Cheech & Chong light up the big screen once more. Will it be their last joint?
'Cheech & Chong's Last Movie,' which hits theaters Friday, answers a lot of questions about the stoner comedy duo's career. But it also raises a few big ones along the way. Chief among them, given the title: Is this truly the final silver-screen sesh for the pair, now 78 and 86 respectively? And how, after a contentious creative split four decades ago, did they find themselves reunited for, of all things, a documentary?
I found answers to those questions — and more — at the outdoor table of a Venice cafe earlier this month when I sat down to chat with them in advance of the movie's release. As to the first question, neither of them definitively ruled out another joint venture.
'It's [actually] the next-to-the-last movie, but that doesn't sound right,' quips Richard 'Cheech' Marin with a slight shrug and a wan chuckle that feels designed to add a dash of levity to the heaviness of the question. After a beat, he turns slightly more contemplative: 'You never know.'
'God only knows,' Tommy Chong says. 'It all depends on the script. Everything depends on the script.'
When I ask this question — which is being videotaped to accompany this story — they are sitting front-seat-of-the-car close to each other at the cafe. Marin wears a crisp blue denim jacket and jeans, his arms folded. He leans slightly toward his longtime comedy partner, who provides a colorful counterpoint in a quilted zip-front jacket covered in a riot of paisley patterns. He's sporting a chunky shell necklace. They answer a handful of questions this way — Marin with quick bursts of humor, Chong with longer, near-meandering monologues.
But when the camera clicks off, there's a palpable vibe shift. Cheech & Chong — the version joined by an ampersand in our collective consciousness — are gone. Cheech puts on his sunglasses and leans away. Chong looks at the facade of the restaurant and recalls how, under a different name, it appeared in a scene from one of his post-duo films, 1990's 'Far Out Man.' Both sip on their lattes. Instead of an affable pair riffing off each other, they seem more like two guys who worked together once, had a falling out and now are back in each other's orbit but maybe aren't exactly thrilled about it.
Which brings us to that second question. What reunited them on the big screen for the first time since 1984's 'The Corsican Brothers'?
'You know, you can't refuse a daughter,' Chong says, referring to 59-year-old Robbi Chong, who is one of 'Last Movie's' producers. She coaxed the two back into a creative relationship in the mid-aughts, which resulted in a run of stand-up shows in 2008. It was around that time that she was also involved in an (ultimately unsuccessful) reunion-movie effort.
'I was brought in as a producer for that project,' director David Bushell tells The Times at the same Venice cafe an hour later. 'And that's how I met the guys and met Robbi. We became close and would take hikes together and [talk about] trying to keep the reunion-movie train on the tracks.' Bushell says that, over those years, the notion of doing a straight-up, old-school-style narrative movie gave way to a documentary approach, the result of which is Bushell's feature directing debut.
I'll be the first to admit that, at first blush, a Cheech & Chong documentary sounds a whole lot less fun than the hazy buddies-with-buds tenor of the movies. But thanks to a little bit of magic and a whole lot of nostalgia, it turns out to be a worthy road trip down memory lane. Figuratively and literally.
This film opens with a nostalgic nod to their very first one, 1978's 'Up in Smoke'; Yesca's blues-rock song 'Lost Due to Incompetence (Theme for a Big Green Van)' plays as a Rolls-Royce with a pot-leaf hood ornament and a KP SMOKIN license plate speeds through the desert. An opening montage of video clips ends with an iconic two-shot from the film of their characters, Pedro (Marin) behind the wheel and Man (Chong) riding shotgun, disappearing into a screen full of smoke. When the smoke clears — voilà! — they're back. Older, grayer and puffier (that's what a 47-year jump cut will do to you), it's still unmistakably Cheech behind the wheel and Chong in the seat next to him.
In addition to those interstitial car-ride scenes, the movie relies heavily on archival interview footage (Cheech & Chong interviewed by Geraldo Rivera, Cheech & Chong at the Playboy Mansion, etc.). Paired with these older interviews are still photos and funky animation (by James Blagden). Throughout the documentary's two-hour running time, with very rare exception, the people telling their story are either Cheech & Chong themselves (from back in the day) or Cheech & Chong (from today).
It turns out to be a seriously deep dive about two very funny peope and the arc of their career together. It starts with both men's early lives, the forces that shaped them and the mindbogglingly serendipitous paths that brought the California-born Mexican American Marin together with the Edmonton-born Chong, the son of Chinese and Scotch-Irish parents, in a Vancouver nightclub called Shanghai Junk in 1968.
