Marlon Wayans’ faux hawk nests in cyber-black-guy absurdity with P. Diddy’s. White Chicks produced the scariest original characters to perpetuate nightmares since Freddy. The fact that July’s Little Man will gross $50 million plus (maybe more than Vice, holy shit) and get him laid is only fair if it gives him an unexpected little man; nevertheless, we like this dude and Little Man ain’t a bomb like Stealth. A recent Entertainment Weekly actually bar-graphed the Wayans fam’s smiling heads in terms of gross – Marlon was second only to brother Damon (those fucking Miami bus adverts!) with $473.1 million. The guy is a player who can actually act; his role as Tyrone Love in Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream was absolutely harrowing and pulled not one dramatic punch. In theory, even with a comedic background similar to Foxx’s, Wayans makes a surprisingly better Vice cop than a Bad Boy. What helps him surpass Foxx in the role of Tubbs is his bubbling potential and need for a breakout action role. Tubbs is a layered character and ideally he requires an actor who’s not overly established i.e. no Willie Beamens or Ray Charles. Audiences need a clean slate to completely buy Tubbs’ hazy and troubled New York past. Remember, the actors who play these detectives are forever associated with Miami and Miami Beach. So, it’d be really nice to land two guys who haven’t received the megawatt tabloid attention long ago awarded Farrell and Foxx; two guys who wouldn’t mind partying shit up together in The Shore Club’s Red Room, instead of across the strip with conflictingly large entourages. The 2006 Crockett and Tubbs should not only reflect the New Miami, the actors who play them need to freshly appreciate the privy laurels that status brings, a la Johnson and Michael Thomas circa 1985. Wayans and Knoxville spell m-i-s-c-h-i-e-f in a way that’d make Miamians party harder and faster. As of now, the only vicarious excitement surrounding sightings of Farrell and Foxx radiates from The Miami Herald’s Lesley Abravanel.

In Miami Vice, Danny Glover is the straight Glover. Throughout the sort-of-film, his Ricardo Tubbs pops up in a square one-fiftieth the size of a movie theatre’s typical screen. Mostly, he is shown shaving in a bathroom mirror. He is also shown repeatedly ducking for cover with his hands over his head, and wandering around the city mapping places to duck in advance. Crockett (played by Crispin Glover) tends to forget that Tubbs is his partner due to severe drug abuse and the fact that Tubbs is a borderline retiree. When Tubbs leaves Crockett alone to his pursue his mission, he mumbles a sentence ending in the words, “He’s a damn psycho.” His time as a detective is also spent buying the occasional ice cream. Preceding and concluding his purchases, he says the same respective phrases, in a tired gruff of a voice, to a cat: "Hey. Let's see. You got any vanilla?" and "Ooh, that's nice. I'm goin' to get goin' now, thank you."

Can you say comeback, sensei? Soon after returning to his pinnacle in the role of Cock Puncher in The Untitled Onion Movie, The Great One next-up slips into a pastel pink Armani kimono, puts the cue ball in a sock and is flown down to Miami for a three-week shoot. Better bet your iced ass Seagal shows up for the film’s lustrous premiere, where VIP tickets cost $5, plus a $100 donation to the (Still Not) Free Tibet fund. Just for a little playful ode to his straight-to-DVD days, his Crockett is paired with DMX’s Tubbs, and thus the sub-title, Miami Vice: Death by Fyah. Instead of being a former college football all-star, Crockett is a burned-out aikido master who returns, after an unexplained coma, tan with a plan to resume his Miami detective duty aka life. Enjoying the old sights, Casey, er, Crockett swings by Lucky Strikes with a young flame and an unprovoked bar brawl ensues with privileged University of Miami Long Island assholes. To the Cars’ “Shake it Up” Crockett takes them down with one hand and one leg and finishes the last asshole with a broken bottle of Bud (grotesquely referred by the jocks a la Clerks II). Surrounded by gelled casualties, he calls Donna Shalala on his PEBL. “Hey Donna, it’s Crockett. We’re revoking some scholarships tonight. [Smirks, puts his slipper on a bloody face.] Yeah, I want you to donate the leftover funds to the Llama.” The Ferrari is replaced by Tubbs’ Hummer on 32s. Elvis is replaced with a Tibetan orphan who oddly seems like a robed servant. The ending (and plot) is replaced with Seagal walking in silhouette down a lovely sunset beach (DMX was blown up in his Hummer at MIA after falsely impersonating DMX).

We picked DMX as Tubbs because he’s fun to draw. DMX is an idiot. We said that because it’s fun to say. As Tubbs, DMX is so deep cover he’s a struggling rap star called Temple. Tubbs does his undercover work as a drug dealer-cum-crack smoking-rapper at places like Pearl that are papered with promotional materials for an album called Year of the Dog Again. The horribleness of this imaginary title arrives from the factual nugget that Hollywood’s screenwriters always get the imagery of rap iconography two degrees wrong. When Seagal arrives, his coma-beard is astutely shaven, and he pulls Tubbs away from the bleary depths of Hip Hop Bottleland. They take a drive down Alton. “Dawg, life is dark. Right now, I can’t see my own face in the mirror. They’re coming to get me, Crockett. And hell is hot, dawg. The beach is lit by darkness, dawg. And me and you, we gotta bust some heads out here. You hear me Crockett? Bring the light back to this city. I missed you, dawg.” This shitty dialogue is posted in subtitles because “Life Be My Song,” a track from the film’s horribly ubiquitous Year of the Dog Again, is blaring from the system of his Hummer. Seagal, all the while staring behind mirror tint at the flow of trash outside, turns the music down. “Let me show you the way, Tubbs. This is why I’m here. Don’t refer to me as ‘dawg.’ Call me ‘master.’ I trained in a Tibetan monastery.” Boom! The music breaks into “Dog Love,” and the film makes $9 million its opening weekend, predominantly due to urban audiences and 9-year-olds, and is then forgotten (Beats this current theatrical disaster, dawg.).