This is the second of two essays I wrote in 2001, which I have recreated for the purposes of illustrating my point in The Principle Always Applies. And, apparently, a test of how many types of punctuation I can fit into a title.

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Analysis

It is quite invigorating to discover that, even in places I would not normally seek them, qualities can be found which resonate with new meaning over time. I will admit to a sniggering, presumptuous distraction upon my first viewing of Calderone’s Return, Part II which disabled my ability to perceive many of even its most basic themes and motifs. It is a valuable lesson not to underestimate the subject of one’s criticism.

The credit sequence, to begin with, serves a dual purpose. Firstly, it displays a location; world of wealth, a “paradise”. The sequence runs through a quickly-edited montage of beach, sport, horse-racing, luxury vehicles, an exotic parrot, dog-racing, a high-rise building, bikini-clad women and a bay full of yachts, ending finally with a sudden aerial view of the city by night.

Secondly, it alludes to the true nature of this Miami; the underworld. Many elements of the montage are of extreme wealth, of the sort which is also often associated with risk-takers; in business, legal or illegal. The idea of using the races in the sequence serves both as an accompaniment to the speed of the editing—heightening the sense that the show will be fast-paced and exciting—and alluding to the gambling that underpins the races themselves. The building shown is casino-esque, the women are on display, and the Rolls Royce and yachts are symbols of personal wealth and status—the kind criminals would be inclined to flaunt—and are all part of what is, on reflection, a cunning sleight-of-hand played upon the viewer.

Finally, the sequence ends with a brief glimpse of the city—the centre of activity—at night. In this shot, all the underpinnings of gambling and illicit business and crime are drawn together in the darkness of the place itself. If this is paradise, it is paradise lost; then won and lost again. Sonny and Tubbs are, unusually but importantly, absent from the credit sequence; they are the counterweight to this opulent world, a force against gluttony and material (but perhaps not violent) excess.

Thematically, the use of white in the show is significant; it is bright, but colourless, just as the underworld operates in the daylight, but is without honour. White is the colour of crime, befitting those associated with crime. The interrogation room in the opening scene is white, where Mendez’ crimes are extracted from him. The corrupt police chief wears white, in contrast with the ordinary officers, who do not; the chief deals with Calderone personally. Sonny, when acting the part of the assassin, wears a white hat. After the car chase, Sonny puts his hat back on only after he and Tubbs finish talking as ‘cops’ and go back to their nefarious business.

Calderone too wears white—except when he lunches with his daughter, masquerading as a legitimate businessman—and he notably dies in white. When Tubbs asks Angelina to dinner (suspecting she is involved with Calderone), both are in white. She, for her assumed link to crime; and he, for his attempt to infiltrate that criminal world. He later asks, once he beds her and can then, presumably, trust her, “why can’t things be black and white?” Indeed, things are just that in the final sequences as Tubbs and Sonny are dressed, respectively, in black and white. They represent the yin and yang of undercover operations—being both good and bad—representing justice and crime, or perhaps the need for justice to behave criminally in order to eradicate the worst that the criminal world can offer.

When Sonny and Tubbs reach Bermuda, a place of “sharks and weirdness”, they are first greeted by The Kid, overseer of the beer-garden portal between Miami and their new world. No name; just a mysterious moniker to keep his identity simple. His purpose, however, is not so simple; he appears much older than any normal kid would, alluding to the illusory nature of his name and identity. He is quite strange, like the place he inhabits, yet he is also their first and most reliable source of information, introducing them to the place, its celebrations and “wisdom” he offers to them in the form of dope. 

‘Why,’ one might ask (and, ironically, one has), ‘does the bartender look middle-aged, but insist on wearing clothes fit for a teen bum?’ Because he is, in fact, deceptively wise; and dresses accordingly. He writes, but knows his own limits; yet he is familiar with subjects as broad as Hemingway and the science of negative ions. Like Yoda, he is a figure of wisdom disguised in a humble form; somewhat strange, but welcoming and generous.

Miami Vice is not the schlock-fest I first imagined it to be, but something much more intriguing once I actually bothered to take it seriously. An effort I’m glad I made.

The original can be found here.