Editor's note: The below article contains discussion of sensitive subjects, including homophobia and sexual assault.
As the gap between film and television continues to get ever smaller, it becomes more difficult to recognize which medium is having significant influence over the other. Take the Marvel Cinematic Universe, for example. Are series like WandaVision and Moon Knight simply movies dissected into several parts? Or, are the big-screen adventures of Tony Stark and friends just small episodes of a longer narrative? Either way, whether a Marvel Comics property ends up in a movie theater or on a streaming service, audiences now expect both a big budget behind it and stellar storytelling to run throughout. Of course, this wasn’t always the case and television was often considered the lesser of the two formats. But with shows like Succession, Bridgerton, and Yellowjackets, viewers now anticipate much more than they may have before the likes of The Sopranos, Six Feet Under, and Lost went on air.
However, if there was one series that single-handedly set the example for what the medium of television was truly capable of achieving then, arguably, Anthony Yerkovich’s Miami Vice was it. Taking the police drama to new heights, it featured Don Johnson as Sonny Crockett and Philip Michael Thomas as Ricardo Tubbs, and was a defining moment of the 1980s, but the risks it took in its stories of crime and corruption made it very much ahead of its time. It wouldn’t be completely out of line to suggest that without Crockett and Tubbs, there would be no Benson and Stabler, no Brennan and Booth, no Rust and Marty. Tales of drug trafficking, prostitution, and murder spanning five seasons changed the way officers of the law could be portrayed on celluloid and inspired countless shows we have come to know and love today.
Amongst Miami Vice fans, the debate as to which episode ranks as the best of the best continues, but the one that is almost always brought up is "Evan." In the penultimate episode of Season 1, Crockett encounters Evan Freed (William Russ), a former buddy from the Academy. Together, they once maintained a close friendship with fellow officer Mike Orgel. However, when Orgel reveals that he is gay, he is ridiculed by Freed and ostracized by his department. With nowhere to turn, Orgel deliberately walks into the range of a PCP user wielding a gun and is killed. For writer Paul Diamond to investigate the subject of homosexuality in the police force, especially at the height of the AIDS epidemic in the United States, is nothing short of admirable. But this alone is not why the episode deserves such recognition.
The focus of the narrative isn’t so much on Orgel’s decision to come out, but rather the reactions of the two men who were supposed to be his comrades. While Evan mocks Orgel, Crockett refrains from getting involved altogether. Though he does not actively participate in the bullying, he does nothing to defend his friend either. And so, Diamond instead chooses to chart the escalating guilt felt by both Crockett and Evan which sends a complete and clear message: when the ones you love can’t speak for themselves, be their voice. Thankfully, we’re now out of the dark ages when the thought of exploring homosexuality, in any capacity, on-screen was a unique idea, but the perspective that “Evan” adopts, the viewpoints of a gay character’s closest friends, still feels very fresh and original. Indeed, it’s difficult to recall any television series or film made since that has taken such an approach with the same level of authenticity.
Another highlight of Miami Vice is the supporting cast. Alongside Crockett and Tubbs, we have a colorful set of characters, such as stern lieutenant Castillo (Edward James Olmos) and criminal-turned-informant Izzy (Martin Ferrero). However, it is fellow detective Gina (Saundra Santiago) who takes center stage in another memorable episode that, again, laid the foundation for how cops are depicted on the small screen. In Season 1's “Give a Little, Take a Little,” Gina goes undercover as a prostitute in order to bust a pimp named Lupo Ramirez (Burt Young). Once she infiltrates his inner circle, Gina is invited to a party at Ramirez's house. However, on arrival, she comes to learn that there is no party and is instead expected to have sex with the man. Unwilling to reveal her identity and sink the investigation altogether, she follows Ramirez into his bedroom. What makes this episode so emotionally challenging to watch, is that, essentially, Gina’s decision results in her being raped.
Though the act itself occurs off-screen, the following sequence in which we witness the character crying at home encourages us to fill in the blanks. In all truth, the depiction of sexual abuse in TV or film is nothing new. Just consider the controversial rape sequence in Sam Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs. What is interesting, however, is that Gina is a cop. Arguably, this shouldn’t be happening. Our TV policemen and women are supposed to be superheroes who help those who have been hurt, not be hurt themselves. And so, what “Give a Little, Take a Little” is able to do is show us that our TV heroes are still human — indeed, not only human, but vulnerable, fearful, and capable of making mistakes. That Gina eventually kills Ramirez by the episode’s end does nothing to dilute what she’s been through, and so audiences are pushed to perceive the character differently from here onwards. That’s not to say the rape defines her, but we as viewers now understand what the character is willing to put on the line for her job. Arguably, it’s a key moment of the entire series that truly paints a raw picture of what it means to be a woman on the frontline.
If we wish to continue discussing the pitfalls of being a police officer, then no episode does it quite like Season 2’s "Out Where the Buses Don’t Run." Emmy-nominated and taking a much darker turn than any episode that precedes it, it guest-stars Bruce McGill as former Vice Squad golden boy Hank Weldon, who asks Crockett and Tubbs to help him hunt down a drug lord who vanished years prior. Weldon, however, is evidently mentally unbalanced, and his behavior beyond strange. In the famous final moments, the duo rushes to a location where Weldon claims he has found the drug lord. On arrival, we learn that Weldon actually murdered the man a long time ago and hid his body in between the walls of an abandoned building. It’s incredibly haunting, thanks in large part to the sounds of Dire Straits’ “Brothers in Arms” overlapping Crockett and Tubbs racing through the night, certain they are moments away from encountering something truly terrifying.
Rarely before or since the episode aired has the psychological effects of police work been so tragically documented on screen. As Tubbs claims, there should be a greater degree of mental support out there for those on the job. Unfortunately, for Weldon, his determination became an obsession, and his mode of thinking became psychotic beyond any repair. This descent from hero to lunatic killer makes for a genuinely uncomfortable watch that rises above the usual good-cop-turned-bad story we’re used to seeing on TV or in movies. “Out Where the Buses Don’t Run” is arguably the series’ best example of how it perceived police work: a dark road there’s no turning back from. Films that came before it, like Serpico, did indeed portray the police as susceptible to corruption, but Miami Vice showed that they were vulnerable to disease.
Despite first being broadcast almost 40 years ago, Miami Vice remains a fascinating watch. While other series like Law & Order or True Detective have found greater levels of success, they are arguably easier to mimic and, in fact, have been. What Yerkovich created, however, is wholly original and defined an entire decade. With an eye toward the future, the series pushed the boundaries and set a new benchmark of what it means to be a cop show. Unless over the age of 50, it’s likely that audiences are more familiar with Michael Mann’s 2006 film adaptation, if at all, but that doesn’t change the influence the original Miami Vice continues to have over both crime-centered TV and film to this very day.
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