Twilight at the Hutch

The shadows are deepening at the Playboy Mansion. Twilight is descending on the Hutch. Sure, the Bunnies are still hopping about in a perpetual frenzy of giggling and jiggling in costumes, lingerie or nothing at all, but that sexy edge of forbidden and sophisticated eroticism that was once the allure of the Playboy image has all but disappeared. Hugh Hefner is still with us and wandering about the Mansion, a bit aimlessly, in silk jim-jams. But his is no longer the allure of the suave raconteur. When I see him, so vulnerable in his sleepwear, I don't think of a man who was on the vanguard of a social revolution in America. Instead, I want to settle him in a sunny window, tuck a cozy blanket around him and talk to him about his memories.

Not that he's fragile. Hef appears to be in good health and possessed of enough vitality to still edit photos for Playboy magazine. He is an attractive and articulate man who travels and appears to enjoy himself, although, at past 80, he's moving more slowly. His beloved vintage Mercedes SL convertible stays in the garage these days. I'd wager that he doesn't pull on his leather driving gloves and double-shift down Highway 1 much anymore.

My concern for Hugh Hefner is not his physical condition. My worry is that his world has become trivial and, perhaps, more than a little foolish. I've been watching the DVDs of his television shows from the late 50s, Playboy's Penthouse, and the late 60s sequel, Playboy After Dark, and I cannot help but think that he must miss his old life terribly. I know I do.

These parties, filmed, presumably, in Hef's Chicago mansion living room, showcase the talents of the likes of Nat King Cole, Sammy Davis, Jr., Ella Fitzgerald, and the Kirby Stone Quintet. Lenny Bruce is there to lend his hyperkinetic hip patter. Ronna Jaffe drops by to discuss her latest novel and subsequent film. Highball glasses are refilled and cigarettes are lighted. Jokes are made about Castro; censorship and integration are seriously discussed. Everywhere on the set we see lithesome young ladies, in shantung sheaths, perched on sofas. They don't speak, but they smile and snap their fingers to jazzy swing tunes played by the combo. The men wear dinner jackets and tapered trousers. They all seem capable of simultaneously leading a dame in a foxtrot while balancing a Henessey in one hand.

I love these parties. I love draping over the piano, swirling the ice in my Cuba Libre and humming along to "Witchcraft" with Cy Coleman. Maybe Frank will stop by and sing "Chicago" -that toddlin' town- or someone will put a Charlie Parker LP on the hi-fi. It's 1960 all over again. But only in my mind, for Blue Eyes and Ella and Lenny and Nat and Sammy and Dino and Bird have all gone to that big cocktail party in the sky. Now, Hef and I have to make do with the talentless and silly girls next door. It's quite a come-down for both of us.

I have become privy to the domestic side of Hugh Hefner and his current live-in girlfriends because I have "The Girls Next Door" - the reality show featuring the wacky goings-on at the L.A. Playboy Mansion- set to digitally record anytime, any day, any channel, any universe. I'm not sure what the appeal is for me - I don't usually find reality shows very interesting. I don't care if contestants are voted off their islands, or if wives are swapped, or children are brought into line by a British nanny, or how many jars of cockroaches a contestant swigs down. You can be the next rock star, millionaire, bachelor, idol, designer, model, or dancer and I don't need to know. If you are racing to Zanzibar, you may have to get there without my encouragement.

Yet, in stark contrast to all that apathy, I seem to have settled into the Mansion with relative ease. I've tried identifying the source of my fascination with this show. Some of it must have to do with observing the sheer self-indulgence and self-promotion of the Mansion denizens, Holly, Bridget and Kendra. Presumably, these women are all Hef's "girlfriends" and all claim to have a committed relationship with him. On camera, we see that they all live in the same Mansion, but only Holly and Hef seem to be engaged in some sort of romantic arrangement. Perhaps the creators of the show realized that America is willing to let Hef pretend to be the eternal swinger, but we all want the reassurance of serial monogamy.

