Tuesday is a big night for South Florida on television, and not because CSI: Miami or Miami Vice have risen from their graves to stalk the airwaves like video zombies. For once, the focus is not on homicidal maniacs with a taste for Art Deco but on our local studios, who’ve produced two crackerjack documentaries.

Rakontur’s Billy Corben, who has made a career out of Florida dysfunction ranging from campus rape ( Raw Deal) to narcotrafficking ( Cocaine Cowboys) to University of Miami football ( The U), is painting on a broader canvas with Broke, a sobering exploration of how pro athletes fritter away awesome sums of money.

And 2C Media’s Chris Sloan and Carla Kaufman Sloan have somehow turned the seemingly anarchic chaos at Miami International Airport into a Travel Channel documentary series, Airport 24/7: Miami, that’s fast, funny and fascinating.

Broke, airing as an episode of ESPN’s 30 for 30 (the same documentary series for which The U was made), is a comprehensive look at a phenomenon that we usually glimpse only in tut-tut fragments as some star athlete declares bankruptcy, the tens of millions of dollars from his last contract vanishing in a haze of bling and hoochies.

What Broke makes clear is that financial catastrophe is the rule for pro athletes rather than the exception. More than three-quarters of NFL players are in serious financial jams within two years after retirement. About 60 percent of NBA players are broke five years after they stop playing.

Much of the problem is due to immaturity, awful judgment and just plain stupidity, and Broke doesn’t go lightly on that: Strip-club binges where jocks “make it rain” (throwing fistfuls of $100 bills in the air while the dancers scramble to collect them) while quaffing $5,000-a-bottle Louis XIII cognac. Picking up dinner tabs of $56,000. Boxer Mike Tyson, the poster boy for sports financial dereliction — he made $400 million in his career and doesn’t have a penny of it left — once bought half a million bucks worth of jewelry in a single hour.

Former NFL quarterback Sean Salisbury was so smitten to be chosen for an American Express black card (it arrives in a cool James Bond-style attaché case) by running up a $16,000 bill the first month he had it. When he had to write the check, he confesses, “I about threw up.” Another athlete who got the mental wakeup call before it was NBA player Jamal Mashburn, who remembers watching a TV show about celebrities’ vulgarly excessive mansions and having a sudden epiphany: “Maybe I don’t really need a six-bedroom house with just me and my girlfriend living it in it.” The message arrived too late for boxer Evander Holyfield, who built himself a 52,000-square-foot mansion containing two bowling alleys before going broke.

But the sketchy relationship between athletes and money involves more than just over-indulging in strippers. More fundamentally, as Broke points out, it’s a matter of young men who suddenly find themselves with a ton of money that they obtained not with business acumen but for their ability to throw a ball. Even the most sober of them has little idea how to handle it.

Some don’t know how to write checks; others don’t even know how to cash them. Several months after the Oakland A’s signed speedy young outfielder Rickey Henderson for a $10 million bonus, the team’s check still hadn’t cleared the bank. Team officials discovered that he had framed the check and hung it on the wall.

Seeking help from a financial advisor doesn’t always work, either. “You think there are sharps in the hood, the gangbangers and the drug dealers,” warns one player. “You ain’t seen nothing until you step into some of these white collar criminals.” NFL quarterback Michael Vick hired one advisor who was soon jailed for running a Ponzi scheme out of her home; her replacement somehow began acquiring Vick’s cars and jewelry.

The saddest moments in Broke describe the way players’ friends and families prey on them. One player recalls a teammate who got a bill for $25,000 from his own mother, her fee for raising him. And there’s a distant but unmistakably heartbroken look in the eyes of Bernie Kosar, the University of Miami quarterback who went on to NFL success, as he recalls that his 2009 bankruptcy was “a blessing in disguise” that finally removed the dozens of relatives who had attached themselves to him like swollen leeches.

“When people don’t think you have money, they don’t call you as much,” Kosar says softly. “Family included.”

In Broke, Corben once again displays his astounding narrative skills, weaving a complex tapestry of facts, numbers and anecdotes from dozens of interviews and a mountain of archival footage. Not to be found among the latter: anything from the see-no-evil NBA, NHL and Major League Baseball, who can’t imagine why anybody thinks there’s a problem here.

Similar problems might have been expected to ground Airport 24/7: Miami long before takeoff, but producer Jeff Sloan, a longtime aviation nut, got a dumbfounding amount of cooperation not only from the airport but the tangled thicket of federal agencies that operate there. From the lost-and-found department to the security control room, practically everything at the airport was open to Airport 24/7’s cameras.

The result is an eclectic, electric peek into a “mini-city on steroids” with 36,000 employees that hosts 38 million passengers a year, while handling 800 flights and 115,000 bags a day. From the difficulties parking and unloading an A380 Airbus — 50 tons and wider than a soccer field — to the logistics of helping stage a surprise marriage proposal by a soldier returning from Afghanistan — Airport 24/7’s stories never lose their snap.

They may even lessen your irritation the next time you’re standing in one of those endless airport security lines. Seeing a collection of the stuff that TSA agents have taken away from boarding passengers is a stupefying experience: Knives. Guns. Crossbows. A power saw. A mace (not the tear-gas spray, but a giant spiked iron ball on a chain). Even a hand grenade. “Of course, everybody needs to bring a grenade to the airport,” shrugs Lauren Stover, the wisecracking director of security.

The droll Stover quickly establishes herself as one of the show’s stars. Another is ramp manager Albert Cordeshi, who cheerfully brings the cameras along on what he calls Poop Service, the emptying of jumbo-jet toilets. “I just got up right now and I already smell it,” Cordeshi narrates with a Jacques Costeau-like sense of wonder as he stands atop a ladder, thrusting his face into the drain. “And I’m already like, ‘Arrrrrrgh!’ ” By the way, Cordeshi says, incoming Miami passengers produce truly majestic defecatory items — “Huge, bro!” Has anybody called the Chamber of Commerce?