I was interviewed for the Free Speech Union a few weeks back for an upcoming documentary (watch this space) and was asked what had first lit a fire within me for free speech. A South Aucklander, and a survivor – just – of the closure of Southdown meatworks in the early 1980s, watching an army of animated navy overalls scream themselves hoarse for a 20 cent per hour pay rise had convinced me both of the need for a voice, and the unlikelihood of our community ever being heard. But that wasn’t the answer I offered on that day. My answer was Playboy magazine.
Contrary to popular belief, porn was accessible in the late 70s and early 80s, but acquiring it took nothing short of a Rambo mission back to Vietnam. Stowed under beds or in closets, parents’ bedrooms generally were no-go zones back then, and many of our missions were completed as our snoring, drunk fathers slept atop the booty, like a dragon in its lair. We would then ship the contraband under the house and would huddle around and read it together, often by candlelight, turning pages with the same delicacy you’d apply to a finger down a young girl’s navel.
With my friends gone, I would return alone to study the images, and when they were all but exhausted, my attention turned to the text. I had an advanced reading age as a child and was studied by external teachers who determined that I had an adult’s comprehension at 7 years old. I devoured Peter Benchley’s Jaws at this age. The record scratch of an unexpected sex scene between the Police Chief’s wife and marine biologist Hooper (who was more of a Redford type in the book) taught me that the uncensored adult world hid all sorts of delights, quite unfairly, in my young estimation. I committed to defying bans as an almost sacred duty.
I remember reading a long interview with writer Truman Capote in Hugh Hefner’s pages. Homosexuality in my neighbourhood wasn’t exactly accepted, and I had to assume for good reason. But my encounter with this wicked wit quickly seeded doubt. He was enviably talented and funny. A lot funnier than our superior fathers, who, to be fair, were anything but a barrel of laughs as Labour’s neo-liberal reforms took hold. And then, Susan Sontag, which led me to Camille Paglia and so on and so on. By 18 years of age, this South Aucklander had a pretty good handle on the development of feminism in the U.S. and the many different schools of thought, not that I could ever get under the hood of the topic with friends. Had I tried, they would’ve thought I was holding-out on some potent acid.
Few publications in modern history have embodied both the fight for free speech and the contradictions of cultural progressivism quite like Playboy. The women, the silk robes, and the ever-present whiff of Marlboro mixed with the fuel of private jets were a cleverly constructed working-class man’s fantasy of wealth. But where the magazine was genuinely in our corner was as a battering ram against censorship, and by exposing the street to some of the sharpest minds of the time.
From day one, Hugh Hefner styled himself as a First Amendment crusader. The 1950s and 60s were the era of puritanical crackdowns, when government busybodies decided what Americans could read, watch, and even think. Hefner wasn’t having it. When he was arrested in 1963 for publishing nude photos of Jayne Mansfield, his defense rested upon the free speech principle and the right of an individual to determine what content was appropriate according to their tastes. It is true that determining harm doesn’t follow any scientific method, and will always be a clerical duty, depending on the political or any other cults of the day. There is no objective expertise that empowers a censor beyond ideological devotion. Mansfield added that “Beauty can never be obscene”, which makes me curious as to whether I could beat a public exposure charge with a similar sentiment. I may try and test that. But not today.
Hefner’s case ended in a hung jury, but Hefner had made his point: speech, including speech about sex, would not be dictated by bureaucrats or moral gatekeepers. Along with the legal battles around the civil rights movement, Hefner helped to define the absolutist position the censorial lampoon today.
The Playboy Interview, which so entranced my young mind, launched in 1962, and gave a platform to voices that mainstream media was too skittish to engage with. Malcolm X would feature, along with Martin Luther King Jr and libertarian economist Milton Friedman. As a documentary maker, I have developed a belief that an uninterrupted 1-hour interview minimum is needed to even begin to understand the worldview of a person. And once consumed, cynical presumptions are often challenged. You could argue that my young mind was deradicalised regarding homosexuality through the Truman Capote interview. Isn’t it odd to think that a magazine that was illegal for me to read would set me on a progressive, non-bigoted course? Or am I being naive here as to the true intent of censorship?
