when a young Westsider
named Ferris Butler decided that he had the talent to write, direct, and
produce his own comedy series, even without money and film equipment.
Time has proven him right: last year, _TV World_ magazine discovered,
in a poll of viewers, that _Waste Meat News_ is the most popular comedy
program on cable, out of 150 public access shows.

A tall, willowy, 27-year-old with a quizzical expression permanently fixed
on his face, Ferris once worked as a part-time office boy at Channel 7's
_Eyewitness News_, and there he came to the conclusion that "TV news
is nothing but throwaway scraps, like sausages or hot dogs. ... Very little
protein, like waste meat."

Many of the skits he conceives have the same format as "straight" news
items, but have been twisted by his imagination into something
outrageous. In place of the standard weather reports, for example, there
is Ferris' "Leather Weather Girl," in which a girl is tied to a table, her
body representing a map of the world.

The weather reporter, while telling about an impending onslaught of rain
and snow, dramatizes his points by pouring a pitcher of water over the
girl, smothering her with shaving cream, and finally applying a blow
dryer to evaporate the messes while explaining that a warm air front will
follow. Other skits include "Swedish Grease," "Music to Eat Rice By,"
and "The Adversaries," in which two actors wearing grotesque masks
debate the question: should monsters be allowed to kill people, or just
frighten them?

Ideas for skits, says Ferris, come to him any time of night or day, now
that he has "stopped working at any legitimate job. I watch a lot of
television. But most of the time, I meander around the streets and just

"I remember when I got the idea for the foreign language cursing
detector. I was sitting on a bench in the park, smoking grass, when some
foreign tourists came and sat down, and started talking about me in
German like I was a bum. And I thought, why not have a portable siren
that goes off whenever a swear word is spoken in any language?"

He describes himself as "a very unregimented person who can't jive with
the mainstream industry." This accounts for much of the spontaneity in
_Waste Meat News_. The performers sometimes don't see the scripts until
the taping session. Each segment requires several run-throughs before it
is smooth enough to be filmed. Frequently the filming goes on far into the
night. Although the show is done with a single camera and half-inch
videotape, the final result makes up in charm what it lacks in professional

"Maybe I'm a little rough in the way I produce it," says Ferris, "but I'm
being a pioneer and I'm not worried about perfection as long as the
audience has a positive reaction."

His cast is an irregular group of about 15 unpaid actors and actresses,
most of them young. Two current stars of _Waste Meat News_ are Pat
Profito, a master of comedy who injects an infectious vitality into all of
his performances, and Laura Suarez, a Strassberg-trained actress and
former Playboy Bunny who frequently portrays the naive sexpot who
crops up in many of Ferris' sketches.

Most of the filming is done on the Upper West Side -- usually on the
street or in someone's apartment, but also in such diverse places as stores,
restaurants, the waterfront, boiler rooms and lobbies. A recent skit was
shot at a Westside swimming pool; it features Pat Profito as a swimming
instructor who teaches three bikini-clad beauties his "jump-in-and-swim"
method, in which he pushes them into the pool and expects them to swim
instinctively, or drown.

Ferris, who grew up in Queens and Brooklyn "and departed as soon as
was possible," studied filmmaking at New York University under Martin
Scorsese and was encouraged to pursue comedy writing. For the past five
years he has been married to Beverly Ross, a composer with many hits to
her credit including "Lollipop."

It's 10 seconds before midnight on Sunday evening. Time once again for
Ferris to bid his viewers goodnight. "And remember: stay alienated, stay
wiped out, and stay wasted."


Oscar-winning lyricist


"I've never written a song that didn't almost write itself," says Sammy
Cahn, one of the world's most successful lyricists of popular songs. "I'm
like the catalyst. It's like I start the boulder down the hill, but after that,
there's only one place it can go. I'm always thrilled by the adventure of
finding the lyric and leading it to a happy conclusion. If I come to the
slightest impasse, I've learned to stop, and look around and see what
needs to be done around the house. Then I come back, and it's so easy.
You can't go into combat with a lyric."

Over the past four decades, his songs have received four Oscars and more
than 30 Oscar nominations. Among his numerous hits, written in
collaboration with six different melodists, are "Three Coins in a
Fountain," "Love and Marriage," "Call Me Irresponsible" and "Let It
Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!" His musicals include _Anchors
Aweigh_ and _High Button Shoes_. As a performer, he has the distinction
of making his Broadway debut in 1974 at the age of 60, in a one-man
show with backup musicians titled _Words and Music_, in which he sang
his own material and told colorful stories about his life and career. For his
performance, Sammy won the Outer Circle Critic's Award for Best New
Talent on Broadway, as well as a Theatre World Award. Since then, he
has been in great demand all over the country as an entertainer.

Small, wiry and energetic -- he describes himself as "all glasses and
mustache" -- he is utterly without pretension, and seems as much at home
with strangers on the street as he is with royalty (last year he sang for
England's Prince Charles). He manages to embrace both worlds by
involving himself in many projects simultaneously.

Born on "the lowest part of the Lower East Side," he now has an
apartment in the East 60s with his wife Tita, a fashion designer. He has
another residence in Los Angeles, and spends about the same number of
days each year in the two homes.

Recently Sammy completed the songs for a new cartoon film of _Heidi_
and a series of songs for _Sesame Street_. He also works as a consultant
for Faberge, and has a large office in the company's East Side
headquarters. As president of the Songwriters Hall of Fame, Sammy
devotes much of his time to publicizing the non-profit organization's
museum on the eighth floor of One Times Square. It is open Monday
through Saturday from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., and admission is free. He
recently met with the producer of the Broadway musical _Annie_ to
discuss writing a new musical. He gives generously to many charitable

But the majority of his time these days goes to writing and performing
special lyrics for special occasions -- usually parodies of his own hit
songs. Sometimes he does this for profit, and sometimes for love. He was
paid handsomely to prepare a birthday celebration for Ray Kroc, the head
of Mcdonald's. But a couple of weeks ago, when a man wrote to Sammy
telling him how much his songs had meant to him and his wife over the
years, and asking him to please write some personalized lyrics for their
18th wedding anniversary, Sammy was "just enough of an idiot to sit
down and do it."

He works exclusively at the typewriter. "I have become almost audacious.
When I put a piece of paper in the typewriter, I know that the completed
song will be on that page. I'm very grateful to the man who invented
Correctotype and liquid paper. I start to type as soon as I get up, and I
think about songs all day long. When I sleep at night, I sleep with an
earplug in my ear, tuned to WCBS or WINS radio. They're both news
stations. The radio distracts me: it stops me from thinking about lyrics."

As we are talking, Sammy keeps remembering telephone calls he needs
to make, but he keeps them brief and to the point. As soon as he hangs
up, our conversation jumps immediately back to the previous subject, as
if there had been no interruption. He is extremely quick-minded -- to the
extent that his thoughts sometimes race ahead of him, and his sentences
lose their structure. In speaking of his son, a very successful jazz guitarist
who performs under the name Steve Khan, Sammy comments: "Now, my
son -- brace yourself -- my son -- this is one of my great, great
achievements -- my fame is coming from a very curious source. People
come up to me and say, 'You're Steve Kahn's father?'"

Asked about the satisfaction he has gotten from songwriting, Sammy
insists that he can't imagine a more rewarding career. "I once told that to
a college audience and a boy said, 'I'm studying to be a lawyer. What's
wrong with that?' I said, 'Nothing, but who walks down the street
humming a lawsuit?'"


Governor of New York state


It was 5 p.m. on the Friday before Labor Day. Governor Hugh Carey sat
alone in his office on West 55th Street, rubbing his forehead wearily with
both hands when his assistant press secretary, Judy Deich, ushered me in.
The introductions were brief, and the governor spoke very rapidly,
keeping is eyes on the table in front of him, where he was scrawling
pencil lines in geometric patterns on a piece of blank paper, as if to
maintain his concentration.

The Governor had been up for 12 hours, and his voice occasionally faded
to a whisper, but he answered all the questions with a flair and displayed
a sincere manner throughout. Sitting kitty-corner to me at a conference
table, he looked smaller and thinner than his photographs. He also looked
like one of the tiredest, most overworked men I had ever met.

"I have been staying on the West Side a lot since last September," he said.
"That's when my sons Donald and Michael got an apartment near Central
Park. They're kind enough to put me up there. We have the usual tenants'
complaints about the leaky ceilings and peeling paint. All in all, it's a
good building. I find more and more advantages to living on the West
Side. I like it because of the accessibility to work and because I jog in
Central Park.

"One of my headaches is Central Park. Some of my colleagues would like
to make it a national park. It's the city's biggest showplace. ... I want to
get the automobiles out of there more and more. In the morning, I see all
the New Jersey cars coming through. That's why I want Westway below
42d Street -- so it will take more pressure off the city. ... I wish everyone
would realize that Westway is not a road. It's a recessed highway -- more
of a tunnel."

Speaking frankly of the problem of ex-mental patients in parts of the West
Side, Carey said that "we have indexed all the SRO's. That was never
done before. ... The homeless people who live on the street are not the
wards of the state. We can't just go out and pick them up. ... If they need
some kind of health care, they should be taken to a shelter and given
health care. If they resist, we will have peace officers to take care of
them. That's something I'm doing with Mayor Koch."

Ever since he defeated Nelson Rockefeller's appointed successor, Malcolm
Wilson, in 1974, Hugh Carey has become well known for both his
conservative moral code and his unswerving fiscal restraint. Born on April
11, 1919, to an Irish Catholic family in Brooklyn, Carey grew up with
five brothers believing in certain principles that he has never abandoned.
These moral principles have become the foundation of his controversial
stands on the death penalty and abortion.

"I am against the death penalty," said Carey, "because the government can
make a mistake. A sentence of life without parole is better. There are six
people now walking around the state who were condemned to death and
later proven innocent. One is named Zimmy and he works on the West
Side in a garment factory. Somebody should ask him what he thinks about
the death penalty. He's alive because somebody confessed.

"I oppose abortion personally. But the Supreme Court upheld that it's the
choice of a woman of her own free will, and I support that ruling. In New
York, the state pays for it if it's a matter of medical necessity. Otherwise,
there might be a mangled body in a back alley. ... I'm also advocating an
alternative -- a teenage pregnancy bill, where girls can have a baby
without shame and go back to school. It's the most common reason for
dropouts among teenagers."

During World War II, Hugh Carey fought in France, Belgium, Holland
and Germany, and attained the rank of major. After the service, he
worked for many years as an executive in his brother Edward's Peerless
Oil and Chemical Corporation. Not until 1960, when he was 41 years old,
did Carey decide to run for political office. He won his first congressional
race and during the 1960s developed a national reputation for his liberal
attitude on education, and programs for the elderly and handicapped.

His life has twice been touched by deep personal tragedy in recent years.
An automobile accident in 1969 took the lives of his two eldest sons, and
cancer claimed his wife Helen in 1974. A man who loves the company of
other people, Carey enjoys such simple pleasures as cooking with friends
and singing with his children.

Asked about the chief difference between himself and Republican
challenger Perry Duryea, the governor replied with obvious glee: "I can't
think of anything we have in common. ... I'll knock the Y right out of his
name before I'm finished."

Generally known to be at his best in times of crisis, Carey said that
whenever the pressures of his office become too great for him to handle
alone, he drops into the chapel and asks for help. "It's a matter of privacy
to me; I go where I'm not seen," he said. "I need help quite a lot. Also,
I believe that New York is a very special place, with a resourcefulness
that can't be matched anywhere in the world. When people have come
together as New Yorkers, they have done amazing things."


Food editor of the _New York Times_


"To be a good restaurant critic, you shouldn't have a conscience," says
Craig Claiborne, food editor of the _New York Times_. "I used to visit
restaurants twice a day, frequently seven days a week, and lie awake
brooding about whether my reviews were honest -- whether I was hurting
somebody who didn't deserve to be hurt."

Recognized throughout the United States as the father of modern
restaurant criticism, Claiborne joined the _Times_ in 1957, and shortly
thereafter was given the go-ahead to write reviews based on a four-star
system. "The _New York Times_ made the decision. I was the
instrument. It was the first newspaper that allowed a restaurant critic to
say anything he wanted. It took a lot of guts, when a newspaper depends
on advertising."

A 58-year-old bachelor whose soft voice still carries strong traces of his
native Mississippi, Claiborne has few of the characteristics generally
imagined of a Timesman. He is a true bon vivant, and does not appear to
take himself or his work too seriously. He prefers to be called by his first
name, is not a particularly fashionable dresser, and spends as little time
as possible in Manhattan. In his lighter moods, such as that in which I
find him on the day of our interview, he delights in telling jokes that are
classics of schoolyard humor. The punch line, more often than not, is
drowned by his own uproarious laughter.

Although he has maintained a Westside apartment for the past nine years,
Claiborne spends most of his time at his house in East Hampton, Long
Island, next door to Pierre Franey, one of the greatest French chefs in
America, who, since 1974, has co-authored Claiborne's food articles for
the _New York Times_ Sunday magazine. Recently he purchased a larger,
more modern house about 15 minutes from Franey, which he plans to
occupy shortly. The pair cook together about five times a week. Claiborne
calls the house "my Taj Mahal -- my Xanadu."

He explains his jovial mood by saying that the night before, he attended
a big dinner party for restaurateur Joe Baum at the Four Seasons. "It was
an everybody-bring-something dinner. Jim Beard brought bread. I brought
saviche (marinated raw fish), and Gael Greene brought some chocolate
dessert. I got roaring drunk."

In spite of his earthiness, Claiborne unquestionably ranks as one of the
leading food authorities of his time. His articles, which appear in the
_Times_ each Monday, Wednesday and Sunday, cover every subject from
the particulars of a dinner for Chinese Vice-Premier Teng Hsiao-ping in
Washington (where Claiborne saw a rock group he had never heard of
called the Osmonds) to the six most creative ways of preparing scallops.
He has written numerous best-selling cookbooks, and he often travels
around the world on fact-finding missions.

Claiborne's rise from obscurity to the most prestigious food job in
America astonished no one more than himself, since his principal
qualifications were a B.A. in journalism and one year's training at a hotel
and restaurant school in Switzerland. However, the _Times_ knew exactly
what they were looking for when Jane Nickerson retired in 1957, and
Claiborne quickly proved to be the man of the hour. He threw himself
into his work with boundless energy, writing no less than five columns a
week, but his relationship with the newspaper eventually became a love
hate affair. "Things came to the point where I couldn't go to a restaurant
at night unless I came home here and had at least four Scotch and sodas
and four martinis. And at this point, I took myself off to Africa. I stayed
at the Stanley Hotel in Kenya, and I came back and said, 'Give me my
benefits. I'm quitting this place.' They thought I was kidding."

He wasn't. Claiborne left the paper for almost two years. "Then the
_Times_ came to me and said, 'Would you come back under any
circumstances?' And I must confess that I felt a great emotional relief."
He agreed to return if the paper would have someone else do the local
restaurant reviews; he also requested that his neighbor and cooking partner
Pierre Franey share the Sunday byline. The conditions were immediately

Claiborne's Westside apartment is painted green from floor to ceiling --
thus fulfilling an old fantasy of his. He describes the apartment itself as
"gently shabby," but says that the building, constructed in 1883, is "the
greatest residency in the entire island of Manhattan. You're catty-corner
from Carnegie Hall, you're six minutes by foot from Lincoln Center, you
can walk to any place on Broadway within seconds, and there are very
few restaurants you couldn't get to within five minutes of this place." His
favorite restaurant in all of Manhattan is the Shun Lee Palace (155 E. 55th
St.), while two other favorites on the West Side are the Russian Tea
Room and the Fuji Restaurant (238 W. 56th).

Asked about other interests or hobbies, Claiborne smiles mischievously
and replies: "I'm having a $6000 Bolton stereo system put into my new
Xanadu. You can clap your hands and change the tapes or records. I love
music and sex and food, and outside of that, forget it!"


Actor, director, producer, novelist, and Pulitzer Prize-winning dramatist


Eleven years ago, during my senior year in high school, I saw a movie
just before Christmas that made a deep impression. It was a film of a
stage play called _The Green Pastures_ -- a fascinating look at life in
biblical times, performed by an all-black cast.

The memory of that film remained in my consciousness like a religious
experience, although I never knew who wrote the play or when it was
written. So it was a welcome surprise to learn that this week's interview
would be with the play's author, Marc Connelly.

Connelly was born in a small Pennsylvania town in 1890, the son of a pair
of travelling actors. He wrote _The Green Pastures_ in 1930; it won that
year's Pulitzer Prize for drama. In his 70-year career Connelly has written
dozens of plays. One of the most versatile talents in the American theatre,
he has excelled as an actor, director, producer, playwriting professor at
Yale, and popular lecturer. He has written musicals, stage plays, movie
scripts and radio plays.

He was one of the original staff members of the _New Yorker_ magazine,
and became part of the famous round table at the Algonquin Hotel. One
of his short stories won an O. Henry award. His first novel was published
when he was 74 years old. Today, still an active playwright, he lives
peacefully at Central Park West, comfortable in his role as an elder
statesman of American letters.

I feel a certain freedom about repeating the comments Connelly made
during our interview because the first thing he said at the door was "I
never read anything about myself. ... It's not modesty; it's more terror --
for fear that some dark secret will emerge."

Yes, he said, he's very busy these days. "I've just completed a comedy
which I'm waiting to have done. I'd rather not mention the title before it
comes out. It's a comic fantasy."

He recently taped an appearance on the _Dick Cavett Show_, which will
be aired sometime this month. And he's working on a musical version of
_Farmer Takes A Wife_, a Broadway play that he co-authored in 1934.
It became a successful film the next year, with Henry Fonda's screen

"They're always reviving my plays. Last summer they did _Merton of the
Movies_ (which he wrote with George F. Kaufman in 1922) in that big
theatre complex in Los Angeles. It was quite successful. The boy that
plays John-Boy on the Waltons played Merton. It was quite good; I went
to see it."

Much as Connelly dislikes certain TV shows, he thinks very highly of TV
as a medium: "It's good, it's good. I like three or four shows. _Mash_ is
wonderful. I like _Maude_ every now and then. And Carol Burnett. I
might like _Kojak_ if it didn't run every five minutes. Three times a night
is too much for any TV show."

Any anecdotes about the "Vicious Circle" of the Algonquin Hotel -- whose
members included Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker, Edna Ferber,
Alexander Woollcott and George Kaufman? "Oh, I don't want to talk
about the round table," he said. "Every time you turn around there's a
new book about the round table. ... I've written about George Kaufman
and so have a hundred other people. It might be that he might get out of
his grave and club us all for writing about him."

Although _The Green Pastures_ is considered an American classic, it is
now performed only by school and amateur companies. Its depiction of
plantation life has become offensive to socially conscious blacks. "There
are Negro snobs," explained Connelly, "just like there are Irish snobs and
Jewish snobs. As soon as people get in a position of economic power,
they become sensitive about the way they are shown on the stage. It's a
very human, inevitable reaction."

However, he thinks that his masterwork is as valid today as ever. "It's a
statement about the fact that man has been hunting the divine in himself
ever since he became a conscious animal. And this is the story of one
aspect of his search for the divine in himself."

Connelly attends Broadway "when there's something I feel I want to see.
I walk out on quite a few. Theatre is just as strong today. A seasonal crop
may be poor, but theatre itself is healthy. It's probably the greatest social
instrument man ever invented. All religions have sprung from the

A Westsider since about 1920, Marc Connelly named Schwartz's Candy
Store on West 72nd as one of his favorite neighborhood businesses. "It's
one of the finest candy shops in New York," he said. "You can see my
portrait there. And the A&P at 68th and Broadway. There's a checkout
girl there named Noreen who's one of the best checkout girls in

The interview came to an end when I again asked Connelly about
television. Does he approve of it? "Of course," he said. "Any new public
addition is going to be condemned. They used to say, 'Don't go to the
movies. ... You'll go blind.' We're not blind and we still watch them."


Star of _The Edge of Night_


Although Los Angeles has long since taken over prime-time TV
programming, New York is still the headquarters for daytime drama --
also known as soap opera. Of the 13 "soaps," 10 are filmed in New York,
and of these 10, five have been on the small screen since the 1950s,
including _The Edge of Night_, which debuted in 1956.

The show's crime/mystery format has not changed much over the years,
but one thing that has changed, of course, is the cast of characters. Tony
Craig, who plays attorney Draper Scott, joined the show in November,
1975, and since then he has become one of the most popular male stars
in daytime television.

Tony owes his success not only to his good looks and his acting ability,
but also to his likable off-camera personality. Upon meeting Tony on the
set of _The Edge of Night_ during a busy shooting session, I cannot help
noticing the affection that the other cast members display toward him. His
ability to get along with everyone involved with the show -- especially
producer Nick Nicholson, and headwriter Henry Slesar -- has enabled
Tony to develop the role of Draper Scott into one of the four leading

"I was given a piece of advice when I started," says Tony. "One: keep to
your business and do what you're told, and two, answer your fan mail. I
answer all my fan mail with a very personal response. ... In the _National
Star_, I once said I was looking for Miss Right, and I got inundated with
letters. Some people sent plane ticket, asking me to come and see them."

As we sit down to talk in one of the dressing rooms, Tony puts on a tie
and jacket for an upcoming bar scene, but because only his top half will
be shown on camera, he does not bother to change out of his blue jeans
and running shoes. Tall, athletically built and boyish in appearance, he
discusses his work with an infectious enthusiasm.

"The closer I get to the character, the more I see that he and I are very
much alike," says Tony in his rapid speech. "It's funny, the way I've
assimilated him and he's assimilated me. It's like the dummy in _Magic_.
The character has gone from a very impetuous, aggressive, almost nasty
young man to a very quiet, strong, very reserved lawyer. It's changed to
the point where I'm a pillar of the community. Whenever there's a
problem, call Draper.

"I think I allow Tony a little more anger, a little more frustration, than
Draper allows himself. ... I'm very normal, I'm very average, I'm very
aggressive. Some people would say pushy. But I do what I have to."

Approximately 260 half-hour shows are filmed each year for _The Edge
of Night_, and Tony appears in most of them. He starts his day by
studying lines -- "we have about a week ahead to go over the script" --
and then goes to the studio on East 44th Street, where each scene gets just
one run-through before the final taping. A quick learner, Tony finds that
"I have plenty of time to do what I want." Last year he launched a
successful musical nightclub act and performed in two stage plays by Neil
Simon -- _Barefoot in the Park_ with Maureen O'Sullivan and _The Star
Spangled Girl_.

Another important aspect of Tony's life is sports. When growing up in
Pittsburgh, he says, "all I ever wanted was to be an athlete. My whole life
was baseball. But I just wasn't good enough." Now he works out three
times a week at the 21st Century Health Club on East 57th Street, jogs,
plays tennis and racquetball, and is on the softball and basketball teams of
both _The Edge of Night_ and the _ABC Eyewitness News_. Says Tony:
"The _Eyewitness News_ team plays all over the tri-state area and gives
the proceeds to charity."

Unlike his TV character, who recently brought up the ratings by marrying
the beautiful April Cavanaugh (played by Terry Davis), Tony lives alone
in an Upper East Side apartment. "How can I put this without sounding
full of beans and self-pity?" He remarks. "I find that life is a lot more
exciting when you share it with somebody. ... The girl I'm dating now is
a news reporter in Baltimore, Jeanne Downey. Long distance isn't the
next best thing to being there, believe me."

When Tony won the part of Draper Scott over 200 other actors, he was
working part-time as a bartender at Joe Allen's in the theatre district. "I
was doing commercials and a lot of modeling -- nothing significant.
Before this show, I'd never made more than $1,200 a year from acting.
I didn't expect to get the part, because they wanted someone in his mid
40s. They rewrote the script for a younger attorney. My agent signed me
up on a lark. That just goes to show: when it happens, it happens."

Tony hates to cook -- which is fine with the restaurateurs in his area. His
favorite dining spot is La Bonne Soupe (3rd Ave., 57th-58th St.): they
have the prettiest waitresses and most pleasant food."

Asked about the lasting value of soap opera, he quickly replies: "I believe
television has an obligation to do nothing but entertain. Everything on
television, even news, is show business. If it weren't, they wouldn't have
ratings and handsome newsmen."

Anyone wishing to hear from Tony should write to him at ABC, 1330
Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10019.


The comedian and the man


He was 43 years old when the big break came. Jack Roy, a paint salesman
from Queens who did comedy in his spare time, stood before the cameras
of the _Ed Sullivan Show_ and delivered a routine that soon had the
audience helpless with laughter. Whether they realized they were
witnessing the birth of one of comedy's brightest stars is uncertain. But
for Jack Roy -- better known as Rodney Dangerfield -- the long wait was

His unique brand of humor caught on immediately. Within a year he was
able to quit the paint business -- "it was a colorless job" -- and give his
full time to comedy. After 10 appearances with Sullivan he went on _The
Tonight Show_, and established such a smooth rapport with Johnny
Carson that he has so far been invited back about 60 times. With Carson
acting as "straight man," Dangerfield tosses off a string of outrageous
anecdotes that are in keeping with his image as a man who seems to have
the whole world against him.

The afternoon I meet Rodney Dangerfield at his spacious modern East
Side apartment is like a day straight out of his monologue. Coming to the
door dressed in a polka dot robe and looking quite exhausted, he
apologizes by saying that he has been up since 8 in the morning -- early
for someone who is accustomed to working past 4 a.m. As we sit down
to talk, he answers most of my questions with an unexpected seriousness.
Still, the humor creeps in around the edges.

"I have an image to feed. Most comedians don't," he says with a yawn,
sprawled out on the sofa like a bear prematurely woken from hibernation.
"If I see something or read something that starts me thinking, I try to turn
it around, and ask myself: How can it go wrong for me now? What can
happen here? For example, you're watching something on television. You
see Lindbergh on the screen. Your mind is on that TV. ... You get no
respect at all. You see the paper flying all over the place. You say, I get
no respect at all. I got arrested for littering at a ticker tape parade.

"Rickles has an image. Steve Martin has an image. But most don't. A lot
of comedians buy their material. Others take someone else's material and
steal it. We don't go into that, though."

Being a professional funny man, says Rodney, "is a completely total
sacrifice. It's like dope: you have to do it. ... The curse is to be a

He writes at least 90 percent of his act. Whenever an original joke flashes
into his mind, he drops whatever he's doing and jots it down. ("I get no
respect. On my wedding night I got arrested for having a girl in my
room.") Before a new gag can be thought worthy of _The Tonight Show_,
it must be tested and retested before a live audience. This is no problem,
for Rodney is constantly in demand all over the North American
continent, not only as a nightclub performer but also as a lecturer at
colleges. Last June he was invited to give the commencement address at
Harvard. "It's a strange thing," he remarks. "Kids are into me."

One probable reason for his appeal with the young is that Rodney has two
children of his own, an 18-year-old son in college and a 14-year-old
daughter who lives at home. It was mainly to lighten his travel schedule
and enable him to spend more time with his children that Rodney opened
his own nightclub nine years ago. Known simply as Dangerfield's, it is
located on First Avenue between 61st and 62nd Streets. Dangerfield's is
especially popular with out-of-town visitors. Among the celebrities who
have been spotted there: Bob Hope, Johnny Carson, Joe Namath, Telly
Savalas and Led Zeppelin. The entertainment usually consists of both
music and comedy -- Jackie Mason, singers Gene Barry and Carmen
MacRae, and America's foremost political impressionist, David Frye.

But the biggest attraction, of course, is Rodney himself. He will be
playing the club from January 5 until February 4, seven nights a week.
There is an $8 cover charge and a $7 minimum on food and/or drink.

Rodney has lived on the East Side since 1969. Born as Jacob Cohen 57
years ago in Babylon, Long Island, he spent most of his boyhood and his
early career in Queens. After graduating from Richmond Hill High
School, he changed his legal name to Jack Roy "because my father used
'Roy' in vaudeville." For years he worked small nightclubs for little or no
pay. Then at 28 he married. "My wife was a singer. So we decided to
both quit show business and lead a normal life. That doesn't always work

The first "no respect" joke he ever wrote, says Rodney, was: "I played
hide and seek. They wouldn't even look for me." The same basic gag has
since reappeared in a thousand variations. ("My twin brother forgot my

Rodney now earns a substantial part of his income by making
commercials, the best known of which are for Mobil and Miller Lite beer.
He has cut two comedy albums and written a pair of books, _I Don't Get
No Respect_ and _I Couldn't Stand My Wife's Cooking So I Opened a

For the moment, Rodney has no plans for other books or albums.
"Perhaps I'm not ambitious enough to pursue different things the way I
should," he confesses."I'd rather spend my free time at the health club.
The idea in life is not to see how much money you can die with."

Copyright 2004 The Associated Pr

Partner of nudes and _Time_ covers


In 1955, when Jan De Ruth's painting reached the point where he could
support himself entirely by his brush and palette, he used to take singing
lessons at 8 o'clock in the morning to make himself get up early. Today
he gets up strictly to paint, and does so with such skill and efficiency that
he maintains a reputation as one of America's foremost painters of nudes,
while still managing to turn out five or six commissioned portraits a

At 55 and in the zenith of his career, De Ruth is a mellow, dignified
Westsider whose lively eyes reflect the deep intellect within. His
achievements in the past two decades are enormous. His works have
graced nearly 70 one-man shows. His portraits of former First Lady Pat
Nixon and other celebrity wives have appeared on the cover of _Time_
magazine. He has written two widely popular books -- _Portrait Painting_
and _Painting the Nude_. As we relax in the workroom of his West 67th
Street apartment, I begin by asking how he came to specialize in nudes.

"I always knew I would paint women," he says in a soft voice shaded with
tones of his native Czechoslovakia. "In 1948, when I came to the United
States, I started to paint nudes."

Is his choice of subject matter motivated by something other than art's
sake?" "The only person I think who may have these thoughts in mind is
myself," he answers, smiling frankly, "because I always ask myself
whether these reasons are purely artistic or do they come from the gut?
I don't think there can be art unless it comes from the gut."

De Ruth's painting used to occupy him eight to 15 hours a day. Now he
is down to about seven hours. He works very rapidly, with intense
concentration. "I don't paint after the afternoon," he explains, "except
sometimes sketching at night. You exhaust your juices by the time evening
comes along."

One person he used to sketch after hours was actress Karen Black, who
lived in West 68th Street just across from his apartment. Says De Ruth:
"she would sit in the in the windowsill in her bra and slip. Then one day
I called over to her, 'Would you like to get paid for this?' She rushed
inside to get her glasses, and looked over at me, very surprised. She
became my model for some time."

For a woman to be an ideal nude model, said De Ruth, "she should be
gentle, as intelligent as possible, considerate, and somebody in the arts,
or with the sensitivity of an artist. And she must be physically attractive."

How do the women who pose fully dressed for commissioned portraits
compare to the professional nude models? "They work better than my
models usually," says the artist, who has painted Ethel Kennedy, Eleanor
McGovern, and the late Martha Mitchell for _Time_. "They're much
more concerned to participate. I don't think it's necessarily something to
do with vanity. It's much more curiosity. Because we never really know
until the day we die what we look like. Because we vary so much from
one time to another."

Ironically, Martha Mitchell -- wife of President Nixon's infamous attorney
general, John Mitchell -- posed for De Ruth inside the Watergate Building
during the height of her fame. "She had a certain peasant charm -- a
charm of her own," he recalls.

A man who craves variety, De Ruth has for many years spent his
summers at a studio in Massachusetts. This past summer he began to teach
painting in New Mexico -- something he has wanted to try for a long
time. A passionate skier, he travels to Austria each winter to pursue the
sport that he learned as a child, then gave up until his mid-40s.

His other after-work activities? "I love to be in the company of women,"
says the artist with a radiant smile, adding that he prefers their company
when he's not painting them.

The East Side, according to the artist, is "a city in itself. There's a
sterility over there, at least for me. I just can't see myself without this
mixture that the West Side is." De Ruth has been going to the same
Chinese laundry for 28 years -- Jack's on Columbus Avenue. Another
business he has patronized all that time is Schneider's Art Supplies at 75th
Street and Columbus.

As the interview comes to a close, I ask De Ruth what advice he would
give to an aspiring young artist. "Never be discouraged by anyone or
anything," he says. Then, to balance his remarks, he relates an anecdote
about an art student who asked Degas what he could do to help the world
of art. Replied Degas: "Stop painting."


The Met's super mezzo


Don't look for opera posters, photographs or reviews on the walls of
Mignon Dunn's Westside apartment. The Tennessee-born Metropolitan
Opera star, one of the world's most sought-after mezzo-sopranos since the
early 1970s, prefers to keep her two lives separate. She has no scrapbooks
and saves no clippings. "I look forward to what I'm doing tomorrow," she

"I don't like those stand-up-and-sing roles. I loves to play wicked women.
But you have to make them just as human as possible," she continues, her
gold jewelry jingling as she settles onto the sofa. Tall and attractive, with
large, expressive features, Miss Dunn is hospitality personified as she
talks about her life and career over a glass of wine.

This season at the Met she starred in both _Lohengrin_ and _Elektra_. In
the spring she will appear in _Aida_ on the Met tour, and perform the
role of Kundry in _Parsifal_ with Germany's Hamburg Opera. After that
she plans some orchestral and opera concerts across the country. Long
praised for her dramatic talents as well as her vocal skills, Miss Dunn has
already signed contracts for performances into 1984.

Although a few noted operas, such as _Carmen_, _Samson et Dalila_, and
_Joan of Arc_, have a mezzo in the title role, most operas feature the
higher-voiced soprano in the lead and a mezzo in a character role. "We
may not have the main roles, but we have some of the best parts in
_opera_," she says in her rich Southern accent, shouting the last word as
if from an overflow of energy. "Not many of the roles I get today are
angelic. It's often the 'other woman,' or the woman who causes the

Married since 1972 to Kurt Klippstatter, a conductor and music director
from Austria, Miss Dunn has never had any children of her own,
somewhat to her regret. But she and her husband frequently have their
nephews and nieces staying for extended periods. "Our niece Evi, from
Austria, is living with us now. She's like a little daughter, and I adore
her. She's 18, and she's going to go to nursing school." Mignon and Kurt
are a very gregarious couple who enjoy throwing huge dinner parties.
Mignon's cooking, like her singing, is international.

"I cook Austrian. I cook New Orleans. I cook some nice Italian and
French things. I'm going to be in Paris later this year for six weeks, and
I really seriously want to go to the Cordon Bleu Cooking School, and take
at least a three-week course."

Around the late 1960s she was based in Germany for several years. There,
says Dunn, many new operas are premiered each year, while in the U.S.
they are a rarity. "It all comes back to the fact that we don't have
government subsidy. We have to worry about selling tickets. Opera is an
expensive thing, and until we get this government support -- which people
for some reason are afraid of -- we cannot be as experimental as we
would like to be."

Brought up on a cotton plantation in Memphis, she entered her first
singing contest at the age of 9 and spent most Saturday afternoons in her
girlhood listening with rapt attention to the Metropolitan Opera broadcast
on the radio. Immediately following her high school graduation, she was
auditioned by Met scouts and encouraged to go to New York. There, after
several years of study, she won a national competition that launched her

Dunn spent part of three seasons with the New York City Opera before
joining the Met. It was many years, however, before her talents were fully
appreciated there. "It only took me 11 auditions to get into the New York
City Opera, and at least that many at the Met. So take heart, everybody,"
she says, laughing merrily.

She has made numerous opera recordings, including the role of Susan B.
Anthony in Virgil Thompson's _The Mother of Us All_ and Maddalena
in _Rigoletto_. "I don't ever listen to my recordings," she says when
asked to name her favorite. "I listen to the playbacks, when I can do
something about it. But I don't listen to recordings afterwards because
there's nothing that I can do about it, and I know I'm going to find a
million things that I don't like."

Mignon and her husband recently bought a house in Connecticut, but they
will keep their Westside apartment. "We have three acres," she says
proudly. "I hope we'll get a couple of horses and I would love a goat. I
love goats. They're so cute. I love animals -- we have a Great Dane and
a Labrador -- and I'm very much into the business with the Animal
Protection Institute. Most of the experiments that are done with animals
today: there's just no reason for it. ... I mean, I don't think we need
another shampoo on the market, really."

Her voice rises with feeling as she pursues the subject. "It is really the
slavery of today. People don't have any feelings for animals, and I'm just
rabid. I really am. It is so _disgraceful_. Anytime anybody wants me to
do a benefit for animals, just call me and I'll do it any day I've got free.
I would like to do more benefits. Actually, I'm hardly ever asked to, but
if I were asked, I would do it."


A man for all seasons


Six times he has received an advance to write his autobiography, and six
times he has returned the money because of the enormity of the task. The
life of Douglas Fairbanks Jr. is too rich and varied to be condensed into
a one-volume narrative.

The only child of Douglas Fairbanks Sr., America's first great matinee
idol, he has acted in more than 75 feature films, produced 160 television
plays and a dozen movies, performed in countless stage plays and
musicals, made numerous recordings, written screenplays, published his
articles and drawings in many of the nation's leading magazines, and
given his time freely to at least 50 public service organizations. Ten
countries on four continents have presented him with major awards for his
diplomatic and philanthropic activities.

"One morning I woke up and said, 'I suppose I must have retired,'" notes
the tanned, vigorous 69-year-old at his Madison Avenue office, from
behind his huge antique desk with brass lions' heads for drawer pulls. But
in our long discussion, it becomes obvious that he has never actually
retired, either as an entertainer or as a force in public affairs. His office
is fairly cluttered with mementoes of his world travels -- swords,
statuettes, novelty lamps, old photographs, oversized travel books. The
white-haired, melodious-voiced actor sits looking very comfortable as he
tells about his ongoing stage career.

"My favorite type of work right now is doing plays for limited periods.
In 1940 I gave up stage acting, but in 1968 I did the first big revival of
_My Fair Lady_, and since then I have been in several other plays. This
summer I'm doing _My Fair Lady_ again in Reno for eight to 10 weeks.
... I didn't want to copy Rex Harrison, but I was prevailed upon by
Lerner and Loewe to do this. I've known them since before they knew
each other. They're going to make a number of adjustments for me. My
other project, which is still in the planning stages, is a new Broadway
show. But it's really too soon to talk about it."

On August 13, the classic 1939 film _Gunga Din_, in which Fairbanks co
stars with Cary Grant, will be shown at 9 p.m. on Channel 9 with a single
commercial-interruption. His other hit films include _Sinbad the Sailor_
and _The Prisoner of Zenda._ He acted in his first movie in 1923 while
barely in his teens, and in 1932 he was designated a star. He continued to
make films until 1941, when he joined the U.S. armed forces and served
for more than five years. Then he resumed his film career with much
success before turning his hand to producing in 1952.

"Everybody misuses the word 'star' today," he explains. "Legally, it only
means having your name above the title. There's no such thing as a
superstar. That's a term we have let creep into the language. Actually
Charlie Chaplin may have been a superstar, but he's one of the very few."
He laughs and tells about another aspect of modern-day moviemaking that
amuses him. "Very few of the great producers in the past paid any
attention to credits at all. Now, they all like to get their names in the
billing and in the ads, as big as the stars' names -- as if anybody cares
who made the film!"

Asked whether his career was helped by having a famous father in the
movie business, he replies that "the advantages were ephemeral. They
were limited to people being polite and nice, but that wouldn't necessarily
lead to any jobs. It usually meant that I would be underpaid rather than
overpaid, and they would expect more of me. By the time I became a star,
my father had already retired."

His stepmother Mary Pickford, "America's sweetheart," who died in May
at the age of 86, joined with Douglas Fairbanks Sr., Charlie Chaplin and
D.W. Griffith in 1919 to found United Artists. The following year she
married Fairbanks, and together they virtually ruled Hollywood. Douglas
Junior, who became close to his father only in his late teens, grew up in
New York, Hollywood, London and Paris -- which helps to explain his
love for travel and his endless quest for variety.

As the creative force behind the acclaimed TV series _Douglas Fairbanks
Presents_, he produced an average of 32 one-hour films a year from 1952
and 1957. "My studio manager had a heart attack and my story editor had
a nervous breakdown, just from the pressure of getting out these films. I
thought I would be next, so I decided to quit," he says. "They were very
elaborate productions. We used to have the scripts six months in advance.
Now, if you start shooting on Tuesday, you'll get the script on Monday."

Today, with his multiple business interests and philanthropic pursuits, he
maintains a house in Florida, an office in London, and, since 1956, an
apartment on the Upper East Side. He and his wife Mary have been
married for 40 years and have three daughters, two of whom live in

His overall career, concludes Fairbanks, "does not have a single theme,
because it's been so diversified. It's been a series of themes. Maybe it's
cacophonous. The things I find most interesting don't pay a penny. But
possibly all my activities blended together have something to do with a
person who's got a lot of curiosity and energy and capacity to enjoy and
appreciate life."


Creator of The Phantom and Mandrake the Magician


Who is the most widely read author in the world today?

Not counting Chairman Mao, whose quotations are required reading for
one-fourth of the earth's population, the honor probably belongs to a
dapper, soft-spoken man in his early 60s who could walk from his
Westside apartment all the way to Times Square without being recognized.
He is not a familiar figure on book jackets or talk shows because Lee Falk
happens to be a comic strip writer. His two creations, The Phantom and
Mandrake the Magician, are published in more than 500 newspapers in 40
countries. His daily readership: close to 100 million.

"One of the few places in the world where my strips don't run is in New
York City," says Falk, leaning gently forward in his chair. "They ran in
the _New York Journal American_ for 25 years. That was the biggest
afternoon paper in America until the newspaper strike, about 10 years
ago. Then it folded, as did most of New York's papers; we were left with
the _Times_, the _Post_, and the _Daily News_. But my strips do run in
_El Diario_, the Spanish-language newspaper, and in the _New York
News World_."

He arrived in New York from Missouri during the Great Depression,
while still in his teens, carrying a sample strip he had written and drawn.
King Features bought Mandrake the Magician and two years later added
The Phantom to their syndicate.

In the beginning, Falk did both the drawing and the writing himself.
"Then for a long time I used to make rough sketches and give them to my
artists," he recalls. "Now I just give a description of each panel. I might
say 'close-up' or 'long shot' like you do in a film. Then I put in the
dialogue. ... Some of my early artists are dead. They've gone on to their
reward -- to that big bar up in the sky, where all artists go. ... Now
there's one group drawing my strips on Long Island, and another one on
Cape Cod. Very often I don't see them from one year to the next.
Collaboration works best that way."

Since giving up his drawing pad, Falk has increased his literary output
many times over. Besides doing all the writing for his strips for the past
40-odd years -- which now takes up but a small part of his time -- he has
written five novels and a dozen plays. He owns five theatres; he has
directed about 100 plays and produced 300. None of his own dramatic
works has been a big commercial success, although one is currently doing
well in Paris. Then there was the comedy that he co-authored with a
young American he met in Rome just before World War II. "It almost
made it to Broadway," says Falk. "It was redone about two years ago on
the West Coast. My collaborator was there to see it too; we've remained
friends to this day. You may have heard of the man. He's a senator from
California, the senate majority whip. His name is Alan Cranston. ... You
see, it's best to save the punch line for the end."

Another of Falk's main pastimes is travel. He has visited enough islands,
jungles, and out-of-the-way places to keep the story ideas flowing for
years to come, but his appetite is still unwhetted. Early this year he toured
Scandinavia, when "they were making a big fuss about the Phantom's
marriage. There were so many press conferences to attend. One guy made
me wear a mask, and the next day as I got on the plane, there was my
picture on the front page. I said, 'But your paper doesn't even run The
Phantom.' He said, 'The Phantom belongs to all of Norway.'"

In April of this year, Lee and his wife Elizabeth, a cosmetics executive
turned mystery writer, spent three weeks in the People's Republic of
China. Ironically, although that is one of the few places in the world
where Falk's name is completely unknown, neither he nor anyone else in
his touring group could escape the public eye. "They were fascinated by
seeing us, because for a whole generation the Chinese have been shut off
from foreign visitors. They crowded around us 10 deep, and held up their

An action-oriented man who loves to play tennis, ride his bicycle, and go
swimming, Falk has lived on the West Side for over 20 years because "I
find the East Side a little too chichi for my tastes." Another Westside
characteristic he likes is the abundance of Puerto Rican residents:
"They're very sweet, gentle people. ... [Deputy Mayor] Herman Badillo
is an old friend of mine. He knew my comic strips from Puerto Rico."

Lee Falk estimates that "over a period of 40 years I must have written
about 800 to 1,000 stories. They would fill this whole room." Where does
he get his inspiration? "A lot of it comes from my travels. It's all grist for
the mill. Now and then I see something in the news and adapt it to my
features. For example, once I saw a story in _Life_ magazine about a
Swiss scientist who was experimenting with back-breeding. He managed
to breed some European cattle back to the original aurochs, which has
been extinct for several hundred years. ... I put his idea into Mandrake.
A scientist started with a lizard and ended up with a dinosaur."

The veteran storyteller never gets tired of spinning his yarns. "I enjoy it.
It's something I can do. ... Both The Phantom and Mandrake are
translated into about 20 languages. After all these years, they're bigger
than ever -- except in this country, because we've lost so many papers."


Radio talkmaster and linguist


"Dull" is a word that could never be used to describe Barry Farber. He
is a totally unique individual with so many far-reaching ideas that his
conservative label seems to fit him poorly, even though it was as a
conservative that he ran for mayor of New York last year and garnered
almost as many votes as his Republican opponent Roy Goodman.

During that campaign, Barry quit the syndicated talk show on WOR Radio
that he had hosted for 16 years. In March of this year his mesmerizing
Southern drawl took over the 4 to 7 p.m. Monday to Friday time slot on
WMCA (570 AM). The ratings have gone up at least 50% since he joined
the station.

I meet Barry for an interview one August afternoon at a Chinese
restaurant near the studio. To my amazement he orders the meal entirely
in Cantonese. Then he withdraws a stack of index cards from his pocket
on which are printed vocabulary words in Finnish, Italian, and Mandarin
chinese -- a few of the 14 languages that he studies during spare moments
in his hectic work week.

The lank 48-year-old, neatly garbed in a pin-stripe suit, is surprisingly
low-keyed in our hour-long conversation. Yet the verbal gems still trip as
neatly off his tongue as they do when he's putting an irate telephone caller
in his place, to the delight of radio listeners. Never hesitant to voice his
opinion on any topic, Barry pounces on my questions with an eagerness
that belies his calm exterior.

New York's reputation outside the city limits, says the widely travelled
Farber, has gone way downhill in recent decades. "It used to be, where
I grew up, that people would brag about coming to New York four times
a year. Today they brag about never coming here. The large companies
send their salesmen to Manhattan for a 45-minute conference like an
Entebbe raid. ... New York needs not a slow, gradual, ho-hum comeback.
It needs a dramatic voice who is going to say that the city's priorities for
the last 40 years have been wrong. New York is a sexy woman who's
been running around in the mud. Turn the hose on her and she's going to
regain her allure."

The tax revolt, he believes, "should definitely come to New York. You
cannot expect to live as sinfully economically as we've lived, and avoid
a rampage. The politicians have brought this upon themselves. And don't
let them get away with telling us that they have to cut police, firemen, and
sanitation before they cut themselves, because they don't.

"When John Lindsay was mayor, he flung back his head and inhaled the
vapors of the 1960s. And it was left, baby, left. He bet his presidential
hopes on that. But in the last mayoral election, it was the conservatives
who did the best. Koch was the most conservative Democrat running."

His anticommunist sentiments come to the surface when the subject turns
to the 1980 Olympics. "I think we should have never allowed it in
Moscow on the grounds that we have never had the Olympics in a
dictatorship in the modern era. I'd like to see the athletes of the world
say, 'We're not going to Moscow to play sportive games by rules when
the Russians live in violation of the rules of civilization itself.' Russia is
guilty of the world's worst cast of unsportsmanlike conduct. ... Yes, we
should pull out. But the Olympics is small potatoes. I say, start a new
United Nations for the free countries of the world -- a UFN, a United
Free Nations, which shall be an association of all nations governed by
law, of all free democracies that want to remain free. In 1945, we did not
seek to build a fraternity of dictatorships where tinhorn tyrants would
outvote democracies 10 to one."

Barry has lived on the West Side ever since he came to the city from
Greensboro, North Carolina 21 years ago, and now occupies a 17-room
penthouse overlooking the Hudson River. "The West Side and the East
Side are like East Berlin and West Berlin in terms of the rigidity of
lifestyle," he says. "There's a feeling on the West Side that we don't have
to impress each other. We know where it's at."

Recently divorced from his Swedish wife, Barry makes frequent overnight
trips to Sweden to see his children. He has to be back at the WMCA
studio on Sunday at 11 a.m. for his four-hour live show with guests. Two
weeks ago, he asked Robert Violante, who was shot and partially blinded
by Son of Sam, what it felt like to be shot in the head. Questions like this
tend to provoke as many listeners as they fascinate, and that is why Barry
prefers not to be too specific about his address.

"I don't do a Merry Mailman kind of show," he says with a half-smile.
"One of my fantasies is to have a hit man from the Communist Party, the
Nazi Party, the PLO, and the Black Panthers approach me from four
different directions and fire all at once -- and I duck."


