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A Letter From the P'ublisher elcome to the first issue of Philip Morris Magazine, the colorful quarterly that puts you in touch with the world of Philip Morris. You may be wondering just what this "world" encompasses, and the answer is not a simple one. As Philip Morris has grown over the past century, so too has its commitment to its consumers and to the community at large. The company's commitments are reflected in the vast array of programs Philip Morris supports, ranging from large-scale art exhibits to ground-breaking support for women's sports to dozens of smaller-scale community projects across the country. But perhaps most important is Philip Morris's commitment to the tobacco industry and to the 55 million Americans who enjoy tobacco products. This magazine is designed to share these programs with you and to encourage your participation and enjoyment. Philip Morris Magazine will cover both countryside and cityscape: in this inaugural issue we'll take you down to Randolph County, North Carolina, and a tobacco farm where the work is truly a family affair. Then we'll head north for a walk down New York City's fabulous 42nd Street. Our tour of this famous thoroughfare will explain its glittering past, highlight the architectural delights of its present (including Philip Morris headquarters, the lobby of which houses a branch of the Whitney Museum of Art), and fill you in on plans for 42nd Street's future. Also in this issue, we'Il provide you with some food for thought on the subject of smokers' rights, including legislative threats that we believe will affect all Americans' liberties. We'll look, for example, at the regressive nature of excise taxes by interviewing distinguished economist Ingo Walter on the subject. We'll also ramble through Marlboro Country, America's great Southwest, a rugged region with its own brand of beauty. Then, moving from wide-open spaces to sophisticated places, we'll give you a behind-the-scenes look at the blockbuster exhibit "The Vatican Collections: The Papacy and Art." We'11 show you a side of this extraordinarily successful show that few out- siders saw: that of the men and women who actually cleaned, packed, shipped, and arranged the priceless works of art-the people who really made it happen. Then we'll take you behind the scenes to an entirely different kind of "happening": the filming of the celebrity-studded Lite Beer from Miller commercials. You'll read about how this super- successful ad campaign got its start, meet some of the former sportsmen who star-and share some of the on-the-set high jinks. If you enjoy tennis-either on the courts or from the stands-you'll want to read our guide to the newest names on the Virginia Slims Circuit, the young women to watch in 1985. You'll meet Pam Casale, 21 and already working on a comeback; six-foot-one-and-a-half-inch Helena Sukova; and Zina Garrison, the first black woman to hold a top-ten ranking since Althea Gibson reigned in the 1950s. We'll also share with you the story of Johnny, the little fellow with the big voice who "called for Philip Morris;" and offer a calendar of the summer's coming events. But, busy as these pages are, they represent only a glimpse of the world of Philip Morris-a world we hope you'll continue to explore with us in future issues of Philip Morris Magazine. Guy L. Smith Publisher

VOL. 1 NO. 1 Editorial Director STEPHEN BIRNBAUM Editor TOM PASSAVANT Art Director HORST WEBER Senior Editor THERESA KUMP Managing Editor VICTORIA W. SMITH Contributing Editors ANN PLESHETTE MURPHY MICHELLE STACEY DAVID WALKER Assistant Art Director JOE GIORDANO Editorial Coordinator EMILY SIREFMAN Copy Chief NATALIE S. DE VOE Production Manager JEAN BLOCK CONTENTS 2 GREAT DRIVES THROUGH THE SOUTHWEST by Karen Evans Visiting Marlboro Country. 7 SHIPPING THE SHOW by Eleanor Berman Behind the Vatican exhibit wall, a different kind of show took place. 12 THE FUTURE OF 42ND STREET by Phil Patton The ongoing renaissance of one of America's best-known urban byways. 16 PM NOTEBOOK A look at San Francisco's controversial new smoking law, Seattle's Pike Place Market, economist Ingo Walter on tobacco taxes, Good News, letters to PM. 22 Publisher GUY L. SMITH Associate Publisher MARY A. TAYLOR Correspondents Senior Correspondents: V. Buccellato, L. Glennie, J. Gillis, G. Powell, D. Nelson, H. Mize. Correspondents: Atlanta: E. Glanz, K. Saas; Baltimore: F. Swartz; Boston: J. Ruotolo; Charlotte: H. Johnson, J. Jones, F. Rhodes; Chicago: L. Scanlon, E. Van Dyke; Cleveland: C. Miller; Dallas: C. Finch, W. Lott; Denver: J. Gibson, Ray Phillips; Detroit: B. Hopkins; Hartford: A. Glaeberman; Houston: J. Love; Jacksonville: G. Wren; Kansas City: D. Alford; Los Angeles: M. Maitino, T. O'Hirok; Louisville: R. Badler, B. Kohl, C. Johnson; Miami:G. Burgess; Minneap- olis: P Bainter, Nashville: R. Martindale; New York: M. Faulk, S. Gen, N. Gold, D. Florio, M. Irish, J. Kochevar, A. Miller, J. Nelson, S. Puder, B. Quinby, A. Roberts, S. Strausser, S. Ross, K. Thompson; New Orleans: J. Paddock; Patterson: P Gregorio; Philadelphia: J. Chang, J. Chaump; Richmond: G. Choate, J. Frye, R. Moore; San Diego: C. Evarkiou; San Francisco: C. Rose- land; Seattle: J. Henry; St. Louis: J. Petroski; Syracuse: J. Bartek. THE YOUNG STARS TO WATCH IN WOMEN'S TENNIS by Mary Witherell A guide to the up-and-comers on the Virginia Slims Circuit. 25 A GROWING CONCERN by Rick Mashburn This tobacco farming family combines business savvy with a love of the land. 29 THE LITE STUFF by John Tarkov Behind the scenes with the celebrity sportsmen who've made Lite Beer from Miller number one. 32 A PIECE OF THE PM PAST by Theodore Fischer Remember Johnny? Cover: Tobacco harvest time in North Carolina, photographed by Clyde H. Smith/ The Stock Shop. SUMMER 1985 Philip Morris Magazine is published quarterly by Hearst Professional Magazines, Inc. for Philip Morris U.S.A.; 120 Park Avenue; New York, New York; 10017. Editorial offices at Hearst Professional Magazines, Inc.; 60 East 42nd Street; New York, New York 10165. Copyright c 1985 Philip Morris U.S.A. All rights reserved Reproduction in whole or part without written permission is prohibited. Publisher reserves the right to accept or reject any editorial or advertising matter Publisher assumes no responsibility for the return of unsolicited manuscripts or art. The material in this magazine is provided for the readers information and enjoyment only. Philip Morris U.S.A. does not endorse or assume liability for its contents.

Visiting Marlboro Country GREAT DRIVESTHROUGH THE ScXJTHWEST BY KAREN EVANS arlboro Country could be called a state of mind: a mythical landscape of endless horizons, unlimited possibili- ties, and frontier dreams. The phrase conjures up a timeless though specific vision of the rugged frontier West, one that, at first glance, may seem impossible to experience in the 1980s. After all, much of the American West is now paved over, the rangeland stitched with fences, the watering holes surrounded by cities. But that country of the heart is still out there, where tumbleweed rolls and the sky looms large, where a lone man on a horse is still etched against the sunset. It exists off the beaten path, in corners of the Southwest like Monument Valley, where the landscape that served as back- drop for so many classic western films is as untouched as it was when John Ford spotted it in the late 1930s. It still lives out near the OK Corral, and in the hometown of Bi11y the Kid. UTAH' eo Fl1Rl:~,~nl ~~-- V COLORADO NEW ~ Nha9uetGue ME ICO ROUTE #2 10 . .~.-: 10 MEXICO 54 25 70 ROUTE #3 EI Paso \~EXAS The Old West defined: Route 1, Monument Valley; Route 2, Wyatt Earp territory; Route 3, Billy the Kid country. The Old West is waiting, and all it takes to explore it is a car and a sense of adventure. The routes that follow show the best of that land and of the West's rich history, along trails where buffalo roam even now. MONUMENT VALLEY If there is a single stretch of American landscape that is etched on the national consciousness as the physical personification of the legendary West, it is Monument Valley. In large part, that's because this magnificent red- rock country, lying on Navajo land in northeastern Arizona and south- eastern Utah, is where director John Ford shot such classic western films as Stagecoach and The Searchers. The vast, Technicolor landscape of star- tling hues and clear-blue sky showed generations what the West should look like. Technically speaking Monument , ~ ~ Valley is a part of the great prehistoric ~ Colorado Plateau, uplifted from seabeds during the Mesozoic era some 225 million years ago. Made of ancient Permian and Triassic rock, the buttes and pinnacles were created by erosive cycles of wind and water. But its appeal is as much emotional as geological. The rocky outcrop- pings, some of them jutting to 2,000 feet, are as curious and memorable as their names-The Mittens, Three Sisters, Camel Butte, Totem Pole, The Thumb. And to the Navajo, this sacred place of magentas and pinks and mysterious forms is known as "The Land of the Sleeping Rainbow:" WHERE THE WEST WAS WON John Ford shot his first western here in 1939. Based on a short story called "Stage to Lordsburg;" the film Stagecoach launched the career of a young, relatively unknown actor named John Wayne. But Ford insisted that "the real star of my westerns has always been the land;" and his favorite landscape was Monument Valley. "It has rivers, mountains, plains, desert;" he said. "I have been all over the world, but I consider this the most complete, beautiful, and peaceful place on earth:' It was the late Harry Goulding, whose in- triguing old lodge is still open for business here, Y 0 ~ R N

who sold Monument Valley to Hollywood. He marched into United Artists studios in 1939 with a handful of photographs taken by the renowned regional photographer Josef Muench. Goulding's timing was perfect, and three days later John Ford was scouting locations in the valley for Stagecoach. In all, Ford filmed here for 25 years, ending in 1964 with Cheyenne Autumn. The Duke and many other stars-among them Ward Bond, Maureen O'Hara, and Henry Fonda- said their lines against The Mittens and Merrick Butte, and along the way Ford made such classics as She Wore a Yellow Ribbon and the film that made a hero of the landscape like no other: The Searchers. Monument Valley has not exactly been ignored by more recent filmmakers. It has appeared in The Eiger Sanction, Superman, and Koyanisquaatsi and was extraterrestrial enough for a few scenes in 2001. Unsurprisingly, parts of How the West Was Won were shot here as well, TOURING THE SET Monument Valley is located roughly 175 miles northeast of Flagstaff, Arizona. It can be reached from the north, out of Moab, Utah, via U.S. 191, or from the south through Flagstaff and Tuba City on U.S. 160. From Tuba City take Navajo Route 1 through Kayenta, then head north on Navajo Route 18 to the entrance of the Navajo Tribal Park. The best drive through the most spectacular sections of Monument Valley is a 14-mile loop around the valley floor. The Visitors Center at ~ the Tribal Park, which is near the entrance, four 0 C) miles off U.S. 163, is the place to begin (Navajo ~ Tribal Park Headquarters; Box 93; Monument ~ Valley UT 84536 ; 801-727-3287) Going off The rich variety of plant life the road at all requires an Indian guide, and in Arizona's Sonora Desert (above) includes yellow-flowered prickly pear cactus (right, top). arrangements can be made here; maps for self- Cowboys (right, bottom) are still part of the guided tours on the main route are also avail- scenery as we11. able. This route passes by The Mittens, which the Navajo believe were left behind by the gods, and other formations with names like Elephant Butte, Rain God Mesa, and Thunder Bird Mesa. PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINEiSUMMER 1085 3

Another drive, on U.S. 160 south- west from Kayenta, Arizona, passes through sheepherding country and several Navajo trading posts. Along the way, the ancient Anasazi Indian ruins of Betatakin offer a silent re- minder of the vanished tribe that flourished here over 700 years ago. Tours leave from the Visitors Center of Navajo National Monument (HC 63 Box 3, Tonalea, AZ 86044-9704; 602-672-2366). Goulding's Lodge, just over the Utah border on U.S. 163, is the place to stay (Box 1; Monument Valley, UT 84536; 801-727-3231). The walls are hung with call sheets from old films and still photographs of the stars and the action. The people at Goulding's can point to the cabin where John Wayne used to stay, as well as provide general tour information. Off-the-road four-wheel-drive tours to more remote areas may be booked from here, too. Goulding's season runs from March 15 to Oc- tober 31. For those who would rather rough it, there are camping facilities in the Tribal Park 4 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 David Muench Photography In Monument Valley: The Mittens are sil- houetted against the sunset (top) and Navajo children play among the ancient rocks (above). (ask at the Visitors Center), as well as in Kayenta. WYATT EARP TERRITORY If Monument Valley was a western stage set, Tombstone, Arizona, was the real thing: a rugged town where Sheriff Wyatt Earp fought the fa- mous gunfight at the OK Corral, and where Geronimo surrendered to end the Apache Wars. Known as "the town too tough to die;" Tombstone survives today in the high, beautiful desert coun- try of southern Arizona, just 67 miles from Tucson. The drive east from Tucson on Interstate 10 to Benson, then south to Tombstone on U.S. 80 and on into the historic mining town of Bisbee, passes through glorious stretches of scenic landscape. Roguishly handsome Wyatt Earp served in Tombstone's more troubled times as the deputy sheriff, with his brother Virgil as the chief of police. All five Earp brothers had sideline occupations as land speculators, saloon keepers,

