I was not sure in July — and I am not sure now in the early days of September — how I feel about Michael Mann's dark, deliberately joyless re-imagining of "Miami Vice." This could very well be the worst movie of the year, or it could be a masterpiece. I honestly have no idea, even after three viewings — is it an elliptical, impressionistic attempt to revolutionize film noir, or simply one of the largest train wrecks in the history of cinema? Both arguments are valid, and both are probably correct. Like "The Searchers," "Miami Vice" stumbles and touches greatness, even as we're trying to catalog all of the ways it is disappointing us.

These are not the kind of feelings that usually get conjured up by summer movies, but then again, "Miami Vice" is not a typical summer movie, which was part of the problem in July when it was first released. Expectations were colored by memories of the original TV series, Mann's own reputation as a master craftsman of action extravaganzas (even though "Last of the Mohicans" and "Heat" were really straightforward dramas that included action scenes) and the natural pairing of Colin Farrell and Jamie Foxx in the lead roles.

And then, Mann pulled the rug out from everybody. This wasn't the action experience we were primed for. This wasn't "Bad Boys;" it wasn't "Scarface." It was a new breed entirely — a movie determined to show the minutia, confusion and agony of law enforcement.

So then, is this movie a failure, since it went against what everybody wanted from this movie? Is it a failure because there was nothing approaching the staccato glory of the bank robbery in "Heat" or the dueling late-night hotel room conversations that defined the third act of "The Insider" — probably the most brilliantly crafted final forty-five minutes in movie history.

Possibly, yes. There comes a point, as an audience member, where you enter into a trust with the people making a movie and agree to suspend disbelief, as long as they deliver a movie you can catalog appropriately. Mann breaks this agreement — there is no way to codify "Miami Vice." It's not the popcorn extravaganza everyone was expecting going into the summer, yet he also flaunts the conventions of the avant-garde film noir. The movie's boosters — and it has many — have used the catch-all word "European" to describe the film, but that doesn't work either. Morally, Mann has made the movie too elliptical, especially with regards to Farrell's character, to be true to any ideals of noir, even the usually charcoal black conventions of French crime thrillers.

The counter-argument is that the confused moral code of the film (especially with regards to women) is indicative of Mann losing control of his film. This could be possible — the stories of the pre- and post-production chaos that surrounded this film are already legendary. The film is, at times, immensely frustrating. There are stretches when you can legitimately ask yourself, "What the hell am I watching?" The chaos of the film's production seeps over onto the screen. Farrell's performance is a revelation, but Foxx undercuts him. The talented supporting cast is sprawling and Mann seems to lose track of a lot his players. His eye wanders, choosing to observe a world, instead of the people inhabiting it.

From that chaos, however, it is undeniable that Michael Mann has produced something unique. This movie cements him as the post-modern John Ford, warts and all. The one difference is that Mann has somehow succeeded in making his version of "The Searchers" — complete with the same confused, if honorable ideology — with $150 million of Universal's money and got Jay-Z to work on the soundtrack. In the modern Hollywood system, that's a major accomplishment. So too, I think, is this film.