This light and bubbly Alan Ladd/Veronica Lake vehicle has all the trappings of classic noir: the lighting, the femme fatale, the seemingly doomed man trying to extricate himself from a terrible situation. What it doesn't have is the sense of foreboding, of cruel destiny. It is a stylish and fun movie, but it is ultimately cotton candy. Navy hero Johnny Morrison returns from the war to find that his wayward wife Helen has killed their son in an alcohol-fueled car accident, and is cheating on him with nightclub owner Eddie Harwood. He leaves in anger, but she is killed that night with his gun. He embarks on a mission to clear himself by finding the real killer. He runs into Joyce, a beautiful woman who practically throws herself at him, without mentioning that she's Eddie Harwood's wife. Meanwhile, a shady detective attempts to blackmail Harwood, since he entered the apartment just before the murder. Meanwhile, Johnny's friend, who has a plate in his head and suffers from headaches and lapses in memory, was also in the apartment where the murder took place, and his fits of rage at the slightest noise lead one to wonder if he's the killer. Meanwhile... you get the picture. It's convoluted, but there's never any real sense of danger. It's like it just doesn't want to commit to being a serious movie. Visually, structurally, it's a noir, but it lacks the urgency.