and gamblers; in fact, they didn't take up their calling as lawmen until after the other enforcers had been scared out of town by a ruthless gang of stagecoach robbers and rustlers. The climax was the famous "Gunfight at the OK Corral" in October 1881. It lasted less than a minute, left three young outlaws dead, and resulted in instant fame for the Earps and Doc Holliday- all of whom went on to clean up the rest of Cochise County in their own flamboyant fashion. Today the OK Corral, located right on the main street, is open to visitors, marked with a sign that says, WALK WHERE THEY FELL. Just around the corner are the offices of the Tombstone Epitaph-a real media force in its day-and on the other end of town is the old Bird Cage Theatre, both open to the public. On Toughnut Street the old Tombstone Courthouse Museum stands, not far from the Wells Fargo Museum. Nearby are the Lucky Cuss and Crystal Palace saloons, and even today when you walk through their swinging doors it's hard not to imagine Wyatt Earp standing there, ready to reach for his six-shooter. In fact, in and around Tombstone most of the points of interest are riddled with violent legends and bullet holes. Going west out of Tombstone on Route 82 there is Drew's Station, where the stagecoach robbery that led to the famous gunfight occurred. The most notorious of the outlaws killed by Earp, John Ringo, is buried on the banks of Turkey Creek, and just north of Tombstone on U.S. 80 is Boothill Cem- etery, with grave markers bearing the names of a number of outlaws stopped in their tracks by the Earps. he territory south of Tomb stone, leading to Bisbee on U.S. 80, is rough-and-tumble cowboy country, rugged high desert reddened by mesquite and softened by rolling grass- lands. A mile high in eleva- tion, Bisbee perches precari- ously on the Mule Mountains, near the Ari- zona-Mexico border. Once the queen of the Arizona mining towns, Bisbee saw $2 billion worth of copper mined from the surrounding mountains, as well as turquoise of a quality so fine that it had its own appellation: Bisbee Blue. At its peak the town had 35,000 inhabitants- and even an opera house. In its prime, Bisbee was a company town, owned by Phelps Dodge right down to the com- pany store, the company hotel, and the com- pany newspaper. Today, it's a community filled with historic preservationists, bent on keeping its authentic turn-of-the-century flavor. The reigning hotel here is still the lavish old Copper Queen, where the "slept-here" register lists Theodore Roosevelt, who strolled through the Victorian lobby during his Rough Rider days, and General John "Black Jack" Pershing, who stopped to rest on his way to Mexico to pursue Pancho Villa. It's still open for business, and the dining room still serves up first-rate fare (Box CQ; Bisbee, AZ 85603; 602-432-2216). From Bisbee, the routes leading to other near-vanished parts of the West point in every direction. State routes 92 and 90 ramble back to Tucson, passing through Fort Huachuca on Looking toward New Mexico's San Andreas Mountains. the way, an active army post with buildings from the 1800s. Just west of Tucson is the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum, a stunning place to see the native plant life of Arizona; in spring, when the desert flowers bloom, it is extraordinary. To the east, it's just a few hours' drive into New Mexico-and Billy the Kid's old turf. The small New Mexico town of Lincoln, about 190 miles southeast of Albuquerque at the base of the Capitan Mountains, seems sleepy and humble. But a little more than a hundred years ago Lincoln County was major cattle country, as wild and woolly as the West could get. Then the largest county in the United States, with 27,000 square miles of rolling terrain, it attracted numerous ambitious cattlemen and their wan- dering longhorn herds. Eventually, thanks to the Lincoln County Range Wars and a former New Yorker known as Billy the Kid, it also attracted considerable notoriety. onument Valley showed what the West should look like. PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1955 5

Tombstone, Arizona (left and right, top)-the site of the famous gunfight at the OK Corral-was called the "town too tough to die:' In Billy the Kid country the Tunstall Store at Lincoln, New Mexico (right, bottom), has been preserved as a museum. Today, through the auspices of New Mexico State Monuments and the Lincoln County Heri- tage Trust, the tiny town of Lincoln has been painstakingly restored. Tourists can visit the courthouse where Billy the Kid shot it out and escaped from custody in 1881, and the old Wortley Hotel, a charming one-story inn with chairs lining its long front porch, is open once again, offering home-cooked meals and lodging (Lincoln, NM 88388; 505-653-4381). The town's greatest claim to fame, though, is still William Bonney, aka Billy the Kid, whose relatively short five-year career spawned hundreds of articles and books, a number of movies, a television series, and an annual pag- eant, Old Lincoln Days. On the first weekend in August about half of Lincoln's 100 residents produce a rowdy version of "The Last Escape of Billy the Kid;" as well as a Pony Express race, an old-time fiddler's contest, a western parade, and a concert performed on the porch of the Wortley. The object of all this celebration was a dubious celebrity at best, a man some called "nothing but a juvenile delinquent." Billy played a leading role in the Lincoln County Range Wars, a bloody series of power struggles between cattlemen and merchants, outlaws and outraged citizenry, that began in 1876. In the last battle of the war, Billy's band of outlaws was entrenched for two days in the McSween home, exchanging gunfire with a rival gang that was barricaded in the surrounding buildings. Billy the Kid was eventually caught and jailed in the courthouse, but one of his jailers made the grievous error of going across the street to the Wortley for dinner. Billy killed the guard who stayed behind, shot the second as he came back across the street from his dinner, and rode out of town, evidently with the tacit approval of most of the population. The old courthouse is a museum now, marked with the spots where Billy fired his fatal shots. There are other historic points, including the old Tunstall Store, which has been renovated into a museum, complete with merchandise from bygone days. Down the street is the old stone torreon-the tower that the early settlers built to defend themselves from the Apache raiders. The Wortley Hotel is still the only place to stay or eat in Lincoln, and in the summer it is the town gathering place. It has only nine rooms, though, so reserve in advance-especially around Old Lincoln Days. There's lots of food and lodging available west on U.S. 70 in Ruidoso. Thirteen miles east on 70 in Tinnie, the old Tinnie Mercantile Co. has been restored with 1800s furnishings and turned into a good res- taurant and local watering hole called Tinnie's Silver Dollar. Information about Old Lincoln Days (sched- uled this year for August 2 to 4) and the town's sights can be had by calling 505-653-4372. A few miles northwest of Lincoln, just north of the junction of U.S. 380 and state route 349, is another piece of the West's past: the ghost town of White Oaks. In its prime, White Oaks was overrun with prospectors, and the nearby Homestake mine eventually yielded half-a- million dollars' worth of gold. Another mine, Old Abe, yielded gold worth $3 million. White lhe town of Lincoln's best claim to fame is William Bonney, aka Billy the Kid. Oaks became known as "the liveliest town in the territory," complete with an opera house and a mansion (still standing) known as Hoyle's Castle that, the story goes, was built for a young bride who refused to come West. Legend has it that the heartbroken builder simply disappeared. Conrad Hilton even considered building a hotel here, and Billy the Kid hung out in town until Sheriff Pat Garrett caught up with him at Stinking Springs, near Fort Sumner. The end came for White Oaks when the ore was exhausted and the railroad bypassed the town, but the remains of the old town still stand. Today a few residents remain, trying to spruce up the old Exchange Bank Building and fix up the Little Casino, where Madame Varnish-named for her slippery ways-once dealt the cards. Down U.S. 70 is the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation and a luxury resort hotel, the Inn of the Mountain Gods, run by the Mesca- lero Apaches (Box 269; Mescalero, NM 88340; 505-257-5141). It offers lodging, shopping, dining, repose-and a chance to contem- plate the endless and unchanging horizons of the West. 11 Karen Evans is a writer based in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Behind-the-scenes at the presentation of precious papal art. SIIPPING THE SHOW BY ELEANOR BERMAN t was an art event with- out precedent. Not since Napoleon's invading armies looted Rome had the treasures of the Vat- ican been away "on loan." Now, two centu- ries later in 1983, 237 priceless pieces were on view at New York City's Metropolitan Museum of Art, part of the Philip Morris-sponsored exhibition "The Vatican Collections: The Papacy and Art" But few of the 855,939 viewers who flocked to the Metropolitan that year ever knew the saga- almost as remarkable as the show itself-of four years of negotia- tion, preparation, restoration, and hard work that preceded the opening of the exhibit. Every special museum exhibit requires long and painstaking planning behind the scenes, but this became the most expensive exhibit in history. Though Philip Morris has been underwriting museum shows for 20 years, the $3 million grant given for the Vatican spectacular was the largest corporate grant in museum history. The backstage endeavors are still vivid in the minds of everyone at the Met, from the telephone operators to the museum's director, Philippe de Montebello. To hear de Montebello tell it, all it took to launch this historic project was a call to New York's late Archbishop, Terence Cardi- nal Cooke, a member of the museum's board of directors. Wouldn't it be nice, de Montebello suggested, if Pope John Paul II's visit here in 1979 were to include the announcement of a major ex- hibition of Vatican art to tour the United States. Such an exhibition had been the dream of almost every major museum director for years, but the Vatican had long banned loans of its priceless collection. Even with the pontiff's blessing, the most diplomatic negotiations were required first to convince skeptics in Rome that a traveling exhibit was a good idea, and second to coax individual cura- tors to lend their prize pieces for the show. De Montebello's trump card: the promise to use a large part of the exhibit endowment for much-needed restoration of the Vatican collections, work that would bring many of the objects back to their finest condition in centuries. Agreement came, but with a proviso. The Vatican would deal with only one party in the United States. The Metropolitan was put in the touchy position of assum- ing responsibility for the show when it traveled to two other major U.S. museums, the Art Institute of Chicago and the M.H. de Young Memorial Museum in San Francisco. Even harder bargaining ensued when de Montebello, curator Olga Raggio, and exhibit coordi- nator Margaret Frazer went to Rome with their "wish list" and got down to negotiat- ing with Vatican museum heads about which ob- jects would be al- lowed to travel. De Montebello had asked seven of his department heads to submit proposals for an exhibition theme. Raggio's winning idea was to show the powerful in- fluence of the popes' collections on the develop- ment of Western art; that theme de- termined the cri- teria for selecting what would be shown. Each piece had to answer two questions: Which pope had commis- sioned or collect- ed it? And why? De Montebello smiles, remem- bering his chronic bad back that forced the urbane director to conduct some of the most crucial negotiations in Rome while lying flat on his back on the Vatican floor, a posture that seemed to break the ice and actually re- solved some wrangles: "A couple of major pieces were agreed upon at that time." ut not all of the museum's wishes came true. Some pieces were deemed too frag- ile to travel; others did not mea- sure up because no one knew what they meant to the pope who acquired them. But there were tri- umphs as well, such as the in- clusion of Caravaggio's The Deposition, believed by many to be the artist's greatest work, Raphael's tapestries, and, after significant initial reluctance, the glorious statue of the Apollo Belvedere. Fragment of a Greek grave relief, or stele (ca. 430 B.C.), brought to Venice as war booty in 1687. It was acquired by the Holy See in 1823. N PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 7

Behind the scenes (top, left to right): Curators select pieces for the show, then over- see their re- moval from the Vatican and the careful packing process. The works were also cleaned and restored (right, top)underthe watchful eye of Biagio Cascone (right, bottom). R estoration of ex- hibit items is part of any show, but in this case a few miracles occur- red. The Apollo Belvedere was li- terally taken apart -into 13 pieces-and put back together, repair work that enabled the statue to stand on its own two feet for the first time in centuries, its rusting iron insides replaced with stainless steel rods. Accord- ing to Olga Raggio, five terra- cotta sculptural studies, stripped of their black paint, were found to be authentic Berninis with a surface of "enormous freshness:' The cleaning of 16th-century vestments and the removal of centuries of tarnish from gold candlesticks were also a revela- tion, she says. SETTING THE TONE As curator, one of Raggio's pri- mary tasks was to work with ex- hibit designer Stuart Sil- ver in developing an aes- thetic design that would do justice to the art and also evoke some of the feeling of the Roman backdrop that is so in- tegral a part of the Vati- can collections. A master of the "blockbuster" show and designer of the Met's highly successful "The Treasures of Tutankh- amen" exhibit, Silver had left the museum to become vice-president of design communications at Knoll Asso- ciates. But when de Montebello called, he took the time to return for this exhibit. He remembers traveling to Rome to sit in on the final selection process, then re- turning to his hotel and sketching out a basic design for the show of the century in a couple of hours. Among its features were a palette 8 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1955 of earthy Roman colors and repeated use of Italianesque arches. His design transformed 2,200 square feet of space, the largest ever allotted for a Metropolitan exhibit; it took more than 100 people six months to construct and cost over $1 million. While Stuart Silver was puz- zling over how to display the art, registrar John Buchanan was worrying about shipping, insur- ance negotiations, and the securi- ty of exhibitions in transit. It's a job he calls "nuts and bolts," but still one fraught with potential complications. He is expected to be something of a seer, submitting estimates on costs for shipping shows as long as four years in advance of the actual exhibition. "I know a little bit how the Pentagon feels," he comments wryly. The Vatican show presented challenges even for a man accus- tomed to the complicated. "We were fortunate to have one official carrier, Pan Am, and they did a superb job," Buchanan says. "But normally items are crated, trans- ported to an airport, and then tied onto large pallets to be loaded into the plane. It was decided to minimize handling by packing these pallets right at the Vatican:' That meant building a covered platform and installing rollers so that completed pallets could be rolled onto trucks that took them directly to the planes. Rollers were installed at the Metropolitan to repeat the procedure and again at the other two stops on the Ameri- can tour. Chicago's loading dock needed structural changes to han- dle the task, and a platform had to be built from scratch in San Francisco. The double packing boxes used for the delicate objects-specially built in Rome from aged poplar, enormous slabs of polyurethane foam, and yards of mollettone, a thick cotton flannel-were works of art in themselves. Richard E. Stone, a Metropolitan conserva- tor, was one of those in- volved in another of the important packing op- erations, ensuring that fragile exhibits would not be affected by tem- perature and humidity changes en route or dur- ing the exhibit. Paintings on wood are particu- larly susceptible, Stone says, because wood pan- els flex, causing prob- lems in paint adhesion. An environmental chamber was built where delicate objects slowly changed (over a period of ten days) from the climate of Rome to the temperature and humidity of American museums. Then they were rapidly packed and shipped. "In conservation, the simplest devices often prove the best,"

