Epiphany in a Dance Hall

Marathon '33, written and directed by June Havoc, is liberally laced with music and dance, yet it is not a musical. It is housed in a Broadway playhouse, but it is not a play. It is more nearly a spectacle--the kind that people have in mind when they talk of "making a spectacle of oneself," funny yet frightening, poignant, pitiable and a little tawdry. It follows no plot, but simply coils, sometimes slackly, sometimes snugly, around an event: a dance marathon. But it clings to an abiding vision that life is a grueling test, rather like 3,000 hours on a dance marathon floor, and that the prizes do not necessarily go to the strong or the meek, but to those who gallantly or stubbornly endure.

Making her first appearance in the roped-off arena of a seedy American Legion hall, June (Julie Harris) seems least likely to endure. Her head is full of warm muzzy memories of the vaudeville circuit where she was a child star, just as Playwright Havoc, sister of Gypsy Rose Lee, once was. June finds the marathon degrading and unpalatable, but hunger makes her stomach it. From her partner, Lee Allen, she learns contest protocol: about the "horses" who drag-carry their sleeping partners around the floor with proud belligerence, and about the clowns who must check out after 1,000 hours because clowns are not supposed to win, and about the quitters who "punk out." She jitterbugs in the "sprints," scrambles for tossed coins. Tricked by the horses, taunted by sadistic ringsiders, feet lacerated, nerves shrieking, body and mind at the breaking point, June has a revelation of self in this unholy place. She finds her courage, she knows she will not break or punk out. The purpose of the play is this epiphany, and in the unsparing childlike ardor of Julie Harris' performance, the moment is as theatrically galvanizing as that of the child Helen Keller learning her first word in sign language.

By risking monotony, by risking crummy jokes, by risking spontaneous little forays into sex, wistful interludes of conversation, jagged fragments of anger and malice, instead of calculated dramatic climaxes, Marathon '33 acquires the conviction of life as naturally as a city street gathers soot. With this production, Actors Studio Theater at least suggests, if it does not sustain, new directions for a theater that can no longer afford to stand still in the quicksand of Broadway formula.

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