| Big
Lebowski, The (1998) by Ethan Coen, Joel Coen
We are floating up a steep scrubby slope. We hear male voices
gently singing "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" and a deep, affable,
Western-accented voice--Sam Elliot's, perhaps:
VOICE-OVER
A way out west there was a fella,
fella I want to tell you about, fella
by the name of Jeff Lebowski. At
least, that was the handle his lovin'
parents gave him, but he never had
much use for it himself. This
Lebowski, he called himself the Dude.
Now, Dude, that's a name no one would
self-apply where I come from. But
then, there was a lot about the Dude
that didn't make a whole lot of sense
to me. And a lot about where he
lived, like- wise. But then again,
maybe that's why I found the place
s'durned innarestin'.
We top the rise and the smoggy vastness of Los Angeles at
twilight stretches out before us.
VOICE-OVER
They call Los Angeles the City of
Angels. I didn't find it to be that
exactly, but I'll allow as there are
some nice folks there. 'Course, I
can't say I seen London, and I never
been to France, and I ain't never
seen no queen in her damn undies as
the fella says. But I'll tell you
what, after seeing Los Angeles and
thisahere story I'm about to unfold--
wal, I guess I seen somethin' ever'
bit as stupefyin' as ya'd see in any
a those other places, and in English
too, so I can die with a smile on my
face without feelin' like the good
Lord gypped me.
INTERIOR RALPH'S
It is late, the supermarket all but deserted. We are tracking
in on a fortyish man in Bermuda shorts and sunglasses at the
dairy case. He is the Dude. His rumpled look and relaxed
manner suggest a man in whom casualness runs deep.
He is feeling quarts of milk for coldness and examining their
expiration dates.
VOICE-OVER
Now this story I'm about to unfold
took place back in the early nineties--
just about the time of our conflict
with Sad'm and the Eye-rackies. I
only mention it 'cause some- times
there's a man--I won't say a hee-ro,
'cause what's a hee-ro?--but sometimes
there's a man.
The Dude glances furtively about and then opens a quart of
milk. He sticks his nose in the spout and sniffs.
VOICE-OVER
And I'm talkin' about the Dude here--
sometimes there's a man who, wal,
he's the man for his time'n place,
he fits right in there--and that's
the Dude, in Los Angeles.
CHECKOUT GIRL
She waits, arms folded. A small black-and white TV next to
her register shows George Bush on the White House lawn with
helicopter rotors spinning behind him.
GEORGE BUSH
This aggression will not stand. . .
This will not stand!
The Dude, peeking over his shades, scribbles something at
the little customer's lectern. Milk beads his mustache.
VOICE-OVER
...and even if he's a lazy man, and
the Dude was certainly that--quite
possibly the laziest in Los Angeles
County.
The Dude has his Ralph's Shopper's Club card to one side and
is making out a check to Ralph's for sixty-nine cents.
VOICE-OVER
...which would place him high in the
runnin' for laziest worldwide--but
sometimes there's a man. . . sometimes
there's a man.
EXTERIOR RALPH'S
Long shot of the glowing Ralph's. There are only two or
three cars parked in the huge lot.
VOICE-OVER
Wal, I lost m'train of thought here.
But--aw hell, I done innerduced him
enough.
The Dude is a small figure walking across the vast lot.
Next to him walks a Mexican carry-out boy in a red apron and
cap carrying a small brown bag holding the quart of milk.
The two men's footsteps echo in the still of the night.
After a beat of walking the Dude offhandedly points.
DUDE
It's the LeBaron.
DUDE'S HOUSE
The Dude is going up the walkway of a small Venice bungalow
court. He holds the paper sack in one hand and a small
leatherette satchel in the other. He awkwardly hugs the
grocery bag against his chest as he turns a key in his door.
INSIDE
The Dude enters and flicks on a light.
His head is grabbed from behind and tucked into an armpit.
We track with him as he is rushed through the living room,
his arm holding the satchel flailing away from his body.
Going into the bedroom the outflung satchel catches a piece
of doorframe and wallboard and rips through it, leaving a
hole.
The Dude is propelled across the bedroom and on into a small
bathroom, the satchel once again taking away a piece of
doorframe. His head is plunged into the toilet. The paper
bag hugged to his chest explodes milk as it hits the toilet
rim and the satchel pulverizes tile as it crashes to the
floor.
The Dude blows bubbles.
VOICE
We want that money, Lebowski. Bunny
said you were good for it.
Hands haul the Dude out of the toilet. The Dude blubbers and
gasps for air.
VOICE
Where's the money, Lebowski!
His head is plunged back into the toilet.
VOICE
Where's the money, Lebowski!
The hands haul him out again, dripping and gasping.
VOICE
WHERE'S THE FUCKING MONEY, SHITHEAD!
DUDE
It's uh, it's down there somewhere.
Lemme take another look.
His head is plunged back in.
VOICE
Don't fuck with us. If your wife
owes money to Jackie Treehorn, that
means you owe money to Jackie
Treehorn.
The inquisitor hauls the Dude's head out one last time and
flops him over so that he sits on the floor, back against
the toilet.
The Dude gropes back in the toilet with one hand.
Looming over him is a strapping blond man.
Beyond in the living room a young Chinese man unzips his fly
and walks over to a rug.
CHINESE MAN
Ever thus to deadbeats, Lebowski.
He starts peeing on the rug.
The Dude's hand comes out of the toilet bowl with his
sunglasses.
DUDE
Oh, man. Don't do--
BLOND MAN
You see what happens? You see what
happens, Lebowski?
The Dude puts on his dripping sunglasses.
DUDE
Look, nobody calls me Lebowski. You
got the wrong guy. I'm the Dude,
man.
BLOND MAN
Your name is Lebowski. Your wife is
Bunny.
DUDE
Bunny? Look, moron.
He holds up his hands.
DUDE
You see a wedding ring? Does this
place look like I'm fucking married?
All my plants are dead!
The blond man stoops to unzip the satchel. He pulls out a
bowling ball and examines it in the manner of a superstitious
native.
BLOND MAN
The fuck is this?
The Dude pats at his pockets, takes out a joint and lights
it.
DUDE
Obviously you're not a golfer.
The blond man drops the ball which pulverizes more tile.
BLOND MAN
Woo?
The Chinese man is zipping his fly.
WOO
Yeah?
BLOND MAN
Wasn't this guy supposed to be a
millionaire?
WOO
Uh?
They both look around.
WOO
Fuck.
BLOND MAN
What do you think?
WOO
He looks like a fuckin' loser.
The Dude pulls his sunglasses down his nose with one finger
and peeks over them.
DUDE
Hey. At least I'm housebroken.
The two men look at each other. They turn to leave.
WOO
Fuckin' waste of time.
The blond man turns testily at the door.
BLOND MAN
Thanks a lot, asshole.
ON THE DOOR SLAM WE CUT TO:
BOWLING PINS
Scattered by a strike.
Music and head credits play over various bowling shots--pins
flying, bowlers hoisting balls, balls gliding down lanes,
sliding feet, graceful releases, ball return spinning up a
ball, fingers sliding into fingerholes, etc.
