By Ephron, Nora
Newsweek , Vol. 158, No. 13
Byline: Nora Ephron
Here are a few thoughts.
I have for many years been puzzled by the persistence of Hugh Hefner. Why is he still here? Why does anyone write about him? Why does anyone quote his remarks about his own cultural relevance as if they are anything but wishful thinking?
Everything Hugh Hefner is responsible for--the magazine, the clubs, the philosophy, the T-shirts, the keys, the bumper stickers, the brand--has been deposited in the junk shop of 20th-century life, where it belonged. The stock tanked. The magazine's circulation fell. The clubs were closed, one by one.
But Hefner himself, now 85, is a whack-a-mole, popping up from his life on the D list to give interviews about his pajamas and his little blue pills and his cadre of surgically enhanced women. Why does anyone read about him? Why do I? I can't explain it. Last year, when news of his impending marriage was epidemic, I actually found myself wasting 30 seconds hoping that his fiancee, Crystal, 25, would have the courage to break it off. She did! Way to go, Crystal! Crystal then turned around and disappointed me by giving several television interviews denying that she'd been responsible for the breakup. "It was mutual between Hef and I," she said.
I mention all this because NBC is about to put a series about a Playboy Club on the air. Inspired by the success of Mad Men, it has gone back to the early 1960s, to that golden moment just before the women's movement came along and ruined everything. It's about several Bunnies, an ambitious Chicago lawyer, and the mob. The show (or at least the opening episode) is not unlike Playboy magazine in the early years: it has its moments, but it's mostly an excuse to show women's breasts, which (in this version, because it's on a network) are usually encased in fabulous pointy period bras or shoved upward in satin-polyester Bunny costumes. Hefner doesn't appear except as a shadowy figure, like a masked mafioso in the Federal Witness Protection Program. …