I I Stone observes. Silica gel, which absorbs moisture in damp condi- tions and gives it off in dry, was used. Individual works of, art were placed in inner cribs lined with strips of silica gel. The cribs were topped with porous plastic sheets tacked down on both sides, then placed in protective outer crates. The actual exhibit cases in New York were lined with silica gel pa- per and, in addition, there was a hydrometer in each case to report any harmful change in the atmo- spheric conditions. At every airport and every des- tination point there were repre- sentatives from the Met and from the Vatican. Pictures were taken as the crates were unpacked and a condition report was filed. Since insurance indemnity is limited to $10 million on any one shipment, 11 separate shipments were required. No two primary masterpieces traveled on the same plane and, as an extra precaution, plaster casts were made of all the sculptures in the show before they left Rome. Insurance, which can run as much as a third of the cost of an exhibit, turned out to be the least of Buchanan's problems for the Vatican art. The bulk of it was picked up by the U.S. government, which, under the Arts and Arti- facts Indemnity Act passed by Congress in 1975, helps many museums by indemnifying impor- tant shows up to $50 million. With that amount covered, get- ting supplementary insurance rarely poses a problem and costs relatively little, Buchanan says. How_to evaluate art that is beyond price? It is done simply by what the items might bring at auction, with curators and experts verifying estimated prices. There are knowledgeable companies that specialize in this type of cov- erage, according to Buchanan. The sums involved, while large, aren't always the greatest risks for an insurance company: "An oil tanker can cost $30 million." Among those who played a critical role in unloading the treasures were the riggers, part of the staff of Richard R. Morsches, the Metropolitan's vice-president for operations. The Vatican show involved some of the heaviest classical sculpture ever moved, a total shipping weight of 54.7 gross tons. It took all the skill of the Met's ten-man rigging crew using such machinery as gantries, tiering machines, forklifts, and special electric hydraulic platform lifts to gently set a 6,000-pound m 0 ~ 0 U .c w The Apollo Belvedere (top), a Roman marble copy of a Greek orig- inal thought to date from the late 4th cen- tury, stands over seven feet tall. Work- men (right) guide another piece through the halls of the Vatican. PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 9

10 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 At left and center, the un- packing and installation of the Vatican trea- sures. Stuart Silver's design for the galleries (bottom) incor- porated Roman- style arches and earthy colors. Facing page: The Rest on the Flight Into Egypt (ca. 1570-1573) by Barocci. statue like the Apollo Belvedere on its feet. Neither out-of-town museum had a rigging crew, so Morsches lost his men each time the exhibit had to be reinstalled. He and his staff made two pre- liminary trips to each city, mea- suring corridors and elevators to guard against potential disasters. Also in the operations domain were the carpenters who built the cabinets and pedestals, metal- smiths who made every picture hook, and painters who not only decorated the galleries but nightly touched up every smudge or fingerprint left by the huge crowds. The signs to the rest- rooms, outdoor awnings and banners, 185,000 light bulbs, printing and mailing, purchasing, and training of guards were all the responsibility of Morsches and his able managers, who supervise 750 of the museum's 1,600 employees. Morsches, a 21-year Met veteran, compares his job to running an army. Then he grins and admits, "It's fun. No two days are alike." One particularly sensitive province belongs to Kathleen Arffmann, director of admissions. Each time a show is planned, estimates are made as to how many people can visit the galleries comfortably at one time, and how long it will take them to walk through the exhibit. Arffmann issues tickets accordingly. Then a major part of her job is to train the temporary assistants hired to handle busy phones, staff desks, and say no tactfully to disap- pointed callers. There were many of the latter for the Vatican show, especially on weekends, when 20,000 re- quests were common for 5,500 places. An important show brings an average of 37 calls per min- ute, and most want personal attention after they hear a record- ed message. Nine special lines are needed for a typical big exhibit. Was it worth it? Almost every- one at the Metropolitan, remem- bering the final triumph of the ex- hibit, says yes-but they say it on the run. After all, major exhibits are what a great museum is all about. And though the Vatican show was a landmark, that was yesterday. Tomorrow it will be another show, and there are still cases to build, planes to meet, crates to unpack, lectures to be given-and all those phones to answer. 0 Eleanor Berman is the author of the Away for the Weekend guides (Clarkson N. Potter). i

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® ® ® © ® L111111 ® ® ® ® r=r-# _t 4 1 W i s~.w.-1 ® D 0 10 ti Ll i l i A #h ~ 3.. _ Courtesy of John Burgee Architects with Philip Johnson N O -p O W U1 ~ ! ~ CO ' } t ~i Scenes of 42nd Street today against a backdrop of plans for its future (clockwise from left): ornate grillworK in the outer lobby of the Chanin Building; rush-hour traffic; a detail of Grand Central Terminal; an artist's rendering of the office towers pro- posed for Times Square•

One of America's most famous thoroughfares is about to get a facelift. Courtesy of John Burgee Architects with Philip Johnson ~ BY PHIL PATTON Nothing in recent years has done more for the reputation of New York's 42nd Street than the musical of the same name. But the show gets one thing wrong: the song about dancing feet refers to the "avenue they're taking us to'." That's fine for rhyme-it may be allowed as poetic license- but it completely misses the point. Because 42nd Street is definitely not anything as highfalutin' as an avenue-it's a plain old street-wise street that's worked its way up. Its appeal lies in the fact that it cuts across the avenues, from the gritty to the grand. The street is literally as wide as Manhattan, stretching from the East River to the Hudson, and it's a cross section of the whole island, a core sample of all its varied strata, from polished marble to rough brownstone. Today, 42nd Street also offers a microcosm of the debate over strategies pro- posed for a better urban future. Recent improvements have provided hope for an end to 42nd Street's persistent problems and a reaffirmation of its traditional worth. Glis- tening new buildings, from the Grand Hyatt and Harley hotels to the dignified Philip Morris and (newly reclad) Home Box Office headquar- ters, now rub elbows with monuments of the skyscraper era. And a pending Times Square renewal plan is about to contribute the most dra- matic change ever in a street that has seen many changes. That scheme, directed by New York State's Urban De- velopment Corporation, in- cludes plans to build a series of towers, designed by such architects as Philip Johnson and John Burgee, that will range up to 56 stories tall and include office, retail, and hotel space. Plans for the restoration to theatrical use of nine once- grand theaters between Se- venth and Eighth Avenues are also part of the project. The price tag for the whole regener- ation approaches $2 billion. Theater helped build 42nd Street. As New York City grew, it moved north from its water- front origins; 42nd Street was a frontier, the edge of uptown, when a few daring theater own- ers, beginning with Charles Frohman (in 1893) and Oscar Hammerstein (in 1895) lo- cated there. Swanky restau- rants, watering holes, and hotels soon followed. Before that, 42nd Street had been considered a wilderness. When Grand Central Depot went up in 1871, on the same site of the current incarnation, in the direction of either river- RM u~fllft aa..~r~~c~i •...: ,~ L sira ~ :H ~ ~ fiiTa:L'X . i.n ..GL"IL~et  .a~~~3... ud.:~;..u rskFE:.1.u. 12 .... ;.E..~~.... :Ci G?€ a~tEvW :` a~3l16d~:~[ ; 'n1.ILA YWWl1.'( aYYWYYYu Fam 6 0 ~ 4 ® l EQ Q Is I [A 0 0 ® M 0 © ME a ~ at~._ - ` tiffi.1'll ".---1- .::.. ", front were only tenements, gasworks, rail yards, and what were then regularly referred to as "dens of hooliganism;" sup- porting their own cast of "French ladies" This was New York's own tenderloin. There were, to be sure, new buildings uptown around Central Park, but they retained an almost sub- urban air through the 1880s. To the west, 42nd Street ran through the heart of what was called "Hell's Kitchen;" home of freight yards, stock pens, and tenements, and an area that had been home to gang wars since the Civil War. It was often the site of thievery and strong-arm tactics aimed at the freight industry, and of fights for turf between gangs with colorful-now quaint-names: the original "Hell's Kitchen Gang;" the "Hudson Dusters;" the "Gophers." The wars be- tween the hoodlums were not stopped until the early years of the present century, when the New York Central Railroad

. ae ~~ ~ m~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~1.0 ~: ~i~.aa~ . the Ford Founda- tiori s indoor garden (above), inside the Automat (below). used its own gang of toughs to break the hold on the then- dominant Gophers. The famous priest, Father Francis Duffy, who is honored today by a statue in Times Square, earned his reputa- tion as a sort of missionary to these wild tribes, an almost storybook figure blending tough- ness and kindness. Duffy, who was also the chaplain of the famed 69th Regiment (raised mostly from the Hell's Kitchen area), was pastor of the Church of the Holy Cross, on 42nd between Eighth d Ni th A m an n venues. ~ It was the presence of Grand Central Terminal that led, indi- rectly, to the birth of the modern 42nd Street. The city's first sub- way line-previous rail lines had been trolleys or "els"-was the IRT, running from City Hall to Grand Central, then west along 42nd Street before turning up Broadway. This transit innova- tion helped Adolph Ochs of The New York Times decide to locate his paper's new building at the subway juncture. The paper moved into its terra-cotta sheathed tower on New Year's Eve 1904. (The celebration, complete with fireworks, marked the beginning of an annual New Year's cere- mony.) Before long, Ochs had persuaded the city to formally name the square-actually a set of triangles-at 42nd and Broad- way "Times Square" Over the years the building itself has changed much, becoming One Times Square after the paper's of- fices moved to 43rd Street and then, in 1966, the Allied Chemi- cal Tower (shortly thereafter it was fitted with a new, modern, marble skin). Times Square became a place of legend less through plays and shows than through another form of theater-outdoor advertising 0 I I M !I- 0 t U ® hotel buildings that make up the Times Square Center. and the drama of its enormous billboards. Even Broadway's nickname-"the Great White Way"-was invented by an advertising man, O. J. Gude, an early champion of the electric sign. The signs are specifically pro- tected by the 1916 Zoning Act. Times Square has been a na- tional as well as municipal stage. In how many minds is the end of World War II represented by the lingering memory of Alfred Eisen- stadt's famous photograph of a sailor kissing a nurse? Currently there is concern that the plans for rehabilitating Times Square might endanger this public role. In particular, several citizens and arts groups have criticized the proposal to remove the old Times Tower. After the plans to raze the tower were announced, New York's Municipal Art Society sponsored a competition to suggest ways the building could be saved and the uses to which it could be put. Almost all the pro- posals featured some form of giant television screens, to am- plify and expand the building's place as the greatest sign among a forest of supersigns. As varied as the denizens of 42nd Street's sidewalks are the personalities of the buildings that rise above them. A walking tour of the street's great skyscrapers should start at its eastern extreme, where 42nd Street seems to begin in the most universal way possi- ble, with the headquarters of the United Nations. But the original design of the UN complex (by an international committee of architects headed by New Yorker Wallace K. Harrison) inspired as much bickering as occurs at the Security Council. The basic plan, by Le Corbusier, somehow man- aged to retain its formal power through all the adjustments and modifications. The UN's neighbor, the huge Tudor City apartment complex, turns in on its courtyards, entirely understandable since it once was surrounded solely by warehouses, tenements, and slaughterhouses (six acres of the latter were razed to make way for the UN). The Ford Foundation headquarters sits just across the street from Tudor City, and its atrium echoes the residential complex's park and courts. Designed by the architec- tural firm of Kevin Roche and John Dinkeloo, the Ford Founda- tion building represents what is best about the often-maligned urban architecture of the 1960s: its shapes are powerful, but humane, concrete and steel beams softened by weathered surfaces of Cor-ten steel. But its most attrac- tive feature is the interior garden, which is as much a gift to the street as to the floors of offices tiered around it. Farther along, a trio of sky- scrapers-the nearby Daily News Building, the original McGraw- Hill Building far to the west, and the American Radiator Building just about in the middle (behind the Public Library)-make 42nd Street a showcase for the work of one of America's greatest architects, Raymond Hood. Hood, along with John Mead Howells, won the famous Chicago Tribune Tower competition that did so much to define skyscraper architecture. His American Radia- tor Building, (actually on 40th Street but best seen from 42nd across from Bryant Park) is a miniature black-and-gold version of the Tribune Tower, a Gothic cathedral of business. The Daily News Building, completed in 1930, is distin- guished for having broken away from the rigidity of setbacks 2040235200 1 A Above, drawings detail the office, retail, and \\1v\~\~,\l. 'r :"3c~: ~ 0 ~ s1 A ~, asr• \~ 0