Star of the New York City Ballet


She arrived in New York like a fairy princess -- a wondrous creation
whose beauty and talent left audiences gaping in astonishment. At 16, she
became the youngest person ever to join George Balanchine's New York
City Ballet, and at 19, she was promoted to the rank of principal dancer.
Since that time, 14 seasons have come and gone, but Suzanne Farrell, the
girl from Cincinnati, is still the darling of America's foremost ballet

In a dressing room interview last week at the New York State Theatre, the
slender, angelic-looking Miss Farrell spoke at length about her public and
private life, quickly revealing the two qualities that have enabled her to
remain one of the world's top ballerinas for so long. First is her boundless
energy; second is her genuine love for people and the world of ballet.
Warm, funny, and articulate about her art, she discussed with enthusiasm
the upcoming television special, _Choreography by Balanchine, Part
One_, which will be aired May 23 on Channel 13.

"This is one of four programs we taped in Nashville," she said, in a voice
as clear and melodic as an actress's. "The name of the ballet I'm in is
_Tzigane_; the music is by Ravel. We did the finale before the beginning
because they wanted to let go the four extra couples that were needed for
that part. It was very strange -- like having dessert before the meal." She
laughed lightly, tossing back her long, silky brown hair. "The TV studio
is very small, and the camera sees things differently than the audience sees
when you're on stage. Things that are done in a circle look like an oval.
And diagonal movement has to be done in a straight line."

Suzanne's brightest moment in the program is a solo at the beginning,
which she performs to the music of a solo violin. "One of the things I like
about doing ballet on television is that you can reach many people who
have never seen live dance before. About two years ago I got a beautiful
letter from an older man in Oklahoma who was certainly not in the habit
of writing fan letters. Now, every time I tape a new program, I think of
that man.

"_Tzigane_ is one of my favorite ballets, because it was the first one that
Balanchine choreographed for me after I returned to the company in

In 1969, Suzanne left the New York City Ballet and spent the next four
seasons with Maurice Bejart's Ballet of the 20th Century in Brussels,
Belgium. When she finally wrote to Balanchine to find out the chances of
dancing with him again, he simply asked when she could start.

"In Brussels, the type of ballet they're used to is different, so they react
differently. If you were to give them a beautiful, wonderfully stark ballet,
with little costume and scenery, they might not take to it as much. ... But
it was a good thing to have in my career. I demand that I get something
constructive out of any situation. Because life is so short that you can't
afford to not give everything, every time you go out there."

For the past 10 years she has been married to Paul Mejia, a former dancer
who is today the artistic director and choreographer for the Ballet de
Guatemala, one of Latin America's major companies. Although the couple
must undergo some long separations, their marriage is a happy one.
Spending time alone at her Lincoln Center area apartment does not bother
Suzanne. With a steady diet of exercise classes, rehearsals and
performances, and her nine pets (eight cats and a dog), Suzanne has little
time to be lonely.

"When I have a free night, it's terrible," she lamented, "because every
time the phone rings, I think, 'Oh no, they want me for a performance.'
I dance just about every night. By the time I go to bed, it's about 2
o'clock. I happen to get up about 6. ... On Monday, my free day, I teach
at the American School of Ballet. It's such a shock to do two
performances on Saturday and Sunday, and none on Monday. It's hardly
worth it, because the body can't adjust. ... I have always thought that
actors have it easier than dancers, because it doesn't matter so much how
tired your body is: all you need is your mouth."

A Westsider for most of her career, Suzanne lists reading and cooking as
her preferred pastimes: "I'm a great short-order cook. I think if I weren't
a dancer, I'd be a waitress." Two local restaurants she likes to frequent
are Rikyu (210 Columbus Ave.) and Victor's Cafe (240 Columbus).

Asked about her salary, Suzanne admitted that "you'll never make a lot
of money in ballet. It's something we do because we love it, and we have
to do it to be happy. ... The sole attraction is working for Balanchine and
the New York City Ballet: that's something you can't put down in dollars
and cents. I just assume that the company is paying us as much as they
can." She smiled radiantly and added: "Most dancers wouldn't know what
to do with a lot of money anyway, because they wouldn't have time to
spend it."


Screenwriter for _Popeye the Sailor_


Imagine a movie starring Dustin Hoffman as Popeye the Sailor and Lily
Tomlin as his girlfriend Olive Oyl.

Anyone who has seen the old Popeye cartoons, or the new computer
animated ones, might think that the fighting mariner does not have the
dramatic qualities needed for a full-length film. But according to
Westsider Jules Feiffer, who is now writing the script for _Popeye the
Sailor_, the original comic strip in the daily newspapers was the work of
"an unrecognized genius." E.C. Segar created Popeye and drew him from
1924 to 1938. After that the character changed. Feiffer finds the original
strip to be his biggest source of inspiration.

"The cartoons," says Feiffer, sitting on one arm of a chair in his Riverside
Drive apartment, "exploit the violence between Popeye and Bluto. That
was never part of the strip. It's more along the lines of the traditional
cartoon of the 1940s, which could find nothing more interesting than one
character dismembering another. I didn't find that funny when I was a kid
and I don't now."

Feiffer developed his unique style of humor long before he sold his first
cartoon. Today, though still perhaps best known as a cartoonist, he has
gained a reputation as a playwright for both the stage (_Knock, Knock_
and _Little Murders_) and the screen (_Carnal Knowledge_). He is also
a respected prose writer, having recently published his second novel,

A product of the Bronx, Feiffer recalls that after graduating from high
school he went through "a series of schlock jobs to buy food and drawing
materials. And long periods of unemployment." He planned all along to
become a cartoonist. "I was prepared," he says, "for the eventual success
which I was certain was going to happen if my work remained true to

Feiffer spent several years as an assistant to other cartoonists and attended
two art schools. Still, no one would publish his work until a day in 1956
when Feiffer, age 27, took a batch of his best 'toons to the office of a
new, relatively unknown weekly called _The Village Voice_. They loved
his work, and he became a regular contributor.

"All other publications at that time had their own idea of their readership.
And editors insisted on tailoring stories to their own taste. The _Voice_,"
says Feiffer, "existed for the artist's taste and the writer's taste. It was a
time when McCarthyism and the blacklist were rampant through every
strata of society."

The _Voice_ was then the only publication of its kind. It wrote about
dissent; it was considered revolutionary, and Feiffer's weekly cartoons
helped it to maintain that image.

Success came quickly to Feiffer after he joined the _Village Voice_: "It
happened faster than I thought. It was only about three months or so
before my work came to be talked about, and publishers began to offer
book contracts." Syndication took place a few years later. Now the
cartoon is carried by somewhat over 100 publications in every country of
the western world and several in the Far East.

Feiffer's cartoon takes him one day a week to conceive and draw. During
the other six days he works on his latest writing project. For three years
-- until it was published this past summer -- that project was _Ackroyd_,
an unconventional detective-type novel in which the characters are too
human to keep their traditional roles as props for the detective's
cleverness. The book is less suspenseful than a standard detective novel,
but more revealing of human nature.

One of the things that has been in my work for many years," says Feiffer,
"is people's need to communicate with each other not directly, but in
code. ... Coded language is used to guide our lives, to frame our
relationships with people." Feiffer's main character takes the name Roger
Ackroyd and tries to become a private detective. Instead he gets "so
intertwined with the coded life of his clients that he works on that for the
rest of his career."

_Ackroyd_ got extremely mixed reviews. "It's what I'm used to," notes
the author. "Some reviews have been glowing. Others wondered what the
hell the book was about and why I bothered to write it." Feiffer takes the
good and the bad in stride, remembering what happened when his first
play, _Little Murders_, opened on Broadway in 1967.

"It got all negative reviews and closed in a week," he recalls. "It was
immediately done in London after that, which started the revival, because
it was done very successfully. Then it was brought back to New York the
following year and it won all the awards." In 1971 it was made into a
successful film starring Elliott Gould and Marcia Rodd.

An occasional theatregoer, Feiffer ends the interview on a customary
depressing note, saying that he is generally disappointed by even the
biggest hits in town.

"I don't think of myself as a Broadway playwright," he says. "I'd be
ashamed of that title. I don't think the Broadway theatre is very interesting
or has been for the last 20 years."


Actress, director and singer


Anyone hearing her rasping, throaty, Irish-accented voice for the first time
might think she were suffering from laryngitis. But those who have come
to love and admire Geraldine Fitzgerald over the past 40 years hear
nothing but earthy humanity in the voice. One of the most versatile
actresses in America, as unorthodox as she is gifted, Miss Fitzgerald at
66 remains at the height of her career, constantly juggling a variety of
projects, as she says, "like somebody cooking a meal with many courses."

We're sitting in her Upper East Side living room, which is decorated in
white from floor to ceiling -- carpet, chairs, tables, sofa, and even the
television. The only picture is a childhood portrait of her daughter Susan
Scheftel, now a 27-year-old graduate student.

"I like light unimpeded," explains Geraldine, her rosy face breaking into
its customary smile. "And if everything is white, it's different in the
morning and it's different in the middle of the day, and it's different all
the time."

A slender, handsome woman with a penchant for long flowing skirts and
bright lipstick, whose straight gray hair descends halfway down her back,
Geraldine is soon talking about _Mass Appeal_, the two-character play
that she is directing at the Manhattan Theatre Club; it will open in mid
May. "It's by a very young author called Bill Davis. We did it last
October at the Circle Rep Lab, and it was very successful, but it needed
strengthening points. So Bill has just completed the ninth draft. ... Milo
O'Shea is going to star in it. He's Ireland's premier comedian and a
magnificent dramatic actor too."

Miss Fitzgerald's next acting role will be in a play titled _Eve._ "It's
about a woman who runs away from home to seek her own internal
freedom, like Nora in _A Doll's House_. The only difference is, she's my
age. So of course her options are few. And she goes right down to the
bottom: she becomes a derelict. And then slowly, slowly, slowly she
comes up to find some kind of strength and independence. It's a drama,
but a very comedic drama."

Her third major project at the moment is to prepare her acclaimed one
woman show, _Street Songs_, for a small Broadway house such as the

She started to take singing lessons about 10 years ago, and introduced her
one-woman nightclub act in 1975, employing her remarkable acting
technique to make the songs personal and moving. She has performed the
act at Reno Sweeney, at Lincoln Center, in a one-hour special for public
television, and at the White House for President and Mrs. Carter.

"I don't sing what's called 'folk songs.' People think I do. I sing songs
that are very -- winning. Because the songs that people sing when they're
on their own -- whether singing in the streets, singing in the shower,
singing in the car -- they do not sing losing songs. We didn't know that
for a long time. 'We' is Richard Maltby Jr., who did _Ain't
Misbehavin'_. He's my colleague and partner and he directed it.

"At first we couldn't understand why a marvelous song like 'Loch
Lomond' was sort of rejected by the audience, and then a song like
'Danny Boy', that you'd think everybody's sick of, was acceptable. Well,
'Danny Boy,' believe it or not, is a winning song. At the end of it, the
girl says, 'Even if I'm dead, if you come back and you whisper that you
love me still, I'll hear you in my grave.' And then I'll know that you'll
be beside me for eternity. Whereas 'Loch Lomond' starts off so well, but
each verse says 'But me and my true love will never meet again ... "

She began her acting career at the Gate Theatre in Dublin while in her
teens, came to the U.S. in 1937, and acted with Orson Welles' Mercury
Theatre on the Air before heading for Hollywood, where she made such
classic films as _Dark Victory, Watch on the Rhine_, and _Wuthering
Heights_, for which she received an Oscar nomination. In 1946 she settled
on Manhattan's East Side, and has been based there ever since, although
she frequently returns to Hollywood to act in movies.

Perhaps even better known for her stage roles, she names Eugene
O'Neill's poignant, autobiographical _Long Day's Journey Into Night_ as
her favorite play. When it was revived Off Broadway in 1971, her
portrayal of the morphine-addicted Mary Tyrone became the biggest hit
of her stage career. Miss Fitzgerald has recorded this play and others for
Caedmon Records.

Married to Stuart Scheftel, a wealthy executive and producer, she has one
son from a previous marriage, Michael Lindsay-Hogg, the hugely
successful young director who was nominated for a Tony Award for
_Whose Life is this Anyway?_ Miss Fitzgerald is the first actress ever to
receive the Handel Medallion, New York's highest cultural award.

If Geraldine has one regret about her career, it is that it took her "so
many decades to get up the courage to sing. Everybody told me not to,
because I have such a funny voice. ... Then I realized that I needed a
vehicle for expressing what I feel about the world and about people that
was very flexible, and was mine. And if the audience would put up with
the harsh sounds, then I could use it. And evidently they can, so if they
can now, I guess they always could."


Actress turns author with _No Bed of Roses_


The Oscar statuette stands on the end of a shelf about eight feet off the
floor, partially obscured by a row of books, its gold surface gleaming
dully in the subdued light of the room. Below, in one of the apartment's
four fireplaces, a small log is softly burning. This room, like the rest of
the large, immaculate home, is furnished in the style of an early 20th
century country manor. Here, in the heart of the Upper East Side, Joan
Fontaine has spent 15 years of an immensely productive life. I take a seat
on one side of the fire, and Miss Fontaine faces me from the opposite side
of the room, her slender, regal form resting comfortably in an antique
chair, to talk about her best-selling autobiography, _No Bed Of Roses_
(Morrow, $9.95). Published in September, the book has already sold more
than 75,000 copies in hardcover.

As the title implies, Miss Fontaine's life has been one long roller coaster
ride of triumph and tragedy. During the 1940s she received three Oscar
nominations for Best Actress in the space of four years, and won the
award for _Suspicion_ (1941). She had the joy of raising two children --
one of them adopted -- but the disappointment of four divorces. Her
mother, who died in 1975, was the best friend she has ever known, yet
both her father and her stepfather gave her nothing but unhappiness, and
she never had a close relationship with her famous older sister, Olivia de
Havilland. In fact, the pair have not spoken in years -- for reasons clearly
explained in Fontaine's book.

A fiercely independent woman who has flown her own airplane and taken
part in international ballooning competition, she has suffered through
numerous illnesses and injuries that brought her close to permanent
disability or death. These are the elements of _No Bed Of Roses_, a
disarmingly frank memoir that is frequently unsettling but never boring.

"The fan mail for this book is getting to be enormous," says Fontaine, still
radiant at 61. "A lot of people identify with the illnesses, or with trying
to bring up children alone. Some people empathize because they had harsh
relations with their siblings. A lot of men have told me they cried at the
end, in my epitaph to my mother. And then of course, I have heard from
a lot of people who wanted to be actresses, or actors."

Did she write the entire book herself? "Every single word. I wouldn't let
them touch one of them. ... It's not a sordid book; it's not tacky. One
reviewer said it was immoral. I don't think I can figure that out. If you
ask me, it's rather religious."

The words come out like perfect silver beads. She has always been a
formidable presence on the screen, and is no less so in person, as she
gives her unrestrained opinions on every topic introduced.

Marriage, says Fontaine, is "waiting on -- or waiting for somebody."
Asked whether she believes two average people can remain happily
married for a lifetime, she replies: "It depends how hypocritical they are,
and how much lying they want to do. ... I think the word 'love' means an
entirely different thing to a woman than it does to a man."

Her classic movies, including _Rebecca, Jane Eyre, Suspicion_, and _This
Above All_, are frequently seen on television now, but Fontaine has little
respect for television as a medium: "I consider it nothing more than B
pictures. I think we took a little more care with B pictures; the actors and
actresses got a chance. In a television film, if the actor slips on a word,
to hell with it. We'll cut around it."

Earlier this year, Fontaine appeared in the made-for-television movie _The
Users_, starring Jaclyn Smith. She could do many others, but prefers to
be choosy. "The quality of the scripts is so poor. I think it's the taste of
the times. It's a brutal world; it's a vulgar world. ... It's quite different
from the romance of Jane Eyre. I don't think I could act those roles. I'd
rather sit in my library in front of the fire."

In truth, she has little time for sitting around: her acting talents are too
much in demand, in dinner theatres and in college auditoriums around the
country. Recently she returned from a three-month working trip. In
February she'll be opening in Dallas. "I haven't decided on the play yet,"
she says.

In spite of her words, she somehow comes off as being thoroughly
charming. A highly sociable woman who loves to attend cocktail parties
and make new acquaintances, Fontaine is also a gourmet cook. "At
Christmas I cook for about 75 people. No one married can come. I'm
thrilled that one of my friends has just gotten divorced. Now she can
come." Among the Eastside restaurants that Fontaine visits frequently are
21 and the Four Seasons.

When she has time to herself, Fontaine enjoys reading literature and
adapting it for her lectures. "I lecture on many subjects," she says. "I do
the entire Jane Eyre -- all the roles. It takes about an hour and a half. It's
more like a film reading than a lecture. I do one on American poets, and
one on Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning -- all their own words.
Then a new one has crept up -- if I may say so, by popular demand --
called 'The Golden Years.' I tell how to do it -- how to make these years
the best. I've never felt so happy or so free or so contented as I am now."
born 10-22-17


Founder of the women's liberation movement


One of the most-discussed nonfiction works published in 1978 was _The
100: A Ranking of the Most Influential Persons in History_ by
astrophysicist Michael H. Hart. He writes: "My criterion was neither fame
nor talent nor nobility of character, but actual personal influence on the
course of human history and on the everyday lives of individuals." Seven
native-born Americans were included in the 100, and when _People_
magazine requested Hart to expand his list of Americans to 25, the first
name he added was that of Betty Friedan, who, he said, "through
women's liberation, has already had a greater impact than most

The book that did most to trigger the women's movement was Friedan's
_The Feminine Mystique_ (1963), a brilliant analysis of the postwar "back
to the home" movement, when women were led to believe that they could
find fulfillment only through childbearing and housework. That myth, said
Friedan, resulted in a sense of emptiness and loss of identity for millions
of American women. Her book became an international best-seller, and
has been translated into more than a dozen languages.

But _The Feminine Mystique_ was only the first of many contributions
that Friedan has made to the women's movement. In 1966 she founded the
National Organization for Women (NOW), which today has more than
70,000 members and is by far the most effective feminist group in the
world. She has written a second book, _It Changed My Life_, made
countless appearances on radio and television, and become one of the most
sought-after lecturers in the country. Despite her public image as a hard
core activist, Betty Friedan at 58 is a charming, decidedly feminine
woman who enjoys wearing makeup and colorful dresses. In an interview
at her brightly decorated apartment high above Lincoln Center, she reveals
that these two aspects of her personality are not at all contradictory.

"The women's movement had to come. It was an evolutionary thing," she
says, in robust, throaty, rapid-fire bursts of speech interspersed with long
pauses. "If I had not articulated these ideas in 1963, by '66 somebody else
would have. I think that it's good that I did, because what I had to say
somehow got to the essence of it, which is the personhood of woman, and
not what later obscured it, with a woman-against-man kind of thing."

It was largely through the lobbying efforts of NOW that the U.S. Senate
last October approved a three-year extension of the deadline for ratifying
the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA). So far, 35 of the required 38 states
have voted for the amendment. The new deadline is June 30, 1982.

"There's no question that three more states will pass it by that time," says
Friedan. "But it's not going to be easy, because there are these well
financed right-wing campaigns trying to block it. They understand that the
ERA is not only the symbol but the substance of what women have won
-- that it will give them constitutional underpinning forevermore, so that
they can't push women back to the second-class status of the cheap labor

"The ERA will not do anything dramatic -- like change the bathrooms --
but it will ensure, for example, that women have their own right for social
security, which they don't have now. You have to realize that the
reactionary forces in this country are using the sexual issue as a kind of
smoke screen, to create a hate movement. They're the same forces that
tried to prevent labor from organizing, that burnt crosses on lawns in the
South, that painted swastikas on synagogues. ... NOW has made it _the_
priority, because if the ERA is blocked, it will be the signal to take back

A woman who smiles and laughs easily in spite of her intensity, Friedan
prefers to be called not Miss, Ms., or Mrs., but simply Betty. Born in
Peoria, Illinois, she majored in psychology at Smith College and
graduated summa cum laude. In June, 1947, after moving to New York
City, she married Carl Friedan, then a theatrical producer. Three children
later, the Friedans moved to the suburbs, and it was there that she
formulated the ideas for _The Feminine Mystique._

Divorced since 1969, Friedan maintains a very close relationship with her
children, who are at Columbia University, the University of California,
Berkeley graduate school, and Harvard Medical School. A Westsider since
1964, she runs in Central Park for an hour each day.

Of the half dozen major projects she's involved in at the moment, the
most significant is her new book, _The Fountain of Age._ "It's about the
last third of life," she explains. "I call it the new third of life, because
many women have only begun to discover that it exists."

Asked about her chief pleasures in life, she replies with obvious
satisfaction, "I like parties, I like my friends, I like talking, I like dancing.
... One thing I've discovered is that the stronger you get, the more you
_can_ be soft and gentle and tender, and also have fun. I _demand_ my
right to be funny and to have fun, and not just to always be deadly


Author of _Europe on $10 a Day_


His name rhymes with "roamer" and that's an accurate description of
Westsider Arthur Frommer, author of _Europe on $10 a Day_.

In 1957, when he wrote the first edition, _Europe On $5 a Day_, Arthur
was a dedicated New York lawyer. But the book became so popular that
he finally decided, after much agonizing, to leave his law firm and
become a full-time travel writer. Every year in the past two decades,
Arthur and his wife Hope have revisited the 17 European cities covered
in the book; they have distilled the wisdom from thousands of letters
received from readers; and they have revised and updated the famous
travel book for the new edition each spring. It is still the world's best
selling guide to Europe.

"This is not necessarily the glamorous occupation that some people
imagine it to be," says Arthur, biting into a sandwich as he, Hope and
their daughter Pauline invite me to join them at the dinner table at their
Central Park West home. "One of the hazards of being a travel writer is
that when you're on vacation, you're always checking to see where the
bargains are, or whether the restaurants are worth their reputation. I've
visited so many exotic cities of the world that for me, the best way to
relax is to stay home."

Due to a miscommunication on my part, I arrive on an evening exactly
one week later than the Frommers have expected me, yet they manage
such a warm welcome that I end up staying three hours. They seem to
have plenty of time to talk. Still, there is a reminder throughout the
evening that they lead very busy lives -- the constantly ringing telephone.

One reason for my lengthy visit is that it takes place on the same night as
the second heavyweight championship boxing match between Muhammad
Ali and Leon Spinks. Arthur and I sit on his living room couch, watching
the fight live on TV with great interest, rooting for Ali and resuming our
interview between the rounds. Ali, who had lost the first fight with Spinks
the previous February, beats him handily this time.

"I'm a workaholic," confesses Arthur, excusing himself while he gets up
to answer another call from overseas. An energetic, detail-oriented man,
Arthur once worked 12 hours a day writing legal briefs and eight hours
a day on his book. Today he is the head of Arthur Frommer Enterprises,
an international corporation that includes a publishing company, a charter
service and four hotels -- two in the Caribbean and two in Europe.

Publishing remains his biggest enterprise. He publishes 30 to 40 travel
guides each year, ranging in subject matter from the Far East to New
York City. _Europe On $10 A Day_ has for many years been co-authored
by his wife Hope. "While Arthur is on the streets grubbing for bargains,"
she says, "I'm in the museums."

With her own career as an actress and director, Hope does not fly the
Atlantic quite as often as her husband. Says Arthur: "I go to Europe like
other people commute to Long Island. Sometimes I go without even a
change of clothes."

Twelve-year-old Pauline Frommer made her first trip to Europe at the age
of two and a half months. Bright and precocious, she seems a natural to
succeed her father in the business one day.

Arthur Frommer's success story began shortly after he graduated from
Yale Law School in 1953. While serving in the Army in Europe, he used
every weekend to travel. "At the end of my stay in the Army," he recalls,
"having nothing to do, I sat down and wrote a little volume called _The
GI Guide to Europe_. It was written strictly from memory; it had no
prices or phone numbers. I went home and started practicing law. Then
I got a cable saying that all 50,000 copies had sold out immediately."

Arthur used his first summer vacation from the law firm to go back to
Europe and rewrite his travel guide, for civilian readers. It became "a
monster which ate up my life." But he has never regretted his choice of

"The book coincided with a revolution of American travel habits," says
Arthur, not giving himself credit for being a prime force behind this
revolution. "When I was in college, it was unheard of for young people
to go off to Europe. It was too far, too expensive. The students of the
early 1960s became the first students in history to travel in great numbers
to Europe. Many people think the country was greatly changed by this
massive travel."

Arthur and Hope moved to the West Side in 1965, just after their daughter
was born. Among their favorite neighborhood businesses: DelPino Shoes,
which has some of the lowest prices in the city for quality Italian
footwear, and the Jean Warehouse, where Pauline buys many of her

These days, while Hope is busy directing a play by Pamela O'Neill,
Arthur is working on several new projects. One is a course he will be
teaching at the New School starting in February. Titled "Great Cities of
Western Europe," the course will concentrate on urban problems and their
political and social solutions.

But Arthur's biggest ambition these days is to expand his company's
week-long chartered tour of Jerusalem into a two-week package for
Jerusalem and Cairo. Such a tour, he believes, would help create a bond
of understanding in the Middle East.

"It's a dream of mine," says Arthur, "that we might be a force for peace
sometime. It may not happen overnight, but I'm sure it will come."


Publisher and founder of _Mad_ magazine


_Mad_ magazine, an institution in American humor ever since it first
appeared in 1955, is one of the few publications on the newsstand that
carries no advertising. In the past few years, rising costs and changing
tastes have driven Mad's circulation slightly below two million, but
publisher William Gaines has no plans of giving in to commercialism.

"I was brought up on a newspaper called _PM_," recalls Gaines, an
instantly likable native New Yorker who looks like a cross between Santa
Claus and a middle-aged hippie. "It sold for a nickel while everything else
was two cents. Its policy was to take no ads, and I was kind of brought
up on the idea that it's dirty to take advertising." His face breaks out in
merriment, and he laughs the first of many deep, rich, belly laughs that
I am to hear that afternoon.

"I don't think your publication's going to want to print that, so you'd
better leave it out. Um, so I, I. ... I mean, it's not --" he sputters, before
quickly recovering and driving the point home with his customary
journalistic finesse. "As a matter of fact, if you're going to take ads, I
think the way your people do it is the way to do it. If you're _going_ to
take ads, give the publication away. But if somebody's putting out money,
it's not right. It's like going to the movies and seeing a commercial.
Television, fine: you're getting it free."

We're sitting in his somewhat disorderly Madison Avenue office, which
is decorated with paintings of monsters, huge models of King Kong, and
a collection of toy zeppelins suspended from the ceiling. When Gaines is
asked about lawsuits, his eyes sparkle with glee.

"We have been sued many times. We've never been beaten. We had two
cases that went to the U.S. Supreme Court. The first was on Alfred E.
Newman (the gap-toothed, moronic-looking character who appears on the
magazine cover). Two different people claimed it was theirs -- a woman
by the name of Stuff and a man by the name of Schmeck. Neither one
knew about the other one, and we didn't tell them. It was pretty fun when
they all got to court and found that both of them were claiming to own
Alfred. Through a series of decisions, the Supreme Court decided that
neither one of them owned Alfred, and we were free to use him.

"The other case was when Irving Berlin and a number of other
songwriters sued _Mad_, because we used to publish a lot of articles of
song parodies which we'd say were sung to the tune of so-and-so. And
they took umbrage to that. They said that when people would read the
words, they were singing their music in their heads. The judge ruled that
Irving Berlin did not own iambic pentameter."

The son of a prominent comic book publisher named M.C. Gaines,
William planned to become a chemistry teacher when he returned to
college after World War II. Then his father was killed in an accident, and
Gaines decided to enter the comic business himself. "I started putting out
some very undistinguished, dreadful stuff, because I didn't know where
I was going. After three years, Albert Feldstein (_Mad's_ editor) joined
me, and we just had a rapport right away. We started putting out stuff that
we had a feeling for -- science fiction, horror, crime."

These comics, known as E.C. Publications, are today worth up to $200
each. Classics of their genre, they became the target of a Senate
subcommittee on juvenile delinquency. Largely because of public pressure,
Gaines dropped all of them except _Mad_, which he changed from a 10
cent comic into a 25-cent, more adult magazine. The complete E.C. works
have recently been reprinted in bound volumes.

A divorced father of three, Bill Gaines hates exercise, and drives the 18
blocks each day from his Eastside apartment to the _Mad_ office. His
favorite hobbies are attending wine and food tastings, and visiting Haiti.
"I've been there about 20 times. It's a wild, untamed place. Something in
my nature is appealed to by that kind of thing. ... They have no
maliciousness toward tourists. I was almost shot there twice, but it was by

Things are so relaxed around the _Mad_ headquarters that eight out of the
nine full-time staffers have been with the publication for more than 20
years. "Our writers and artists are free-lancers," says Gaines. "Most of
them have been with us 20 years also. ... We get quite a few unsolicited
manuscripts, but most of them, unfortunately, are not usable. Every once
in a while we'll get one, and then we've got a big day of rejoicing. ...
We're always looking for writers. We don't need artists, but you _never_
have enough writers. And we firmly believe that the writer is God,
because if you don't have a writer, you don't have movies, you don't have
television, you don't have books, you don't have plays, you don't have
magazines, you don't have comics -- you don't have anything!

"We don't assign articles. The writers come to us with what they want to
write, and as long as it's funny, we'll buy it. And we don't care what
point of view, because _Mad_ has no editorial point of view. We're not
left, and we're not right. We're all mixed up. And our writers are all
mixed up -- in more ways than one."

died 6-3-92. born 3-1-22.


Publisher of _Moneysworth_


Less than two months ago, the U.S. Supreme Court passed an edict
allowing the police to raid the files of newspaper offices in search of
information relating to a crime. "If they came here, I'd stand at the
entrance and block their way," says Ralph Ginzburg, gazing out the
window at his suite of offices near Columbus Circle. "I don't care if they
arrest me," he adds in his thick Brooklyn accent.

The owlish-looking Ginzburg means what he says. He's the publisher of
_Moneysworth_, which is mailed each month to 1.2 million subscribers.
It is the most successful item he has ever published, but there is no doubt
that he would risk losing it and going to jail, because Ginzburg has done
so already. In a flamboyant career marked by much notoriety, he has
emerged as one of the most important figures of his generation in
expanding the freedom of the press.

Of the six magazines and newspapers that Ginzburg has founded, none has
caused such a stir as his first one, _Eros_, which lasted from 1962 to
1963. "It was the first really classy magazine on love and sex in American
history," he says. "I signed up 100,000 subscribers right away, at $50 a
year. Many leading American artists contributed to it. The big difference
is that it was sold entirely through the mails. Our promotion of
subscriptions through the mail got a lot of complaints."

About 35,000 complaints, in fact -- more than the U.S. Post Office had
ever received up to that time. Ralph Ginzburg was charged with sending
obscene material through the mails, and _Eros_ was forced to suspend
publication while the debate went on. Most Washington lawyers, after
examining the magazine, concluded that it was not obscene. But the case
became a political issue, and in 1972, 10 years after the so-called crime
had taken place, Ginzburg was ordered to serve an eight-month term at
the federal prison in Allenwood, Pennsylvania. His imprisonment led to
a nationwide outcry by intellectuals and public officials.

Not long after the demise of _Eros_, Ginzburg started another magazine
called _Fact_. It, too, ended over a lawsuit. This time the plaintiff was
U.S. Senator Barry Goldwater. He sued the magazine for $2 million on
the charge of libel, and was awarded $65,000 in damages. "It was a
compromise, as jury decisions frequently are," remarks Ginzburg.
"Unfortunately I didn't have very much money back then, and it wiped us

Describing the case, he said: "In 1964, when Goldwater was running for
president, he advocated the use of nuclear weapons in Vietnam. I thought
the guy was out of his mind and I wondered if anyone else had the same
suspicion. ... We polled all the members of the American Medical
Association who were listed as psychiatrists and asked them if they
thought Goldwater was fit to be president. We printed their replies and
their long-distance diagnoses ... "

Both the _Eros_ case and the Goldwater case made the American public
examine some far-reaching questions: What is obscene? What is libelous?
Ginzburg helped to establish new definitions for these terms, and in so
doing, widened the power of the press.

_Avant-Garde_, his third publication, existed from 1967 to 1970. "It was
born during the Vietnam uprising in this country," he explains. "It was a
magazine of art and politics, and had no ad revenue."

In the same year that _Avant-Garde_ folded, he began a newsletter called
_Moneysworth_. Soon it expanded into a full-sized newspaper. "It was
launched," says Ginzburg, "because we felt that the only existing
periodical in the area of consumer interest -- _Consumer Reports_ --
wasn't broad enough. Spending money is more than buying appliances."

While _Moneysworth_ does carry many valuable tips on personal finance,
it also has a considerable amount of sensationalism that would seem at
home in the _National Enquirer_. Even so, Ginzburg's managerial skills,
his nonstop working habits, and his literary expertise -- he has written
several books -- have made _Moneysworth_ a winner. Using the same
staff of 40, along with many free-lance writers, he now publishes two
other monthly newspapers as well, _American Business_ and Extra!

He has been a Westsider for 15 years, and his publishing company,
Avant-Garde Media, is located on West 57th Street.

If Ginzburg has a single goal right now, it's "to saved up enough money
to enable me to put out a periodical exactly like _Avant-Garde_ was. It
was pure pleasure for me: there was no commercial compromise. But
even though this is a multimillion-dollar corporation here, I can't afford
it at the moment. ... Money is important in publishing. I have to spend 99
percent of my time and effort chasing the buck. I guess I'm lucky. Most
people spend 100 percent of their time that way."


78 years in show business


D.W. Griffith, the father of motion pictures, used to say there were only
two people who outworked him -- Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish.
Pickford, who died last May, made her final film in 1933. But Lillian
Gish never got around to retiring. At 83, she is perhaps the most active
living legend in America.

Sipping tea at her Eastside apartment, which is decorated like a Victorian
drawing room, Gish appears to have defeated time. Her clear blue eyes,
porcelain-smooth complexion, and slender, girlish figure have not changed
all that much since she rose to international stardom in Griffith's
controversial 1915 classic, _The Birth of a Nation_. She also starred in his
1916 film _Intolerance_, a box office failure when released, but later
recognized as a masterpiece.

An animated speaker who makes sweeping gestures, she still has the
crystalline voice and flawless enunciation that enabled her to make the
transition from silent films to talkies and Broadway shows in the early
1930s. The 1978 Robert Altman film _A Wedding_ marked her 100th
screen appearance.

"I've never worked harder in my life than I have in the last three or four
years," says Miss Gish, who, during that period has made her singing and
dancing debut in Washington's Kennedy Center, hosted a 13-week series
for public television, _The Silent Years_, appeared in an ABC-TV movie
of the week, and toured the world three times to present a one-woman
show that combines film clips with narration. Her autobiography, _The
Movies, Mr. Griffith and Me_, has been translated into 13 languages.

"I dedicated the book to my mother, who gave me love; to my sister, who
taught me to laugh; to my father, who gave me insecurity; and to Mr.
Griffith, who taught me that it was more fun to work than to play," she
recalls with merriment, describing how her mother wound up in the
theatre around 1901 due to financial need. Five-year-old Lillian and her
4-year-old sister Dorothy soon followed in the business. "We didn't use
our real names because we didn't want to disgrace the family. ... They
used to have signs on hotels: 'No actors or dogs allowed.'"

She never got a chance to attend school. "I loved the book _Black
Beauty_, and everybody would read it to me on the train or waiting for
the train. Well, I finally had it read to me so much, I knew it by heart.
And that's how I learned to read. When we were travelling around,
mother would always take her history book. When we were in historical
places, she'd take us to where history happened."

At the height of her silent film career, Lillian received 15,000 fan letters
a week, many from overseas. "Silent films are the universal language that
the Bible predicted would bring about the millennium. ... When Mr.
Griffith made his first talking picture in 1921, he said, 'This is committing
suicide. My pictures play to the world. Five percent of them speak
English. Why should I lose 95 percent of my audience?'

"One of the things I'm trying to do now is to bring back silent films and
beautiful music. I'm doing it with my film _La Boheme_, which was
made in 1926. I've done it in the opera house in Chicago with an organist,
and at Town Hall here. Harold Schonberg of the _New York Times_ gave
it the most ecstatic review."

Her credits include an honorary Oscar award, dozens of major stage roles,
and a movie that she co-wrote and directed. But Miss Gish, with
characteristic modesty, prefers to talk about her friends and family.
Bitterness and complaint are alien to her nature, although life has not
always been easy. She never married, and her mother, to whom she was
highly devoted, spent the last 25 years of her life as an invalid. "But she
was never unhappy," testifies Lillian. "She was always the first to laugh,
and the gayest."

Following her mother's death in 1948, the apartment was given to Dokey,
her nurse, who died the following year. Then Lillian and Dorothy Gish
shared the apartment until Dorothy's death in 1968. Although Lillian now
lives alone, she has no opportunity to be lonely. Besides work, travel, and
reading -- her favorite activities -- she has 13 godchildren.

One thing that helps keep her young, says Miss Gish, is her intense
curiosity. "I was born with it, thank heavens. I feel sorry for people who
say they're bored. How in the world can anyone be bored in the world
today? How can fiction complete with what's going on?"

A few of her films, have been lost forever, since no original prints exist
in good condition. Most, however, are still shown around the globe,
which explains why her autobiography is available in such languages as
Burmese and East Malaysian. The Museum of Modern Art on West 53rd
Street has one of the country's finest collections of vintage Gish films.

One of her upcoming projects is a movie based on a story by the Danish
writer Isak Dinesen, scheduled to begin shooting in Europe this winter.
Another is a television pilot to be shot in California for Julius Evans.

Asked to name some of the things she is most curious about today, Miss
Gish quickly replies, "Naturally what's happening in Cambodia -- how
they're going to solve that problem. Those poor children. It breaks my
heart. ... And who's going to be our next president. We've come to the
point where we should have two presidents, I think -- someone to look
after the world and somebody to look after us."

died of natural causes 2-27-93.
born 10-14-1893

Design director of the new _Esquire_


Two decades before _Playboy_ first hit the newsstands, there was only
one men's magazine in America. A generation of schoolchildren grew up
speaking its name in hushed whispers, though anyone reexamining those
early issues today could hardly understand why. The magazine was

Its popularity has dipped somewhat in recent years, but _Esquire_ still
sells one million copies per month. And it still has the reputation of being
the most tasteful, literary, and sophisticated publication for the American
male. If some people have complained that it has not kept up with the
times, they won't be able to say that any longer -- not since _Esquire_
became the property of Clay Felker and Milton Glaser, the publishing
team who made _New York_ magazine into one of the best-selling
weeklies in the city.

With Felker as editor and Glaser as design director, _Esquire_ will have
a totally new look starting with the February 14 issue. It will have a
different size, binding, shape, length, and contents. It will also change its
name to _Esquire Fortnightly_ and appear 26 times a year instead of 12.

"The new _Esquire_ will be ungimmicky, easy to understand," says
Milton Glaser, taking a half-hour break from his numerous artistic
projects. He is as animated as his enlarged signature, which glows from
a custom-made neon lamp on the wall beside a Renaissance Madonna and
a framed Islamic drawing.

The first thing you notice about Glaser is the colored handkerchief
adorning his jacket pocket. Then you notice how relaxed he is, and how
easily he smiles.

"The name of the game is to get an audience that identifies with the
magazine and feels it's on their side. People buy a magazine because it's
of considerable interest to them, not because they get a deal on the
subscription. ... What you want to do is to find the right-size audience,
made up of people who believe in the values that the magazine reflects."

The original _Esquire_, Glaser points out, helped to glamorize the rich,
privileged man of the world -- the man who had arrived, who knew his
place in the world, and whose greatest desire was to surround himself
with the symbols of wealth, such as fancy cars and beautiful women.

Today, says Glaser, the American male no longer measures success by
symbols alone. Rather, he aims for self-development, for the richness of
life itself -- professional, personal, physical, intellectual and spiritual.

Clay Felker writes, in a yet-unreleased editorial in _Esquire_: "We will
explore how a man can develop a more rewarding life with the women
and children in his life. ... I see _Esquire_ magazine as a cheery, book
filled, comfortable den, a place of wit and sparkling conversation, of
goodwill and genial intelligence, where thoughtful discussions take place
and wise conclusions are reached."

Milton Glaser is probably the best-qualified artist in America to redesign
_Esquire_. Besides his success with _New York_ magazine, which began
as a Sunday supplement to the old _New York Herald Tribune_, Glaser
has designed _The Village Voice_, _Circus_ magazine, _New West_ and
two of France's leading publications, _L'Express_ and _Paris-Match_.

Glaser's posters have sold in the millions. He has put on one-man
exhibitions in the U.S., Europe and the Middle East. (He believes, in fact,
that his work is more appreciated abroad than at home). He has designed
everything from stores to toys to new typefaces.

He is a faculty member at both Cooper Union and the School of Visual
Arts. He is responsible for all the graphic design and decorative programs
at the World Trade Center. Two volumes of his works have been
published -- _Milton Glaser: Graphic Arts_ and _The Milton Glaser Poster

In addition, he is a noted food critic. For the past 10 years he has co
authored and constantly updated the best-selling Manhattan restaurant
guide, _The Underground Gourmet_.

A native New Yorker, Milton Glaser has fond memories of his boyhood
in the Bronx. He especially likes recalling an event that took place in 1933
-- the year that _Esquire_ was founded.

"When I was 4 years old, a cousin of mine said, 'Would you like to see
a pigeon?' He had a paper bag with him and I thought he meant there was
a pigeon in it. But then he took out a pencil and drew a picture of a bird.
I was so astonished that you could invent reality that I never recovered
from it. The only thing I wanted to do in my life was to make images."

Milton and his wife, Shirley, moved to the West Side last August. "I
guess it was the opportunity to find the right physical space. I like the
neighborhood because of the mix of working class, middle class, and
upper class. ... That really is the richest thing the urban scene offers."
The number of Westside restaurants listed in _The Underground Gourmet_
has sharply increased over the years. Among his favorite dining spots of
all price ranges are Ying's on Columbus Avenue (at 70th St.), the Cafe
des Artistes (1 West 67th St.), and the Harbin Inn (2637 Broadway).

Look in any New York subway station and you'll see a poster advertising
the School of Visual Arts. It shows two identical men in a room. One is
lying on a bed and the other is floating in the air. The caption reads:
"Having a talent isn't worth much unless you know what to do with it."
Milton Glaser, the designer of that poster, is a supreme example of a man
with many talents who knows what to do with all of them.


Architecture critic for the _New York Times_


"What is architecture? It's the whole built environment. It's the outside of
a building, the inside, the function; it serves social needs, physical needs.
... And a building has an obligation to work well with the buildings
around it -- at least in the city."

The speaker is Paul Goldberger, architecture critic for the _New York
Times_. His immaculate suit and tie, refined manners, dry wit, and
somewhat formal way of speaking seem to mark him a Timesman even
more than the carefully researched, colorfully written articles that have
poured out of his pen in the last four years.

As a critic, Goldberger is accustomed to vocalizing opinions and facts in
equal measure. His open-mindedness on architectural styles is
demonstrated by his apartment, a lavish, ultramodernized suite of high
ceilinged rooms inside one of the oldest buildings on Central Park West.
The interview begins with a trick question: "What is the third tallest
building in New York?" (Answer: the Empire State Building.) He fields
it without cracking a smile.

"I guess the question is, do you consider the World Trade Center two
buildings?" he says. "I guess it's like asking whether Grover Cleveland
was two presidents or one because he served two non-consecutive terms.
... The World Trade Center was not necessary built functionally or very
pleasing aesthetically. It was built as a kind of symbol of power by the
Port Authority. I'm used to it now; human beings can adapt to anything.
I even like going to the restaurant at the top and the restaurant at the
bottom. It's the floors in the middle I don't like."

He points to the new Citicorp Center on East 53rd Street as an example
of modern architecture at its best, and the mosquelike Cultural Center at
Columbus Circle as an example of the opposite. "It's pretty horrible,"
says the critic, agreeing with a newspaper writer who recently labeled the
Cultural Center one of the 12 ugliest buildings in Manhattan. "It's a very
silly building; it's so obviously dumb. But it doesn't particularly bother
me. It's almost innocent, it's so silly."

Lincoln Center, too, draws his barbs. "I find it very pretentious. Rather
boring, really. It's a set of imitations of classical themes. The buildings
are an unfortunate compromise because the builders were afraid to build
something really modern, or to design something that really looked like
a classical building. ... There's a feeling that they sort of want to be
modern and sort of want to be classical and end up being a very
unsatisfying compromise."

A New Jersey native who developed a passion for architecture in his
earliest years, Paul Goldberger attended Yale University and then worked
as a general reporter for another newspaper. Several years later he became
an editorial assistant for the _Times_. In 1973 there came an opening for
an architectural writer, and because the _Times_ knew of his background,
Goldberger was given the first shot at the job. "It was fabulous," he
recalls, because it was what I always wanted to do. And it was very much
a matter of luck -- of being at the right place at the right time." His
articles appear most often in the daily _Times_; Louise Huxtable remains
the chief architectural writer for the Sunday paper.

Why would a sophisticated Timesman choose the West Side over the East?
"There are many more wonderful buildings on the West Side," says
Goldberger. Unfortunately not many of the buildings on the West Side
have been kept up as well as the East Side. ... In terms of apartment
house architecture, Central Park West is probably the best street in New
York. It has all the grandeur and beauty and monumentality of Fifth
Avenue and it also has the relaxed atmosphere."

There's not one West Side," he continues. "There's at least 10. Around
here is one neighborhood. Riverside Drive is another. Up by Columbia is
another. ... One of the reasons I like my own neighborhood is because
though it is very much West Side, it's handy to the East Side and
midtown. I walk through the park all the time."

Any chance that Manhattan's skyscrapers will eventually weigh down the
island? "No," replies the critic emphatically. "First, the island is very,
very solid rock and nothing could cause it to sink. The other factor,
especially today, is that buildings are not all that heavy, because they're
being built with lighter materials and more modern engineering methods.
So a huge new building like the Citicorp, which is 900 feet high, is not
any heavier than a building 500 feet high built 30 years ago. And since we
don't have earthquakes, this is probably the safest environment in the
world to build a skyscraper."

Although studying and writing about architecture is "more than a full-time
job," Goldberger manages to keep abreast of the legal aspects of buildings
as well, including tenants' rights, rent control, zoning laws and redlining.
The New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission is another of his
interests. "I think landmarking is crucial to the city," he testifies. "A city
exists in time as much as space. It's the mixture of new and old buildings
that gives the city life and vitality."


Broadway's super agent


"Pardon me -- just one more call to make," said Milton Goldman, pushing
the buttons on his nearest desk phone. "Go on, you can ask me questions
at the same time," he added, holding the receiver to his ear.

"Are you the biggest theatrical agent in the world?" I said. He returned
my gaze evenly.

"Others have said it. It would be immodest for me to say it -- but I
probably am," said Goldman, who by this time had reached his party and
was inviting the young actress on the other end to a Broadway opening
that night. He chatted with her for several minutes, his Jack Bennyish
voice breaking occasionally into rich laughter.

Sitting upright behind a desk-sized table covered with papers, folders,
notebooks and play scripts, the ruddy-complexioned, jacketless Goldman
looked far more relaxed that I had expected of a man who, in his 32 years
as an agent, has handled the careers of close to 5,000 actors and actresses.
Among those he has helped "discover" are Jack Lemmon, Walter
Matthau, Grace Kelly, Lee Marvin, Charlton Heston and Faye Dunaway.
And though Goldman has become a celebrity in his own right, he still
exudes the low-keyed charm of a friendly neighbor talking over a fence.

The appearance is no deception: he owes his success not to high-pressure
tactics, but to an encyclopedic knowledge of the theatre on both sides of
the Atlantic, a keen judgment of which shows are best for his clients, and
a long-proven record for trustworthiness. By title, he is vice president in
charge of the theatrical division of International Creative Management,
which is matched in size only by the William Morris Agency.
Unofficially, he serves as father confessor, rabbi, psychiatrist, and best
friend to many of the top stars he represents. Attending the theatre up to
five times a week, he is always on the lookout for new clients. His
weekends are devoted to reading and casting new plays.

"I can't resist talent, and when I see a talented young actor or actress, I
want very much to help realize their potential by opening as many doors
as I can for them," he explained, gripping the arms of his chair. "I don't
think of my job as work. For me, it's fun. And I never know where the
one begins and the other ends. Because I'm that lucky individual whose
private life and public life are one and the same thing."

Every year he takes a vacation to Europe on the Queen Elizabeth II. "I'm
in Paris for a week and London for about three weeks." In slow, carefully
chosen sentences, he stated, "I represent many English clients because my
knowledge of the English theatre is probably better than anyone else in the
American theatre. Every year in London, I get the same suite in the Savoy
Hotel and give great parties. I go to at least eight plays a week --
sometimes as many as 10. So I get to see all the plays in London. And I
know all the English actors and they know me." Among his British
clients: Sir Laurence Olivier, Sir Ralph Richardson and Sir John Gielgud.

"American performers excel in the musical comedy theatre, where dancers
and singers also very often are fine actors. This is not true in England.
Dancers are especially hard to cast in London, though I think that is
changing now. ... It's sad that the American theatre can't support serious
plays. They're either musicals or they're comedies. I think a healthy
theatre should be able to support the works of serious playwrights. This
season, we happen to have on Broadway an important play by an
American playwright -- Arthur Kopit's _Wings_, which stars our client
Constance Cummings, who is an American actress who went to England
and made her reputation abroad, and has now returned here to great

A native of New Brunswick, New Jersey, Goldman witnessed his first
Broadway show in the summer of 1929, and from that day forward, the
theatre was his passion. For 10 years he worked as a tire salesman at a
family-owned business. Then, through his friend Arnold Weissberger, a
noted lawyer, Goldman was offered a job as a theatrical agent at no base
salary, but with a $25 weekly expense account and a 25 percent interest
in any clients he signed up. Success came to him almost at once.

