Practically all stoner comedies require the incandescent spark of friendship. Indeed, some of the greatest of these particular genre films hinge upon what one might call—to borrow from the rom-com lexicon—a weed cute. Whether in childhood or slacker adulthood, a powerful bond is forged under unusual or unlikely circumstances that brings the protagonists together, with indica, sativa, or possibly some really good hash fueling their camaraderie as much as their exploits.
Putting aside the farcical anti-drug exploitation flicks of the ‘30s and ’40s, 1978’s Up In Smoke, the directorial debut from The Rocky Horror Picture Show producer Lou Adler, sets the template when Pedro De Pacas (Cheech Marin) picks up the hitchhiker known simply as Man (Tommy Chong). Together, they embark on a madcap journey that involves smoking literal dogshit, getting deported to Tijuana, and unwittingly smuggling a van made of “fiberweed” back into the States just in time for a Battle Of The Bands triumph at West Hollywood’s Roxy Theatre.
Released nearly two-and-a-half decades later, Jesse Dylan’s How High (2001) also starts off in a vehicle, albeit one parked outside an educational testing facility. Victims of circumstance Silas P. Silas (Clifford “Method Man” Smith) and Jamal King (Reginald “Redman” Noble) find themselves respectively without blunt and weed, something the other miraculously holds, leading them to toke up in the former’s car.
The two men—one a savvy neighborhood dealer with big herbal ambitions, the other a lewd layabout still living at home with his moms—are there to take their THCs, a parody standardized assessment exam somewhere between a GED and the SATs. As it turns out, Silas’ specially curated strain conjures the friendly ghost of his tragicomically departed client Ivory (Chuck Davis), who plies them with correct answers to ensure perfect scores. This sets Silas and Jamal off to no less than Harvard where, urged on by the university’s diversity-sensitive chancellor Philip Huntley (Fred Willard), the movie hits its proverbial stride.
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An impromptu automotive caucus isn’t the only commonality connecting How High with Up In Smoke, or with the stoner subgenre more broadly. Comedy in films comes across through a variety of familiar lenses such as screwball, slapstick, and the mockumentary, with further refinement via thematic crossovers with action, horror, or science fiction. Yet apart from conspicuous bong usage, something that separates stoner comedies from the others is that, categorically, it’s one where non-white leads dominate the canon’s perceived classics.
When prompted to name a stoner comedy, one might cite the Coen brothers’ The Big Lebowski (1998) or perhaps Dude, Where’s My Car? (2000). Certain cineastes reading these words are probably falling over themselves to call out the gonzo auteurism of Paul Thomas Anderson’s Inherent Vice (2014) and Harmony Korine’s The Beach Bum (2019) for Letterboxd extra credit. But true couchlocked devotees of the form know that those are outliers, in some cases dare-I-say interlopers, where cannabis consumption is incidental rather than central to the goings-on. (Like, there’s not even any actual smoking shown in Dude…)
Real heads who’ve spent countless late nights in a delightful haze in front of their screens would insist upon Friday (1995), Half Baked (1998), Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle (2004), How High, and at least the first two or maybe three Cheech & Chong features. Each of these star actors who, demographically and practically speaking, would be relegated to secondary and tertiary roles in comedies helmed by white actors. But characters like Harold and Kumar or Craig and Smokey (or Craig and Day-Day in Friday’s two noticeably less 420-friendly sequels) have wider pop cultural recognition than whatever Seth Rogen and James Franco were called in David Gordon Green’s (excellent) Pineapple Express (2008).
Considering the disproportionate carceral impact on Black and brown communities and populations in America with regard to cannabis enforcement, it seems somehow perversely right that so many stoner movies center such actors. As such, risk typically plays a prominent role in the plot lines of stoner comedies with non-white leads. Though legalization in a plurality of states has made medical and recreational use objectively easier and arguably safer, most of these films date back to a time where penalties for possession were considerably harsh and, in some places, downright severe. Fittingly, there’s negligible concern in The Big Lebowski or Pineapple Express over whether or not its white leads will go to prison over their purchasing, selling, or enjoyment of cannabis.