r (dictated under the 1916 zoning laws) to create a solid shape that left much of the site free. In this, as in the dramatic contrast of its dark and light bands of siding, it set a precedent. It also expressed a certain vision of the 1930s city, the Metropolis of the "Superman" strips. The comic strip's Daily Planet was modeled on the Daily News, and the incestuous relation- ship came full circle when the Daily News Building was actually used in the "Superman" films as Daily Planet headquarters. By way of the Daily News Building, Hood moved from the delicate detail of the Radiator Building to the stripped-down McGraw-Hill Building, conclud- ing in the process that "this beau- ty stuff is all bunk" But McGraw- Hill-built far to the west (330 W. 42nd St.) because of zoning requirements for the firm's presses-is beautiful nonetheless. With its ocean-liner-like top stories and green terra-cotta paneling, it suggests some great conning tower or superstructure; a captain's bridge from which the whole island of Manhattan might be steered. From the sidewalks of 42nd Street, one could easily miss its greatest skyscraper, the Chrysler Building. It is so tall and dramatic -especially at night, with its arc of V-shaped lights installed a cou- ple of years ago-that it needs to be seen from a distance. A pedestrian in too much of a hurry is also likely to neglect other, less-famous skyscrapers, many of whose upper reaches have been blocked from easy view by later development. For ex- ample, the Chanin Building (122 E. 42nd St.) has wonderful art deco work. And, although the ski- jump form of the Grace Building, near Sixth Avenue, has been criti- cized as too showy, it is not hard to muster a bit of fondness for its dramatics. In a few years, we are likely to appreciate the sculp- tural melodrama of such build- ings, just as-half a century after their construction-we appreci- ate the ornamental melodrama of art deco. The grand aspirations of 42nd Street's towers can grow wearing. But scattered among them, for- tunately, are a few places of refuge that permit quiet observation. Moving back across town to East 42nd Street, a tour of these spots should start at Grand Cen- tral Terminal, whose admirers recently defeated a threatened plan to develop an office tower above its columns. This building offers public space in the grand tradition, serving as a kind of living room for 42nd Street and an appropriate gateway to the city. The Automat, on the southeast corner of Third Avenue, is the last of its kind: an art deco styled re- minder (it was actually built in 1958) of the days when a cup of coffee cost 5q. At the other end of the culinary scale, The Sun Garden Lounge, a restaurant-bar at the new Grand Hyatt hotel, is cantilevered out over the street next to Grand Central, providing a perfect vantage point for regarding the traffic rush. The Whitney Museum has a branch in the lobby of Ulrich Franzen's Philip Morris Building just up the block. With its open court and espresso bar, this space is an oasis from the frantic pace of the street. Designed with the assistance of William Whyte, an expert on small urban spaces, it is one of the most humane spots along 42nd Street. Moving across Fifth Avenue, the Public Library, designed at the turn of the century by Carrere and Hastings, mixes grand spaces with the smaller ones of its spe- cial collections. The library has recently installed a computerized card catalogue system, and the terminals-with their green glow-sit in odd juxtaposition to the dramatic ceilings and acres of bookshelves. Bryant Park, behind the Public Library, has so far been unsuccess- ful in its attempt to function as 42nd Street's belt buckle of greenery. Once the site of the city's drinking water reservoir, it has never quite lived up to its promise as a park. New plans call for its restoration and the addi- tion of a glassed-in, 1,000-seat restaurant, backed up to the great beaux arts library. The history of 42nd Street is the history of New York theater and, moving west, the street itself is a linear stage, as much for the street performers-the break- dancers or mimes at the corner of Sixth Avenue-as for the aspiring stars living in Manhattan Plaza, the subsidized housing complex constructed for those in the performing arts. In the redeveloped area be- tween Ninth and Tenth Avenues, are six theaters, and in what was once the West Side Airlines Terminal, video and film facilities thrive. Even the entrances to the Lincoln Tunnel have been given a touch of theater: trompe l'oeil murals by painter Richard Haas suggest fanciful stage backdrops. Critics worry about the new towers in Times Square-will they turn Times Square into just another part of midtown office- dom, an imitation of Rockefeller Center? Can they coexist with billboards and glitzy signs? And with Broadway's economy in a crunch, will the area be able to support nine new theaters? Can 42nd Street lose its rougher edges without losing its spirit? No one knows for sure, but at least the debate is finally being joined on a solid premise: the best hope for achieving a happy medium between the old, often coarse-but undeniably human- elements of the street and slick new development lies in the fact that we have begun to view 42nd Street not just as part of Times Square, not just as a connector of grand avenues, but as a land- scape and legend in itself. 11 Phil Patton is a Brooklyn-based writer interested in architecture and design. The McGraw-Hill Building. Trompe 1'oeil murals near the Lincoln Tunnel entrance. listening new buildings now rub elbows with monuments of the skyscraper era. Plans to revitalize Bryant Park include reland- scaping (above) to encourage new uses (below).

PM NOT COMMUNITIES ACT S eattle's colorful Pike Place Market sits on a steep hill above Elliott Bay, a remnant of the city's past that has recently become a catalyst for its future. Just 20 years ago the turn-of-the-century market, now filled with farmer's stalls, restaurants; and shops, was scheduled for the wrecker's ball. The fact that it has survived-and prospered- since then is a tribute to a phenomenon that is quintes- sentially American: ordinary citizens acting together to preserve and utilize their shared environment. Commu- nity action has a long history in this country, and the story of the Pike Place Market is a shining example of how it can work. The market was founded in 1907, when Seattle's rapid Saving a Piece of Seattle's Past ~ growth and status ~ as the gateway to oa the Yukon had ~ created a demand ° 2 for inexpensive 3 produce. Other food shops sprang m up nearby, and by the 1930s there were as many as 600 farmers rent- ing stalls there each day to sell their fruits and vegetables. But World War II brought disaster: almost half the farmers were of Japanese descent, and their intern- ment decimated the market. After the war, changing life-styles-migra- tion to the sub- urbs, the advent of supermarkets and of frozen foods-contrib- uted to the mar- ket's continued decline. By 1963 the run-down buildings that made up Pike Place Market were slated for demolition and replacement by a parking lot and assorted high-rise buildings. That was when some mem- bers of the community de- cided to take action. The late Victor Steinbrueck, then a professor of architecture at the University of Washington, denounced the city's proposal as a "major catastrophe:' A community group, Friends of the Market, was formed in the summer of 1964. Battle lines were drawn. For the next seven years the Friends and other groups worked to educate fellow citizens and to oppose the city's plans for redevelopment. They staged fund-raising events, such as auctions, tours, and parties, and collected more than 50,000 signatures 16 PHILIP iv1ORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 on a "Let's Keep the Market" petition to present to Seattle's City Council. Despite these efforts, the City Council voted against the preservationists but fate intervened: federal funds for urban renewal were frozen, giving the Friends time to have the market area declared a historic district. The Friends faced defeat again in the spring of 1971, when federal grant money was awarded for the city's rede- velopment project; they countered by gathering the signatures needed to put the issue to a vote. As election day neared, national attention focused on Seattle: The New York Times, Newsweek, and Harper's were among the publications that covered the controversy. "You can't fight progress. Or can you? Seattle has just enough of the old The bounty of Seattle's Pike Place Market- from produce to parking lot-dazzles the eye. frontier spunk to try," wrote Donald Aspinwall Allan in Gourmet. In November 1971 the citizens of Seattle voted 76,369 to 53,264 to preserve the market. Community involvement didn't end with this victory. A nonprofit agency was formed to oversee the market's restora- tion, and today-almost 14 years after the saving ballots were cast-it is a vibrant part of the city's center. Virginia Felton, administrative director of the Pike Place Market Preservation and Develop- ment Authority (which con- tinues to manage the market), says that Pike Place has been "a catalyst for redevelopment" in adjacent neighborhoods. The market now provides affordable space for Seattle's farmers, craftsmen, and small entrepreneurs, employing some 2,000 people and attract- ing 25,000 visitors each day. Food has always been the soul of Pike Place Market; Felton says that "80 percent of the revenues come from the food stalls and restaurants" About 80 farmers rent day- stall spaces, among them a new wave of Indo-Chinese immigrants (from Vietnam, China, Cambodia, and Tibet). Food consultant, columnist, and cookbook author Barbara Kafka recently visited the market and noted in an article in Vogue that, like past waves of immigrants, they have brought with them "the ingredients necessary for their own food. Tiny white-green bok choy with flourishes of dark-green, ruffled leaves and aromatic chrysanthemum leaves for sushi flirt with next-door bunches of basil and rosemary." Kafka concluded that "this nontourist market is the best possible kind of urban renewal, founded on a solid link with the past." And, she might have added, firmly rooted in the hearts of Seattle's citizens. p

olvement victory. A as formed et's restora- almost 14 ing ballots ibrant part r. Virginia ve director e Market Develop- hich con- e market), e has been elopment" orhoods. provides r Seattle's and small mploying snd attract- each day. 3 been the e Market; percent of from the ;taurants:' rent day- g them a -Chinese Vietnam, d Tibet). lumnist, r Barbara Psited the an article ast waves ey have m "the for their ite-green ishes of aves and hemum irt with basil and ncluded arket is of urban a solid d, she firmly Seattle's 13 STUDY FINDS SMOKERS MORE PRODUCTIVE A Minnesota study of 55 bank executives found that those who smoke are slightly more productive than their counterparts who don't. Ac- cording to Tor Dahl, a health economist at the University of Minnesota, smokers were found to utilize their produc- tivity potential "slightly more than nonsmokers" The study also demonstrated that regular exercise and age are factors that increase productivity as «.ep ARTS IN AMERICA ON THE RISE Though Americans report that their leisure time is shrink- -_'ing, they are using this de- creased time more carefully and, as a result, the arts are flourishing. According to a Louis Harris study conducted for Philip Morris, Americans have less leisure time (time spent other than working, going to and from work, doing chores, shopping, going to school, or sleeping), a decrease attributed to the lengthening of the workweek and the growing number of women who now work outside the home. Americans are, however, spending more of their valu- able free time on the arts: the study reported increased at- tendance over 1975 figures for movies (up 8 percent), theater (up 14 percent), and pop music concerts (up 14 percent). Participation in KEE%WT'aucH ~ Dear Philin Mn-c =.= If a city or county passes air pollution control laws to "p: ;tect" nonsmokers from smokers, why can't a class-action suit be filed forcing the city or ~-county to pass a law "protecting" non-car owners from the Pollution caused by car owners? Don Hale Santa Rosa, CA ;°Philip Morris MaAazine replies: Laws that restrict smoking in public places are inefficient. Differences between smokers and nonsmokers are best handled through common courtesy. Dear Philip Morris Magazine: I am writing to inquire about organizations that might have been established to combat the many restrictions being imposed upon smokers. As a smoker I am becoming more and more concerned over the many rules, regulations, and laws governing where an individual can and cannot smoke. Sue Jones San Diego, CA arts-related activities is also up, most notably in the field of photography, which has grown phenomenally (from 19 percent participation in 1975 to 47 percent in 1984). SMOKER FIGHTS FOR RIGHTS A Milwaukee tax collector filed suit to protest his office's no-smoking rule-and won. In April 1984 a Wisconsin state law took effect that restricts smoking to designated areas in government offices and other public places (hospitals, the- aters, elevators, stores, schools, and large restaurants). Richard Rossie's workplace, the De- partment of Revenue, banned smoking and Rossie sued, claiming that the ban was unconstitutional and would cause him "extreme hardship and irreparable injury:' Ac- cording to his attorney, Rossie risked discipline and dismissal if he smoked on the job. Circuit Judge P. Charles Jones issued a temporary in- junction against the Depart- ment of Revenue in October 1984, following it with a permanent injunction in Feb- ruary 1985 that prohibits the agency from disciplining workers who smoke. Jones told Associated Press that he did not consider the constitu- tional questions Rossie raised but focused instead on the fact that, since the state law does not penalize violators, the Department of Revenue's no-smoking rule exceeded the authority granted by the state legislature. 11 Dear Philip Morris Magazine: I heard that a pro-smoking organization is under way and I would like to know more about it. Even though I do not smoke myself, I am very interested in supporting all such organizations. I feel every- one should have the right to smoke if they so choose. There are more and more places that are banning smoking, and I feel that smokers are being discriminated against. In this day and age when everyone is fighting discrimination, the tobacco industry seems to be getting the blunt end of the deal. I would appreci- ate any information you could send me. Maynard P. Wright 111 Quinton, VA Philip Morris Magazine replies: Thank you both for your inter- est in smokers' rights. To help our message be heard above the static of the antismoking hysteria, we urge you to write to your elected representatives and tell them how you feel about laws prohibitingsrnoking. Some organizations that might be of inter- est to you are: The Tobacco Institute; 1875 I St., NW; Washington, DC 20006 Smokers United; James Steward, President; 301 East 69th St.; New York, NY 10021 Smokers Club; Bob Carli, President; 506 Ohio St., Apt. 8; Terre Haute, IN 47807 National Smokers Rights; Ronald Flynt, President; Box 1773; Goldsboro, NC 27503 Freedom Organization for the Right to Enjoy Smoking Tobacco (FOREST); Sir Christopher Foxley-Norris, President; Bond Way House; 3/9 Bond Way; London SW8 1SJ England. PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 17

