By the way, while there are some parallels with Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, it isn't nearly as much of a post-modern, deconstructionist noir (with self-referential fourth wall-breaking).
A couple scenes in which minors (the daughter and later a witness outside a burned down house on a bike) tangentially intersect with the adult film world were imo unnecessary. The opening car crash scene did, too, but in better taste. The boy who had literally a minute before been ogling the actress (the funny part, as noted in the Ebert site review, was that the dying car crash tableaux mimicked her "Cavalier" magazine centerfold pose) covered her.
The Atlantic review
The Nice Guys: An Intoxicating Comic Noir
Shane Black’s latest film is uneven at times, but standout performances from Ryan Gosling and Russell Crowe help keep it a fun ride.
http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2016/05/the-nice-guys-review/483605/
The essence of
The Nice Guys is all there in the movie’s musical intro, which features the three-note, plucked-bass overture of The Temptations’ “Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone.” Like the song, the film that follows is definingly ’70s, a little funky, a little loose, and prone to wandering off on its own now and again.
The movie is the latest exercise in comic noir by the writer/director Shane Black, and it shares a great many attributes with his
terrific 2006 comeback film,
Kiss Kiss Bang Bang: the two mismatched detectives and their more practical female associate, the convoluted plot that features intersecting crime cases—even the hand maimed in an unfortunate encounter with a closed door.
The action takes place in 1977 Los Angeles, with Ryan Gosling playing an alcoholic private eye named Holland March who’s not above accepting the occasional paying job that’s a hairsbreadth shy of outright grift. We’re treated to an example early, when he agrees to help an elderly woman find her missing husband. “How long has he been missing?” March asks. To which she replies, “Since the funeral.” His eyes (and ours) immediately go to the urn sitting conspicuously in the middle of her mantle. He nonetheless takes the case.
Due to a misunderstanding, March soon makes the acquaintance of one Jackson Healy (Russell Crowe), another just-this-side-of-the-law gumshoe, though one cut from decidedly tougher leather. Healy’s specialty is messing up guys (preferably bad guys) for money, like a
pre-superpower Deadpool, and March finds himself on the wrong end of one of his house calls. Rarely, I suspect, does a successful partnership begin with the line, “Give me your left arm, and when you talk to your doctor, tell him you have a spiral fracture of the left radius.”
But March and Healey quickly find themselves working together to find a missing woman named Amelia (Margaret Qualley), with an assist from March’s extravagantly precocious 13-year-old daughter, Holly (Angourie Rice). The eventual
MacGuffin that they wind up chasing along with assorted villains—among them an assassin (Matt Bomer) nicknamed “John Boy” in sly homage to
The Waltons—is the sole remaining celluloid copy of a porn movie. But not just any porn movie, mind you: This is one that has embedded in its story a corporate expose involving the auto industry, air pollution, and the catalytic converter. As an incredulous March clarifies: “So let me get this straight: You made a porn movie in which the point was the plot?”
The film, which Black co-wrote with Anthony Bagarozzi, is full of wicked nods to L.A. cinema. It’s no coincidence, for instance, that moments after a reference to a violent crime in a diner, we meet a character played by Crowe’s
L.A. Confidential co-star Kim Basinger. There are echoes, too, of
Magnolia,
Get Shorty,
The Big Lebowski, and Quentin Tarantino’s oeuvre...