If you have never travelled on a bus and believe the "Fugitive Lovers" gives an authentic picture of one, you may rush to the nearest bus station and start for the coast. Irrelevant as the following remark may be, we feel duty bound to warn you that biliousness, depression, and not infrequently locomotor ataxia result from one ride on these floundering monsters. But this film tries to make one believe that adventure and romance breed on buses. If you desire fantasy, "Fugitive Lovers" is pleasant enough.

Robert Montgomery, as the escaped convict, Porter, boards a Los Angeles bound bus, a Greyhound bus, (note the advertising element that creeps into Hollywoodiana) and he immediately falls for the babe at his side. Letty is the girl's name, and she lets him know that she is avoiding Legs, a New York gangster. Legs glares at the couple, and Withington (Ted Healy) is trying to persuade a prim woman to take a drink, and Healey's stooges, the Julians, are raising hell in the back of the bus, and character actors fill the remaining seats. The bus is stopped by troopers. At the stops the passengers are carefully scrutinized by policemen searching for Porter who had ingeniously disguised himself by removing his prison clothes on top of the bus and substituting them for the suit of one of the passengers. On we go further west, and it is jealous Legs who first discovers that his rival is the convict. On we go still further west and the smell of the Rockies becomes more predominant. With a wow of an ending, numerous snow bound school children are rescued by the fugitive from justice, pretty Letty gets rid of her gangster admirer who admits defeat with a broad smile, and Porter gets a pardon.

Mr. Montgomery and Miss Evans are adequate as the lovers, but Healy and company seem to have had a better opportunity for horse-play than the former had for love making on a big bouncing bus; we preferred the pure nonsense. We wonder why "Fugitive Lovers" was not a propaganda film against buses; it would really have been amusing to see twenty-four passengers quite dead after a two hundred mile trip with only a burly driver left to tell the tale.

The best feature of the other picture, "All of Me", is of course Miriam Hopkins. Unfortunately she is not given any great opportunity to display her talents, for what might be a really good picture--the play from which it was adopted was excellent--is spoiled by misguided direction; nor does Frederic March measure up to the standard set by Miss Hopkins.