PM NOiEB00K AT ISSUE: Why Excise Taxes Don't Work An interview with economist Ingo Walter Professor Ingo Walter is chair- man of finance at New York University's Graduate School of Business Administration. He has also served as a consul- tant to various U.S. govern- ment agencies, including the Department of Commerce and the Environmental Protection Agency. Prof. Walter recently spoke with Philip Morris Magazine about the impact of increased tobacco excise taxes on the national economy. PM: How does an excise tax function? Prof. Walter: An excise tax is basically a sales tax on a particular product, as opposed to a general sales tax that applies to all products or to broad groups of products. The purpose of the excise tax is to target one specific product that the government feels is rela- tively insensitive to price, so that not much less of the product will be bought at a higher price than at a lower price. It's a good revenue- raising device. PM: Some people have termed excises on cigarettes or alcohol "sin taxes:' Is there a history of that kind of taxation in this country? Prof. Walter: We've really not had a history of that in the United States. The whole purpose of taxation is to raise revenue for the government, but very often the revenue- raising function is altered to achieve some other social goals. The very fact, though, that products like cigarettes are relatively insensitive to price increases, as I explained be- fore, tends to make the "sin" dimension self-defeating. And whenever you tax a specific product you make it more valuable and expensive, and you effectively place a pre- mium on it. So it may have the opposite effect in terms of consumption. PM: So, in a sense, when a product like tobacco becomes more expensive, it also be- comes more attractive? Prof. Walter: You're increasing its value in the eyes of the consumer. Exorbitant prices also encourage smuggling and other corrupt behavior... it creates criminal activity, law enforcement costs, and so on. PM: How do increased excise taxes affect the economy? ,Prof. Walter: Taxes applied to a particular product distort consumer purchasing patterns, so that people buy less of the taxed product and more of untaxed products. If we tax cigarettes, you get fewer resources allocated to the manufacturing and sale and advertising of tobacco prod- ucts on the production side, and more allocations of re- sources to other things. If you tax cigarettes more than shoes, let's say, you may end up diverting labor and capital into the shoe business with the result that resources are mis- allocated. Labor, for example, goes from a higher level of productivity to a lower level of productivity. The result is a drop in the efficiency with which labor is used in the national economy. PM: How does this redirection of consuming patterns ulti- mately lower national revenue? Prof. Walter: In a capitalist, market-oriented system like ours, without distortions that favor one particular industry over another, you tend to get the flow of both capital and labor into those areas in which they're most productively used. Whenever you put a distortion in markets, such as rent controls or excise taxes, you shift the pattern of labor and capital allocation, so you divert these resources from more productive to less pro- ductive uses. As a result, real income and output drops, and 18 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 the real rate of economic growth may decline as well, because we're not just talking about efficiency in using resources today, but also how they expand and get allocated over time. PM: So increasing excise taxes could mean that there could actually be less revenue for the federal or the state govern- ment down the line? Prof. Walter: Well, besides the distortive effect I've just described, when you raise taxes beyond a certain point, the product may no longer be quite as insensitive to price increases as it was before. Demand may fall off. Con- sumers may say, 'Hey, ciga- rettes are now $9 a pack and I'm going to quit smoking, or I'm going to cut down and spend more of my money on something else: At very high prices, in other words, product demand may be more sensitive to further tax hikes than it is at very low prices. Up to now cigarette consumption has not been all that sensitive to price increases, but that may not be true forever. When you think about cigarettes costing, say, $10 or $20 a pack compared to today's prices, it would make sense that sooner or later a consumption drop-off is going to lead to a reduction in actual tax revenues. But we haven't experienced that yet, which is one reason the gov- ernment is continually encour- aged to raise taxes. But eventu- ally it could kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. PM: So the problem with trying to keep these types of taxes within reasonable bounds is that so far they have been profitable? Prof. Walter: That's right, but you know, there's more than one issue at stake here. There is a philosophical question of whether it is correct to tax individual products: Is it correct to punish the consum- ers of pipe tobacco or cognac compared with the consumers of ice cream or salmon, for example? I think you can argue on pretty strong grounds that excise taxes are really not a particularly good way to raise government revenues because of their distortive effect on the market and production, which we dis- cussed earlier, and because of the punitive effect on certain consumers. PM: When are excise taxes justifiable, if ever? Prof. Walter: When they become a use tax, like the highway toll and tunnel toll I pay each morning. I'm paying for the use of a public facility. I may not be paying exactly what the resource is worth, but, by and large, use taxes are simply an attempt at pricing a public service. So economists would generally defend use taxes, especially if they can be tailored to the user's marginal benefit. PM: What does that mean? Prof. Walter: Well, for exam- ple, in tunnel tolls, if you can

h have different tolls at different times of day, so that during rush hour it costs, say, $12 to go across the Hudson, and during non-rush hour it costs 504. The tax is aligned with the demand patterns and the marginal benefit the user gets from crossing the Hudson. Just as when you fly first-class you pay a higher ticket tax than if you fly economy. PM: Have excise taxes on cigarettes gone up in recent years in response to federal, state, and local budgetary problems, so that excises are being used to fill in the gaps? Prof. Walter: I think that's probably true. When the Reagan administration reduced effective personal income and business taxes, the government had to look for other tax resources. There have also been substantial budget cuts and restraints put on federal outlays, and part of that's hit the states and municipalities, there s no doubt about that. The states and municipalities also have received a smaller share of the federal revenue pie, so they too have to compensate by trying to raise more revenues on their own. So if municipal and state governments want to increase spending, or even maintain spending, for education or other socially useful purposes, they have to turn to their own indirect or direct taxes. But people are fed up with rising property taxes and income taxes and municipality taxes, and the states can't pass the increase in budget outlays on to the feds because Washing- ton is reducing its support, such as revenue sharing. So, you know, a lot of governors and mayors are behind the eight ball. They've got budget problems that need to be addressed. So an indirect tax on a product that is politically vulnerable is a fairly attractive way to raise additional state and local revenues. One place to look is indirect taxes, like the cigarette tax. PM: So, in effect, people who consume alcohol or cigarettes -targets for excise increases- are taking up the slack for the whole community? Prof. Walter: Yes, they are being discriminated against in a revenue sense because of their preferred consumption patterns. When there is tre- mendous pressure on the part of government t.-, raise money, it's going to turn to the easiest and most politically vulnera- ble areas to target. How are people going to defend them- selves against a discriminatory tax increase of this kind when smokers and drinkers don't like to identify themselves as such? It's sort of a tyranny of the majority. PM: What would be a less discriminatory way to raise revenue to fill in those gaps? Prof. Walter: Well, I think a good nondiscriminatory way is to increase general sales taxes. And one way that hasn't been tried in the United States is a value-added tax. PM: What is that? Prof. Walter: Let's say you own a retail drugstore, and to purchase the goods you sell costs you $100,000 per week, and then you sell them for $120,000, so $20,000 is your markup. That $20,000 is considered the value that you add in the selling process. Taxing that amount by, say, 20 percent would mean con- sumers would pay $4,000 specifically on that $20,000 of added value. For example, the consumer would pay "1.20 for a toothbrush, plus 54 value- added tax. This is a good tax because it's very difficult to evade. It taxes consumption rather than savings, so it encourages the latter. And it's very broadly based so it doesn't distort production or consumption patterns, as we discussed earlier. The only disadvantage is that it tends to hit poor people harder than rich people because they have to spend [proportionally] more of their income, so more of their income is subject to the value-added tax. On the other hand, if you think that's a problem, then you could couple the tax with increased financial assistance to truly needy people. Most countries have a value-added tax; the United States doesn't. Another good thing about it is that exports are not subject to the tax (while imports are), so your domestic producers are not subject to competitive distortions. PM: Are there any other ways in which the government could increase its revenue without raising excise taxes? Prof. Walter: The government could simplify the income tax system we have, which is probably the most complex in the world, and close some of the tax loopholes that give the impression the tax system is high- ly unfair. Some people simply feel they pay more than their fair share of taxes. I feel that way; you prob- ably feel that way too when you read about somebody who's got a $2 million annual income and doesn't pay a penny [in taxes]. So these are two possibilities -closing off some of the loop- holes and reforming the direct tax system, plus a value-added tax or other broad-based tax on consumption. This would be much superior to the sys- tem we have now and to rely- ing more intensively on excise taxes. PM: Why are user-specific taxes, like the taxes on ciga- rettes, often called "hidden taxes"? Prof. Walter: If you go to the supermarket and buy a basket- ful of groceries, you know exactly what your tax is because it is stated on the sales slip, and you can decide whether you want to get upset about it or not. With ciga- rettes, it does not say on the pack how much of the price is federal tax or how much is state tax. It is all included in the purchase price, so you don't really know the tax incidence. This means you, as a voter, canndt react intelli- gently to the tax. PM: What can people do about it? Prof. Walter: The public has not yet reacted to this kind of hidden tax. The politicians like that. They can probably get away with having a higher total tax burden by hiding it. Smokers haven't organized themselves very well for political action; until they do, these types of taxes will remain hidden and probably keep on rising. E3 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 19

PM NOi AT ISSUE: Living With San Francisco's No-Smoking Law n November 8, 1983, San Francisco voters narrowly approved (by just 80,798 to 79,541 votes) an ordinance gov- erning smoking in the work- place-one of the nation's toughest. The law requires em- ployers to accommodate the needs of both their smoking and nonsmoking employees, but the law is biased toward nonsmokers: if no accom- modation can be reached, the employer must ban smok- ing in his or her workplace altogether. San Francisco's health de- partment is responsible for enforcing the law. When a complaint is lodged by an employee, the offending em- ployer is supposed to be cited and then granted a hearing. If the employer is deemed to be violating the law, the law requires him to pay a civil penalty of $100 per day per nonsmoking worker (whose rights are supposedly being violated) up to a maximum of $500 a day. Today, over a year after the new law took effect, there have been skirmishes but there is no smoking war. Yet the law's apparent success raises a question: was this law really needed? A spokesman for the To- bacco Institute in Washington, D.C., says that the very fact that the law is working proves that it is unnecessary. He says the low number of complaints- only 115 have been filed since March 1984 -demonstrates that people have a tendency to work these kinds of dis- agreements out by themselves. "The last time I talked to some- one about the San Francisco law, he said it was working beautifutly," he says. "What this tells me, however, is that San Francisco didn't need a law like that in the first place. Nonsmokers aren't going to call the police on a coworker. People worked out disagree- ments among themselves before the law was passed; they're still working things out. And anyway," he adds, posing a rhetorical question, "are you going to tell me that in San Francisco, a city of individuals, people are going to be afraid to express their preferences [without a law]?" Office Politics The San Francisco Chronicle employs some 300 workers, most crowded into large news- rooms, and a fair number of them are vociferous defenders of what they see as one's right to smoke undisturbed. It may be the law, they say, but it's a bad law. The Chronicle's manage- ment considered, but rejected, the option of segregating smokers from nonsmokers. Instead, a five-by-ten-foot area near the company coffee pot was designated as the official smoking area for the entire editorial floor, with individual rooms becoming "off limits" to smokers as soon as single employees filed a formal complaint with management (the complainant is allowed to remain anonymous). This arrangement has pleased nonsmokers but smokers complain of the inconvenience of getting up to go to the coffee machine whenever they feel like enjoying a cigarette. And some department heads feel their workers are absent from their desks more often than they should be. One reporter says that she resents the way the law has made her a pariah in the workplace. "Being asked to smoke somewhere else is not a personal thing," she says, "but 20 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 no matter how nicely someone asks you, it's devastating:" Elson Snow, a printer at the San Francisco Chronicle and the San Francisco Examiner and a member of the Interna- tional Typographical Union, feels cheated by the non- smoking law. He says his problem with the law is that the newspapers' managements unilaterally changed the con- ditions of his employment- declaring that those who dis- obeyed would be fired-with- out working out any agreement with his union. He feels that San Francisco's citizens had no right to enact a law that in such situations, the law is unenforceable. According to Bruce Tsutsui, the city health inspector charged with enforcing the ordinance, 115 complaints have been filed by employees since the law took effect, and all but a dozen still pending have been resolved. Only one company has been cited for noncompliance, and that complaint was settled before the case went to any formal hearing. That citation was filed against a small repair office of Pacific Bell, and a no-smoking notice was posted there the "No matter how nicely someone asks you [not to smoke], it's still devastating:" changed his conditions of em- ployment, and he believes that smoking rules should be set by individual employers, not by the health department. In fact, the principle behind the law sets his teeth on edge: "Do you want Big Brother watching you?" he asks. An Unenforceable Law In some workplaces the ordi- nance is ignored by consensus. A small magazine publisher, The Hagen Group, employs 25 people in one large, win- dowless room divided only by partitions. Only five of the 25 coworkers are smokers but none of the nonsmokers have filed a formal complaint. In offices like this-and there are many in the city-the fear of antagonizing colleagues and a reluctance to "rock the boat" have canceled out any "pro- tection" the ordinance is supposed to offer nonsmokers; same day the citation arrived from the health department. But the complaint spawned hard feelings in Pacific Bell's Sales Development Center. Patrick Woodridge, a tempo- rary assistant manager, told the San Francisco Chronicle last September that "a few people resent the fact that the issue was not brought out into the open and discussed in the office" before the complaint was filed. "There are still deeply harbored ill feelings;" he said, adding that the unpleasantness is "no longer a topic of dis- cussion" Sneaking Around For a Smoke The Chronicle reported that smokers in that Pacific Bell office are now required to retire to a small conference room when they want a smoke. "It's like sneaking from your mommy and daddy," com- lU VnILIr 1vL-.....,

