I’m around five years to young to have seen Miami Vice when it original aired but its cultural impact was undeniable even to a then 7 year-old Brit. It was referenced everywhere, its style influencing everything, but the problem for someone not watching it was that it was quite often used as a punchline for jokes. For this reason, even though I became a massive fan of Michael Mann’s films, particularly Manhunter, and the fact the TV used to be a disposable form of entertainment, I’ve always been put off from diving into the show. Now, in the age of streaming where everything is accessible, I’m finally giving it a go and instantly kicking myself for waiting so long.
The feature-length pilot episode, which premiered in September ’84, is clearly one of the most important pieces of modern-ish (well, it’s 42 years old) television history. It introduced viewers to a world of sun-soaked glamour, shadowy corruption, and unrelenting danger that felt entirely different to anything that had come before. Created by Anthony Yerkovich but heavily influenced by executive producer Michael Mann, the episode didn’t just launch a series, it redefined the aesthetic possibilities of TV drama, blending high-stakes crime storytelling with a visual and audio style that has been imitated in film and television ever since. This is the Top Gun MTV style two years before that film came out and beat similarly themed and styled Beverly Hills Cop to the screen by four months.
We are introduced to what is a staple format of two detectives from vastly different worlds forced into an uneasy alliance. James “Sonny” Crockett, played with magnetic cool by Don Johnson, is a Miami Vice cop whose life has been upended by the brutal car-bomb murder of his partner, Eddie Rivera (a first screen role for Jimmy Smits). Crockett operates in the gray areas of undercover work, driving a black Ferrari Daytona Spyder (had to look that up), wearing pastel suits, and navigating the opulent, hedonistic underbelly of South Florida’s drug trade. Across from him stands Ricardo “Rico” Tubbs, portrayed by Philip Michael Thomas with quiet intensity. Tubbs is an NYPD detective who has come south chasing Esteban Calderone, the ruthless Colombian drug lord responsible for executing Tubbs’ older brother, Rafael, in cold blood during a New York sting gone wrong.
The episode opens in the stark, rain-slicked nights of New York City, establishing Tubbs’ grief and rage as he stakes out a dealer connected to Calderone. The contrast is immediate and deliberate: the cold, Gothic heaviness of the North gives way to Miami’s neon-drenched excess as the story shifts south. Crockett’s world is one of speedboats, Art Deco hotels, and cocaine-fueled parties where the line between cop and criminal blurs. When Tubbs arrives in Miami, his methodical, by-the-book approach clashes with Crockett’s improvisational flair. Their initial encounters bristle with tension, Crockett resents the outsider, Tubbs distrusts the local cowboy, but shared loss forges a bond. Both men are haunted by the ghosts of their fallen partners and brothers, driving them toward a common enemy.
The plot unfolds with taut precision: a botched meet with a low-level informant, explosive shootouts, and a tense undercover operation that draws them deeper into Calderone’s orbit. The action sequences are visceral and stylish—high-speed chases, boat pursuits, and gunfights lit with dramatic flair—but the episode’s true power lies in its quieter moments. Crockett’s strained phone call to his estranged wife Caroline, checking on their young son while grappling with the wreckage of his personal life, adds layers of vulnerability beneath the tough exterior. These beats humanize the characters, making their partnership feel earned rather than contrived.
But the scene that defines the episode, the series, and had the biggest impact on the film and TV industry was the now legendary sequence set to Phil Collins’ In The Air Tonight. As Crockett and Tubbs speed through Miami’s glittering nighttime streets toward their inevitable confrontation with Calderone, the talking stops, and the song takes over almost in its entirety and builds the atmosphere. Director Thomas Carter brings the camera in close to linger on neon reflections of city lights dancing across the Ferrari’s glossy black surface, cut with flashbacks to the murders of Eddie and Rafael, and close-ups of the detectives silent faces. A stop for Crockett to call his wife, asking if their love was ever “real,” amplifying the sense of impending doom.
This roughly five-and-a-half-minute sequence achieves something revolutionary by transforming a simple drive into something cinematic, highlighting the desire for vengeance, the loss, and the thin line between justice and going over the edge. By letting the music dictate pacing and mood,rather than relegating it to mere background, the scene pioneered a fusion of pop song and image that influenced countless films and shows afterward. Michael Mann would revisit similar techniques in his later work, but here it feels fresh and daring. The eerie calm before the storm, the unspoken understanding between two men who know they might not survive the night, this defines the essence of Miami Vice.
Beyond that pivotal moment, the episode is soaked in visual language. Cinematography frames everything in vibrant pastels, shining neon, deep shadows, and reflections, a step up from the usually fully lit TV standard. The wardrobe of linen jackets, rolled sleeves, sockless loafers, is era defining. The soundtrack integrates contemporary hits seamlessly, this is television for the MTV-era. Don Johnson and Philip Michael Thomas’ performances deliver instant chemistry with Johnson’s laid-back charisma and Thomas’ steely focus creating a partnership that feels authentic from the outset. This pairing is the foundation for buddy cops for years to come.
Another break from the police procedural format is the episode doesn’t resolve neatly. Calderone slips away, taking the from heroes from triumph to defeat, setting up the ongoing cat-and-mouse game. This open-ended quality adds to its realism and tension; victory is never guaranteed in this world. The episode balances gritty realism with stylised excess, moral ambiguity with unwavering loyalty, and personal pain versus professional drive. It launched Miami Vice as something that would influence fashion, music, and television for decades, proving that style and substance can coexist.
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