Lucille Ball plays something of a she-monster with almost no redeeming values in this implausible romantic drama about what can only be addressed as masochistic love. The person from whom this kind of sick emotion stems from is Agustus Pinkerton, a.k.a. "Little Pinks" (Henry Fonda), a man who works as a busboy at the nightclub where Gloria Lyons, a.k.a. "Your Highness" (Ball) works as a showgirl. She's way out of his league; he loves her from a distance. She could notice him less; he has made her his world and reason of existence. She flirts with men left and right; he only has eyes for her. Can you just see the romance blooming like the Rites of Spring?
The plot thickens: Gloria gets into an altercation with her gangster, Case Ables (Barton MacLaine) that lands her at the low end of a flight of stairs where she debuts in her newly created role as a cripple (not that she wasn't already, albeit one on the inside). Little Pinks, previously little more than an observer, steps up and takes her in, wanting to (symbolically) Make Her His Woman despite her brittle demands that he leave her alone. However, here is where the story takes an odd turn: Little Pinks is so fixated in Gloria's (selfish) happiness that he is willing to transport her (for lack of a better word) to Florida so she can resume her relationship with another man.
Leopold von Sacher-Masoch couldn't have written a more tender story. All that is missing here are the whips and chains and an assortment of kinky accoutrement. It's really not Ball's or Fonda's fault that this dismal, Kleenex-happy movie is a travesty of a melodrama. Ball committed herself tooth and nail to a role handed down to her by recently deceased pal Carole Lombard (one wonders how Lombard might have handled this nasty role). Fonda was a great actor who could convince you he was as noble as he is here. This is what really matters, and is a postulate that Bette Davis herself was known to obey: that a movie, no matter how awful it would look, should be remembered more for the quality of the actors' performance. THE BIG STREET is that kind of movie: one that is laughable in its contrivances, but that boasts two really fearless performances, most notably Ball cast completely against type since she is still regarded as America's Favorite Crazy Redhead.
The plot thickens: Gloria gets into an altercation with her gangster, Case Ables (Barton MacLaine) that lands her at the low end of a flight of stairs where she debuts in her newly created role as a cripple (not that she wasn't already, albeit one on the inside). Little Pinks, previously little more than an observer, steps up and takes her in, wanting to (symbolically) Make Her His Woman despite her brittle demands that he leave her alone. However, here is where the story takes an odd turn: Little Pinks is so fixated in Gloria's (selfish) happiness that he is willing to transport her (for lack of a better word) to Florida so she can resume her relationship with another man.
Leopold von Sacher-Masoch couldn't have written a more tender story. All that is missing here are the whips and chains and an assortment of kinky accoutrement. It's really not Ball's or Fonda's fault that this dismal, Kleenex-happy movie is a travesty of a melodrama. Ball committed herself tooth and nail to a role handed down to her by recently deceased pal Carole Lombard (one wonders how Lombard might have handled this nasty role). Fonda was a great actor who could convince you he was as noble as he is here. This is what really matters, and is a postulate that Bette Davis herself was known to obey: that a movie, no matter how awful it would look, should be remembered more for the quality of the actors' performance. THE BIG STREET is that kind of movie: one that is laughable in its contrivances, but that boasts two really fearless performances, most notably Ball cast completely against type since she is still regarded as America's Favorite Crazy Redhead.