A central irony of Playboy was its use of feminist writers. Susan Sontag, Margaret Atwood, Erica Jong, and even Betty Friedan wrote for the magazine. Why? Because even if they despised the nude spreads, they recognized Playboy as a place where serious ideas got serious attention, and that they could reach audiences they otherwise had no access to – no doubt pre-pubescent, working poor Kiwi kids being a much coveted one. In all seriousness, I am sure Sontag, had I met her, would’ve been proud of my subsequent free speech advocacy, and I would’ve certainly loved the opportunity to praise her for her courageous defense of Salman Rushdie during the Satanic Verses affair.
But was Hefner the free speech champion he claimed to be? That’s where things get murky. Yes, he fought against censorship. Yes, he printed works that challenged authority. But he was also a shrewd businessman, and the brand of “free speech” he championed conveniently aligned with his libertine, male-centric vision. When Gloria Steinem went “undercover” as a Playboy Bunny in one of Hefner’s Playboy clubs, she discovered conditions and expectations that defied any idea of the brand promoting the sexual revolution for women. The setting she described was as dour as you’d expect from any strip club or dive bar. There were repercussions, too: A one-million-dollar libel suit against me and a small, now defunct New York newspaper that had printed a report on my article, as well as allegations that the manager of the New York Playboy Club had clear Mafia connections. Though those allegations were not in any quote from me, I seem to have been included in the libel suit as a harassment gesture. I spent many unpleasant hours in depositions, and being threatened with punitive damages. Eventually, the newspaper settled out of court without reference to me. I was told by other reporters that such harassing actions, with or without actionable grounds, were a frequent way of discouraging or punishing journalists.” Hefner likely absorbed these writers to offset accusations of exploitation, which only increased post his death, when various portraits of misery inside the mansion for many of the young models were uncovered.
Pornography generally has played a massive role in expanding free speech protections in the U.S., and Playboy was at the center of that fight. In landmark cases like Miller v. California(1973), the Supreme Court debated the limits of obscenity laws, eventually ruling that sexually explicit material could be restricted but not outright banned. Playboy managed to sidestep many of these rulings by positioning itself as “tasteful,” but its very existence helped clear the legal path for more extreme publications to argue for their rights as well.
The 70s saw Penthouse and Hustler pushing the limits even further, leading to cases like Hustler Magazine v. Falwell (1988), where the Supreme Court affirmed that even deeply offensive satire was protected speech. It’s easy to forget, in today’s climate of online outrage and corporate censorship, that without Playboy and its seedier cousins, the legal protections for controversial speech might not be as strong as they are today.
What I learned through Playboy and my pursuit of controversial films as a youngster is that defying censorship is an important rite of passage. The problem with it, in all its forms, including political censorship, is that it works to entice while claiming to push away. Horror films are considered adult content, but it is adult content made for children, in that monsters simply don’t torment and spark the adult imagination the way they do to the young. A first encounter with Freddy Kruger at 27 is certain to disappoint. At 11 years of age, through a cassette rented by an older sibling? Perfect. And while Playboy was unquestionably for adults, it deracialised my young mind. I still go back to Sontag and Paglia as much as I do Orwell, and Capote, whom I pursued after that first encounter, and who remains one of my very favourite writers.
With the contemporary iteration increasingly being desexed, I cannot see young people braving a rolling boulder to acquire it. The female bait, which drew the young to interesting commentary, is all but gone. But does this matter, seeing online pornography is where they get their fix anyway? Which is a shame, if the writers today are as good as they once were. But there is still forbidden knowledge, even in the internet age, and I would encourage young minds always to seek it. Because if rules are meant to be broken, censorship surely deserves to be smashed.