The music turns into boomy source music, coming from a distant
jukebox, as the credits end over a clattering strike.
A lanky blonde man with stringy hair tied back in a ponytail
turns from the strike to walk back to the bench.
MAN
Hot damn, I'm throwin' rocks tonight.
Mark it, Dude.
We are tracking in on the circular bench towards a big man
nursing a large plastic cup of Bud. He has dark worried
eyes and a goatee. Hairy legs emerge from his khaki shorts.
He also wears a khaki army surplus shirt with the sleeves
cut off over an old bowling shirt. This is Walter. He
squints through the smoke from his own cigarette as he
addresses the Dude at the scoring table.
The Dude, also holding a large plastic cup of Bud, wears
some of its foam on his mustache.
WALTER
This was a valued rug.
He elaborately clears his throat.
WALTER
This was, uh--
DUDE
Yeah man, it really tied the room
together--
WALTER
This was a valued, uh.
Donny, the strike-scoring bowler, enters and sits next Walter.
DONNY
What tied the room together, Dude?
WALTER
Were you listening to the story,
Donny?
DONNY
What--
WALTER
Were you listening to the Dude's
story?
DONNY
I was bowling--
WALTER
So you have no frame of reference,
Donny. You're like a child who
wanders in in the middle of a movie
and wants to know--
DUDE
What's your point, Walter?
WALTER
There's no fucking reason--here's my
point, Dude--there's no fucking reason--
DONNY
Yeah Walter, what's your point?
WALTER
Huh?
DUDE
What's the point of--we all know who
was at fault, so what the fuck are
you talking about?
WALTER
Huh? No! What the fuck are you
talking--I'm not--we're talking about
unchecked aggression here--
DONNY
What the fuck is he talking about?
DUDE
My rug.
WALTER
Forget it, Donny. You're out of
your element.
DUDE
This Chinaman who peed on my rug, I
can't go give him a bill so what the
fuck are you talking about?
WALTER
What the fuck are you talking about?!
This Chinaman is not the issue! I'm
talking about drawing a line in the
sand, Dude. Across this line you do
not, uh--and also, Dude, Chinaman is
not the preferred, uh. . . Asian-
American. Please.
DUDE
Walter, this is not a guy who built
the rail- roads, here, this is a guy
who peed on my--
WALTER
What the fuck are you--
DUDE
Walter, he peed on my rug--
DONNY
He peed on the Dude's rug--
WALTER
YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR ELEMENT! This
Chinaman is not the issue, Dude.
DUDE
So who--
WALTER
Jeff Lebowski. Come on. This other
Jeffrey Lebowski. The millionaire.
He's gonna be easier to find anyway
than these two, uh. these two . . .
And he has the wealth, uh, the
resources obviously, and there is no
reason, no FUCKING reason, why his
wife should go out and owe money and
they pee on your rug. Am I wrong?
DUDE
No, but--
WALTER
Am I wrong!
DUDE
Yeah, but--
WALTER
Okay. That, uh.
He elaborately clears his throat.
That rap really tied the room together, did it not?
DUDE
Fuckin' A.
DONNY
And this guy peed on it.
WALTER
Donny! Please!
DUDE
Yeah, I could find this Lebowski guy--
DONNY
His name is Lebowski? That's your
name, Dude!
DUDE
Yeah, this is the guy, this guy should
compensate me for the fucking rug.
I mean his wife goes out and owes
money and they pee on my rug.
WALTER
Thaaat's right Dude; they pee on
your fucking Rug.
CLOSE ON A PLAQUE
We pull back from the name JEFFREY LEBOWSKI engraved in silver
to reveal that the plaque, from Variety Clubs International,
honors Lebowski as ACHIEVER OF THE YEAR.
Reflected in the plaque we see the Dude entering the room
with a YOUNG MAN. We hear the two men talk:
YOUNG MAN
And this is the study. You can see
the various commendations, honorary
degrees, et cetera.
DUDE
Yes, uh, very impressive.
YOUNG MAN
Please, feel free to inspect them.
DUDE
I'm not really, uh.
YOUNG MAN
Please! Please!
DUDE
Uh-huh.
We are panning the walls, looking at various citations and
certificates unrelated to the ones being discussed offscreen:
YOUNG MAN
That's the key to the city of
Pasadena, which Mr. Lebowski was
given two years ago in recognition
of his various civic, uh.
DUDE
Uh-huh.
YOUNG MAN
That's a Los Angeles Chamber of
Commerce Business Achiever award,
which is given--not necessarily given
every year! Given only when there's
a worthy, somebody especially--
DUDE
Hey, is this him with Nancy?
YOUNG MAN
That is indeed Mr. Lebowski with the
first lady, yes, taken when--
DUDE
Lebowski on the right?
YOUNG MAN
Of course, Mr. Lebowski on the right,
Mrs. Reagan on the left, taken when--
DUDE
He's handicapped, huh?
YOUNG MAN
Mr. Lebowski is disabled, yes. And
this picture was taken when Mrs.
Reagan was first lady of the nation,
yes, yes? Not of California.
DUDE
Far out.
YOUNG MAN
And in fact he met privately with
the President, though unfortunately
there wasn't time for a photo
opportunity.
DUDE
Nancy's pretty good.
YOUNG MAN
Wonderful woman. We were very--
DUDE
Are these.
YOUNG MAN
These are Mr. Lebowski's children,
so to speak--
DUDE
Different mothers, huh?
YOUNG MAN
No, they--
DUDE
I guess he's pretty, uh, racially
pretty cool--
YOUNG MAN
They're not his, heh-heh, they're
not literally his children; they're
the Little Lebowski Urban Achievers,
inner-city children of promise but
without the--
DUDE
I see.
YOUNG MAN
--without the means for higher
education, so Mr. Lebowski has
committed to sending all of them
to college.
DUDE
Jeez. Think he's got room for one
more?
YOUNG MAN
One--oh! Heh-heh. You never went
to college?
DUDE
Well, yeah I did, but I spent most
of my time occupying various, um,
administration buildings--
YOUNG MAN
Heh-heh--
DUDE
--smoking thai-stick, breaking into
the ROTC--
YOUNG MAN
Yes, heh--
DUDE
--and bowling. I'll tell you the
truth, Brandt, I don't remember most
of it.--Jeez! Fuck me!
Our continuing track and pan have brought us onto a framed
Life Magazine cover which is headlined ARE YOU A LEBOWSKI
ACHIEVER? Oddly, the Dude's sunglassed face is on it; we
realize that, under the magazine's logo and headline, the
display is mirrored.
We hear the door open and the whine of a motor. The Dude,
wearing shorts and a bowling shirt, turns to look.
So does Brandt, the young man we've been listening to. He
wears a suit and has his hands clasped in front of his groin.
Entering the room is a fat sixtyish man in a motorized
wheelchair--Jeff Lebowski.
LEBOWSKI
Okay sir, you're a Lebowski, I'm a
Lebowski, that's terrific, I'm very
busy so what can I do for you?
