Jessie Matthews can't get a dancing foot in the door of the West End, so she borrows the character of "Mrs. Smythe-Smythe", a made-up celebrity who's the property of gossip columnist Robert Young. Good thing he's in love with her.
This is one of those movies in which the plot is just a framework to hang musical numbers and jokes on. Jack will have his Jill, and so forth. The jokes are minimal, the dancing ranges from good to excellent, and Young, unlike other co-stars of Miss Matthews, does not seem to be afraid of her. Miss Matthews wears her unlikely costumes with an air of amused disbelief. The sets seem to have been designed by Alfred Junge by looking at MGM fantasia sets and saying "Let's make that bigger. And more spangles."
As a result I found myself distracted by the theater design in the final scenes. I found myself wondering about the people who paid for seats hard up against that runway, would have to turn around, look up, and still see nothing.
Miss Matthews had real talent, but the British film industry seemed to have no idea what to do with her, and loaded her down with ever more unlikely plots, leading men, set designers, costumes, and choreographers, thinking that was how to top the last one. This one works, although the engine sputters occasionally.
