Minggu, 12 Agustus 2007
ARABIAN GIRL
It was an Arabian Night at the Mansion for Hef's annual Midsummer Night's Dream pajama party, with the grounds transformed into a Mediterranean-inspired hookah bash. A giant mural of genie Hef smoking a water pipe welcomed 1,000 party guests into his tented paradise, decorated with colorful silk drapes, hot pink palm trees, laser beams and gilded columns. Hef and his harem -- Holly, Bridget and Kendra -- held court in a VIP Bedouin tent in front of the dance floor while celebrities, Playmates, Cyber Girls and friends of Mr. Playboy circulated in their sexiest nighttime attire, the fragrance of strawberry tobacco sweetening the air. Old and new Hollywood intertwined, with Paris and Nicky Hilton mingling among The O.C.'s Adam Brody and Benjamin Mackenzie, Heroes' Milo Ventimiglia, "Stifler's mom" Jennifer Coolidge, Ally McBeal's Greg Germann, Deadwood's William Sanderson, VH1 star Scott Baio, Edward Herrman, Crispin Glover, Garry Marshall, Entourage Emmy nominee Martin Landau, Stephen Dorff, Jamie Kennedy, Brody Jenner, 'N Sync's JC Chasez, the Lakers' Jordan Farmar, Jon Lovitz, Dave Navarro and more. The dance floor stayed packed well into the wee hours, long past rapper Too Short's impromptu midnight set. Hard-partying revelers showed off their own moves among the plush silk throw pillows strewn across the floor, and, as always, took it to the Grotto for some wet-and-wild fun.
ANDARA EARLY
One day this past fall, the phone rang at my parents' home in Jakarta and my niece answered.
"Hello?"
"We will hang Erwin," a dark voice said. "I am nearby, and I know your house. I know the neighborhood."
My niece, terrified, refused to go to school. These threats have been part of my and my family's life since the first issue of Playboy Indonesia hit Jakarta's newsstands in April 2006. I receive them by e-mail and, despite having changed my number several times, on my cell phone. Protesters chanted threats outside Playboy's offices and during my trial on obscenity charges. The voices accuse me, as the magazine's editor in chief, of publishing illegal pornography; as retribution, they've promised to kidnap and "eliminate" me.
We knew that introducing Playboy to a country where 88 percent of the inhabitants are Muslim would cause a stir, so early on we decided the magazine would contain no nudity or explicit discussions of sex. We didn't need them anyway. We wanted to publish a thought-provoking, articulate and intelligent magazine for men, because Indonesia had nothing like that. Even so, friends and family warned, "Be careful with your pen." They felt publishing anything under the Playboy banner would only lead to trouble.
Before putting together the first issue, I visited the Press Council, a government agency established after the 1998 ouster of the dictator Suharto to approve new publications. I explained that this edition of Playboy -- one of 22 worldwide -- would be produced by Indonesians. It would contain demure images of beautiful Indonesian women (of which there are many), but mostly it would consist of serious reporting and commentary. In fact, the first issue featured one of the last interviews with author and dissident Pramoedya Ananta Toer. The council had no problem.
PLAYBOY Indonesia is actually among the tamest publications on newsstands in Jakarta. Some people even complained on talk radio shows about the lack of skin in the magazine. "It's a sin to read Playboy if there's no nudity!" one caller said. You can buy FHM, Maxim, a local magazine called Popular and a handful of gossipy tabloids, all of which leave less to the imagination. If those publications don't satisfy, porn movies are available from street vendors for as little as 50 cents.
Before producing the first issue I reached out to the conservative Muslim community. But when I sat down with the leader of the largest Islamist group, the Front Pembela Islam (Islamic Defenders Front), along with his lawyer, they were in no mood to break bread. They told me that if I published the magazine the FPI would file a criminal complaint. Later another FPI leader told reporters the group had "declared war" on Playboy.
We printed 100,000 copies of the first issue and priced them at a relatively expensive 39,000 rupiahs (about $4.50). They sold out in two days.
