Santa Monica Pier, 1932. A ballroom at the foot of Route 66, last chance. Dusty sunlight angles in over bleachers and the surf can be heard when the band plays softly. Glowing posters of Jean Harlow and Greta Garbo are tucked in every intimate alcove, decked with strands of lights. Middle-class patrons assemble daily in the bleachers to throw pennies at the ragged and despairing dance marathon contestants. They have been dancing — shuffling, staggering — continuously for over a month, goaded onward by the sulfurous emcee and a dangling cash prize. Their pathetic condition is fine entertainment in troubled times.
Need I emphasize that this is 1932, from a movie made in 1969, and not a reality TV show?
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