Conversely, Stacy Keach’s anti-drug zealot Sergeant Stedenko relentlessly pursues Pedro and Man throughout Up In Smoke, while 2008’s Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay finds the titular pair branded terrorists on the run from the Department of Homeland Security simply for taking a bong hit on a flight en route to, of all places, Amsterdam. Law enforcement doesn’t really factor into F. Gary Gray’s Friday, set in a South Central Los Angeles neighborhood where the denizens are left to solve their own problems. Nonetheless, the consequences of getting high on one’s own supply present Chris Tucker’s Smokey and Ice Cube’s Craig with a genuine threat of death from local supplier Big Worm (Faizon Love). The scene where Worm’s shooters fire upon our weekend-ready heroes makes for a dark and humorless sequence that links it with notable ‘90s dramatic works from Black filmmakers like John Singleton and the Hughes brothers.
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The stakes in How High are welcomely lower. Once admitted to Harvard, Silas and Jamal dodge the stodgy Dean Cain (Obba Babatundé) and self-appointed campus cop Gerald (T.J. Thyne) in order to avoid expulsion. Still, a college degree from a prestigious university would provide life-changing benefits for both men, the alternative being a return to their unfulfilling former lives in places where the incarceration pitfalls would likely befall them. They have every reason to want to stay enrolled and in good standing, though as in spiritual predecessors like Animal House (1978) and Back to School (1986), the temptation to engage in mischief and hedonism nonetheless prevail.
As audacious, sophomoric, and, at times, utterly disgusting as the humor in How High gets, the evident chemistry between fairly novice thespians Smith and Noble keeps us stoners rooting for them from behind our tortilla chip dusted sweats and half-melted pints of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. Much like Cheech & Chong, these men first found success in the record business well before trying their hands at acting. The Wu-Tang Clan’s second-ever single, 1993’s “Method Man,” spotlit the namesake New York City rapper as it reached No. 69 on the Billboard Hot 100 singles charts, signaling the success of the crew’s full-length debut Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) later that year. Roughly twelve months later, Method Man dropped his solo album Tical, which peaked at No. 4 on the Billboard 200 charts. Both that and its cinematically inspired 1998 sequel Tical 2000: Judgement Day earned RIAA Platinum sales certifications, marking one million units sold for both. Under the Redman moniker, his New Jersey contemporary Noble dropped Whut? Thee Album in 1992, followed by 1994’s Dare Iz a Darkside and 1996’s Muddy Waters, all three of which went RIAA Gold (half a million units sold).
Method Man and Redman then became a rap duo in their own right in the mid-90s, first with the Hot 100 charting soundtrack standout “How High” from 1995’s hip-hop documentary The Show and then appearing on 2 Pac’s All Eyez on Me posse cut “Got My Mind Made Up” in February of 1996. Smith guested on Muddy Waters cut “Do What U Feel” along with “Well All Rite Cha” off Redman’s Platinum-selling 1998 album Doc’s da Name 2000, with Noble returning the favor on the aforementioned Tical 2000’s “Big Dogs.” The following year, they unveiled their first joint project, Blackout!, for Def Jam, reaching No. 3 on the Billboard 200 and earning RIAA Platinum status.
Though Smith has spent a significant part of the past 25 years as a working actor, with notable roles in films like Garden State (2004), Red Tails (2012), and the third mononymous installment in the Shaft franchise (2019), his filmography prior to How High was fairly limited. A brief, wordless cameo as plot-pushing antagonist for Samuel L. Jackson in 1997’s One Eight Seven preceded his appearance later that year as a metal-grilled perp in James Mangold’s star-studded drama Cop Land.
Neither of those parts showed any sign of his natural comedy chops, but he nonetheless drew broad grins from viewers during Hype Williams’ 1998 debut feature Belly. While that stylized crime flick’s real-life rap world stars DMX and Nas play it serious—the latter to a cringey fault— Smith’s Shameek provides unexpected comic relief throughout. Arriving in the second act, he portrays a would-be triggerman whose blustering, cocksure attitude undermines his attempts to take down Tyrin Turner’s banana-chomping Omaha capo Big Head Rico.
