The movies have found their forte in comedy, and are pounding away at it with gratification to all concerned. No need to linger in the drawing room and draw) out withering words, all in observance of the mity of space, no need for this with the wide world and dizzy speed at easy command. So the new comedy goes tearing around at a breakneck pace, and drives one into gulps of amazed laughter. "Love on the Run" is just such a picture, and keeps the promise contained in its title. But not content to run amuck with foaming month, it has anitched one of the major weapons of the great class of World War pictures, the international apy. And no with malingnant foreigners periodically sticking their heads into the whirlwind pranks of crazy Americans, "Love on the Run" is calculated to be, and probably is, a surefire hit.

The picture has enough vitality to throw new life into a lot of matter otherwise dead. Joan Crawford, for example, is the familiar overly-rich heiress who doesn't know what to do with herself and her money, until she meets a poor man. That person in this case is Clark Gable, and he is a reporter, which class doesn't learn his identity until he and she have stolen a airplane, scared about a million people in taking off, crashed the plane, found a spy map in it, dressed up like French peasants, spent a night in Fontaineblean Palace with a lunatic caretaker, and run away in a dressmaker's truck. But when Joan does find out, it's too late late for her to reclaim her heart. The picture, incidentally, is at this point just well under way.

Gable and Crawford, being much the same as ever, are as good as ever, and that account should take care of them. Reginald Owen and Mona Barrie make good, sound villains. But the biggest surprise of the show, together with what is probably the only real acting comes from Franchot Tone. For the most intelligent man in Hollywood, he is amazingly effective at being dumb. He makes Joan wish for Clark by telling her she wouldn't care to neck, would she? And he makes Clark glow with low satisfaction, by allowing himself, the rival roving reporter, always to get thoroughly stymied.