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”I shall never forget the weekend Laura died” – a narration that abruptly ends, when it turns out that Laura did, in fact, not die at all. Who’s he talking to and from where – to the stone-faced detective from his bathtub?

It seems that Laura was a most extraordinary woman, complete with her own painting and theme song, being played in every nightclub and coming out of every radio – they really must have wanted to sell that CD! But then, she isn’t.

She’s the plain, ordinary shop girl that you would find behind any counter in any department store. The narrator, a sort of male Louella Parsons, fall madly in love with her (but then, he’s gay).

His acerbic comments on his imagined rivals are enough for three movies. But then again, nothing much happens, except for people talking endlessly about Laura.

Apparently, someone tried to kill her, but killed the wrong girl – it was dark. Apparently, it was dark, when she was identified, as well.

Who done it? We really couldn’t care less.

There’s no characterization, and thus no sense to the plot. The detective, having developed a necrophiliac attachment to the deceased, might as well have drawn the culprit’s name out of a hat.

Allegedly, a variety of writers and directors were brought in to save this mess. They didn’t succeed.

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