The show is entirely given over to tracking the aspirations of young women who seem to regard the Playboy enterprise as their portal to anything that's worthwhile in life. It's a complete fixation with "LOOK AT ME, DADDY! AM I PRETTY? " Every show follows the day-to-day schedule of the live-ins (here's Kendra at the gym; here's Bridget taking her Persian cat for grooming; here's Holly planning yet another baby-shower that's not her own because Hef isn't ready to commit to raising a family with her, which, since he's past 80, seems prudent on his part).

Every episode also showcases other aspects of Playboy life - the special events at the Mansion, the Playmate photographic shoots, the opening of the Playboy Club at the Palms in Las Vegas, traveling with Hef and, everywhere and constantly, the deluge of impossibly young nude or nearly nude women.

Is it vulgar or tawdry? Well, if you have a high comfort level with blatantly commercial nudity, no. These young women are not reflecting anything particularly aesthetic that I can tell - they are not Natasia Kinski and there is no one pretending to aspire to the likes of Richard Avedon hanging around. But this show is a far cry from those great parties with talented and literate guests that we used to have in Chicago. Buddy Rich and Alex Haley are not likely to swing by. Instead, "trashy" or "campy" are the words that come to mind.

These women appear vapid. They cavort in costumes, and lingerie and bikinis and ridiculously skimpy evening-wear. They end every sentence with that upward squeal that's usually reserved for girls in early adolescence when everything is "sooooo cu-UUUTTTE!!!" They spend hours and hours in salon chairs, on tanning beds and in waxing establishments being turned into a photo editor's ideal of cheap beauty. They have the same expression that show dogs take on when they endure endless grooming before Westminster. They stare, docilely, into space because none of them have anything worthwhile to do. The Irish Setter is dreaming of rabbits in thick underbrush and splashing through mud as her glorious red coat is fluffed into perfection. Holly dreams of marrying and having children while her long brown hair is bleached white-blonde and every other hair on her body is ripped out by the roots.

All of the grooming is interspersed with truly dull conversation. These women may be intelligent (although I have some doubts about Kendra) but, apparently, Girlfriends are not encouraged to engage in a lively discussion in genetics research or global warming while on camera. Much of the chat is given to their over-the-top (literally) breast enlargements (the natural sort being almost mythical among this crowd), and Brazilian strips.

They all display a high comfort level with nudity and a willingness to flash at the least provocation. They appear desperate to be photographed. They all wax eloquent about their love for Hef, and their happiness at being chosen as one of his dearest companions. On the show, their play is juvenile - hula-hooping (nude) and slip-n-sliding (nude) and swimming around in little inflatable pool toys (nude). No one is working out a chess move or reading; no one is discussing genocide or foreign policy. One hopes that they have a richer and more challenging life off-camera. If they are smart, they must be bored out of their minds. If they aren't smart, they still must be bored out of their minds.

The other rather bizarre aspect of their status is that the Girlfriends do not date, nor are they allowed to be outside of the mansion after 9:00 PM unless accompanied by Hef. But for the nudity and the (presumed) romping with Baby Puffin (as the girls call him), they might as well be living in a boarding school. Holly tells us that this rule is left over from the days when Girlfriends "were irresponsible". Read: boys and drugs. The downside of dating youngsters instead of women is that they tend to have less impulse control. (Holly and Bridget seem to have their libidos reigned in, but I think that Kendra is going to bolt any second.) Essentially, the only excess that Hef will permit is nudity. Omnipresent nudity. It's all very weird and incredibly interesting.

Understand, I am not judgmental about the choices of these youngsters. My life is considerably more virtuous, but it's not exactly an on-going party. Oh, sure, I have an education, self-respect and honorable work, but a party? Not so much. I appreciate that these women view Playboy as an opportunity to gain celebrity and money. We see a lot of the Playmates at their weddings and baby showers, so, perhaps, it's also a vehicle through which to fulfill that most basic of desires - a nice guy and kids.

I AM concerned that the Girlfriends are racing down the wrong road to fulfillment. Their self-esteem, security, livelihood and futures all rely on the judgments of photographers and editors scrutinizing their nude photos and agreeing that they meet or do not meet their standards. That seems precarious to me.