He wheels himself behind a desk. The Dude sits facing him
as Brandt withdraws.
DUDE
Well sir, it's this rug I have, really
tied the room together-
LEBOWSKI
You told Brandt on the phone, he
told me. So where do I fit in?
DUDE
Well they were looking for you, these
two guys, they were trying to--
LEBOWSKI
I'll say it again, all right? You
told Brandt. He told me. I know
what happened. Yes? Yes?
DUDE
So you know they were trying to piss
on your rug--
LEBOWSKI
Did I urinate on your rug?
DUDE
You mean, did you personally come
and pee on my--
LEBOWSKI
Hello! Do you speak English? Parla
usted Inglese? I'll say it again.
Did I urinate on your rug?
DUDE
Well no, like I said, Woo peed on
the rug--
LEBOWSKI
Hello! Hello! So every time--I
just want to understand this, sir--
every time a rug is micturated upon
in this fair city, I have to
compensate the--
DUDE
Come on, man, I'm not trying to scam
anybody here, I'm just--
LEBOWSKI
You're just looking for a handout
like every other--are you employed,
Mr. Lebowski?
DUDE
Look, let me explain something.
I'm not Mr. Lebowski; you're Mr.
Lebowski. I'm the Dude. So that's
what you call me. That, or Duder.
His Dudeness. Or El Duderino, if,
you know, you're not into the whole
brevity thing--
LEBOWSKI
Are you employed, sir?
DUDE
Employed?
LEBOWSKI
You don't go out and make a living
dressed like that in the middle of a
weekday.
DUDE
Is this a--what day is this?
LEBOWSKI
But I do work, so if you don't mind--
DUDE
No, look. I do mind. The Dude minds.
This will not stand, ya know, this
will not stand, man. I mean, if
your wife owes--
LEBOWSKI
My wife is not the issue here. I
hope that my wife will someday learn
to live on her allowance, which is
ample, but if she doesn't, sir, that
will be her problem, not mine, just
as your rug is your problem, just as
every bum's lot in life is his own
responsibility regardless of whom he
chooses to blame. I didn't blame
anyone for the loss of my legs, some
chinaman in Korea took them from me
but I went out and achieved anyway.
I can't solve your problems, sir,
only you can.
The Dude rises.
DUDE
Ah fuck it.
LEBOWSKI
Sure! Fuck it! That's your answer!
Tattoo it on your forehead! Your
answer to everything!
The Dude is heading for the door.
LEBOWSKI
Your "revolution" is over, Mr.
Lebowski! Condolences! The bums
lost!
As the Dude opens the door.
LEBOWSKI
...My advice is, do what your parents
did! Get a job, sir! The bums will
always lose-- do you hear me,
Lebowski? THE BUMS WILL ALWAYS--
The Dude shuts the door on the old man's bellowing to find
himself--
HALLWAY
--in a high coffered hallway. Brandt
is approaching.
BRANDT
How was your meeting, Mr. Lebowski?
DUDE
Okay. The old man told me to take
any rug in the house.
WALKWAY
A houseman with a rolled-up carpet on one shoulder goes down
a stone walk that winds through the back lawn, past a swimming
pool to a garage. Brandt and the Dude follow.
BRANDT
Manolo will load it into your car
for you, uh, Dude.
DUDE
It's the LeBaron.
DUDE'S POINT OF VIEW
Tracking toward the pool. A young woman sits facing it, her
back to us, leaning forward to paint her toenails.
Beyond her a black form floats in an inflatable chair in the
pool.
BRANDT
Well, enjoy, and perhaps we'll see
you again some time, Dude.
DUDE
Yeah sure, if I'm ever in the
neighborhood, need to use the john.
CLOSER TRACK
Arcing around the woman's foot as she finishes painting the
nails emerald green.
THE DUDE
Looking.
WIDER
The young woman looks up at him. She is in her early
twenties.
She leans back and extends her leg toward the Dude.
YOUNG WOMAN
Blow on them.
The Dude pulls his sunglasses down his nose and peeks over
them.
DUDE
Huh?
She waggles her foot and giggles.
YOUNG WOMAN
G'ahead. Blow.
The Dude tentatively grabs hold of her extended foot.
DUDE
You want me to blow on your toes?
YOUNG WOMAN
Uh-huh. . . I can't blow that far.
The Dude looks over at the pool.
DUDE
You sure he won't mind?
The man bobbing in the inflatable chair is passed out. He
is thin, in his thirties, with long stringy blond hair. He
wears black leather pants and a black leather jacket, open,
shirtless, exposing fine blond chest hair and pale skin.
One arm trails off into the water; next to it, an empty
whiskey bottle bobs.
YOUNG WOMAN
Dieter doesn't care about anything.
He's a nihilist.
DUDE
Practicing?
The young woman smiles.
YOUNG WOMAN
You're not blowing.
Brandt nervously takes the Dude by the elbow.
BRANDT
Our guest has to be getting along,
Mrs. Lebowski.
The Dude grudgingly allows himself to be led away, still
looking at the young woman.
DUDE
You're Bunny?
BUNNY
I'll suck your cock for a thousand
dollars.
Brandt releases a gale of forced laughter:
BRANDT
Ha-ha-ha-ha! Wonderful woman. Very
free-spirited. We're all very fond
of her.
BUNNY
Brandt can't watch though. Or he
has to pay a hundred.
BRANDT
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That's marvelous.
He continues to lead away the Dude, who looks back over his
SHOULDER:
DUDE
I'm just gonna find a cash machine.
BOWLING PINS
Scattered by a strike.
THE BOWLERS
Donny calls out from the bench:
DONNY
Grasshopper Dude--They're dead in
the water!!
As the Dude walks back to the scoring table he turns to
another team in black bowling shirts--the Cavaliers--that
shares the lane.
DUDE
Your maples, Carl.
Walter, just arriving, is carrying a leatherette satchel in
one hand and a large plastic carrier in the other.
WALTER
Way to go, Dude. If you will it, it
is no dream.
DUDE
You're fucking twenty minutes late.
What the fuck is that?
WALTER
Theodore Herzel.
DUDE
Huh?
WALTER
State of Israel. If you will it,
Dude, it is no--
DUDE
What the fuck're you talking about?
The carrier. What's in the fucking
carrier?
WALTER
Huh? Oh--Cynthia's Pomeranian.
Can't leave him home alone or he
eats the furniture.
DUDE
What the fuck are you--
WALTER
I'm saying, Cynthia's Pomeranian.
I'm looking after it while Cynthia
and Marty Ackerman are in Hawaii.
DUDE
You brought a fucking Pomeranian
bowling?
WALTER
What do you mean "brought it bowling"?
I didn't rent it shoes. I'm not
buying it a fucking beer. He's not
gonna take your fucking turn, Dude.
He lets the small yapping dog out of the carrier. It scoots
around the bowling table, sniffing at bowlers and wagging
its tail.
