MIAMI VICE: The History of a Certain Phenomenon

Don Johnson in a certain radio interview given many years ago displayed a complete lack of inferiority complex toward the greatest acting titans such as Robert De Niro and Al Pacino, boldly claiming that he was not inferior to them and even surpassed them in terms of talent. He only complained of a lack of suitable film offers that could confirm his artistic prowess. There is much exaggeration in these words, yet one thing cannot be denied to Johnson—he possessed the right combination of charisma, skill, and luck that elevated him to one of the greatest personalities on 1980s and 1990s small screens. Johnson permanently etched his name into the history of modern television thanks to his role as James “Sonny” Crockett in Miami Vice. The production proved to be a breakthrough that genuinely influenced pop culture over two decades ago. Don and his on-screen partner Phillip Michael Thomas graced the cover of the respected Time magazine. The Friday edition of the high-circulation newspaper USA Today printed a list of songs that would appear in that day’s episode. Johnson and Thomas briefly reached idol status previously reserved only for rock stars.

By the late 1980s, America experienced a true “vice-mania,” pushing people from all corners of the country to cancel their evening plans just to stay home and watch Miami Vice. Initially, NBC executives were not enthusiastic about Johnson. His name was associated with several pilot episodes of series that ultimately failed. Therefore, candidates such as Jeff Bridges and Nick Nolte were being pushed instead. Fortunately for Don, at that time television was not yet a sufficiently lucrative medium for Hollywood’s A-list. The escapades of the two cops from the “vice squad” of Miami—the Vietnamese War veteran Sonny Crockett and the Black ex-New York cop Ricardo “Rico” Tubbs (Philip Michael Thomas)—met with enthusiastic audience reception. From 1984 to 1989 a total of 111 episodes were filmed.

The series’ success resulted from a variety of factors. Anthony Yerkovich, the creator of Miami Vice, watched with great admiration the music channel MTV, which was rapidly capturing the market in the early 1980s. That was when the idea arose to combine the classic crime drama popular on television in the 1970s with the style of a music video. The shots became shorter and featured more dynamic editing than before. In every episode we were treated to at least one two- to three-minute scene showing one of our brave heroes experiencing tragedy, turmoil, or exaltation. All of this was spiced with beautiful nighttime views of exotic Miami, and above all, excellent music. Often these were not songs by anonymous artists but by the biggest stars—Tina Turner, U2, Miles Davis, Phil Collins, and even Michael Jackson. It is also worth mentioning the famous musical motif by Jan Hammer—which began the series each time. Hammer was also responsible for the instrumental compositions based on synthesizers used in the series in alternation with songs.

The impressive audiovisual layer was one of the production’s hallmarks. Literally no money was spared for anything. The budget for a single episode sometimes reached two million USD (fifty thousand dollars were reserved solely for rights to songs). Such enormous expenditures for television allowed the crew to renovate abandoned properties on the city’s outskirts solely to film a dream concept of a nightclub meant for a specific episode. It hardly needs mentioning that most scenes were shot on location. Miami—where Anglo-Saxon and Latin American cultures clash to form a vibrant ethnic melting pot—undoubtedly served as a grateful subject for the creators of this unusual endeavor.

Yet the greatest strength of the series did not lie in its beautiful shots or music, but in the primary participants of the spectacle. Don Johnson, through Crockett, became a true 1980s icon. The extravagantly dressed blonde with the refined physique of a model was considered the standard-bearer of the then-prevailing style. This was no accident. Costumes for the on-screen characters were provided by Gianni Versace, Hugo Boss, and Giorgio Armani. Versace even went so far as to say, Johnson was the first person I dressed in Miami. It was Don Johnson who popularized the trend of wearing jackets directly over T-shirts, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and loafers on bare feet; even several days’ stubble suddenly became sexy. In contrast to Crockett was Tubbs, who represented a decidedly more conservative elegance.

Attention to every detail in our heroes’ outfits was reflected in their personalities. Crockett and Tubbs embodied a passion for abusing brute force—so characteristic of the action-prowess cinema tough guys of the 1980s—combined with the polish worthy of the ancestors of today’s metrosexuals. Crockett, seemingly cut from a magazine with a perfectly waxed torso, did not come across as a wimp, because with unwavering resolve he would beat up anyone who deserved it. This combination of delicacy and strength won great admiration among the female portion of the audience. Naturally, seeing what excitement that type of masculinity stirred, men quickly began to imitate him en masse. The high life depicted on screen was not limited to fine clothing. The duo’s work under the guise of drug dealers provided them with a range of luxurious trappings. Crockett drove around the city first in a black Ferrari Daytona replica, and in later seasons, a white Testarossa of the same make. Tubbs was content with a classic 1964 Cadillac Convertible. As one might expect, Sonny could not reside in an ordinary apartment building. Instead, he lived on a chic yacht, with an alligator named Elvis as both roommate and mascot (sic!). He was even provided with an extremely fast motorboat—because such a vehicle was required of any self-respecting smuggler of illegal substances.

Tubbs and Crockett inspired admiration not only with their appearance but also with their exceptional shrewdness and intelligence. Even their flaws, with which they were endowed, essentially enhanced their appeal. Crockett’s weakness for beautiful women was tinged with tragedy. Almost every time, it turned out that his relationships, including his marriage, had no chance when confronted with the work that consumed him. He appeared as a romantic adventurer willing to make the greatest sacrifices when a damsel in distress appeared on the horizon. Tubbs was assigned the role of the more sober-minded partner, restraining Crockett from excessive recklessness. In Ricardo’s case, the writers usually deprived his chosen one of life in a sudden and cruel manner, leaving him alone with sorrow hidden deep within. He also paid a high price for placing too much trust in the fairer sex. Could any woman resist the charm of such a suffering hero?

