Hearing that a film version of Miami Vice was in the offing, many suspected that the final product (directed by the TV show's original producer, Michael Mann) might be a nostalgic sendup of the popular (and emblematic) '80s series, much like the screen versions of such '70s cop icons as Charlie's Angels and Starsky and Hutch. Unfortunately, Mann has turned out to be dead serious.

What was once a fashionable hour of television escapism (which also served as a weekly advert for hair gel and pastel men's wear) has become gritty and ugly, like something lifted from Miami crime journalist Edna Buchanan. Unlike the small-screen version, in this Miami Vice the stress falls on "vice" rather than "Miami." So, why do I miss Don Johnson?

The primary problem with Mann's next-generation Vice is the script, which manages to be both obtuse and oblique in equal measures. It begins with a stakeout in a Miami disco (practically the only scene that gives some indication that Miami is actually a rather populous city). Sonny Crockett (Colin Farrell) and partner Ricardo Tubbs (Jamie Foxx) are tracking the movements of an underworld kingpin. Soon, another high-class criminal arrives with three women in tow for the kingpin's private pleasure. One of the women isn't what the kingpin wants, apparently, and so she is summarily hauled off to be beaten.

Don't bother to ask why, because even though this is the story we've followed for the first 15 minutes of the film, the real story arrives via Sonny's cell phone. He receives a desperate call from a well-known narc, who is running for his life after he spilled the goods on an operation between undercover FBI agents and some no-neck Aryan Brotherhood goons. Sonny decides to abandon his stakeout so that he can contact the head of the FBI office in Miami, Agent Fujima (Ciarán Hinds), to tell him what's "going down." Quite a bit, it soon becomes apparent.

The FBI sting ends in general bloodshed, and Fujima decides that local cops Crockett and Tubbs might be able to save the FBI's bacon. Fujima gives them the "lowdown" on the botched deal, which involves (in no particular order) Haitians, guns, Colombians, heroin, Ukrainians, cocaine and the aforementioned gaggle of white Idaho potato heads. One thing is for certain, though — Crockett and Tubbs will have to go under deep cover to get to the very heart of this multitentacled crime syndicate.

From there, confusion passes into frustration. More villains pop up, including an underworld moll named Isabella (Li Gong) whom Sonny decides to bed (in Castro's Havana, no less) in an attempt to gain greater access to the Colombian Mr. Big. Crosses are met with double-crosses, and, gosh, wouldn't you know that eventually love tosses a spanner into the works.

The allusive and inarticulate script aside, Mann's camerawork is a festival of hand-held jitters. Color has also been drained to create a murky, crepuscular world; there is no moon over this Miami. The whole resembles nothing more than a Fox Network two-hour special of cop-shop re-enactments.

The worst part of this epic is the squandered talent. The idea of getting Jamie Foxx, Ciarán Hinds and Li Gong all on the same set would be any talented writer's or director's dream. Yet, they are all wasted in this unredeemable rubbish. But what to say about Colin Farrell? How has he gotten as far as he has? He displays little talent, and his advertised good looks and Alexandrian physique all seem to be heading toward the type of body modification that comes with ample helpings of Happy Meals.