A plained Jewel Johnson, a company service representa- tive, to the Chronicle. "I feel that in the time I spend coming in here to take a smoke I could be taking another call at my desk" Indeed, Denise Lyons, a service representative who is no longer a smoker herself, told the Chronicle that she thought the new rule had made the office less efficient. "Anytime you're going in one direction and have to stop, it puts a break in productivity," she explained. So the no-smoking law-a law that is, in many situations, unenforceable-has compli- cated the lives of San Francisco office workers. Where once the choice belonged to individual workers, today the choice of a slim majority has been forced on all citizens. Where once the choice to smoke was governed by common cour- tesy, today the choice is dic- tated by a law that makes no accommodations for special situations. Where once smok- ing was a choice that fit into the normal pattern of a work day, today smoking means disrupting productivity. And some critics worry that the no- smoking law represents a trend toward intolerance. "If the time has come ... to ask gov- ernment to keep people who smoke away from people who don't, why stop there?" asked writer Frank Robertson in Cal- ifornia magazine. "I know experts right now who will swear that even the briefest exposure to lacto-vegetarians, followers of Rajneesh, preppies, tort lawyers, rock critics, wine snobs, restaurateurs who serve cuisine, men who wear ear- rings, people who read Run- ner's World magazine, the Grateful Dead, enema thera- pists, Rolfers, leafleteers, sup- porters of Proposition P and anyone dressed in camouflage army fatigues can cause drug use in lab rats and may pose a measurable hazard to human health. I know they won't go away, so I just hope we can construct enough corrals, cubicles, or glassed-in places for them..." 0 Courtesy Calls When humorist Fran Lebo- witz (author of Metropolitan Life and Social Studies) ap- peared on the television show Face the Nation, she was inter- viewed by Leslie Stahl on the subject of smoking in public. "I think the notion that you have the right to go around telling other people what to do is a very weird notion of what public means," she said. "To me, being offended is a na- tural consequence of leaving one's home. Other people of- fend me all the time, but I don't feel it necessary to make a law against them:' Increasingly, smokers are being confronted by zealous nonsmokers eager to ban the right to smoke in public places. Dr. Robert London, director of the short-term psychotherapy unit at New York University Medical Center, says that militant nonsmokers some- times go out of their way to be rude to smokers: "Many of them don't understand that they're not on a crusade for all of humanity, and that it is not their job to deliberately sit around waiting for somebody to light up just so they can enter into an extended dia- logue about the public health," he says. In an effort to clear the air and revive plain old manners, London recently conducted a Nonsmokers' Etiquette Clinic at a branch of Manhattan's popular New York Health & Racquet Club. "I'm really against confronta- tional techniques, because people have the right to smoke;" says London. "Smok- ing is a habit for many people, part of a life-style for many people.... You can't beat on people for smoking because they're not doing something wrong, they're doing some- thing that they want to do" In his seminar London cited specific situations to illustrate his point. Take, for example, the nonsmoker who is stand- ing in line for movie tickets and begins to harass the smok- er in front of him. London has no sympathy for non- smokers who act rudely in such a temporary situation: "There's no need to ask some- one to put out their cigarette if it's not bothering you," he says. "As long as the smoker is not deliberately blowing smoke in the nonsmoker's face, there's no need for con- frontation:' Other situations-the di- lemma of the nonsmoking of- fice worker whose boss is a chain-smoker, for example, or the nonsmoker who finds himself on a blind date with a smoker-require more tact and, says London, "class." In both cases he advises that the nonsmoker politely ask the smoker not to light up. Then, if the request is denied, he suggests retreat: transfer to another part of the office or company; end the date. In the case of married couples in conflict over smoking, how- ever, London does not suggest divorce. "You can establish a smoking area in the house," he says, "or agree not to smoke around your spouse." What guidelines does Lon- don suggest for good etiquette on the part of smokers? First, he says, always ask, "Do you mind if I smoke?" before lighting up. "It's only right;" says London. "After all, we ask people, 'Do you mind if I use your phone?' or if we're hun- gry, 'Do you mind if I go to your refrigerator?"' If the an- swer to this question is yes, London advises the polite smoker to ask, "Do you have a place where I can smoke?" and then to graciously retreat to the suggested spot. Perhaps the real answer, then, is simply etiquette-and that old American custom of respecting others ' rights. O Militant nonsmokers sometimes go out of their way to be rude to smokers. PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 21 I

Martina and Chris are still on top, but these eager new players are on their way up. ~- 1NE IO Wa1CH IN WOMEN'S IENN4S 22 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINEJSUMMER 1985 BY MARY WITHERELL To the majority of American tennis fans, the women's com- petition thus far in the 1980s can easily be summarized as "Martina, Chris, and every- body else" Even though it's a bit pre- mature to predict the end of the stranglehold that number- one ranked Martina Navratil- ova and number-two ranked Chris Evert Lloyd have on the top rankings of the Women's Tennis Association, there are still more than just a couple of good reasons to watch women's tennis in 1985. The six players profiled here are by no means the only promising young athletes around, but they are represen- tative of the whole-a strong nucleus of young women who believe deeply in the coming of a day when they will con- sistently battle the two titans on even terms. A few have already pulled such an upset: Manuela Maleeva won her Italian Open title last May at the expense of Evert Lloyd, and Helena Sukova shocked Navratilova in the semifinals of last December's Australian Open. With the smack of an unhesitant forehand volley and the thud of a crosscourt backhand landing just inside the line, women's tennis moves into the middle of this decade led by the promise of its champions-to-be. MANUELA MALEEVA In two and a half years on the Virginia Slims tour, Manuela Maleeva has gone from being number 154, and a complete unknown, to number four and a worldwide media celebrity. In one two-week span this January, Maleeva received 150 interview requests from the American press. Does she get this much attention back home in Sofia, Bulgaria? "Yeah, they know;" she says, slightly embarrassed. In short, the world has gone bonkers for Maleeva, a soft= spoken, intelligent, and ex: tremely modest 18-year-oldf with tremendous shot-making-" ability. Maleeva's baseline;. game is so solid and is played+ with such organization andt control that she evokes coml parisons with Evert Lloyd-} only with the qualifier that; Maleeva may prove to have aJ much wider arsenal of weap- ons. ons. Her serve and drop shoti already are way above aver-; age for a player who generally ; stays back at the baseline, and' her net game is what she prac- ` tices most these days. Although Maleeva's fame '. had begun growing in 1982 when she improved her com- puter ranking 84 places in seven months, 1984 was the year that fixed her name in everybody's minds, as she won the first five tournaments of her career plus the mixed doubles championship (with Tom Gullikson) at the U.S. Open. Along the way she knocked off virtually every- one-except Navratilova- and were it not for the Sovie~ bloc boycott of the Los Angeles Olympics, she prob- ably would have won the Olympic tennis championship as well. Perhaps not so coincidental- ly, Bulgaria's last great tennis player was Maleeva's mother, Yulia Berberian, a nine-time ` national champion, and its next great player may be _ Manuela's younger sister, ` 15-year-old Katerina, who is ` already a professional. (Nine- year-old Magdalena plays a ' mean game, too.) As for the ' two older sisters forming a doubles team, it seems just a' matter of time. HELENA SUKOVA Like Manuela Maleeva, 20- year-old Helena Sukova of Prague,Czechoslovakia, had a good teacher. Vera Sukova, Helena's mother and a 1962 Wimbledon finalist, was also her coach until she died in 1982. As the former Czech national team coach, however, 2040235208

E A she has left behind a legacy of serve-and-volley artists includ- ing not only her daughter but also Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. But Vera Suko- va's youngest pupil may turn out to be her greatest. At 6 feet, 1~/z inches (she's the tallest player on the wom- en's tour) and with an explo- sive serve, Helena has all the tools already at her disposal. Even before she upset Navra- tilova at the Australian Open, her talent was showing. She won her first tournament, the National Panasonic Classic in Brisbane,Australia , and made it to the quarterfinals or be- yond in a dozen other events. Near the end of the year, Sukova joined forces with number-six ranked Claudia Kohde-Kilsch to become the tallest (Kohde-Kilsch is just over six feet tall) and most powerful women's doubles team in the world. Since her defeat of Navra- tilova, which ended Martina's bid to win the calendar Grand Slam, Sukova has now been "discovered" by the media and may now be ready to begin comparing notes on the sub- ject of fame with Maleeva. Nevertheless, this shy but friendly woman insists that the sport that has brought her $485,000 in barely two years as a pro is only "a hobby;" and she plans to attend law school after she completes her second- ary education. ZINA GARRISON Talk about basic success stories naturally leads to the subject of number-nine ranked Zina Garrison. Consider the fact that, unlike the vast majority of pros, Garrison learned to play tennis in a public parks program in an inner-city neigh- borhood in Houston, Texas. No private courts or tennis academies for her, only the park at which she still prac- tices, which is near the house where she grew up and still lives with her six brothers and sisters. She is only the second ~ black woman ever to hold a top-ten ranking (the first was i Althea Gibson in the late 1950s). Garrison began her athletic career as a softball player, but switched sports at the age of ten when brother Rodney brought her to MacGregor Park and the pro there put a racket in her hand. In eight years the compact (5 feet, 41/z inches), powerfully built woman became the number- one junior in the world and de- buted as a pro in the number 29 slot in 1982. Now 21 years old, Garrison has only one victory, the European Indoor Championships, to her credit, but a slew of quarter- and semifinal appearances and three runner-up finishes in two and a half years on tour. One of Zina's greatest assets is her ability to play an all- court game that is easily adaptable to different surfaces. She can rally from the baseline or win points at the net if the situation calls for it. That same style serves her well off the court, too, where her endorse- ments (for Carnation Instant Breakfast and Breakfast Bars) call for lots of personal ap- pearances. At one recent appearance at a Brooklyn public school, students had learned her life story and strung the halls with banners bearing her name. For Zina Garrison, it could be that the kids can see her future. PAM CASALE On the surface, Pam Casale's career sounds like it has the makings of a great Hollywood "happy ending" film. Within six months of turning profes- sional at age 17, she had achieved a ranking of number 16 in the world. Pretty heady stuff for a teenager, even one who has come up through the highly regarded Nick Bollet- tieri tennis academy in Florida and won five national titles before she was 15. But, as Casale says, it was a case of too much, too soon. By the middle of 1983, she had fallen into the number 60 po- sition and was completely disheartened. She, like so many other young players, had not been able to handle success and was considering giving up the sport. The happy ending is that this hard-hitting baseliner didn't quit, but instead resolved to go back to basics and now has returned to a prominent position (num- ber 15) on the computer. "I feel very fortunate," says the 21-year-old Fairfield, New Jersey, native in retrospect. "It was a hard time, but I learned Over six feet tall, Helena Sukova (facing page) is the tallest player on the women's tour. This page, Zina Garrison (top) learned her game in a public parks pro- gram in Houston, while Manuela Maleeva (center) was coach- ed by her mother, one of Bulgaria s greatest tennis play- ers. Pam Casale (bot- tom),a grad- uate of the famed Nick Bollettieri academy, won five national titles before she was 75.

Concentra- tion shows on the faces of Alycia "Tex" Moulton (left) and 17-year-old Michelle Torres (below). Moulton, a graduate of Stanford, plans to enter law school eventually; Torres is a recent high school graduate. a lot from it, too, and I certain- ly don't want to go through it again. Now I know what I have to do:' Despite the fact that she did not reach a singles final in 1984, something she had done several times before, the tenacious Casale calls this past season the highlight of her career because it was a truly consistent year, filled with regular trips to the quarter- finals and semifinals and no first-round upsets. Consis- tency, she says, is what will decide who succeeds Navrati- lova and Lloyd at the top, and getting there would be the happiest ending of all. ALYCIA MOULTON Twenty-four-year-old Alycia Moulton is a tall (5 feet, 10~j2 inches), striking woman who honed her skills at Stanford, where she also got a degree in political science, just in case she goes to law school when she retires from the tour. The decision to either stay in college or turn pro is a very hard one for many players. Only about one-third of all the players in the top 150 who attended college now have their degrees, so, obviously, the trend is to turn pro. How- ever, Moulton's game was not as well developed as it is now and so she didn't think she was ready either for the rigors of tour life or the challenge of playing against the best in the world. "Had I been much better than I was when I entered college," Moulton says, "there would have been some element of indecision, but I value education and I still think I probably would have ended up going to school." Moulton, who was born in Sacramento, California, and now resides a stone's throw from her alma mater in Palo Alto (facts that do nothing to explain her nickname of "Tex"), has no reason to regret her decision. Her ranking has improved since her graduation in 1983, with her current standing-number 18-a notch higher than in previous rankings. In 1984 she had great success in doubles, winning two titles and being runner-up in another-with two different partners. She also made the singles finals at the Canadian Open and the quarters at the Virginia Slim of Boston. "I think that right now I'n capable of doing very grea things and very poor things; says Moulton with a laugh, "and what I'm working towarc is narrowing the gap" MICHELLE TORRES Although 17-year-old Michelle Torres has been a professional only since last September's U.S. Open, she has already earned $48,500. Her ranking is number 21, despite her infrequent tour travel. She was named Tennis magazine's Rookie of the Year in 1984 on the strength of an incredible month of October, during which she won one tourna- ment, the Florida Federal Open, and finished second in another, the Lynda Carter- Maybelline Classic. On top of this, Torres maintained an A average at New Trier West High School near her home- town of Northfield, Illinois (she graduated in June). It's rare that a young player does so well as a pro, but given the fact that education, not tennis, is her priority, her rec- ord is downright amazing. (Although she will not immedi- ately proceed to college, she says it is definitely in her future,) Like Maleeva, the dark- haired, soft-spoken Torres ex- presses surprise over how well she has done; unlike Maleeva, Torres did not just turn pro and begin tearing up the circuit. Torres spent each summer from 1982 to 1984 on tour and in that span was a two-time semifinalist and five-time quarterfinalist while also maintaining a top-ten world ranking as a junior. Patience and a low-key style extends to her personal life as well; Torres, whose father is a neurosurgeon, is taking her time deciding on any product endorsements. One oft-told story recounts how, with the $29,000 winning check in hand from her first pro vic- tory, she went out and bought a car. Only instead of driving home a BMW or Porsche, Torres decided on a more practical Toyota Supra. L] Mary Witherell is a writer who specializes in women's svorts. 2040235210 24 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985

PROFILES AGROWING CONCERN For this North Carolina farmer raising tobacco is a family tradition BY RICK MASHBURN W hen Richard Whitaker was growing up on a tobacco farm in Randolph Coun- ty, in the Pied- mont area of central North Carolina, he couldn't wait to finish school so he could leave tobacco farming behind. "Never would I do that, I thought. Tobacco farming was too much hard work;" he remembers. "He didn't like it because he couldn't play ball, that's why," chimes in Richard's wife, Faylene. She gives him a big smile. He goes on, pretending to ignore her: "But then I spent one summer installing Sheetrock, and I decided tobacco wasn't that bad" TRADITIONAL PURSUIT Today, Richard Whitaker and his family- Faylene and sons Travis and Shane-live and work on a 37-acre tobacco farm just a few miles from his childhood home, near the county seat of Asheboro. Their spacious two-story frame house, a comfortable blend of the modern and the old-fashioned, is testament to the success of the farm. And the good humor that accompanies a conversation with the family attests to their contentment with their life. "I really do enjoy raising tobacco now," he "Tobacco has been real good to us;' says farmer Richard Whitaker (above). At right, a field of leafy tobacco plants.