'It just seemed right to us,' Marin recalls about that first meeting so long ago. 'I knew the tunes that he knew and he knew the tunes that I knew. And we both had a background in the Black communities, so we had that in common. It was like we understood each other's music.'
About 44 minutes into the film, the third power player in the duo's dynamic emerges. 'We had two choices — New York or L.A.,' Chong says in a black-and-white archival video clip. 'It's warmer, [so] it's easier to starve in L.A.,' Marin jokes in the same clip.
They recount being discovered by Lou Adler at a hootenanny night at the Troubadour in 1970 and how that relationship lighted the Roman candle of their career. They mention how Jack Nicholson's erratic high-speed driving — on the wrong side of the road down Manchester Boulevard — inspired their song 'Basketball Jones.'
'There's more space and it's progressive in California and it allows artists and creativity to expand and flourish, especially at that time,' director Bushell says about how he thinks moving here helped shape what became Cheech & Chong. 'People are going to be influenced by their surroundings. Los Angeles had the weed and surf and skateboarder [cultures]. So, yes, I think environment played a role.'
With or without the ampersand, Cheech and Chong have pretty much made their homes here ever since. Both currently live in Pacific Palisades. (Although their homes were spared in the January fires, both said they'd temporarily evacuated and had only recently gotten things back to normal.)
There's just enough movie magic in the doc to make it work on another level. Most of it involves the two men bantering (and occasionally bickering) behind the wheel in their current incarnations and the occasional unexpected back-seat cameo (the most memorable one being producer Adler, who financed and directed their first film). When Cheech turns to Chong during that car ride through the desert and asks, 'Hey, man, is this a movie or a documentary?' and Chong replies, 'I don't know, man,' it's a meta, laugh-out-loud moment that will make you feel stoned even if you're as sober as a church mouse.
It turns out those revelatory car scenes, which include what feels like a very candid rehash of their big schism (part creative differences, part natural career evolution), were not scripted.
'Dave [Bushell] wouldn't give us anything,' Tommy Chong says. 'We were like, 'What's the scene here?' And he'd say, 'Well, it's just you guys talking,' There was no plot or anything. So I guess they got what they wanted — which is two old guys [talking].'
Maybe so, but for fans who have been waiting for them to say yes to a big-screen reunion since the era of Nancy Reagan's 'Just Say No' campaign, it's a sight to behold. (When we spoke, Bushell confirmed that nothing at all was scripted and that he only suggested general topics based on his 30-plus hours of interviews.)
Since it felt like the guys were genuinely working through that long-ago rift onscreen, I had to ask if it was as cathartic for them as it seemed.
'Yeah, I think so,' Marin said with a slight shrug about their 1985 split (a result of creative differences and Marin's move toward a more mainstream acting career). 'But we didn't think specifically about the effect it would have at the time. We were just kind of figuring out where we were going with it, what we were doing and how to get all this information out while we're there in the car.'
When talking about the movie itself — how it came to be, what they hope people take away from it ('Hopefully not the seats,' jokes Marin) or how it may or may not cement their 47-year comedic legacy — neither man seems particularly enthusiastic to rehash it on this April morning. Maybe it's because it's 10 a.m. in the middle of a two-day press junket (they're about to head to an NPR interview). Maybe it's because they want the movie to speak for itself. Or maybe they've been reunited physically on the big screen but are not fully over their detachment.
But when topics turn elsewhere — their biggest Hollywood regrets, for example, or expounding on who should join them on the Mt. Rushmore of celebrity stoners — they become reanimated and engaging. They seem decades closer to the Cheech & Chong of old.
'Trump wants to be on Mt. Rushmore, so we should be on Stone Mountain,' Chong says of his envisoned monument to stoner celebs. 'Along with Willie [Nelson], Snoop Dogg and ...' Without missing a beat, both men say Seth Rogen at the same time.
They're similarly playing off each other's timing on the topic of their biggest Hollywood regrets. 'Someone called and asked me to do a voice for a video game movie and I was like, 'F— that, I'm a movie star,'' Marin says. 'It turned out to be 'Super Mario Bros.,' and because I looked like the guy with the mustache I would have gotten a part in the movie and a piece of the whole action. But I didn't.' As if to punctuate his asinine decision, Marin makes a braying donkey noise.