DUDE
Hey, man, if my fucking ex-wife asked
me to take care of her fucking dog
while she and her boyfriend went to
Honolulu, I'd tell her to go fuck
herself. Why can't she board it?
WALTER
First of all, Dude, you don't have
an ex, secondly, it's a fucking show
dog with fucking papers. You can't
board it. It gets upset, its hair
falls out.
DUDE
Hey man--
WALTER
Fucking dog has papers, Dude.--Over
the line!
Smokey turns from his last roll to look at Walter.
WALTER
Smokey Huh?
WALTER
Over the line, Smokey! I'm sorry.
That's a foul.
SMOKEY
Bullshit. Eight, Dude.
WALTER
Excuse me! Mark it zero. Next frame.
SMOKEY
Bullshit. Walter!
WALTER
This is not Nam. This is bowling.
There are rules.
DUDE
Come on Walter, it's just--it's
Smokey. So his toe slipped over a
little, it's just a game.
WALTER
This is a league game. This
determines who enters the next round-
robin, am I wrong?
SMOKEY
Yeah, but--
WALTER
Am I wrong!?
SMOKEY
Yeah, but I wasn't over. Gimme the
marker, Dude, I'm marking it an
eight.
Walter takes out a gun.
WALTER
Smokey my friend, you're entering a
world of pain.
DUDE
Hey Walter--
WALTER
Mark that frame an eight, you're
entering a world of pain.
SMOKEY
I'm not--
WALTER
A world of pain.
A manager in a bowling-shirt style uniform is running for a
phone.
SMOKEY
Look Dude, I don't hold with this.
This guy is your partner, you should--
Walter primes the gun and points it at his head.
WALTER
HAS THE WHOLE WORLD GONE CRAZY? AM
I THE ONLY ONE HERE WHO GIVES A SHIT
ABOUT THE RULES? MARK IT ZERO!
The Pomeranian is excitedly yapping at Walter's elbow, making
high body-twisting tail-wagging leaps.
DUDE
Walter, they're calling the cops,
put the piece away.
WALTER
MARK IT ZERO!
SMOKEY
Walter--
WALTER
YOU THINK I'M FUCKING AROUND HERE?
MARK IT ZERO!!
SMOKEY
All right! There it is! It's fucking
zero!
He points frantically at the score projected above the lane.
SMOKEY
You happy, you crazy fuck?
WALTER
This is a league game, Smokey!
PARKING LOT
Walter and the Dude walk to the Dude's car. The Pomeranian
trots happily behind Walter who totes the empty carrier.
DUDE
Walter, you can't do that. These
guys're like me, they're pacificists.
Smokey was a conscientious objector.
WALTER
You know Dude, I myself dabbled with
pacifism at one point. Not in Nam,
of course--
DUDE
And you know Smokey has emotional
problems!
WALTER
You mean--beyond pacifism?
DUDE
He's fragile, man! He's very fragile!
As the two men get into the car:
WALTER
Huh. I did not know that. Well,
it's water under the bridge. And we
do enter the next round-robin, am I
wrong?
DUDE
No, you're not wrong--
WALTER
Am I wrong!
DUDE
You're not wrong, Walter, you're
just an asshole.
They watch a squad car take a squealing turn into the lot.
WALTER
Okay then. We play Quintana and
O'Brien next week. They'll be
pushovers.
DUDE
Just, just take it easy, Walter.
WALTER
That's your answer to everything,
Dude. And let me point out--pacifism
is not--look at our current situation
with that camelfucker in Iraq--
pacifism is not something to hide
behind.
DUDE
Well, just take 't easy, man.
WALTER
I'm perfectly calm, Dude.
DUDE
Yeah? Wavin' a gun around?!
WALTER
(smugly)
Calmer than you are.
-his irritates the Dude further.
DUDE
Just take it easy, man!
Walter is still smug.
WALTER
Calmer than you are.
DUDE'S HOUSE
A large, brilliant Persian rug lies beneath the Dude's beat-
up old furniture.
At the table next to the answering machine the Dude is mixing
kalhua, rum and milk.
VOICE
Dude, this is Smokey. Look, I don't
wanna be a hard-on about this, and I
know it wasn't your fault, but I
just thought it was fair to tell you
that Gene and I will be submitting
this to the League and asking them
to set aside the round. Or maybe
forfeit it to us--
DUDE
Shit!
VOICE
--so, like I say, just thought, you
know, fair warning. Tell Walter.
A beep.
ANOTHER VOICE
Mr. Lebowski, this is Brandt at, uh,
well--at Mr. Lebowski's office.
Please call us as soon as is
convenient.
Beep.
ANOTHER VOICE
Mr. Lebowski, this is Fred Dynarski
with the Southern Cal Bowling League.
I just got a, an informal report,
uh, that a uh, a member of your team,
uh, Walter Sobchak, drew a loaded
weapon during league play--
We hear the doorbell.
THE DOOR
It swings open to reveal a short, hairy, muscular but balding
middle-aged man in a black T-shirt and black cut-off jeans.
DUDE
Hiya Allan.
ALLAN
Dude, I finally got the venue I
wanted. I'm Performing my dance
quintet--you know, my cycle--at Crane
Jackson's Fountain Street Theatre on
Tuesday night, and I'd love it if
you came and gave me notes.
The Dude takes a swig of his kalhua.
DUDE
Sure Allan, I'll be there.
ALLAN
Dude, uh, tomorrow is already the
tenth.
DUDE
Yeah, yeah I know. Okay.
ALLAN
Just, uh, just slip the rent under
my door.
DUDE
Yeah, okay.
BACK IN THE LIVING ROOM
The voice continues on the machine.
VOICE
--serious infraction, and examine
your standing. Thank you. Beep.
VOICE
Mr. Lebowski, Brandt again. Please
do call us when you get in and I'll
send the limo. Let me assure you--I
hope you're not avoiding this call
because of the rug, which, I assure
you, is not a problem. We need your
help and, uh--well we would very
much like to see you. Thank you.
It's Brandt.
TRACKING
We are pushing Brandt down the high-ceilinged hallway.
Distantly, we hear a dolorous soprano. Brandt talks back
over
HIS SHOULDER:
BRANDT
We've had some terrible news. Mr.
Lebowski is in seclusion in the West
Wing.
DUDE
Huh.
Brandt throws open a pair of heavy double doors. The music
washes over us as we enter a great study where Jeffrey
Lebowski, a blanket thrown over his knees, stares hauntedly
into a fire, listening to Lohengrin.
BRANDT ANNOUNCES, AMBIGUOUSLY:
BRANDT
Mr. Lebowski.
Jeffrey Lebowski waves the Dude in without looking around.
LEBOWSKI
It's funny. I can look back on a
life of achievement, on challenges
met, competitors bested, obstacles
overcome. I've accomplished more
than most men, and without the use
of my legs. What. . . What makes a
man, Mr. Lebowski?
DUDE
Dude.
LEBOWSKI
Huh?
DUDE
I don't know, sir.
LEBOWSKI
Is it. . . is it, being prepared to
do the right thing? Whatever the
price? Isn't that what makes a man?
