As an escape from work and as an antidote for that nebulous thing called Spring fever the movies are excellent. When neither these escapes or antidotes are needed the managers of the cinema house have to put on a picture of some higher type--a filming of a successful stage play or some extraordinary original Hollywood enterprise--to lure the majority of the college students. (Of course, every normal man has his favorite actress whom he would see in any picture, no matter how outrageous the vehicle.) But when work causes consternation and the weather and other forces cause one to be "fed up" there need be no especial attraction to compel one to irresponsibility and invite more consternation while whiling away the time in a movie seat.

These reasons are the only ones which should excite one to see "Man of the World" (Metropolitan). Not that the picture is bad--far from it. But neither is it good and it leaves one with an entirely passive reaction. There is no necessity for raving nor is there any for derogatory articles. William Powell merely saunters in and about the low and high dives of Paris following the dictates of a fairly weak story and a fairly weak conscience. There are no stirring dramatic scenes, only slight touches of humor are inserted, and even the love interest is calm.

Mr. Powell has had better and probably worse parts. He had better get vehicles of a slightly higher order, however, or he will lose his popularity. This business of being debonair can not go on forever. In this particular picture Mr. Powell is a racketeer who extorts money from American tourists in Paris. Of course, he falls in love with the charming niece of a fat business man who has just been fleeced. However, even the fact that the story has not the usual turn for the good and the subsequent happy ending can not rouse one from a slumping position in the sent.