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says, "and I have to say that tobacco has been real good to us" Richard and Faylene have prospered in tobacco for all of the 12 years of their marriage. For several years they worked land that they leased, then in 1977 they bought their farm and settled in. Maybe tobacco-growing gets in the blood: not only was Richard's father a tobacco farmer, but his grandfathers and their fathers were, too. One of Richard's grandfathers, now in his eighties and retired, still plants a single tobacco plant at the end of his vegetable garden and carefully tends it throughout the summer. "It always comes out the prettiest of all;" says seven-year-old Travis. Yet heredity isn't the only means by which the fever is transmitted: Faylene grew up in nearby Asheboro, knew nothing about farming, and never dreamed of living on a farm until she married Richard. Now she is a full partner in the operation, both keeping the books and working in the fields. Much to her surprise, she says, she likes it, "When we got married;" Richard recalls wryly, "my grandfather told me I ought to have more sense than to marry somebody from town'." "But after that first summer," says Faylene, "he came up to me and said, 'I owe you an apology."' And she adds, "At first I thought it was super just because I could be with Richard all the time. I still think one of the best things about tobacco farming is that it keeps the whole family together." HELPING HANDS Because tobacco is a labor- intensive crop, requiring long hours of handwork in the fields, tobacco farms tend to be relatively small, and farm- ers usually rely on the help of their wives, children, and ex- tended family. "If we were growing corn out in the Mid- west, I could be working thirty miles down the road and never see my wife all day." Richard and his father help each other at different stages of the operation, especially during the preparation of the fields and at planting and har- vesting (which tobacco farm- ers call "priming"). In addition to the Whitakers' two full-time employees, Faylene recruits her sisters to help out during the summer, and Richard's mother and aunt work, too. Travis and nine-year-old Shane have a wide range of duties on the farm, including driving the tractor. Every member of the Whitaker family pit- ches in at harvesttime (left); their up-to- date equipment and modern methods con- trast with the old- fashioned processes of decades past (below). "The kids are learning responsibility," Faylene says. "They don't have to work if they don't want to, but they don't get paid if they don't. Shane worked two summers and bought a motorbike.. " "Not a motorbike, a motorcycle;' Shane cor- rects her. "... and Travis discovered that he'd have to work if he wanted one too. And the boys love living out here;' she continues. "We are close enough to town-only fourteen miles-that they can go swimming at the Y or bring their friends home after school. They roam all over the place and we don't have to worry about them'." When they were newly married, Richard and Faylene lived for a while in Asheboro, a town of 15,000 that Richard found not at all to his liking. "I'm like Daniel Boone; I want elbow- room. It's even getting too crowded out here:" One measure of Richard's passion for the land is how much he likes to see it. The Whitakers' house is set in a grove of trees on a slight hill surrounded by their land; nearly every window offers a lovely view of their gently undulating fields, which stretch to meet woods in every direction. "I told my help I built the house like this so I could lie in bed upstairs and watch what they were doing out in the fields;" Richard laughs. He won't let anyone else sit in his place at the dinner table, Faylene says, because it affords him the best view of the pond, which lies at the bottom of a slight slope near the house. "We owned this land for three years before we built the house and moved out here;" says Richard. "When we fi- nally moved in I felt like we were really home" KEEPING UP, DOING IT RIGHT Just as important as living on the land, he says, is doing a good job of farming that land: "I value my know-how. I do know how to grow that crop" In fact, he normally takes about 80,000 pounds of to- bacco to market each fall. The growing season begins as early as February, when seedling beds are planted and promptly covered as protec- tion from hard freezes. Fields are prepared as weather allows in the spring, and transplants are set out in early April. Throughout the summer the tobacco farmer is busy culti- vating (keeping the soil around the plants loose); spraying with herbicides and pesticides; "topping" the plants, which means cutting the blossoms off PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 2 7

! to encourage larger leaves; and "suckering;" re- moving the shoots between the leaf and stem. Priming and curing begin in late summer and usually continue for six weeks. A tobacco plant may be picked several times in the course of priming, starting with the mature bottom leaves and moving up the plant as successive groups of leaves mature. The first intensive work comes in the spring when seedling plants are set into the fields. "It's especially hectic if the weather has been wet and you haven t been able to get your land ready for planting;" says Richard. "Plants need to be about six inches tall to transplant right, and they grow pretty rapidly in the warm and moist weather. If you let them go three days too long, they're gonna be too big to set" "Planting is my favorite part about tobacco;" says Faylene. "It's fun when the weather is nice and you get to be outside after being cooped up all winter. By the time priming comes in the fall you've been through a long, hot summer and you're ready for it to be over." Faylene says she enjoys the handwork that other tobacco farmers find tedious: "I like topping because I can look back at a field and see what I did. I even enjoy suckering tobacco, and no- body in their right mind likes that" "Kinda tells you something about her, doesn't it?" Richard deadpans. "I'm just like that. I can't help it;" says Faylene. "I just like having everything right'." Often during the growing season, Faylene will get up at 4:30 A.M. to do her housework and make sandwiches for the workers before she heads out to the field herself. "I'll make fifty or sixty sandwiches in the morning. Then I'll be doing the bookwork at night. Everybody wants their check right on time" "A lot of times in the summer, when things are getting bad, we talk to God;" Richard says. "If it wasn't for that it would be a lot harder to be a tobacco farmer." Richard works to improve his knowledge of farming by regularly participating in the workshops offered by North Carolina's Agricultural Extension Service. Recently he took a course on production practices that was sponsored by Philip Morris at North Carolina State University. "There are always new vari- eties of tobacco that are being developed, new chemicals to use in the fields, and new information on curing;" he explains. For example, the process of curing tobacco has changed greatly in the last few decades. Bulk 28 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 The Whitakers- Richard, Faylene, Travis, and Shane- gather for a family portrait (top). A view of curing barns and farmland (above). curing-clumping tobacco leaves in metal frames to be dried in large barns-has replaced the old-fashioned process of tying uncured tobacco to long sticks by hand, a few leaves at a time. And gas burners have replaced wood fires as the method of curing. Though the labor involved has been reduced, the farmer still needs great knowledge, intuition, or luck, to achieve the best product. Tending a barn of tobacco is a lot like taking care of a newborn baby; it's nonstop, around- the-clock work. "It takes anywhere from five to seven days to cure a barn of tobacco, on average. And you have to watch it all the time. This year's crop won't cure like last year's. In fact, this week's won't cure like the one two weeks from now. You got to look at it and see what it needs:" "People say you can just read a book and learn to cure tobacco, but I don't believe that;" says Faylene. "I learned a lot about tobacco from reading books, but not that part" Moreover, while the tobacco in the barns is being cured, more tobacco must be harvested. "And that's when the stuff is coming in from your vegetable garden too;" Richard says. "You're usu- ally priming and curing for about six weeks, and for three weeks there things are really rushed" As many as 14 peo- ple will be working the Whi- takers' fields during priming. Although automation and s improved farming practices have made things easier for the m tobacco farmer, Richard has E enough nostalgia for the old L ways to have hung in his house t a framed picture of a farmer ~ behind a plow and a mule. mber ve we11 the ~ "I r m ry e e ; first time I cultivated with a N mule. I was in the fourth grade. I thought I was really doing something;' he recalls. "For some reason Daddy was not there but had told me to do it. It didn't look too good to my Granddad, so he made me do it over." Richard has had more success in running his own tobacco farm. Out of 12 seasons, only one has failed to show a profit. "You know, what bothers me is that a lot of people have got the wrong impres- sion of a tobacco farmer," he says. "They think he's somebody on the dumb side, who goes around in dirty overalls all the time. Today, and in the future, a farmer is going to have to be a smart businessman to be in tobacco'." 11 Rick Mashburn is associate editor at Spectator magazine in Greensboro, North Carolina.

Everything you always wanted to know about these commercials -and less. t THE LITE STUFF BY JOHN TARKOV hen it comes to "Lite Beer from Miller" com- mercials, Marv Throneberry doesn't often get to speak first. Instead he gets the tag lines, going all the way back to his first Lite Beer from Miller spot in 1976, when he closed the commercial by saying "If I do for Lite what I did for baseball, I'm afraid their sales might go down" Nine years and eight appearances later, he still gets the tag line, most recently in The First Lite Beer Open, the 100th commercial in the series. Perhaps it's time, then, for Marv Throneberry- a.k.a. "Marvelous Marv" of the 1962 "Amazin' Mets" and one of the most popular Lite All-Stars ever-to talk first. "There's a lot of people in the world;" he says, "that the average person couldn't sit down and be comfortable with. Miller picks guys for the commercials who are willing to laugh at themselves-who the average person could go into a bar and sit down and be comfortable with" Marv Throneberry fits that bill, as do his 60 colleagues on the Lite All-Star roster. And therein lies the key to understanding one of the most successful advertising campaigns in history. "The people in the ads are the kind of people you'd enjoy having a beer with;" says Miller spokesman Bob Bertini. "They may be famous, but that's not the main reason you'd want to sit down with them. The main reason is that they're likable." Variations on that theme echo through the halls of Miller Brewing and Backer & Spielvogel, the New York ad agency that has held the Miller account for the last six years. But in 1973, when the first Lite Beer from Miller spot was aired on a test-market basis, the notion that such echoes would be heard a dozen years later might have tested the optimism-even the credulity-of the people behind the campaign. Bob Meury, chief of copy at B&S and a man who has been part of the creative side of the campaign virtually since its inception, says: "When the ads hit the air, we knew very quickly and clearly that something good was happening. But no one back then knew just how good" Mickey Spillane and Lee Meredith-two of the Lite All-Stars- go for a hole in one. No one might ever have known anything had it not been for the beer-drinking, basketball- crazy town of Anderson, Indiana. In the early 1970s, while the rest of the nation was taking to low-calorie beer with all the enthusiasm of a duck caught in an oil spill, the clock-punching, hardworking townsmen of Anderson were quaffing it down with singular enthusiasm.

The folks at McCann-Erick- son, the advertising agency that had the Miller Brewing account back then, were most intrigued. In 1972 Miller had acquired a Chicago-based light beer named Meister Brau Lite (the same beverage that cascaded from Anderson s taps when the factory whistles blew), and Miller was strongly inclined to have the rest of America share in Anderson's enlightenment. Given the dismal track record of earlier campaigns for other light beers, McCann-Erickson was placed in the almost im- possibly difficult position of trying to sell the stuff. And so McCann-Erickson mounted an expedition to Anderson, Indiana, there to study-beerwise-the ways of the freethinking natives. The expedition was led by Bob Lenz, the head of a McCann- Erickson creative group, and the man now acknowledged as standing in relation to the Lite Beer from Miller campaign the way George Washington stands in relation to-well, you know. What Lenz and his research- ers learned from their field- work came down to this: regular beer-loving guys will gladly drink low-calorie beer -provided it tastes like beer- because it doesn't leave you feeling all filled up. Armed with this insight, Lenz and his team returned to New York and set to work on new ads; in Milwaukee, Clem Mein, head of Miller's Master Brewing Department, and his team set to work on producing a product that would make good on the pitch. Initially, all con- cerned had to endure the grapeshot of a skeptical Madison Avenue, which regarded light beers as specialty products unsuited to the mass market. Once, that may have been so. THE BEER FACTS Among other things, history teaches us that in 1970, Miller was the seventh-largest brewer in the United States. Today, it is second only to Anheuser-Busch. Lite Beer from Miller has risen from humble beginnings to become the second- largest-selling beer-not just light beer, but any beer-in the nation. Seen another way, if Lite Beer from Miller was an independent company, it would be America s fourth-largest brewer. Over 60 brands of light beers from other breweries have followed in Lite Beer from Miller's wake. All this has come to pass because of a basic truth of American life: 30 percent of all beer drinkers consume 80 percent of the available beer. And, as Miller's advertising people were clever enough to realize, most of those 30 percent are just regular guys. On the set with Lite Beer from Miller's All-Stars: Meredith and Spillane rehearse a scene (top); director Bob Giraldi, the man behind Michael Jackson's super- successful music videos (center); Dick Butkus and Bubba Smith in a huddle (bottom). O From the beginning Lite Beer from Miller's advertising cam- paign has been targeted to ap- peal to that critical 30 percent of regular guys, and its bedrock philosophy has remained un- changed to this day: ex-jocks, with only a few exceptions such as Mickey Spillane, Frank De- ford, and Rodney Dangerfield, conveying the message that, hey, beer-drinking is a good- natured pastime conducive to good fellowship. They don't en- dorse Lite Beer from Miller. They just have a good time. And part of the good time is Lite Beer from Miller. As the numbers bear out, a lot of regular beer drinkers took them up on the implicit invitation: Lite, laughs, male bonding, loud and friendly bar debate ("Tastes great!" "Less filling!"), and the company of former ballplayers who are just regular guys themselves. The featured performers then, are a linchpin to the suc- cess of the whole campaign. And these Lite All-Stars are not chosen casually. (Though legend has it that Bob Lenz picked ex-New York Jet running back Matt Snell for the inaugural spot in 1973 be- cause he was taken by Snell's masculine visage on an Off- Track Betting ad.) ALL ABOUT ALL-STARS These days, it's a very tough casting call. "Every time I get to a sporting event and meet some of the active and retired players;" says Ralph Kytan, Miller's assistant brand manager for Lite, "they're constantly asking, 'Hey, how can I be a Lite All-Star?"' The athletes aren't alone in clamoring for a seat on the Lite beerwagon. "We hear from their agents, their wives, their barbers, what have you;" says Jeff Palmer, a senior vice-president at Backer & Spielvogel and the management representative on the Lite Beer from Miller account. The agency retains a general agent to constantly scout the talent among newly retired athletes. A ball-park estimate of any would-be All-Star's chances: 50-1, against. Star quality alone, in other words, won't do the trick. Lite All-Star quality-easygoing, self- effacingly funny, affable, down-to-earth-is what the candidates must possess. But the winnowing doesn't stop there. The road from screen test to TV screen can be a long one: the enormously popular Bob Uecker, for example, had to wait a year and a half for the right script to happen. According to Jeff Palmer, it takes "five to ten scripts to get one to take to the creative directors of the agency." Out of every five scripts presented to the creative directors, maybe one or two is selected. "And of those, only 40 percent to 50 : i ~ 1< C t 30 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUIvIMER 1985