'Jeffrey Katzenberg asked us to be in his movie 'It Came From Hollywood,'' Chong adds. 'And as a reward, he offered to get us parts in a Disney movie. But I didn't want to be in a Disney movie, so I turned it down. And it turned out to be 'The Lion King.'' Marin, who would end up voicing a hyena in the 1994 animated film, makes another braying donkey noise. Both men smile.
After the interview, as they walk toward Venice Beach to be photographed, it's easy to see how indelibly linked the two are. On their own, Cheech, in his scuffed Crocs, walking the stretch of Venice Boardwalk ahead of his once (and maybe future) co-star went virtually unrecognized. But once passersby clocked Chong in his baggy sweats and Skechers slip-ons several paces behind, heads swivel, iPhones are brandished and excited whispers are heard. Another movie — the last one or not — suddenly makes all the sense in the world.
Until then, 'Last Movie' will serve as a plenty entertaining introduction to the duo. The real beneficiaries here, though, will be those intimately familiar with their work: the hardcore line-quoting fan base that will hear them discuss the origin of the classic 'Dave's not here' bit (fun fact: Dave was also the name of Chong's original, pre-Cheech comedy partner), how the Vietnam War and pottery played a role in connecting them and the people who directly inspired their most recognizable characters.
And if 'Cheech & Chong's Last Movie' does, indeed, turn out to be the end of the road, they've lighted up the big screen one last time pretty much how they have charted their entire careers — unconventionally and in their own voices. They've rolled up a number worthy of their legacy.
As Marin says to Chong at one point during that interstitial drive through the desert, 'Nothing lasts forever, Tommy.'
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Los Angeles Times
12 hours ago
- Los Angeles Times
Why this author wrote about creative women as they aged: ‘They made much of less'
In this week's newsletter, we have a chat with Susan Gubar, whose new book, 'Grand Finales: The Creative Longevity of Women Artists,' profiles seven creators who found a second wind in their advancing years. We also look at recent releases reviewed in The Times. And a local bookseller tells us what's selling right now. Seventeen years ago, Susan Gubar was handed a death sentence. A distinguished professor emerita of English and women's studies at Indiana University and the co-author (with Sandra M. Gilbert) of 1979's 'The Madwoman in the Attic,' a groundbreaking work of feminist literary theory, Gubar in 2008 was staring down a terminal cancer diagnosis. A clinical trial involving an experimental drug prolonged her life and gave her the impetus to tackle a new project about seven artists — George Eliot, Colette, Georgia O'Keeffe, Isak Dinesen, Marianne Moore, Louise Bourgeois, Mary Lou Williams, Gwendolyn Brooks and Katherine Dunham — who entered a new phase of creative ferment and productivity as they grew older. I talked to Gubar about her new book, the myth of old age and the persistent stereotypes attached to female artists who may be perceived as having outlived their usefulness as creators. (Please note: The Times may earn a commission through links to whose fees support independent bookstores.) Can you talk about how the book came about? In 2008, I was told that I had 3-5 years to live with late-stage ovarian cancer. The standard treatment was ineffectual. But then in 2012, my oncologist encouraged me to enroll in a clinical trial that was experimenting with a new drug. After nine years in the trial, she then urged me to take 'a drug holiday' since long-term use of the medication could cause leukemia. I am still on that holiday. An unanticipated old age made me appreciate the wonderful gifts longevity can bestow. In researching your subjects, what do they all share in common? All of my subjects are artists who experienced the losses of aging. They needed canes and wheelchairs and helpers while they suffered the pains of various diseases and regimens. One coped with blindness, another with deafness and still others with the loss of intimates. Yet in the face of such deficits, they used their art to exhibit their audacity, mojo, chutzpah, bravado. They're exemplars of Geezer Machismo. All of your subjects are women, who have a much tougher time in terms of earning respect and attention as they age. Can you speak to the obstacles they had to overcome as they reinvented themselves as artists in their advanced years? The stereotypical old lady is invisible or risible, but we know that many elderly women thrive. My old ladies did not approach their life stories as prime-and-decline narratives. Instead they reinvented themselves. In part, they managed to do this by changing their objectives as artists. They moved from the stage to the page or from elite to popular forms. Some of them underwent religious or political conversions that energized their last years. They fully understood the losses of old age, but they did not settle for less. Instead, they made much