'The Nice Guys' - Review

★ ★ ★ ☆ ☆

Shane Black is back with a decadently idiosyncratic 70s noir: Ryan Gosling stars as clueless P.I. Holland Marsh, drawn into the Los Angeles underground in 1977 when the death of a fading porn star sparks a dangerous investigation. Accompanied by one-time rival Jackson Healey (Russell Crowe), Marsh begins an odyssey of ineptitude in the search for runaway Amelia (Margaret Qualley).

Of the many things to enjoy about The Nice Guys, it’s the approach to a plausible 70s aesthetic that I appreciated the most. It’s not just that the period detail is perfect, but that the film-making itself adheres closely to conventions of the time: cinematography-wise, the opening shot carries a zoom straight out of Dirty Harry, whilst the night-time scenes are awash with deep, inky blacks that call to mind the late Vilmos Zsigmond. The music of the decade is not made a spectacle of, either: Escape (The Pina Colada Song) just happens to be playing quietly in the background of a bar, rather than providing the centrepiece to a zany gunfight or wacky escapade.

In fact, the comedy as a whole leans much more on slapstick than one might expect from the jaunty, wide-eyed expressions of its stars on the poster. Black is seemingly the first to make good use of the rather ‘dead behind the eyes’ look that always prevents me becoming invested in any character Gosling plays, making Marsh a hapless drunkard who appears constantly perplexed by everything from the infuriated outbursts of his daughter, Holly (Angourie Rice), to the workings of a toilet cubicle door. As for Crowe; who better than to play the washed-up has-been with a heart of gold? Healey’s love-hate bromance with Marsh is perfectly offset by Holly’s wry exasperation, Rice delivering a plucky performance way beyond her years. Matt Bomer also impresses as an ever-sneering hitman.

While the main players and their arena are certainly beguiling, it’s a shame that their general aura of aimless tipsiness lays thick over the structure and comedy stylings, too. Much like the characters they’re tied to, the various narrative threads meander around all over the place before eventually being roped back together by the end, whilst above-par laughs are rather sparse once things get moving. For every smirk at Marsh failing to cope with the sight of blood (mostly his own), there’s another drummed finger as we wait for the shooting to stop and the snark to start up again. There’s also a recurrent shying away from blood and vomit, an odd choice considering the film’s determination to clash the vulgarity of the period with the squeamishness of the leads.

But I challenge anyone to harbour ill-feeling when John Ottman and David Buckley’s score is easing you into a comfortably toe-tapping mood, the central duo glancing quizzically at one another, reflecting once again the audience’s confusion in their own haggard, cigarette-dangling-from-lower-lip way. Shane Black’s latest is a shambling drunk of a film, but one you’d miss if you didn’t run into it on a night out, and one you’d love to party with again.