Then the FPI showed up. A few hundred of its members had decided the legal system didn't provide the instant gratification they desired. They filled the street outside our fourth-floor offices in Jakarta, chanting and waving placards. My staff grew uneasy and most decided to leave for the day. I had misgivings but decided to stay, as did my assistant and two others, even as the mob forced its way into the building and began climbing the stairs. Suddenly rocks shattered the windows. The protesters were stoning the building and, I learned later, planning to burn it down. As they moved to the third floor, the police finally intervened.
In the days following the protest, our landlord asked us to leave. It was hard to blame him. We were still unpacking boxes in our new office on the mostly Hindu (and more laid-back) island of Bali when our lawyer called to say that a coalition called the Indonesian Society Against Piracy and Pornography had filed a criminal complaint against me and model Kartika Oktavina Gunawan. When I showed up at police headquarters in Jakarta to answer the summons, investigators questioned me for 10 hours over two days about all aspects of the magazine's production. At one point an officer asked where I had met Kartika, and I replied honestly that I could not remember. "How can you not remember?" he asked. "Because I meet many beautiful people every day," I said. The officers all chuckled. I think if I had offered any of them a job at that point, they may have accepted.
As I awaited trial, the FPI pressured our advertisers, suggesting they might want to spend their marketing rupiahs elsewhere. As a result, our fourth and fifth issues contained no ads. While 194 million of the 221 million inhabitants of Indonesia are Muslims, the vast majority are not aligned with fringe groups such as FPI. However, the Islamists have gained a lot of political power in recent years. After our first issue appeared, an Islamist party introduced a bill in parliament that would not only ban all adult material but outlaw dancing, kissing in public and "lascivious" clothing. (The bill is stalled for now.)
In late December my lawyer and I reported to South Jakarta's State Court for the first weekly session of testimony. If convicted, I would face nearly three years in prison. As the prosecutor read the charges aloud, the protestors filling the courtroom began to shout "Hang him! Hang him!" and other pleasantries. The prosecutor told the judge, "Photos, drawings and articles in Playboy Indonesia magazine were results of the defendant's selection. They were unsuitable for civility and could arouse lust among readers, so they violated feelings of decency." In 10 sessions over the next three months, the prosecutor called his witnesses, mostly members of Islamist groups. Our witnesses included a magazine distributor who was later beaten by thugs for his audacity. Finally, on April 5, the judge presented his verdict. Much to the Islamists' anger and my elation, he found me not guilty, ruling that Playboy Indonesia is not obscene.
The FPI has vowed to continue its fight against PLAYBOY and other men's magazines. My staff and I remain concerned about our personal safety but enthusiastic about our work. The magazine is selling well, and after I visited each of our advertisers to point out that we're still here, nearly all have returned.
"Hello?"
"We will hang Erwin," a dark voice said. "I am nearby, and I know your house. I know the neighborhood."
My niece, terrified, refused to go to school. These threats have been part of my and my family's life since the first issue of Playboy Indonesia hit Jakarta's newsstands in April 2006. I receive them by e-mail and, despite having changed my number several times, on my cell phone. Protesters chanted threats outside Playboy's offices and during my trial on obscenity charges. The voices accuse me, as the magazine's editor in chief, of publishing illegal pornography; as retribution, they've promised to kidnap and "eliminate" me.
We knew that introducing Playboy to a country where 88 percent of the inhabitants are Muslim would cause a stir, so early on we decided the magazine would contain no nudity or explicit discussions of sex. We didn't need them anyway. We wanted to publish a thought-provoking, articulate and intelligent magazine for men, because Indonesia had nothing like that. Even so, friends and family warned, "Be careful with your pen." They felt publishing anything under the Playboy banner would only lead to trouble.