When fabled and faded Playmates of the past like Barbie Benton return to the Mansion for a nostalgic evening with Hef, you feel awful for her. This used to be her home. Hef used to be her guy. Barbie used to enjoy the same perks and attention. Now she's just a visitor - too old (although, we should all look that good at any age) to be of any interest. No one really talks to her. She drinks too much too early in the evening. Doesn't Hef miss her? Will he miss any of these women?

As a former 23-year-old woman, I appreciate that these girls are wielding the small power that their attractiveness allows them. I also cringe, because I well know that twenty-three gives way (if you're lucky) to forty-three and sixty three. One can play on one's beauty and fabulous body for a very, very short time in a life span. Hef, typically, discards his companions after they turn 24 (Holly, at 26, has exceeded her shelf life and is right to panic).

I don't know if these women are paid or if they get to keep their Porsches and jewelry, but there is little doubt that they will, sooner or later, find themselves on the curb with a pink-bunny-overnight bag full of thongs and costumes. No one at the Playboy mansion is even close to 30 besides the secretaries, the catering staff, the groundskeepers, and Hef.

My voyeuristic obsession with this show fanned my curiosity about Hefner and the Playboy enterprise. I found it hard to believe that a whole publishing and entertaining empire was built on a foundation of filmy undergarments alone. Someone had to be very talented and very smart and at the exact right location and time to achieve the kind of wild commercial success that is Playboy.

Hefner is the master mind who first, brilliantly, opposed the social conventions of the 50s by creating a men's magazine that encouraged the hip, sophisticated male of the day to surrender to his natural instincts and swing. Playboy personified indulgence in the high life. When asked to define the Playboy profile, Hef responded, ""We like our apartment, We enjoy mixing up cocktails and an hors d'oeuvre or two, putting a little mood music on the phonograph and inviting females acquaintances for a quiet discussion of Picasso, Nietzsche, jazz, sex."

(If I only had a dollar for every time a man asked me over to discuss Nietzsche and Cubism, I'd be�well� I'd be pretty much the same as I am right now. But, why only two hors d'ouevre? Couldn't we spring for three or four? Nietzsche wrote a lot, and we'll need to keep our strength up for our discussion.)

Hefner started his career in the subscription department at Esquire magazine. Originally, a men's magazine that provided many of the pin-up illustrations for WWII soldiers, the magazine's publisher decided to rescue Esquire from "bawditry" and herald a "New Puritanism." Because, I guess, Americans never get enough opportunities to reject "bawditry" and embrace dreariness.

Esquire moved from Chicago to New York in 1951, but Hefner did not relocate. Instead, he stayed in Chicago to begin his own magazine. In his first issue of Playboy, Hefner published full-color nudes of Marilyn Monroe on quality stock.* Heretofore, men's magazines of this ilk had been "coarse and grainy" and printed on cheap paper. They were without glamour and, essentially, crude. If nothing else, Hefner's artistic vision was in a class all by itself.

At first, Hefner padded his new publication with nude stock photos from an agency that supplied art photography for figure studies. These early magazine photos show models kneeling or reclining in front of a velvet curtain. But as Playboy became profitable, the quality of the photos continued to improve. Photographers and designers began to stage the photos that have become the gold standard of nude photography and a chronology of changing attitudes.

Hefner claims that he always wanted his magazine to reflect a "wholesome sexuality" that was embodied by models with the girl-next-door sort of quality (in what neighborhood do these women live?). He felt his magazine was a vehicle for "female emancipation rather than exploitation". (I laugh at this - I have yet to see a centerfold eating a pint of ice cream while wearing sweatpants furred with cat hair. Any woman I know will tell you that the secret to "emancipation" is found in an elastic waistband and an education, and not a lace bodice.)

By the 60s, Playboy was a part of the American landscape. Moms got used to moving stacks of Playboy out from under their sons' beds to vacuum. Dads kept their issues in their workshops - forbidden, but, simultaneously, easily available. The magazine offered enough quality writing that people claimed to read it as much for the articles and cartoons as the photos. It was an innovative marriage of literature, rhetoric and eroticism, and it was a runaway success.

