Joint Custody

Buried somewhere in Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay, beneath the pot fumes, slack jaws, flatulence jokes and Beverly D’Angelo’s turn as a Texas madam straight out of a Best Little Whorehouse in Texas road tour, is a stinging critique of the American government. Picking up just a few hours after the original, the sequel finds our heroes Harold (John Cho) and Kumar (Kal Penn, sporting several more layers of dough around his jaw line than last time) arrested onboard a flight bound for Amsterdam, after Kumar is caught with a bong in the bathroom. Completely convinced that they’re both terrorists—despite almost no evidence other than the bong—the crass and breathtakingly racist Ron Fox (The Daily Show’s Rob Corddry) has them sent straight to Guantanamo Bay, without the benefit of a phone call. There, they’re quickly introduced to the joys of a “cock meat sandwich.” But the fact that they don’t stay in prison for long should be self-evident, given the title, and their road trip from Cuba to Texas in search of absolution from Kumar’s ex-girlfriend’s fiancé is as hit-or-miss hilarious as one would assume.

Along the way, amid a minefield of floppo jokes (and this one has more than its share), there’s a surprisingly agile skewering of racial stereotypes. When was the last time you saw an African-American orthodontist taunted with a can of grape soda? Or Jews scooping up handfuls of pennies after scoffing at the easy racist gag? And, in an oldie taken to delirious new heights, there’s even a terrifying inbred Southern cyclops. But our punishment for such cleverness is a slew of jokes that thud as hard as Harold and Kumar do through the roof of George W. Bush’s Crawford ranch (don’t ask, I won’t tell). There’s an ass-wiping with the Fifth Amendment, a superhuman cum shot and a way-too-prolonged sequence with an actor in Dubyaface. Yes, after surviving “G Bay,” that creepy cyclops, the KKK and a parachuting, Harold and Kumar find themselves spending wildly unfunny time with the president.

Once again, Cho gives the better performance of the duo, turning his uptight banker into the audience’s surrogate, constantly teetering between horrified and amused at the thoughtless antics of his best friend. Penn’s main contribution, meanwhile, is to mouth-breathe through most of his scenes in such an irritating way that one wants to shove a joint—or a fist—into his gaping maw.

But are Harold and Kumar really the point of the movie? Perhaps we should take comfort in some of the promo posters that eschew both of the titular characters in favor of Neil Patrick Harris, back once again playing himself freaking out on mushrooms and hallucinating unicorns. Although the movie began to falter with a heavy-handed KKK rally, it springs back to life when Harris arrives, popping ‘shrooms like Tic-Tacs and spouting wildly inappropriate (and hysterical) non-sequiturs. And, in a rare feat, his plotline actually has a satisfying outcome, unlike Harold and Kumar’s wholly unearned salvation.

Potheads no doubt find the same satisfaction watching the two of them meander their way through life that pill-poppers find in watching the glamorous and outrageous excesses of Valley of the Dolls. But it’s hard to imagine anyone other than a stoner withstanding either one of them for more than a few hours. And by the time the relatively brief movie finally (and happily) ends in a flurry of True Love and an exhale of stale smoke, you’re ready to embrace your own drug of choice.