A lifelong bachelor, Goldman today shares an apartment with Weissberger
on the Upper East Side. His favorite local restaurant is the Four Seasons.
"I go there all the time for lunch; that's my main meal of the day. I think
it's the best restaurant in the world."

The actor's life, he believes, "is a sad and a difficult one. Every time you
get a good part, the next part has to be bigger -- more money. As you
reach the top, it becomes tougher and tougher to get those parts."
Nevertheless, Goldman does not find his own job at all frustrating.

"Pressures? Yes, there are many pressures. But I have said this before:
there are so many rewards for me when I see a client in whom I believe
get a great break in the theatre or films of television. It's a source of great
satisfaction. And with the number of clients I represent, each day brings
some rewards. That's why I've often said to clients: 'I have many lives
to live.'"


Star of _Father's Day_ at the American Place Theatre


Tammy Grimes is one of the few Broadway stars to have received Tony
Awards in two categories -- for best Musical Comedy Actress in _The
Unsinkable Molly Brown_ (1961), and for Best Dramatic Actress in Noel
Coward's _Private Lives_ (1969). In a sense, she is Molly Brown
personified -- a powerful stage presence whose charm, beauty, and pure
talent make her shine in every production she takes part in, regardless of
the overall merit of the show itself.

Her disappointments have been, at times, as spectacular as her triumphs.
For example, there was her shot at network television in the early 1960s,
_The Tammy Grimes Show_, which lasted only 11 episodes because, she
says, "the writing, the concept, and the talent never really got together.
And I blame myself for that. Because if your name's up there, you are
responsible for the product."

Her marriage to actor Christopher Plummer ended in divorce after four
years, but had the happy result of producing a daughter, Amanda
Plummer, who is now a successful actress herself.

Tammy played Molly Brown on Broadway for the show's entire two-year
run, but the movie role went to Debbie Reynolds. She got some rave
reviews for her acting in a Broadway thriller named _Trick_ this year, but
the show closed within weeks. When that happened, she quickly started
working on a new show, _Father's Day_ by Oliver Hailey, that is
scheduled to open on June 21 at the American Place Theatre on West 46th

"It's about three women who get together on Father's Day," says Miss
Grimes in an interview at her Upper East Side apartment. "They live in
the same building, and they're divorced. It shows how the three of them
are coping with the situation. My feeling is that they don't want to be
divorced. It's a very well-written play -- a comedy. ... It's at the same
theatre where _In Cold Storage_ started."

The interview takes place in her softly decorated bedroom looking out on
a garden. Tammy is propped up on pillows beneath the covers, smoking
a cigarette and sipping a bottle of Tab as she apologizes for her condition.
"It may have been the caviar I had last night," she says, cheerful in spite
of her discomfort. Her pixyish features expand easily into a grin, and at
45 she has lost none of the childlike playfulness that first propelled her to
stardom. But the most surprising quality about Tammy Grimes is her
throaty British accent. Although she has done little work in England, her
normal speaking voice is far more British than American -- a fact which,
for some reason, she strenuously denies. "I spent a lot of time doing
British comedy," she explains, "but I don't sound British!"

A native of Lynn, Massachusetts -- "I just happened to be born on the
way home from a party" -- she grew up in Boston and decided early to
become an actress. When she was 16, Thornton Wilder saw her in a
production of his classic play, _The Skin of Our Teeth_. He declared:
"Young lady, even Tallulah Bankhead didn't do the things you did to the
role." By her early 20s she was performing in numerous Off Broadway
shows. A singing act she developed for one of New York's leading supper
clubs won her a rave review in _Life_ magazine, and shortly after her
25th birthday, she received her first starring role on Broadway, in an ill
fated Noel Coward production called _Look After Lulu_.

The following year, 1960, saw _The Unsinkable Molly Brown_ reach
Broadway. It was the most expensive musical ever mounted until then,
and became a smash. Tammy played the role 1,800 times; she missed only
13 performances. "I believe that if you can speak, you should be up
there," she says. "Even today, people will stop me and say, 'We came in
from North Carolina to see you, and when we got to the theatre, you
weren't there.'"

As a television performer, she has appeared as a guest star in dozens of
dramatic series, situation comedies, and variety shows. She has played
numerous Shakespearean roles, made five movies, done a great deal of
radio work, and recorded numerous albums, including several for
children. An animal lover, she gives her time freely to such groups as the
American Horse Protection Association and Friends of the Animals.

Tammy has been at her present East Side address since 1969. Though she
likes to cook, she also frequents many restaurants including Veau d'Or
and Gino's.

Asked to evaluate her career as a whole, Tammy notes that all but one of
the shows she has done "seemed to open and close in a natural way.
There's always a reason why a play ends prematurely. ... It's nice to
please the public, but you can't constantly be thinking that they will accept
this but not something else from you. You have to go by your feelings.
If something is good, the public will go to see it."


Star of _Your Arms Too Short to Box with God_


It's just after 10 on a Wednesday evening when Delores Hall steps out of
the Lyceum Theatre's stage door onto 46th Street. At least 20 fans are
waiting; they give a cheer as she emerges and rush toward her. Delores
Hall smiles broadly as she autographs their programs, for these fans are
hers. She has worked hard to become a Broadway star, and now in _Your
Arms Too Short to Box with God_ she is precisely that.

"No, I'm not really tired," says Ms. Hall a few minutes later over a snack
at the All-State Cafe. "I'm still at a peak of energy from the show. That
was my second performance today, but I could do another one if I had

Asking Delores about her earlier days brings a flood of memories and
laughter. She's a happy, bouncy woman and seems as pleased to talk as
any friendly neighbor. "When I was 3 I discovered I had vibrato," she
recalls. "My mother taught me everything I know about singing. I can
remember her hitting me in the stomach, showing me how to breathe. But
whatever she did, she did it right. I was 4 when I first sang in public; they
stood me on a table. I can remember some people throwing 50-cent

Born in Kansas City slightly more than 30 years ago, Delores grew up
with music in her ears. Her father played the bass for Count Basie, and
her mother was -- and still is -- a missionary in the Church of God in
Christ, which produces gospel singers the way southern universities raise
football players. Young Delores began singing regularly at the church
services -- an activity she continued when her family moved to Los
Angeles. When Delores entered college she formed her own gospel group,
an act so popular that she soon left school to become a full-time musician.
Later, Harry Belafonte invited the Delores Hall Singers to tour with him
for six months.

"Harry is a beautiful man," Delores grins. "He came to the show a month
or so ago, and afterwards he went backstage and somebody introduced us.
He said, 'Miss Hall, I've heard so much about you,' and then he
screamed, and we jumped into each other's arms.

Delores has lived in New York since 1969. Five years ago she moved to
the West Side. "People are so much warmer here," she says. Her
remarkable singing has won her parts in half a dozen Broadway shows,
but with _Box_, for the first time, she suddenly found herself the star of
a hit production. Clive Barnes, in a highly positive review in the _New
York Times_, declares: "Miss Hall has the audience in the palm of her
voice." The all-black cast of this musical adaptation of the Book of
Matthew has been packing the Lyceum since Christmas, and advance
ticket sales go to October.

In spite of Ms. Hall's unbroken musical success, her life has not been
without personal tragedy. Just before the Broadway premiere of _Box_
last December 22, she suffered the heartbreaking loss of her only brother,
a minister. "It was very hard to open the show," she recalls, "but I got
through it with the help of God."

Delores lives on West 72nd Street with her husband of seven years,
Michael Goodstone. Whenever she can, Delores joins Michael at temple
in Westchester County: "I find it very uplifting spiritually, because I
believe God is everywhere." Each Sunday the couple both attend the
Church of God in Christ. "Some people call it the Holy Roller church,"
she explains. "After the service, we go downstairs for a piece of the best
fried chicken."

Ms. Hall's face glows with pride when she speaks of Deardra, her 14
year-old daughter from a previous marriage: "My daughter is a singer,
too. She won the music award from her school." Deardra is hoping to
enter New York's High School of Performing Arts this fall.

Plans for the future? Delores would like to try grand opera someday --
possibly the role of Aida. And a new record album is not far off. Several
years ago she recorded her first album for RCA. Since she began drawing
national attention in _Box_, some tempting offers have come in from
recording companies, and her manager is in the process of negotiating a
contract. The new album may be either gospel or middle of the road: "I'm
praying very hard, so it depends on what the Lord says."

But for the moment, Delores Hall is well satisfied at filling the Lyceum
Theatre seven times each week. "This show I love so much," she says,
her eyes sparkling, "because it takes me home."


King of the Newport Jazz Festival


The world's greatest celebration of jazz, the Newport Jazz Festival, will
get off the ground on June 23 -- its 25th consecutive year. During the 12
day festival, in indoor and outdoor settings all over Manhattan and
beyond, the most important names in jazz will stage nearly 30 major
musical events.

More than half the concerts, appropriately enough, will take place on the
West Side, in Carnegie Hall and Avery Fisher Hall. And just as
appropriately, this year's festival will be dedicated to a Westsider whose
life has been an inspiration to millions of people, not only for the great
music he has created, but for a heart as large as the Grand Canyon. To
call him merely a giant of jazz could be an understatement, because they
don't come any bigger than Lionel Hampton.

Ask a dozen people what the name Lionel Hampton means to them and
you're likely to get a dozen answers -- all of them correct. In his 50 years
as a professional musician, "Hamp" has used his remarkable gifts humbly,
wisely, and unselfishly.

Music historians will always remember him as the man who introduced
the vibraphone into jazz. This he accomplished in 1930, while playing
with Louis Armstrong. Ever since, Hampton has been known as the
world's foremost master of the instrument. He is also a leading drummer,
pianist, singer, arranger, bandleader and composer. At 69, he continues
to work nearly 50 weeks out of the year, taking his band to every corner
of the U.S. and Europe. But whether he's making a live recording in a
nightclub or performing his own symphonic works with the Boston
Symphony Orchestra, Lionel Hampton glows with a spiritual energy that
extends far beyond his music.

It's 2 o'clock in the afternoon when I arrive at Hampton's neat, modern
apartment overlooking Lincoln Center. I sit on the sofa talking with Chuck
Jones, his public relations man, and a few minutes later Hampton emerges
from the bedroom and plops down on the sofa beside me, wearing a
dressing gown, slippers, and the famous smile that no one can imitate.
After the introductions, I ask about his most recent concerts.

"I'm still trying to get myself together," he says almost apologetically in
his rich Southern drawl. "We just got back from a six-week tour in
Europe. We played all over Scandinavia, Germany, Southern France.

"When I was in Chicago this week, at the Playboy Cub, they gave me a
new set of drums, with lights inside. I push a button and the whole drum
lights up. I'm going to use them for Newport. This is the latest thing. It
will blow their minds. We open on July first in Carnegie Hall and I'm
bringing back a lot of veterans from my band."

He grew up in Chicago, but because of the gang fights in his
neighborhood, Lionel's grandmother sent him to a Catholic school in
Wisconsin. There a nun taught him to play the drums. The youngster
learned fast; when he was 15, he made up his mind to head for the West
Coast on his own, to pursue a jazz career. At the train station, he
promised his grandmother that he would say his prayers and read the Bible
every day.

Some 15 years later, Hampton was invited to join the Benny Goodman
band in New York. His acceptance of the offer had great social
significance, for it was the first time that blacks and whites played
together in a major musical group.

>From 1937 to 1971 he lived in central Harlem. Then, after moving to the
West Side, Hampton decided that he wanted to help upgrade his old
neighborhood, so, on the advice of Governor Nelson Rockefeller, he
raised $1 million in seed money and filed an application with the Urban
Development Corporation for some new housing. Today there are 355
families living in the Lionel Hampton Houses at 130th Street and 8th
Avenue." I was just designated the land right next to it," he says proudly.
"We're going to break ground next year. It will be 250 family units,
dedicated to my late wife Gladys. The Gladys Hampton Building."

A friend of many important public figures, Hampton has never lost his
affection for Richard Nixon: "When I was a kid in California, President
Nixon was our congressman. Then he became our senator. He was a good
man and a good politician. He helped the blacks a lot; he helped the
Spanish. I campaigned for him when he ran for president. ... What
happened with Watergate, I don't know. That's high politics. But I know
I always had high esteem for him."

In a political campaign last year, Hampton threw his support behind
Ernest Morial, a black man who was running for mayor of New Orleans.
Before Hampton stepped in, Morial was sixth in the polls. "I sent my P.R.
man Chuck Jones down there to put some life into his campaign. Chuck
put a thousand placards all over town and went on all the radio stations,
and I played at a Morial for Mayor music festival. He came in first in the
primary and then he won the election."

My questions are finished. I get up and shake Lionel's hand, telling him
that I've always loved his music. He dashes into his bedroom, bringing
out four records for me to take home. He shakes my hand twice more.

On my way to the door, I ask him one last question: Does he still have
time to read the Bible every day?

"Yes," he replies, grinning, "That's what I was doing when you came
here and that's what I'm going to do after you leave."


Executive director of Amnesty International U.S.A.


During the final days of World War II, a captured resistance member sat
alone in a black prison cell, tired, hungry, tortured, and convinced of
approaching death. After weeks of torment, the prisoner was sure that
there was no hope, that no one knew or cared. But in the middle of the
night, the door of the cell opened, and the jailer, shouting abuse into the
darkness, threw a loaf of bread onto the dirt floor. The prisoner, by this
time ravenous, tore open the loaf.

Inside was a matchbox. Inside the matchbox were matches and a scrap of
paper. The prisoner lit a match. On the paper was a single word:
"Coraggio!" Courage. Take courage. Don't give up, don't give in. We are
trying to help you. "Coraggio!"

The prisoner never did find out who wrote the one-word message, but the
spark of hope it provided may well have saved his life. The story is told
in _Matchbox_, the newspaper of Amnesty International U.S.A., one of
the largest branches of the worldwide human rights organization that
received the Nobel Peace Prize for 1977.

David Hawk, executive director of Amnesty international U.S.A., sits
behind his desk on a weekday morning talking about how the group
originated and what it has done to earn the prize.

"It was started in Britain in 1961 by a lawyer named Peter Benenson,"
says Hawk, whose name belies the fact that he has been involved in civil
rights for nearly half of his 34 years. "It started over a trial that was going
on in Portugal." Benenson launched a one-year campaign to call attention
to the Portuguese prisoners.

Soon the idea became so popular that a permanent organization was
created. Chapters sprang up in other countries, and members began to
work toward freeing "prisoners of conscience" on every continent. In the
past 17 years, Amnesty International -- or "Amnesty" for short -- has
aided in securing the release of nearly 13,000 individuals who were
imprisoned not for crimes, but for personal beliefs that went against their
governments' official policies.

"We're a nuisance factor," says Hawk. "We organize letter-writing and
publicity campaigns on behalf of individual victims of human rights
violations. It's the letters and the publicity that are Amnesty's tools for
securing their release or bettering their conditions while they're in. At
first it sounds strange to think that people sitting in living rooms in the
United States can help someone in a fortress prison on an island in
Indonesia, or in Siberia. ... You deluge certain people with so many
letters that eventually it becomes an issue. Then the government asks, 'Is
holding this person worth the trouble?' And on occasion, the answer is

The secret of Amnesty's success is its huge number of volunteers --
170,000 in 78 countries -- who work on the case of a particular prisoner
for years if necessary. They send letters and telegrams not only to
government officials, but also to the prisoner himself. At times they send
packages, or give financial aid to his family, or arrange for legal aid.

A 100-member research team in London makes sure that every new case
is thoroughly documented before assigning it to an "adoption group" of 12
to 20 people. This group generally receives the names of three prisoners
from three different political systems, and meets once a month to work on
the cases until a result is obtained.

The Riverside adoption group, dating back to 1966, was the first one
established in the U.S. Today there are more than 100 in 32 states. All of
these are monitored by David Hawk and his staff of 20 full-time workers
at their Westside office. The $750,000 annual U.S. budget comes from
members' contributions, foundations, and church agencies.

Hawk assumed the leadership of A.I.-U.S.A. in 1974. "In the early '60s
I worked in the civil rights movement in the Deep South," he recalls.
"From 1967 to 1972 I was one of the organizers of the Moratorium
Against the War. Then I worked in the McGovern campaign."

At about the same time he graduated from Union Theological Seminary,
and from there went to Oxford University in England, where he found out
about Amnesty International. Returning to the U.S., he applied for the
vacant post of executive director and was accepted. Ever since then he has
been a resident of the West Side. David's wife Joan, a potter, is the editor
of _Matchbox_.

Hawk's biggest concern these days is to focus attention on the human
rights covenants that President Carter has signed and is planning to send
to the U.S. Senate for ratification. The covenants are worded almost the
same as the United Nations' Universal Declaration of Human Rights,
signed in December, 1948. "Put into treaty form," explains Hawk, "the
articles will carry more weight. It's very important for governments to
agree among themselves that they shouldn't torture their citizens, and
should give them fair trials, and should provide food and housing and
education for their citizens. Amnesty wants all governments to ratify the

Anyone interest in volunteering some time to this worthy organization
should write to: Amnesty International, 2112 Broadway, Room 309, New
York, NY 10023.


Chairman of Tiffany & Company


When Walter Hoving took over as chairman of Tiffany and Company in
1955, he gave his designers one simple rule: "Design what you think is
beautiful and don't worry about selling it." The rule applies as much to
store's eye-catching Christmas display windows as to the three floors of
jewelry, silver, china, and crystal at the corner of 5th Avenue and 57th
Street. Hoving's unique combination of business wizardry and impeccable
taste has paid off dramatically: since he joined the company, Tiffany's
annual sales haver gone from $7 million to $73 million.

A tall, soft-spoken, former Brown University football star whose unlined
forehead and vigorous appearance belie his 82 years, Hoving has a voice
like Jimmy Stewart's and kindly yet authoritative manner. On his
conservative gray suit is a tiny silver pin with the words "Try God."
Leaning back in the comfortable desk chair at his vast, teakwood-paneled
office at Tiffany's on a recent afternoon, he answers all questions
thoroughly and unhesitatingly.

"We don't think in terms of price at all. Whatever we sell has got to be
up to our standard in quality material, quality workmanship, and quality
of design. ... You see, you've got to have a point of view in this thing.
That's all we've got is a point of view, and we stick to it."

What he calls a "point of view" others would simply define as "taste."
And Hoving is well qualified to have strong opinions in this area. At the
age of 30, three years after joining R.H. Macy and Company, he was
already a vice president and merchandising director. At that point, says
Hoving, "I realized that design was going to be a coming thing, and I
really didn't know much about it. So I matriculated at New York
University in their arts department, and I took courses on period furniture,
old silver, historic textiles, color and design. It took me three years, twice
a week at night. ... Then, of course, I could learn by going into people's
homes that were beautiful, in England and France, at museums --
wherever I was. You learn if you have a basis. And so I advise anybody
who comes into this business to get knowledgeable about decorative arts."

After leaving Macy's, he climbed steadily, becoming vice president of
Montgomery Ward, president of Lord & Taylor, and president of Bonwit
Teller. Upon arriving at Tiffany's, one of the first things he did was to
discontinue selling anything that didn't conform to his esthetic standards,
regardless of profit.

The current 180-page catalogue lists almost 100 items under $25, along
with such unabashed luxuries as a porcelain dessert service for six priced
at $4,200 and an unpriced "seashell" necklace of 18-carat gold with
diamonds set in platinum. Tiffany's carries no synthetic gems because,
according to Hoving, "everything here is real," and no men's diamond
rings because "we think they're vulgar." He adds: "I dropped antique
silver. I saw no reason why Tiffany should carry it. You can get antiques
anyplace. Our job is to make antiques for the future."

Since 1963, Tiffany has opened branch stores in five other cities. Several
floors in the Fifth Avenue headquarters house artists, engravers,
clockmakers and jewelry craftsmen. There is also a Tiffany factory in
New Jersey.

The author of two best-selling books, _Your Career in Business_ and
_Tiffany's Table Manners for Teenagers_, Hoving is a deeply religious
man who has long been actively involved in charitable work. He is a co
founder of the Salvation Army Association of New York, and gives his
time to the United Negro College Fund, the United Service Organizations,
and, most recently, a home for heroin-addicted girls in Garrison, New
York, which has been named in his honor.

When a friend at St. Bartholomew's Church asked Hoving to make her a
pin reading "Try God," he got the idea of selling the pin at Tiffany's and
giving the proceeds to the Walter Hoving Home. So far, 600,000 have
been sold.

Jane Pickens Hoving, his wife since 1977, is the founder and chairman of
an organization known as Tune in New York, which matches volunteers
to jobs best suited for their talents and interests. It is about to open a
headquarters at 730 Fifth Avenue, across from Tiffany's.

His son Thomas Hoving served as commissioner of parks for New York
City and for many years was director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
He recently wrote a book on Tutankhamen and has another book in the

An Eastsider for over 50 years, Walter Hoving walks more than three
miles a day between his home and office. He frequently mixes with
customers in the store, and one of his favorite anecdotes is about the time
he spoke with a woman who was registering her daughter for wedding
presents. "The woman said that she and her husband wanted everything
to come from Tiffany's because they were sure if it was from Tiffany's
it would be all right," relates Hoving. "I said, 'What does your husband
do?' She said, 'He is a letter carrier.' Well, I felt better than if I had sold
Mrs. Astorbilt a million-dollar diamond ring."


Restaurant critic for _Gourmet_ magazine


It is a familiar scene to New York restaurateurs: an out-of-town visitor
arrives clutching a magazine, turns to an article, and orders the items that
have been underlined. Whether the magazine is current or several years
old, the chances are that it is _Gourmet_ and that the article is a review
by Jay Jacobs, _Gourmet's_ New York restaurant critic since 1972.

Its monthly circulation of 600,000 makes _Gourmet_ the most widely read
food publication in the English-speaking world. But Jacobs, who is
responsible for writing three lengthy reviews per issue, is quick to point
out that, in spite of his knowledge of the business and his love of cooking,
he would never consider opening a restaurant himself.

"I think everybody born in this century has fantasized about a restaurant,
but I think it would be insane," he says in a voice as rich and mellow as
vintage port. "One of the great tragedies of the restaurant business is that
people who cook well at home often think that's all it takes. ... If you've
got any interest in food and the least bit of talent, you can probably cook
a better meal for four people than you'll ever get in any restaurant in the
world -- if you want to invest that kind of labor and time, and
concentration. But there's a huge gap between doing that and serving
anywhere from 70 to 130 people at night, all wanting different dishes. It
becomes a tremendous problem of strategy and logistics."

Affable, low-keyed, and very small of stature, Jacob displays a wry wit
while telling how he began his career as a painter, cartoonist and
illustrator before turning to full-time writing in 1956. For years he worked
mainly for art publications, and he still writes a bimonthly column for
_theArtgallery_ magazine. His first book, a quickie titled _RFK: His Life
and Death_, came out in 1968. He is also the author of _A History of
Gastronomy_, _New York a la Carte_, and _Winning the Restaurant
Game_ (McGraw-Hill, 1980).

_Winning the Restaurant Game_ is an extremely humorous and
entertaining volume that is notable for its exotic vocabulary. However, the
book's message is not to be taken lightly -- that restaurant dining is a
complex game in which the best players can expect better service, better
food, and the lasting affection of the owner. All the conventions of dining
out, including who to tip and how much, are discussed in depth. Among
the subchapters are "Humbling the Opposition," "The Uselessness of
Menus," "Addressing Flunkies," and "Securing Advantageous Tables."

His next book, _Winning the Kitchen Game_, is due from McGraw-Hill
next winter.

Jacobs dines out at least once a day while in the city. He visits restaurants
several times before doing a review -- always anonymously, and generally
accompanied by others. "My job," he says, "is to find worthwhile places
that our readers will want to go to. The magazine's policy is not to do
unfavorable reviews. If I think a place stinks, I don't go back and I don't
review it. ... Most of our readers are knowledgeable about food,
somewhat self-indulgent, affluent, and well-travelled. When they come
into New York, they don't want to find some cut-rate taco house, and they
don't want to know about the bad places. They're only in for a few days,
and they want to hit the high spots.

"The daily press have a different readership and a different function. ...
When they do a favorable review, it can damage a restaurant in that it
generates a sudden spurt of interest that the restaurant can't handle."

The father of four boys, Jacobs is a very sociable person who enjoys
throwing parties for 50 to 60. To prepare the food, he says, "I lock
myself in the kitchen for three or four days."

His _Gourmet_ reviews are so detailed that Jacobs gets letters from
readers across the country who tell how they have recreated a night at the
Four Seasons or 21 "by analyzing what I have written, and approximating
the dishes." But what makes his job particularly gratifying is the restaurant
people themselves.

"I'm very impressed by these restaurant guys. If you travel in Europe you
see them when they're 13 years old, schlepping suitcases in some motel
and dreaming of the day when they open their own restaurant. They
usually come out of small towns or even villages, and don't have the
benefit of birth or upbringing or schooling. And the next thing you know,
it's 30 years later and they can converse very adequately with Henry
Kissinger or Jackie Onassis or anyone else, and maintain a business and
make it work."


Star of _Dracula_ on Broadway


"It's nice to be a vampire eight times a week," says Raul Julia, the star
of _Dracula_ at the Martin Beck Theatre. Last October he took over the
role made famous by Frank Langella, and now Julia -- pronounced "Hoo
lia" by his Puerto Rican countrymen -- has developed a cult following of
his own, in this classic remake of the 1927 Broadway hit.

Some critics have said that the sets and costumes by Edward Gorey are
the centerpieces of the show, more so than any of the performers. But
Raul Julia is rapidly becoming a local matinee idol, drawing fan mail by
the bagful and constantly meeting crowds of autograph seekers outside the
stage door.

In his portrayal of Count Dracula, Raul takes on many characteristics of
a bat. He hangs over the mantlepiece at strange angles and whips his dark
cloak through the air like a bat's wings. When entrapped by three
desperate men holding protective crosses and religious relics in front of
them, he changes into a bat and flies out the window at the stroke of

In the dressing room prior to a performance, without his makeup, he looks
neither sinister nor magnetically attractive, but seems almost boyish. His
wit is matched by his humility: Raul is aware that his name is not yet a
household word. Not many people realize, for example, that his natural
speaking voice has the same lilting Puerto Rican accent heard everywhere
in the streets and subways of New York. When asked how he accounts for
his flawless onstage pronunciation, Raul shrugs and says with a grin,
"Well, that's acting."

Like Richard Chamberlain, who in 1970 played Hamlet with great success
on the British stage, Julia is equally at home in British and American
plays. He has starred in many of Joseph Papp's New York Shakespeare
Festival productions, and has received three Tony nominations for his
dramatic and musical roles on Broadway.

He sips a glass of apricot juice while a makeup artist brushes his jet black
hair straight back and starts to darken his eyes. Removing his shoes, Raul
tells all sorts of little anecdotes about his life as the famous Count.

"I usually eat very little during the day. I go to sleep at about five,
sometimes six. Maybe I'm getting a Dracula schedule," he says with a
laugh. "Some people who see the show write and say they're going to
keep their windows open at night.

"Dracula is a myth, although some people think there actually are
vampires. Bram Stoker really created the character of Dracula, taking
legends from different parts of the world, like the stories of sailors who
had been stricken by bats, appearing on deck the next morning, all pale,
without blood in them.

"I hear that Bela Lugosi was buried in a Dracula costume. I also hear that
Boris Karloff came to the funeral home to visit him and looked down at
the coffin and said, 'You're not kidding are you sweetie?'"

Dracula the character is more than 500 years old; Julia the actor declines
to give his age. "Actors should be ageless," he says. "You see, what age
does, it limits you to a certain category." He doesn't mind telling his
height, however. "Eight foot four," he quips. "No, six two."

He was, in fact, born 30-odd years ago in San Juan. In 1964, after
graduating from the university there, he was performing in a local
nightclub revue, and comedian Orson Bean happened to be in the
audience. Bean urged him to come to New York, and introduced him to
Wynn Handman of the American Place Theatre. Although he had not
studied acting formally, Raul's natural ability and his versatility soon
began to pay off. Within two years he was playing lead roles for Joseph

Married for the past three years to dancer/actress Merel Poloway, Raul
devotes a great deal of his spare time to a charitable organization called
the Hunger Project. "The purpose of the group is to support anything that
will help bring an end to hunger by 1997. Our goal is to transform the
atmosphere that exists now,. That says that hunger is inevitable. All the
experts and scientists agree that we have the means right now to end the
starvation on the planet."

A resident of the Upper West Side for the past 10 years, Raul has two
major projects coming up -- the title role of Othello for Shakespeare-in
the-Park this summer and a movie called _Isabel_, which he will film in
Puerto Rico this spring: "I wanted to be in it because it's a totally Puerto
Rican venture, and I want to encourage the beginning of a quality movie

Raul appears to be utterly at ease as he prepares to make his stage
entrance in the middle of the first act of _Dracula_. I have time for one
more question: "Is the acting life everything you hoped it would be?"

Raul wraps the cloak around himself and heads out of the dressing room.
He looks back at me and smiles. "Yes," he replies. "_Now_ it is."


Creator of Batman and Robin


At the 1939 World's Fair in New York, a time capsule was filled with
memorabilia thought to be representative of 20th-century American
culture, and scheduled to be opened by historians 5,000 years later.
Among the objects chosen was a comic magazine that had appeared for
the first time that year, the creation of an 18-year-old artist and writer
named Bob Kane. Whoever chose the contents of the time capsule must
have been prophetic, because today, 40 years later, few characters in
American fantasy or fiction are so well known as Kane's pulp hero --

"It was a big success from the very beginning," says the cartoonist, a tall,
wiry, powerful-looking man of 58 whose tanned, leathery features bear a
striking resemblance to those of Bruce Wayne, Batman's secret identity.
"Superman started in 1938, and the same company, D.C. Comics, was
looking for another superhero. I happened to be in the right place at the
right time.

"The first year, Batman was more evil, more sinister. My concept was for
him to scare the hell out of the denizens of the underworld. And then the
second year, I introduced Robin, because I realized he would appeal to the
children's audience. That's when the strip really took hold."

The walls of his Eastside apartment are covered with vintage hand-drawn
panels by America's most famous cartoonists, and Kane, with his casual
attire, his broad New York accent, and his habit of twirling his glasses
around while slumped far down in his easy chair, would not seem out of
place as a character in Maggie and Jiggs. Yet he likes to consider himself
a serious artist, and has, in fact, had some notable achievements in his
"second career," which began in 1966 when he resigned from D.C.
Comics, on the heels of the successful _Batman_ TV series.

"I got tired of working over the drawing board after 30 years. I wanted
to be an entrepreneur -- painter, screenplay writer, and producer." Since
that time, he has built up a large body of work -- oil paintings,
watercolors, pen and ink sketches and lithographs, most of them depicting
characters from Batman. They have been purchased by leading
universities, famous private collectors, and New York's Museum of
Modern Art.

As a writer, Kane has created four animated cartoon series for television,
has penned a screenplay for Paramount Pictures, _The Silent Gun_, has
written an autobiography titled _Batman and Me_ (due to be published
next year), and has completed a screenplay for a full-length Batman
movie. Recently, he has also emerged as an active participant in charitable
causes, such as UNICEF, Cerebral Palsy and the American Cancer

>From March 16 to April 8, the Circle Gallery at 435 West Broadway in
SoHo will exhibit a one-man show of about 40 Kane originals. Says Kane
with his typical immodesty: "I'm probably the first cartoonist to make the
transition to fine art. When you do hand-signed, limited editions of
lithographs, you are definitely entering the world of Lautrec and Picasso
and Chagall."

Kane has lived on the East Side for the past 15 years and has no plans to
leave. Asked about his early years, he tells of growing up poor in the
Bronx. "I used to draw on all the sidewalks, and black out the teeth of the
girls on the subway posters. I used to copy all the comics as a kid, too.
That was my school of learning. ... My greatest influence in creating
Batman was a sketch by Leonardo da Vinci of a flying machine, which I
saw when I was 13 years old. It showed a man on a sled with huge bat
wings attached to it. To me, it looked like a bat man. And that same year,
I saw a movie called _The Mark of Zorro_, with Douglas Fairbanks
Senior. Zorro fought for the downtrodden and he had a cave in the
mountainside, and wore a mask, which gave me the idea for Batman's
dual identity and the Batmobile."

As might be expected, Kane takes much pride in his lifelong success.
"Batman has influenced four decades of children," he declares. "It has
influenced the language. ... It has influenced people's lives whereby it
gives them a sense of hope that the good guy usually wins in the end. And
mainly, the influence has been one of sheer entertainment. I feel that most
people would like to be a Batman-type superhero, to take them out of their
dull, mundane routine of everyday living. ... My greatest thrill comes
from my 5-year-old grandson. Little did I know when I was 18 that one
day I would see my grandson wearing a little Batman costume, driving
around in a miniature Batmobile and yelling 'Batman!'"


Star of _The Guiding Light_


For the pat few months at least, the hottest soap opera on television has
been CBS' _The Guiding Light_, which reaches approximately 10 million
viewers nationwide. The show has 22 regular characters, and right now
the one who is getting the most attention is Rita Stapleton, a beautiful but
deceitful nurse who recently brought up the ratings for the week when she
was raped by her ex-lover on the night before her engagement to another
man. It was all in a day's work for Westsider Lenore Kasdorf, who
portrays the popular villainess.

"This is definitely a job, and you get the feeling of a schedule, of
punching in and punching out, of rolling it off the presses. But you put in
your creative element too," says Miss Kasdorf, taking a break between
scenes at the studio. With her soft hazel eyes, pearly teeth, finely chiseled
features, and billowing brown hair, she is nothing short of stunning -- an
impression that is heightened by her throaty voice and by the red sweater
that covers her ample figure.

Being the star of an hour-long "soap" means that Lenore often has to work
from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. inside the mazelike studio, so that in winter, an
entire week may go by when she doesn't see sunlight. Although she
receives a tremendous number of fan letters, Lenore does not have time
to answer most of them.

"I'm not a letter writer anyway," she explains. "There are times when
someone is so sincere that you feel you really want to respond. I have had
people send me a dollar check for postage. My heart goes out sometimes;
I get guilty when I read my mail. This audience is very responsive. They
love to comment about the show. I get a lot of identifying mail. Some
people say, 'You're like the sister I wish I had.' Sometimes there's
strange mail. Sometimes there's lewd mail, which is removed before I can
read it." She laughs vigorously. "That's fine with me, because then I can
enjoy all my mail."

Asked about which part of the Upper West Side she lives in, Lenore
declines to say. "I have some fans who would follow my footprints in the
snow. You have to be careful. My husband and I tend to stay in the
neighborhood a lot, and I'd hate to ruin our indiscreet little way of getting
around. ... In New York people are used to seeing Al Pacino walking
down the street, or Jackie O. shopping at the corner. But out of town --
at first they're not sure if it's you. A lot of people come up to me and
say, 'Do you ever watch _The Guiding Light_? You look so much like
that girl.' I usually tell them who I am. I can't see any point in lying.
Face it, that's part of the reason we're doing this. I'm sure there's a ham
in every actor, whether they're shy about it or not."

Her husband, actor Phil Peters, recently won the part of Dr. Steven
Farrell on _As The World Turns_, another CBS soap opera. Within a few
weeks, however, there was a change of writers. "The new writers wanted
to bring in their own characters," says Lenore, "so on the show, Phil just
disappeared in the night. He never showed up for his wedding. All the
other characters were saying, 'Where could he be?'" She laughs at the
recollection of what happened soon afterward when she and her husband
were visiting Fredericksburg, Virginia: "A woman came up behind Phil
while we were eating dinner, and said, 'Shame on you! How could you
run off on that pretty little thing?'"

Born 30 years ago on Long Island, the daughter of an Army officer,
Lenore grew up in such diverse places as Tennessee, Indiana, Virginia,
Germany and Thailand. After graduating from the International School in
Bangkok, she "got out of the Army" and returned to the U.S. to attend
college in Indiana. There she began to do local TV commercials, and was
so successful that she decided to try her luck in California. Quickly she
became an established television actress, winning roles in many prime
time series, including _Starsky and Hutch_, _Barnaby Jones_, and
_Ironside_. While performing for a small theatre company she met Phil
Peters. Phil wanted to come to New York to work in the theatre, and,
with some reservations, Lenore came with him. Although Phil does not
have a regular acting assignment at present, Lenore points out that "actors
are never out of work. They're just between jobs."

_The Guiding Light_, says Lenore, "was originally a religious program
on the radio, where the moral of the story was an enlightening lesson for
everybody." Since moving to television in 1952, the show has changed
considerably in content, but, according to Lenore, it still contains many
lessons that are relevant to modern living.

"You can tell from mail that you do help people, whether you mean to or
not," says the actress with obvious satisfaction. "I've gotten letters saying,
'Seeing Rita through that difficulty has enlightened me about my own
situation.' She has not helped by example, because Rita doesn't always do
things right. But she shows how much trouble you can get into by
behaving the way she does, and in that way I think she helps people avoid
the same mistakes."


Back on Broadway after 27 years


On January 1, 1980, the curtain will finally ring down on _Da_, Hugh
Leonard's strikingly original and poignant drama about a man's fond
memories of his working-class Irish father. _Da_ won four Tony Awards
in 1978, including Best Play. Since July 30, the title role has been ably
filled by Brian Keith, an actor perhaps best known for playing "Uncle
Bill" in the situation comedy _Family Affair_, one of television's most
popular shows from 1966 to 1971. Recently he has been seen in the TV
specials _Centennial, The Chisholms_ and _The Seekers_. In his long,
illustrious career, the 57-year-old actor has starred in four other TV series
and appeared in more than 60 motion pictures.

During the late 1940s, when he worked primarily on Broadway, Keith
rented an apartment on East 66th Street with a fireplace and kitchen for
$70 a month. Leaving for Hollywood in 1952, he eventually married a
Hawaiian actress, and nine years ago became a full-time resident of

"I hadn't been to New York for years and years and years, and when we
came here for a vacation last winter, I saw a play every night for a couple
of weeks," says Keith. "_Da_ was the only one I thought I'd really like
to do sometime." Not long afterward, Barnard Hughes, the Tony Award
winning star of _Da_, decided to tour with the show, and Keith was
offered a five-month contract to replace him. Delighted with the chance
to return to Broadway in such a compelling role after a 27-year absence,
Keith quickly said yes. Bringing his wife and children to New York for
an extended visit, he again chose the Upper East Side as a place to live.

A big, brawny 6-footer whose deep, gravelly voice and slothful
mannerisms somehow bring to mind a friendly trained bear, Keith
normally spends the time between his matinee and evening performances
sleeping on an Army cot in his dressing room. On this particular day, he
is sitting in the sparsely furnished room with his shirt off, smoking a
cigarette and answering questions about his career. His initially gruff
demeanor soon gives way to laughter, sentiment, hopefulness and
cynicism in equal measure. A no-holds-barred conversationalist, he talks
about the acting life with a rare frankness.

Taking over the role of Da with only about 20 hours of rehearsal, says
Keith, was "just a matter of trouping it." He didn't find the task too
difficult, partly because of his Irish background. Asked how far back his
ancestry goes, Keith laughs and says, "How far back? If you go back far
enough, you never stop. I'm Irish on both sides. On my father's side they
came over in Revolutionary days. On my mother's side, five or six
generations. It stays, though. The first time I went to Ireland, I felt the
whole deja vu thing. I knew what I'd see around the next corner when I

He was born in the backstage of a theatre in Bayonne, New Jersey. "I was
there about a week. I'm always getting letter from people saying: 'I'm
from Bayonne too!' My parents were actors, so we went everywhere. ...
I went to high school in Long Island. Very ... very nothing. And I didn't
care a damn thing about acting."

>From 1945 to 1955 he served in the U.S. Marine Corps as a sergeant in
the Pacific campaign. "When I got out of the service, I was just banging
around, looking for a job. I didn't have an education or anything. A guy
offered me a part in a play and I didn't know whether I'd ever get another
one. But I did, so it's been very nice. Very lucky. It's unlike the usual
struggle that people go through."

When the conversation lands on _Meteor_, his latest movie, Keith declines
comment, choosing to speak instead of _The Last of the Mountain Men_,
a feature film that was completed in July and is scheduled for a Easter
release. "Charlton Heston and I co-star. It's about two trappers in the
West in 1830, and what happens to them when the beaver period comes
to a close. The two guys are like Sundance and Butch. But damn well
written. It's one of the best scripts I ever read. Heston's kid wrote it. He
worked for a couple of years up around Idaho and Montana as a river
guide. There's not a wasted word in the script."

Many of his films and TV shows Keith has never seen. "If it's some piece
of junk, I don't see why I should bother. It's bad enough you did it. But
to live through it again!. ... You can't sit around and wait for something
you think is _worthy_ of you."

Brian and his wife Victoria have two children. Mimi, his daughter from
a previous marriage, is a member of the Pennsylvania Ballet Company.
Between acting assignments, says Keith with affection, he spends most of
his time "raising the damn kids. It's a 24-hour job. We do a lot of outdoor
stuff, because in Hawaii you can, all year round. We go on the beach and
camp out and all that crap."

He finds that being based in Hawaii causes no problems with his career.
"It doesn't make any difference where you live," Keith growls softly.
"People live in London, in Spain, in Switzerland. You don't go around
looking for jobs. You wait till your agent calls you and you get on a plane
and go. You can be halfway around the world overnight, from anywhere.
It beats Bayonne."


Author of _No Pickle, No Performance_


In the early days of Harold Kennedy's theatrical career, he was involved
in a play written by Sinclair Lewis, who may have been a great novelist
but was no playwright. Kennedy was talking with Lewis one evening
before the play opened when a young student approached the famous
author and politely asked for an autograph. Lewis took the piece of paper
the boy offered him and wrote on it: "Why don't you find a hobby that
isn't a nuisance to other people?" He handed it back unsigned.

But the boy got even. The play opened a few nights later and was a total
disaster. Lewis was sitting gloomily in the dressing room after the final
curtain when a note was hand-delivered to him by an usher. He opened it
and read, in his own handwriting: "Why don't you find a hobby that isn't
a nuisance to other people?"

The story is one of dozens told in Harold Kennedy's book, _No Pickle,
No Performance_, published this month by Doubleday. The book is a
fascinating collection of true-life anecdotes stored up by Kennedy during
his four decades in the theatre as a director, actor, and playwright on
Broadway and across the country. The subtitle of his book is "An
Irreverent Theatrical Excursion from Tallulah to Travolta," and he has
written chapters about his experiences with both of these stars, in addition
to Orson Welles, Charlton Heston, Thornton Wilder, Gloria Swanson,
Steve Allen, and others who are less well known today but were legends
in their time.

Its book is dedicated to actress Renee Taylor, who refused to come on
stage during a play's opening night until she got a pickle with her
sandwich, as she had during the previews. The coffee shop that had
provided those sandwiches was closed, and the curtain was held while a
prop man got in his car and went searching for the holy pickle. It arrived
seven minutes after the advertised curtain time, and the show went on.

Unknown to Taylor, the stage crew was so enraged by her antics that they
performed "a little ceremony" with the pickle before giving it to her.
Gloria Swanson later said: "Poor Miss Taylor. Can't you see her shopping
around to every delicatessen in New York complaining that she can never
find a pickle to match the caliber of the one she had in New Jersey."

I meet the author on a recent evening at Backstage on West 45th Street.
"The thing about this book," he says, "is that whether people know the
actors or not, they find the stories amusing. You know, I never thought
of writing these stories down. I used to tell them to other members of the
company over drinks after the show, and everyone loved them. But I'm
an actor, and I thought what made them funny was the way I told them.
I didn't know how they'd look in print. A good friend of mine finally
convinced me to write about a hundred pages, and I said, "If anyone
wants it, I'll write the whole thing." The first publisher I sent it to --
Doubleday -- accepted it."

Those who have seen portions of the Ginger Rogers chapter in a recent
issue of _New York_ magazine might think the book is malicious, but this
is not the case. Says Kennedy: "It just tells what happened, and some
people come out better than others."

The chapter begins: "It seems that Ginger Rogers never smiles. It may be
that someone has told her it would crack her face. It may be more likely
that she's a lady devoid of one smidgin of one inch of a sense of humor."
The author describes her as "colder than anyone else I had met. Totally
unlike her screen self -- which only goes to prove what a good actress she

He reveals Rogers at her worst when she attempts to make an actor out
of her no-talent fifth husband, G. William Marshall, at the expense of
Kennedy and everyone else in the cast. The couple were still on their
honeymoon, and Rogers demanded that Bill be given the role of her
leading man in _Bell, Book and Candle_. The results were disastrous.
Detroit's leading critic wrote after the opening: "The program lists Mr.
Marshall as having been acquainted with many phases of show business.
Last night he showed not even a nodding acquaintance with any of them."

Kennedy writes at the chapter's end: "Hopefully Ginger will find another
husband. As it turned out, the last one apparently worked out worse for
her than it did for me." Rogers is apparently considering a lawsuit against
the author.

Still very active in the theatre at 64, Kennedy is undertaking three
productions this summer -- _Barefoot In the Park_ with Maureen
O'Sullivan and Donny Most, _The Marriage-Go-Round_ with Kitty
Carlisle, and _Bell, Book and Candle_ with Lana Turner. He is directing
all three and acting in two of them.

Two years ago he directed John Travolta for a summer stock company
that opened to hordes of screaming teenagers in Skowhegan, Maine.
Whenever Travolta made in entrance or an exit, Kennedy tells in the
chapter titled "John Who?", he caused such a commotion that the play
virtually came to a halt. "John is a darling. He's such a lovely boy," says
the author. "He'd kiss me full on the lips when we met and parted. And
I say that with no sense of implication. In the theatre, we've always been
relaxed about an expression of affection. ... I thought in _Saturday Night
Fever_ he was a star in the old tradition -- in the tradition of Tyrone
Power. ... I couldn't call John intelligent, but he'll own the movie
industry in two years. And he has things in his contract that no other stars
have had, like approval of the final cut of the movie."

A native of Holyoke, Massachusetts, Kennedy worked his way through
Dartmouth College and the Yale School of Drama "and came out with a
profit." In 1937 he moved to New York; he has lived on the West Side
ever since. Among his close friends are some of the merchants and
artisans in his area. "They care about theatre and they know we have
special problems," he says. "There's Mal the Tailor on West 72nd Street,
for example. If I'm doing a play and need something right away, he'll
drop everything and take care of me."

_No Pickle, No Performance_ has already received many favorable
reviews and has been partially reprinted in the _New York Post_.
Kennedy is planning to hit the talk shows soon with some of his leading
ladies. What seems to be uppermost in his mind at the moment, however,
is whether Ginger Rogers will sue for libel.

"I kind of wish she would, just to get some publicity for the book," he
muses. "Of course, she's a fool if she does, because she'd never win, and
the people who haven't heard of the book will rush out and get it. ... But
I can say one thing: if there's a package from Ginger waiting for me in
my dressing room, I'm going to have it dumped in water."


Dance critic for the _New York Times_


It was 3 p.m., and as usual, Anna Kisselgoff was sitting before the
computer-typewriter at the _New York Times'_ newsroom, putting the
finishing touches on her latest dance review. She had spent the morning
doing research, and had arrived at the _Times_ building around noon to
begin writing the article directly on the computer terminal, using her notes
taken the night before at a dance performance. At 8 o'clock that evening,
she would be attending yet another performance, but for the moment at
least, Miss Kisselgoff had a little time to herself, and when we sat down
to talk in her three-walled cubicle office facing the relatively quiet
newsroom, she seemed noticeably relaxed and cheerful, notwithstanding
the pile of opened and unopened mail piled high on her desk.

"We get no help: that's the problem," she said, in a clear, even voice with
a tone that recalled Mary Tyler Moore. "We have one secretary for nine
people in the arts and architecture department. She's terribly
overworked," Anne went on, sweeping her hands like an orchestra
conductor toward the stack of mail. "You're looking at what's left after
I've thrown away half of it. I make up the review schedule for the week
based on these releases."

Petite, attractive, and looking somewhat younger than her 41 years, the
effervescent Miss Kisselgoff soon got to the root of her problem.

"This time of year, everybody wants to be reviewed. The tragedy is that
dancers _do_ wait until the spring, and then they give their one-shot
concert that they have been preparing all year, and it's on the same night
that 17 other dancers are giving theirs. I think it's suicidal. ... We have
three dance critics at the _Times_ -- Jack Anderson and Jennifer Dunning
besides myself -- and in the spring, all three of us are working every day,
and we still can't keep up."

Anna herself attends up to nine performances a week during the busy
season. Besides her regular pieces in the daily _Times_, she is responsible
for a long, comprehensive article in the Sunday edition. "There has been
a tremendous increase in dance activity in the past 10 years," she
explained. "In 1969, the year after I joined the paper, I was asked to do
a rundown of dance events, and I found there was not a single week in the
year that was free from dance. That was the first time it happened.

"I think the decade of the 1960s had something to do with it. That was
when choreographers like Balanchine and Merce Cunningham, who used
pure movement, became most popular. The audience that came to see
them was a new audience that was already comfortable with abstraction.
They didn't require story ballets. One of the problems with dance in the
past was the people thought they wouldn't be able to understand it. But if
you like plotless ballet, you don't have to understand any more than what
you see. I think Marshall McLuhan was right: this is the age of television.
This generation is used to watching images without getting bored."

