Although it was actually produced on a fair to middling budget, this is the sort of movie that gives British quota quickies such a really bad (and often richly deserved) name. Admittedly, Heather Angel, in the main role of the girl who rises from gutter-snipe to talk-of-the-town fashion designer, does give the part a really good try. Both her Cockney and Mayfair accents are faultless. Henry Wilcoxon, also cast well against type (in fact you would be hard put to recognize him if he were not so tall) also impresses, while Louis Hayward does his best to make an impression as a potential lover who spends most of the movie on the sidelines. Well, so far, so reasonably good. But the real killer of the movie is the gentleman who has his name in such enormous type in the credit titles, namely George King. Mr King is a firm exponent of that school of lazy "B"-picture directing that could be described as the plonk the camera down and nail it to the floor while the players give us a six-minute take. This would be tolerable if the plot made an atom of sense, but it doesn't. Themes are introduced and then abruptly discarded. For a while there, the plot twists itself into knots that make it often seem as if Louis Hayward is not going to return. He does, of course, but that fact in itself does give the movie a teensie-weensie bit of suspense anyway. And Heather Angel does impress -- no doubt about that!
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