Mel Gibson was picked up for driving under the influence and I have to wonder whether it was the influence of Miami Vice.
I can feel it coming on the screen tonight.
Has anything Phil Collins ever been associated with gotten better with age besides, say, his Last Will?
Ah, Miami Vice. I never watched the TV version because if I want pastels and sock-free loafers I’ll take a meeting at the polo lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel – not that anyone would give me that meeting, but you get the idea.
This is Miami Vice, the movie. And from out of the casting office woodwork come some of the grungiest character actors ever to steer wide of a dermatologist.
Miami Vice opens in a club – there’s trouble on the dance floor as a perp is hauled away for unlicensed transportation of chest hair across the international border of good taste. “Do as I say, not as I do,” said Colin Farrell, whose shirt was unbuttoned down to his sandals. “When I take off my necklace it dangles from my chest hair like a pendulum.”
“EEEK!” screamed Colin’s partner, Jamie Foxx, who had never before noticed that Farrell’s mullet was actually a Medusa-like pile of snakes framing a nose that Colin referred to as “the last spike in the intercontinental railroad called my eyebrows.”
Colin Farrell’s hair has a mind of its own. “That makes one of us,” he said, as his lips curled around the latest in an endless series of Guinness pints.
So while Colin’s hair took a smoke break, various plot points hurtled past the audience and onto the screen assembling into a gobbledygook of dramatic ink blots. Translation: I do not know what the Hell is going on.
Wait, Farrell and Foxx are off to fight the white supremacists…in Miami?! What could possibly be supreme about white folks in Miami, other than their supremely pasty complexion?
Miami Vice is full of the kind of gibberish crime-stopper talk one hopes will come with an English translation when on DVD. It comes courtesy of original Vice creator, Michael Mann. “I’ve never seen an arm that wouldn’t look better blown off,” said Mann. “And in this movie most of the heads would look better blown off, too – and buried in a very deep hole.”
Against all good judgment, Hollywood keeps trying to make Colin Farrell a star, no matter how many times America turns our their noses at the smell of him.
“I’m not the Fantastic Four, but I definitely possess the Fantastic Foreskin,” said Farrell, slurring a variety of words and accents into that blender of tooth, gum, and whisky called his mouth.
Enter Gong Li, for whom English is not merely a second language, more like a 276th language. She’s one of the drug chief’s main honchos, proving that in the world of international drug-running communication ability is much less important than Asian box office appeal.
Colin takes up with Gong, and we watch helplessly as he dashes across the Gulf of Mexico on a speedboat with Gong at his side and his hair holding a mirror to his face in the sun.
Colin falls for Gong, and Miami Vice becomes Miami Nice. “As long as it doesn’t become Miami Lice.” interjects Colin’s windswept mullet.
Jargon, jargon, where fore art thou, jargon: The FBI’s “Op Sec” has been compromised, so Jamie Foxx must take a shower with his wife-or-is-it-girlfriend that takes so much screen time you could squeeze in an entire showing of Pixar’s Cars and be back before Foxx was dry.
Then it’s off to a too-fast, too-expensive car with Farrell as Colin’s hair takes the wheel, adjusts the mirror, and gives Foxx a Shiatsu. “Lucky, hairy bastard!” says Colin.
Somewhere there’s a rooftop or abandoned dock in South Florida that wasn’t featured in Miami Vice, but I challenge you to show me where it is.
The wind blows through Colin’s hair as the minutes drag on.
“Colin, what happened to your hair,” said Foxx.
“It’s enjoying a no-commitment nooner with a production assistant,” Farrell replied.
“Lucky, hairy bastard!”
Anything to avoid this movie.
Photos Copyright ©2006 Universal Pictures
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