Review: Reefer Madness (1936)

It’s that time of year when, going outside, you might just notice the beautiful sun in the sky, the people about, your nasal passages spontaneously self-destructing on account of pollen intrusion…and of course certain herbal aromas in the air. Whether they’re emanating from back gardens or near open-air music gigs, they certainly tend to prove in season. However, not all have found enjoyment in such things. In fact, some have apparently them considered harrowing harbingers of a menace upon society! A menace that apparently results in uncontrollable mania, symptoms that resemble very bad acting, and, presumably, the disappearance of all potato chip packets in a certain radius! This we can divine from the…thing that is 1936’s Reefer Madness, a grim warning on the horrors of 'marry-hwana' that will certainly make your brain feel funny in its own right!

Originally, this bizarre little flick was produced by a church group in the mid-thirties—back when jazz music was also considered a dire moral threat, because, you see, it incited dance moves that weren’t just awkward swaying on the spot, and such moral decay is unthinkable. However, it was then appropriated by exploitation director Dwain Esper, who decided that the best way to improve this was to insert weird shots of women getting dressed very slowly, as well as scenes of violent death that are assuredly not just obvious dummies being thrown out of windows. Naturally, these approaches and directions meshed together perfectly and pffffttttttttttttt. 

The ostensible framing device is a parent’s meeting headed by a very tense-looking man who is very keen on explaining exactly how dangerous marry-hwana is to the American youth. He is so keen, in fact, that he feels the need to explain not only how to make a joint, but how to smuggle ganja leaves too. With loving close-ups to make sure no detail is left amiss. You might be wondering if the filmmakers were in fact in the herbal business themselves, and decided to go the most ironic way possible of putting the know-how out. Or perhaps it’s just incompetence—the same sequence also details how the FBI disposes of the stuff by burning it in an open furnace. They do not, disappointingly, detail the inevitable end consequence thereafter of everyone in a five-mile radius refusing to leave the couch for the next twelve hours.

After this comes the main ‘story’, such as it is. We are introduced to our leads, a couple who deal the insidious reefer to teenagers—although because everyone is seemingly played by thirtysomethings, determining who’s meant to be who can prove a little difficult. The range in acting is positively thrilling—we cover the whole spectrum from ‘just barely read off the rehearsal script’ to ‘just counting down the minutes until hitting the canteen’. And I’m stunned by how informative the film is—did you know that weed dealers not only just give out the stuff, but provide free apartments for people to party down in? My god, the Snoop Dog cultists have it right—grass really is the solution to absolutely everything, including the housing crisis! 

"I say, old chum, this doobie is of a most scintillating quality. 'Tis almost a good a vintage as what they have at the backgammon club." 

Not only that, reefer also has the same effects as a very powerful stimulant, or possibly just devouring an ungodly amount of ice cream. We see lots of people dancing around very vigorously—as opposed to the actual effects of marry-hwana, which aren’t very conducive for motivating people to lift backsides off cushions. And, of course, there’s when light fixtures become fascinating to look at, and when a huge bag of tortilla chips becomes the love of your life…so I’ve heard. 

But that’s not all. Not only does it make you jump like Kriss Kross was tellin’ you, it also induces vivid hallucinations, enough to cause accidental deaths by means of revolver. In this scene, the actors no doubt took one good look at the previous performances on display, and decided they could in fact make things even more hilarious. Whether it’s the folks in the background who really don’t look like they’re sure as to what they’re even doing here, to the fakest sobbing you’ve ever seen, it’ll grant you entirely new perspectives on whatever you may have seen in drama class. 

Like any glorious production, of course, the best is set for last. One of our unfortunate consumers of the evil herb is apparently going insane, perhaps because all the salsa dip in the fridge has run out, or something. Realizing he’s got the camera to himself, he goes through every single facial permutation the direction of ‘you’re nuts now yo’ could possibly muster, while pretending to be high. You will, I guarantee, get the giggles regardless of your sobriety. And what’s great about sobriety anyway? If more people were less sober, they’d be more inclined to indulge all the brilliant ideas proposed but ignored over the years, like nuclear reactors made of chocolate, or a Chippendales troupe consisting of John Goodman, Gabriel Iglesias, and Kim Jong-Un. 

Don't mind him, he's just upset that his hands are on fire and everyone keeps making the most obvious joke. 

But that’s not the message Reefer Madness wants to send. No, this is a movie keen on promoting soberness, even if you’re left uncertain if the creators actually practiced what they preached. This is, of course, from the era when smoking tobacco was of course considered good for you, because everyone needs that protective layer of necrosis around their lungs. And in decades since, it was still considered acceptable to overindulge alcohol until you find your face half submerged in a gas station toilet. 

Perhaps what we need to learn is that sometimes society, and those who consider themselves the stringent protectors of its moral fiber, don’t actually know what they really want. Luckily, others found entertainment aplenty in this one, even making their own musical and stage versions, which just goes to show how even the squarest stuff can yield joy by those that can actually feel that sensation. 

Either way, that’s all the nonsense I can take today. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to finally propose to those tortilla chips.