DUDE
Sure. That and a pair of testicles.
Lebowski turns away from the Dude with a haunted stare, lost
in thought.
LEBOWSKI
You're joking. But perhaps you're
right.
The Dude thumps at his chest pocket.
DUDE
Mind if I smoke a jay?
LEBOWSKI
Bunny.
He turns back around and the firelight shows teartracks on
his cheeks.
DUDE
'Scuse me?
LEBOWSKI
Bunny Lebowski. . . She is the light
of my life. Are you surprised at my
tears, sir?
DUDE
Fuckin' A.
LEBOWSKI
Strong men also cry. . . Strong men
also cry.
He clears his throat.
LEBOWSKI
I received this fax this morning.
Brandt hastily pulls a flimsy sheet from his clipboard and
hands it to the Dude.
LEBOWSKI
As you can see, it is a ransom note.
Sent by cowards. Men who are unable
to achieve on a level field of play.
Men who will not sign their names.
Weaklings. Bums.
THE DUDE EXAMINES THE FAX:
WE HAVE BUNNY. GATHER ONE MILLION DOLLARS IN UNMARKED NON-
CONSECUTIVE TWENTIES. AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS. NO FUNNY STUFF.
DUDE
Bummer.
Lebowski looks soulfully at the Dude.
LEBOWSKI
Brandt will fill you in on the
details.
He wheels his chair around to once again gaze into the fire.
Brandt tugs at the Dude's shirt and points him back to the
hall.
HALLWAY
The soprano's singing is once again faint. Brandt's voice
is hushed:
BRANDT
Mr. Lebowski is prepared to make a
generous offer to you to act as
courier once we get instructions for
the money.
DUDE
Why me, man?
BRANDT
He suspects that the culprits might
be the very people who, uh, soiled
your rug, and you're in a unique
position to confirm or, uh, disconfirm
that suspicion.
DUDE
So he thinks it's the carpet-pissers,
huh?
BRANDT
Well Dude, we just don't know.
BOWLING PINS
CRASH--scattered by a strike, in slow motion.
WIDER
Still in slow motion. We are looking across the length of
the bowling alley at a tall, thin, Hispanic bowler displaying
perfect form. He wears an all-in-one dacron-polyester stretch
bowling outfit with a racing stripe down each side.
FAST TRACK IN
On the Dude, sitting next to Walter in the molded plastic
chairs. The Dude is staring off towards the bowler.
DUDE
Fucking Quintana--that creep can
roll, man--
BACK TO THE BOWLER
Displaying great slow-motion form as the Dude and Walter's
conversation continues over.
WALTER
Yeah, but he's a fucking pervert,
Dude.
DUDE
Huh?
WALTER
The man is a sex offender. With a
record. Spent six months in Chino
for exposing himself to an eight-
year-old.
FLASHBACK
We see Quintana, in pressed jeans and a stretchy sweater,
walking up a stoop in a residential neighborhood and zinging
the bell.
The VOICE-OVER conversation continues.
DUDE
Huh.
WALTER
When he moved down to Venice he had
to go door-to-door to tell everyone
he's a pederast.
The door swings open and a beer-swilling middle-aged man
looks dully out at Quintana, who looks hesitantly up.
DONNY
What's a pederast, Walter?
WALTER
Shut the fuck up, Donny.
PINS
scattered by a strike.
QUINTANA
wheeling and thrusting a black gloved fist into the air.
Stitched above the breast pocket of his all-in-one is his
first name, "Jesus".
BACK TO WALTER AND THE DUDE
They have been joined by Donny.
WALTER
Anyway. How much they offer you?
DUDE
Twenty grand. And of course I still
keep the rug.
WALTER
Just for making the hand-off?
DUDE
Yeah.
He slips a little black box out of his shirt pocket.
DUDE
...They gave Dude a beeper, so
whenever these guys call--
WALTER
What if it's during a game?
DUDE
I told him if it was during league
play--
Donny has been watching Quintana.
DONNY
If what's during league play?
WALTER
Life does not stop and start at your
convenience, you miserable piece of
shit.
DONNY
What's wrong with Walter, Dude?
DUDE
I figure it's easy money, it's all
pretty harmless. I mean she probably
kidnapped herself.
WALTER
Huh?
DONNY
What do you mean, Dude?
DUDE
Rug-peers did not do this. I mean
look at it. Young trophy wife.
Marries a guy for money but figures
he isn't giving her enough. She
owes money all over town--
WALTER
That...fucking...bitch!
DUDE
It's all a goddamn fake. Like Lenin
said, look for the person who will
benefit. And you will, uh, you know,
you'll, uh, you know what I'm trying
to say--
DONNY
I am the Walrus.
WALTER
That fucking bitch!
DUDE
Yeah.
DONNY
I am the Walrus.
WALTER
Shut the fuck up, Donny! V.I. Lenin!
Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov!
DONNY
What the fuck is he talking about?
WALTER
That's fucking exactly what happened,
Dude! That makes me fucking SICK!
DUDE
Yeah, well, what do you care, Walter?
DONNY
Yeah Dude, why is Walter so pissed
off?
WALTER
Those rich fucks! This whole fucking
thing-- I did not watch my buddies
die face down in the muck so that
this fucking strumpet--
DUDE
I don't see any connection to Vietnam,
Walter.
WALTER
Well, there isn't a literal
connection, Dude.
DUDE
Walter, face it, there isn't any
connection. It's your roll.
WALTER
Have it your way. The point is--
DUDE
It's your roll--
WALTER
The fucking point is--
DUDE
It's your roll.
VOICE
Are you ready to be fucked, man?
They both look up.
Quintana, on his way out, looks down at them from the lip of
the lanes. Over his polyester all-in-one he now wears a
windbreaker with a racing stripe and "Jesus" stitched on the
breast. He is holding a fancy black-and-red leather ball
satchel (perhaps a Sylvia Wein). Behind him stands his
partner, O'Brien, a short fat Irishman with tufted red hair.
QUINTANA
I see you rolled your way into the
semis. Deos mio, man. Seamus and
me, we're gonna fuck you up.
DUDE
Yeah well, that's just, ya know,
like, your opinion, man.
Quintana looks at Walter.
QUINTANA
Let me tell you something, bendeco.
You pull any your crazy shit with
us, you flash a piece out on the
lanes, I'll take it away from you
and stick it up your ass and pull
the fucking trigger til it goes
"click".
DUDE
Jesus.
QUINTANA
You said it, man. Nobody fucks with
the Jesus.
Jesus walks away. Walter nods sadly.
WALTER
Eight-year-olds, Dude.
DUDE'S BUNGALOW
We are looking down at the Dude who is prone on the rug.
His eyes are closed. He wears a Walkman headset. Leaking
tinnily through the headphones we can just hear an
intermittent clatter.
In his outflung hand lies a cassette case labeled VENICE
BEACH LEAGUE PLAYOFFS 1987.
The Dude absently licks his lips as we faintly hear a hall
rumbling down the lane. On its impact with the pins, the
Dude opens his eyes.