of less. What's interesting about these artists is that — contrary, I must admit, to what I thought would have been the case — these women were supported by men who became their benefactors, and helped them to negotiate their careers. Quite a few of the women that I write about were helped by much younger men in their lives, who became facilitators. This is true for George Eliot, Colette, Georgia O'Keeffe, Louise Bourgeoise, Mary Lou Williams and others. Williams, the great jazz pianist, was helped by a Jesuit named Father O'Brien, who helped her get control of her copyrights. Georgia O'Keeffe, in contrast, has been championed by photographer Alfred Stieglitz, but she had to leave him in her midlife to establish her autonomy late in life. He was very controlling, even though he definitely established her reputation. She was aided in her later years by a man young enough to be her grandson. You are an octogenarian, and writing a book isn't easy, as you know. Where do you find the inspiration and the strength to keep going as a creator? What keeps me going is what kept my subjects flourishing in their seventies, eighties or nineties. Any sort of creative activity involves expression, which is a great antidote to depression. It may take the form of sculpting, painting, playing an instrument, teaching a dance routine, making a quilt or a garden, establishing a park or a prize, you name it. Without my two current writing projects, I'd be lost. Even (or maybe especially) in our dismal political climate, ongoing creative projects make each day an adventure. Heather Scott Partington reviews 'Fox,' Joyce Carol Oates' mystery novel about a murdered pedophile. 'Fox has the bones of a potboiler but is supported by the sinew of the author's elegant structure and syntax,' writes Partington . Leigh Haber weighs in on Jess Walter's book 'So Far Gone,' calling the author a 'slyly adept social critic [who has] clearly invested his protagonist with all of the outrage and heartbreak he himself feels about the dark course our world has taken.' Daniel Felsenthal thinks Geoff Dyer's memoir 'Homework' is somewhat meandering, yet 'bursts with working-class pride, a fond and mournful belief in the possibility of the British welfare state.' And Paula L. Woods talked to five mystery writers about the inspirations for their new books. This week, we're talking about hot books with Nat Eastman, the manager of Chevalier's Books on Larchmont Boulevard in Hollywood, the oldest independent bookstore in Los Angeles. What books are selling in the store right now? We've been moving Percival Everett's 'James' and Ocean Vuong's 'The Emperor of Gladness' hand over fist. Thanks to BookTok, Asako Yuzuki's 'Butter' has become a mainstay on our bestseller list. We also had the honor of hosting Bryan Byrdlong for a reading from his debut poetry collection 'Strange Flowers,' and we've been handselling it right and left ever since. What are your perennial sellers? Kaya Doi's series of picture books, 'Chirri and Chirra,' is a smash hit around here. Joan Didion and bell hooks are reliable customer favorites as well. As an indie shop, though, we love the deeper cuts too — whether that's 'Água Viva,' literally any Yoko Ogawa work or something from our zine collection. Are you seeing more young people buying books? Despite all the reports about declining literacy rates among young folk, our children's section makes up a quarter of our sales. We really try to carve out a space for the next generation of readers with programs like storytime, a middle-grade book club and summer-reading punch cards. To us, messy shelves are annoying everywhere except the kids' section!
Los Angeles Times
a day ago
- Los Angeles Times
Fat Joe accused of coercion, intimidation, sex with minors in ex-hype man's lawsuit
Terrance 'T.A.' Dixon, once a hype man to rapper Fat Joe, has sued his former employer for $20 million, making some allegations that might blend right in at Sean 'Diddy' Combs' RICO and sex-trafficking trial. The federal lawsuit, filed Thursday in U.S. District Court in the Southern District of New York and reviewed by The Times, alleges that the rapper underpaid Dixon, cut him out of promised pay for contributing to album tracks, defrauded authorities about his income, ditched Dixon in foreign countries without money or transportation home and is running a criminal organization built on intimidation and violence. The lawsuit alleges that Fat Joe forced the hype man — a sort of backing vocalist who pumps up the audience — into approximately 4,000 sex acts with women in front of him and his crew. The 54-year-old rapper, born Joseph Antonio Cartagena, is also accused of having sexual relationships with girls who were 15 and 16. The allegations go back to when the rapper was in his late 30s, the lawsuit says. Fat Joe's song 'She's My Mama,' which has graphically sexual lyrics, was based on what is alleged to have happened with him and one of the girls in real life, the lawsuit says. The lawsuit states that Dixon's role over about 16 years was more than that of the usual hype man. He 