Noble, on the other hand, had hardly any film credits to his name before How High, his film resume mostly amounting to cameos as himself in 1998’s underseen hip-hop road trip comedy Ride and even more obscure hood movies Colorz of Rage (1999) and Statistic (2001). But his dynamic with Smith on record was undeniable to anyone paying attention, and televised appearances on Yo! MTV Raps and music videos further suggested that they’d do well together on screen.
Prior to How High, the promise of transmuting their dyadic kinship into comedy Acapulco gold manifested via a short film called P.I.G.S. Helmed in 1999 by music video director Diane Martel, who’d previously worked with both rappers on clips for singles including “How High,” the presumably low budget farce put Smith and Noble in nun costumes and set two doughy policemen after them. While not exactly a must-see, it offered the best glimpse of what their first full-length feature together would look like. By this point, hip-hop fans and weed smokers alike—not to mention the glorious Venn diagram space representing both—were primed, if not clamoring, for the inevitability of what came next.
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Regardless of how Tubi might categorize it in their carousel, How High has relatively little in common with self-aware hood movie parodies like Paris Barclay’s Wayans brothers-led Don’t Be a Menace to South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood (1996) or Tamra Davis’ timely gangsta rap sendup CB4 (1993). Instead, it bears more of a resemblance to Caddyshack (1980) and the aforementioned Back to School, films that earned the respect-deprived stand-up Rodney Dangerfield a second act in Hollywood. Uproariously out of place in uptight institutions where class trumps everything—including wealth—the loutish sexagenarian is all-but unapologetically himself, defying the imposed order with disruptive charm. As Silas and Jamal, Smith and Noble get to do something similarly subversive, channeling the roguish appeal of their rap personas into characters for whom compromise is something for everyone else, just not for them.
What they do in How High that Dangerfield naturally couldn’t is directly address the inherent racist biases that unites the Ivy League and the country club set against non-whites. (To his credit, Jackie Mason accomplished something close to that as the semitic real estate developer of Allan Arkush’s largely unloved Caddyshack II.) Other than slyly acknowledging the youthful differences between Harvard’s mostly teenaged student body and their visibly thirty-something asses, Silas and Jamal naturally refuse to conform to the norms of their new surroundings. Tacitly rejecting the respectability politics tarpit represented by Babatundé’s well-mannered (if irrationally uptight) Dean Cain, they run afoul of him within minutes of arriving (late) on campus. Their lecture hall roast of this Uncle Tom figure leaves him sputtering and off-balance, setting off a battle marked by pranks and academic probation.
Racial and class dynamics obviously extend beyond their interactions with the most prominent Black man at this fictional school. Not long after accidentally hitting the Harvard sign with Silas’ car, they meet Gerald, a Paul Blart-esque bike-riding faux-constable who immediately distrusts and confronts them. Jamal quickly finds himself at odds with prototypical rich jock snob Bart (Chris Elwood), prompting him to try out for a crew squad coached by a sympathetic Hector Elizondo. That solidarity between visibly Black and brown characters operating in a predominantly white space nods to stoner film’s history of outsiders banding together, as well as Dangerfield’s unlikely on-screen fellowship with Caddyshack’s grandfathered-in oddball Chevy Chase.
With all due respect to director Dylan and credited screenwriter Dustin Lee Abraham, the subtle and pointed ways the film’s leads counter the racism they face at Harvard rely upon the actors’ on-brand reactions that transcend the wacky tone. In a short-sighted attempt to curry favor with Silas, Jamal, and freeloading weed carrier I Need Money, their reluctant dorm mate Jeffrey (Justin Urich) utters the n-word, casually but without malice, while feigning N.W.A. fandom. As one would expect to happen in a real world setting, Silas issues a powerful smack to his already pinkish cheek, swift retribution that resonates through the screen. However, Bart, a moneyed manifestation of white privilege tropes, is more cavalier with his bigotry, attempting to embarrass Silas during a botany lab but failing miserably against teflon resilience. His deeply ingrained prejudice makes for an ostensibly romantic and power-imbalanced relationship with Black student Lauren (Lark Voorhies), who delivers comeuppance in her own way soon enough.
