THE LOWDOWN ON THE VICE RING OF 300 “STARS”
Who’s the “lady” you saw in those filthy movies?
Hold fast! She may be your wife!
Here’s how the chance attendance of an irate husband at a stag party exploded the biggest scandal of smut-on-celluloid
BY CALVIN HUNTER
“MY WIFE IS POSING IN THE NUDE!”
These explosive words came from the lips of an irate New York husband last March. And they set police on the trail of not one — but more than 300! — girls who were taking off all, and many of them giving all, in front of some of the most overheated cameras in the country.
Irving Stone was a prolific and successful novelist who wrote Lust for Life and The Agony and the Ecstasy.
Slim Aarons was known as the “king” of Hollywood photography and described his job as “photographing attractive people doing attractive things in attractive places.” He has nice spread of Marilyn Monroe on pages 8 and 9.
I don’t know much about present day Beverly Hills, but I’m guessing it makes the one described here seem downright quaint and pedestrian. Well, maybe not pedestrian, since no one in town went anywhere on foot even in 1952.
You’ll be fascinated by this full and intimate story of what it’s like to live in the movie stars’ home town
by IRVING STONE
PHOTOGRAPHS BY SLIM AARONS
BEVERLY HILLS is the place where the man with the three-day beard next to you at the delicatessen counter is Robert Taylor; where the rear half of the horse on the stage of the grammar school during a Cub Scout show is Keenan Wynn; where the Cub Scout den meetings have a rule that no food may be served to the boys by butlers; where the daughter of the M-G-M attorney came home from her first day of school crying, “I’m underprivileged: the other kids in my class have four parents and I only have two.”
The 1951 MODEL BLONDE
By ROBERT CAHN
She’s filmdom’s Marilyn Monroe: Miss Cheesecake to GIs, whistle-bait in the studios—and an actress on her way up.
IT WAS the kind of family party that Hollywood studios periodically throw for their outlying salesmen and picture-exchange executives in order to whoop up enthusiasm for the company’s forthcoming product. The Cafe de Paris, more simply known as the 20th Century-Fox commissary, was crowded with a cheery assemblage of studio bigwigs and freshly manicured salesmen. For five days, in an atmosphere of backslapping camaraderie, the guests had watched the celluloid unroll, the same films which they were expected to describe as colossal and mean it.