The supporting cast was equally interesting. Lieutenant Martin Castillo (Edward James Olmos) drew special attention—he was the superior of our two protagonists, defined by Tubbs as a “man in the Charles Bronson mold.” Castillo formed a kind of counterbalance to the somewhat polished Crockett and Tubbs. He represented an old-school tough guy: stern but fair, with perpetually clenched teeth, always dressed in a modest, almost ascetic suit. The team was rounded out by Detectives Stan Switek (Michael Talbott) and Larry Zito (John Diehl), responsible primarily for enriching Miami Vice with humorous elements, and the two female officers Gina Calabrese (Saundra Santiago) and Trudy Joplin (Olivia Brown). The women were given the rather inglorious label of “screen beautifiers” and occasional lovers of the main pair, serving as a heterosexual counterbalance in the rare moments when our duo was not busy romancing yet another woman. It was indisputable that Miami Vice was all about Sonny. Rico was always a step behind. As for everyone else—except for Lieutenant Castillo—the writers mostly kept them shrouded in deep shadow.

Of course, there were occasional less inspired episodes, but the series never fell below a certain level. Much credit for this goes to the executive producer, Michael Mann himself. This became particularly evident in later seasons. The comedic accents present in the first parts of the series gave way to an increasingly dense atmosphere. Miami was shown as a city sinking in corruption and hedonism. Like a shiny toy funded by drug lords. The most interesting aspects were the main characters’ moral dilemmas in situations far from clearly ethical choices. The depicted world did not consist of black and white; gray dominated. The producers placed significant emphasis on realism, striving for Miami Vice to largely reflect the afflictions of society at that time, with drug addiction, social contrasts, and prostitution at the forefront. All of this, of course, was made as attractive as possible for entertainment purposes.

The focal point also shifted. In the best 1970s television crime dramas such as Kojak, the priority was the investigation and pursuit of criminals. In Miami Vice, moral dilemmas and the characters’ struggles with ubiquitous temptations took center stage. And almost everyone in celluloid Miami succumbed to those temptations. Immersed endlessly in the wealth-laden world of the criminal underworld, it was impossible to remain entirely clean. Yerkovich and Mann more and more frequently disregarded the prevailing paradigm in episodic stories about law enforcement—that of inevitable punishment for crimes committed. The screen assaulted us with beams of sunshine and furiously pastel colors, complete with the somewhat kitschy 1980s aesthetics. Beneath that shell lay the stench of corruption.

Crockett and Tubbs repeatedly bent legal norms in pursuit of justice. They placed personal vendettas above the letter of the law. It would not be an exaggeration to say that some episodes evoked the finest examples of neo-noir cinema in mood. Michael Mann—director of later films such as Heat and Collateral—thus had solid practice in Florida. What somewhat marred the reception of the show was the overused motif of secondary characters’ deaths. The creators, likely wanting to further heighten the emotional charge, gave us, every now and then, the death of someone significant to Sonny or the rest of the crew. One could also consider as sheer simplification Crockett’s involvement in dozens of cases as an undercover agent. He operated continuously in the same city, often using a “burned” criminal alter ego—Sonny Burnett. However, none of this significantly diminished the overall quality.

Miami Vice garnered acclaim not only from the television audience but also received numerous industry awards, including prestigious Emmys for outstanding cinematography and sound, as well as Golden Globes for Don Johnson and Edward James Olmos for their exceptional acting performances. Unfortunately for both, Miami Vice proved to be the peak of their careers. Johnson, though he appeared in a few respectable feature films such as Dead Bang (1989) or Sidney Lumet’s Guilty as Sin (1993), could not leverage his TV triumph into a silver-screen career. He experienced a resurgence only when he portrayed the titular captain of a special investigative unit in San Francisco in the popular Nash Bridges (1996–2001), though he never again created a sensation like he did as Crockett. Olmos remains a sought-after character actor on television (recently in Dexter, among others). Phillip M. Thomas’s career, after he put away Tubbs’s badge, collapsed entirely.

Did Miami Vice leave any legacy? Certainly, it deserves the title of pioneer for blending image and music on television. For the first time, the audiovisual sphere, and eliciting specific emotions, proved more important than dialogue. This effect was achieved without trivializing the content. We witnessed an unexpectedly successful primacy of image over words. Unfortunately, later TV productions in the X genre that borrowed Miami Vice’s solutions focused only on beautiful visuals, completely neglecting the story. A notorious example is Baywatch. Miami Vice also left its mark on a relatively young medium, video games. One installment of one of history’s most popular game series, Grand Theft Auto: Vice City Stories, was an unequivocal tribute to the adventures of the duo of detectives from a sinful metropolis.

In 2006, Michael Mann, directing the feature-film version of Miami Vice, tried to bring the series’ spirit into the 21st century—and straight to theaters. Its success was only partial. While it recreated the city’s sultry atmosphere bathed in violence and boasted truly excellent cinematography, the problem was that Colin Farrell and Jamie Foxx were not the Crockett and Tubbs we wanted to see. They lacked a certain charisma, a kind of inner fire, and that something that makes characters penned on script pages live in our imagination long after the screening’s end.