He screams.
A blonde woman looms over him. Next to her a young man
in paint-spattered denims stoops and swings something towards
the carrier.
The sap catches the Dude on the chin and sends his head
thunking back onto the rug.
A million stars explode against a field of black. We hear
the "La-la-la-la" of The Man in Me.
The black field dissolves into the pattern of the rug.
The rug rolls away to reveal an aerial view of the city of
Los Angeles at twilight, moving below us at great speed.
The Dude is flying over the city, his arms thrown out in
front of him, the wind whipping his hair and billowing his
bowling shirt. He looks up.
Ahead the mysterious blonde woman wings away, riding on the
Dude's rug like a sheik on a magic carpet. She is outpacing
us, growing smaller.
The Dude does a couple of lazy crawl strokes and then notices
that a bowling ball has materialized in his forward hand.
His bemusement turns to concern over the aerodynamic
implications just as the ball seems to suddenly assume its
weight, abruptly snapping his arm down, and him after it. He
is falling. From a high angle we see the Dude hurtling down
toward the city, dragged by the ball.
A reverse looking up shows the Dude hurtling toward us
out of the inky sky, his eyes wide with horror. Led by
the bowling ball, he zooms past the camera leaving us in
black.
We hear a distant rumble, like thunder. Dull reflections
materialize in the darkness. They are glints off the shiny
surface of an oncoming bowling ball.
We pull back to reveal that the blackness was the inside of
a ball return, and the gleaming bowling ball is being
regurgitated up at us, overtaking us.
The Dude looks up, up, up at the looming ball, its mass
rolling a huge shadow across his face.
The gleaming ball shows three dead black holes rolling toward
us --finger holes.
The largest--thumb--hole rolls directly over us, engulfing
us once again in black..
The black rolls away and we are spinning--spinning down a
bowling lane--our point of view that of someone trapped in
the thumbhole of the rolling ball.
We see the receding bowler spinning away. It is the blonde
woman, performing her follow-through.
Floor spins up at us and then away; ceiling spins up and
away; the length of the alley with pins at the end; floor;
ceiling; approaching pins; again and again.
We hit the pins and clatter into blackness. We hear pins
spin, hit each other and drop.
We hear an irritating, insistent beeping.
FADE IN
We are close on the Dude, upside down. As the picture fades
in the bowling noises continue, but filtered and faint.
They come from the Dude's Walkman, the headset of which is
now askew, with one arm off his ear.
As the Dude opens his eyes we spiral slowly upward to put
him right side around. His head is now resting against
hardwood floor, not rug.
DUDE
Oh man.
He raises himself onto his elbows and massages the
red lump on his jaw. The beeper on his belt is
blinking red in sync with the continuing irritating beeps.
WIDE ON THE ROOM
An end table is upset, but otherwise the furniture is
in place. The rug is gone.
The Dude looks around. The bowling sounds continue.
The beeps continue.
The phone starts to jangle.
TRACK
We push Brandt down the familiar marble hallway.
Again there is a distant aria. Brandt throws out a
wrist to look at his watch.
BRANDT
They called about eighty minutes
ago. They want you to take the money
and drive north on the 4 5. They'll
call you on the portable phone with
instructions in about forty minutes.
One person only or I'd go with you.
They were very clear on that: one
person only. What happened to your
jaw?
DUDE
Oh, nothin', you know.
They have reached the little desk outside of the big
Lebowski's office; Brandt opens its bottom drawer with a key
and takes out an attache case. He hands this to the Dude
along with a cellular phone in a battery-pack carrying case.
BRANDT
Here's the money, and the phone.
Please, Dude, follow whatever
instructions they give.
DUDE
Uh-huh.
BRANDT
Her life is in your hands.
DUDE
Oh, man, don't say that..
BRANDT
Mr. Lebowski asked me to repeat that:
Her life is in your hands.
DUDE
Shit.
BRANDT
Her life is in your hands, Dude.
And report back to us as soon as
it's done.
DUDE'S CAR
We pan off the Dude, driving, to his point of view through
the front windshield. The headlights play over Walter
standing waiting in front of the storefront of SOBCHAK
SECURITY. Though he is wearing khaki shorts and shirt, the
fact that he holds a battered brown briefcase makes him look
oddly like a commuter. He also holds an irregular shape
bundled in brown wrapping paper.
The car stops in front of him and he opens the Dude's door
and hands in the briefcase.
WALTER
Take the ringer. I'll drive.
The Dude takes the briefcase and slides over.
DUDE
The what?
WALTER
The ringer! The ringer, Dude! Have
they called yet?
The Dude opens the briefcase and paws bemusedly through it
as the car starts rolling.
DUDE
What the hell is this?
WALTER
My dirty undies. Laundry, Dude.
The whites.
DUDE
Agh--
He closes the briefcase.
DUDE
Walter, I'm sure there's a reason
you brought your dirty undies--
WALTER
Thaaaat's right, Dude. The weight.
The ringer can't look empty.
DUDE
Walter--what the fuck are you
thinking?
WALTER
Well you're right, Dude, I got to
thinking. I got to thinking why
should we settle for a measly fucking
twenty grand--
DUDE
We? What the fuck we? You said you
just wanted to come along--
WALTER
My point, Dude, is why should we
settle for twenty grand when we can
keep the entire million. Am I wrong?
DUDE
Yes you're wrong. This isn't a
fucking game, Walter--
WALTER
It is a fucking game. You said so
yourself, Dude--she kidnapped herself--
DUDE '
Yeah, but--
The phone chirps. Dude grabs it.
DUDE
Dude here.
VOICE
(German accent)
Who is this?
DUDE
Dude the Bagman. Where do you want
us to go?
VOICE
...Us?
DUDE
Shit. . . Uh, yeah, you know, me and the driver. I'm not
handling the money and driving the car and talking on the
phone all by my fucking--
VOICE
Shut the fuck up.
(Beat)
Hello?
DUDE
Yeah?
VOICE
Okay, listen--
Walter looks over at the Dude and bellows:
WALTER
Dude, are you fucking this up?
VOICE
Who is that?
DUDE
The driver man, I told you--
Click. Dial tone.
DUDE
Oh shit. Walter.
WALTER
What the fuck is going on there?
DUDE
They hung up, Walter! You fucked it
up! You fucked it up! Her life was
in our hands!
WALTER
Easy, Dude.
DUDE
We're screwed now! We don't get
shit and they're gonna kill her!
We're fucked, Walter!
WALTER
Dude, nothing is fucked. Come on.
You're being very unDude. They'll
call back. Look, she kidnapped her--
The phone chirps.
WALTER
Ya see? Nothing is fucked up here,
Dude. Nothing is fucked. These
guys are fucking amateurs--
DUDE
Shutup, Walter! Don't fucking say
peep when I'm doing business here.
WALTER
(patronizing)
Okay Dude. Have it your way.
The Dude unclips the phone from the battery pack.
WALTER
But they're amateurs.
The Dude glares at Walter. Into the phone:
DUDE
Dude here.