A flip through Playboy: 50 Years, the Photographs isn't just one Playmate image after another. We see astonishing photos of Paul Newman, Bob Dylan (sadly, neither nude) and a perfect Catherine Deneuve (nude, and impossibly beautiful). We see Congressional wives, a young Mohammed Ali, President Jimmy Carter and the ubiquitous and buff Madonna; the kittenish Brigit Bardot and the eternally sprinting-down-the-beach, Bo Derek; Sharon Stone and Raquel Welch. Each decade is a reflection of the fashion and politics of that time.

By the current standards, the photos from the 50s Playboy are like needlepoint samplers- fanciful and sweet with accessories like sailor's caps and parasols and teapots. Several of the models look like June Cleaver in her living room, waiting for Wally and The Beave to get home from school, while she dusts with nothing on but her pearls. Apparently, men in the 50s relished a woman who was one-part hot minx and one-part fastidious homemaker.

The 60s girls get all flowing haired and organic. By the 90s, the background and photo techniques become almost a distraction and the women are incredibly fit. This decade seems to embrace women as lingerie models as they do not seem capable of being photographed without some unidentifiable bit of sheer nylon stuck to them, but I imagine that this, too, shall pass and give way to another aesthetic.

Beyond the magazine, Playboy spawned a commercial empire that, eventually, included clubs, casinos, clothing, television channels, lounges, jewelry, merchandise, jazz festivals and beyond. Playboy became synonymous with an attitude - to be a Playboy was also to be a player in the game of women and wealth and good times. The inconographic Playboy bunny ears are, surely, as recognizable as any religious symbol in America.

But the 80s were a rough period for Hef and Playboy. A stroke, the murder of a Playmate and the suicide of an associate undermined what had been a really good party. Hef withdrew into a traditional life with a new wife and children. The last Playboy Clubs closed in the 90s when conservative politics and the loss of gambling licenses made them unprofitable. The L.A. mansion became a family residence where the pool was filled with baby toys instead of topless women. Hef seemed poised to enter the autumn of his life as a contented, monogamous family man.

But, sadly, after a decade of the quiet life, Hef and his wife separated. This turn at 75 brought Hef back into the entertainment aspect of Playboy. Soon, the grotto was overflowing with naked swimmers and celebrities again. But, somehow, the glamour had vanished. The grounds seem overrun with trashy entertainment, these days. Jazz ensembles have given over to nasty rappers. The girls are not elegant or lovely any more - they're just undressed, which seems to be all anyone is aspiring to.

There doesn't seem much irresistible seduction left at the Playboy empire. Not like the old days back in Chi-town. No elevated conversations take place on the sofa; no one is leaning romantically close or suggestively covering the hand of an intriguing companion. No high heel is left to dangle, alluringly loose on the back of a heel when the lady is feeling frisky after her second Manhattan. The men in dinner jackets who fox-trotted with �lan and the crooners who sang "Stormy Weather" have gone on.

All along, I think that Hefner had liberation in mind - I think that he intended Playboy to nurture intellectual and social freedom in puritanical, hypocritical, sexist, racist 50s America. I don't think he imagined that his gentlemen's party would end in such a crass and shabby way. The twilight is falling.

* Hugh Hefner owns the crypt directly adjoining Marilyn Monroe's.

Note-to-Self 2: My information about Hugh Heffner is from Playboy: 50 Years, the Photographs. It is published by Chronicle Books and the text is attributed to Jim Petersen. "The Girls Next Door" television show is found on the Entertainment Network. Additional background was gleaned from Image Entertainment, Inc.'s biography, "Hugh Hefner: American Playboy."

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Ingrid divides her life between the San Juan Islands (where her heart lives) and Austin, Texas (where her paycheck is generated). While Ingrid is spiritually promiscuous, she credits her guru, Jimmy Buffet, for her mantra ..."If we couldn't laugh, we would all go insane."

Ingrid is an old-school Libra and believes that the Revolution should be a catered event.

Her column appears every other Thursday in San Juan Islander. To contact Ingrid, send emails to ingrid@sanjuanislander.com

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