'consistently' had duties that included co-writing lyrics, structuring hooks, recording background vocals, performing at more than 200 live shows as Fat Joe's primary onstage counterpart and managing travel logistics, including equipment transport, security and emergency arrangements. The complaint alleges that Dixon also acted as Joe's bodyguard and handler during tours. According to the filing, Dixon wrote or co-wrote tracks including 'Congratulations,' 'Money Over Bitches,' 'Ice Cream,' 'Cupcake,' 'Blackout,' 'Dirty Diana,' 'Porn Star,' 'Okay Okay,''No Problems,' a version of 'All the Way Up,' '300 Brolic,' 'All I Do Is Win (Remix verse),' 'Red Café (Remix),' 'Winding on Me,' 'Cocababy' and 'Get It for Life.' The complaint alleges that Dixon was not properly paid for his efforts, even though he says he was promised certain ownership percentages and documented credit on songs that Fat Joe released commercially. Dixon, who left Fat Joe's team in 2020, was unable to obtain certain evidence of wrongdoing until a person named as 'Accountant Doe' came forward last year with information, the lawsuit says. Fat Joe 'exercised sole control over contracts, budgets, tour management, licensing, and credit attribution and intentionally omitted Plaintiff's name from liner notes, publishing registrations, and royalty structures, despite Plaintiff's direct contributions to these works' creative and commercial success,' the complaint says. Joe Tacopina, an attorney for Fat Joe, called the lawsuit 'a blatant attack of retaliation' and labeled the allegations 'complete fabrications' that his client denies in a statement to Variety. Retaliation referred to the slander lawsuit that the rapper filed against Dixon in April after the former hype man accused him on social media of flying a 16-year-old across state lines for sex. Dixon's attorney, Tyrone Blackburn, is also representing producer Lil Rod (Rodney Jones) in his $30-million federal lawsuit filed last year against Sean 'Diddy' Combs and others in Combs' orbit, in which Lil Rod alleged sexual harassment and sexual assault. A judge tossed out a majority of Lil Rod's allegations against Combs in late March. Both lawsuits include trigger warnings in bright red type ahead of the allegations — something not often seen in such documents. 'Fat Joe is Sean Combs minus the Tusi [pink cocaine],' Blackburn said in a statement to the Independent. 'He learned nothing from his 2013 federal conviction,' the attorney added, referencing Fat Joe's four-month sentence and $15,000 fine in a plea deal for failure to file a tax return in multiple years on more than $3.3 million in income. In addition to Fat Joe, defendants in the new lawsuit include Peter 'Pistol Pete' Torres, Richard 'Rich Player' Jospitre, Erica Juliana Moreira and several companies —including Roc Nation — that are affiliated with the rapper. Dixon is asking for a jury trial.
Los Angeles Times
a day ago
- Los Angeles Times
Chris Brown pleads not guilty in London nightclub assault case as U.K. court sets trial date
Grammy-winning R&B star Chris Brown has pleaded not guilty to one charge connected to his alleged beating of a music producer in a London nightclub in 2023. The 'Kiss Kiss' singer, 36, appeared Friday in London's Southwark Crown Court for his arraignment where he pleaded not guilty to one count of attempting to unlawfully and maliciously cause grievous bodily harm with intent. 'Not guilty ma'am,' he responded when asked how he pleaded to the count. Prosecutors accuse Brown of attacking music producer Amadou 'Abe' Diaw with a bottle of tequila at Tape London, a nightclub, in February 2023. The accusations against Brown echo allegations from a civil lawsuit Diaw filed in Los Angeles against the musician in October 2023. He sued Brown for assault and battery and intentional infliction of emotional distress, claiming in court documents that the singer 'brutally assaulted' him by 'beating him over the head' and that he 'continued to ruthlessly stomp' on him as he lay unconscious on the nightclub floor after the bottle attack. London police arrested Brown in May on suspicion of the single bodily harm charge, but in a subsequent indictment, prosecutors added charges for assault causing actual bodily harm and having an offensive weapon, a bottle. Brown did not enter pleas on those additional counts but is due back in court in July. The 'Under the Influence' artist was released from police custody in mid-May after posting $6.7 million bail. His arrest initially posed a threat to his Breezy Bowl tour, which kicked off June 8 in Amsterdam. In an Instagram story shared after his release, Brown informed fans he would be going from 'cage to stage.' The singer's trial is set for Oct. 26, 2026. A representative for Brown did not immediately respond to The Times' request for comment. Musician and Brown friend Omololu Akinlolu ((who performs as HoodyBaby), 39, was charged with causing grievous bodily harm for his alleged involvement in the 2023 incident and pleaded not guilty during Friday's hearing. The Associated Press contributed to this report.
