Nubile corpses, hardboiled cops ever-ready to be seduced, a plot in which little is what it seems: Traces of Red runs like a Hank Janson pulp novel. Yet, despite a generally inept script and a poor performance by (an admittedly miscast) Lorraine Bracco, there's a good little thriller struggling to get out here. James Belushi's performance in the lead might be quite acceptable, for example, if other events in the movie were in working order. His laconic narration, begun over his own dead body, tells us he and those around him all seem to be involved in the case of the psycho who murders girls, smears their faces with lipstick and leaves not a trace of their clothing behind. Andy Wolk's direction of the subsequent twists is often very competent, although even he can't convince us about the climax which, although inventively done, simply isn't believable. The music, though, bluesy and noirish, is just the kind of accompaniment this kind of soft-porn, soft-cover fiction demands.

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