The supporting cast includes its fair share of subversion, as well, both overtly and on meta terms. Voorhies’ turn as Smith’s upwardly mobile love interest bears a passing resemblance to her Saved By The Bell character Lisa Turtle. Lauren is more socially masochistic than the Bayside High fave, though no less ambitious. How High arrived just long enough after the after-school show ended that most who saw her in the film could still associate her with Saved By The Bell without damning her for it. Between this and her casting as the unsuspecting girlfriend to Bill Bellamy’s flagrant philander in Def Jam’s How to Be a Player, Voorhies grew her upstanding TV persona beyond young adulthood without resorting to something as drastic as her former castmate Elizabeth Berkley’s earlier Showgirls showing or James Van Der Beek’s post-Dawson’s Creek creep from 2002’s The Rules of Attraction.
More absurd, though aligned with Back To School’s Kurt Vonnegut cameo, is the role played by acclaimed monologist Spalding Gray. Here, he presents as an African(-American) Studies professor who aggressively berates his mostly caucasian students as an unsubtle deflection from his own festering white guilt. As pre-woke portraits of flawed allyship go, it’s almost as scathing as those vividly depicted in Tom Wolfe’s “Radical Chic: That Party at Lenny’s,” a seminal 1970 essay documenting a Black Panther Party fundraiser held by cringetworthy, well-meaning New York socialites. Even the few enrolled Black students in their quintessentially preppy outfits catch Gray’s strays, with Jamal’s semi-righteous classroom walk-out protest only prompting further admonishment for those who stayed behind in bewilderment.
Of course, a stoner comedy from 2001 is bound to contain material that won’t feel so funny in a 2026 context. Two distinct scenes where little people are shoehorned in for sight gags are, at best, representative of the movie’s commitment absurdist humor, though ultimately serve as the cheapest of cheap jokes. Trieu Tran’s portrayal of foreign-born student Tuan similarly leans on Asian stereotypes involving thick accents and thin micropenises. Even if his presence was in any way intended to skewer cultural appropriation of the Black experience, his use of AAVE offers more cringe than its perceived value. Also tough to watch, though unintentionally so, is Jeffrey Jones as the Vice President of the United States, whose real-life sex offender status, prompted by a 2002 arrest, has tainted his comedic legacy.
Amid all the film’s hijinks and capering—culminating in an alumni gathering destabilized by a preposterously widespread contact high as groovy airborne toxic event—How High succeeds by hitting the heights necessary in any truly good stoner movie. It asks scarcely little of its assuredly baked viewer, handholding them through familiarity while modernizing when the moment suits. It meets them right where they are, deep into one’s after-hours proclivities, coaxing comfort and laughter driven by two naturally funny entertainers.
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To call How High a guilty pleasure explicitly and wrongly conveys that there should be any amount of shame assigned to the consumption of the film, the wider subgenre, or its ephemera and paraphernalia off-screen. The stigma of cannabis use, especially now that the plant is legal in some two dozen states, will obviously take time to fully wear off. But in recent years, we’ve seen movie buffs perfectly content to elevate art-house stoner fare like Gregg Araki’s Smiley Face (2007), The Beach Bum and Inherent Vice as under-appreciated gems. One Battle After Another not only found Anderson pilfering from Pynchon a second time around but, doubling down on what he did with Joaquin Phoenix, he turned movie idol Leonardo DiCaprio into a bumbling pothead slacker in a flannel bathrobe.
Mostly relegated to the lowest of budgets in recent years, the current appetite for stoner comedies might be stronger than ever. Perpetually streaming flicks like Grandma’s Boy (2006), Ted (2012), and Ted 2 (2015) seem to keep the lights on across streaming platforms, conspicuously appearing in user-facing content carousels. Prominent doper Seth Rogen’s ascent on Apple TV only casts a brighter light on Pineapple Express and the less-seen Paul (2011), while Jay Chandrasekhar’s Super Troopers is tracking for an improbable third installment this year. A fourth and final Friday installment has been batted around enough to keep the topic newsworthy, though the fourth Rush Hour may come sooner thanks to Trump’s machinations.
Whatever the subgenre’s future holds, How High remains a hallmark worth celebrating in the most fitting of ways—at home, on the couch, plied with the strongest stuff you can find and plenty of tasty snacks.