She has no favorite dancers, but her favorite choreographers come down
to two -- George Balanchine and Martha Graham. "You don't have any
young choreographers now who are really the stature of the old ones. I
can't give a reason why, except that it happened historically that the 1930s
turned out to be the most creative period in dance -- not just in the United
States, but in most parts of the world. That's when the modern dance
pioneers became active. People like Martha Graham are revolutionaries,
and you just don't get them in every generation. ... This applies to the
other arts as well. Who are the great opera composers of today? And
frankly, are there any Tolstoys?"

Born in Paris, Anna arrived on the Upper West Side at the age of one.
She attended Bryn Mawr College in Pennsylvania and later spent four
years in Paris as a general reporter for several English-language
newspapers, but otherwise she has been a lifelong Westsider. Dance has
always been one of her prime interests: she studied ballet for 10 years
while a child, and remained an avid fan long after realizing she would not
become a professional dancer.

In the mid-1960s, Anna wrote an article on a major dance festival for the
international edition of the _New York Times_ in Paris. This led to
similar assignments. In October 1968, shortly after she returned to
Manhattan, the _Times_ hired her to assist chief dance critic Clive Barnes.
She quickly found herself writing many first-string reviews, and when
Barnes resigned almost two years ago, Kisselgoff was named to replace

One of the disadvantages of her job, Anna pointed out, is that she is
frequently approached by strangers at intermission. "I feel that everybody
who agrees or disagrees with me can do so by mail. I don't want to have
long discussions with people I don't know, because I think it's an invasion
of my privacy as a person."

The advantages, however, far outweigh the inconveniences. "I can even
enjoy bad dance," she quickly added. "That's why I'm very happy doing
this job. The day that I'll no longer be interested in watching a dance
performance, I think I should quit and go on to something else."


Owner of the Cafe des Artistes


George Lang, artist and perfectionist, could have become a success in any
of a hundred professions. In 1946, when he arrived in the U.S. from his
native Hungary, he got a job as violinist with the Dallas Symphony. But
Lang soon discovered that the orchestra pit was too confining for a man
of his vision. He might have turned to composition or conducting; instead
he decided to switch to a different field entirely -- cooking. Today, at 54,
he is the George Balanchine of the food world -- a "culinary
choreographer" with an international reputation for knowing virtually
everything relevant that is to be known about food preparation and

Lang's imagination, _Gourmet_ magazine once wrote, "is as fertile as the
Indus Valley." This imagination, combined with his keen intelligence, his
concern for details, his natural versatility, and his seemingly endless
capacity for work, have enabled him to rewrite the definition of the term
"restaurant consultant."

As head of the George Lang Corporation, a loosely structured group of
associates that he founded in 1971, he commands $2,500 a day plus
expenses for jetting around the world, giving advice on restaurant and
kitchen design, menu planning, and every other aspect of a restaurant
from the lighting to the color of the napkins.

His large-scale projects in the past few years include food consulting and
design for Marriot Motor Hotels, Holiday Inn, the Cunard Lines, and
Philippine President Ferdinand Marcos. He was the chief planner for The
Market, a three-level, 20-shop marketplace in the East Side's Citicorp
Center. In 1975, when he took over the West Side's famous Cafe des
Artistes, the business quadrupled within weeks.

A prolific author as well, Lang has written several books and hundreds of
articles for leading publications, including the _Encyclopedia Britannica_.
His column, "Table for One," is a regular feature of _Travel & Leisure_
magazine. He has bottled burgundy under his own label, arranged parties
for the rich and famous, and served as consultant for _Time-Life's_ series
on international cookery.

His office has a miniature garden in the middle; the wall are lined with
5,000 catalogued cookbooks. He comes sailing into the room and takes a
seat at his semicircular desk, which all but engulfs him. Short in stature,
bald as a gourd, he moves with a darting energy that sees him through 20
hour workdays with as many as 30 food tastings. His softly accented
speech is the only thing about him that is slow, because Lang chooses his
words carefully, aiming for the same perfection in English as in
everything else. Although modesty is not one of his characteristics, he
gives full credit to his staff for being equal partners in his corporation's
success. There is a feeling of camaraderie in the air, as if all are members
of a single family.

The Cafe des Artistes, he admits, was a moderately successful French
restaurant for 60 years before he took it over. "But it needed spiritual
changes as well as physical changes. And -- let me underline this and
triple-space it -- excellent food. You cannot chew scenery. We maintain
a certain kind of formal informality, which simply means that anyone can
come, dressed any way they want, as long as their behavior will justify
their white tie or dungarees. I could raise the prices by 50 to 100 percent
overnight, and I wouldn't lose a single customer. But feel an obligation
to New York City and the restaurant industry to maintain what I call
reasonable prices."

His corporation also owns the Hungaria Restaurant at Citicorp, which has
a gypsy orchestra from Budapest, and Small Pleasures, a pastry shop in
the same building. However, Lang stresses that "98 percent of our
business comes from consulting. I always think in terms of problems and
solutions, because every restaurant must be designed to suit the needs of
a particular market. At Alexander's, for example, we came up with a
restaurant where you could have a reasonably pleasant luncheon for two
to four dollars."

Still an ardent music lover, George Lang plays the violin whenever time
permits. He recently acquired a Stradivarius and says with a laugh, "I'm
threatening to get back completely to shape and play a concert."

Lang enjoys the European atmosphere of the West Side, where he has
lived for the past 30 years. Among his favorite Westside restaurants: the
Moon Palace on Broadway, Sakura Chaya on Columbus, and Le Poulailler
on 65th Street.

His latest endeavor is a 4-to-6-minute TV spot titled _Lang at Large_,
which is broadcast twice a month on the CBS network show _Sunday
Morning_. "It's part of my new career," he announces joyfully.

Asked about which aspect of his work gives him the most satisfaction,
Lang ponders for a moment and concludes: "It would be easiest for me to
say that my biggest thrill is to see an idea of mine become a three
dimensional reality, especially if it may be a $50 million project. But
actually, an even bigger thrill for me is to go to an obscure place in the
world, and see a bit of improvement in people's lives through the effort
of someone who was my former disciple."


Leading American pianist


She has frequently been called America's greatest female pianist -- a title
which, as recently as the 1960s, almost any woman would have coveted.
But when the year is 1978 and the musician is Ruth Laredo, this
"compliment" brings a different response.

"I have mixed feelings about it," says Miss Laredo, sitting back on the
couch of her West Side living room. "I would really rather be known as
an American pianist. Being female doesn't preclude playing some of the
most powerful sounds on the piano."

Her words are backed by accomplishments. In October, Ruth came to the
end of a four-year project to record the complete works for solo piano by
Sergei Rachmaninoff, the late Russian-born composer who emigrated to
the U.S. after the Revolution of 1917. Almost all of his piano works were
composed before 1910, and they rank among the most technically difficult
pieces ever written for the instrument. Laredo is the first person in history
to record the piano solos in their entirety. Columbia Records will release
the final three discs of the seven-album set in early 1979.

Slender, graceful, and radiantly attractive, Laredo is still adjusting to her
recently acquired status as a major international artist. For 14 years she
was married to the acclaimed Bolivian-born violinist, Jaime Laredo, and
during most of that time she was known primarily as his accompanist.
Shortly after their marriage broke up in 1974, her career began to soar.
That year the first of her Rachmaninoff recordings was made, and it won
rave reviews. Her Lincoln Center debut with the New York Philharmonic
Orchestra in December 1974 caused such a sensation that she was quickly
signed up to perform with the Boston, Philadelphia, National Symphony,
Cleveland, and Detroit orchestras. "After 15 years," recalls Ruth, "I was
an overnight success."

Now, at 41 -- but looking considerably younger -- she can look back on
four years of unbroken triumph. Following a recital at Alice Tully Hall
in 1976, the _New York Times_ reported that she "operated within a
relatively narrow range -- from first-rate to superb." Her talents have been
constantly in demand ever since across the U.S. and Canada. During the
1976-77 season she had over 40 concerts, including tours of Europe and
Japan. This season she will perform in Japan and Hong Kong.

Although her repertoire includes piano works spanning the last 250 years,
Ruth has concentrated largely on Rachmaninoff and Scriabin, a Russian
composer of the same era. She has recorded five albums of Scriabin's
piano solos. "It's such strange music if you haven't heard it before," she
says. "I gave some concerts of Scriabin at Hunter College, and talked
about each piece before playing it. I was kind of a crusader at the time for
his music. It was very rewarding for me. I think people are much more
familiar with Scriabin today than they were 10 years ago.

"One thing I love to do is to talk to the audience after a concert. There's
a certain feeling of distance sometimes between the audience and classical
musicians, which need not happen."

On most days, Ruth practices at one of her twin grand pianos from about
10:30 in the morning until 3:30 in the afternoon, when her 9-year-old
daughter Jennifer gets home from school. The walls of the Laredos' living
room are covered with neatly framed fingerpaintings that Jennifer created.
"She's intellectually brilliant and lots of fun. I take her to concerts with
me when it's possible. When I gave a talk on Rachmaninoff to the cadets
at West Point, they all called her 'ma'am.'"

A native of Detroit, Ruth began studying piano at the age of 2, performed
with the Detroit Symphony at 11, and entered the Curtis Institute of Music
in Philadelphia at 16. There she met her future husband. During their
years together, Ruth longed for a solo career, but it somehow eluded her.
"I played with Leopold Stokowski and the American Symphony in the
1960s," she says. "There was a major concert I did at Carnegie Hall then,
but nobody heard about it. I think that women are being accepted on their
own merits today. They weren't given a chance until recently."

Ruth keeps fit by riding her bicycle almost every day. She is a fan of the
New York Yankees -- "I saw all the World Series games" -- and likes to
do photography when she has the time. A Westsider ever since she moved
to New York in 1960, Ruth lists Fiorello's (on Broadway across from
Lincoln Center) as her favorite restaurant. When she needs music supplies
of any kind, she goes to Patelson's (56th Street and 7th Avenue). Says
Ruth: "It's a gathering place for musicians. The people who sell music
there are very friendly and very knowledgeable. ... They sell records
there. They sell my records."

Asked whether men might have an inborn advantage at the piano, Ruth
denies the suggestion vigorously. "Of course not," she replies. "I can't
imagine why a man should play the piano better than a woman. At West
Point, the women do everything the same as the male cadets except boxing
and wrestling. Women might have smaller fingers on the average, but as
far as strength, speed, and dexterity are concerned, it's impossible to
listen to a recording and guess whether it was played by a man or a


Creator of Spiderman and the Incredible Hulk


With the current rage over Superman due to last year's hit movie, many
people will purchase a copy of the comic for the first time in years, and
may be disappointed to see how much it has changed. Once the largest
selling comic book hero on the market, Superman was knocked out of first
place long ago by Spiderman, the creation of a 56-year-old native New
Yorker named Stan Lee. Besides selling about one million Marvel comics
each month, Spiderman appears as a daily strip in some 500 newspapers
around the world.

But even without this giant success, Stan Lee would be rich and famous.
His fertile mind has also given birth to the Incredible Hulk, the Fantastic
Four, Captain America, Doctor Strange, and a host of other modern-day
mythological figures. As publisher of Marvel Comics, he rules over an
empire that branches out into dozens of areas -- prime-time television
drama, animated cartoons, hardbound and paperback collections of comic
reprints, novels about Marvel characters, toys, games, posters, clothing
and much more. Most of these spin-off products are the work of other
companies that have bought the rights, but Stan Lee remains the creative
force behind the whole operation, as I discover during a meeting with Lee
at the Marvel headquarters on Madison Avenue.

"I think the title of publisher is just given to me so I can have more
prestige when I'm dealing with people," says Lee in his clipped, precise
voice, as he stretches his feet onto the coffee table of his brightly
decorated office. "I'm a salaried employee of Marvel -- your average
humble little guy trying to stay afloat in the stormy sea of culture. The
company owns the properties, of course, but I have no complaints. I don't
think I could have as much anywhere else. ... My main interest is to see
that the company itself does well and makes as much money as possible."

He is an intense, energetic man of wiry build who dresses in a casual yet
elegant manner. As he shifts the position of his arms and legs on the
couch, there is something unmistakably spiderlike in the movements. For
all his politeness, he cannot mask the impression that his mind is racing
far ahead of his rapidly spoken words.

"My involvement with this company goes back to about 1939," says Lee.
"I was always the editor, the art director, the head writer, and the creative
director [from the age of 17]. In the early 1960s I was thinking of
quitting. I thought I wasn't really getting anywhere. My wife said, 'Why
not give it one last fling and do the kind of stories you want to do?' So I
started bringing out the offbeat heroes. I never dreamt that they would
catch on the way they did."

He emphasizes that he did not create the characters alone, but co-created
them with the help of an artist. Nevertheless, it was Lee who
revolutionized the comic book industry by introducing the concept of what
has been termed the "hung-up hero" -- the superhero whose powers do not
preclude him from having the same emotional troubles as the average
mortal. This is what makes Lee's characters so believable and so
irresistibly entertaining on television. It explains why CBS' _The
Incredible Hulk_ is a hit, and why the same network has filmed eight
episodes of _The Amazing Spiderman_. On January 19 from 8 to 10 p.m.,
CBS will broadcast the pilot for a new Marvel-based series, _Captain

"Dr. Strange may come back again," says Lee. "It was made into a two
hour television movie." His old Spiderman cartoons, too, are still in

He claims to work "about 28 hours a day," and a look at his dizzying list
of activities supports this claim. Besides running the Marvel headquarters,
Lee makes frequent trips to the West Coast to develop shows for ABC and
CBS, writes some cartoons for NBC, acts as consultant to the Spiderman
and Hulk programs, writes an introduction to each of the dozens of
Marvel books published each year, writes occasional books and
screenplays of his own, gives lectures all over the country, and -- what to
some would be a full-time job in itself -- writes the plot and dialogue not
only for the Spiderman newspaper strip, but also, since November, for a
Hulk newspaper strip that already appears in more than 200 daily papers

Few people know Manhattan as well as Stan Lee. Born the son of a dress
cutter in Washington Heights, he has made the Upper East Side his home
for the past 15 years. "I'm a big walker," he explains. "I'm a fast walker:
I can easily average a block a minute. So if I want to walk to Greenwich
Village, I give myself an hour -- 60 blocks. I wouldn't know what time
to leave if I took a cab."

Asked about new projects in the works, Lee mentions that Marvel is
planning to produce some motion pictures that will be filmed in Japan.
"And I have a contract to write my autobiography," he adds. "I was
surprised and delighted that they gave me five years to do it. So I presume
I'll wait four years; maybe in that period, something interesting will
happen to me."


Book critic for the _New York Times_


"It's as if the job I have were designed for me," says bearded,
bespectacled John Leonard, lighting his fifth cigarette of the early
afternoon as he sits relaxed at his Eastside brownstone, talking about the
pleasures and perils of being one of the _New York Times'_ three daily
book critics. Like his colleagues Christopher Lehmann-Haupt and Anatole
Broyard, Leonard writes two book reviews for the _Times_ each week,
and is syndicated nationally. An avid reader since childhood, he now gets
to read anything and everything he desires.

That's the advantage. The disadvantage, explains Leonard, is that "there
are 50 thousand books published every year in this country. You can
never even pretend to be comprehensive. You can't even pretend to be
adequate in your coverage, whereas the _Times_ will review almost any
play that opens, on or Off Broadway, and almost every concert and
movie. We'll review maybe 400 books a year in the daily paper."

A smallish, balding man of 41 who dresses purely for comfort and has a
calm, refined speaking manner, Leonard looks precisely like the
bookworm he is. "I'll get here, in this house, probably 5,000 or 6,000
books a year, mailed to me, or brought by messenger. The luxury of this
job is that there's so much to choose from that any mood or interest or
compulsion or desire to educate oneself or amuse oneself can be matched
by some book that has come in."

New books by well-known authors, he says, are the first priority because
"they've earned reviews, for service to the literary culture over the
years." He and his two fellow critics "divide up the plums and divide up
the dogs. Since I did Kissinger's memoirs, the next huge, endless book
that has to be reviewed, whether anybody wants to review it or not, will
not be reviewed by me."

Somewhere between 100 and 140 serious first novels are published in the
U.S. each year, according to Leonard. "This is not pulp paperback
westerns. It doesn't even count science fiction or gothic or all that. I think
a special effort is made by all of us in the reviewing racket to review first

He reads many authors' first books on the recommendation of trusted
agents and publishers. "Over the years you decide who isn't lying to you.
... Christopher Lehmann-Haupt was telling someone about that the other
day. He said, 'Sure, you can call me as often as you want. But I'll say
that you begin with a hundred dollars in you bank account, and if it turns
out that you are begging me to review a book that has no other redeeming
virtues but the fact that you have invested 50 or 80 thousand dollars'
worth of advertising in it and you've got too many copies out in the
bookstores that aren't moving, that bank account goes down. When you
give me a real surprise and a pleasure which is what makes this job
worthwhile, the bank account goes up. But if the bank account goes down
to zero, it's closed.'

"And that's right. There are people in this town who I won't take a
telephone call from. But that's the exception."

Apart from reading, writing and travel, Leonard has few interests. "By
May, I can even look healthy, because I just sit out in the garden, getting
paid to read," he says with a grin. He and his wife Sue, a schoolteacher,
have three children from previous marriages. His son Andrew will be
starting college in the fall.

A book reviewer since 1967, including a five-year stint as editor of the
_Sunday Times Book Review_, Leonard also write a warmly personal,
frequently humorous column in the Wednesday _Times_ titled "Private
Lives." A collection of 69 of the columns appeared in book form last year
under the title _Private Lives in the Imperial City_ (Knopf, $8.95). In
addition, he has published four novels and hundreds of free-lance articles
for magazines ranging from _Playboy_ to the _New Republic_. For years
he wrote TV reviews for _Life_ magazine under the pseudonym
"Cyclops." Recalls Leonard: "It was a good way to turn your brain to

Born in Washington, D.C., he grew up reading the _Congressional
Record_ instead of comics, and initially planned a career in law. Booted
out of Harvard for neglecting his studies in favor of the campus
newspaper, he sharpened his journalistic skills under William F. Buckley
Jr. at the _National Review_ before completing college at the University
of California's Berkeley campus. Following graduation, he became the
program director of a radio station, wrote his first two novels, and worked
in an anti-poverty program in Boston. Then he was invited to join the
_Times_. "I did my Westside and Village stuff when I was first here and
broke," comments Leonard. He has owned his four-story Eastside house
since 1971.

Among the most memorable books that Leonard has helped to "discover"
are Joseph Heller's _Catch-22_ and Gunter Grass's _The Tin Drum_. "To
be able to sit down one night, as I did, and to realize you're in the
presence of an extraordinary talent, with no advance publicity, to be able
to have a hole to fill in the paper two days later, to sit down and pull out
all your adjectives and get people to buy the book: this is what you live
for," he sighs happily. "You only need two or three of those to last a


International lawyer


It was said of John Kennedy that he was too young and too active a man
to retire immediately after the presidency. Had he lived to serve two full
terms, he would have been 51 upon leaving office. How he might have
spent the remainder of his career is difficult to guess, but it's likely that
he would have ended up doing work very similar to what John Lindsay
does today.

A comparison between the two men is hard to escape. Both were war
heroes. Both rose to power aided by their personal magnetism -- Kennedy
to the nation's highest office at 43, Lindsay to the nation's second
toughest job at 44. Both gave eloquent speeches, aimed for high ideals,
and made controversial decisions that brought plenty of criticism from
within their own ranks.

Lindsay, now an international lawyer, has changed little in appearance
since he stepped down in 1974 after eight years in City Hall. The brown
hair has turned mostly grey, and the lines in the face are slightly more
pronounced, but when he's behind the desk of his Rockefeller Plaza
office, his lean, immaculately dressed, 6-foot-3-inch frame resting
comfortably in a huge leather swivel chair, he still looks like a man who
is very much in charge.

He is a partner in the corporate law firm of Webster and Sheffield, which
he first joined in 1948. "This is a firm of about 75 lawyers," he says in
a soft, lyrical voice. "We're general practice. ... I'm back into corporate
law, and there's a fair amount of international work which takes me
abroad quite a bit -- largely representing American businesses overseas.
A lot of my work is done in French. I'm handling a complicated matter
involving imports to this country, and a complex arrangement involving
offshore oil exploration and drilling. Real estate transactions. The
purchase of oil. A matter in Australia. Municipal counseling for a city in
Colorado ... "

The international situation is beneficial to New York these days, says
Lindsay, because "parts of the Western free world have a bad case of the
jitters. Europeans particularly, and also many people in the Middle East,
feel that this is a more stable place to invest their capital."

Leaning back, with his feet propped up on another chair, he elaborates on
foreign affairs: "I think Carter's plane deal in the Middle East escalated
tensions rather than reduced them. It's not a foreign policy to sell arms in
the Middle East. I think Americans have an obligation to spell out what
our foreign policy is."

Except for a few public speaking engagements, Lindsay has devoted
nearly all his attention this year to the practice of law. "I used to spend
a little time with _Good Morning America_ on ABC, but I dropped it in
January because of the pressures of this office," he says. "Recently I did
a pilot for public television. It's a small documentary that shows
cataclysmic events in world history -- mostly from World War II -- and
at the same time, shows what was going on in America. ... It might be
turned into a series of documentaries."

Because he served four terms as congressman for Manhattan's Silk
Stocking district, Lindsay is generally associated with the East Side, but
actually he was born on the West Side's Riverside Drive in 1921. One
month after graduating from Yale in 1943, he enlisted in the Navy and
served for the next three years, taking part in the Sicily landing and the
invasion of the Philippines on his way to earning five battle stars.

Two years after leaving the service, he received his law degree, and seven
years after that, in 1955, his abilities impressed U.S. Attorney General
Herbert Brownell so much that he made Lindsay his executive assistant.
In 1958, Lindsay ran for Congress and won, quickly establishing himself
as a tireless worker for the rights of refugees. Lindsay was an early
supporter of the Peace Corps and a prominent member of the Council on
Foreign Relations.

Soon after leaving Gracie Mansion, John and his wife Mary and their
children settled down on the West Side near Central Park. "I feel very
strongly that the park is for people, and not for special interest groups,"
he says. "We introduced bicycling on weekends, and when I retired from
government we had a major plan to restore all of Central Park."

The reason he first got involved in politics, says Lindsay, was because
"out in the Pacific on lonely nights, after hearing the news of the death of
good friends, I made a determination that one day I was going to try to do
something. I was determined that we weren't going to have war again."

In regard to his years as mayor, Lindsay makes the simple statement that
"I did my best of a very tough job and I have no regrets about it. I look
ahead to the future."

But what will the future bring? Would he consider running for office

"That's a tough question, Max," he replies. "I know there's a lot of talk
with some of my friends about the Senate in 1980. I don't take that
lightly. ... Right now I'm not making any plans to run. ... But you just
don't know, because life does funny things, and I also think there's a big
vacuum out there now -- second-rate politics everywhere.


Sending songs into outer space


On August 20, when the Voyager 2 spacecraft blasted off for a trip
beyond the solar system, it carried on its side a unique record player and
a single phonograph record. Included on that record are 27 musical
selections that the _New York Times_ has called "Earth's Greatest Hits."
If, someday, extraterrestrial creatures play the record and enjoy it, they
will be most indebted to the man who chose 13 of the songs -- Westsider
Alan Lomax.

That Alan's advice should be so highly respected by a committee that
spent eight weeks choosing the other 14 songs is a testimonial to his
musical reputation. Ever since he became head of the Folk Music
Archives of the Library of Congress at age 20, Alan has devoted his life
to the preservation and study of international folk music. Following the
footsteps of his late father, musicologist John Lomax, Alan has taken his
recording equipment to six continents in search of the rapidly disappearing
musical treasures of the world.

I finally caught up with Alan and met him for an interview on a Friday
evening at his office/apartment on West 98th Street. One room, I
observed, was lined wall to wall with tapes and record albums. Another
was filled with music books, a third with computer readouts, and a fourth
with movie films.

Alan's foremost interest right now is cantometrics -- the science of song
as a measure of culture. Recently he published a book titled
_Cantometrics: A Method in Musical Anthropology_. Accompanying the
volume are seven cassette tapes. The songs are arranged in an order that
will teach the student to interpret their general meaning without knowing
the language.

"When you learn the system, you can understand any music," said Alan.
"We analyzed 4000 songs from 400 societies around the world. Out of
that study has come a map of world music." He then showed me a
musical chart of Europe, the Far East, and Indian North America. Thirty
seven aspects of the music, including rhythm, volume and repetition, had
been analyzed by a computer to make a graph.

"Each aspect of the music," said Alan, "stands for a different social style.
It's like the guy who says, 'I don't know anything about music, but I
know what I like.' It means that kind of music stands for his background
and what he believes in."

Alan played a tape for me containing a Spanish folk song, an Irish jig and
a song from Nepal, explaining some of the elements as the music was
playing. "By the time you've heard two or three tapes," he said, "you get
used to the world standards of music. In primitive societies, he added,
"everybody knows the same things about everything, so being specific is
a bore, and repetition is what they like. You don't impose your boring
accuracy on everyone. By the same token, primitive people find it much
easier to sing together than, for example, New Yorkers of different
backgrounds. In the latter case," said Alan, "everybody starts singing at
a different tempo, like six cats in a bag. But if you take people who live
together and work together, it's like clouds rolling out of the sea."

Alan was not impressed with the 1976 movie _Bound for Glory_, about
the life of American folk singer/songwriter Woody Guthrie during the
Great Depression. The movie ends with Woody leaving Hollywood for
New York to perform in a coast-to-coast radio show. The man who hosted
that show was Alan Lomax.

"We collaborated on a number of things," recalled Alan. "It was an
enormous pleasure. He was the funniest man that ever talked. And he was
so quick. That's what was wrong with the movie. Talking with Woody
was like playing a game of jai alai. He was a deeply passionate person,
and tremendously gifted. He got up in the morning and wrote 25 pages
before breakfast just to warm up."

Though Alan can sing and play the guitar, he does not regard himself as
a performer but rather as a "funnel" for other musicians. During the 1940s
he helped launch the careers of people like Burl Ives and Pete Seeger by
providing them with songs and putting them on the radio. "We set out to
revive the American folk music in 1938, and by God we did it," said
Alan. "By 1950 it was a national movement."

Alan spent the next 10 years of his life in Europe, where he produced a
definitive 14-album collection of international folk music. Then he moved
back to the U.S. and settled on the Upper West Side, where he has lived
for the past 15 years. His residential apartment is located two blocks from
his office.

Besides his research in cantometrics, done in cooperation with Columbia
University, Alan is now preparing for publication a study on international
dance movement and its relations to society. Energetic, jovial, and looking
considerably younger than his years, Alan has no doubts about the lasting
value of his work.

"I make my living as a very hard-working scientist," he said. "By using
scientific methods, I can absolutely refute the ideas of those who say that
Oklahoma doesn't matter, or that the Pygmies might as well be
exterminated. Each of these people, we have found, has something for the
human future, for the human destiny."

* * *

The Mighty Lomax

from _The Westsider_, late 1977

It's oldies night on the radio. The d.j. has promised to play nothing but
the greatest hits of the '50s and '60s, and sure enough, here they are --
"Irene Goodnight" sung by the Weavers; "Tom Dooley" by the Kingston
Trio; "Abilene" by George Hamilton IV; "Midnight Special" by Johnny
Rivers; and "House of the Rising Sun" by the Animals.

All of these songs reached number one on the charts. And they have
something else in common: all are genuine American folk songs of
unknown authorship that might have been lost forever if they had not been
discovered and preserved by John and Alan Lomax, the famous father-son
folklorist team.

The folk music explosion in America that peaked in the early 1960s and
continues today owes more of a debt to the Lomaxes than to any
performer or songwriter. John Lomax died in 1948 at the age of 80. His
son Alan, 62, has been a resident of New York's Upper West Side for the
past 15 years. Working seven days a week at his 98th Street office and his
100th Street apartment, Alan has carried on his father's work with a
remarkable talent and energy. He has gone far beyond the simple
collecting of folk songs, and maintains a dizzying schedule of activities --
writing books, catching planes for Europe or Africa, making movies,
producing record albums and tapes, and heading a musical research
project for the Anthropology Department of Columbia University.

Fathers and Sons

The elder Lomax was primarily a songhunter. His first collection,
_Cowboy Songs_, was published in 1910. It contained such gems as "John
Henry," "Shenandoah" and "Home on the Range," which he heard for the
first time in the back of a saloon in the Negro red light district of San

Alan was born in Texas in 1915. When he was 13 years old his father
gave him an old-fashioned cylinder recording machine, and the boy was
hooked. He became a full-time song scholar at 18. In that same year his
father was put in charge of the newly created Archives of American Folk
Song at the Library of Congress in Washington. When Alan was 20 he
took over as archives director. The father-son team eventually provided
more than half of the 20,000 songs in the collection.

The Lomaxes wrote many books together; they introduced American folk
music into the nation's public schools, and through their radio programs
in the U.S. and Europe, made celebrities out of such performers as Burl
Ives, Pete Seeger, Leadbelly and Woody Guthrie.

Whereas John Lomax was interested in the music for its own sake, Alan
began some time ago to look for the deeper meaning, or social
significance, of folk songs. In his many trips around the world he built up
a collection of recordings from every continent and virtually every major
culture. Along with a co-worker he developed his findings into the new
branch of anthropology known as cantometrics.

When the Voyager 2 spacecraft left Earth last August for a journey
beyond the solar system, it carried on its side a unique record player with
a specially made disk for alien beings to hear and enjoy. The disk
contained 27 musical selections, which have been named "Earth's Greatest
Hits"; 13 of them were chosen by Alan Lomax.

The following interview was conducted in various rooms of Alan's office
on a Friday evening in August, 1977. One room was filled with recording
equipment, tapes and records; another with music books; a third with
computer readouts; and a fourth with movie films. Lomax spoke rapidly
and found it difficult to sit still. He is not a neat housekeeper, a sharp
dresser or a master of the social graces. He is, however, a tireless worker
who gives the impression of being totally absorbed in his work. A large,
robust man, he will no doubt continue to be a major figure in the field of
international folk music for years to come.

Question: What exactly is cantometrics?

Answer: It means, literally, singing as a measure of culture. With it, a
song performance may be analyzed and related to a culture pattern. Each
aspect of music stands for a different social style. By using cantometrics
you get the story of mankind in musical terms. ... It's like the guy who
says, "I don't know anything about music but I know what I like." It
means that kind of music stands for his background and what he believes

Q:        How did you develop this new science?

A:        I started this project in 1961. ... We analyzed 4,000 songs on a
computer. Out of that has come a map of world culture. There are 10 big
groups or styles of music. Stone age people have style 1. ... We found
there's a similarity of Patagonian music and Siberian, even though these
people live near the opposite poles. ... Along with studying song, we have
also studied dance and conversation in the same way, from film. I
probably have the biggest collection of dance film in the world -- 200,000
feet. Maybe the New York Public Library has more, but that's specialized
in fine art.

Q:        What's the purpose of cantometrics? How can someone learn it?

A:        I recently published a set of seven cassette tapes of folk songs from
all 10 cultural levels around the world. In the booklet that comes with it,
the songs are broken down and analyzed so that the student can learn the
cantometrics system on his own. When you learn the system, you can
understand any music, even if you don't know the language it's being
sung in. By the time you've heard two or three tapes, you get used to the
world standard of music. Cantometrics measures things like repetition,
ornamentation, rhythm, melody, orchestral arrangement. ... It analyzes
music in relation to social structure -- political organization, community
solidarity, severity of sexual sanctions. Cantometrics makes the world's
music into a geography.

Q:        How does American music differ from that of the world in general?

A:        In our culture, for example, we didn't have much repetition until rock
and roll came around. And that represents another influence. ... As you
know, we of European background don't sing very well together.
Everybody starts singing at a different tempo, like seven cats in a bag. But
if you take people who live and work together, it's like clouds rolling out
of the sea. ... It turns out that the people with the most repetition in their
songs have the most primitive cultures -- at least, in relation to their
economic development. Everybody knows the same thing about
everything. So being specific is boring, and repetition is what they like.
You don't impose your boring accuracy on everyone.

Q:        What do you consider the real beginning of the folk music movement
in America?

A:        It all began in Texas in 1885 when my father heard "Whoopee Ti Yi
Yo" on the Chisholm Trail. He was a country boy. He grew up in Texas,
and the cowboys drifted past. He wrote the songs down just for the hell
of it. Then he got a grant from Harvard and found out how important it
was. He was the first person in the country to use a recording device, in

Q:        Did you know Woody Guthrie very well?

A:        Know him? I made him famous. I had a coast-to-coast radio program
when Woody first came to New York. I introduced him when he first sang
on radio. He stayed at my house. ... They offered him a huge contract,
but he just walked off and went to Oklahoma. He was a deeply passionate
person, and tremendously gifted. First of all he was the funniest man that
ever talked. And Woody was so quick: talking to him was like playing jai
alai. He got up in the morning and wrote 25 pages before breakfast just
to warm up. And there was always a slightly strange thing about woody
-- an itchy feeling that he had. It might have been beginning of the disease
which later killed him.

Q:        What's your connection with Pete Seeger?

A:        Peter Seeger is my protege. I gave him his banjo. The banjo was a
dead issue, and he came to me and asked what he should do with his life.
He was a Harvard hippie. ... We got to be colleagues. We worked on the
whole revival of the American folk music. I taught him most of his early

Q:        Were you ever a performer yourself?

A:        Yes, I've made a few records. But I was always more of a funnel. I
regarded myself as a dredge, dredging up the rich subsoil of American
folk and putting it back on the developing music scene. We set out to
revive the American folk music in 1938, and by God we did it. By 1950
it was a national movement.

Q:        What are some other things you've done?

A:        I did the first oral history -- the Leadbelly book and the book on Jelly
Roll Morton. The Leadbelly movie (1976) was taken from that oral
history. For Jelly Roll Morton, I transcribed the tape and made it into a
piece of literature. The story has been bought for a movie by the same
people who made the Woody Guthrie movie, _Bound for Glory_.

Q:        Have you done a lot of research outside the United States?

A:        Yes, I spent 1950 to 1960 in Europe assembling all the best material
that had been collected into 14 albums, geographically arranged. Then I
started thinking about what I heard on albums -- not what musicians or
literary people heard, but what I heard. Then I met some people at the
National Institute of Mental Health who were interested in the norms of
healthy behavior. I indicated to them that I was that getting at the behavior
styles of the people of the world. They gave me some dough and I got a
staff together.

Q: How was the American folk music scene then?

A: I was very shocked when I came back to the United States in 1960.
The musical scene at Washington Square made me sick. They said, "Alan,
those people you talked to are all dead." I kind of withdrew from the
whole business. ... Later I set up a concert in Carnegie Hall and brought
in the first bluegrass group and the first gospel group to perform in New
York. People stormed the stage. There were fistfights and everything.
Well, that was the whole end of people saying New York was the center
of the folk scene.

Q:        What do you think of Bob Dylan?

A:        Dylan came along in the footsteps of Ramblin' Jack Elliott. He lived
with Woody for a while, and picked him as his model. He absorbed the
whole southwestern style from Woody. And the country for the first time
fell for a national American vocal style. Then Dylan left the scene and
went middle class after three years. He turned his back on folk music,
turned his back on people. I think he did a big disservice to the country
when he did that. ... The whole thing has been to make urban mobile
people have a folk music of their own. It's not a bad idea. Terribly boring

Q:        Do all your projects lead to one goal?

A:        I make my living as a very hardworking scientist. I do that because
it was important finally to take this huge world that was coming out of
loudspeakers, and get down to the meat of it so that it can be used for the
betterment of our future ... so that we can keep all the treasures of the
past and use them. That's what I'm doing. I'm doing it in a scientific way
so that I can absolutely refute the idea of those who say that Oklahoma
doesn't matter, or that the Pygmies might as well be exterminated. Each
of these people, we have found, has something for the human future, and
for the human destiny.


Author of _Serpico_ and _Made in America_


On the surface, his life could hardly be calmer. Peter Maas gets up every
morning to have breakfast with his 12-year-old son, then heads for his
midtown office, where he spends about five hours at the typewriter. He
rarely goes out in the evening, and his idea of fun is a weekend of fishing,
a set of tennis or a game of backgammon. "I don't have to live in New
York," he says. "When I'm working on a book, I might as well be living
in the wilds of Maine."

But in his mind, Peter Maas leads the life of James Bond and Al Capone
rolled into one. "I know an awful lot of people on both sides of the law,"
says the author of two nonfiction block-busters about crime, _The Valachi
Papers_ and _Serpico_. _The Valachi Papers_, the real-life saga of three
generations of a Mafia chieftain's family, was published in 1969 following
two years of court battles and rejections from 26 publishers who felt that
books on the Mafia had no commercial potential. It sold three million
copies in 14 languages and paved the way for an entire industry of Mafia
books and movies.

_Serpico_ (1973) revealed the rampant corruption in the New York City
Police Department through the eyes of officer Frank Serpico. Then came
_King of the Gypsies_ (1975), Maas' third expose of the underbelly of
American society which, like the others, was made into a successful

Now the 50-year-old author has written his first novel, _Made in
America_. Published in September by Viking, it is a raw, violent, grimly
humorous story of an ex-football star for the New York Giants who gets
mixed up with organized crime while borrowing money for a shady
investment scheme. King Kong Karpstein, the terrifying loan shark who
dominates the book, is based on several people whom Maas had known
personally, and the novel's head Mafia character has much in common
with Frank Costello, the "prime minister of the underworld," who granted
Maas 11 interviews shortly before his death in 1975. The scenes of _Made
In America_ -- porn parlors, criminal hideaways, the FBI offices -- are all
described with the same intense realism as the characters. The movie
rights have been sold for $450,000.

"The reason I wrote it," explains Maas, sitting restlessly at his 11-room
Eastside apartment on a recent afternoon, "was that I didn't want to wake
up 10 years from now wondering what would have happened if I had
written a novel. ... I also think a writer has to challenge himself
constantly. I don't think he should play a pat hand."

As he talks on in his breezy New York accent, fidgeting with a gold
matchbox on the antique table beside him, Maas seems barely able to
restrain himself from getting up and pacing the room. Quite striking in
appearance, he is a tall, stocky man with a Brillo-pad thatch of silvery
hair and eyebrows like cotton batting. A native Manhattanite, he was one
of the country's top investigative reporters for many years before writing
his first book, _The Rescuer_, in 1967.

The reason for the title _Made In America_, says Maas is that "the events
in the novel could only happen in America. ... One of the themes is that
nobody in the book, including the football player and the federal
prosecutor, thinks that he's doing anything wrong. So that's a very
profound kind of corruption."

Like his previous books, _Made in America_ took two years to write.
"The biggest difference that I found," he points out, "was that in
nonfiction, all the discoveries and surprises are in the research, and in
fiction, they're all in the writing. When I write nonfiction, about two
thirds of the time is spent in research. I didn't do any research for this.
It was much harder. And it was the only time I had to rewrite the whole

Although Maas claims that his own life has never been in imminent
danger, he was touched by deep personal tragedy in 1975 when his wife,
a highly talented writer/producer named Audrey Gellen, was killed in an
automobile accident. Their only child, John Michael, is a skilled pianist.

Puffing on an imported little cigar, Maas speaks with pride of some of his
most important stories in the past. An article he wrote in 1960 led to the
release of Edgar Labat, a black convict in Louisiana who had been on
death row for 11 years. An article about columnist Igor Cassini in 1963
resulted in Cassini's arrest and conviction as a secret agent for Dominican
strongman Trujillo. The biggest story Maas never wrote was a book about
the shah of Iran; several years ago he turned down an offer of $1 million
for the project in order to concentrate on his novel.

"I've always had trouble writing about women," he confesses when asked
about future books. "So the main character of my next work will be a
woman. It was going to be another novel, but now I've run across what
I think is a fantastic nonfiction project, which I'm mostly interested in
because the subject matter is a woman. So I think I'll do that first and the
novel afterward. At least I know what my next two will be, and that's

died 8-23-01. born 6-27-29. Auth
or of _Serpico_ and _The Terrible Hours_.

Film historian and critic


Most people who opt for a writing career do not expect to accomplish
much before the age of 30. But Leonard Maltin, a 27-year-old Westsider,
breaks all the rules. His book _The Great Movie Comedians: From
Charlie Chaplin to Woody Allen_, published in June by Crown Press, is
the 30th volume to bear his name on the jacket. One of America's
foremost film historians, he has written nine books and edited 21 others,
while contributing articles to such publications as _TV Guide_, _Esquire_
and the _New York Times_.

_The Great Movie Comedians_ is one of his most ambitious projects to
date. In 240 pages of text and more than 200 photographs, the author
analyzes the careers of 22 comic stars from the days of silent film to the
1970s. Sales have been brisk so far. The book is already in its second
printing and has been picked up by the Nostalgia Book Club.

Leonard was born on the West Side, moved to New Jersey at the age of
4, and became hooked on old movies by the time he was 8. At 13, he
began to write for a magazine called _Film Fan Monthly_. Two years
later, he took over as editor and publisher -- a job he continued for nine
years. His work with the magazine led to his first book contract in 1968
-- a thick paperback titled _TV Movies_ with summaries of thousands of
films. The third edition is coming out this fall.

In 1975, when Leonard got married, he and his wife Alice moved to the
West Side. She, too, is a film buff; their favorite Westside movie theatre
is the Regency (Broadway at 67th).

Leonard's literary career has never been in better shape than now. Two
of his other books will appear in new editions this fall. And the 10th book
that he has authored, a comprehensive history of American animated
cartoons treated _Of Mice and Magic_, will be published next year by


Creator and star of _Upstairs, Downstairs_


_Upstairs, Downstairs_, the saga of a wealthy London family and its staff
of servants in the early years of the 20th century, is one of the most
popular television series ever filmed. The first episode of the British-made
series was released in England in 1971, and since that time more than one
billion people in 40 countries have watched the exploits of the Bellamy
family. Introduced to American public television in 1974, _Upstairs,
Downstairs_ won seven Emmy Awards, including one for Best Series each
year it was shown.

If any single performer could be said to stand out over all the others, that
would be Jean marsh, who received an Emmy for Best Actress for her
portrayal of Rose, the head parlormaid. But what most of Marsh's
American fans fail to realize is that, with her, without would be no
_Upstairs, Downstairs_: she co-created the show with another British
actress. A New Yorker on and off for the past two decades, Jean Marsh
now lives in an apartment on Manhattan's Upper East Side. It is here that
I meet her to talk about _Upstairs, Downstairs_, which returned to
American television in January with 39 hour-long segments, eight of
which have never been seen before on this side of the Atlantic.

"Sometimes it drives me crazy that nobody ever speaks to me about
anything else," says Jean, a slender, pretty, soft-spoken woman who has
the knack of putting visitors immediately at their ease with her charm and
lack of pretension. "I start to drivel after a while, because I tell how I
devised _Upstairs, Downstairs_ and how the cast was chosen." There is
no irritation in her voice, only humor. With her lively eyes and childlike
appearance, she is reminiscent of Peter Pan.

_Upstairs, Downstairs_, says Jean, "didn't spring new-minted. My friend
Eileen Atkins and I had been talking about trying to devise a television
series. We thought we should write something we knew about -- about our
pasts. And it became servants more than anything else, because her father
had been a butler. She was showing me pictures of her family one day;
she had photographs of servants going to a pub in a horse-drawn bus. So
the first thing we wrote about was servants going on an outing. And later
we decided it wouldn't be nearly as interesting unless we included the
people upstairs."

Jean herself was born in a poor section of London, the daughter of a
laborer and a barmaid. From her earliest years she aimed for a show
business career as the surest route out of her social class. She began as a
dancer -- "I could teach classical ballet or tap if I wanted now" -- and
danced in stage productions and films from the age of 7 until she gave it
up at 20. As an actress, she became an instant success at 15 when she
played the role of a cat opposite one of England's leading comic actors.
"The play opened, and I stole the review," recalls Jean with a grin. "It
was a regional theatre, and they asked me to stay in their company. It was
a peak of happiness in my life. There was no time to think of money or
boys or clothes or anything -- just work."

Her Broadway debut took place more than two decades ago, and over the
years she has dazzled British and American audiences in an endless
number of plays and movies. Classical theatre is her specialty; Jean
recently completed a tour of American regional theatres with plays by
Shakespeare, Shaw and Oscar Wilde.

"Regional theatres are usually more professional than Broadway. I
couldn't do _Twelfth Night_ on Broadway, but I can do it on the road and
make money," she says of her favorite Shakespearean play. "At one
performance, I was playing in britches and split them, and I managed to
make up a rhymed couplet. Somebody came backstage and said, 'How can
you split your britches at exactly the same time every night?'"

Her current project is a film titled _The Changeling_ with George C.
Scott. "I leave for Canada next week to do the exteriors. I'm going to get
crushed to death in the snow. I play George's wife. My role is over very
quickly, but then I appear in flashback soon afterward. It's a ghost/murder
mystery. My death makes him susceptible to phenomena." Asked about
Scott, she says, "I've known him for about 20 years. I think he's a dear.
His image seems to be spiky and alarming. People say, 'How can you get
along with him?' But I think he's like a teddy bear. He's adorable. Rather
shy, too."

Married and divorced at an early age, Jean now lives alone and likes it.
She acquired her Eastside apartment a year ago but has been unable to
spend more than six weeks in it so far, due to her extensive travel. "I go
out and get the bread and newspaper in my pajamas," she says.

Jean explains her amazingly youthful appearance by saying, "I'm very
young in my head. I'm quite daft; I'm sillier than most people I know. I
believe in God, and I believe you should lead a good life. ... One thing
I'm one hundred percent for is ecology. I'm so anxious that we don't
bequeath the next generation with an ugly world. I'd like them to go on
the walks I have had, and breathe the air I have breathed."



Co-starring with Steve Martin in _The Jerk_


Jackie Mason admits that the most famous thing he ever did was to be
caught with one of his fingers pointing upwards on the _Ed Sullivan
Show_. "The most famous and the least helpful," he says of the 1964
incident. "At that time there was a great wave of excitement about my
type of character, because I was new and fresh and different. In those
days, every comedian talked like an American; nobody talked like a Jew
or a Puerto Rican or an Italian. ... There was a lot of heat to give me my
own series, but all the offers were canceled after that incident."

Asked whether he actually did make an obscene gesture, the short, stocky
comedian with the broad New York Jewish accent shakes his curly head.
"The truth is that I didn't -- because I wouldn't be ashamed to tell you if
I did. There's nothing wrong with it today. But the truth is that I was
making with my fingers -- I have a very visual act, you know -- and
Sullivan got panicky because President Johnson had just cut into the
program, and when the camera came back on me, it looked like I was
giving him some kind of message. The next day, I became headlines all
over the world. ... I maintained enough success and enough imagery to be
able to do all the other shows as a guest, but the sponsors were afraid to
be associated with me as the star."

Jackie is telling me this in his dressing room at Dangerfield's (1118 First
Avenue), where he's performing six nights a week until December 17.
The affable Mason is quick to defend his caustic brand of ethnic humor.
"I don't see how it can be harmful. If people do feel any prejudice, it
provides an outlet for them to be able to laugh at it. The people who
decry ethnic humor are afraid of their own prejudice. You remind them
of the ridiculous nature of prejudice. ... Most of the things I say are
universal: they're about marriage, about minorities, about social problems
-- the issues of the day."

He also pokes fun at doctors, weathermen and every profession in
between. Then there are his highly exaggerated impressions of Menachem
Begin, Jimmy Carter and Ed Sullivan ("He always asked me to do an
impression of him on his show. He found out from me how to do
_him_."). Another of his ploys is to razz the audience members. "In 21
years," he said, "I only had one incident where a guy got mad and wanted
to punch me in the mouth. Thank God I move very fast. He wanted to kill
me. Obviously he didn't catch me. That's why I'm still here for the

Born in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, he was raised in New York's Lower East
Side from the age of 5. Following in the footsteps of three older brothers,
he studied to become a rabbi to please his father. "I knew it wasn't for
me. I have all license to be a rabbi, but I'm not a rabbi." A bachelor and
Eastside resident, he loves New York because "this is a melting pot that
doesn't really melt. There's a pot, but it's full of unmelted people."

Dangerfield's, he says, is the only club in New York where major
comedians still perform. "Seven, eight, nine years ago, there was about
12 clubs that played comedians. There was the Copacabana, the Waldorf
Astoria, the Latin Quarter, the Plaza: all those rooms were wiped out."
Consequently, Jackie does a lot of performing in such clubs as the Riviera
in Las Vegas and the Fontainebleau in Miami. Nowadays, however, he's
more interested in making movies. His first one, directed by John Avelson
of _Rocky_ fame, was "a big success without anybody seeing it." His
second film, _The Jerk_, is now being heavily promoted for its December
14 opening. Also starring Steve Martin, Bernadette Peters and Catlin
Adams, it is about a poor black sharecropper's adopted son (Martin) who
leaves home and begins wandering on the road until he ends up at the gas
station of Harry Hartounian, played by Mason.

"He's an uneducated kid who doesn't know anything," explains Jackie.
"He doesn't know how to handle himself, how to talk, how to act. I give
him a part-time job at my place, and I give him a room. He doesn't know
what a job is, and he doesn't understand that you get paid. He never saw
money. He thinks you're supposed to eat it. He's a crazy lost kid and I
play the father figure."