VOICE
Okay, vee proceed. But only if there
is no funny stuff.
DUDE
Yeah.
VOICE
So no funny stuff. Okay?
DUDE
Hey, just tell me where the fuck you
want us to go.
A HIGHWAY SIGN: SIMI VALLEY ROAD
It flashes by in the headlights of the roaring car.
DUDE
That was the sign.
Walter wrestles the car onto the two-lane road.
WALTER
Yeah. So as long as we get her back,
nobody's in a position to complain.
And we keep the baksheesh.
DUDE
Terrific, Walter. But you haven't
told me how we get her back. Where
is she?
WALTER
That's the simple part, Dude. When
we make the handoff, I grab the guy
and beat it out of him.
He looks at the Dude.
WALTER
...Huh?
DUDE
Yeah. That's a great plan, Walter.
That's fucking ingenious, if I
understand it correctly. That's a
Swiss fucking watch.
WALTER
Thaaat's right, Dude. The beauty of
this is its simplicity. If the plan
gets too complex something always
goes wrong. If there's one thing I
learned in Nam--
The phone chirps.
DUDE
Dude.
VOICE
You are approaching a vooden britch.
When you cross it you srow ze bag
from ze left vindow of ze moving
kar. Do not slow down. Vee vatch
you.
Click. Dial tone.
DUDE
FUCK.
WALTER
What'd he say? Where's the hand-
off?
DUDE
There is no fucking hand-off, Walter!
At a wooden bridge we throw the money
out of the car!
WALTER
Huh?
DUDE
We throw the money out of the moving
car!
Walter stares dumbly for a beat.
WALTER
We can't do that, Dude. That fucks
up our plan.
DUDE
Well call them up and explain it to
'em, Walter! Your plan is so fucking
simple, I'm sure they'd fucking
understand it! That's the beauty of
it Walter!
WALTER
Wooden bridge, huh?
DUDE
I'm throwing the money, Walter!
We're not fucking around!
WALTER
The bridge is coming up! Gimme the
ringer, Dude! Chop-chop!
DUDE
Fuck that! I love you, Walter, but
sooner or later you're gonna have to
face the fact that you're a goddamn
moron.
WALTER
Okay, Dude. No time to argue. Here's
the bridge--
There is the bump and new steady of the car on the bridge.
The Dude is twisting around to pull the money briefcase from
the back seat. Walter reaches one arm across Dude's body to
grab the laundry.
And there goes the ringer.
He flings it out the window.
DUDE
Walter!
WALTER
Your wheel, Dude! I'm rolling out!
DUDE
What the fuck?
WALTER
Your wheel! At fifteen em-pee-aitch
I roll out! I double back, grab one
of 'em and beat it out of him! The
uzi!
DUDE
Uzi?
Walter points across the seat at the paper-wrapped bundle.
WALTER
You didn't think I was rolling out
of here naked!
DUDE
Walter, please--
Walter has flung open his door and is leaning halfway out
over the road.
WALTER
Fifteen! This is it, Dude! Let's
take that hill!
Walter rolls out with his parcel, giving a loud grunt as he
hits the pavement. The car swerves and lurches and the Dude,
cursing, takes the wheel.
OUTSIDE
Walter tumbles onto the shoulder and--RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!--muzzle
flashes tear open the wrapping paper.
INSIDE THE CAR
The car rocks and the Dude wrestles with the wheel.
OUTSIDE
The car clunks and screams around in a skid.
INSIDE
The Dude is thrown forward as the car hits something.
OUTSIDE
As the Dude struggles out holding the satchel of money. The
front of his car is crumpled into a tree. The car body saps
back to the left, where the rear wheel has been shot out.
WALTER is just rising from the ground massaging an
injured knee.
The Dude runs up the road toward the bridge,
frantically waving the satchel in the air.
DUDE
WE HAVE IT! WE HAVE IT!!
There is a distant engine roar. A motorcycle bumps up onto
the road from the ravine under the bridge and, tires
squealing, skids around to speed away in the opposite
direction. It is closely followed by two more roaring
motorcycles.
DUDE
WE HAVE IT!!. . . We have it!
The Dude and Walter stand in the middle of the road, watching
the three red tail lights fishtail away.
AFTER A LONG STARING SILENCE:
WALTER
Ahh fuck it, let's go bowling.
BOWLING LANE
A ball rumbles in to scatter ten pins.
WALTER.
He turns from the lane to where the Dude sits in the nook of
molded plastic chairs. The Dude listlessly holds the portable
phone in his lap. It is ringing.
WALTER
Aitz chaim he, Dude. As the ex used
to say.
DUDE
What the fuck is that supposed to
mean? What the fuck're we gonna
tell Lebowski?
WALTER
Huh? Oh, him, yeah. Well I don't
see, um-- what exactly is the problem?
The portable phone stops ringing.
DUDE
Huh? The problem is--what do you
mean what's the--there's no--we didn't--
they're gonna kill that poor woman--
WALTER
What the fuck're you talking about?
That poor woman--that poor slut--
kidnapped herself, Dude. You said
so yourself--
DUDE
No, Walter! I said I thought she
kidnapped herself! You're the one
who's so fucking certain--
WALTER
That's right, Dude, 1 % certain--
Donny is trotting excitedly up.
DONNY
They posted the next round of the
tournament--
WALTER
Donny, shut the f--when do we play?
DONNY
This Saturday. Quintana and--
WALTER
Saturday! Well they'll have to
reschedule.
DUDE
Walter, what'm I gonna tell Lebowski?
WALTER
I told that fuck down at the league
office-- who's in charge of
scheduling?
DUDE
Walter--
DONNY
Burkhalter.
WALTER
I told that kraut a fucking thousand
times I don't roll on shabbas.
DONNY
It's already posted.
WALTER
WELL THEY CAN FUCKING UN-POST IT!
DUDE
Who gives a shit, Walter? What about
that poor woman? What do we tell--
WALTER
C'mon Dude, eventually she'll get
sick of her little game and, you
know, wander back--
DONNY
How come you don't roll on Saturday,
Walter?
WALTER
I'm shomer shabbas.
DONNY
What's that, Walter?
DUDE
Yeah, and in the meantime what do I
tell Lebowski?
WALTER
Saturday is shabbas. Jewish day of
rest. Means I don't work, I don't
drive a car, I don't fucking ride in
a car, I don't handle money, I don't
turn on the oven, and I sure as shit
don't fucking roll!
DONNY
Sheesh.
DUDE
Walter, how--
WALTER
Shomer shabbas.
The Dude gets to his feet with the portable phone.
DUDE
That's it. I'm out of here.
WALTER
For Christ's sake, Dude.
Walter and Donny join the Dude as he walks out of the bowling
alley.
Hell, you just tell him--well, you tell him, uh, we made the
hand-off, everything went, uh, you know--
DONNY
Oh yeah, how'd it go?
WALTER
Went alright. Dude's car got a little
dinged up--
DUDE
But Walter, we didn't make the fucking
hand- off! They didn't get, the
fucking money and they're gonna--
they're gonna--
WALTER
Yeah yeah, "kill that poor woman."
