Nerding Day: Marihuana (Patreon)

We used to toss hipster around. Were you one? Are you one now? I’m not, just a Brooklyn-based writer learning something mid-sentence. If you’re a hipster like me, you like staying ahead of the curve. That puts classic Reefer Madness jokes out of reach, and makes Weed Joke Month a crisis. But don’t panic or try clean living. Embrace Marihuana.

Believe it or not, it lives up to this poster. “SHAME HORROR DESPAIR” is my kind of promo. Listing target emotions is divine marketing, and subtlety’s a poor trade. Imagine it today.

Marihauna hit the same year as Reefer Madness, as an extra warning and gift to stoners. But mostly a sideshow for squares. Exploitation films are educational the way roleplaying a dog on Twitch is a hobby. There’s a secondary agenda.

I expected a repeat, given the long tradition of IP theft. And got one. But Marihauna has a quirk: a semi-focused character arc. While Reefer Madness yanks story levers at random, Marihuana pulls ones it thinks make sense. The difference is nuanced, but beautiful. We follow a jealous teen’s journey from malt shop girl to crime lord. Marihauna’s lead is Walter White by a writer unsure what drugs are or why mushrooms taste like moon.

Her pre-crime name’s Burma. Or maybe Myanmar. And that baby bit’s real, along with the heroin. Marihuana goes places. As a retiree from fun, I appreciate the trip.

Though an arc doesn’t save Marihauna. At all. Anyone telling you character is king gets paid in hope, and should unionize instead of recycling cliches. Invisible Cities described bricks at book length, and it’s one of the best things on paper. Ideas like that are rare, but some find inspiration in vintage film or drugs. Let’s try both.

Director Dwain Esper was a living god of panic, and milked America’s violent imagination with virtuoso hackwork. Titles like Maniac, Sex Madness, and The Sins of Love all featured fast-driving, drug-loving nymphomaniacs that you’re theoretically rejecting instead of spectating.

Esper produced more exploitation films than Morgan Spurlock, he just played it straight. He even pushed the 1938 rerelease of Reefer Madness. Fever dream recognized fever dream. For all his gaping holes in character, Esper made another garbagesmith immortal. But first, himself.

That’s our local dealer/incarnation of Satan. For the first half. Myanmar replaces him handily, with boundless ambition and bound intellect. But we should take the journey there.

Marihuana kicks off with a text crawl. It’s gold. It gives me a light, giggly feeling, and makes mundane reality shine. Straight-edge worldbuilding rolls over a mural of nude smoking women, because you shouldn’t do drugs.

Marihuana rejects dated haughtiness for cutting-edge paranoia. “As we all know, Easterlings are poisoning us. Abandon backwards images of savagery, lest their schemes thrive.” Marihuana’s alt-left agenda is disappointing, but maybe we can still have fun.

Our greatest problem. During the Dust Bowl. After Germans got into Buddhist logos. When if the president got polio, science said “that sucks, homie.”

In Esper’s defense: you see marihuana’s true face working retail. Stoners play the front desk bell like an instrument, and they don’t even want anything. When they do want a book, it takes half an hour to get the title. Interrupting restarts the process.

Marihauna gives me hope. Today, the crawl inspires laughter before I add a single dick joke. One day, present propaganda might have that effect. If we duck M.A.D. for another century, op-eds can be perfect, airless jokes.

Oh, there’s a movie too.

First, we meet our wide-eyed teens. They look old enough to retire, thanks to life in the fast lane. Now that Prohibition’s a fond memory, alcohol’s their gateway to the devil’s finest poison: dancing.

Or something like it.

What in hell are they doing?

Forget pot. This scene’s a screed against motion, and I won’t have it.

There were dancers in 1936. And theater kids, and people born with feet. They were all as fame-starved as anyone else. And normal-starved, given the Depression. Dwain could’ve paid in kidney beans.

Now, that’s a different wayward blonde. Or two. And she/they demonstrate an amusing/terrible problem I had watching this. And rewatching this. Half this article might be bullshit.

You see, people forget faces for a thousand reasons. Modern viewers can mix-up vintage actors, especially before Truman invented color. Black people can have trouble telling healthy hearts apart. Warhammer lore experts can have trouble telling everyone apart. My point is that I’m in hell. This movie might be about triplets. But I think it’s about two sisters.

There’s our lead, Myanmar, who you’ve met.

And her foil, Elaine, who stays on the golden, heroin-free path.

Siblings are tough.

Since Marihuana’s a downward spiral, you’d assume they’d be one character named “Burma.” But Elaine plays a special role down the line. For now, suffice to say that Burma’s jealous of Elaine getting married while she’s stuck enjoying legal wine and song for the first time in thirteen years.

The devil (okay, a local dealer) smells prey. He joins the one table spared dancing, and makes Burma a simple offer.

