Plot is one of those things. Eleanor Powell is the ambidextrous musicomedy dancer turned p.a. whose imagination cooks up spectacular ideas calling for lavish showmanship and Miss-Fixit technique which, however, almost always involves her deeper with Dennis O’Keefe.
That’s the ridic part of the plot. P.a.s capable of handling literary memoirs, promoting a Circus-in-the-Sky nitery, a Devil’s Gorge ropewalking stunt, a Times Square jitterbugging melee, with assorted cabaret preems and musicomedy ventures in between, makes for a story which reads like a Ziegfeldian nightmare.
Despite the cold analysis of the curious plot motivation it all plays far more compellingly than this brief recounting would indicate. It’s to producer-director Andrew L. Stone’s credit that he has thus been able to jell the Woody Herman and Cab Calloway bands, the specialties of W. C. Fields (too brief), Sophie Tucker’s two dandy numbers (with Teddy Shapiro omnipotently at the Steinway) and the crack boogie-woogieing of Dorothy Donegan.