Here in Miami, we can’t resist a good cocaine story. Give us a rich kid who starts dealing just because it’s easy and slowly gets pulled further and further into the grim realities of the drug trade, all the while making ridiculous cash — cash we can see with our eyes (bank accounts are not cinematic) — that he fritters away on parties that would make Dennis Kozlowski blush. Let him die in a gutter somewhere or be redeemed via rehab — it doesn’t matter. We’re watching for the Icarusian freefall, and that’s why we’ll be lined up outside the Colony Theatre well in advance of the 7 p.m. start time for My Name Ain’t Johnny, the... More >>>