On December 20, Jackie will appear on the _Merv Griffin Show_ with
Steve Martin and Carl Reiner, the movie's director.

Jackie loves being a comedian because "I'm my own boss and I do what
I like ... When young comics say it's a hard business to enter, it's because
they have no talent. If a young comic has talent, he's more likely to make
a big living than in any business you can think of, with comparatively less
effort, and more opportunity, and greater longevity. I never saw a good
comedian in this business who hasn't made a comfortable living at it."


Actor and social critic


"I never take anything seriously -- least of all myself," says Malachy
McCourt, one of the wittiest, most outrageous Irish personalities in New
York. "I find my life is cyclical, and so I move every five or six years
from one interest to another. Now that I'm doing acting sort of full-time,
I thoroughly enjoy the uncertainty of it. But I do appear almost also every
Wednesday at the unemployment office at 90th Street. I do a matinee from
2:15 to 2:45."

He concludes the remarks with his customary gust of laughter. As
opinionated as he is entertaining, Malachy McCourt is one of those larger
than-life characters who has mastered the art of conversation to such a
degree that no matter what people think of him, they cannot help being
magnetically attracted by his words.

In 1968 he had his own talk show in WOR-TV that was canceled because
of the controversy it raised. From 1970 to 1976 he had a weekend show
on WMCA radio, and lost that as well -- for publicly condemning the
station's treatment of an employee whose job was abolished. "They called
him in on a Friday at five minutes to five, and told him to clear his desk.
He had been there for 28 years."

The airwaves' loss has been the theatre's gain, because in the past three
years, Malachy has developed an ever-increasing reputation as a character
actor. Well-known for his roles in Irish plays -- especially those by John
Millington Synge -- he has also been seen recently in movies and
television. His films include _Two for the Seesaw_ and _The Brink's
Job_, while on television, he appeared in last season's _The Dain Curse_
with James Coburn and in Thomas Wolfe's _You Can't Go Home Again_.

His current vehicle is _The Shadow of a Gunman_ by Sean O'Casey, the
great Irish playwright. In the role of Seamus Shields, whom Malachy
describes as "a snivelling, sycophantic swine of a braggart," he is co
starring with Stephen Lang at the Off-Off Broadway Symphony Space for
the Performing Arts, 95th Street and Broadway.

The action takes place in Dublin in 1920. "It was during the time of what
they euphemistically call 'the Troubles,'" explains Malachy in his broad,
breezy irish accent. We're sitting in his Westside living room. The walls
are so loaded down with books that they seem ready to collapse. "The
English brought in a bunch of gangsters from their prisons, called the
Black and Tans. They were paid an extraordinary amount of money to go
over and pacify the country. They could do anything they pleased. You
could be tortured, raped and robbed."

Born in Limerick in 1931, Malachy quit school at the age of 12. "It was
an equal struggle. They couldn't teach me and I couldn't learn." He joined
the Irish Army at 14, was kicked out at 15, then went to England, where
he worked as a laborer prior to emigrating to the U.S. at the age of 20.
His conversational brilliance soon made him famous as a saloon keeper.
At one time he ran a Malachy's and a Malachy's II on the Upper East
Side. "I gave it up," he quips, "for the sake of the wife and the kidneys."
Now the only bartending he does is on the ABC soap opera _Ryan's
Hope_, where he is a regular. "I much prefer that. It's a fake bar, and
everybody else cleans it up."

He has few happy memories of his native country. "There should not be
a united Ireland," he asserts. "In the South, the government is subject to
enormous pressures by the church all the time, in the areas of birth
control, contraception, abortion. People should have the rights to their
own bodies and their own lives. ... Consequently, those of us who escape
get very savage about it. Very savage.

"Someone I was talking to the other day said, 'I can't understand how you
can be an atheist and have of fear of death.' I said, 'I have no fear of
death because I grew up with it.' It was all around. I woke up one
morning when I was 5 and a half to find my brother dead beside me.
Another brother had died six months before. My sister died in her crib.
So therefore, what can you fear, when you know it so well? I'm alive
today. I'll probably get up tomorrow. There's great comfort in the fact
that we're all going to die eventually."

Asked about Daniel P. Moynihan, whom he somewhat resembles
physically, Malachy describes the senator as "the Nureyev of politics. He
can leap from conservative crag to liberal crag with gay abandon. A man
who could serve Kennedy and compare Nixon to Disraeli must be either
insane or insanely clever. I look at him and I cannot believe that this
twinkly-eyed, overweight leprechaun can be so cunning."

Malachy's wife Diana -- "she's the only Smith graduate I know that
became a carpenter" -- does custom carpentry work out of a shop called
Space Constructs on 85th Street. Westsiders for two decades, the
McCourts have two children, Conor and Cormic. One of their favorite
local restaurants is Los Panchos at 71st and Columbus; it is owned by
Malachy's brother Alfie.

Although Malachy has no desire to return to Ireland to live, he
recommends it for tourists because "it's the last outpost of civilized
conversation. The Irish have an attitude that when God made time, he
made plenty of it. So for God's sake, don't be rushing around. Stand there
and talk to me."


Hottest rock act in town


For several years, up until last fall, Meat loaf lived in peaceful obscurity
in an apartment at 25 West 74th Street. Few people outside of his own
circle knew that the name applied to a gargantuan 29-year-old singer from
Texas and the rock band he headed.

A couple of months ago, Meat returned to his old neighborhood after a
long absence. This time he caused a mob scene in the local supermarket,
and, on escaping to his apartment, found people climbing on the window
ledges trying to catch a glimpse of him. The reason? His group's first
album, _Bat Out Of Hell_, which has sold three million copies since its
release a year ago.

"I don't like to be rude to fans," says the calm, gentlemanly Meat Loaf
(his legal name) during an interview at his new apartment in another part
of the West Side. "I'd lie down on the floor for hours so they couldn't see
me. ... _People_ magazine printed my real name and told more or less
where I lived: that's why I had to move."

Bare feet perched on the coffee table, he spreads his 275-pound, 6-foot
frame evenly on the living room sofa. Although Meat's onstage image
makes him out to be one of rock's meanest and toughest characters, in
person he is totally devoid of arrogance, and in fact seems almost shy.
Sam Ellis, Meat Loaf's glib road manager who arranged the group's
recent trips to England, Germany, Canada and Australia, helps the
interview along by adding his comments whenever Meat begins to reach
for words.

All the songs on _Bat Out Of Hell_ -- raucous, earthy, and intense -- were
written by fellow Westsider Jim Steinman, who plays keyboard with the
group. After he and Meat Loaf met in 1973, they performed together
frequently, but their music met with limited success.

"People were afraid of it," says Meat. "The songs were long. The voices
were loud. People in rock said it was too theatre. People in theatre said
it was too rock and roll." When Meat and Jim were finally offered a
contract to do an album, Steinman went to work on some new material,
and wrote nearly the entire contents of _Bat Out Of Hell_ in four months,
including the gold singles _Two Out of Three Ain't Bad_ and _Paradise
by the Dashboard Light_ -- a duet celebrating teen sexuality that has been
choreographed into an 8-minute show stopper by Meat and lead female
vocalist Karla DeVito. "Jim doesn't just write the songs and hand them to
me. I do most of the vocal arrangements. It's really a team. It's like
Sonny and Cher," says the gargantuan singer.

Brought up in Dallas under the name Marvin Lee Aday, he tipped the
scales at 185 while in the fifth grade. "I was an only child and my parents
always wanted two kids," he jokes. "So they set two places at the dinner
table, and I ate both meals. ... I was always on the baseball team, because
if they needed a base runner, they'd say, 'Go in there and get hit by the
ball.' I'd back up just enough so that I wouldn't get hurt."

He joined the high school choir in order to avoid study hall, and from
then on, singing became his main passion. After completing high school
at 15, he travelled around with a number of bands. By the time he settled
down in New York, live rock music was no longer in so much demand as
before. "That's one reason I went into theatre," he remarks. "Another
reason was because someone hired me and I didn't have a job." As an
singer and actor, Meat performed in some 10 Broadway and Off
Broadway productions, including _Hair_ and _The Rocky Horror Picture
Show_, in which he also appeared in the 1975 film.

When _Bat Out Of Hell_ was first released, it did not catch on
immediately. But soon a couple of influential radio stations in New York
City fell in love with it. Then Cleveland and Boston began to give it a lot
of air time. From there, its reputation gathered momentum across the
country. As a result of the slow start, _Bat Out Of Hell_ was still
climbing on the national charts nearly a year after it came out. In
Australia, it was the number one album for 10 straight weeks.

This past summer the Meat Loaf band did four sellout concerts in the New
York area in the space of a month. Now the band is taking it easy for a
little while before returning to the studio for their second album. They
plan to launch another world tour after the album is completed in March.

Meat shares his apartment with 23-year-old Candy Darling, a slender,
pretty dancer/singer who will be performing in an upcoming Broadway
musical, _Whoopee!_ What does Meat Loaf like about the West Side? "I
have absolutely no idea," he replies matter-of-factly. "I can't stand it
anywhere else." Among his preferred Westside hangouts: O'Neal's,
Gleason's, La Cantina, and Anita's Chili Parlor, all on Columbus Avenue
between 71st and 73rd streets.

In spite of his meteoric rise to fame, Meat Loaf sees his overall career in
a different light then his fans. "For me," he says thoughtfully, "rock and
roll is not an end. I'd like to make movies someday. I want to direct. I
want to produce. It's great to sell records, but this is not what I always
want to do. It's just another step on the mountain."


Co-star of _Sugar Babies_


_Sugar Babies_, the rollicking burlesque musical that rolled into Broadway
last fall, was one of the most-awaited shows of the year because it
signalled Mickey Rooney's return to Broadway after umpteen years. Less
attention was initially given to Mickey's co-star, dazzling Ann Miller, who
last appeared on Broadway in 1970 as a star of _Mame_. Ann, it turns
out, is not only a wonderful singer and comedienne, but, in her mid-50s,
is still one of the best tap dancers in America. Her fancy footwork has
become a prime attraction of this box-office smash.

"I was also in _George White's Scandals_ for a year when I was 15,"
recalls Ann in her dressing room after a performance. "This is my third
show only." For most of her career, she has lived in Beverly Hills,
California. The veteran of dozens of movies, including _On The Town_
with Frank Sinatra, Miss Miller is a larger-than-life entertainer who
believes that her career comes first and foremost, ahead of personal
happiness and family. Married and divorced three times, she has no
children, but is an ardent animal lover.

"I have two beautiful dogs, Cinderella and Jasmine," she says in a light
Southern accent. "They look exactly alike, only one is Hungarian and the
other is French. My secretary walks them. ... I'm very much interested
in the protection of animals. I think people treat animals very cruelly, and
to me, when you adopt a dog, it's like adopting a child. My little
Cinderella: she was thrown out of a car by somebody wanting to get rid
of her. I found her in Cincinnati in a blizzard. She almost died and I
saved her life."

By looking beyond the heavy rouge, bright red lipstick, large rhinestone
earrings and fluttering false eyelashes that are part of her act, one can see
that Ann appears considerably younger then her years. _Sugar Babies_,
she points out, is not burlesque in the normal sense. "Burlesque got sleazy
in the 1940s with bumps and grinds and tassel-twirlers, but that's not what
we're selling. We sell, in a sense, glorified, old-fashioned, 1920s-style
vaudeville, with good production numbers. And that's what burlesque was
originally. ... A college professor got this together. The jokes are
authentic. ... Our show is for everybody. It's not dirty at all -- not by
today's standards."

There is a crowd of people waiting to see Ann after nearly every show.
Rooney escapes the fans by dashing out the stage door within minutes of
the final curtain. "He lives way out in New Jersey," explains Ann, who
rents a hotel suite on the Upper West Side. "Mickey is married and he has
10 children. He loves them all very much. ... Mickey and I went to
school together. He's a very nice person and he's a great pro. He may be
a small man, but he's a giant in his own way."

Miss Miller, who likes to dine at the 21 Club, Sardi's and the
Conservatory, believes that _Sugar Babies_ is a hit "because it's timely.
People are desperate to laugh. They're tired of hearing about war and the
food crunch and the oil crunch. They want to be entertained."

She has written her autobiography, _Miller's High Life_, which is
available "only in rate bookstores and in every library in the country. It
isn't out in paperback yet, but there's some talk of it." Asked about a
projected second volume, _Miller on Tap_, she says: "It will be my life;
it will carry on from where the other one left off."

She has no secret for looking so young, except that she is a nonsmoker,
drinks nothing stronger than wine, watches her diet, and avoids anything
strenuous in the daytime, to save her energy for the show.

With her jet-black hair, pearl-white teeth, and exaggerated makeup, Ann
looks more than a little exotic. This may help to explain her belief in
reincarnation. "I really do have memories of Egypt. They're not in a form
that I can describe. You sometimes just know things. You're born with
knowing. I have been to Egypt three times, and I'm planning to go back
again and again, I want to go mainly to Luxor. I'm very entranced with
it. I like all the antiquities of Egypt. The present-day Egypt I have no
interest in to speak of."

Ann says she doesn't like the name of her current show. "People think it's
candy, because there is Sugar Babies candy," she explains, "but in the old
days, babies meant beautiful show girls. The girls had sugar daddies, so
they were called sugar babies."

A Texas native who began dancing professionally in New York at the age
of 11, Ann says yes, she feels good about her career, but that "it's been
a long struggle. The sad part is, I have wanted so much to be happy, but
I have never found happiness."

Her father, who was a lawyer, left her mother when Ann was 10. Since
Mrs. Miller was almost totally deaf, Ann supported them by tap dancing
at Rotary Club luncheons. She retains a fear of poverty to this day. "I
save all my clothes because some day I might be poor again," she says.
"I have a room with nothing in it but racks of clothes. I cover them
nicely, and once a year I air them out, in case they come back in style."


Opera superstar


"In a career of my size," says baritone Sherrill Milnes, "there is no off
season. I try to hold myself to 60 performances a year -- not including
recordings or dress rehearsals or private studies. ... In fact, I think I'm
the most-recorded American opera singer ever, in any voice category."

We're talking in his spacious Westside apartment facing the Hudson
River. I cannot help observing that Milnes, a handsome man who stands
6 foot 2 and weighs 220 pounds, with his dark hair combed straight back
and wearing a blue flowered shirt, looks very much like a country and
western singer. It is his chest that gives him away -- a massive, powerful
chest that hints at the huge voice it supports. To deliver notes that are
clearly audible throughout the largest opera houses in the world, over the
sound of a full orchestra, and without amplification, is one of the most
physically demanding tasks in all the performing arts. And one of the best
paying. Only a handful of singers take home, like Milnes, approximately
$7,000 for each night's work.

At 44, he is in the peak of his career, and has been since he made his
Metropolitan Opera debut in December, 1965. He has sung in virtually all
of the world's leading opera houses, including the Paris Opera, the
Hamburg State Opera, and La Scala in Milan. Asked what more he can
accomplish, Milnes replies that "one hopes to become a better artist all the
time. But you can only go so fast. If you make family a priority position
-- which is certainly true in this case -- there are only so many hours in
the day. I could be more famous, were I on television more. But it takes
time. ... I don't want to sound like: he's satisfied with his career, where
he is, and he doesn't want to do any more. But I have to realize that my
career can no longer continue at the same rate of ascendancy."

His current show with the Met, Verdi's _Don Carlo_, will continue until
mid-March. "This is the first time New York has heard the five-act
original version," notes Milnes. "We'll be doing it in Italian. People said,
'Why don't you do _Don Carlo_ like the real original, in French?' The
problem is, five years later, where do you find people who know it in
French? There's a practical set of problems when, worldwide, everybody
know it in Italian. I don't know if it would have been worth it for one
season." Long-range planning is an important aspect of any opera singer's
life. Milnes already has his schedule set up until 1984.

The main reason why Italy has declined in importance as a center for
opera, says Milnes, is that the country's economic problems make it
impossible for the companies to book singers years in advance. "I think
America is now producing more singers than Italy, and Spain is very high
on the list of producing singers."

It is to Italy that Milnes owes much of his success. "We have that phrase
'Verdi baritone' -- sometimes more generically, 'Italian baritone.' There's
no question that Verdi treated the baritone as a special voice category,
differently really than composers before him. He did a lot of title roles for
the baritone voice, and really split the bass and baritone roles very much."

Widely known as an unselfish performer who gives his time freely to
others, Milnes is chairman of the board of Affiliated Artists, a non-profit
organization that arranges concerts across America for young, up-and
coming singers.

Born on an Illinois farm, he studied piano and violin from early
childhood. In high school, he won the state music contest in five separate
categories, including vocal soloist. Deciding that his voice was the
instrument that showed most promise, he began his professional career as
a member of a chorus attached to the Chicago Symphony. In 1960 he
turned to opera. Boris Goldovsky, the opera maestro, signed him
immediately, taught his willing pupil the fine points of acting in opera,
and took him on five cross-country tours. Since 1962, Milnes has had
practically no time for anything but singing.

A dedicated family man, he is married to soprano Nancy Stokes. The
couple has a 6-year-old son, Shawn, and Milnes has two other children
from a previous marriage. He has been a Westsider for almost 10 years.

Not at all snobbish about his own musical gifts, Milnes believes that
singing is excellent recreation for anyone, regardless of voice quality. "I
encourage people to sing in the shower. It's a great emotional outlet. Even
if you're lousy, it makes you sound fantastic. When I'm on the stage, I
always have that feeling that I'm never going to sound as good as I do in
the shower. You can't get the same _ring_ when you're singing to 5,000


Master of the flamenco guitar


Carlos Montoya speaks two languages. The first is music; the other is
Spanish. At 74, he is the world's most famous master of flamenco -- the
ancient folk music of the Spanish gypsies, which Montoya performs with
dazzling speed and dexterity. On October 29 he will give a major concert
at Avery Fisher Hall.

With more than 30 albums to his credit, Montoya is the most recorded
flamenco guitarist in history. He is thoroughly committed to his
instrument. It is not merely his living, but his life. He is a pure gypsy --
"on all four sides," as the Spanish say. Maybe that explains why he likes
to tour from January to May and from October to December every year,
almost nonstop, across the U.S. and Canada, to South America, Europe
and the Far East. He has been a Westsider since the 1940s and has rented
the same Westside apartment since 1957. Yet when people ask Montoya
where he lives, he is likely to reply, "On airplanes."

An American citizen for more than 30 years, he is perhaps the first
persons ever to acquire citizenship after answering "no" to the question,
"Do you like the American form of government?" Because of his poor
English, he had misunderstood the query. He corrected himself, and that
night played for President Harry Truman.

Montoya's wife, Sally, is his steady helpmate. Since their marriage in
1940, she has been his manager, interpreter and best friend. He still
speaks little English, so interviews with him are often ponderous three
way affairs. When I arrived at the Montoyas' residence late one morning,
he was very polite, but eager to get the interview over with. "Vamos," he
said. His demeanor changed when he discovered that I was able to
understand his crisp, precise Spanish when spoken slowly. We quickly
dispensed with the interpreter.

Does he consider flamenco to be the highest art attainable on the guitar?
Sitting upright in an overstuffed chair, he smiled benignly and said, "Not
all the flamenco guitarists are artists. There are many guitarists, but in the
world there are only two or three artists on the flamenco guitar. ... Most
musicians are technicians. I think that to play flamenco as it should be
played, you have to be an artist. The music is either very bad or very
good. People who hear the performance may applaud both the technician
and the artist. But afterward, if the performer was not an artist, they
forget what they have heard."

The smile remained on his face, and he began to use his hands with much
expression as he continued. "I carry the music inside me. I want to touch
inside the heart of the public. That's what I always aim for. My music is
sincere. It is very human. I believe it should be listened to closely. That
is why I play concerts."

He was, in fact, the first prominent flamenco guitarist to go solo. Until
Montoya started giving one-man concerts in 1948, flamenco was strictly
a music to accompany singers or dancers, who added to the rhythm with
castanets, snapping fingers and feverishly clicking heels. When faced with
Montoya's guitar alone, the audiences did not catch on immediately. But
as soon as they learned to appreciate the full range of his artistry, his
career was assured.

Many of the sound effects produced by a whole flamenco group can be
duplicated by Montoya alone. His left hand can play a melody and tap out
a rhythm independent of what the right hand is going. To add to the
excitement, Montoya never plays a piece the same way twice. One reason
is that improvisation is the essence of flamenco. Another is that he has
never learned to read music.

"Flamenco guitar is more popular than ever right now," said Montoya.
"Young people like it; I perform at a lot of colleges. I also perform with
many symphony orchestras to play my _Flamenco Suite_.

That composition, which Montoya co-wrote and premiered in 1996, is the
first flamenco piece ever to be written for a full orchestra. The guitar
sections, appropriately, allow for some improvising. Other works by
Montoya, mainly his arrangements of age-old gypsy themes, have been
transcribed and published for the benefit of fellow guitarists. However, as
Montoya pointed out, "the style you can write. But all the notes -- it is
impossible. So, my written works are simplified."

Born in Madrid, he took his first guitar lesson at the age of 8, and by his
early teens was performing regularly in cafes. He toured extensively until
World War II broke out, when he more or less "settled" in New York. In
truth, he has never been content to settle anywhere. He spends several
months each year in Spain. And when he's on tour, said his wife, "he gets
restless staying around the hotel, and likes to visit all the sights in the

Sally Montoya, a slender, graceful native New Yorker who met Carlos
while her father was working for the Foreign Service, was once a
Spanish-style dancer herself, but gave it up because "I obviously didn't
dance as well as Carlos plays. I'm a casualty of his success." The couple
has two sons.

Except for travel, Carlos Montoya has few interests outside his work.
"Music and family -- that's all," he said quietly. "To be an artist, you
must be a slave to the instrument and to the public. To play the guitar is
a serious thing -- not a game. To me, it is a complete life."


Broadway star releases ninth album


When Melba Moore recently dropped out of her co-starring role in the
Broadway hit musical _Timbuktu_, there was a lot of speculation as to the
reason why. Some observers suggested that Eartha Kitt, the biggest box
office draw, did not like to share the billing with a performer of Melba's

Melba herself has a simpler explanation: seven months of one show is
enough, and she had too many other things to do -- promoting her new
album, preparing for another Broadway musical, doing her first lead role
in a movie, going on a concert tour, making guest appearances on
television, and taking care of her 16-month-old daughter Charli.

"Honey, I could join the Olympics with all I do," says Melba one
afternoon at the comfortable midtown office that is used as the nerve
center for her multiple activities. She is dressed in a striped hat, a white
shirt and a bright red necktie. Easing her slender form onto the couch, she
looks smaller, younger, and more beautiful in person than her photographs
indicate. I remark on her flashy necktie, and Melba, using her hands
expressively while she speaks, tells with amusement how she saw it on the
collar of a salesman at Fiorucci's and said to him, "I want that tie."

Melba's first professional stage role was in _Hair_; from 1968 to 1970 she
rose up through the chorus to win the female lead. "I have no hard-luck
stories," she says, in her clear, nearly accentless voice. "From _Hair_, I
went right into _Purlie_." That was the role that earned her the 1970 Tony
Award for Best Supporting Actress and the New York Drama Critics' and
Drama Desk Awards.

Melba was born 32 years ago on West 108th Street. Both her parents were
entertainers, and Melba began singing at the age of 4. At college she
majored in music, and upon graduation, taking the advice of her parents
to "get some security," she taught school for a year. But soon a burning
desire to get into show business took hold of her, and she quit teaching.
"Ever since that day," she recalls, "even before I got my first singing job,
the whole world looked better to me."

It was while working as a studio singer that she was given an audition for
_Hair_, and since then her story has been a virtually unbroken success.
Melba has starred in numerous television shows, including her own
summer series for CBS and an ABC special on the life of abolitionist
Harriet Tubman. Better known for her singing than her acting, Melba has
recorded nine albums and has received a Grammy nomination. Her most
remarkable vocal feat, however, was probably her one-woman concert at
the Metropolitan Opera House in December 1976, which won her rave
notices from every music critic in town. In the concert, she performed
everything from ballads to rock to opera.

"Singing opera actually rests my voice," says Melba. "It's like doing
vocal exercises." Equally at home in a nightclub or a concert hall, she has
demonstrated her four-octave range with many of America's leading

Her new album, released late in September by Epic Records and titled
simply _Melba Moore_, contains both disco songs and straight ballads.
One of the cuts, "You Stepped Into My Life," is out as a single. Another
cut is "The Greatest," from a film about Muhammad Ali. "No, I didn't
sing it in the movie, but I am an Ali fan. I'm a fight fan. I turn on the
cable and watch everyone -- flyweights, everybody. People I've never
hard of."

Her new movie, _Purlie_, in which Melba will recreate her Broadway
smash success, is scheduled to begin filming this November in the
countryside of Georgia. Melba plays the orphan Lutibelle Gussiemae
Jenkins. After the movie, she will devote most of her time to a new
musical, _Harlem Renaissance_, which is planned to reach Broadway next

The day after she quit _Timbuktu_, Melba headed for Acapulco to be one
of the judges in the Miss Universe Pageant. "They said there were going
to be 600 million people watching, so I made sure my nose was
powdered. ... They worked us from sunup to sunup, but I did manage to
get a little suntan," she says teasingly, showing me a patch of light brown
skin directly under her top shirt button.

Married for the past five years to restaurateur Charles Huggins, Melba is
overjoyed to have a child at last -- "we have been waiting for her" -- and
spends as much time as she can with her daughter. A Westsider off and
on for most of her life, Melba is fond of shopping at Vim and Vigor
Health Foods (57th Street near the Carnegie Recital Hall), then going next
door to the Merit Farm Store, where she buys her favorite junk food.

Of all her accomplishments in the last 10 years, Melba is perhaps proudest
of her involvement with an international television series for children,
_Big Blue Marble_, which is currently being shown in 78 countries.

"I'm very much into international things," says Melba, "I have appeared
in some of the segments, but basically my role is to let people know about
it. ... In some way, we hope that the program can help promote peace and
understanding to these children -- while they're still at a vulnerable age."


Star of _Holocaust_ returns to Broadway in _G.R. Point_


When Michael Moriarty rose to national stardom last year with his chilling
portrayal of SS Officer Dorf in the NBC miniseries _Holocaust_, his
performance was witnessed by some 120 million Americans. His current
vehicle, _G.R. Point_ at the Playhouse Theatre on West 48th Street plays
to a maximum audience of 500. Yet, in the lead role of Micah Bradstreet,
a wet-behind-the-ears soldier from rural Maine, Moriarty delivers what
Clive Barnes of the _New York Post_ has said is "the best performance,
so far, of his career."

_G.R. Point_ is a play about the Vietnam War and its effects on those
who are forced to partake in it. Set on a strikingly designed stage built to
resemble a devastated hillside, the play demonstrates how each of the
eight characters manages to cope with his predicament in his own way. Its
message is summed up in the final words of the drama, spoken to Micah
as he departs for the U.S.: he is told to "count the living, not the dead."

"One of the main reasons I wanted to do this play is that it affirms life,"
says Moriarty, in a dressing room interview just before a performance. "It
doesn't take any specific political stance, but it doesn't avoid any of the
horrors of war. Its only stance is: in the end, what overcomes the situation
is love. And love sometimes shows itself in the strangest, most bizarre

He is tall and solidly built, looking somewhat younger than his 38 years,
and though his demeanor has an edge of shyness to it, Moriarty's
penetrating eyes reveal that much is going on beneath the surface. Asked
about his personal views on Vietnam, the actor replies, "I'm not an
intellectual, so I have no specific feelings about it." But his conversation
soon reveals him to be a deep thinker and a wit besides, whose remarks
are tempered as much by humility as by professional instinct.

"Whatever I could say about the war has been better stated by David
Berry, the playwright. I'm able to show my emotional response to the war
through Micah Bradstreet. ... I'm not trying to influence anyone in any
way in particular. I do think the play tells the truth about Vietnam. So the
more information people have, the better decisions they can make."

Moriarty's decision to become a dramatic actor can be traced to his
undergraduate days at Dartmouth College, when he was overwhelmed by
Paul Scofield's performance in _Love's Labor Lost_. Following
graduation, he won a Fulbright Scholarship to attend the London Academy
of Music and Dramatic Art. In 1974, after years of perfecting his craft in
theatres across America, he picked up the first of his two Tony Awards
for his performances in _Find Your Way Home_. Equally skilled at
television acting, he is the recipient of two Emmys, including one for

A Detroit native of Scandinavian and Irish ancestry, Moriarty attends
Catholic mass regularly, and finds much inspiration in the Bible, both
spiritual and literary. His chief hobby is music: he is a polished
singer/pianist/songwriter who frequently performs in the city's leading
nightclubs between acting assignments. Asked whether he would consider
teaming up with octogenarian blues singer Alberta Hunter at the Cookery
in Greenwich Village, he replies with a laugh, "That's very heavy
company. I'll cook and she'll sing." He usually practices in the morning.
"I'll ramble over the piano and play some easy music. It's purely
according to my libido. You might call it ad libido. Hey, not bad! How's
that for an album title?"

Another of his talents is writing plays. Although hesitant to discuss this
up-and-coming aspect of his career, Moriarty finally admits that one of his
plays was recently read dramatically at the McCarter Theatre in Princeton,
New Jersey, under the direction of Ben Levit. "It was none of my doing.
I sat back, and it all happened before my very eyes. I was astonished, and
pleased, and proud, and in no great hurry to see it produced except by this
director -- if he wants to."

Long a devotee of Shakespeare, Moriarty founded his own non-profit
Shakespearean company, Potter's Field, in 1977. He and his group
perform free each Sunday in Central Park near the statue of Sir Walter
Scott, weather permitting.

In response to a question about the West Side, where he has lived for the
past five years, Moriarty says that "you can walk one block and encounter
everything the world should either be proud of or ashamed of." His
favorite local restaurants include Coq du Vin on 8th Avenue and O'Neal's
Balloon at 6th Avenue and 57th Street. "Pat O'Neal and I crack jokes
about my career as a waiter. I worked at O'Neal's off and on for about
four years. I was terrible! They kept me on out of sheer compassion. I
guess I became an endearing lunkhead."

Other goals? "None that I'd care to mention," says Moriarty, smiling
softly. "All the other ones are neurotic, and I don't want to expose them.
I've done it too often. In my neuroses, I think, 'Gee, I'd like to do that
or this.' But in my higher self, I have no unfulfilled needs."


America's greatest popular artist


Like Norman Rockwell before him, LeRoy Neiman has the distinction of
being one of the very few American artists whose work is familiar to
practically everybody in the country -- rich and poor, black and white,
urban and rural, educated and illiterate.

This is as far as their similarity goes, however. Rockwell, who died in
November, 1978 at the age of 84, was known for his meticulously
detailed, placid portraits of American family life, while Neiman has built
his reputation on action-filled scenes composed of bold splashes of color.
Rockwell's career started and ended at the _Saturday Evening Post_;
Neiman's began at _Playboy_ and has reached its zenith in an entirely new
medium -- television. His televised mural of the 1976 Olympic Games was
seen by an estimated 170 million people.

One of the most commercially successful artists in the world, LeRoy
Neiman has spent the last 18 years living and working in a huge
apartment/studio just off Central Park West. His original paintings
command up to $50,000 each, but the larger portion of his work comes
out in the form of limited-edition serigraphs (silkscreen prints). A single
piece of silkscreen art generally yields some 300 prints, each of which
sells for about $1,500.

Neiman's eye-catching style is admired everywhere. His posters and
calendars are best-sellers in Japan; several of his painting are on
permanent display at the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad. He was the
official United States artist-in-residence for the last two Olympics and will
be for the 1980 Games as well. Although best known for his sports
pictures, Neiman is also a renowned portraitist who specializes in famous
faces. He is attracted by drama and excitement of any kind, whether found
in a tavern inhabited by the Beautiful People, in a heavyweight fight, in
a world chess championship, or, as television viewers witnessed last
January, in a Super Bowl. Neiman sat on the sidelines of that contest
drawing pictures of the game in progress, using a computer-controlled
electronic pen and palette. The pictures were then flashed onto the
television screen.

"It's painting with light," explains Neiman one morning in his studio,
taking a break from the half-dozen oils and acrylics he is working on. "It
gives you the same sense of creation as any other art medium. You're
building and creating an image of your own that wasn't there when you
started. The only limitation you ever have in doing a work of art is

Starting this month, Neiman's work has become a regular feature of _CBS
Sports Spectacular_. At the beginning and end of each program, Neiman's
paintings are interspersed with photographs of athletes to form a moving
collage of colors and shapes. The artist has been contracted to make six
or seven personal appearances on the program over the next year, in
which he will demonstrate the art of drawing sports in action.

Neiman is a suave, sophisticated man who loves his work and loves to talk
about it. Dressed in a fancy denim-style suit, with a long, thin cigar
protruding from under his handlebar moustache, he expounds on a score
of subjects as if he had all the time in the world. In the adjacent room, the
telephone rings almost unceasingly. It is answered by his assistant, who
calls out the message to him. More likely than not, it is a request for
Neiman's artistic services.

"I sketch all the time," he says. "A sketch is not necessarily a study to
me. It's a record -- something to consult with. I sketch an awful lot in
public. Because when I go someplace and I get bored, I sketch.
Everybody forgives me for it. They think I have an uncontrollable desire
to draw."

His style, says Neiman, "came out of nowhere. It happened very
suddenly, about 1954, just before I started with _Playboy_." That
magazine recently honored him with an award for being one of the five
most important contributors in its 25-year history.

During his childhood in Minnesota, recalls Neiman, "I was always
drawing pictures and getting special treatment at school -- showing off,
copping out of other things. ... I lived a couple of years in England and
France." since moving to New York, he has been a constant Westsider.
Central Park, says Neiman, "is the West Side's front yard, but the East
Side's back yard."

Neiman's latest one-man show is an exhibit of approximately 50
serigraphs, etching, and drawings at Hammer Graphics on East 57th
Street. Part of the proceeds from sales will go to the U.S. Olympic

"I turn most things down, because they're not stimulating and inspiring,"
says Neiman matter-of-factly. "Money isn't enough stimulus to do
something I don't like. ... I work very hard. I fool around a lot too, but
I don't go on vacations. I don't have hobbies. I put my vices within my


Great portrait photographer


When the _Sunday Times_ of London decided to hire someone to
photograph 50 leading British citizens for a show at England's National
Portrait Gallery, the venerable newspaper caused something of an uproar
by choosing an American for the job -- Arnold Newman, one of the
world's most important portrait photographers for the past 30 years.

The 50 portraits, whose subjects include Sir Lawrence Oliver, Sir John
Gielgud, Sir Alec Guinness, Henry Moore, Lord Mountbatten and Harold
Pinter, were exhibited last month at the Light Gallery on Fifth Avenue,
and have just opened in London. Meanwhile, the book version of the
prints, with extensive commentary, has been published this month as _The
Great British_ (New York Graphic Society, Boston, $14.95). The
photographs, like those found in Newman's three previous books and in
his hundreds of assignments for _Life_, _Look_, _Newsweek_ and other
publications, are far more than mere portraits. Rather, they are profound
artistic statements, in which the background of the picture often
symbolizes the person's achievement.

"I don't use props: I use reality," explains Newman, taking a break at the
West 57th Street studio he has occupied since 1948. On the wall are
pictures -- he prefers that word to "photographs" -- of Marc Chagall,
Pablo Picasso, Eugene O'Neill and four American presidents; Newman
has photographed every president since Truman.

Big, burly, mellow-voiced and casually dressed, Arnold Newman at 61
looks like an aging beatnik. His quick wit and ready laugh mask a
perfectionism that has characterized his work ever since he turned to
photography in 1938. His ability "to make the camera see what I saw"
showed itself almost at once. In 1941 he held his first exhibition and sold
his first print to the Museum of Modern Art.

"I could have made, over the years, a hell of a lot more money than I
have, simply by doing more commercial work and cashing in on my
reputation. But that doesn't interest me," he reflects, puffing on his ever
present cigar. "I mean, money interests me, but I'd just see my life being

Specializing in portraits of artists, he studies the work of each subject
intensely beforehand so that the essence of the artist will be distilled into
the photograph, by subconscious as well as conscious effort. On the side,
he does enough commercial work to support his own artistic efforts. But
over the years, the two have somehow merged: "I'm forever being
commissioned for things I'd give my eye teeth to do, and paid very well
for it. Recently I went out to do a photograph strictly on my own of
somebody I admired, and I hate the picture. Yet the day before I did a
picture for money which I think is one of my best pictures in the last three

In 1953, he went to Washington to photograph 15 U.S. senators for
_Holiday_ magazine, including John F. Kennedy -- then a political
unknown who was sometimes labeled the Playboy senator. "Years later,"
recalls Newman, "I was photographing President Kennedy on the White
House lawn. He turned to me and said, 'Arnold, whatever happened to
that first picture you took of me?'

"I said, 'Well, Mr. President, we did 15 senators, and they found out they
had one too many for the layout, so they dropped the one least likely to

"And you have to understand: we were surrounded by secret servicemen,
and Pierre Salinger, his press secretary, was there. Well I thought I'd get
a big yack, because Kennedy had a marvelous sense of humor. But
instead, his face went rigid. And I -- I absolutely turned ice cold. The
Secret Service men turned around and gave me a 'How stupid can you
be?' look.

"A bit later I managed to get into Pierre's office and started stammering
and apologizing. Suddenly Pierre started breaking out in laughter. I said,
'What the hell's so funny?' He said, 'He was pulling your leg! He's been
walking all around the White House for the last 30 minutes, telling that
story on himself.'"

After the assassination, Newman was called to the White House again to
photograph the official portrait of Lyndon Johnson. "He could give an
angel an ulcer. ... I didn't get paid for the picture, not even my expenses.
It cost me a fortune."

Arnold and his wife Augusta have been married for 31 years; she runs the
studio and works closely with him. Their two sons, Eric and David, are
professionals in neurology and architecture, respectively. The Newmans'
favorite neighborhood restaurants include Rikyu and Genghiz Khan's
Bicycle on Columbus Avenue, and the Cafe des Artistes on their own

Asked whether he eventually plans to pursue other areas of photography
besides portraits, Newman shakes his head. "The whole history of painting
was changed by a man who used the same materials as everybody else did
-- the same brushes, paints, canvas, and subject matter," he explains. "So
why do we say that Cezanne revolutionized painting? It's his ideas. I deal
with ideas too."


Journalist and first-time novelist


"When you achieve a certain prominence on television," says NBC's
Edwin Newman, "publishers come to you and ask you to write books.
Then you go round in circles for a while, and finally say, 'Gee, I'd like
to write a book, but I don't have the time.'"

Six years ago, the award-winning broadcast journalist decided to find out
if he was bluffing himself. He spent seven months of his spare time
writing a book called _Strictly Speaking: Will America be the Death of
English?_ Published in 1974 when Newman was 55 years old, it became
the nation's number one best-seller for non-fiction. His follow-up book,
_A Civil Tongue_ (1976), was another best-seller.

Now Edwin newman has written his first novel, _Sunday Punch_
(Houghton Mifflin, $9.95). Published in June, it has already gone through
two printings in hardcover, totaling 60,000 copies. The _Atlantic_ has
described the book as "a Wodehousian excursion that is lighter than air
and twice as much fun as laughing gas."

In a leisurely interview at his Rockefeller Plaza office, the author comes
across very much as he does on television. His leathery features expand
easily into a smile as he delivers, in his slow, concise, foghorn voice,
comments that are as thought-provoking as they are witty.

_Sunday Punch_, he says, "is the story of an extremely thin, tall, British
prizefighter named Aubrey Philpott-Grimes who comes to the U.S. to
fight because he can make more money here than in Britain. The more
money he makes, the higher taxes he can pay, and Aubrey is a great
believer in paying taxes. He is tremendously interested in economics, so
that if he is brought to the microphone after a fight, he'll probably start
talking about structural unemployment and floating exchange rates, rather
than talking about fighting. ... The book allows me to comment on the
United States from the view of an outsider."

His fascination with the cultural and linguistic differences of the U.S. and
England dates back to the late 1940s, when Newman left his job with the
Washington-based International News Service and moved to London.
There, he found work as a "stringer" for the NBC network, and when he
was invited to join the full-time staff in 1952, he remained at the British
capital for five more years. In 1961, after serving as NBC bureau chief
in both Paris and Rome, he returned to his native Manhattan and settled
into his present Eastside apartment with his English wife, Rigel. The
Newmans' daughter Nancy was educated entirely in England.

A harsh critic of the state of the language in America today, Newman is
the head of the Usage Panel for the American Heritage Dictionary. He is
always being sent examples of poor English. "Do you want to know what
accountability is?" he says, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he takes
a letter from his desk. "This is from a teachers' committee in Kalamazoo,
Michigan. 'Accountability is a concept that, when operationalized, finds
the interrelatedness and parameters of responsibility shaped by individuals
within the system.'

"It seems to me there are two movements going on that affect language in
the United States, and it's curious that they would be going on at the same
time, because in a way they conflict with each other. One is the increasing
use of jargon and pomposity, which can partly traced to the size of the
government. As the government grows, this kind of language grows. ...
The more technical they make the language sound, the more money
they're likely to earn.

"Then you have the influence of the social sciences, where exactly the
same thing goes on. People attempt to take familiar ideas, small ideas, and
in some cases no ideas, and make them sound large by wrapping them up
in grandiose language.

"The other movement that is going on is based on the notion that correct,
specific, concrete language doesn't matter very much. What matters is that
your heart be in the right place. ... This idea was thoroughly welcome to
many people in education. For one thing, it means that you have less
written work to correct. And also, of course, if you don't have to teach
correct English, you don't have to know it."

During his 28 years as an NBC news correspondent, Edwin Newman has
excelled in so many areas that he has become known as the network's
"Renaissance man." One of the most quick-thinking ad-libbers on the air,
he is frequently called upon to do live "instant specials" of breaking news.
He moderated the first Ford-Carter debate in 1976, has hosted the _Today
Show_ numerous times, has covered six national political conventions and
reported from 35 foreign countries. Each Monday through Friday, he is
heard on both radio and television across the U.S. in a series of news

His biggest project at the moment is a two-hour, prime-time documentary
on U.S. foreign policy, which is scheduled to be aired early in September.

"I think in some way," concludes Newman, "I fell into the right
profession. Somebody said -- I think it was H.L. Mencken -- that you go
into the news business because it gives you a front-row seat. And he
might have added that not only does it give you a front row seat, but you
get the seat free."

born 1-15-19


Commissioner of the National Basketball Association


Fame rests lightly on the shoulders of Larry O'Brien, who was raised on
politics in his hometown of Springfield, Massachusetts and never sought
elective office for himself, yet became one of the Democratic Party's most
influential spokesmen for nearly two decades.

As a campaign manager, he propelled John F. Kennedy into the Senate
and then into the White House. He served as postmaster general under
President Johnson from 1965 to 1968, and was twice named chairman of
the Democratic National Committee, a post traditionally given to the
party's foremost political strategist. His name loomed large in the
Watergate hearings, for it was O'Brien whose office was broken into by
the original Watergate burglars.

He was in the news again in 1974, when, having retired from politics, he
published his autobiography, _No Final Victories_. Expecting to be out
of the public eye after that, O'Brien was astonished to be offered the job
of commissioner of the National Basketball Association. Now midway
through his fifth season, he has not only resolved the major disputes that
threatened the future of professional basketball, but has brought a new
vitality to the sport.

The NBA's headquarters, a plush suite of office high above Fifth Avenue,
is silent and practically empty on the afternoon of my appointment with
the commissioner. A gregarious host, he talks about basketball and politics
for nearly two hours in his effusive manner, while chain-smoking low-tar
cigarettes. He is a hearty, husky man with a basso voice that rarely alters
in pitch, and is as casual as a bartender.

Brought up in the town where basketball was invented, the son of Irish
immigrants, he worked his way through law school by tending bar in his
father's cafe in the daytime and taking classes at night. One of the most
trusted of politicians, known for his uncommon organizational abilities and
his gift for compromise, O'Brien is a fascinatingly long-winded
conversationalist who speaks with many digressions.

"The sports commissioner is somewhat unique. First of all, you are paid
by the owners, and you are expected to be as responsive as you can to the
fans -- to do everything possible to ensure that the game is presented in
the best conceivable way to the fans, and the most exciting and interesting
manner, because after all, this is business."

During the Kennedy and Johnson White House years, he served as
presidential liaison to Congress and helped win passage of the Peace
Corps, Medicare, and the Civil Rights Act of 1964. As commissioner, his
authority is all-powerful. "It goes to supervision of every aspect of the
game, on and off the court," he explains. "It goes to determining even
what time games are played and who plays them."

Attendance in the NBA has risen considerably this year; O'Brien
cheerfully attributes it to the resurgence of the Boston Celtics and the
improvement of the New York Knicks.

Recently Dallas was granted a franchise to create a new NBA team, the
23rd in the U.S. "If there were further expansion beyond 24 teams,"
O'Brien predicts, "I think it would take on an international flavor. ...
There are a number of countries in Europe that are playing quality
basketball at the professional level. I envision that by the mid-80s, you
would find countries in Europe that could be competitive with us.
Probably the first step would be only exhibitions, but I can see it reaching
a point where you could give serious thought to establishing another
conference perhaps."

Larry and his wife Elva have been married since 1944; their son Laurence
III is a Washington-based lawyer. An Eastside resident during most of the
last seven years, O'Brien recalls the Watergate break-in with grim humor.
"We didn't have anything in the office anyway. We were practically
bankrupt. I thought, maybe there's a typewriter missing. ... I was a
disbeliever. It took a long time for it to penetrate that this was real. ...
My best recollection of that period is that I was very depressed, in the
sense of what effects it was having on our system of government.

"When I was on my book promotion tour, people would ask, 'How does
it feel to be a politician?' as if it was a dirty word. I have always been
proud of being a politician, and I've never felt otherwise. But I found that
all of us involved in politics were painted with the same brush."

His mood brightens when the subject returns to basketball. Speaking of the
recent backboard-shattering antics of "Chocolate Thunder" Darryl
Dawkins, O'Brien reports that the star "said that he certainly could adjust
his dunk shot to prevent further incidents."

The most difficult aspect of his job so far, says O'Brien, has been to
enforce the compensation agreement that players and owners signed four
years ago. "Compensation means that when a player has terminated his
contractual obligations to a club, the new club that acquires him must
make compensation to the other team, and work that out between them.
And then if the two teams fail to reach an agreement, the case comes to
me and I determine what compensation is appropriate. In making the
losing club whole, I can assign draft choices, players, money, or any
combination thereof. It's extremely difficult -- weighing players against
players, and deciding how much money is valid compensation. There's no
sure way of doing it, unless you were Solomon or you had a crystal ball
as to how it would turn out."


Great lady of the movie screen


As recently as 10 years ago, most of the motion pictures filmed in this
country had a single run at the theatres, and then were seldom seen or
heard from again.

Television has changed that. Now, with longer broadcasting hours and the
abundance of new channels, vintage movies are enjoying a second life,
often with a bigger audience than the first time. Maybe that's why the
name Maureen O'Sullivan is practically a household word even today.
Between 1930 and 1965 she made dozens of films, ranging from Marx
Brothers comedy (_A Day At The Races_) to classics of English literature
(_David Copperfield_, _Pride and Prejudice_) to Tarzan films, in which
she played Jane.

But unlike so many of her contemporaries, Maureen is neither dead nor
retired. She maintains a busy schedule of acting, writing, traveling, and
enjoying her status as a mother of five and a grandmother of many.

Maureen shows me around her large, beautiful apartment facing Central
Park, right across the hallway from Basil Rathbone's last home. "I keep
this part for the children," she says, indicating a section of several rooms.
There are photos of her children everywhere, including a good number of
her actress daughters Mia and Tisa Farrow. Mia lives in England and Tisa
is in California, but they still get together frequently.

"I'm doing an autobiography now. It's about halfway done. My agent has
the manuscript. But I'm not writing any more until I see if there's any
interest in it. ... I started it two years ago, then put it away. I wasn't even
interested in it myself. Then a friend of mine, John Springer, had me to
lunch. He said, 'You ought to do an autobiography.' I said I had already
started one. ... So I went back and worked on it some more, and
condensed it into 10 pages. I had to do it myself -- every word, syllable,

She recently spent five weeks in upstate New York playing one of the
leads in _The Glass Menagerie_ by Tennessee Williams. The critics had
nothing but praise for her portrayal of the ambitious mother, and one
described Maureen's acting as "genius."

The stage is not the only place where Maureen employs her dramatic
talents. Shortly after completing the Williams play, she went to Albany,
New York to do a reading from _The Wayward Bus_ for the state
legislature. "They're trying to get a new bill through Congress to get
money for a program for more halfway houses for women alcoholics," she
explains. "I believe in that kind of thing."

One of the last plays she did in New York City was _No Sex Please --
We're British_. It was a hit in London, and the preview performances
were doing well enough in New York to call for an official Broadway
opening. "Then [drama critic] Clive Barnes came to the producer and
said, 'If you have an opening you'll have a disaster, because the critics
won't like it.' And he was right. As soon as the reviews came out, the
theatre emptied. In the previews, the audiences loved it. The critics made
a big thing out of opening night. In London, I don't think the public pays
that much attention to the critics. The average person there doesn't read
the reviews."

