The cover story for the April 15, 1966 edition of Time was about "Swinging London." What a terrific cover illustration.
To the lively Londoner, no explanations are really necessary. Talking the flip jargon that has become basic English for teenagers, jet setters and indeed any knowledgeable adult striving to maintain the illusion that he is at least young in heart, the switched-on London bird or beatle calls his urb "super," "fab," "groovy," "gear," "close" or "with it." "Ready, steady, go. There's a Whole Scene Going," chirps Cathy McGowan, 22, moderator on ITV's Ready, Steady Go show and London's favorite "dolly" of the moment, doing a deliberate "sendup" (takeoff) on the title of her own and the nation's other top pop TV show, There's a Whole Scene Going.
In fact, there is not one London scene, but dozens. Each one is a dazzling gem, a medley of checkered sunglasses and delightfully quaint pay phone boxes, a blend of "flash" American, polished Continental and robust old English influence that mixes and merges in London today. The result is a sparkling, slapdash comedy not unlike those directed for the screen by Britain's own Tony (Tom Jones) Richardson or Czech Emigre Karel (Morgan!) Reisz, and filmed by Director Richard (Help!) Lester, a fugitive from Philadelphia, who uses the sudden stills and the hurry-up time that he learned filming advertising commercials for U.S. TV.
If Lester were scripting the action that took place in London last week, five storyboards might look like this:
∙ SCENE ONE. Jack Aspinall's Clermont Club on Berkeley Square, located in an 18th century town house, small, plush and, since it opened in 1962, almost incredibly exclusive (the membership fee of $84 a year is a trifle compared with the need for the "proper credentials"). Time: a weekday night. After a late, after-the-theater supper with friends at Annabel's, London's leading discothèque (which happens to be right downstairs), the handsome son of a peer breezes up for "a spot of chemmy." Chairs are found for his group to watch; drinks are passed. In three hours, playing with flair, he wins $210,000. Satisfied, but not flaunting his coup, he departs. But before the chauffeur can wheel his Bentley out from all the others, the Right Honourable realizes that he forgot to get a chit for his winnings. He goes back. Tempted by his luck, he tries another few shoes. Two hours later he has lost $450,000.
