by Erik Henriksen
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Within the first few minutes of Shane Black's comedy noir The Nice Guys, we witness two things. The first is Los Angeles' Hollywood sign: Ragged in disrepair, its letters teeter, slashed with graffiti wherever they haven't been set on fire. The second—via a house-smashing, hill-tumbling car crash—is the spectacular death of a porn actress named Misty Mountains.
Welcome to 1977 Los Angeles—where they've run out of gasoline, where the government is corrupt, and where sun-baked smog smears everything into a yellow haze. It's kind of a shithole.
