A great many people are pleased with "My Foolish Heart." Samuel Goldwyn, the producer, is happy: despite adverse reviews, this, his latest product, is making a heap of money. The Academy Award nominating board is happy: the movie's heroine, Susan Hayward, has been nominated for the best actress of the year. The manager of the Astor Theater is happy: not only is his theater well-filled even on afternoons, but his floor is so well-washed with tears that it must need only a dry mop at the end of the day. And, of course, the audience this film has found is happy: they must be telling their friends that "My Foolish Heart" is like a beautiful soap-opera come true.

This unabashedly tearful and trite film is the work of several talented people. It is based on a New Yorker short story entitled "Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut." ("Poor, little Uncle Wiggily," says Miss Hayward, speaking of herself, "always trying to be helpful and always getting hurt.") The director is Mark Robson who directed "Champion" and "Home of the Brave." Miss Hayward, as well as Robert Keith, who plays her weary-wise father, are quite satisfactory in their roles. I doubt that Miss Hayward is deserving of an "Oscar" for this film, but as unwed mothers and alcoholies have won over the Academy's hearts in the past, and, as her present role combines both, she may be a cinch for this year's gilded gewgaw.

This is a motion-picture beautifully made for its purpose. But a good cry is a far cry from art. Regardless of the quality of the film's ingredients, and the slickness with which they are blended, it all comes to naught when the characters themselves are lacking in the spark of life, the nobility of real beings. Sentiment, properly used in the films like "Goodbye, Mr. Chips" and "The Yearling," can be a handsome thing. In "My Foolish Heart" it has been put to ignoble use.