The Playgoer's film acquaintance with Miss Harding dates from the brave days of "Holiday" and "Paris Bound." After seeing "Holiday" five times, he decided that she was indeed the queen of Hollywood.

As the present film begins, Miss Harding is discovered reading dejectly in the Housewives' Club of a London suburb, while the April rain drizzles outside. Upon finding a certain notice in the paper, she and a kindred spirit at the club develop an April hankering that is the reverse of Mr. Browning's-Oh, to be in Italy! For a few pounds they can rent a fabulous little castle on the Mediterranean. There is a thrifty counting of shillings, and at length an ecstatic leavetaking of foggy streets and captious husbands. Two noble ladies have been corralled to join them at the castle and share expenses. When the eager housewives arrive, the gentry are already firmly ensconced in the most desirable rooms. Jessie Ralph, as the determined old dowager, keeps a watchful grip on the teapot of hospitality, so that the suburbanites, far from playing hostess, must meekly pass their cups.

With an abundance of verbal wisteria, April works its spell upon them all. The firm hand on the teapot relaxes. As the moon swings to the full, Miss Harding's luscious speeches come to ripe fruit. Just as the air is about to be like wine tonight, the castle menage, an enchanting crew of Italian peasants, bustle on the scene. It is a real pleasure to watch them become completely disrupted over the performance of a sinister English rite-the hot bath. Moments like this are heightened by handsome sets and adroit low-key photography. But alas, the story creaks back to the laborious business of restoring Miss Harding to the arms of her repentant husband.

The Playgoer doesn't know yet whether Miss Harding's fruity lines are intended as a satire on Bloomsbury romanticism, or whether the authoress thought she was writing some pretty telling stuff. He is inclined to give Suburbia the benefit of the doubt. It must be a Message.