Patrons of the RKO Theatre this week are faced with a movie that was banned in New York, if only temporarily, and a world-famous ecdysiast. What is unusual is that the movie has considerable merit and Sally Rand, who bares her years well, just doesn't go over.

To take last things first, Miss Rand's reception presents an interesting study in audience reaction. Oglers who are alive and responsive during the hammy vaudeville that precedes the graceful unveiling suddenly grow cold when the fans start waving. A strained, perhaps embarrassed, hush falls over the theatre, Sally scarcely gets a hand.

"Scarlet Street" is little more than an interesting study itself, for as entertainment it is unconventional and unpleasant. When the New York censors finally released it under pressure, they cut only one bit of dialogue and four--of seven--thrusts in a stabbing sequence. Judging by some obvious scissor work, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts has treated it less gently.

But no amount of cutting short of a total ban can rob "Scarlet Street" of its oppressive naturalism, of its rough sketch or unpleasant characters, illicit love, and miscarried justice. That the Johnston office passed it in the first place is gratifying, for it flies in the face of the precepts of movie morality set up by Will Hays.

Starring Joan Bennett, as a dissolute and hard-bitten flapper, Edward G. Robinson as a weak little cashier who likes to paint pictures, and Dan Duryea, as a fip, unmoral pug, "Scarlet Street" is cynically matter-of-fact, more like a Dostoevski novel than a Hollywood bon-bon, honest to a fault.

Corner-of-the-mouth sociology, good acting, and modern art (primitives that will make art lovers of the calendar lithograph class gasp) give "Scarlet Street" a sophisticated ugliness that is appealing, if only because of its brass.