Perhaps it's the singing lessons she has never stopped taking that account
for her pure lyrical speaking voice, which is still as sweet as it was when
she made her first film, _Song of My Heart_, nearly 50 years ago.
Though Maureen's soft British accent gives no hint of it, she was brought
up in Dublin, Ireland. While working as a young actress in England she
was discovered by an American producer and brought to the U.S. to do
her first movie with famed tenor John McCormack. After that her career

Any comment on the Tarzan films for which she became famous? "I made
five. They have been remembered. I'm glad to be remembered for
something. Let's leave it at that."

These days, while Maureen is waiting to hear about her autobiography,
she is working on some short stories. Two have appeared in the _Ladies'
Home Journal_. "I have no special goals," she says. "One thing leads to
another. Supposing my theatrical career came to an end, I'd like to open
an antique shop in Vermont, and write, and paint -- I always have -- and
sew. If you can do one art, you can do them all. It's different ways of
saying the same thing.

"I'm a special type of grandmother. At the theatre, I like to take the
children backstage. And in New York, I take them in a horse and buggy
around the park, or for tea at the Plaza. In that way, I can bring color into
their lives."

Maureen has been a Westsider for the past 15 years. "I'm very fond of
Mal the Tailor, on 72nd near Columbus. And Mr. Walsh the florist.
O'Neal's Balloon. The Pioneer Market. They're all on 72nd Street. That's
my beat."

She walks toward the window. "I love this view. The park is different
every time of the year. Now it's all covered with snow. Pretty soon the
buds will be all over the trees." She smiles contentedly. "I really think
that if I had to leave the West Side I'd leave New York. Because to me,
this is New York."

_Hannah and Her Sisters_.


Star of _Same Time, Next Year_


"Oh, do you take shorthand?" said Betsy Palmer as we sat down in her
dressing room to chat between shows. "I could always read and write
shorthand. I worked for the B & O Railroad as a stenographer before I
went away to school and learned acting. I guess if I had to, I could brush
up and go back to it."

It's most unlikely that she'll ever have to. Even if her Tony Award
winning play, _Same Time, Next Year_, should happen to close, Betsy
would find herself swamped with offers for choice acting roles. But her
hit show about the lighter side of adultery won't be closing for a long time
yet. It is currently being made into a film starring Ellen Burstyn and Alan

"A lot of people think of me as a personality rather than an actress, and
when they come to see me they expect to see that personality," says
Palmer, who has one of the more recognizable names and faces on
Broadway. "Mostly people know me from panel shows. It's been a
double-edged sword for me. When they see me doing something that's
really dramatic, they say, 'My God, she can act!'"

She has made countless appearances on _What's My Line?_, _Girl Talk_
and _The Today Show_, but to most television viewers she is best
remembered as the bright, beautiful, All-American girl who for 11 years
was a panelist on _I've Got a Secret_.

During her years of TV stardom Betsy was doing plenty of serious acting
-- everything from Shakespeare to Peter Pan to Ibsen. She has made five
Hollywood films and performed the lead in numerous Broadway shows,
including _South Pacific_, _Cactus Flower_ and Tennessee Williams'
_Eccentricities of a Nightingale_. Few of her roles, however, have been
as demanding as Doris in _Same Time, Next Year_.

To begin with, she and her co-star, Monte Markham, are the only
characters in the play. Second, the play's action takes place over a period
of 25 years, in which Doris goes through momentous changes. In doing
this transformation smoothly, Betsy creates a character so believable and
lovable that the audience forgives her for cheating on her husband, which
she does one weekend a year in order to meet her lover George.

"Doing the play takes all my energy.I'm a single woman now, and have
been for three years. But if I were involved with somebody now, it would
take up a lot of my energies. So it doesn't bother me; when the time
comes for me to be involved, I will be. Right now, I'm really quite
satisfied to come here six days a week and have a fantasy life. It has all
the good things in it and none of the bad things. ... It gives you such a
rainbow of colors to express yourself within, that I find it terribly
rewarding and gratifying. I am never bored with the show."

George, like Doris, is married and has three children, and he too goes
through drastic changes of attitude during the time period from 1951 to
1976. But while George wins the audience's respect and sympathy, Doris
steals their hearts.

"I get out there and I feel such love. All of a sudden they begin to adore
her. They're watching her spread her wings and finally fly. ... The
adultery is done with such taste. You see two people who really love their
respective mates, and their children."

In her cozy backstage room at the Brooks Atkinson Theatre, which is
decorated with Christmas lights, Betsy demonstrates an overbubbling
friendliness and an extremely fluent style of speech. An interview with her
is both a pleasure and a challenge, for she talks about each subject with
an enthusiasm that makes it hard for anyone to interrupt and go on to the
next question.

Her memories of those panel shows? "You know, we used to do _Secret_
right in this theatre. We must have done it here five, six, seven years
easily. There are a lot of guys here now, on the backstage crew, who
were here with _Secret_. It's nice to be working with them again. ... But
I'm not interested in the past. The past is an illusion, as is the future."

Betsy has been an off-and-on Westside resident ever since she first came
to New York in 1951. When doing _Same Time, Next Year_ she is
subletting a friend's apartment on Riverside Drive. Her 16-year-old
daughter frequently comes down from Connecticut to spend time with her
on the West Side.

"I've lived on the East Side but my preference is the West Side. Let's face
it, Broadway's on the West Side. Where Broadway is is where my heart
is." Flowers by Edith (69th and B'way) is one of Betsy's best-loved
Westside establishments. "I've become very good friends with her. I've
gone to her house to parties."

In response to an obvious question, Betsy scolds gently: "Never ask an
actress what she's going to do next. Opera stars say, 'You know, I've got
this opera lined up, then this one, then this,' but an actress doesn't usually
know. ... I just hope that the next play I'm able to do will have a lot of
humanity in it, like this one. It's not enough to get a bunch of laughs.
You've got to be touched inside."


The man with the golden voice


In December 1979, in a benefit concert at the Alvin Theatre, about a
dozen Broadway stars of the past and present strode to the microphone to
sing some of the songs they made famous. John Raitt, Alan Jones, Jack
Gilford, Michael Moriarty, Delores Wilson and others received waves of
enthusiastic applause from the packed house. But when a short, stocky,
barrel-chested man with thick eyeglasses and a nose like Jimmy Durante's
shuffled to center stage, the audience didn't merely cheer: it erupted. And
when 75-year-old Jan Peerce finished his two arias, he was prevailed upon
to give the only encore of the evening. Appropriately enough, his choice
was "If I Were a Rich Man" from _Fiddler on the Roof_, the show in
which he made his Broadway debut at the age of 67.

Although Peerce has been one of America's most beloved singers for
almost half a century, it was not for sentimental reasons alone that he was
treated with such acclaim that evening. He still has one of the clearest,
strongest, sweetest tenor voices in the business, and his repertoire is
enormous. Besides arias and showtunes, he performs ballads, German
lieder, French contemporary songs, cantorial and oratory music
with equal facility. In order to keep his voice in top form, he now limits
his concerts to about 50 a year, but last summer, on a tour of Australia,
he did 17 concerts in 21 days.

"I vocalize every day of my life, I keep observing the laws of decent
living, and I face every booking as it was my first," he says in a recent
telephone interview, contacted at his Westside apartment. "I believe in the
adage that the show must go on, but you must not go out at the expense
of your health, or impair the quality of your voice by singing against

This fall will find him doing a one-man show at Carnegie Hall. In addition
to his regular schedule of cross-country concerts, he makes cruises of the
Caribbean several times each year aboard the SS Rotterdam.

His parents were Orthodox Jews who had immigrated from Russia, and
they were able to afford violin lessons for him by taking in lodgers at the
Lower East Side apartment where he grew up. Born under the name Jacob
Pincus Perelmuth, he began his career working primarily as a violinist and
bandleader in the Catskills. In 1929 he married his childhood sweetheart,
Alice Kalmanowitz, and three years later was discovered by the great
showman Samuel "Roxy" Rothafel, who hired him as a featured singer at
the new Radio City Music Hall.

"People on Broadway said I belonged in opera," recalls Peerce, "and
opera people said I belonged on Broadway. But when Roxy gave me my
break, things began to happen. And then came Toscanini. He hired me to
sing with his NBC Symphony of the Air. And when he accepted me, that
sort of clinched things. People said, "If he's good enough for Toscanini,
this guy must be good.'"

For 15 years, Arturo Toscanini preferred Peerce to all other tenors in the
world. Meanwhile, in 1941, Peerce had joined the Metropolitan Opera.
There he sang the major tenor roles up until 1968, when, after losing the
sight in one eye, he retired from the Met and began to concentrate on
recitals. In 1976 he published his memoirs, _The Bluebird of Happiness_,
named after his recording that has sold 1.5 million copies. Peerce has
made dozens of other recordings, including many complete operas.

A deeply religious man, long noted for his humanitarian efforts, Peerce
is particularly supportive of Bonds for Israel. "My wife Alice is the only
woman on the board of governors. She's the chairperson," he says
proudly. "It's to help Israel build and keep building, and develop to the
point where she belongs. She's growing beautifully, and she will grow
even more."

The Peerces, who have two daughters and a son, maintain a house in New
Rochelle as well as the Westside apartment that they have had for the past
15 years. Although Jan Peerce stopped playing the violin long ago, he is
still a dues-paying member of the local violinists' union. "One day I asked
them if they could give me an honorary membership," he chuckles,
revealing his famous offbeat humor. "They said they were very sorry,
they couldn't do it. I said why not, and they said, 'All our honorary
members are dead.'"

Another time, when he was the guest of honor at a dinner party, the
hostess, seated next to him, chatted with such energy that Peerce had
trouble getting in a single word. He got his chance when the waiter
brought around a tray of assorted salad dressings. The gabby woman
asked, "Mr. Peerce, how do you usually eat your salad?"

"In complete silence, madame," he replied.

Of the dozens of conductors he has worked with, Peerce is quick to name
Toscanini his favorite. "First of all, he was a great man, and second of
all, he was a genius musically. He had no tricks, except that he had a
certain vision about the music. He made everybody sing or play as the
composer meant it to be. And that was the secret of his success. He was
an inspiration to anybody who worked with him or under him."


Author, editor and adventurer


It was an unusual statement to come from a man who has made a career
out of fearing nothing. "I'm scared to death every time I sit down at a
typewriter," confessed George Plimpton, who, in his 20 years as
America's foremost "participatory journalist," has played football with the
Detroit Lions, fought the light heavyweight champion of the world,
pitched to major league baseball players, raced cars internationally, and
performed with the New York Philharmonic as a percussionist.

"Sometimes you can do it, and sometimes it's not there," continued
Plimpton, leaning back in the desk chair at his Eastside apartment. "It's
very hard to work alone. There's the television set, and all these books,
and your son and daughter in the next room. Sometimes I have to get
away. So I go to bars and I sit in a corner and write. You're trapped in
there. There's nothing else to do but write."

As we sat talking, the telephone rang frequently, and Plimpton,
apologizing for the interruption, spoke to the callers with widely varying
degrees of enthusiasm, but was consistently polite, urbane and witty. I
noticed a hint of an English accent in his voice -- the result of his early
education at St. Bernard's School on the Upper East Side, followed much
later by four years of study in England. It is easy to imagine him stepping
into a boxing ring like an English gentleman, calmly lacing on his gloves
for a friendly bout.

Which is precisely what he did in 1959 when, for the purpose of one of
his countless stories for _Sports Illustrated_, he took on Archie Moore,
then king of the light heavyweight division, for a three-round exhibition
match in New York. Since that time, Plimpton has never lost his interest
in boxing. A close friend of Muhammad Ali's who has followed the
champion around the world, he made Ali the chief character of his book
_Shadow Box_, which came out in paperback this month from Berkley.
As with most of Plimpton's works, the story is told with an abundance of

Currently at work on three new books, Plimpton emphasized that he
writes on many subjects outside of sports. A lifelong friend of the
Kennedy family, he has co-authored an oral history volume titled
_American Journey: The Times of Robert F. Kennedy_. He is an
associate editor of _Harper's_ magazine and a regular contributor to the
_International Food & Wine Review_. His first love, in fact, seems to be
not sports at all, but the _Paris Review_, a magazine for up-and-coming
serious writers that he has edited since its creation in 1953. One of the
most important literary magazines in the English-speaking world, the
_Paris Review_ is published four times a year as a 175-page journal
devoted almost exclusively to fiction and poetry.

His hair is mostly silver now, and there are creases starting to appear on
his ruggedly handsome face, but Plimpton, at 52, is still the same larger
than-life, charismatic figure he has been since he came to national
attention in 1961 with the publication of _Out of My League_, a book
about his foray into major league baseball. _Paper Lion_ (1966), which
told of his brief career as a quarterback with the Detroit Lions, cemented
his reputation as the nation's most realistic sportswriter. His other books
include _The Bogey Man_, _One More July_, and _Mad Ducks and
Bears_. As a lecturer, he is in demand all over the country. He and his
wife Freddy have been married for 11 years.

Born in New York City, he grew up around 98th Street and 5th Avenue,
attended Harvard University (where he edited the _Harvard Lampoon_),
and spent three years in the Army before heading for England to study at
King's College, Cambridge. During an Easter vacation there, he joined
some friends in Paris to discuss the launching of the literary magazine he
has guided ever since.

In 1979, said Plimpton with a grin, "I'm supposed to manage the New
York Yankees for a day, and go through the whole procedure of being
fired by George Steinbrenner. I hope it's followed by a beer commercial
with Billy Martin."

Asked about his attachment to the East Side, Plimpton stressed his
fondness for the city as a whole. "In the last couple of years, there's been
an enormous rebirth of excitement about living in the city. ... I think
Mayor [Ed] Koch has a lot to do with pulling it up. He seems to fit
everywhere. If I saw him twirling up a pancake dough in a pizza shop on
Broadway, or driving a 5th Avenue bus, or carrying a briefcase into 20
Exchange Place, I wouldn't be surprised. He's a quintessential New

When my visit with Plimpton was about to end, I couldn't resist testing
him with my favorite sports question: "Who was the only man to play for
the Boston Red Sox, the Boston Patriots and the Boston Bruins?" He
couldn't guess. The answer, I told him, was a guy named John Kiley, who
played the national anthem on the organ.

But Plimpton got the last word in.

"Who was the only man to play for the Boston Bruins and the Boston
Celtics?" he asked. I said I didn't know. He smiled and replied: "George


Rebel filmmaker returns with _The Human Factor_


On the cover of his 1977 autobiography _Preminger_, he is described as
"Hollywood's most tempestuous director" and "the screen's stormiest
rebel." But today, at 73, the years appear to have caught up with Otto
Preminger, the Austrian-born director and actor who came to the U.S. in
1935 and met success after success, both in movies and on Broadway.

He became the first producer/director to make major motion pictures
independently of the giant studios, and with such films as _Forever
Amber_, _The Moon is Blue_ and _The Man with the Golden Arm_, won
precedent-settling battles with censorship boards that established new
artistic freedom for filmmakers.

Between 1959 and 1963 he produced and directed, in succession, _Porgy
and Bess_, _Anatomy of a Murder_, _Exodus_, _Advice and Consent_,
and _The Cardinal_. After that his career took a dip, and since 1971 he
has released but a single movie, _Rosebud_ (1975), which marked the
screenwriting debut of his son _Erik Lee Preminger_ and the acting debut
of a New Yorker named John Lindsay, the city's former mayor.

In February, Preminger's 33rd film, _The Human Factor_, is scheduled
to open in New York and across the country. Based on a best-selling
novel by Graham Greene, _The Human Factor_ is the suspenseful story
of a black South African woman (played by fashion model Iman) who
marries a white secret agent (Nicol Williamson). Filmed mainly in the
English countryside, the movie deals with the agent's allegiance to the
man who helps his wife to escape from South Africa. Persuaded to
become a double agent, he ends up in Moscow, separated from the one
person he loves. The novel's title underlines the fact that bureaucracy can
never be all-powerful: there is always the human factor.

Preminger, seated at his huge palette-shaped desk of white marble in the
lavishly furnished projection room on the uppermost floor of his Eastside
town house, admits that he sank over $2 million of his own money into
the picture when his signed backers failed to come through. "Everybody
in Europe lies about money," says Preminger in his deep, German
accented voice. "I originally wanted to sue them, but suing doesn't make
sense unless you are sure they have money. So I inquired from my Swiss
lawyer, and they didn't have money in Switzerland. You see, in
Switzerland, the advantage of the Swiss law is that is you sue somebody,
all his assets are frozen immediately. ... Luckily enough, I had two houses
that I wanted to sell in the south of France. ... At least I own the whole
film. The question is now only: Will the picture be a big success as I
hope, or not? That is always the main thing."

The nattily dressed Preminger, a tall, large man whose distinguished
features and totally bald head give the opposite impression of his slow
movement and somewhat frail appearance, revealed that the film's African
scenes had to be shot in Kenya rather than South Africa "because they
said they must see what I am shooting, and if they don't like it, they will
confiscate it. They said, 'People in bed you can't shoot.' Then I went to
Kenya, where there is a black government, and they didn't even ask for
the script. They said I could have anything I want."

Asked whether any memorable events took place during the filming,
Preminger snaps, "Even if there were, I don't remember. After I have
made a picture and I have seen it maybe two, three times with an
audience, I deliberately detach myself, because I don't want it to influence
my next picture. As a matter of fact, a few months ago, my wife was
dressing to go out, and I turned on the television and saw one of my old
pictures. I recognized it, but we had to leave before it was finished. I still
don't know how it ends."

As for Preminger's love life, he writes in his autobiography: "I have a
reputation with women which is not entirely deserved, though it is true
that I had my share of them, some of them stars."

In 1944 he had a three-week love affair with Gypsy Rose Lee that resulted
in the birth of his son Erik Lee Preminger. The boy didn't find out the
identity of his real father until the age of 18. They were reunited four
years later, and liked each other immediately. Preminger legally adopted
Erik, who is currently in Los Angeles writing a biography of his late

Preminger and his third wife, a former costume designer named Hope
Bryce, to whom he has been married since 1959, are the parents of 19
year-old twins, Victoria and Mark. An Upper Eastsider for two decades,
Preminger includes among his favorite restaurants Caravelle, Le Cirque
and 21, where agent Irving "Swifty" Lazar once broke a glass over his
head that took 51 stitches to close.

An unabashed admirer of luxury, Preminger remains unruffled when
questioned about how his fancy Eastside pad is in line with the philosophy
stated in his autobiography that "my real reward is my work itself.
Success matters only because without it, one cannot continue to work."

"I could live without it," he says with a shrug. "I like to give my family
luxuries, but I could easily live in one furnished room and be also happy."


Congressman of the 19th District


The dividing line of New York's 19th Congressional District twists and
loops through upper Manhattan like a traveler who has lost his way. From
the corner of 62nd Street and Central Park West, the boundary turns
sharply at Amsterdam Avenue and extends northward to 164th Street, then
follows the East River shoreline south to Roosevelt Island, taking in all of
Harlem and a large chunk of the East Side.

This is the area that U.S. Congressman Charles Rangel has represented
ever since he was sent to Washington in 1971, after defeating the colorful
and controversial Adam Clayton Powell Jr. in the Democratic primary.
Today, as firmly in control of the seat as Powell was during his height of
popularity, Congressman Rangel stands virtually unopposed in his quest
for a fifth term.

"I have received the Democratic endorsement, the Republican
endorsement, and the Liberal endorsement," says Rangel one Friday
afternoon at the towering State Office Building on 125th Street. "I am
assuming that the Socialist Workers Party and the Communist Party will
be filing. They normally do. In the last election I got 96.4 percent of the

Whereas the late Powell had wide appeal only among the city's blacks,
Rangel gained the support of many Harlem residents plus a large majority
of liberal whites on the upper West Side. It was they who provided him
with a 150-vote margin of victory over Powell in 1970. In the present
95th Congress, Rangel has had the most liberal voting record of any
congressman from New York state. And while he has continued to give
a great deal of attention to Harlem's problems of health care,
unemployment and drugs, Rangel has recently had more demands placed
on his time as a member of the powerful House Ways and Means
Committee. The first black ever to serve on the committee, he is currently
11th in seniority and will be seventh in the next Congress.

In his New York office, where he generally spends two days per week,
Rangel appears surprisingly fresh and relaxed at the end of a working day.
As we settle into the interview, the elegantly dressed congressman with
the graying moustache and the rasping voice proves himself very much the
politician. He uses each question as a springboard to launch into his
favorite topics -- for example, his access to President Carter.

Because of his various committee assignments and his strong support of
most of Carter's policies, says Rangel, "I am forced to meet with the
president more than probably many other members of Congress. I often
stop by the White House on my way to the office." Rangel also likes to
talk about Chip Carter, the president's son, who is involved in a project
called City in Schools, designed to upgrade the neighborhoods outside
certain schools. Chip has taken a special interest in Harlem, and one
school in particular near Morningside Park. "I am confident that with
Chip Carter's help, and with my help, Morningside Park will soon show
some improvements. I hope that Columbia University will assist us too."

When asked about the unusual shape of the 19th Congressional District,
Rangel says, "The reason for it is that as we find populations expanding,
we don't find the size or the numbers of the members of Congress
expanding. We used to have half a dozen members of Congress
representing different parts of Manhattan. Now we're down to three --
me, Green, and Weiss. If you break it down, you can see that Adam
Clayton Powell's district used to be just Harlem."

As a member of the House Select Committee on Narcotics and Drugs,
says Rangel, "I have gone to Moscow, to try to encourage them to do
more in the area of controlling opium. I have been to Thailand for the
same reason. ... That's one area in which I have great disappointment in
this administration. I find efforts of Nixon's to be greater than Carter's.
The Office of Drug Abuse was disbanded by Carter."

Another field in which he finds Carter at fault is health care. "I support
Kennedy's proposal," said the congressman. "There's no question that, for
anti-inflation reasons, the president has put his national health program on
the back burner. But to think that any program could be directly controlled
by economic needs rather than by the medical needs of the people is
something I cannot accept."

The ultraliberal Rangel, one of the most vociferous supporters of U.S.
Ambassador Andrew Young, still lives in the same building where he was
born 48 years ago, whenever he's not in Washington. He dropped out of
high school to enlist in the Army and spent four years compiling a
distinguished service record, including a presidential citation and three
battle stars. Once he returned to New York, Rangel completed high
school, went to college, and entered law school on a full scholarship. He
was admitted to the bar in 1960; in 1966 he was elected to the first of two
terms in the New York State Assembly.

Married and with two children, Congressman Rangel believes that his
future lies primarily in the Ways and Means Committee, which handles
such giant concerns as taxes, trade, health insurance, social security and
welfare. In order to maintain his popularity throughout the 19th
Congressional District, he must continue to support those programs that
benefit his constituents in both Harlem and the Upper West Side. How can
this be done? "If we're going to use the tax system to make incentives for
the business community to help the economy," he replies, "we need to
bring the disadvantaged into the mainstream."


Golden boy of American composers


Sing, sing a song
Sing out loud, sing out strong
Sing of good things, not bad
Sing of happy, not sad
Sing, sing a song
Make it simple
To last your whole life long
Don't worry that it's not good enough
For anyone else to hear
Just sing, sing a song.

Joe Raposo wrote those words, along with their music, on a January
morning in New York City, about 10 years ago. "It was," he recalls, "as
succinctly and as economically and precisely as I could embody a
philosophy of life in a song. 'Sing' is my philosophy of life, period. ...
I remember leaving the studio and walking up Sixth Avenue saying, 'If
that isn't a hit song, I know absolutely nothing about it.'"

The boyish, roly-poly, 40-year-old songwriter, whose incredibly crowded
career has included the writing of five movie scores and more than 350
songs recorded by the likes of Frank Sinatra, Barbra Streisand, Tony
Bennett and Tom Jones, was right about "Sing." When Karen Carpenter's
single went platinum in 1974, that was only the beginning.

"It's one of the most recorded songs in the world," says Joe. "I think
there are something like 180 versions of it, in just about every major
language. ... Lawrence Welk recently did this hit parade of songs of the
decade, and the number one song of the decade was 'Sing.'"

We're riding in a limousine along Fifth Avenue. Joe has requested to be
interviewed while he attends to some gift shopping. Because of a
temporary leg injury, he has hired a limousine for the afternoon. As we
go from store to store, Joe greets the merchants by name, then answers
questions into a tape recorder while waiting for his merchandise.

Long noted for his musical versatility, Raposo grew up in Fall River,
Massachusetts, the only child of a classical musician father and a piano
playing mother. "I learned counterpoint at the age of 6 or so by wandering
around the concert hall as my father rehearsed Mozart." His parents
taught him piano, violin and bass viol. At Harvard University he began
to write and direct his own musicals. Soon after moving to New York
City in 1966, he had all the work he could handle as musical director,
composer and lyricist for both television and the stage. He is the recipient
of three Emmy Awards and an Oscar nomination. As a record producer,
he has won four Grammy Awards.

"It's Not Easy Bein' Green," one of many songs he wrote for the _Sesame
Street_ TV show, has become the international anthem for the Girl Scouts
of America. Another Raposo hit, "You Will Be My Music," brought
Sinatra out of retirement several years ago. His _Sesame Street Fever_
disco album has sold more than a million copies.

An album of all-Raposo music recorded by the Boston Pops in 1976 led
to a commission from the Boston Symphony Orchestra for an orchestral
and choral work. The result is a 12-to-14-minute oratorio titled _From the
Diary of Johann Sutter_, about the man whose quiet farm became the
epicenter of the California Gold Rush.

"It's the darndest story ever. Because it tells how a man who's a
tremendous idealist came to this country from Switzerland to found a new
utopian agrarian state, with cattle and fields of grain, and vineyards. ...
When the Gold Rush started, Sutter's whole society was ruined. And it is
an incredible parallel for our time, in that our pursuit of material goods
tends to make us forget all the natural, beautiful things that surround us.

"Sheldon Harnick has done a wonderfully literate libretto. It premieres
this spring in Boston. Sheldon and I have been talking about the possibility
of expansion, but we have a musical to write first based on _It's A
Wonderful Life_, the Frank Capra movie."

At the same time, Raposo is collaborating with Hal David on another
musical and writing songs for a sequel to _The Muppet Movie_. But with
all his success, Joe admits to having "a trunk of songs that are
unrecorded, and many of them I feel are right up on a par with anything
I've ever done. But they sit there and nobody grabs them. You have to
wait. ... A lot of people think, 'Oh, if I only had the talent to write a hit
song.' But writing a great song isn't enough: you have to get the right
recording at the right time."

Apart from being a creative artist and a practical businessman, Joe has an
active family life. Married for the past four years to beautiful Pat Collins
of ABC-TV's _Good Morning America_, he has custody of two sons from
a previous marriage. The eldest, 16-year-old Joseph, is already making
waves as a bass player, both electric and orchestral. Joe and Pat also have
a 3-year-old daughter of their own.

An admirer of President Carter since 1975, Joe wrote the music for
Carter's campaign song the following year, and has done so again for

In his infrequent spare time Joe loves "tinkering -- banging nails into
things, and building stuff. I'm a pretty handy carpenter, a fair electrician."
With a mischievous smile he adds: "As a matter of fact, sometimes I think
I should go into that full-time, because the music business is chancy."


Not just another kid


"Mason, I've got two very very important pieces of advice to give you,"
Milton Berle told the youngster when they first met. "Don't believe in
Hollywood party promises; and practice, practice and rehearse."

Uncle Miltie's words have been a useful lesson for Mason Reese, the boy
wonder of television. In 1973, at the age of 7, Mason skyrocketed to fame
by winning a Clio Award for best male in a TV commercial. In the same
year he co-hosted the _Mike Douglas Show_ for a week and became a
children's reporter for WNBC-TV. His picture appeared in _Time_,
_Newsweek_, and on the cover of _TV Guide_. Mason's unique face and
voice became known to millions.

Since that time, however, there have been a few disappointments mixed
in with the triumphs. At 11, Mason is wiser and more philosophical about
show business. Along with his parents, he has learned not to place faith
in verbal agreements, as Berle cautioned.

The Reeses welcome me into their West End Avenue home. As I take a
seat beside the "borgasmord kid" and look around me at the Chagall
prints, Bill and Sonia, Mason's parents, pull up armchairs to listen in and
help out.

But during the interview, Mason needs no more help with his answers
than he did with his first audition at age 5, when he beat out 600 other
children to become the spokesman for Ivory Snow. After that he endorsed
such products as Ralston Purina, Thick and Frosty, and Underwood Meat
Spread, winning a total of seven Clios to date. He's been co-host with
Mike Douglas for three weeks and has appeared as a television guest with
countless other celebrities.

One of my first questions is about children's rights. "I think children have
enough rights as it is," he says. "They're with their families, they go to
school, they have the pleasure of learning. ... and they realize that when
they grow up they'll be able to have more and more fun, as long as they
don't go on a mad rampage when they're kids."

Which type of people are most likely to grab him or pick him up? "It's
always the middle-aged Italian ladies and the Jewish grandmothers," he
says authoritatively. "Some people don't want to treat a kid like a human
being. They want them like a puppy dog; instead of petting, it's

When it comes time to talk about Mason's not-so-successful ventures, Bill
-- a producer of audiovisual shows and an expert in 3-D design work --
takes over. He tells about the Broadway show that was written and ready
to go, with Mason as one of the leads, that folded up and disappeared
without warning or explanation. He tells about the ABC pilot titled
_Mason_, which cost $250,000 to make and was never televised; about
the movie offers that were never followed through; about the _Howard
Cosell Show_ -- with Mason as co-host -- that was canceled shortly after
it began.

In spite of these setbacks, Mason recently did some Munchkins
commercials for Dunkin' Donuts and will go to California this summer to
do some ads for Birdseye frozen french fries.

While the Reeses remain optimistic about the future, they try not to build
up their hopes on a new project unless it is something solid. For show
business is, after all, a business.

Mason has lived on the West Side for all of his 11 years. "I don't seem
to understand why everyone thinks the East Side is classier," he says. "I
think they're friendlier people on the West Side, because people on the
East Side get snobby. Most of my friends are on the West Side."

His favorite eating places? "I love the Greek restaurants -- the Four
Brothers (87th & Broadway) and the Argo (72nd & Columbus). Greeks
are okay, aren't they mom? I like restaurants that are a little bit dumpy,
without much decor."

When I run out of questions, I ask Mason if there are any other comments
he wants to make. "I think you've asked what everyone else has asked,"
he replies honestly. And then with a smile: "Except that I've given you
different answers.

"Wait, there's one thing," he goes on. "I'd like my allowance raised to
five dollars." Then, leaning back on the, sofa looking as content as a man
celebrating his 100th birthday, he adds: "I've really had no gripes in life.
Except that I'd like people to stop calling me a midget, and to stop
pinching me."

Some people who have never met Mason Reese in person unfairly assume
that he is a spoiled brat with pushy, exploitive parents. In fact, Bill and
Sonia are warm, creative people who are fully aware of the great
responsibility they have in bringing up their extraordinary son. Mason is
not only brilliant, but a gentleman. He should be making movies, and with
a bit of luck, he will be, soon. Having met him, I can only repeat -- not
improve on -- the words of Tony Randall: "I tell you this with neither
hesitation nor embarrassment. ... I'm a fan of his for life."


America's best-loved ping-pong player


Marty Reisman was ready for _The Tonight Show_. But was _The
Tonight Show_ ready for Marty Reisman?

In a recent TV appearance, his name was announced and he started across
the stage toward the desk of guest host John Davidson. Then suddenly he
seemed to get lost in the floodlights. For a few seconds the television
audience didn't know what was happening. An anonymous cameraman
raced out of the wings to guide Marty to his destination.

"My gosh, that's never happened before," laughed Davidson. But Marty's
humorous stumbling may well have been part of his act because, as
America's best-loved table tennis player, he very often does things that
haven't been done before. On _The Tonight Show_ he returned shots with
his foot and behind his back, broke a cigarette with his slam shot (that has
been clocked at 105 miles per hour), and soon had Davidson sprawled
across the table trying to reach shots that came back of their own.

At 48, Reisman (rhymes with "policeman") is still the nation's highest
paid Ping-Pong player in exhibitions. The stunts that he has developed
over the past 30 years make his games pure entertainment. But Marty is
more than a player; he is a personality, a man with a thousand stories to
tell, and an instant friend to the people who visit his table tennis center on
96th Street just west of Broadway.

"I feel I'm moving with the times," he remarks, late one evening at the
center. "When from an athletic professional point of view some people
would think about retirement, my career is on the point of fresh
blossoming." He is referring to the fact that his autobiography, _The
Money Player_, published in 1974, is now being converted into a movie
script. And other things are happening. Several months ago his table
tennis parlor was the scene of a unique recording session -- a piece of
music titled _Tournament Overture for Flute, Cello, Synthesizer, and Two
Ping-Pong Players_, composed especially for Reisman. The event was
followed by a regular tournament. And this fall Marty has a long-range
exhibition tour lined up.

"I started playing on the Lower East Side, about 1942," he says. "A year
later, at the age of 13, I was the New York City Junior Champion. ... At
17, I represented the United States in the World Championship which was
held in London, at Wembley Stadium. There were 10,000 people
watching. I lost in the quarterfinals. ... The next year I made it to the
semifinals and received a rating of number three in the world."

That year, 1949, was probably the peak of Marty's career from a purely
athletic standpoint, although he was good enough to win the U.S.
Championship in 1958 and 1960. What distinguishes him from other
players, however, is the variety and richness of his experiences in the
world of Ping-Pong. For three years he toured with the Harlem
Globetrotters as their star attraction at halftime. He spent several years in
the Far East as well, and was in Hanoi when the French were defeated at
Dien Bien Phu. Altogether he has played in 65 countries, and has picked
up such titles as South American Champion, Canadian Champion, and
British Champion.

He once taught the game to a chimpanzee; the chimp managed to return
the ball up to four times in a row. "But the most astounding thing about
him," recalls Marty, "was his short span of attention. When the ball was
about an inch from his racket, he'd turn his head away and get smacked
in the face."

As the title of his autobiography indicates, Marty has also been known to
place a wager on occasion. "I've hustled when I've had to," he confesses.
"But it hasn't been my way of life. I don't misrepresent myself. I play
against the best players in the world, all over the world. Wherever I am,
I create the drama, the action, the excitement, because of the large sums
of money I bet." In one of his biggest hustles he flew to Omaha,
Nebraska, under the guise of a baby crib salesman, to help a man who had
been hustled himself. Reisman played for $1,000 a game and emerged
from the contest 14 games ahead.

West 96th Street has long been a hotbed of table tennis activity. A Ping
Pong parlor opened there in 1934, and Marty took it over in 1958. Today,
many of the world's great players stop by for a game when they visit New
York. Dustin Hoffman, Walter Matthau, Bobby Fischer and Art Carney
have played there also. Marty's regular customers range from 8-year-old
boys to a man of 83 who plays twice a week. The center opens in the
afternoon and doesn't close until 3:30 in the morning, seven days a week.
"I live on the West Side and so do most of my friends," says Marty.

A man has been standing nearby during the interview; Marty introduces
him as Bill, his former manager.

"Manager?" snorts the man with a gruff smile. "He can't be managed.
Human beings can be managed, but Reisman is something different. If he
says 'I'll be there at 3 o'clock' he might show up at 4 -- the next day.
But," he concedes, "if Marty didn't have those idiosyncracies, he wouldn't
have those rare talents."


World's most-recorded violinist


It was Sunday, October 20, 1929. Four days later, on Black Thursday,
Wall Street would be rocked by the biggest losses in its history and the
nation would be plunged into its greatest crisis since the Civil War. But
October 20 still belonged to the Roaring Twenties, and on that date the
most highly publicized event to take place in Manhattan was a violin
concert by a 9-year-old wunderkind named Ruggiero Ricci, who delivered
a flawless performance of the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto and was
lauded as a genius by the city's leading music critics. That concert made
Ricci's career; in the 10 years that followed, the boy virtuoso earned an
annual salary higher than that of the president of the United States.

The story might have ended there, but unlike most prodigies, who burn
themselves out early, Ruggiero Ricci has continued to grow in stature as
an artist. Since the 1940s he has been considered one of the greatest living
violinists, and, with more than 500 recordings to his credit, he is the
most-recorded soloist, instrumental or vocal, in the world today.
Especially in demand abroad, he has made five trips to Australia and three
to the Soviet Union, where he was obliged to play nine encores at his
debut appearance. Twenty of his concerts in West Germany were sold out
a year in advance, and more than a dozen of his South American tours
have been sellouts as well.

"I travel most of the year, except maybe a month off in the summer," says
Ricci, a short, good-humored man of 60 with large, sparkling eyes, jet
black brows, and a soft, slightly accented voice that sounds as if he were
born in Europe. He sits curled up in a corner of the couch in his
magnificent Westside apartment. "I dislike to travel. In the old days, there
were a lot of airplane breakdowns, and we were always hung up in
airports waiting for them to fix the plane. Today they have all these
hijacking searches. You have to go through the machines; they have these
enormous lines. And when you get to the hotel, there's a line a mile

He believes that Russian audiences are "the best public in the world. They
don't applaud between the movements, like they do in New York. ... It's
always interesting to visit a place for the first time. I don't want to go to
Russia so much anymore. We found out it's boring. There's nothing to
do. And it's not much fun. There's no tipping, so the hotel service is very
bad. It takes an hour to get breakfast; you can sit there and be completely
ignored by the waiter. To make a telephone call: it's easier to go to the

Ricci's repertoire, which includes more than 60 concertos from the 17th
to the 20th centuries, is the largest of any violinist's now before the
public. This calls for a lot of practice. "When you're a kid," says Ricci,
"you hate to practice. And when you're a grownup, practice is a pleasure.
It lets you escape all the other junk. ... I don't have any trouble practicing
in this building, because the old buildings have heavy walls. But if you
want to practice in a hotel, that's hard. Sometimes you can use a mute. Or
you turn on the television. Then they don't complain. If they hear a
fiddle, they complain."

Ricci has two major concerts in New York this year. The first will take
place at Carnegie Hall on Saturday, March 3, when Ricci will join such
celebrities as Andres Segovia, Yehudi Menuhin, Jose Ferrer, Jean-Pierre
Rampal, and Peter Ustinov for a historic musical program to
commemorate the 15th anniversary of Symphonicum Europae, a
foundation whose aim is to promote international understanding and
cooperation by sponsoring performances in every country.

Ricci's other New York concert will mark another anniversary. It will be
on October 20th -- 50 years to the day since he took the city by storm.
"The early concerts I remember very well," says the maestro, who was
born in San Francisco to a family of Italian immigrants. "For most
prodigies, the problem is the parents. My father just wasn't every smart
about how to handle me. Nowadays they don't have prodigies anymore
because there isn't any profit in it. In the old days, a kid could get $2,500
to $3000 dollars a night. Everybody had their kid study."

None of his five children has turned out to be a prodigy, but three of them
are already professionals in the performing arts. Ricci's slender, attractive
wife, Julia, is an active participant in his career. Westsiders for many
years, the Riccis enjoy such local restaurants as La Tablita, Alfredo's and
the Cafe des Artistes.

Asked what he likes best about his career, Ricci says it is making
recordings. "It's more leisurely. You don't have all the headaches. ... The
newest development is direct-to-disc records. The music goes straight
from the mike into the cutting head master, and there's no way to erase.
If it's a 20-minute recording and you make a mistake on the 19th minute,
you have to start over. I just finished recording the _Paganini Caprices_
on direct-to-disc. It's coming out this month. The caprices are very rarely
performed in public, because they're so difficult."


Monarch of the drums


"Mediocrity has no place in my life," says fast-talking, hard-driving
Buddy Rich, wrapped in a bathrobe at his luxurious Westside apartment.
"Anybody who is expert at what they do, I admire, whether it's
drumming, tennis, or whatever. If they do it at the top of their form,
constantly, I become a fan."

Dragging deeply on his cigarette, the man whom critics and fellow jazz
artists have frequently called the greatest drummer in the world -- perhaps
of all time -- dismisses such labels with something approaching

"I don't think anybody is the best of anything in the world. Babe Ruth's
record was broken, Joe Louis was knocked out. ... I'd rather not be the
world's greatest anything. I'd rather be what I am, which is a good

It is an unexpected statement to come from a bandleader and drummer
known more for arrogance than modesty, but in an hour-long interview,
Buddy's complex personality unfolds itself in all its richness, and he
proves to be far more than a flamboyant, free-thinking musician who pulls
no punches.

In Buddy's hands, a snare drum comes to life: it whispers, shouts, purrs,
snarls, chuckles, gasps or roars, as the mood of the music strikes him. He
began playing in 1921 at the age of 4, when his parents -- vaudeville
actors from Brooklyn -- included him in their act and then made him the
star. By the age of 7 he had toured the world as "Traps, the Drum
Wonder." At 15, he was second only to Jackie Coogan as the highest-paid
child performer in America. He began recording in 1937, joined bands
headed by Artie Shaw and Tommy Dorsey, and finally formed his own
band in 1946. Over the next 20 years, as both a drummer/bandleader and
as the highest-paid sideman in the business, he made hundreds of
recordings with some of the biggest names in the history of jazz -- Charlie
Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Oscar Peterson, Lionel Hampton, Count Basie,
Harry James, Thelonius Monk.

Then in 1966 he formed his current band, the 15-man Buddy Rich
Orchestra. In December he brought the band to the chic, newly remodeled
Grand Finale on West 70th Street. Seated at his drums in the center of the
orchestra, he effortlessly mixes snare, tom-tom, bass drum and cymbals
in a whirling, benumbing mass of sound.

Back in his huge living room, which is decorated much like a summer
house in Newport, Rhode Island, Buddy says that his nightclub gigs are
rare. "We do about nine months on the road, which includes Europe and
the Orient. All the cities of this country. Most of the tours I'm on are 90
percent concert halls and schools. ... The main reason is educational. It's
good for the young people to discover all of a sudden that music isn't just
a guitar and a drum and a bad out-of-tune singer. ... I think as young
people become more sophisticated in their tastes, they begin to realize that
jazz is just as high an art form as classical music."

One of his chief gripes about jazz in America, he explains in a voice as
rough as sandpaper, is that "during the season you might see 15 or 20
award shows on television dedicated to country and western slop, but
you'll never see a jazz presentation in its true form. When there's an
extended piece of music, they usually cloud it up with dancing girls and
trick lighting and anything that distracts from the music, instead of
presenting the music as the attraction, the way they do in Europe."

Another sore spot is the 55-mile-per-hour speed limit. "I'm heavily into
sports cars; I used to race long ago. I find that the restrictions placed on
us today are insane, contradictory, and hypocritical. ... I don't know
anyone on the highway who actually does 55 miles an hour, and it's just
another way of making money for the state or the local community, and
I think it's no better than a *ing stickup!"

He doesn't keep any drums in the apartment, and never practices. "I want
my days to be as a man, and I want my nights to be as a working man.
In the day, I exercise, I do karate -- I have a black belt -- and totally
disengage myself from the person I am at night." His apartment is shared
by Buddy's wife Marie and their 25-year-old daughter Cathy, a singer.

"My wife is just as beautiful today as she was the day I married her,"
Buddy says proudly. "She used to be in pictures, but she gave it up when
we married. Now she's a wife and a female and a woman, and she's not
into ERA and she's not into 'I got my thing man and you got your thing.'
She's a woman, and wears dresses so that I know she's a woman. That's
what I like."

He often performs free at prisons and hospitals, but refuses to give details.
"I do these things for the good that it does for me," he asserts. "To have
someone write about it takes the goodness away from it. I'd rather not
have anybody know what I do as long as I know."

Buddy suffered a heart attack in 1959 and has had others since, but apart
from giving up liquor, he has made few adjustments in his whirlwind
lifestyle. "I really don't think of past illnesses," he declares. "I think I'm
healthier and stronger today than I've ever been in my life. I smoke more
now, and I run around more, and I do more exercise. I don't put too
much reality into warnings about 'don't do this and don't do that.' Do
what you have to do, and do it. If you cut out -- it was time."


Broadcaster, author and humanitarian


>From hundreds of local television stations across the nation, many
personalities have risen up through the ranks to become national figures
on network, but few have risen to far or so fast as Geraldo Rivera.

In 1969, the year he graduated from Brooklyn Law School, Rivera
decided to become a poor people's lawyer, and over the next 12 months
he took part in 50 trials, most of them in criminal courts. Then his career
took an abrupt turn: in June 1970 he was offered a job at WABC-TV's
_Eyewitness News_, and Rivera quickly accepted. His aggressive, probing
style, matchless reportorial skills, and charismatic presence gained him the
Associated Press' first-place citation as top newsman of 1971 -- an award
he received three more times in the next four years.

In 1975 he became the traveling co-host of _Good Morning America_ on
ABC network; in the 20 months that followed, his assignments took him
to more than two dozen countries. Continuing his upward climb, he was
next transferred to the _ABC Evening News_ with Barbara Walters and
Harry Reasoner. Finally in 1978, he was named to his present position --
as special correspondent for _20/20_, ABC's weekly hour-long news
magazine show.

Over the past nine years, Rivera's special reports have earned him
virtually all the major awards in broadcast journalism, including several
Emmys. It was one of his earliest documentaries, however, that brought
him the most recognition. Titled _Willowbrook: The Last Great
Disgrace_, the 1972 expose focused on the conditions at Staten Island's
Willowbrook institution for the mentally retarded. The broadcast resulted
in an unprecedented response from viewers. So many offers of assistance
poured in that Rivera was able to set up a national organization known as
One to One, whose goal is to give ongoing, individualized attention to
retarded persons. Since 1973, One to One has raised more than $2
million, and helped to build almost 60 group homes throughout the New
York metropolitan area, each housing approximately 12 retarded persons
of the same general age range.

On June 6 from 8 to 10:30 p.m., One to One will present a TV special
that will combine top entertainment with personal accounts of retarded
people, their parents, and the role of the media in helping to shape public
awareness. The entertainers include Paul McCartney and Wings, Neil
Sedaka, Debby Boone, Ed Asner, Angela Lansbury and the Captain &
Tennille. Geraldo Rivera shares the emceeing chores with his ABC
colleague John Johnson.

"The show will be both taped and live," says Rivera in an interview at his
West 60th Street office. "We've designed the program so that it's not a
classic telethon where every two seconds they say, 'Please send us your

Among the more dramatic moments is a tape of the Seventh Annual Wall
Street Charity Fund Boxing Match, which raised thousands of dollars for
One to One. "For the first year, I'm not the main event," comments
Rivera, who scored a technical knockout over his opponent in 1978. "My
nose was broken last year, and they took out all the scar tissue. They
decided that my nose had given enough for the cause."

He learned most of his boxing "just street fighting growing up." Born 35
years ago on the Lower East Side to a Puerto Rican father and a Jewish
mother, he was christened Gerald Rivers and hispanicized his name while
in college. There are no scars on his ruggedly handsome face. With his
neatly styled hair, easy smile, and air of casual masculinity -- one of his
favorite outfits is a denim jacket over a T-shirt -- Rivera could easily pass
for a professional athlete turned matinee idol. Yet it is primarily his
literary ability, combined with a sentimentality backed up by facts, that
has made him a type of media folk hero. His documentaries have earned
him 78 humanitarian awards.

In addition to his more than 3,000 news stories, Rivera has written four
books, including one on Willowbrook. "I've been back there many times,
and it still stinks -- literally and figuratively," says Rivera in his
customary vibrant tone. "But it's now a much smaller place. Willowbrook
started with 6,500 people, and now it's well under a thousand. It has
become, in fact, one of the better institutions. But institutions are not the
answer. There's no such thing as a good big institution."

With his commitments as chairman of One to One, his heavy travel
schedule for _20/20_, and his new daily commentary on ABC Radio,
Rivera likes to spend free evenings at home with his wife Sheri at their
apartment near Lincoln Center. A Westsider since 1975, he names the
Ginger Man and the Cafe des Artistes as his favorite dining spots.

Asked about the biggest difference between his present career and his
earlier career as a lawyer, Rivera says: "Now I have the power to cause
positive change in a dramatic way. When you have an audience of tens of
millions of people, it's a multiple in terms of influence and impact, and
the effective delivery of information. As a broadcaster, I've found that one
person can make a difference."


Author and Pulitzer Prize-winning composer


The world has always been fascinated by artists who excel in more than
one field. There was Richard Wagner, for example, who wrote the words
and the music to all his operas. Cole Porter and Bob Dylan are two others
who have proven their mastery of both language and composition.

But while these three men combined their talents to produce great songs,
Ned Rorem has employed his musical and literary gifts in a different way.
By keeping the two separate, he has gained a huge reputation as a
composer of serious music and also as a prose writer of formidable style.
In 1976 he won the Pulitzer Prize for music. And last month Simon and
Schuster published his eighth book, _An Absolute Gift_.

At 54, Rorem has become somewhat of a fixture on the New York artistic
scene, who no longer sparks the controversy that he once did. But in
Paris, where he spent nine years during his early career in the 1950s,
Rorem was as well-known for his socializing as for his music. With his
handsome, youthful good looks and boyish charm, his biting wit, and his
wide knowledge of the arts, he became a close companion of many of the
leading literary and musical figures of France.

