A brooding intersection of deception and vulnerability, Michael Mann's Miami Vice is a potent crime saga that fearlessly pushes the boundaries of the genre. On its face, this film is an anticlimactic affair. There are one and a half shootouts in its two hours plus running time. Sparse dialogue is woven in between lengthy segments of longing stares and contemplative meditations. The story is not fully resolved and ultimately, the entire plot is essentially a McGuffin, allowing viewers to explore complex themes of masculinity and the blurring of identities while masquerading as a typical cop story.
The first act deals with exteriors, both in the physical world
and within the mind. The action begins with a boat race off the coast of
Miami in which a group of undercover narcotics officers begin the excruciatingly
slow task of insinuating themselves into the local criminal ecosystem.
They must appear as players in a game they can't technically play.
They exude a sense of cool uncommon to other police pictures. Most prototypical
detectives wear their flaws on their sleeves, but in Mann's sweaty neon
underworld, the cops and robbers are one in the same, with each persona housing
their flaws and fears within an armor of linen suits and slick vehicles.
Excess, or rather the idea of excess is the central vein of the introductory
sequence. Highlighted by Jay Z and Linkin Park's top 40 anthem, the
jungle is no longer a back alley, graffiti laden affair. It is a tangible
playground of dangerous gatekeepers and a living embodiment of ardor that hangs
above the dancefloor like a specter, animating your wildest dreams.
It's during this initial setup that the many faces each
character dons begin to reveal themselves. The central quartet of
Crockett, Tubbs, Trudy, and Gina stand sentinel over the writhing masses while
Switek and Zito ply their various trades. When violence erupts, it is swift
and brutal, communicating to the viewer that while these are officers of the
law, they are no angels, willing to risk anything for their fellows. From
here, the story transitions into familiar territory. Bad guys are doing
bad things and of course, only the elite Miami Vice team can stop them.
What's interesting is in how Mann injects his tried and true apex male loner
archetype into the proceedings. Colin Farrel's Crockett and Jamie Foxx's
Tubbs are two sides to a familiar coin, yet it is their division as separate
entities that allows Mann to delve deeper into his own constructs. Tubbs
is in love, in an actually healthy relationship, representing a dream that
Crockett knows he'll never attain, however, both characters have an unexpected
amount of stability, despite having to wear different masks virtually every day.
The changing of personalities and the blending of psyches is the
undercurrent of the film. As Crockett finds himself drawn to the wife of
a dangerous drug dealer (the criminally underrated Gong Li) it is his personal
understanding of who he is that allows him to ultimately find a way out and
this is a fascinating choice. It would have been easy to allow things to
go completely awry. The parallel with the television series is clear,
Crockett routinely got involved with the wrong woman, however, where the show
often went for pitch black humor, its cinematic counterpoint is interested in
pathos, where the karmic price for a lifetime of psychological manipulation
comes due. These are women and men whose endless layers threaten to undo
them routinely, but Mann isn't interested in (predictably) bleak comeuppance,
he instead chooses to explore heartbreak and futility and what could be more
humane?
The middle portion of the film is perhaps the most interesting,
while also being the most grounded. Devoid of action, Mann takes an
already slow presentation and grinds everything to a wounded crawl, ensuring
the viewer has no choice but to descend into Crockett and Tubbs' various
predicaments alongside them. It is a confusing, purposefully labyrinthine
endeavor that culminates in the inevitable revelation of the detectives' true
identities, but the inexorable advance towards it more important than the
reveal. Farrell and Li's chemistry is palpable, creating a sexually
charged center to a neo-Shakespearean tragedy. However, while the
summation of their affair is telegraphed long in advance, it is the
understanding that both characters also know this truth that enhances the
melancholic ambiance. Miami Vice
is more of a living, breathing world than a traditional film. A pastel
mood piece that virtually walks off the screen in every sequence, it is the
kind of film you can touch, smell, and feel and this is why its lukewarm
reception has been forsaken over the 13 years since its release. It is a
seminal effort in Mann's storied filmography, but it is also a transcendental
masterwork that shows the immense capabilities of crime stories. Any
genre can achieve arthouse sensibilities and Miami Vice does so with wounded panache and thought-provoking
swagger.
The finale brings together the threads for three climatic scenes
before uncoupling everything into the ether of systemic impotence. There
is a faux-shootout in a dingy trailer park, starting the denouement within the
origins of each of the players. This is a tale that begins on the
dirty streets of a cancerous metropolis and Mann's decision to begin the end
within a soiled double-wide juxtaposed under the lights of the city proper is
brilliant, further highlighting the theme of masks within masks. The
next, more traditional action scene (the only one in the film) is filled with
confusing dialogue, unusually loud explosions and gunfire, and most
importantly, a sense of mortality that is ever present within Mann's oeuvre.
These are normal people thrown into extraordinary circumstances that usually
resolve themselves with bloodshed and Vice
is no exception. The shootout serves not as a capstone, but as a setup
for the true showdown: Crockett's confrontation with his true self.
As Crockett and Isabella stare into ocean, all of their cards
are on the table and the understanding that there is no way back is
heartbreaking. Her husband, the true quarry unceremoniously escapes and
Crockett is forced to send the love of his life into hiding. This scene
is punctuated by Mogwai's Autorock, a
song whose Pyrrhic tones will stay with the viewer longer after the Miami Vice
logo that ends the film fades to black. This is why Miami Vice is such an important film. While the
deconstructions of expected tropes are absolutely important, it is the human
aspect, the admission that there is no safe way out that is essential.
Stories about people pretending to be someone else have existed since the inception
of the medium. Mann's Vice not only
understands our fascination with identity and personas, it refuses to
compromise itself by playing into expectations, electing to create a vibrant,
dangerous world that lives beyond its celluloid confines and exists within the
mind's eye, carefully reminding us that even when our best efforts fail, it is
the person we become, the one who is changed by the fires of adversity and
heartbreak, that truly define us.
--Kyle Jonathan