The Allure and Pitfalls of Miami's Extremes: A Critique of MIA
Miami has always been a city of contrasts—a place where glittering wealth collides with gritty struggle, where the American Dream feels both tantalizingly close and cruelly out of reach. It’s a setting ripe for storytelling, and MIA, the new drama from Ozark creator Bill Dubuque, attempts to capture this duality. But does it succeed? Personally, I think it falls short, not because of its ambition, but because of its execution. What makes this particularly fascinating is how a show with such a rich backdrop manages to feel so hollow at its core.
The Immigrant Experience: A Missed Opportunity
One thing that immediately stands out is the show’s attempt to tackle the immigrant experience in Miami. The city’s underbelly, where immigrants toil in the shadows, is a compelling subtext. From my perspective, this could have been the heart of the series—a nuanced exploration of exploitation, resilience, and the moral compromises people make to survive. But instead, MIA reduces it to a backdrop for a revenge thriller. What many people don’t realize is that the immigrant story in Miami isn’t just about hardship; it’s about hope, community, and the quiet victories that rarely make headlines. By sidelining this in favor of over-the-top violence, the show misses a chance to say something meaningful.
Revenge with a Side of Ridiculousness
The central plot revolves around Etta Tiger Jonze (Shannon Gisela), a young woman whose family is brutally murdered by a drug cartel. Her quest to kill 12 gangsters is the kind of premise that could be gripping—if handled with care. But here’s where MIA stumbles. The dialogue is clunky, the plotting is convenient, and the foreshadowing is as subtle as a 12-foot alligator attack. If you take a step back and think about it, the show’s reliance on Etta’s photographic memory and her conveniently badass relatives feels less like clever storytelling and more like a cheat code. It’s as if the writers wanted to give her every possible advantage without earning it.
The Found Family: A Glimmer of Hope
A detail that I find especially interesting is the “found family” Etta builds along the way. Her relationship with Lovely (Brittany Adebumola), a Haitian immigrant, and Lena (Tovah Feldshuh), a Holocaust survivor’s daughter, could have been the emotional core of the show. These characters offer glimpses of humanity in a world that feels increasingly cold. But even here, the show falters. As Etta’s revenge plot takes center stage, these relationships get lost in the noise. What this really suggests is that MIA doesn’t trust its audience to care about the quieter moments—a shame, because those moments are where the show feels most alive.
The Cartels: Boring and Predictable
The Rojas cartel, the primary antagonists, are a masterclass in missed potential. Their sibling rivalry is boilerplate, their business ventures (like people-trafficking) feel tacked on, and their violence is monotonous. What makes this particularly frustrating is that cartels are inherently complex organizations, driven by power, greed, and generational trauma. Instead of exploring this, MIA reduces them to one-dimensional villains. This raises a deeper question: Why do so many crime dramas struggle to make their bad guys interesting?
The Twist: A Desperate Grab for Relevance
The show’s final twist is so over-the-top that it feels like a Hail Mary pass for a second season. Personally, I think it’s a misstep. By the time the twist arrives, any reason to care about the characters or their journey has been lost. What many people don’t realize is that a good twist should feel inevitable yet surprising—not like a last-minute attempt to salvage a sinking ship.
Miami Deserved Better
In my opinion, MIA is a show that tries to do too much and ends up doing very little well. Miami, with its extremes of wealth and struggle, its vibrant immigrant communities, and its dark underbelly, deserved a series that dug deeper. Instead, we got a revenge thriller that feels more like disposable fluff than a thoughtful exploration of its setting.
If you take a step back and think about it, the show’s failure isn’t just about poor writing or character development—it’s about missed opportunities. MIA could have been a commentary on the American Dream, a meditation on justice, or a celebration of resilience. Instead, it’s a reminder that even the most promising ideas can falter when execution falls short.
What this really suggests is that storytelling, at its best, requires more than just a good premise. It requires nuance, care, and a willingness to let the quieter moments shine. MIA had all the ingredients for greatness, but it chose to settle for spectacle instead of substance. And that, in my opinion, is its greatest tragedy.
