When the gunfire died down, François found himself utterly alone beneath the gray rooftops of Paris, behind the iron bars he had forged with his own hands. He knew the police were waiting outside the door; all that remained were the heavy tobacco smoke in the room and the memories swirling back to him. Marcel Carné’s dark and gloomy drama places that inescapable fate—which corners a person while tracking the trail of a murder—right in the middle of the room. The dusty streets of the past, the shadow of a tragic love, and the cold, gnawing tone of jealousy slowly come to the surface during the tense wait with the police.

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