Last week in New York was Second City Week. At the Martinique, the little theatre at | 32nd and Broadway, Gene Troobnick and Bill Alton, among others, opened in “Dynamite Tonite”, an anti-war musical directed by Chicago’s Paul Sills and written by Ar-1 nold Weinstein. “Dynamite Tonite” is a juvenile document,! an imitation of an imitation of Brecht, and is not long for this world. Nevertheless it was pleasant to watch old friends at work, to enjoy the piece’s occasional escapes from the commonplace and to listen to William Bolcom’s smart music. It was also good to discover Allvn I McLerie again (as a burlesque female guerilla warrior) and remember how everybody, including this reporter and Ray Bolger, were once in love with Amy in “Where’s Charley?”Yet nobody could cop* with Mr. Weinstein. S*t in a cluttered under-ground shelter toward the end of a twenty-year war, his play wavered between parody and propaganda and never made up its mind whether to be satirical or tragic. At its conclusion a private soldier loses his eyes and his hand, and a caged prisoner breaks his chains and blows up the whole shebang. This was the end of the musical and, presumably, the