Burma marches us through forty seconds of stoic resistance (delivering “No thank you, the beer here is very good” with a pick-up artist’s confidence) before allowing the movie to start. Her friends, as a wave, try green bleach. Satan’s moss. The savior of GrubHub, tv marathons, and prison slavery.

Marihuana.

She’s hooked, along with her clique. This entire social group is permanently weeded. My notes here seem suspect, but I’m willing to trust me. Bewitched by Jamaican Oxygen, Burma’s friends look for their next thrill. First, there’s some slapstick flirting:

You can see the drugs at work. His opening move’s usually a rubber chicken. Either should send him home alone, but marihuana’s turned his peers into giggle machines.

Then the brain trust has an idea.

Or more directly:

They strip, giggle, and run into the sea. They look ready to found a porn-ish mermaid kingdom, until some nerd ruins the fun by drowning. The dial’s set to “tragedy,” but it feels like teen gallows humor. Losing a friend like this might earn you more bullies than sympathy cards. You’re getting a week off school, at most. A day if you’re on the swim team.

It still looks like a lot of fun.

And then they fall out of the movie. I get that for an exploitation film. But riding off into the sapphic sunset is less grim warning and more ideal product pitch. Even Gorilla Flow said I’d have to find partners myself. Weed comes with half of Themyscira.

Anyway, they’re gone. Our priorities are Burma’s new pregnancy, hiding a manslaughter, and beating that goody-two-shoes Elaine. Covering up a classmate's death would be enough for a mortal exploitation film. Marijuana seeks excellence.

Luckily, Satan’s still there. He reassures Burma that all problems made by drugs can be solved by drugs. Burma acquiesces, caught in the grip of hating Elaine. And manslaughter.

Her boyfriend mobs up, rocketing straight from one night of smoking to smuggling crates full of drugs. I’ve never seen anyone leap-frog ahead in their field like this, until Burma in the next scene. The man is, by baby daddy standards, a warrior prince.

Warrior princes don’t live long. He bites it before I can crystalize his name.

At this point, Burma’s caught between genres. She can make a maudlin drama about a single mother in the shadow of the family favorite. Or become Tommy Vercetti, and tear ass across the most morally confused PSA in history.

Fantastic.

Naturally, there are mixed reactions. Satan likes having someone wear fun hats while he cuts deals, while Burma’s family wants less murder.

Siblings are tough.

In Esper’s defense, he noticed that all this sounds fucking amazing. So Elaine loses her baby and gets hooked on horse. All thanks to Mammon’s Air Freshener. If you don’t see the connection, I don’t know what to tell you. Only the most expensive and invasive rehabs can save you. Preferably linked to a major religion.

I’ve triple-tapped this point, but Burma gets hooked on heroin. Heroin. In a polemic about weed. That’s like dropping heroin into your movie about weed. Wait, do-over. That’s like a rich teenager shooting skunk halfway through Marihuana. Or starting a movie at a G-rated frat party, and ending with a crime lord’s suicide via heroin.

The road there is strange.

Forty-five minutes in, Burma enjoys fur coats, a thriving career, and pre-corporate weed. She started the film hoping to marry a mannequin. A man too dull to even dance poorly with the extras. Now she has this outfit:

And these headlines.

The Federal Government’s giving up. Tony Montana didn’t manage that. This is the raw power one beach house joint grants. But Elaine’s also happy, and fuck that.

Two years after their split, Burma steals Elaine’s kid. To sell it back to her. Forget about the logic, we’re forty speech bubbles past that. The script’s insulting you elsewhere.

Think about our non-story until now. You’ve got this.

Now just in case, walk with me. Burma’s holy sister has a kid. About two years old. Burma lost a kid. Two years ago. I’ve recapped a lot of plots here. If you don’t have this, I’ve failed you. I’m sorry. Luckily, there’s a year of high-stakes misinformation ahead of you.

She’s Burma’s kid.

This is framed as a twist. You’re either an adult or well-read child, so I can’t take that tack. But I can tell you this makes Marihuana the thinker’s Reefer Madness. Keep your sexual assaults and suicides by cop. Marihuana has those too. Along with whatever the fuck this is. After one party.

All this is before the THC arms race. The people of 1936 could stretch a modern edible until Pearl Harbor killed the mood. Taking one whole would couch-lock them until integration. Yet one hit of grayscale weed turned Burma into Al Capone’s mentor.

Burma doesn’t catch on until the cops show, and then Esper leaves diamonds on the table. I can’t call this sideshow perfect: We’ve already gone this far, this crazy, with excess hyperbole. Yet I’m left clutching one prescriptive note.

Burma should have overdosed on weed.

It’s odd that drug polemics come out this malformed. A flick doesn’t have to be right about anything to tell a story. Where’s drug panic’s Birth of a Nation?. Esper should’ve spun at least one quality lie, even with the goal and talent tool and half the cast tripping on set. Or at least tapped the real problem with spending Monday mornings like Saturday nights.

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