percent will get approved.Then you'll have fallout of 10 per- cent: the guy can't do it; he's not available. You're down to 30 percent:' In other words, for ev- ery 50 to 100 scripts conceived, roughly one will be shot. America expects Lite Beer from Miller to do something different in its commercials, to have fun with them, and so the people connected with the Lite campaign have little choice but to follow-and top, and follow -their own hard act. Humor has a quick half-life, and so the Lite series requires 10 to 12 new episodes per year. Once a script is selected, it's up to the cast-and crew-to make it as appealing as possi- ble. A lot has been written about the atmosphere of merri- ment on the set, says Palmer, perhaps to the point of over- looking the discipline involved. "There's a basic script;" he says. "We're there to shoot that. It could get modified on the set. The client's there, and if there are changes, we'll talk them over. It's an extraordinary client-agency relationship. Miller is very constructive. They have marvelous senses of humor." When the basic script is shot and wrapped, Palmer contin- ues, the next step is to free- wheel and ex- periment and improve on what exists. "We can break it off at two o'clock;" people on the set, and 55 didn't know what was coming. When Billy said that line, the whole room broke up. I think they ruined the take from laughing. We had to do it again:' Work and play and continual inventiveness, then, find their balance at the individual shoots (sportswriter Frank Deford, himself an All-Star, chronicled the antics and hu- mor of it all in his book Lite Reading, Penguin Books, 1984). The truly major fun, though, is found at the Lite All- Star reunion commercials, of which the new centennial Golf Outing is one. Ask around about the reunion commer- cials, and you begin to under- stand more fully what makes the Lite All-Stars-and the un- seen All-Stars behind the All- Stars, like Bob Lenz, Bob Meury, director Bob Giraldi, and so many more-tick. Marv Throneberry again gets the first word. "I've gotten to know these guys-Boog Powell, Jim Shoulders, Mickey Spillane;" he says. "The guys save up their funniest stuff for the reunions. A lot of us, we haven't seen each other in a year. It really is a reunion. It's kind of one big family." Or, as former Chicago Bears line- backer Dick Butkus once told Bob Meury: "You know, I've been playing on teams since I was six. This is like being on a team again:" saysPalmerQno~ 1 he truly major fun, though, is found at another$600on the Lite All-Star reunion commercials of film and keep shootingtillfive which the Golf Outing is one. had Martin turning around and asking Shoul- lines-is that they've transcended the ordinary ders defensively, "Why would anybody want to At the First Lite Beer boundaries of itch and-sell and made a lot of punch a doggie?" That's the ending America ~ kes,a cue f om h s fa- people chuckle. That is something they feel good neversaw. vorite sport (top); about, and perhaps not so coincidentally, so "It wasn't working;" Meury recalls. "People Meredith and Spillane do we. C wereri t laughing. So we cut it down a bit, so Billy puzzle (centerj Rodney would just say 'I didn't punch that doggie: Dangerfield shows how John Tarkov is a writer and editor living in We didn't tell anyone else.There were maybe 60 to drive in style (bottom). New York City. or six. Let's shoot:' What'll happen 30 percent or 40 percent of the time, estimates Bob Meury, is modification and improvement. A striking example can be found in the now-classic "Drugstore Cowboy" spot, featuring on-again, off-again Yankees man- ager Billy Martin and ex-rodeo star Jim Shoul- ders. "I can tell a real cowboy from the drugstore kind clear across Texas;" says Shoulders, as Mexican music plays. "You see, you don't want to be filled up when you're out there punchin' doggies. Right, cowboy?" The original ending "That's one of the real secrets;" says Bob Ber- tini. "The camaraderie. People really look forward to seeing each other at the reunions." And, adds Jeff Palmer, "Why not? Hey, it's fun:' So what we have, in the end, is a piece of advertising history, a slice of Americana, and-perhaps best of all-a good ongoing source of laughs. Talk to the people who've been associated with the campaign over the years and you detect a universally shared pride in the achievement. What they're saying- sometimes up front, sometimes between the PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 31 ...~

"CALL FOR PHILIP MORRIS" BY THEODORE FISCHER L ong before there was a Ronald Mc- Donald, and well before Colonel San- ders had ever licked so much as a pinky, Philip Morris had a guy named Johnny. Johnny (for those who may have arrived in this world a bit late) was the cheerful 43-inch-tall midget, clad in a bellman's brass-buttoned red jacket and pillbox cap, who cried "Call for Philip Morris!" to the rhythmic strains of Ferde Grofe's Grand Canyon Suite in Philip Morris commercials. In a 41-year career spanning the golden age of radio and the pioneer days of TV, Johnny became, arguably, the first and most famous living trademark of a major American product. The Johnny saga began in 1933 with an advertising problem: how to create a quality image for a 154-a-pack brand of cigarettes in a market where the then major competition (Camel, Chesterfield, Old Gold) sold for 114. Inspired by an illustration on an old Philip Morris display piece, advertising agency head Milton Biow con- ceived a radio campaign that featured a bellboy paging Philip Morris. But instead of hiring an actor to play a bellboy, Biow con- sulted an employment agency specializing in hotel help, and they immediately recommended Johnny Roventini, "The World's Smallest Bellhop;" of the New Yorker Hotel. "I simply went to the New Yorker, found Johnny, and asked him, quite innocently, to page a Mr. Philip Morris," writes Biow in his autobiography Butting In... An Adman Speaks Out. "He went through the lobby and called. That was the voice!" At first Johnny held on to his day job and popped over to the studio to call for Philip Morris on live radio programs that included "It Pays To Be Ignorant" and "Philip Morris Playhouse." But as Johnny's popularity grew, the company hired him as a full- time announcer and traveling spokesman. Johnny represented Philip Morris at supermarket openings, and appeared at musical and sporting events. Cheerful, gregar- ious, and ceaselessly energetic, Johnny shook hands, distributed samples, and, inevitably, sum- moned local bigwigs in the same piercing tone with which he called for Philip Morris. Johnny mania peaked in the late 1930s when demands for him became so great that Philip Morris decided to create a troop of five regionally located "Johnny Juniors" in bellhop outfits to appear in his place. Johnny and Philip Morris also scored a coup in the early 1950s when the com- pany became the original sponsor of the nation's highest-rated TV show, "I Love Lucy." Johnny's eventual retirement resulted more from changes in cigarette styles than any loss of energy or appeal. From 1954 on, Philip Morris focused its promo- tional efforts on newly popular filter brands such as Virginia Slims, Parliament, Merit, and particularly Marlboro; the popu- larity of the filterless Philip Morris brand was on the wane. According to Buck Peters, corpo- rate photographer and house spokesman for all things relating to Johnny, "I like to tell people that Johnny carried the company until he handed the baton to the Marlboro Man!' Johnny made his final official appearance in 1974 at the opening of a factory in Richmond, Virginia. Never married, Johnny Roven- tini lives today with his brother- in-law in his old neighborhood in the Sheepshead Bay section of Brooklyn, no longer granting interviews or making personal appearances. He has come out of retirement only twice: to lay a cornerstone at the opening of Philip Morris world headquarters in 1983 and to appear at a salute to Lucille Ball in 1984. But Johnny is hardly forgotten; in 1984 a bellhop uniform worn by one of the regional "Johnny Juniors" became part of the Smithsonian's permanent display. "Whenever somebody puts on something about nostalgia they show the bobby-soxers and Frank Sinatra and then Johnny," says Peters. "But I think that if it wasn't for Johnny's own personality, the Johnny program would never have made it. Johnny would really extend himself: he could talk, he could greet, he could walk into a roomful of strangers and make everybody feel like an old friend'." Indeed, adds Peters, "Everybody remembers Johnny. Whenever I see new kids in the company I tell them, 'Go home and say you're working for Philip Morris. Then come back and tell me if your father or mother or uncle doesn't say, "How about that little guy? You ever see him over there?" "' [I Theodore Fischer, a writer living in New York, remembers Johnny well. 2040235218 32 PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985

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On theAQenda A NEWS AND NOTES ON ITEMS OF SPECIAL INTEREST THIS SUMMER May 15 through August 25 SOUTHERN FOLK ART The rich diversity of folk art in the American South is the focus of a new exhibition which opened at the Museum of American Folk Art in New York City on May 15. More than 85 works, including paintings, quilts, furniture, and pottery, have been selected to represent the scope of southern cultural traditions. The ob- jects, all produced between 1743 and 1915, include the distinctive brown cotton textiles of Louisiana's Cajuns, the richly colored silks pro- duced by the Shakers of Ken- tucky, and the slip-decorated redware created by North Carolina's Moravians. The exhibition is scheduled to travel throughout the South between October 1985 and November 1986. June 10 through August 24 THE TWELVE MONTHS OF TOBACCO This series of paintings was commissioned by Philip Mor- ris to capture on canvas the role of burley tobacco farming in American culture. Artist Toss Chandler, who grew up on a Kentucky tobacco farm, has created a 34-by-28-inch painting for each month of the year, reflecting the year-round work this crop requires. Her work focuses on each step of the process, from preparation and planning through harvest and auctioning. The paintings will be on display at the Horse Cave Theater in Horse Cave, Kentucky, through July 20, then at the Kentucky State Fair in Louisville August 15 through 24. June 23 through September 1 PRIMITIVISM IN 20TH-CENTURY ART This ground-breaking exhibit juxtaposes modern art with tribal objects to underscore the parallels that exist between the two. Western artists first focused on primitive art around 1906-1907, as they shifted away from the perceptual (imitating what the eye sees) and toward more conceptual, or idea-oriented, styles; this show explores the influence of tribal art from Africa, Oce- ania, and the Americas upon modern painters and sculptors. Approximately 150 modern works, including pieces by Gauguin, Picasso, Modigliani, and Klee, are shown alongside some 200 carved figures, masks, and textiles. Among the primitive works are items from the personal collections of such artists as Picasso, Matisse, Braque, and Ernst. "Primitivism" will be on display at the Dallas Museum of Art in Dallas, Texas, through September 1. July 27 through September 1 MERIT HARBOR LIGHTS The Merit Harbor Lights show is a kaleidoscope of colorful firework patterns and effects set to music by the world- famous Gruccis, the "First Family o f Fireworks." In keep- ing with Merit's nautically- themed advertising, this half- hour-long fireworks extrava- ganza is choreographed to water-related tunes (from Richard Rodgers's "Victory at Sea" to Prince's "Purple Rain") and will be presented this sum- mer at four waterfront festivals. Each show will be supervised by the Gruccis-best known for their pyrotechnic produc- tions at President Reagan's Inaugurals and the 1984 Sum- mer Olympics-and fired from two floating barges. There is no admission charge. Merit Harbor Lights will be presented at the Harbor Festival in Phil- adelphia, Pennsylvania, on July 27 at 9:30 PM.; the Three Rivers Regatta in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, on August 3 at 9:45 P.M.; the Ist Annual St. Louis Riverfront Picnic and International Barbecue Com- petition in St. Louis, Missouri, on August 24 at 9:30 PM.; and the Stermuheel Regatta Festival in Charleston, West Virginia, on September I at dusk. July through September VIRGINIA SLIMS The Virginia Slims World's Championship Series contin- ues: Virginia Slims of Newport is scheduled for Newport Casino, Newport, Rhode Island, July 15-21; Virginia Slims of Los Angeles, Manhat- tan Beach Country Club, Manhattan Beach, California, July 29-August 4; Virginia Slims of Utah, Sports Mall, Salt Lake City, Utah, Septem- ber 9-15; Virginia Slims of Chicago, University of Illinois Circle Campus Pavilion, Chi- cago, Illinois, September 16- 22; Virginia Slims of Rich- mond, Raintree Swim and Racquet Club, Richmond, Virginia, September 16-22; and Virginia Slims of New Orleans, University of New Orleans, New Orleans, Louisi- ana, September 23-29. September 14 7UP-GREATFORESTPARK BALLOON RACE Forest Park in St. Louis is America's third-largest city' park (its popular zoo is run by well-known naturalist Marlin Perkins o f"Wild King- dom"fame) and the site of the third annual 7LIP-Great Forest Park Balloon Race. Open to the public-there's no admis- sion charge-the day will begin with skydiving demon- strations, music, and refresh- ments (including 7UP, Like, and Miller, of course). Then licensed professional pilots will navigate the 50 colorful bal- loons entered in the "hare and hounds" race: around 4:30 the balloon designated as the "hare" will take off first, with the "hounds" following ten min- utes later. A cash prize and trophy will be awarded to the hound landing closest to the hare. Pack a picnic and enjoy the day-a beautiful way to wrap up summer. PHILIP MORRIS MAGAZINE/SUMMER 1985 33

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