Before putting together the first issue, I visited the Press Council, a government agency established after the 1998 ouster of the dictator Suharto to approve new publications. I explained that this edition of Playboy -- one of 22 worldwide -- would be produced by Indonesians. It would contain demure images of beautiful Indonesian women (of which there are many), but mostly it would consist of serious reporting and commentary. In fact, the first issue featured one of the last interviews with author and dissident Pramoedya Ananta Toer. The council had no problem.
PLAYBOY Indonesia is actually among the tamest publications on newsstands in Jakarta. Some people even complained on talk radio shows about the lack of skin in the magazine. "It's a sin to read Playboy if there's no nudity!" one caller said. You can buy FHM, Maxim, a local magazine called Popular and a handful of gossipy tabloids, all of which leave less to the imagination. If those publications don't satisfy, porn movies are available from street vendors for as little as 50 cents.
Before producing the first issue I reached out to the conservative Muslim community. But when I sat down with the leader of the largest Islamist group, the Front Pembela Islam (Islamic Defenders Front), along with his lawyer, they were in no mood to break bread. They told me that if I published the magazine the FPI would file a criminal complaint. Later another FPI leader told reporters the group had "declared war" on Playboy.
We printed 100,000 copies of the first issue and priced them at a relatively expensive 39,000 rupiahs (about $4.50). They sold out in two days.
Then the FPI showed up. A few hundred of its members had decided the legal system didn't provide the instant gratification they desired. They filled the street outside our fourth-floor offices in Jakarta, chanting and waving placards. My staff grew uneasy and most decided to leave for the day. I had misgivings but decided to stay, as did my assistant and two others, even as the mob forced its way into the building and began climbing the stairs. Suddenly rocks shattered the windows. The protesters were stoning the building and, I learned later, planning to burn it down. As they moved to the third floor, the police finally intervened.
In the days following the protest, our landlord asked us to leave. It was hard to blame him. We were still unpacking boxes in our new office on the mostly Hindu (and more laid-back) island of Bali when our lawyer called to say that a coalition called the Indonesian Society Against Piracy and Pornography had filed a criminal complaint against me and model Kartika Oktavina Gunawan. When I showed up at police headquarters in Jakarta to answer the summons, investigators questioned me for 10 hours over two days about all aspects of the magazine's production. At one point an officer asked where I had met Kartika, and I replied honestly that I could not remember. "How can you not remember?" he asked. "Because I meet many beautiful people every day," I said. The officers all chuckled. I think if I had offered any of them a job at that point, they may have accepted.
As I awaited trial, the FPI pressured our advertisers, suggesting they might want to spend their marketing rupiahs elsewhere. As a result, our fourth and fifth issues contained no ads. While 194 million of the 221 million inhabitants of Indonesia are Muslims, the vast majority are not aligned with fringe groups such as FPI. However, the Islamists have gained a lot of political power in recent years. After our first issue appeared, an Islamist party introduced a bill in parliament that would not only ban all adult material but outlaw dancing, kissing in public and "lascivious" clothing. (The bill is stalled for now.)
In late December my lawyer and I reported to South Jakarta's State Court for the first weekly session of testimony. If convicted, I would face nearly three years in prison. As the prosecutor read the charges aloud, the protestors filling the courtroom began to shout "Hang him! Hang him!" and other pleasantries. The prosecutor told the judge, "Photos, drawings and articles in Playboy Indonesia magazine were results of the defendant's selection. They were unsuitable for civility and could arouse lust among readers, so they violated feelings of decency." In 10 sessions over the next three months, the prosecutor called his witnesses, mostly members of Islamist groups. Our witnesses included a magazine distributor who was later beaten by thugs for his audacity. Finally, on April 5, the judge presented his verdict. Much to the Islamists' anger and my elation, he found me not guilty, ruling that Playboy Indonesia is not obscene.
The FPI has vowed to continue its fight against PLAYBOY and other men's magazines. My staff and I remain concerned about our personal safety but enthusiastic about our work. The magazine is selling well, and after I visited each of our advertisers to point out that we're still here, nearly all have returned.
Berlangganan Postingan [Atom]