Truffaut evokes such a pale reflection of the prototypes he's copying that the results might be more accurately described as noir blah.

With the clack of spike heels on pavement and the shadow of bare legs through frosted glass, Truffaut evokes the spontaneous sexual spectacle of city life.

A bright, knowing, somewhat too affectionate variation on the sort of bloodless murder mysteries that were as much a staple of Hollywood production schedules in the 1930's and 40's as they were of the lending libraries of that era.

Never adds up to much of anything but is always entertaining.