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Pineapple Express is the action movie equivalent of Superbad, and just as funny, if not more so.

The other day, a friend of mine got hold of a pair of passes to the local premier of Seth Rogen and James Franco’s twinkling new stoner saga, Pineapple Express, and favorably chose me to join him (in return, I gave him a knuckle-bruising number of taters—fist-fives, or fist pounds, if you will). Given that I had to rush across town for my spot in TDK’s IMAX line for the midnight release (my second viewing, which I repeatedly pointed out to those waiting around me) directly after the showing, my buddy and I made the most of our time prior to the screening, talking everything from The Jesus and Mary Chain’s Psycho Candy (he’s something of a music aficionado) to American cinema’s first grand epic, D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation. Somewhere in between, we got on discussing our nation’s (and, more specifically, the entertainment industry’s) obsession with the prospect of perfection—the saying “Practice makes perfect” originated in the U.S. As my pal told me, the Germans have a similar, but far more precise aphorism: “Übung macht den meister,” meaning “Practice makes the master.”

Pineapple Express embodies this maxim.

Too frequently do Hollywood products strive for perfection and miss (duh, it’s an unattainable goal), becoming artificial and glossy expirements with “Failed” tatooed all over (Oliver Stone, anyone?). That said, David Gordon Green doesn’t belong in Hollywood. His talent is tailor-made for the independent film market—his films are drenched with fragile pragmatism and assembled with otherworldly refinement (George Washington and All the Real Girls are tremendous examples), neither of which are often demonstrated in beaming Hollywood films, at least to an equal degree. But Green knows his German proverbs, as well as no bounds. He plays to his strengths and accepts imperfection, which, ironically, makes his projects more real. And that’s also why Pineapple Express is his hallmark achievement—he simultaneously delivers what was expected (lots and lots of laughs), disproving the notion that his place rests solely in art house cinema, and pleases fans of his previous work.

The story, conceived by producers Judd Apatow, Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg (the trio behind Superbad and Knocked Up), was reportedly inspired by Brad Pitt’s role as a weed-smoking idiot named Floyd in ’93’s True Romance, and is about as simplistic as they come—a pothead process server named Dale (Rogen, who hands subpeonas out with his stamped phrase, “You’ve been served”) goes to a drug lord’s (Gary Cole) home to “serve” him but ends up witnessing a murder and grows nervous that the roach he flicked on the ground will trace back to him and his dealer, Saul (James Franco, dishing the film’s jewel performance), so the two go on the run. But, like Superbad, PE extends itself beyond simplicity by adopting topical subject matter as its basis (the legalization of marijuana), and delivering a well-written, uproarious screenplay (by Rogen and Goldberg) that builds characters who are instantly worth rooting for (including, in addition to those mentioned above, a dimwitted middleman dealer named Red, played hilariously by The Foot Fist Way’s Danny McBride, who shaves his armpits because it makes him more “aerodynamic” when he fights; you may recognize him from the trailer—he’s the one who squeals “Thug life”).

As gut-busting as his effort is, Green’s recent stunt is more impressive for giving viewers what was truly unexpected: action. And his taste for car chases, gun fights, and explosions is as sweet as this summer’s previous offerings of such (excluding that of The Dark Knight, whose action bests any film of the entire year, and perhaps of 2007 as well), but with the addition of painfully incessant laughter (the cop car chase is among the funniest things I’ve ever seen). Of course, on a critical level, there are a couple of sequences that submit to absurdist humor (it’s comical, yes, but how do Dale and Saul know how to cock and prep a wall-full of gunnery, especially shoot with accuracy?) and genre platitude (after things don’t go as planned, the two sky-high buddies blame each other and split, only to make amends by film’s end), but these are accepted traits and rather minimal plights.

Another shock regarding the film’s playout is its violence, which is quite graphic and always gratuitous (think Green’s 2004 thriller Undertow multiplied ten times). Yet, while it may be offputting to audiences that are expecting the lightness of Knocked Up, it, too, is somehow hilarious and has an appropriate function, which brutally targets the drug distribution world and forces questions about the harm caused by smoking marijuana vs. the harm caused by the unflinching drug cartels that provide it (along with other, far more destructive drugs) to goofy screw-ups like Dale, Saul, and Red.

Pineapple Express is a production whose entire crew and cast are utilized with atypical proficiency (and to masterful results) and whose comedy is littered with thematic provocations and comes not at the expense of pertinent direction and creative craftsmanship. It’s the kind of first-rate fun that will have you gripping your seat with one hand and wiping your laughter-tears with the other. And what thrills me, perhaps even more than the movie did, is that acclaim will engulf Express when it hits theaters in a few weeks, making its director’s return to the Big Show imminent. In fact, now that he’s arrived, and done so in volume, it would be fair to assume he’ll never leave—which is fine, so long as his stay doesn’t whittle down the artistry and influence he’s brought with him.

Sarah Marshall ain’t got sheet.

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