His recollections of those years were carefully recorded in his first book,
_The Paris Diary_, published in 1966 amid fanfare on both sides of the
Atlantic. It was quickly followed by _The New York Diary_, which was
more popular still. Since then, Rorem's books have appeared at fairly
regular intervals, all of them either diaries or essays, or a combination of

In print, Rorem comes across as being somewhat disillusioned with life
and art. In person, however, he is a warm, sincere host. With a tendency
toward shyness that does not come through in his books. Rorem makes all
of his remarks so matter-of-factly that nothing he says seems vicious or

Leaning back on the sofa of his large Westside apartment, with one hand
resting against his chin and the other stroking his pet cat Wallace, Rorem
answers one of the first questions saying that yes, he is upset by the
negative review that _An Absolute Gift_ received in the _New York

"A bad review in the Times can kill a book," he explains. "It killed my
last book. And I don't think it's fair that they gave my new book to the
same reviewer. He made some of the same statements that he did last
time, with almost the same wording. But just today I got a very good
review from the _Washington Post_. And I hope there will be something
in the _New York Review of Books_. That's even more important than
the _Times_."

Rorem is considerably more versatile as a composer than as a writer. His
output includes five operas, three symphonies, and "literally hundreds of
vocal pieces for solo voice and ensembles of various sizes. And
instrumental music of every description." He is considered by many to be
the world's greatest living composer of art songs. Generally he sets other
people's words to music. Asked for the definition of an art song, Rorem
says, "I hate the term. I composed dozens of arts songs before ever
hearing the word. It's a song sung by a trained singer in concert halls."

The piece that won him the Pulitzer, surprisingly, was not a song at all,
but an orchestral work titled _Air Music_, which was commissioned for
the U.S. Bicentennial by the late Thomas Schippers and the Cincinnati
Symphony. This summer the Philadelphia Orchestra under Eugene
Ormandy will premiere a new, major composition of Rorem's, _Sunday

"I feel very, very, very lucky that I'm able to support myself as a
composer of serious music," he says. "My income is not so much from
royalties as from commissions, prizes, fellowships, and official handouts,
such as the National Endowment of the Arts, and the Guggenheim
Fellowship, which I now am living on."

Born in Indiana and raised in Chicago, Rorem began composing music at
the age of 10. He was never attracted to pop music, and today he likes it
less than ever. "Inasmuch as pop music goes hand in hand with high
volume, I bitterly resent it," he says. "When the Met Opera gives a
concert in Central Park the same night that the Schaefer Beer Festival
gives one of their concerts, they're crushed like the runt beneath the belly
of a great fat sow."

When a desire for more space and lower rent drove Rorem from
Greenwich Village to the West Side 10 years ago, he feared that he was
moving to "a big, nonartistic, bourgeois ghetto." He soon changed his
mind. In _An Absolute Gift_ he makes the statement: "From 116th Street
to 56th Street, the West Side contains more first-rate artists, both
performers and creators, than any concentrated neighborhood since Paris
in the 1920s."

One of Rorem's favorite Westside businesses is Patelson's Half Price
Music Shop at 160 W. 56th Street, right across from the stage door of
Carnegie Hall. "It's the best music shop in America," he testifies. "They
have everything or they can get it for you."

All of Rorem's books carry a fair amount of philosophy. But the only
principle that the artist claims to have stuck by during the entire course of
his life is: "I've never sold out. I've never done what I didn't want to do.
... I've never been guided by other than my heart. And certainly not by


Director of the New York City Opera


In 1943, Mayor Fiorello La Guardia made an announcement that the old
Mecca Temple on West 55th Street would be converted into the City
Center of Music and Drama. As a result, a new major company was born
-- the New York City Opera.

A young Jewish immigrant, Julius Rudel, who had fled Austria with his
family not long before, immediately went to City Center in search of a
job. He was hired as a rehearsal pianist, and in the years to come his
talents blossomed forth in many areas. Working quietly behind the scenes,
he became the Opera's indispensable Mr. Everything, who not only knew
every phase of show production, but could be called on to conduct the
orchestra and even take the place of a missing cast member on stage.
Rudel's versatile musicianship and his personal charm did much to knit the
company together.

In 1956 the New York City Opera suffered a financially disastrous season
that led to the resignation of the distinguished Erich Leinsdorf as director
and chief conductor. That was perhaps the lowest point in the company's
history. The board of directors pored over dozens of nominations for
Leinsdorf's replacement before they decided on the one person who had
the confidence of everybody -- Julius Rudel.

Twenty-two seasons later, he is still firmly in command, and the once
struggling City Opera has risen to world prominence. Although its $8
million annual budget is much smaller than that of the Metropolitan Opera
and the major houses of Europe, Rudel has been able to get many singers
who are unequaled anywhere, and has staged far more new works by
living composers than has Lincoln Center's "other" opera house.

Apart from its musical significance, the City Opera has become a sort of
living symbol for the arts in America, flourishing in the face of financial
hardships, and somehow emerging more creative, more artistically
exciting because of those hardships. Why else would people like Beverly
Sills and Sherrill Milnes perform at City for a top fee of $1,000, or even
for free, when they can get $10,000 for a night's work elsewhere?

"We build loyalties," explains Rudel in his delicate Germanic-British
accent, the morning after conducting a benefit performance of _The Merry
Widow_. "A lot of our singers go on to other companies, but they come
back. They don't forget us. The New York City Opera has produced more
great singers than probably any other company in the world."

It is early, even for this man who begins his work as soon as he get up
and keeps going till late at night with his multiple roles as music director,
chief conductor, administrator, impresario and goodwill ambassador. Clad
in his colorful dressing gown, his thick silver hair shining, he seems an
entirely different person from the magnetic orchestral leader whose
presence on the podium generally guarantees a full house. At his
expansive Central Park West apartment, he is low-key and to the point,
and fiercely proud of the City Opera's achievements.

"We try to look at every opera we do with fresh eyes, as if it had never
been done before. We try to reexamine everything about the opera.
Sometimes the tradition attached to a work differs from what the composer
and librettist intended. ... Tradition was defined by a famous conductor
long ago as 'the last bad performance.' For example, in _Turandot_
there's a character who had been traditionally [portrayed] as blind. But it
makes no sense in the story for him to be blind, so we don't play him that
way. We're restoring the classics, not changing them."

He jumps up to answer the telephone just as his wife Rita enters the room.
A slender, dark-haired woman, she is a doctor of neuropsychology at
Columbia Presbyterian Hospital and a devoted opera fan. "I'm Mrs. Rudel
in the morning," she explains, smiling. She met Julius when they were
both at music school. Today, while keeping a close friendship with many
of the City Opera's singers, she maintains her own identity to the extent
that her medical colleagues sometimes tell her, "I saw you at the opera
last night," without realizing that her husband was the conductor.

The Rudels have lived on the West Side ever since they were married 36
years ago. "My wife sometimes says we live within mugging distance of
Lincoln Center," says Rudel, his eyes twinkling with impish amusement.
"But really, we're confirmed Westsiders. I don't think I ever use any form
of transportation from here to the theatre, and I don't eat out much,
because my wife is a marvelous cook. Time being so of the essence, we
prefer to stay at home."

The City Opera's spring season continues until April 30. Rudel
recommends three shows in particular: _The Saint of Bleecker Street_,
_The Turn of the Screw_, and _The Marriage of Figaro_, which he is
conducting. "I envy all the Westsiders who have the opportunity to come
to us," he concludes. "Our seats in the upper reaches of the State Theatre
are the best theatrical bargains in the world."


America's foremost child psychologist


At one time, the name Salk was synonymous with one thing only -- the
revolutionary polio vaccine discovered by Dr. Jonas Salk in 1953. In the
1970s, however, another national figure of the same name has emerged
-- Dr. Lee Salk, Jonas' younger brother, who is probably the most highly
respected and best-known child psychologist in America today.

The most successful of his five books, _What Every Child Would Like
His Parents to Know_ (1972), has been translated into 16 languages, while
his most recent work, titled simply _Dear Dr. Salk_, was published in
March by Harper & Row.

A soft-spoken, highly energetic man who bears a close physical
resemblance to comedian Phil Silvers, Dr. Salk recently invited me to
share his thoughts in an interview at his Upper East Side apartment.

"What I try to do as a psychologist," he said, sitting in a large, circular
chair in his spacious library, "is to use all the media to present what I
consider useful psychological information that has been distilled for the
consumer -- to take the jargon out of it, and the ambiguity, so people can
use it to deal effectively with their problems. While most people see me
as a child psychologist, I'm really an adult psychologist who has focused
on some of the most difficult issues that affect all people. ... In my initial
years of practice, it became clear to me that most of the problems
originated in childhood, and I felt that perhaps the front line of mental
health is really in those early, critical years."

Since 1972, he has been writing a column titled "You and Your Family"
for _McCall's_ magazine, which has a readership of 16 million.

"I frequently deal with family concerns, including problems that have to
do with older people," he explained. "I choose a different topic each
month. Frequently the topic revolves around a number of letters that come
in. The June issue, for example, has an unusually large column because
we're dealing with sexuality. We get hundreds and hundreds of letters, so
I can't answer them personally, but I do read them all. When I'm giving
a speech across the country, I like to use airplane time to catch up on my

As a television personality, he appears at least twice a week on NBC's
_News Center 4_. His off-the-cuff manner is no deception: Salk does each
of his broadcasts live, without a script, speaking spontaneously on a
current issue.

His latest book, _Dear Dr. Salk_, answers questions ranging from the
spacing of children to problems specific to teenagers. When asked how his
approach compares to that of Ann Landers or Dear Abby, Salk replies: "I
must say that they fall far short of what I'm trying to do. These people are
not professional psychologists. They tend to sensationalize -- to appeal to
the voyeuristic tendencies people have. I'm not saying they don't help
people, but they don't always provide people with knowledge.

"A good deal of what I say is not direct advice. In answering a question,
I try to provide knowledge about the problem, which the person can use,
to answer his or her own question. I really feel I shouldn't give people a
series of do's and don'ts"

His knowledge is based on a 25-year career as a professional clinical
psychologist. Following his graduation from the doctoral program at the
University of Michigan, Salk spent three years teaching at McGill
University in Montreal, then returned to Manhattan, where he grew up.
He still maintains a private practice, and is on the staff at Cornell
University Medical School, the Payne Whitney Psychiatric Clinic and the
Lenox Hill Hospital.

Dr. Salk won the custody of his two children, Pia and Eric, in 1975 after
a precedent-setting divorce trial in which it was ruled that he was "the
parent that can best nurture their complex needs and social development."

A problem of many parents, he said, is not that they spend too little time
with their children, but that "it's basically useless time, because they're
not actively involved with the child." Salk himself makes a point of having
breakfast and dinner with Pia and Eric virtually every day, and includes
them in his social life whenever possible. "Their friends are frequently my
dinner guests." Each summer he spends three months with them at an
island retreat in Maine, while commuting to New York for his
professional commitments. Dr. Salk enjoys cooking, and also likes to go
to restaurants.

Dr. Salk's newest project is a 13-part series for public television, to be
aired starting September 29. He will appear each week with three children
to discuss such topics as love and attachment, divorce, and "making a
family work." The programs, he said, "are geared to family viewing time,
so children and their parents can watch together."


Photographer of the world's most beautiful women


As Richard Stolley, the managing editor of _People_ magazine, is fond of
saying, every publication on the newsstand is actually two publications.
One is the inner contents, and the other -- far more important in terms of
sales -- is the front cover. A stunning cover can make the difference of
tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for a national magazine, and that's
why _Cosmopolitan_ has engaged the talents of photographer Francesco
Scavullo for virtually every one of its covers for the last 11 years.

He has done album covers and posters for Paul McCartney, Barbra
Streisand, Donna Summer, Judy Collins and many others. Among the
publications that rely on his most often for covers are _Vogue_,
_Playboy_, _Glamour_, _Harper's Bazaar_, _Redbook_, _Ladies Home
Journal_, _People_ and the magazine that started it all -- _Seventeen_ --
which ran its first Scavullo cover in 1948, when he was still a teenager

He never had any formal training in photography, but got plenty of
practice during his Manhattan boyhood when he began taking pictures of
his sisters and their girlfriends. Francesco delighted in applying makeup
to their faces, running his hands through their hair, and dressing them in
sexy gowns. He quickly made two discoveries -- first, that there's no such
thing as an ugly woman, and second, that the photographer and his subject
must be personally compatible. Although he charges approximately $3,000
for unsolicited private portraits, Scavullo won't photograph anyone with
whom he has bad rapport -- and that includes all people who don't take
care of themselves physically or abuse themselves with drugs.

A small, lithe man of 50 who walks with the gracefulness of a dancer and
looks considerably younger than his years, Scavullo recently agreed to an
interview at the town house on East 63rd Street that serves as both his
studio and his home. Dressed in blue jeans, an open-neck white shirt, and
Western boots, the chatty, unpretentious photographer sat back on the
couch with his arms behind his head and a mischievous smile planted on
his face. Asked about the large pills he popped into his mouth from time
to time, Scavullo explained that they were vitamins and organic

"I'm very health-conscious," he said in a gravelly voice with a broad New
York accent. "I don't eat meat, and I very seldom have even chicken or
fish. I don't drink tea, or coffee, or alcohol -- except for a little wine. ...
A lot of people stop smoking when they start working for me, because I
hate it -- all this pollution in the air of New York already. I think smoking
is great if you live out in the West, and you sit on top of a mountain like
in the Marlboro commercials."

As we were talking in his spacious living room, decorated with Scavullo's
own paintings, a member of his staff came from the studio below and
said, in reference to a woman who was being made up for a shooting
session, "She's still not ready, Francesco." Scavullo sighed.

"A seating with a man takes 20 minutes," he remarked, "and with a
woman it takes the whole afternoon. Makeup," he added, "is used more
intensely in photography than it is in the street. I think women look best
without any type of makeup in the daytime. Sunlight has a very bad effect
on it. Some of the ladies going by on the street look like they're holding
a mask a fraction of an inch away from their face."

He has never developed the habit of stopping beautiful women on the
sidewalk, but, said a grinning Scavullo, "if I see someone wildly attractive
walking by, I get excited. I might turn around and whistle or something."

Number one on his list of the world's most beautiful women is 14-year
old Brooke Shields, who also lives on the Upper East Side. She is one of
the 59 models, actresses, and other celebrities featured in his first book,
_Scavullo On Beauty_ (1976), which came out in paperback last month
from Vintage Press. The volume is filled with life-size shots of women's
faces, many of them showing the difference before and after the Scavullo
treatment. It is accompanied by frank interviews dealing with clothing,
diet, exercise, makeup, and related subjects. _Scavullo On Men_, his
second book, was published in 1977. And he has two more in the works
-- a picture book on baseball, with text by Christopher Lehmann-Haupt of
the _New York Times_, and a retrospective volume covering his
photographs from 1949 to 1980. Both will be out next year.

A resident of the Upper East Side since 1950, he likes to dance until dawn
at Studio 54 "whenever I don't have to get up too early the next day."
Asked about his favorite local restaurants, he said he rarely goes to any,
but that his entire staff orders lunch almost every day from Greener
Pastures, a natural foods restaurant on East 60th Street.

Beauty, he believes, "is an advantage to everything -- man, woman, child,
flower, state. I mean, everything. Beauty is the most fabulous thing in the
world. I hate ugliness." His advice to amateur photographers: "Get a
Polaroid. It is a very flattering camera to use, because it washes
everything out." He couldn't resist adding: "If you can't be photographed
by Scavullo, have your picture taken with a Polaroid."


Composer of the future


The story of Western music, from the baroque era to the present day, has
been written largely by men whose contributions to their art were
underappreciated during their own lifetimes. Serious music has a tendency
to be ahead of its time, and must wait for the public taste to catch up
before it can be accepted.

Such is the case with Roger Sessions. For at least 50 years he has been
considered by the American academic establishment to be one of the most
gifted and original composers of his generation. But his work has started
to gain wide recognition with the general public only since the early
1960s. Today, at 82, he is comfortable in his role as the elder statesman
of American concert music. Although relatively few of his works have
been recorded -- they place extraordinary demands on both performer and
listener -- Sessions continues to write music with practically unabated
energy. His most significant official honor came in 1974, when the
Pulitzer Prize Committee issued a special citation naming him "one of the
most musical composers of the century."

Since his early 20s, Session has led a dual career as a composer and a
teacher of music theory. A former professor at both the University of
California, Berkeley, and Princeton University, he has published several
books on his musical ideas, and now teaches two days a week at the
Juilliard School at Lincoln Center. When I heard that his piano sonatas
were going to be performed soon on West 57th Street, I called him to
request an interview, and he promptly concurred. We met for lunch at La
Crepe on Broadway, and over the meal Sessions revealed himself to be a
man of wit, humility, and charm.

Speaking of his piano sonatas, which will be performed at Carnegie
Recital Hall in February, March and April, Sessions commented in his
slow, precise manner of speech that "the first one was composed in 1930,
the second one was composed in '46, and the third one was composed in
'65. One sonata will be performed on each program. ... I have heard the
young lady play one of them. She's going to come and play for me today.
I'm helping her to prepare them. Because they're difficult and they take
a lot of practice. Her name is Miss Rebecca la Becque. I just laid eyes on
her for the first time last week."

Nearly half of his works have been composed in the last 20 years; some
are quite melodic; others are so atonal and eery that to some people they
suggest the rhythm of the universe itself, or music from the stars. One
remarkable aspect of his compositions is that no two are even vaguely
alike; another is that they come in so many different instrumental
combinations. Besides his piano works, he has composed for violin,
organ, cello, chorus and solo voice. In addition, there are his string
quartets, his rhapsodies, his nine symphonies, and _Montezuma_, one of
the most distinguished operas ever written by an American.

Why write in so many forms? "You might say I'm paid to," he explained,
ordering a second espresso and lighting his pipe. "Generally when I write
a big work, it's for a specific purpose." His eighth symphony, for
example, was written for the New York Philharmonic to commemorate the
orchestra's 125th anniversary.

When I asked Sessions whether he was concerned that most of his works
are not available on albums, he said calmly, "I never have tried to get my
works recorded or performed. I decided years ago that people would have
to come to me; I wasn't coming to them. Things move a little more slowly
that way, but one knows that everything one gets is perfectly genuine. ...
When I wrote my first symphony, Otto Klemperer said he wouldn't dare
to conduct it. So I conducted it myself. It would be easy nowadays. Even
the Princeton student orchestra played it a few years ago and didn't do too
badly. Orchestra players get used to the idiom and people get used to
listening. ... The only thing is," he added with a chuckle, "I keep getting
ahead in that respect."

He was born in Brooklyn in 1896 and moved to Massachusetts at age 3,
but Sessions noted that "I do have some memories of the inside of the
house." He wrote his first opera at 13 and graduated from Harvard at 18.
>From 1925 until 1933 he lived in Italy and Germany, supported by
scholarships. Shortly after Hitler came to power, he returned to the U.S.,
and not long afterward joined the faculty at Princeton, where he remained
until 1946. Then he taught at the University of California at Berkeley for
eight years before returning to Princeton, where he remained until his
mandatory retirement in 1965. Since that time he has taught at Juilliard.
He and his wife Elizabeth have been married for 42 years; they have two
children and two grandchildren. Said the composer: "I learned that I had
a grandson just a few hours after I'd gotten the citation from the Pulitzer
Prize Committee, and the grandson was much more exciting -- with all
due respect."

A resident of Princeton, New Jersey except for the one night each week
that he spends on the West Side, Sessions is now eagerly awaiting the
performance of his ninth symphony. It was completed in October and will
be premiered in Syracuse shortly.

In his Princeton study he is kept constantly busy composing new works,
writing letters and correcting proofs. "I don't have any hobbies," he
remarked at the end of the interview. "I like good books, but I don't get
much time to read them. If I go a few days without composing, I start to
feel a little bit depressed."


Veteran comic talks about _Love at First Bite_


Dick Shawn's name keeps cropping up these days. The last time he made
a big splash in New York was two years ago, when his one-man show,
_Dick Shawn is the Second Greatest Entertainer in the Whole Wide
World_, played at the Promenade Theatre for 14 weeks. But last fall, he
gained millions of new fans with his sparkling appearances on the ill-fated
network variety show starring Mary Tyler Moore, which folded after the
third week. A commonly heard criticism of the show was: less Mary and
more Shawn.

In George Hamilton's recently released film, _Love At First Bite_, Shawn
plays the role of Lieutenant Ferguson, who teams up with a psychiatrist
in order to make war on Dracula. Also he recently played the lead in the
new Russell Baker/Cy Coleman musical, _Home Again_. But these are
only a few of the highlights of Shawn's career, as I discover in an
interview with the 51-year-old comedian at his plush Upper East Side

The word "comedian," he quickly points out, is not quite accurate. "I
think of myself as a comedy character," he explains, relaxing on his couch
with a plate of croissants and bacon that his pretty assistant has just
brought him. "In _Home Again_, I played seven characters. ... They ran
out of money; it just closed out of town. It needs another four or five
weeks of work. They plan to bring it back around September."

With his middle-age paunch and full head of tousled grey hair that
resembles a bird's nest, Shawn has a definite comedic look about him, but
he seldom smiles and never laughs during our long conversation. Still, his
answers are both entertaining and revealing.

On Mary Tyler Moore's variety show: "That was a total mistake. They
didn't know what they were doing there. I thought she was going to get
the best writers and the best producers. But it was totally inadequate. I
knew from the very first day that it wasn't going to work. ... The whole
concept was wrong. Variety isn't Mary's forte. You have to get yourself
rolling around on the ground a little bit. She's such a nice, sweet girl that
she doesn't come off as a clown."

The basis of all humor, believes Shawn, "is hostility. But it has to be
sweet hostility. ... I think people become comedians because they poke
fun at pretentiousness. They usually come from meager backgrounds, and
then they can look up and see the pomposity and the hypocrisy of many
human beings. That's why there are no rich comics. A great many of
them are Jewish or black -- because as a kid they were told they were part
of a minority group. They learned to have a sense of humor about
themselves: they had to, in order to survive. Humor is their way of
getting even with mankind."

Shawn's own background lends credence to his theory. Born Richard
Schulefand in the steel town of Lackawanna, New York, he grew up in
a family that was hard-hit by the Depression. While serving with the
Army following World War II, he ended up in an entertainment troupe.
"I was delighted," he recalls, "and when I got out, I decided to pursue it."
In the early 1950s, he secured his first professional engagement as a
stand-up comic in Bayonne, New Jersey, and was paid $25 a night. Since
then, he has never been out of work, and has constantly used only his own
material for his solo act -- songs as well as sketches.

"I don't really do jokes," he explains. "I do situation characters. Although
the thrust of my humor is serious, I have always taken chances. In my
club act, for example, I always ended up pretending to die on stage, rather
than taking bows. Two guys would come with a stretcher and carry me

Among his more memorable performances over the years: the successor
to Zero Mostel in Broadway's _A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to
the Forum_, the freakishly funny beach bum in the Stanley Kramer film
_It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World_, and a cavorting Adolph Hitler in
Mel Brooks' zany 1968 movie, _The Producers_.

Still, no project has gained him as much personal satisfaction as _The
Second Greatest Entertainer in the Whole Wide World_. After the New
York run, the show played to enthusiastic audiences in San Francisco and
Los Angeles, and earned Shawn awards for both Best Performer and Best
Playwright of the Year.

An Eastsider for the past seven years, he names Elaine's as his favorite
local restaurant because "the food is good, and there's a simplicity about
the place the attracts me."

Shawn describes himself as "disciplined, but not as disciplined as I should
be. Because my work is loose, I'm always adding or changing. Nothing
ever stays the same. But comedy is a very rewarding profession. It's nice
to know that something that pops into your head can cause a reaction from
total strangers who are paying you money to be entertained. I think that's
the ultimate."

Probably best-known for _The Prod

Famed jazz pianist returns to New York


The scene was a Boston nightclub in the early 1950s. George Shearing and
his quintet were scheduled to play the second set of the evening; the
opening act was a piano/bass/drums trio. But as soon as the first group's
pianist hit the keys, a groan went up from the audience. It was a bad box,
as they said in those days. The management's promise of a tuning had not
been kept.

The trio retired in defeat 15 minutes later, and the audience called for
Shearing. When the blind pianist was led on stage, he announced, to
everyone's astonishment, that he would open with a solo. But when he sat
down at the instruments, a small miracle took place. The notes rang out
with the clarity of crystal; Shearing's acute ear had told him which keys
to avoid, and the precise amount of pressure to apply to the others so that
the poor tuning would be camouflaged. Those who were present to
witness Shearing's uncanny musicianship may never forget the experience.
But attending any of his performances is hardly less forgettable.

He's now playing each Tuesday through Saturday evening at the Cafe
Carlyle, 76th Street and Madison Avenue, and will remain there until
March 3rd. His famous quintet is no more -- the group was disbanded in
1978 after 29 years -- but Shearing, accompanied only by bass player
Brian Torff, proves himself a master showman as he performs his unique
brand of jazz, tells funny stories between numbers, and sings in his lilting,
playful manner.

"I'm on the road about 10 months a year," he told the Carlyle crowd the
previous night, when I went there to catch his show. "And one thing I
cannot tolerate is the mediocrity of hotels and motels in this country.
Once, on my second morning in a hotel, I called up the room service and
said, 'Could you please bring me some breakfast? I'd like two eggs, one
of them poached and the other scrambled; two pieces of toast, one barely
warm and the other burned almost to a crisp; and a pot of half coffee and
half tea.' The person on the other end said, 'I'm sorry sir, I don't think
we can fill that order.' I said, 'Why not? That's what you brought me

The next afternoon I paid Shearing a visit at his new Eastside apartment,
where he recently moved from San Francisco. An extremely amiable,
witty, and knowledgeable man who speaks with a soft British accent, he
guided me around the large, tastefully furnished apartment with great
ease, showing me his braille-marked tape collection, his audio calculator
and his braille library. He described everything, from the drapes to the
furniture, as if he had perfect vision. Blind since birth, he is an expert
bridge player and a fine cook.

"I've just started to take cooking lessons," said Shearing, stretched out n
the sofa with a smile hovering constantly on his face. "My wife and I are
taking the same course. It's at the Jewish Guild for the Blind. Naturally
it's better for me to take lessons from someone who knows the
idiosyncracies of cooking without looking. ... I'm very interested in taste.
If I were to cook some peas, for example, I would be inclined to line the
saucepan with lettuce and add a little sugar and mint."

Born 59 years ago in London, the ninth child of a coalman, he began
plucking out radio tunes on the piano at the age of 6, and by his early 20s
was considered one of England's finest jazz pianists. He moved to the
U.S. in 1947, and two years later became an overnight sensation when his
newly formed quintet recorded "September in the Rain," which sold
900,000 copies. To date, Shearing has recorded more than 50 albums.
When he finally broke up his quintet, it was to allow himself more
musical freedom. His playing is a combination of jazz, classical and pop
that calls for much improvisation.

His most famous original composition, "Lullaby of Birdland," came to
him "when I was sitting in my dining room in New Jersey, eating a steak.
It took me only 10 minutes to write it. I went back to that butcher several
times afterwards, but I never got the same steak."

A popular television personality, Shearing has appeared on all the major
TV talk shows. In the past 15 years or so, he has also become a frequent
performer with symphony orchestras, usually playing a piano concerto in
the first half of the program and a jazz piece in the second half. Lionized
in England, he returned to London last December and played a sellout
concert at the 6500-seat Royal Albert Hall.

New York is where his American career began, and he decided to move
back after spending 16 years on the West Coast, primarily because New
York is far more centrally located for his extensive travelling. He chose
the Upper East Side because "it would be difficult to realize we're in the
heart of Manhattan, it's so quiet here." No sooner did he speak the words
than, as if on cue, a baby in a downstairs apartment began to cry loudly.
"Does somebody have a plastic bag?" he deadpanned.

One of Shearing's main interests -- besides music, bridge and cooking --
is business law. He once took a course on the subject "because I wanted
to know what the other guy's rights are. If I know what his rights are, I
know what mine are." Speaking of his many disappointments in hotels and
motels, he said, "Misrepresentation and false advertising can be beaten at
any time anyone wants to fight it. I have never lost a battle on this score

He might have added, had modesty not prevented it, that he has also lost
no battles in the game of life.


The big-hearted billionaire of _Annie_


_Annie_, the touching musical about seven little orphan girls in New York
City at Christmastime during the Great Depression, has been the
Broadway show against which all others must be compared ever since it
opened in April, 1977.

That year it won seven Tony Awards. Later the movie rights were sold
for a record $9.5 million. There are now companies performing the
musical in Los Angeles, Boston, Atlanta, England, South Africa,
Australia, Japan and Scandinavia. The album has gone gold. Still a sellout
virtually every night at the Alvin Theatre, its tickets are the hardest to
obtain of any show in town.

Two of the three leading characters -- those of Annie and the cruel, gin
sodden orphanage director Miss Hannigan -- have been twice replaced by
new performers. But Oliver "Daddy" Warbucks, the bald-headed
billionaire with a heart as big as his bank account, has been played since
the beginning by Reid Shelton, a Westside actor long known for his
portrayal of powerful figures on stage -- cardinals and kings, statesmen
and presidents.

On December 23rd, just a few days short of its 1,200th performance, Reid
will finally leave the New York company to star in _Annie_ on the West
Coast. He has no plans, at this point, of giving up the role that earned him
a Tony nomination for Best Actor.

"I've had two three-week vacations and I've missed four performances in
almost three years," says Reid in his dressing room on a recent afternoon.
Easing his tall, bulky frame onto a sofa, he immediately reveals a
personality that is warm, good-humored and eager to please. His broad,
all-American features give distinction to his gleaming, newly shaved head.
Reid shaves twice a day with an electric razor.

"My understudy plays Roosevelt in the show, and of course for the four
performances that he's had to go on for me, he didn't shave his head,"
laughs the 55-year-old actor. "I've gotten the most angry letters from
people saying, 'Well my God, can't you at least have the understudy
shave his head? How dare you do that to us!'"

Asked about his qualifications for playing a billionaire, Reid says, "I don't
know whether it's my look, personality, or what, but people have always
thought that I've come from money. Actually, my family during the
Depression was very poor."

Born and raised in Salem, Oregon, he began studying voice while a high
school freshman, doing chores in exchange for lessons. After graduation,
he was drafted into the First Cavalry Division of the U.S. Army, fought
in the Pacific, then received his master's degree in voice under the G.I.
Bill. Arriving in New York City in 1951, he got a job singing at Radio
City Music Hall. From there he went on to many Broadway musicals, TV
shows, films and recordings. His generous income from _Annie_ enabled
him, last year, to purchase the Westside apartment building in the Theater
District where he's been living since 1956. "It's a rent-controlled building
with 20 apartment units. This last year I lost four thousand dollars on it
because of oil and everything, but I have never regretted buying it."

Some behind-the-scene stories are as interesting as the show itself. Yul
Brynner, for example, has refused to be photographed with Shelton:
"Maybe he's afraid if the strobes hit our glistening heads simultaneously
there will be no picture." Sandy, the dog, was discovered in an animal
shelter just one day before he was due to be put to sleep. "It's that bored,
I-don't-care quality that that dog has," says Reid, "that's so endearing to
the audience. He lives with his trainer and owner, Bill Berloni, a
marvelous young chap who found a whole new career for himself through
the dog." And when the subject of orphanages comes up, Reid tells of a
place called the Jennie Clarkson Home in Valhalla, New York, which he
visited not long ago.

"It's not exactly an orphanage, but a temporary home for girls whose
families can't provide for them. They have about 40 girls who stay in
cottages with cottage parents, and they go to school there. The agency
works with the family by trying to find the father a job or whatever, so
the girls can finally return home. ... I was so impressed with the work
they're doing. I'm trying to raise money for it."

He recalls visiting the White House to do a shortened version of _Annie_
for the Carters. "We got back at 3 in the morning, totally exhausted, but
the whole day was made worthwhile when Mrs. Carter sought me out and
said, 'You know, I must tell you how much I appreciate your taking your
day off to come down here and do this for us. It must be a real chore, and
I do appreciate it.' It was just a wonderful, wonderful personal thing that
she didn't have to do. It's something I will always treasure."

On another occasion, says Reid, Robert Wagner and Natalie Wood came
backstage after a show. "Bobby just kept crying, and Natalie finally said,
'For God's sake, Bob, stop it.' But he couldn't. Even now, I'm terribly
thrilled when people come back and say, 'You made me cry.' I'm proud
of that. If I can touch some response in people, and maybe open up
something that they didn't even know they felt, that's a tremendous plus
in being an actor."


Mr. New York to perform in Newport Jazz Festival


To some, he is New York City personified -- Bobby Short, the eternally
youthful singer and pianist who has been packing in audiences at the Cafe
Carlyle five nights a week for the past 11 years. Regarded as the foremost
living interpreter of Cole Porter, Short has recorded eight albums,
published his autobiography, lectured on American music at Harvard and
performed at the White House. His many television commercials have
gained him national recognition in the last year or so, but he is proudest
of the one he did for the "I Love A Clean New York" campaign, showing
him sweeping the sidewalk with his customary savoir-faire.

Six months out of the year, he holds court at the Carlyle, a supper club
at Lexington Avenue and 76th Street, where eager fans plunk down $10
for each one-hour set. Backed up by a bass player and a percussionist, the
smooth, sophisticated Short sits behind the keyboard in a tuxedo,
performing popular songs from the early 20th century to the present day.
Every word and every note comes out a finely polished jewel, leaving the
audience with the impression that they have never heard the song before.

Four months out of the year, Short takes to the road, giving concerts from
Los Angeles to Paris, often as soloist with major orchestras. The hottest
and coldest months of the year -- January and August -- he sets aside for
vacation, sometimes taking a house in the south of France, since he is
well versed in the French language and is constantly seeking to expand his
knowledge of gourmet cooking.

While in New York, he occupies a luxurious nine-room Westside
apartment with 18-foot ceilings that formerly belonged to Leonard
Bernstein. Here, in a vast living room with a complete wall of mirror, a
fireplace and a virtual forest of green plants, I thank Short for the glass
of wine that he offers me from a crystal decanter, and I begin our
interview by asking about the show he's co-producing for the Newport
Jazz Festival. Titled A _Salute to Black Broadway, 1900-1945_, it will
take place in Avery Fisher Hall at 8 p.m. on June 24, and is one of the
highlights of the 26th annual jazz festival, which runs from June 22 to
July 1.

"It's the chance to try my wings at something new," says the jovial
musician, in a somewhat gravelly, high-pitched voice marked by flawless
diction. "Also, it's a chance to inform. I suppose I'm a frustrated
professor of sorts. This show is a way of stating that, in fact, there were
blacks involved in productions on Broadway as far back as 1900 --
perhaps even further back. Many were performers who wrote their own
material. Others were composers and lyricists whose writing was not
confined to black performers. Some of them wrote for the Ziegfeld

As co-producer with Robert Kimball, Short has been "researching material
to find out what's good, what's bad, what's important, and also who's
around today that was in those shows." Among the performers to be
featured: famed jazz singer Mabel Mercer, a longtime friend of Short's;
Adelaide Hall and Edith Wilson, two of black Broadway's original stars;
Nell Carter, the Tony Award-winning star of Fats Waller's _Ain't
Misbehavin'_; Eubie Blake, still an active pianist in his 90s, whose
currently running _Eubie!_ is the fourth Broadway show he has written;
special guest artist Diahann Carroll; and the Dick Hyman Orchestra. Of
course Bobby Short will be on stage too; he'll do at least five songs out
of his repertoire of 1,000-plus.

Slender, debonair, and looking more like 40 than his actual 54 years,
Short has been playing and singing in public ever since he made his debut
at the age of 9 while growing up in Danville, Illinois. From the age of 12
to 14 he was a child star on the vaudeville and nightclub circuit. Then he
returned to Danville, completed high school at 17, and began his second
career. Producer/songwriter Anna Sosenko got him a job at the Blue
Angel in Manhattan; after that he worked in California and France before
settling permanently in New York in 1956.

A perennial name on the best-dressed list, Short says that "today I've got
a tailor in New York, a tailor in London, and I buy a lot of things in
between. But I've grown more sensible over the years. I no longer buy all
I can get my hands on."

His secret for staying young? "Be sensible. If you use the most intimate
parts of your body to make a living -- like your throat -- you can't abuse
it. You can't drink too much, and you simply cannot smoke." Extremely
knowledgeable about restaurants, he lists the Russian Tea Room and
Pearl's Chinese Restaurant as his favorites.

His "Charlie" commercial for a cologne by Revlon has made Short one of
the most recognized figures on the streets of New York, yet he doesn't
mind being approached by strangers. "It's part of what I do for a living,"
he muses with a smile. "It never stops. You have to learn to live with it
or get out of show business. Fortunately, I'm a very social person and I
like people. I understand the need to say hello to someone on the street --
so I can't knock somebody for speaking to me."


Opera superstar


Probably no opera singer since Caruso has made so great an impact on the
American public as Beverly Sills. Even today, the mention of her name
can automatically sell out a concert hall anywhere in the U.S. She has
become bigger than her art, for while a few younger singers can reach the
notes more easily, Sills generates a certain intense excitement into all her
roles that makes every show she appears in not just an opera, but an

Her star vehicle this fall is an early 19th-century opera, _Il Turco In
Italia_ (The Turk in Italy), written by Gioacchino Rossini prior to his
masterpiece, _The Barber of Seville_.

_Il Turco_, presented by the New York City Opera for eight performances
in September through November, is a subtle comedy about a flirtatious,
Sophia Loren-type character (Sills) with a jealous husband. The audience
will miss none of the Italian humor because this production of _Il Turco_
is in English.

"I love to do English translations," said Miss Sills last week in a telephone
interview. "I believe the whole art of opera is based on communication.
I don't see how people can appreciate a comedy in a language that four
fifths of the audience doesn't understand. There's only snobbery about
foreign languages in this country -- not in Europe. In America, an opera
is like a museum piece. But I think the great classics like _Boheme_ and
_Traviata_ don't need to be translated because everyone knows what
they're about."

She performs regularly with the New York City Opera even though the
State Theatre-based company is able to pay only a tiny fraction of what
singers receive at other great opera houses around the world. "I made my
career with them," she explained. "I sing there because of loyalty, and
because I love to." She has already made plans to retire from singing in
1980 and to become codirector of the New York City Opera with Julius
Rudel, the present director.

Right now she is busy studying three other roles. On December 7 she will
headline the Metropolitan Opera's new production of Donizetti's _Don
Pasquale_, which will run until January 20. In March she will star in a
world premiere for the New York City Opera, _Miss Haversham's Fire_,
based on the Charles Dickens novel _Great Expectations_. In June she
will go to San Diego to perform in yet another world-premiere opera,
_Juana La Loca_ by Gian Carlo Menotti.

Last season, Beverly hosted a popular television program called
_Lifestyles_. This year, she said, "I'm doing something much bigger, as
a result of that show's success. Unfortunately, I can't tell you what it is,
because CBS will be making an announcement in mid-October."

Miss Sills said she has no plans for another book. Her first, the self
portrait _Bubbles_, has sold 130,000 copies in hardcover and many times
that figure in paperback since it came out a year ago. "Bubbles" was her
childhood nickname. She was born Belle Silverman in Brooklyn a few
months before the stock market crash of 1929. At 3 she did her first radio
broadcast; at 7 she was the star of a regular weekly radio show. In her
early teens she joined a touring musical company and spent the next 10
years on the road. Then she was accepted by the New York City Opera.

In her first few seasons with the fledgling company, she showed few signs
of the fame that was to come. Meanwhile, she and her husband,
newspaper publisher Peter Greenough, had become the happy parents of
two, a girl named Meredith (Muffy) and a boy, Peter Junior.

Then the heartbreak struck. When Muffy was 2, it was discovered that she
suffered from a serious hearing impairment. A few months later, the
couple learned that their son was severely mentally retarded.

For the next year and a half, Beverly abandoned her singing career and
spent all her time at home. When she returned to the New York City
Opera, people noticed a distinct change. Somehow she seemed to have
acquired a new dramatic power. In such roles as Cleopatra in Handel's
_Julius Caesar_ she dazzled both critics and public, and has done so ever
since. In 1969, when she made her debut at La Scala in Milan -- Europe's
foremost opera house -- the Italian press labeled her "La Fenomena."

Because of a long-standing disagreement with Rudolph Bing, the managing
director of the Metropolitan Opera, it was not until 1975, after Bing's
retirement, that she made her debut at the Met. The occasion caused the
largest advance ticket sale in the company's history.

For the pat eight years, Sills and her family have lived on Central Park
West. "I just feel that we get all the sunshine here," she said. Muffy has
just started her freshman year at college in upstate New York and plans
to become a veterinarian. Beverly's husband Peter divides his time among
various business projects and the National Foundation for the March of

Her advice for young singers trying to break into opera? "Keep
auditioning," Beverly replied emphatically, "no matter how many times
you're turned down. I tried out for the New York City Opera nine times
before they took me. And auditions themselves are valuable: they give you
the experience of a performance."


46 years a doorman on the West Side


It's a wet, stormy night on the West Side; rain is pelting down without
mercy, and the wind is whipping along the edge of the park like a tornado
in a canyon. A taxi pulls up in front of the Century Building at 25 Central
Park West, and at the same moment a man in uniform emerges from the
building holding an umbrella to escort the woman passenger to safety.
Anyone watching the scene would hardly guess that the doorman is 75
years old. But his age is not the only remarkable thing about George

During his 46 years at the Century -- longer than any other employee or
tenant -- George has seen the entire history of the city reflected in the
people who have come and gone through the entrance. He has gotten to
know world-famous celebrities who have lived in the building, and has
met countless others who came to visit -- from prizefighters to presidents.
He has watched the enormous changes of fashion, custom and law. And
from the start of the Great Depression to the beginning of the Koch
administration, George has remained the same calm, good-natured
observer, seeing all but criticizing no one.

"I've been here since this was a hole in the ground," he says matter-of
factly, puffing on a cigar in the outer lobby of the building, keeping one
eye on the door. "It all started in 1930, when they tore down the old
Century Theatre to put up a luxury apartment building. I got a job as a
plumber's helper, lugging big pipes across the ground. After it was
finished in 1931, I went to the superintendent and told him I helped build
the Century and asked for a job. I simply had to get work, because it was
during the Depression and I had my wife and two kids. ... I started as an
elevator man and I worked up to the front door within a year."

In 1929 George had been earning $125 a week in a hat factory; in 1931
his wages were $75 a month for a 72-hour work week. "Our suits had to
be pressed, our hair combed, shoes shined. We had to wear a white bow
tie, white gloves. ... If you looked cross-eyed at a tenant and he reported
you to the office you were fired in those days."

During the 1930s, only about one-fourth of the apartments were rented.
Among the residents was a Mrs. Gershwin; her sons George, Ira and
Arthur made frequent visits. By the early 1940s the Century Building had
become one of the most exclusive addresses in New York. Heavyweight
boxing champion Jack Dempsey, Ethel Merman, Nannette Fabray, Mike
Todd and theatre magnate Lee Schubert moved in during those years,
along with many celebrities whose names are less familiar today -- singer
Belle Baker, sports announcers Ted Husing and Graham McNamee, and
world champion welterweight boxer Barney Ross.

George recalls "sparring around" with Dempsey in the lobby at night. "He
had a great sense of humor. When he came in late and found the elevator
boy asleep he'd give him a hot foot." Ethel Merman, he remembers, "had
three or four husbands. In between her husbands she used to go out with
different men. She used to smooch with them in the lobby.

"In those days we took in Louis Lepke, with his wife and family," says
George with a smile. "He always had three or four bodyguards with him.
When he was here, he behaved himself." At other times, of course, Lepke
was not so well behaved. He headed a group known as "Murder
Incorporated," popularized the term "hit man," and was sent to the
electric chair for his crimes.

More recent tenants include Robert Goulet, singer/Playboy playmate Joey
Heatherton, and Ted Sorenson, a former presidential advisor who in the
past year has been visited at the Century by both Jimmy Carter and Walter
Mondale. Did George get a chance to shake the president's hand? "Yes.
What's the big deal?"

George Singer and Estelle, his wife of 53 years, live in Trump Village
near Coney Island. They have seven grandchildren and one great
grandchild. George could easily afford to retire -- in fact, he is sometimes
jokingly referred to as "the richest man in the building" -- but he chooses
to keep working. "Why not work till 75 or 80 if you're able?" he says.
"I think it's good for a person. Mr. Chanin, who owns this building: he's
in his 80s and he goes to work most every day."

George continues to do the night shift as he always has -- "I'd rather work
nights. There's more money at nights. And you don't have the bosses
around. ... At night people are more in a free spirit."

How does George explain his continued success and good health? Does he
have a secret he would like to pass on? "I smoke two cigars a day," he
answers immediately, with a gleam in his eye. "That keeps the cold germs
away. I never catch cold. It's the best medicine in the world."

Is George looking forward to Christmas? Aren't all doormen!


Founder and conductor of the Gregg Smith Singers


What might you guess about a man who has composed 60 major choral
works, toured the world with his singing group, and recorded 50 albums
including three Grammy Award winners?

If you didn't know anything else about this man, you would probably
guess, first, that he is rich. Then you might imagine that his door is
constantly bombarded by recording agents trying to enlist his talents. And
third, you would probably think that his name is a household word.

But Westsider Gregg Smith has all of the qualifications listed and none of
the imagined results. This is because his music happens to be classical --
a field in which, he says, "a record that sells 10,000 copies is considered
a good hit." Conducting his choral group, the Gregg Smith Singers, who
usually have anywhere from 16 to 32 voices, he performs works spanning
the last four centuries of the Western classical tradition. Gregg writes
most of the arrangements himself. Last year his sheet music sales reached
60,000 copies.

The Gregg Smith Singers specialize in pieces that have been infrequently
performed or recorded. But a more lengthy description of their music can
only tell what it is, not how it sounds. Music speaks for itself better than
any words can describe.

"None of the American composers of today are making a living," says
Gregg, shaking his head. We're sitting in his spacious but unluxurious
apartment near Lincoln Center. "It's a terrible struggle. When people talk
about ghetto areas, let me tell you, no one is more in a ghetto than the
American classical composer. We have more great composers in this
country right now than any other country in the word, and the United
States supports its composers less than any other country. ... They want
so desperately to perform their music. A composer does a piece and gets
a performance in New York, and that may be the last performance it ever

He leads me to a room lined with shelves, boxes and cabinets filled with
sheet music, some of it in manuscript. This is where Gregg chooses each
new selection for his group. He shrugs at the enormity of the task.

"There are at least 400 new American compositions here, waiting to be
looked at. Probably at least 100 of them are of the highest quality. ...
When we record this type of material, we don't expect to make a profit,
even with the royalties over the years. Classical records are made because
the music needs to be heard. It's a second form of publication. We do it
as a means of getting this music out."

The same economic rule holds true when the Singers do a concert.
Because of the large size of the group and the vast amount of rehearsal
time needed to perfect new works or new arrangements, the box office
receipts don't come close to meeting the expenses. The grants they receive
from the National Endowment for the Arts and the New York State
Council for the Arts are not always sufficient. "Like every one of the arts,
it's a constant deficit operation. At this point, we're not nearly as strong
in fund-raising as in the other aspects."

In spite of the financial pressures, Gregg does manage to provide his
Singers with about 25 weeks of full-time work per year. His group has
gone on a national tour for 15 consecutive years so far. The Singers have
performed in every state except Alaska. They have made four tours of
Europe and one of the Far East. Their typical New York season included
four concerts at Alice Tully Hall and a contemporary music festival in one
of the local churches. This year the three-day festival will be held in St.
Peter's Church located in the Citicorp Center starting on April 20.

A native of Chicago, Gregg attended college in Los Angeles and founded
the Gregg Smith Singers there in 1955. His talent as a conductor and
arranger soon came to the attention of the late Igor Stravinsky, the
Russian-born composer who was then living in California. The pair
eventually recorded more than a dozen albums together. When Stravinsky
died in 1971, Gregg was invited to Venice, Italy, to prepare the chorus
and orchestra for the rites in honor of the late maestro.

In all his travels, Gregg and his wife Rosalind have found no place where
they would feel so much at home as the West Side. "It's a great,
wonderful community for the classical musician," he says. "It's one of the
most vibrant, alive, sometimes terrifying but always exciting, places to

Perhaps Gregg's rarest quality is his unselfishness toward other American
composers. His biggest concern seems to be: how will be manage to get
all their works recorded?

"I have enough important recordings to do," he says in a voice hovering
between joy and frustration, "to keep me busy for five years. That would
mean literally hundreds of thousands of dollars." The money may come
or it may not. But the worth of Gregg Smith, gentleman artist, is beyond


Queen of gossip


Like most of the kids she grew up with in Fort Worth, Texas during the
Great Depression, Liz Smith was star-struck by the movies. "They told
me there was a whole world out there where people were glamorous,
where men and women drank wine with dinner and wore white tie and
tails and drove cars with the tops down and danced on glass floors," she
recalls, smiling dreamily. Her soft, languid accent, dripping with Southern
charm, echoes through the coffee shop at the NBC building in midtown.
Despite her cordiality, she somehow gives the impression of being in a
great hurry. And for good reason: Smith is probably the hardest-working
-- and certainly the most successful -- gossip writer on the East Coast.

Unlike Rona Barrett, the queen of Hollywood gossip, Liz Smith does not
have a large staff, but relies on a single full-time assistant and part-time
"leg man" in California. Nevertheless, she manages to turn out, each
week, six columns for the _New York Daily News_ (syndicated nationally
to more than 60 newspapers), five radio spots for NBC, and two television
spots for WNBC's _Newscenter 4_.

"The minute I get up, I go to work. I get up at about nine, and go right
to work," says Liz. "I look at the paper right quick, and go right to the
typewriter, and work till I finish the column at one. I work in my
apartment because I would never have time to get up and dress and go to
another place. I would never get to meet my deadline. ... I work all the
time. I work a lot on the weekends because that's the only time I can even
vaguely make a stab at catching up. ... I just about kill myself to get
everything done. I don't know if it's worth it."

For all her complaints, Liz believes that gossip-writing is well suited for
her personality. "I can't help it. I'm just one of those people who likes to
repeat a tale," she explains. "I'd be reading every newspaper in America
that I could get my hands on and every book and magazine anyway, even
if I weren't doing this job."

When she was hired by the _Daily News_ in February, 1976 to start her
column, Liz was no stranger to the New York celebrity scene; she had
already been in the city for 26 years, working mainly as a free-lance
writer. "I made a lot of money free-lancing. Even 15 years ago, I never
made less than $25,000 a year." Besides writing for virtually every mass
market publication in America, she spent five years ghostwriting the
Cholly Knickerbocker society column in the old _Journal American_. Her
many contacts among the famous, and the resurgence of interest in gossip,
also helped persuade _Daily News_ editor Mike O'Neill that the paper
could use a gossip column in which the personality of the writer came

Within weeks of her debut, Liz broke some of the sensational details of
Woodward and Bernstein's _The Final Days_, which was about to be
excerpted in _Newsweek_. She added the TV and radio broadcasts to her
schedule in 1978, and avoids duplicating items whenever possible.

Her best sources, says Liz, are other journalists. "Because they know
what stories are. I know a lot of very serious and important writers who
have a lot of news and gossip and rumors and stuff that they don't have
any place to put, so they're apt to give it to me. They have impulses to
disseminate news; I think real reporters do feel that way."

Liz says that, generally speaking, she prefers writers to all other people.
Asked to name some favorites, she bubblingly replies: "Norman Mailer.
I just think Norman is a genius. Oh God, I love so many writers. My
favorite novel recently was Peter Maas' book, _Made in America_. ...
There's Tommy Thompson, who just wrote _Serpentine_. Nora Ephrom,
Carl Bernstein are friends of mine. Norman Mailer is a friend of mine.
Oh, I could go on forever."

An author in her own right, Liz wrote _The Mother Book_ two years ago;
it sold approximately 65,000 copies in hardcover and 200,000 in
paperback. "It kind of wrote itself," she says modestly of the acclaimed
collection of anecdotes about mothers. Someday she would like to try
fiction; at present she is working on a book that she describes as "a
history and philosophy of gossip and what it is and what it's all about."

An Eastsider for half her life, Liz says her neighborhood "has the lowest
crime rate of any police district in New York." Most of the restaurants he
frequents are on the Upper East Side. They include Le Plaisir, Gian
Marino, Szechuan East and Elaine's.

For years she saw her therapist at least once a week; now she pays him
just occasional visits. "It helped me enormously in writing. I quit having
writer's block. I quit putting things off. I quit making myself miserable.
I accepted my success, which was hard, because a lot of writers: they
don't want to succeed. They don't think they deserve it. It's like people
who don't want to be happy.

"Well, I mean you can be happy, you know, if you let yourself, and if
you do your work. The most important thing in the world, I think, is to
do your work. If you do your work, you'll be happy: I'm almost positive
about it."


Stars of _I Love My Wife_ on Broadway


As the Smothers Brothers, they were perhaps the funniest, most original
American music and comedy team to come out of the 1960s. Their 10
albums sold in the millions, and for three seasons they had the most
controversial show on television, _The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour_.
When CBS abruptly canceled their contract in 1969 for seemingly political
reasons, they became a cause celebre by suing the network and winning
a million dollars in damages. After 18 years of performing together as a
team, they retired their act in December, 1976, saying that their brand of
satire had been "stated," and that repetition would bore them. The
brothers parted on friendly terms, each determined to make his mark
separately as an entertainer.

This past Labor Day, they were reunited as a comedy team -- not on
television or in a nightclub, but on the stage of the Ethel Barrymore
Theatre on West 47th Street, where they instantly breathed new life into
the long-running musical _I Love My Wife_. Cast in the roles of two
would-be wife swappers from Trenton, New Jersey, they insisted on being
billed not as the Smothers Brothers, but as Dick and Tom Smothers.
However, anyone who laments the demise of the Smothers Brothers act
should catch the show before the six-month contract runs out on March 4.
Dick Smothers, as Wally, a smooth-talking pseudo-sophisticate, and Tom
Smothers, as his naive, bumbling friend Alvin, a moving man, wear their
roles as if they had been written for no one else.

"I like theatre and I'm going to do more of it," said Tom, 42, during a
recent dressing room interview after a matinee performance. His brother
Dick, 40, had other plans. "As soon as this show is over, I have to go
back to California and do some bottling for my winery. And I want to do
more auto racing. I race for American Motors. As far as making a career
in acting on Broadway: no. I think I could work at it and become a fairly
decent actor, but while I'm making wine, I want to play in cabaret theatre
and dinner theatre. It's fun, and it keeps you sharp. Broadway isn't a
place you should learn. What we're doing is apprenticing on Broadway.

"But that's how we got our television show," protested Tom. "We'd never
done a television show before."

In spite of the box office success of their Broadway debut, Dick cannot
help feeling disappointed that, as always, he is cast as the straight man.
His character Wally is a foil to the lovable, slow-witted Alvin. "There's
not a whole lot to do with Wally," said Dick, pouring me a glass of his
Smothers white Riesling wine. "The fact is, everyone is pretty locked in
except for Alvin. We're all dancing around him."

Tom's only complaint about the show is that it has put a strain on his
health, and especially on his throat. "This is the first time I've been close
to the edge of anxiety healthwise," he confided, sipping hot tea with
lemon. "As soon as I arrived n New York I got tonsillitis. Now I have
insomnia. Antibiotics really drain your body. I've lost 15 pounds so far.
It's a very demanding part physically."

Both brothers seemed very serious offstage, although Tom went through
his full range of marvelous mug expressions as he answered the questions
and posed for photos. Asked about how his current salary compares to
what he has earned previously, he replied: "Broadway you do for love of
the craft. The money is nothing to what you can make in film. You do it
because not many actors can do theatre." Dick commented: "Some of the
big stars in Las Vegas get 20 to 30 times what we're making. It's the
prestige and the experience."

Tom and Dick were born on Governor's Island in New York Harbor.
Their father, an Army major, died in the Philippines near the end of
World War II. Their mother then took them to the West Coast, and when
Tom was 12, she gave him a guitar. "I wanted to be a bandleader first,
then a comedian," he recalled. "At San Jose State, I was in a trio, and we
needed a tenor. So I got Dickie to come to school." While still in college,
they played their first professional engagement as the Smothers Brothers
at San Francisco's Purple Onion nightclub and got four encores. Before
long, Jack Paar invited them on _The Tonight Show_, and their career
was assured.

One thing that is particularly touching about Tom and Dick Smothers is
the great affection they have for each other. They live in separate Upper
East Side apartments about a mile apart, but Dick drives Tom to the
theatre each day, and they frequently socialize together.

Tom's mind is currently on a 19th-century farce, _Nothing but the Truth_,
which he plans to start rehearsing this fall and hopes to eventually bring
to Broadway. Dick, meanwhile, is thinking more about the jeep he
recently won in a celebrity auto race. "I'm going to drive it home to Santa
Cruz," he commented, with obvious satisfaction. "It has four-wheel drive,
bush guards, a roll bar, and heavy off-road tires. It's perfect for


Publisher of Berkley and Jove Books


Victor Temkin, who looks like a character out of Dickens and comes
across with the gruff friendliness of television's Ed Asner, is sitting in his
midtown office on Friday afternoon trying to deal with three things at
once. The telephone is jangling, visitors are dropping by unannounced,
and I'm throwing him questions about the publishing business.

What complicates matters is that Mr. Temkin is in the process of moving
his offices to another floor; has ad and his staff of 80 are packing
everything into cardboard boxes, and now it's impossible to find anything.
But the short, pink-faced man with gold-framed spectacles takes it all in
stride. He lights a Lucky Strike, props one hand against his chin, and
explains how he got to be the head of Berkley Books, which has long been
the paperback division of G.P. Putnam.

"I came to New York in 1960 as a lawyer. I became assistant U.S.
attorney in '61. I stayed there till '64," he relates in short bursts of
speech. "Then I went into private practice until September of 1967, when
I got into the book business. I became house counsel at Bantam Books,
and worked my way up, and later became a vice president. I came here
in July of 1977 as president and chief executive officer.

"Since that time, we purchased Jove Books from Harcourt Brace
Jovanovich. It's another paperback house. ... Berkley does largely reprints
of hardcovers, but Jove does exclusively paperback originals. Together,
the two companies put out about 300 or 325 books a year. Of these, 120
are from Jove."

Berkley Books, he admits, is one of the smaller paperback houses, perhaps
sixth or seventh. But the company manages to get its share of best-sellers.
At New Year's two were in the nation's top 10 -- _Mommie Dearest_ by
Christina Crawford and _Nurse_ by Peggy Anderson. _Mommie Dearest_,
says Temkin, "is the first time we've had a story of child abuse at that
level off society, which I think is a great thing for the people to read. It
isn't only poor kids that get beat up, it's the rich kids too -- just as

In terms of sales and profits, he says, "There's no such thing as an
average book. It depends on what you pay for the advance and what the
cost of manufacturing the book is. ... I can have books sell 50,000 copies
and make a profit, or I can have books sell a million copies and lose
money. ... It's not hard to spend a million dollars on a book. That's easy
to do. The hard thing is to find a book like _Nurse_, where you didn't
pay the million for it and you can sell a million and a half. We jumped in
and bought it early on, before it was a hardcover best-seller."

Berkley's hottest author at present is John Jakes, whose seven-volume
Kent family saga has sold 30 million copies. Jakes' new book, _The
Americans_, is scheduled to be out in February 1980. "The first printing
is over three million copies," says Temkin. "We expect it to be a number
one best-seller.. ... What a great success story. John has been around for
many many years and he's written a lot of books but he's never had the
commercial success until that came along. You can never tell in this
business. That's why we're in it: You don't know what tomorrow's going
to be."

Temkin, who anticipates losing money on seven out of 10 books he
publishes, does frequently travels around the country on business, and
makes it a point to observe what people are reading on buses and in
bookstores. "I think kids today are coming back to books. Because it's the
best form of entertainment there is for the money," he says. "I read a lot.
I try to read two, three books a week. I have a rule that I don't read
books by authors who are friends of mine that I am publishing, because
I know it will be nothing but trouble. ... I can't tell them I don't like a
book, and if I tell them I do like it, they may not believe me. But I like
writers. I enjoy being around them."

A native of Milwaukee, Temkin lives on the West Side with his wife
Susan and their 8-year-old twins, Andrew and Peter. Susan has a busy
career as a caterer who runs her own cooking school for kids.

In December, 1977, Berkley brought out a book about the Jonestown
tragedy, _The Guyana Massacre_ by Charles Krause, which was written,
published and distributed in a single week. "It's instant journalism,"
Temkin explains. "We're going to do a book late in 1980 about the 1980
election, to tell how and why it happened."

He laughs when asked whether his skills as a lawyer have been helpful in
his publishing career. "No, I think I've forgotten most of what I know
about being a lawyer. It's not the same."


Anchorman for WCBS Channel 2 News


"I've had a lot of luck in my career," says John Tesh of WCBS Channel
2 News."I enjoy working hard and I know exactly what I want. Who
knows, 10 years from now I may not be that way. A lot of my friends are
afraid I've gone too far too fast."

During the first 18 years of his life, when he lived in Garden City, Long
Island, John was a top student, a star athlete, and a fine musician. After
graduating from high school he left for North Carolina to attend the state
university on a soccer scholarship. His goal -- to become a doctor. But
when John returned to the New York area in 1976 at the age of 24, it was
not as a professional athlete or a physician, but as a television news
reporter. Today, at 27, he is one of the most highly respected young
broadcasters in New York. Throughout the week he appears regularly on
Channel 2's 6 o'clock news as an on-the-scene reporter, and each
Saturday and Sunday he co-anchors both the 6 o'clock and the 11 o'clock
evening news. According to Tesh, his 6 o'clock weekend show is watched
by more people than any other local news program in New York.

As if this job were not enough, last September John opened his own
sporting goods store, Sports Stripes, located on Columbus Avenue at 75th
Street, a few blocks from his apartment. The compact, brightly decorated
store specializes in running equipment and is the only place in New York
City where running shoes can be resoled on the premises.

When I stop by Sports Stripes one afternoon to talk with John over lunch,
the first thing I notice is his sheer size. At 6 foot and 190 pounds, he
makes a commanding presence. There is command in his voice as well;
it is as deep and rich as a Russian bass-baritone's. He seems
extraordinarily calm, and when I comment on this, he says that "there's
not as much pressure in New York as there was then I worked in North
Carolina. Here you're able to concentrate solely on your reporting. There
you were concerned with logistical problems -- shooting the film,
developing it, editing it, selecting slides, producing the broadcast, and
then anchoring it. ... But I'm not as calm as I might appear. I think
people at Sports Stripes and CBS think of me as frenetic."

His entry into broadcasting was totally unplanned. Halfway through
college, he got a part-time job as a copy boy at a local radio station. One
day the station's two newsmen called in sick, and John was asked to fill
in. Instantly bitten by the broadcast journalism "bug," he decided to trade
in his premed courses for television/radio production and political science.

"When I finished college," says John in his low-keyed manner, "I had the
choice of going to medical school or continuing in broadcasting, so I felt
l could go either way. I decided to stay in broadcasting for a while." After
working at television stations in North Carolina, Florida and Tennessee,
he was offered a job at WCBS.

"I would say that most correspondents try to get to New York, because
the production is a lot better here. ... I wouldn't like the anchor job
without the field work," he adds thoughtfully. "I have been told that my
forte is breaking news. Last year I won an Emmy for that. The same year
I won an Emmy for outstanding reporting.

"Unedited, live television is what it's coming to. It's interesting, because
it's come full circle. At one time, everything was live. Then for some
reason it went so heavily into tape, and now it's back into live journalism.
As the public becomes better informed, so changes the news.

"When Fred Cowan was holed up in a warehouse in New Rochelle, and
he had killed at least one police officer and was holding several hostages,
I was in a house across the street from there. We were reporting as it was
happening. There were shots fired; I didn't realize until afterwards how
intense it was."

Asked about which skills are required for live journalism, John says: "I
think it's being able to explain quickly and concisely the situation at hand
without becoming too involved in the situation. Becoming the eyes and
ears of the viewer. Being able to ad-lib is actually what it is. [Walter]
Cronkite is one of the great all-time ad-libbers."

A bachelor who lives alone, John still finds time for sports and music: "I
get enough excitement out of the store and work so that when it's time to
go home I like to be quiet. I have an electric piano, which I play with
headsets. ... I've run two marathons here in New York. I'm too big to be
a good marathon runner, but I do train hard. My ambition is to find some
race to win."

John says he likes the West Side to much that "my friends have to drag
me to the East Side. I do all my shopping on the West Side because I
figure, why shouldn't I help out my friends who live here by shopping at
their stores?" When John decided to open his own store, he called up his
boyhood friend Paul Abbott to run it. The pair were classmates from
grammar school through high school.

John says he hopes to eventually open his own seafood restaurant -- "on
the West Side, of course. This is where I plan to live for the rest of my


John-Boy teams up with Henry Fonda in _Roots II_


Seven years ago, on Christmas Day 1972, CBS aired a holiday program
titled _The Homecoming_ about a family living in Appalachia during the
Great Depression. All who were involved in the project went their
separate ways after the filming, including a young actor from the Upper
West Side named Richard Thomas. But it drew such a favorable response
that CBS decided to turn it into a series. The rest is history: _The
Waltons_ became a hit and made Thomas a television superstar.

For five years he charmed his way into American homes as the beloved
John Boy. Then in 1976 he decided to leave _The Waltons_ in order to
concentrate on his marriage, write poetry, do stage acting, perform ballet
and make movies. On February 18, in what is certain to be his most
closely watched performance to date, Richard will star in the first segment
of ABCs _Roots II_, playing the son of a wealthy railroad lawyer (Henry
Fonda) who marries a black schoolteacher. He will appear, to a lesser
extent, on the two following evenings as well, before leaving the scene as
a 54-year-old man.

In an interview at the New York School of Ballet at Broadway and 83rd
Street -- which is owned by his parents, Richard Thomas III and Barbara
Fallis -- he talks enthusiastically about his role in Roots II. "My character
is an actual historical figure," says Richard. "He had just come back from
college and didn't know what he wanted out of life. ... Obviously in 1892
or 3, his marriage was considered a disaster. His wife Carrie was Alex
Haley's first teacher. Her school is still in Tennessee today."

Sporting a newly grown moustache, casually dressed, and still boyish
looking at 27, Richard carries an air of tremendous confidence about him.
Yet his voice changes to one of awed respect when he speaks of Henry
Fonda: "The thing about working with someone like Fonda is that his
presence is so strongly felt that you get caught up in watching him. It's
really uncanny. I had to pinch myself to get back into the scene. And
Olivia de Havilland, who plays my mother -- she's extraordinary, too. We
got along great."

Earlier this year, Richard Performed in the Los Angeles production of
_Streamers_, and also made a TV movie for CBS, _Getting Married_,
which was broadcast last summer. In the late fall, during one of his
frequent trips to the West Side, he donned ballet tights to play the
character role of Hilarion in the U.S. Terpsichore Company's production
of _Giselle_, starring his 19-year-old sister Bronwyn Thomas, one of the
most highly acclaimed young ballerinas in the city.

Richard's parents are both former principal dancers for the New York
City Ballet. They were on tour in Cuba when he was born, and the first
language he learned was Spanish. He began acting at the age of 7.
Growing up on West 96th Street, he attended McBurney High School and
Columbia University.

Although he moved to Los Angeles in 1971, Richard still considers
himself a Westsider. "I just know it like the back of my hand," he says.
"I'm not sure I could live without LA anymore, but whenever I'm here,
I feel completely at home. There's a kind of underground chic on the
Upper West Side that I kind of respond to. I'm very comfortable around
Spanish-speaking people. I speak Spanish, and my wife is part Mexican.
I like the Latin flavor."

He and his wife Alma have been married since 1975; they have a 2-year
old son, also named Richard Thomas. "He talks a blue streak," comments
the proud father. "Sometimes he gets very blue. You have to watch what
you say around him."

In 1994 the young actor published his first book of poetry. Titled simply
_Poems by Richard Thomas_, it won the California Robert Frost Award
the following year. His second volume of poetry, _In The Moment_, is
scheduled for publication by Avon early in 1979.

Another of his prime interests is music. "I'm a big operagoer," he says.
"I'm really partial to Verdi and Wagner, if you have to get it down to
two." He also plays the dulcimer. "When I go to Kentucky this week, I'm
going to call on a man who's one of the great dulcimer makers in the
United States."

The three-stringed mountain instrument, an important component in the
folk music of Appalachia, caught Richard's fancy long ago, during a visit
to his grandfather's Kentucky farm, where he spent many summers as a
boy. Both of his grandparents on his father's side are still living. Like an
episode from _The Waltons_, the family often gathers at the farm on
Thanksgiving Day.

The original _Roots_ was seen by more people than any other program in
the history of television, but Richard does not dwell on his important role
in _Roots II_. He prefers to talk about the fulfillment he has found in

"I can't imagine not being married at this point," he says, the thick gold
band gleaming on his finger. "If my marriage weren't happy, I couldn't
make the right kind of career decisions. One supports the other. They're
part of the same package." Does he expect to have more children? Richard
smiles broadly and replies: "That's really my wife's department."


Pop artist and publisher of _Interview_ magazine


He is the great enigma of American art. Some of his most famous
paintings are exercises in monotony. His movies often put the viewer to
sleep. As a conversationalist, he can be low-keyed to the point of dullness:
speaking softly in a slow-paced, emotionless voice, he relies heavily on
short sentences, long pauses, and an abundance of "ums" and "uhs."
However, he has one asset that overshadows everything negative that
might be said or written about him: his name happens to be Andy Warhol.

The only time I met Warhol in person was at a book publication party
several months ago. He came by himself, spoke to hardly anyone, and
spent most of his brief visit flitting quietly about the room, avoiding
people's eyes and taking snapshots of the more celebrated guests. With his
pale complexion, narrow frame, and hair like bleached straw, he looked
not unlike a scarecrow. Everywhere he went, heads turned to catch a
glimpse. That has been the story of Warhol's life ever since he rose to
international prominence in the 1960s.

Although he did not feel like talking when I met him, Andy -- never
publicity-shy -- agreed to a telephone interview at a later date. Reached
at the offices of his _Interview_ magazine off Union Square, he answered
all my questions briefly, and in a voice so low that he could barely be

_Interview_, the monthly tabloid-shaped magazine that he publishes, is
Warhol's most visible creative project at the moment. "It's been going for
about seven or eight years," he said. "I started it for Brigid Berlin. Her
father ran the Hearst Corporation. She didn't want to work on it." The
person on the cover of each issue is identified only on the inside, and
many of the faces are difficult to recognize. Some are genuine celebrities,
such as Truman Capote, who has a regular column. Others are young
unknowns who have caught Warhol's fancy. The ultramodern layout
includes many full-page ads for some of the most expensive shops in
Manhattan. The interviews, interspersed with many photos, lean heavily
on show business personalities, models, artists, writers and fashion
people. In most cases, the "interviews" are actually group discussions --
often with Andy himself taking part -- that are printed verbatim. Even the
most mundane comments are not cut.

The reason? "I used to carry a tape recorder with me all the time, so this
was a way to use it," said Warhol. But in truth, the literal transcriptions
are another example of the naturalism that characterizes much of his work.
When he turned his attention from painting and drawing to filmmaking in
1963, he became notorious for such movies as _Sleep_, which showed a
man sleeping for six hours, and _Empire_, which he made by aiming his
camera at the Empire State Building and keeping the film running for
eight straight hours.

According to Warhol, many people have turned down his request for
interviews. "It's hard to get Robert Redford. ... We choose people who
like to talk a lot." The type of reader he seeks to attract is "the rich
audience. People who go to places like Christie's and Fiorucci's. ... It's
fun to go to those places and get invited to parties. I love fashion parties.
Shoe parties are even better."

His affection for shoes dates back to 1949, when, in his first year in New
York, he got a job in the art department of a shoe store. His designs and
magazine illustrations caught on so fast that within a year, he was able to
purchase the town house on the Upper East Side, where he still lives with
his mother. "But mostly I live with my two dachshunds. They've taken

Certain facts abut Andy Warhol's early life remain a mystery because he
has always objected to questions that he considers irrelevant to an
understanding of him as an artist. It is known that he was born somewhere
in Pennsylvania, sometime between 1927 and 1931, to a family of
immigrants from Czechoslovakia named Warhola.

By his mid-20s, Warhol was one of the most sought-after commercial
artists in the field. His silk-screen prints of Campbell's soup cans made
him famous with the general public, and by the mid-1960s he was clearly
the most highly celebrated "plastic artist" -- a title he relishes -- in the
English-speaking world.

In recent years, his creative output has been reduced somewhat, as the
result of the severe wounds he sustained in June, 1968, when a deranged
woman shot him in his office. Nevertheless, he continues to mount gallery
exhibitions, write books and paint portraits. The Whitney Museum (75th
St. at Madison Ave.) will have a show of his portraits in December.

Asked about the East Side, Warhol said that one of his favorite activities
is to go window shopping. "When you live on the East Side, you don't
have to go far. Because usually everything happens here." When he goes
to the West Side, it's often to visit Studio 54. "I only go there to see my
friend Steve Rubell. Afterwards, we usually go to Cowboys and

About the only medium that Warhol has not worked in is television. "Oh,
I always wanted to, yeah," was his parting comment. "It just never
happens. The stations think we're not Middle America."


Theatrical attorney for superstars


What do Leonard Bernstein, Helen Hayes, Otto Preminger, Carol
Channing, Truman Capote and George Balanchine have in common?

All are giants in the performing arts. And all are -- or have been -- clients
of Arnold Weissberger, one of the world's foremost theatrical attorneys.
Now in his 50th year of practice, the Brooklyn-born, Westside-raised
Weissberger has been representing stars ever since a chance encounter
brought Orson Welles to his office in 1936.

"Most of my clients are involved in making contracts that have to do with
plays or films or television," says Weissberger on a recent afternoon. The
scene is his small, richly furnished law firm in the East 50s. Dressed in
a dark suit, with a white carnation in his buttonhole to match his white
mustache, Weissberger looks very much like the stereotype of a business
tycoon. "Part of my job," he continues, "is to be familiar with the rules
of guilds and unions. And I have to know about the treaties between
countries that affect the payment of taxes."

Smiling benevolently, his hands folded in front of him, the gentlemanly
lawyer quickly proves himself a gifted storyteller. In his upper-class
Boston accent, acquired during seven years at Harvard, he delights in
telling anecdotes about his favorite performers. Not shy about dropping
names, Weissberger drops only the biggest, such as Sir Laurence Olivier
-- a client who had invited him to lunch the previous day -- and Martha

His work is so crowded that whenever he has to read anything that is
longer than three pages, he puts it in his weekend bag. Yet Weissberger
devotes an hour or two every day to one of several philanthropic
organizations. At the top of his list is the Martha Graham Center of
Contemporary Dance, of which he is co-chairman. "I consider her one of
the three great seminal figures in the arts in the 20th century, and I prize
her friendship enormously." The other two outstanding artistic figures of
the century, he says, are "Stravinsky, who it was also my privilege to
represent, and Picasso, who I did not represent."

He serves as chairman of the New Dramatists, a group that nurtures
young playwrights; he is a board member of Fountain House, a halfway
house for ex-mental patients; and he is chairman of the Theatre and Music
Collection of the Museum of the City of New York.

On Monday through Thursday, Weissberger lives in a luxurious Eastside
apartment that he shares with his longtime friend, theatrical agent Milton
Goldman. Each Friday after work, Weissberger departs for Seacliff, Long
Island, where he owns a house overlooking the ocean. Goldman and
Weissberger, whose careers have run a parallel course during the 35 years
of their acquaintance, travel widely each summer, generally spending a
month in London, where both have many clients.

"Our interests are very similar, except that I am an opera buff, and Milton
is not. He's a realist. I started going to opera when I was 10 years old, so
I don't mind if a 300-pound soprano dies of consumption in _Traviata_,
as long as she sings beautifully."

An avid art collector, Weissberger buys only what he has room to display
on the walls of his home and office. For the past 30 years his chief hobby
has been photography. He has published two volumes of his work --
_Close Up_ (1967) and _Famous Faces_ (1971). Although he has never
taken a photography course, and never uses flash, he captures the essence
of his subjects through his rapport with them. "I have discussed the
possibility of doing a photo book of children I've taken around the
world," he notes. "And now, of course, I have enough photos for a
second volume of famous faces."

His vigorous appearance to the contrary, Weissberger claims to get little
exercise. "I have one of those stationary bicycles at home, but I've never
gotten round to using it. And I've got to do so before I next see my
doctor, or I won't be able to face him. ... It's interesting how doctorial
advice changes. I remember several years ago, it was not considered a
good idea for people who were no longer young to climb stairs, and now
my doctor says that climbing stairs is the best thing I can do for my

So closely connected are the various aspects of his life that Weissberger
is able to say: "There's no demarcation between my workday and my play
day. People ask me when I'm going to retire, and I say there's no need
for me to retire, because I enjoy my work so much. I become part of
people's lives. I become privy to their problems. It is, in many ways, an
extension, an enhancement of my own life to be able to participate in the
lives of my clients. I remember a few months ago, when Lilli Palmer was
sitting right there, and I said, 'Lilli, what a lucky person I am. I'm having
to do a tax return and I'm doing it for Lilli Palmer.' Because there sat this
beautiful, charming, intelligent, lovely lady, and I was representing her
professionally. For me, I can't think of any profession that could possibly
be more rewarding."


Author and columnist for the _New York Times_


Something unusual was happening up ahead: that much he was sure of,
although no sound of gunshots reached Tom Wicker's ears as he rode in
a press bus in the presidential motorcade through the streets of Dallas on
November 22, 1963. Gazing out the window, he observed crowds of
people running about in confusion. Shortly afterward, outside Parkland
Hospital, the full extent of the tragedy was announced to the world, and
Tom Wicker, the only reporter from the _New York Times_ who was
present that day, rushed off to write the biggest story of his career.

Working feverishly through the afternoon, he came up with a 106
paragraph account of the day's events that dominated the _Times'_ front
page the following morning. In decades to come, students and historians
will turn to Wicker's story on microfilm with perhaps a sense of wonder
that it omits no facts of major importance, and contains virtually no

Tom Wicker was writing for history that day, and largely as a result of
his masterful performance, he was elevated the following year to the
position of the _Times_ bureau chief in Washington. In 1968, he was
appointed associate editor of the newspaper, and in 1971, he returned to
New York in order to concentrate on his column, "In the Nation." For the
past 13 years, the column has appeared three times weekly in the op-ed
page of the _Times._

A tall, ruddy-complexioned, powerful-looking Southerner of 52 with a
country-boy manner and a Carolina accent as thick as molasses, Wicker
has managed to combine his lifelong career in journalism with an
independent career as a book author. The most successful of his seven
novels, _Facing the Lions_, was on the _New York Times_ best-seller list
for 18 weeks in 1973, while his most recent nonfiction work, _On Press:
A Top Reporter's Life in, and Reflections on, American Journalism_, was
published last year by Viking and will soon be released as a paperback by

In an interview at his office in the _Times_ building, the affable, articulate
Wicker responds to an opening question about whether journalists are less
accurate today than in the past by saying, "No, I don't think they ever
were very accurate. It's hard to get pinpoint accuracy under pressure. I
think that's an inherent weakness of daily journalism. But you have to
consider that there are something like eight million words a day coming
in here. It's very tough to double-check all of that by deadline. I think of
journalism as being kind of like an early alert system."

In his column, Wicker has never been told what to write, never had an
article killed or edited, and never been urged to conform to the _Times_
editorial policy.

Some of his pieces look best in retrospect -- for example, the three
columns he wrote in September and October 1977 about the dangers of
storing nuclear waste. The sympathy with which he treated the prison
death of convict George Jackson in a 1971 column caught the attention of
inmates everywhere, and during the uprising at New York's Attica prison
later that year, he was called in as a mediator and official observer. His
book about the uprising, _A Time To Die_, (1975), won him two major
literary awards and was made a Book of the Month Club selection.

An engaging public speaker who travels widely, he spent two months in
Africa last year. At present, he is preparing a long article on Richard
Nixon that will appear in the _Sunday Times_ magazine this August to
coincide with the fifth anniversary of the ex-president's resignation.

Asked for his opinion on the seeming resurgence of Nixon as a public
figure, Wicker smiles and says, "I'm sure Al Capone could have drawn
a crowd the day he got out of prison. I don't think Nixon has been
revived. He never was dead in that sense. He left the White House under
a cloud, yet he retained, I am sure, millions of people who supported him.
... I myself have always discounted these reports that some future
Republican president might appoint him a sort of roving ambassador. As
far as his giving speeches at big colleges is concerned, I think that's all
right. He may have made mistakes, but I myself would find it very
interesting to read an article by Richard Nixon about foreign affairs. I
think he's a man of intelligence and knowledge in this area."

For the past five years, Wicker has been married to Pamela Hill, vice
president of ABC News and executive producer of the network's
documentary productions. They live in a four-story brownstone on the
Upper East Side. Though both enjoy cooking, their busy schedules call for
many visits to local restaurants.

Wicker's next book is a historical novel about the American Civil War
that he has been researching for several years. "It probably won't be
completed until 1981," he says, "but I expect it to be the best book I have
ever done. It's certainly the one I'm putting the most effort into. At the
same time, the column is my first priority. That's the clock I punch. ...
My experience is, the more you write, the better you get at it. It's a
business in which you keep sharpening your tools all the time."


Avant-garde author talks about _The Right Stuff_


During New York City's newspaper strike of 1963, a 31-year-old _Herald
Tribune_ reporter named Tom Wolfe visited California in order to write
an article for _Esquire_ magazine about the souped-up, customized cars
and the crowd they attracted. When _Esquire's_ deadline arrived, Wolfe
was unable to pull the article together, so he typed out his largely
impressionistic notes and sent them to the editor, who decided to run "The
Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby" exactly as written.
Thus was Tom Wolfe established as one of the most important new talents
in American journalism.

Today he is generally recognized as the foremost proponent of what might
be called the nonfiction short story. The majority of his eight books are
collections of factual articles written in the style of fiction. His latest
effort, _The Right Stuff_ (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, $12.95), is about the
seven Mercury astronauts and the world of military flying. Over cocktails
at the Isle of Capri, a restaurant not far from his Eastside apartment, the
slender, gentlemanly, and slightly bashful author spoke at length about his
new book and a dozen other subjects. Dressed in a one-button,
swallowtail, yellow pinstriped suit -- "it's kind of an early Duke of
Windsor" -- he poured forth his colorful phrases in a rich, soothing,
mildly Southern accent that rang with sincerity.

"I began this book in 1972, when _Rolling Stone_ asked me to go down
to the Cape and cover Apollo 17. Somewhat to my surprise, I became
quite interested in the whole business of: what's the makeup of someone
who's willing to sit on top of a rocket and let you light the candle? And
I ended up writing four stories for _Rolling Stone_ ... in about a month.
And I thought if I spent a couple of months in expanding them, I'd have
a book. Well, it's now 1979 and here we are." He laughed heartily. "It
was so difficult that I put it aside every opportunity I had. I wrote three
other books in the meantime, to avoid working on it.

"I ended up being more interested in the fraternity of flying than in space
exploration. I found the reactions of people and flying conditions much
more fascinating. So the book is really about the right stuff -- the code of
bravery that the pilots live by, and the mystical belief about what it takes
to be a hot fighter jock.

"Flying has a competitive structure that's as hotly contested as the world
of show business. And the egos are just as big -- in fact, in a way, they're
bigger. ... It's hard to top surgeons for sheer ego. I think surgeons are the
most egotistical people on the face of the earth, but pilots usually make
the playoffs: they're in there."

An excellent caricaturist who has published hundreds of drawings and
mounted several major exhibitions, he confessed to being vain about his
artwork because "I don't feel as sure of myself as I do in writing." A
book of his drawings will come out in 1980. He also has a captioned
drawing each month in _Harper's_, the magazine where his wife Sheila
works as art director. Tom was a lifelong bachelor until they were
married last year.

He arrived in New York in 1962, armed with a Ph.D. from Yale and
three years' experience on the _Washington Post_. "I really love it in New
York. It reminds me of the state fair in Virginia, where I grew up. ... The
picture of the East Side really is of the man living in the $525,000 co-op,
leaving the building at night with his wife, both clothed in turtleneck
sweaters with pieces of barbed wire and jeans, going past a doorman who
is dressed like an Austrian Army colonel from 1870."

No relation to the novelist Thomas Wolfe, Tom Wolfe has written only
one short piece of fiction in his life. He is now thinking about writing "a
_Vanity Fair_ type of novel about New York" as his next major
undertaking. In the meantime, he is working on a sequel to _The Painted
Word_, his book-length essay abut modern art that appeared in 1975.

"Another thing I'd like to try is a movie script," he added. "I've done one
-- a series of vignettes about life in Los Angeles. ... But many talented
writers just go bananas in trying to write for the movies. Because they're
not in charge of what they're doing. All that a good director can do is
keep from ruining the script. He cannot turn a bad script into a good
movie. He can turn a good script into a bad movie. And often, I think, it
happens, because the director is given a power that he simply should not

Another possible project, said Wolfe, is a second volume of _The Right
Stuff_, to bring the story up to the $250 million Soviet-American
handshake in 1975. The 436-page first volume has been received with
acclaim. In the _New York Sunday Times_ book review, C.D.B. Bryan
wrote: "It is Tom Wolfe at his very best. ... It is technically accurate,
learned, cheeky, risky, touching, tough, compassionate, nostalgic,
worshipful, jingoistic -- it is superb."

* * *

An Interview with Tom Wolfe

from _The Westsider_, 11-22-79

Tom Wolfe, one of the most original stylists in American writing today,
burst spectacularly on the literary horizon in 1965 with _The Kandy
Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby_, a collection of articles about
contemporary American life written as nonfiction.

Wolfe's adoption of stream of consciousness, his unorthodox use of italics
and exclamation marks, his repetition of letters, and his effectiveness in
inventing hip phrases with nonsense words and classical references, helped
establish an entirely new literary form -- the nonfiction short story.

His reputation was cemented by such books as _The Electric Kool-Aid
Acid Test_, _The Pump House Gang_ and _The Painted Word_, a lengthy
essay on modern art. Wolfe sometimes illustrates his work with pen-and
ink drawings.

His latest book, _The Right Stuff_, deals with the age of rockets, the early
astronauts and the world of military flying. Published in September 1979,
it is a critical and commercial success that has already hit the best-seller

A tall, slender 48-year-old transplanted Southerner with a rich baritone
voice, Wolfe speaks softly, chooses his word carefully, and exhibits a
kind of schoolboy bashfulness when discussing his own work. A New
Yorker since 1962, he lives on the Upper East Side with his wife Sheila,
the art director of _Harper's_ magazine. On the day of our interview,
Wolfe is wearing his customary one-button, swallow-tailed, yellow pin
stripe suit, which he describes as "early Duke of Windsor."

Q:        What made you decide to write this book?

A:        Back in 1972, Rolling Stone asked me to go down to the Cape and
cover Apollo 17. That was the last mission to the moon. ... Somewhat to
my surprise, I really became quite interested in the whole business of
what's the makeup of someone who's willing to sit on top of a rocket and
let you light the candle? And I ended up writing four stories for _Rolling
Stone_ in about a month. And I thought if I spent a couple of months in
expanding them, I'd have a book. Well, it's now 1979 and here we are."
(He laughs.) It was so difficult that I put it aside every opportunity I had.
I wrote three other books in the meantime, to avoid working on it.

I ended up being more interested in the fraternity of flying than in space
exploration. I found the reactions of people and flying conditions much
more fascinating. So the book is really about the right stuff -- the code of
bravery that the pilots live by, and the mystical belief about what it takes
to be a hot fighter jock, as the expression goes. I became interested in
people like Chuck Yeager, who broke the sound barrier back in 1947.
When the seven Mercury astronauts were chosen, they were not the seven
hottest test pilots in America, although they were presented as such at the
time. The arrival of the astronauts as a type completely upset the
competitive hierarchy of flying.

Flying has a competitive structure that's as hotly contested as the world
of show business. And the egos are just as big -- in fact, in a way, they're
bigger. . ... It's hard to top surgeons for sheer ego. I think surgeons are
the most egotistical people on the face of the earth, but pilots usually
make the playoffs: they're in there.

Q:        Speaking of your other books: how do you manage to know all the
hip phrases of the day? Do you spend a lot of time with teenagers?

A:        At one time, people thought I was some sort of medium who hung
around with children to pick up what young people were thinking and
doing. Well, that interested me very much in the '60s, when suddenly
young people were doing extraordinary things -- things they had never
done, which really boiled down to living lives that they controlled,
sometimes in a communal way, going with their own styles, rather than
imitating that of their elders. So it was fascinating. I made a point of
learning about it.

Sometimes now I turn on the radio and I don't recognize a single song on
the charts. Right now I have no idea what any of the top 20 singles are.
And I have the feeling that it's probably not worth finding out, because
we're now in a phase where we're just filling in the spaces of what was
introduced by rock and the Beatles and the Grateful Dead and so on.
There's nothing very new, I don't think. Maybe I'm wrong.

Q:        How do you choose your clothes?

A:        Right now I'm in the phase of pretentiousness. During the late '60s
I had a lot of fun by making mild departures in style -- wearing white
suits instead of blue suits, things like that. That was very shocking and
unusual in 1963. Suddenly things reached a point beyond which it really
wasn't worth going, as far as I was concerned, when Jerry Rubin and
Abbie Hoffman appeared on the _Dick Cavett Show_ in body paint.

There's one direction in which clothes can go that still annoys the hell out
of people, and that's pretentiousness. If you wear double-breasted
waistcoats, which I rather like, that annoys people. Spats more than annoy
people: they infuriate people. Try it sometime if you don't believe me.
They think that this is an affront. It stirs up all sorts of resentment. We're
in a period now in which the picture of the East Side really is of the man
living in the $525,000 co-op, leaving the building at night, both clothed
in turtleneck sweaters with pieces of barbed wire and jeans, going past a
doorman who is dressed like an Austrian Army colonel from 1870.

Q:        Do you do a lot of drawing?

A:        I have a regular feature in _Harper's_. I do one large drawing each
month, with a caption.

Q:        What's your artistic background?

A:        I never was trained in art. I worked for a commercial artist a number
of summers when I was in high school. And I learned anatomy from
drawing boxers in _Ring_ magazine. It was the only way I could think of
to learn anatomy.

I've had two gallery shows of drawings. ... And I'll have a book of
drawings coming out next year. I find myself very vain about my
drawing. I guess I don't feel as sure of myself as I do in writing;
therefore I'm always straining to get people's reactions to what I've

What I do mostly is caricature. I try not to make them too cartoony. This
is a period that absolutely cries out for good caricature. Part of it is that
the great caricaturists used to be people who were determined to be fine
artists. Every artist, whether he was good or bad, learned anatomy very
thoroughly. He learned how to render landscapes, buildings, and learned
something about costume. So the ones who didn't make it as easel painters
might turn to doing caricature, and some of them were spectacular.

We all grow up thinking we're in an era of progress, because we have had
so much technological progress. But it simply doesn't work that way in
art and literature. We're living in an era -- to use Mencken's phrase -- of
the "Sahara of the beaux arts."

I wrote about that in _The Painted Word_. In fact, I'm doing a sequel to
that now. It will be an article for _Harper's_ magazine. I'm moving into
the areas of architecture and serious music and dance. It's very enjoyable
to work on a subject like that after a long haul of writing about astronauts
-- essentially because it's easier.

Q:        What do you like to watch on TV?

A:        To be honest, my two favorite shows are _Mannix_ -- which, alas,
is no longer except in reruns -- and the _Johnny Carson Show_. I just
think he's terrific. It was such a common currency among those in the
general category of intellectuals to like the _Dick Cavett Show_ and not
the _Johnny Carson Show_. And that is so much the party line that it
takes awhile to dawn on you that Carson is really extremely funny. Dick
Cavett, he has a lot of talent, but when it comes to wit, and even in
handling the language, he's simply not in Carson's league.

There are a whole bunch of shows, I must say, in which I simply don't
know who these people are. A lot of general-circulation magazines today
are really television magazines. _People_ magazine is a television
magazine. Look at these people. Who are they? Who are Mindy and
Mork? I mean, I've never seen the show. And yet, they're obviously
extremely well-known.

These magazines now, in an era in which general circulation magazines
are in trouble, have hit upon this idea: all these people that are watching
television will have the thrill of recognition if we write about the people
they've seen on television. So _Sports Illustrated_ will tend to give you
a kind of a rehash of the game of the week or the fight that everyone saw
on television. It's kind of funny. At first, television was always
cannibalizing the printed word for material, and now it's suddenly turning

Q:        Do you have any other major projects coming up?

A:        For years I've been telling myself that I was going to try a _Vanity
Fair_ type of novel about New York, and I think I should probably try to
make myself tackle that next. I've debated whether to make it fiction or
nonfiction. My fiction writing has been confined to one short story that I
did for _Esquire_. And I was surprised that it was harder than I thought
to write fiction. I thought that I could sit down on a Sunday afternoon and
knock out a short story, because you could make things up.

Another thing I'd like to try is a movie script. I've done one -- a series of
vignettes about life in Los Angeles. ... But many talented writers just go
bananas in trying to write for the movies. Because they're not in charge
of what they're doing. All that a good director can do is keep from
ruining the script. He cannot turn a bad script into a good movie. He can
turn a good script into a bad movie. And often, I think, it happens,
because the director is given a power that he simply should not have.

Q:        Do you feel a lot of pressure on yourself when you sit down at the
typewriter, as being one of the trend-setters in American writing today?

A:        It was terrible after my first book came out, and I suddenly got a lot
of publicity I never dreamed I'd get. I was still working with the _Herald
Tribune_ as a general assignment reporter at the city desk. And I suddenly
was made aware by publicity that there was something called the Tom
Wolfe style. And this can really do terrible things to you. I wrote a whole
series of just dreadful article because the first phase I went through was:
"Well, I'll be damned. I have the Tom Wolfe style, I guess I'd better use
it." And so I started writing these self-parodies. The second phase was:
"I've got to stop this. It's self-destructive." And I would write something
and a bell would go off and I'd say, "That's Tom Wolfe style. Now is
that good the way I've used it there, or it is bad the way I've used it?"
And this became very troublesome.

When I did this book, _The Right Stuff_, I decided I really was going to
try to tailor my language to the mental atmosphere of pilots, and somehow
make my tone what I have elsewhere called the downstage voice. You're
writing in the third person about other people, but your own writing style
takes on their tone. So I think the result is a book that seems different in
style, and is sort of an experiment for me.


Violinist and conductor


"Travel is not fun anymore," sighs world-renowned violinist, violist and
conductor Pinchas Zukerman. "It used to be. Now there are all the checks
and securities at airports, and the hotel standards have gone down. The
old-style luxury hotel is gone. Now it's a businessman's Ramada Inn, kind
of hit-and-run hotel. But you learn to live with it."

Since making his American debut with the New York Philharmonic under
Leonard Bernstein 11 years ago, he has been a soloist with every major
orchestra in Europe, and acted as both conductor and soloist for most of
the leading orchestras in America. His schedule of 120 concerts a year is
solidly booked until 1982, and he has a discography of several dozen
recordings on four labels. For personal credits, Pinchas -- or "Pinky," as
he prefers to be called -- has lived on the West Side for 17 years, been
married to Eugenia Zukerman for 12 of those years. They have two
daughters, one of whom is a skilled pianist.

The _New York Times_ has called him "one of the world's leading
violinists," the _London Times_ has said he is "absolutely without peer,"
and the _Washington Post_ has labeled him "the most versatile of all
major musicians." Born in Israel, the son of Polish survivors of
Auschwitz, he was invited to perform at the White House last year for
Egyptian President Anwar Sadat and Israeli Prime Minister Menachem
Begin. "I want to tell Sadat he should set up a recording studio inside the
pyramids," he joked before the event. This year, Pinky's greatest honor
was his appointment as music director of the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra,
the only full-time chamber orchestra in America.

But the most astonishing thing about this burly, muscular man who speaks
nostalgically of the "old days," may be his age. He's 31.

"I think I had as normal a childhood as one could expect from a talented
boy that had to work," he muses in his living room overlooking the
Hudson River. Serious one moment, clownish the next, he frequently
punctuates his remarks with loud belly laughter. Pinky's sense of humor
is one of the things that endears him to his close friend, violinist Itzhak
Perlman, who lives six floors above. They were born three years apart,
grew up a few miles from each other, and both came to New York with
the help of violinist Isaac Stern to study at Juilliard.

The pair sometimes travel together for concerts, and according to Eugenia
Zukerman, "they do things like imitate apes at airports." Eugenia herself
is an extraordinary woman. Besides being a wife and mother, she is a
flutist with an international music career of her own, frequently appearing
in recitals with her husband. In addition, she is a highly talented writer
who has written free-lance articles for many leading publications, and now
devotes three or four hours a day to her first novel.

On October 19 at 10 p.m., and for the next three Friday evenings,
Channel 13 will present a series called _Here to Make Music_, which
documents Pinchas Zukerman's musical collaborations with Perlman,
Stern and others. Zukerman's life story is told through the use of
recordings he made before the age of 10, old photographs and candid
interviews, producing a portrait that is often fascinating.

"I think music on TV is getting definitely better in America. They're
ahead of the game at the BBC and in Europe, but they're quickly catching
up here," he notes. "Sometimes they overcompensate with pictures for the
sake of making a so-called 'interesting' show for the guy sitting with his
slippers in the living room, drinking a glass of beer. They're afraid to
leave the camera on the same musician for three minutes. That's why
you've got this flute playing, and you see this horn player picking his

When I ask Pinky about critics, the color rises in his cheeks. "Don't get
me on critics," he warns, before launching into an unrestrained diatribe.
"First of all, they're not critics as far as I'm concerned. They should be
reporters. But they never report what goes on in the concert hall. The
public stood up and clapped for 10 minutes. Say it, damn it! Don't say
that bar 56 was not right in the Beethoven G Major Sonata. Who cares?
It's so stupid!

"I'm a great fiddle player. They all say that. Fine. It's understood, it's
granted. It's there. Okay. So instead of criticizing my fiddle playing, they
say I'm becoming aloof, and this and that. ... One week they tear me to
shreds for my conducting. The next week I get these rave reviews. Now,
how can one person be that different in one week? What do they think,
that I'm a duet?"

Asked how much time he spends practicing, Pinky replies: "As much as
I need to. I don't think about time. You either live music or you don't. ...
Music is an unending art form which demands your complete attention and
perfection at all times. What a wonderful thing to be able to say -- I'll be
able to say it in maybe 15 or 20 years -- that I have gone through all of
Schubert's works. What an incredible achievement that is! I can tell you,
it's a lot more satisfying than flying an airplane."

                               -- THE END --

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