He waves both arms as if conducting a symphony orchestra.
WALTER
Kill that poor woman.
DONNY
Walter, if you can't ride in a car,
how d'you get around on Shammas--
WALTER
Really, Dude, you surprise me.
They're not gonna kill shit. They're
not gonna do shit. What can they
do? Fuckin' amateurs. And meanwhile,
look at the bottom line. Who's
sitting on a million fucking dollars?
Am I wrong?
DUDE
Walter--
WALTER
Who's got a fucking million fucking
dollars parked in the trunk of our
car out here?
DUDE
"Our" car, Walter?
WALTER
And what do they got, Dude? My dirty
undies. My fucking whites--Say,
where is the car?
The three bowlers, stopped at the edge of the lot, stare out
at an empty parking space.
DONNY
Who has your undies, Walter?
WALTER
Where's your car, Dude?
DUDE
You don't know, Walter? You seem to
know the answer to everything else!
WALTER
Hmm. Well, we were in a handicapped
spot. It, uh, it was probably towed.
DUDE
It's been stolen, Walter! You fucking
know it's been stolen!
WALTER
Well, certainly that's a possibility,
Dude--
DUDE
Aw, fuck it.
The Dude walks away across the lot. The portable phone starts
ringing again.
DONNY
Where you going, Dude?
DUDE
I'm going home, Donny.
DONNY
Your phone's ringing, Dude.
DUDE
Thank you, Donny.
DUDE'S LIVING ROOM
The Dude is slumped disconsolately back in his easy chair,
fingers of one hand cupped over his sunglasses. Facing him
on the couch are two uniformed policeman, one middle-aged,
the other a fresh-faced rookie.
At the cut the portable phone, in the Dude's lap, is chirping.
The Dude waits for the rings to end. When they do:
DUDE
1972 Pontiac LeBaron.
YOUNGER COP
Color?
DUDE
Green. Some brown, or, uh, rust,
coloration.
YOUNGER COP
And was there anything of value in
the car?
DULLY:
DUDE
Huh? Oh. Yeah. Tape deck. Couple
of Creedence tapes. And there was
a, uh. . . my briefcase.
YOUNGER COP
In the briefcase?
DUDE
Papers. Just papers. You know, my
papers. Business papers.
YOUNGER COP
And what do you do, sir?
DUDE
I'm unemployed.
OLDER COP
...Most people, we're working nights,
they offer us coffee.
There is silence. Dude continues to stare at a spot on the
floor. The older cop stares at him.
DUDE
...Me, I don't drink coffee. But
it's nice when they offer.
AT LENGTH:
DUDE
...Also, my rug was stolen.
YOUNGER COP
Your rug was in the car.
The Dude taps the floor with his foot.
DUDE
No. Here.
YOUNGER COP
Separate incidents?
The Dude stares at the floor.
Silence.
OLDER COP
Snap out of it, son.
The home phone starts ringing--a ring distinct from the
chirp of the portable. The Dude makes no move to answer
it. Finally the rings stop as an answering machine kicks
on.
DUDE
You find them much? Stolen cars?
Dude's Voice on Machine The Dude's not in. Leave a message
after the beep. It takes a minute.
YOUNGER COP
Sometimes. I wouldn't hold out much
hope for the tape deck though. Or
the Creedence tapes.
DUDE
And the, uh, the briefcase?
Beep.
FEMALE VOICE ON MACHINE
Mr. Lebowski, I'd like to see you.
Call when you get home and I'll send
a car for you. My name is Maude
Lebowski. I'm the woman who took
the rug.
Beep. Dial tone.
OLDER COP
Well, I guess we can close the file
on that one.
TRACKING FORWARD
We are moving through the open living area of a large downtown
L.A. loft. A huge unfinished canvas, lit by standing
industrial lights, dominates one wall. The furnishings are
spare given the space. On the floor is the Dude's brilliant
rug.
We hear a rumble like an approaching bowling ball. The Dude,
standing in the middle of the loft, looks into the murky
depths of the cavernous space.
Something huge and white hurtles towards the Dude's head.
As it roars overhead he ducks, and spins to watch it pass.
We see the backside of a naked woman in a sling suspended
from a ceiling track rumbling over a canvas that lies on the
floor. She is holding a paint bucket in one hand and a brush
in the other, with which she flicks paint down at the canvas.
The Dude turns again as he hears running footsteps. Two
young men in paint-spattered shorts, T-shirts and sneakers
reach the sling shortly after it reaches the end of its track
and haul it back for another push.
VOICE
I'll be with you in a minute, Mr.
Lebowski.
She rumbles by in another pass.
All right, we'll do the blue tomorrow. Elfranco. Pedro.
Help me down.
The two men help Maude out of her sling. She is naked
except for leather harness straps which ring her breasts
and wrap her thighs and give her something of a dominatrix
look.
Does the female form make you uncomfor- table, Mr. Lebowski?
DUDE
Is that what that's a picture of?
MAUDE
In a sense, yes. Elfranco, my robe.
My art has been commended as being
strongly vaginal. Which bothers
some men. The word itself makes
some men uncomfortable. Vagina.
DUDE
Oh yeah?
MAUDE
Yes, they don't like hearing it and
find it difficult to say. Whereas
without batting an eye a man will
refer to his "dick" or his "rod" or
his "Johnson".
DUDE
"Johnson"?
MAUDE
Thank you.
This to Elfranco, who has handed her a robe.
All right, Mr. Lebowski, let's get down to cases. My father
told me he's agreed to let you have the rug, but it was a
gift from me to my late mother, and so was not his to give.
Now. As for this. . . "kidnapping"--
DUDE
Huh?
MAUDE
Yes, I know about it. And I know
that you acted as courier. And let
me tell you something: the whole
thing stinks to high heaven.
DUDE
Right, but let me explain something
about that rug--
MAUDE
Do you like sex, Mr. Lebowski?
DUDE
Excuse me?
MAUDE
Sex. The physical act of love.
Coitus. Do you like it?
DUDE
I was talking about my rug.
MAUDE
You're not interested in sex?
DUDE
You mean coitus?
MAUDE
I like it too. It's a male myth
about feminists that we hate sex.
It can be a natural, zesty enterprise.
But unfortunately there are some
people--it is called satyriasis in
men, nymphomania in women--who engage
in it compulsively and without joy.
DUDE
Oh, no.
MAUDE
Yes Mr. Lebowski, these unfortunate
souls cannot love in the true sense
of the word. Our mutual acquaintance
Bunny is one of these.
DUDE
Listen, Maude, I'm sorry if your
stepmother is a nympho, but I don't
see what it has to do with--do you
have any kalhua?
MAUDE
Take a look at this, sir.
She is aiming a remote at a projection TV. The screen
flickers to life. A title card:
JACKIE TREEHORN PRESENTS
SECOND CARD:
KARL HUNGUS
AND
BUNNY LAJOYA
IN
A THIRD CARD:
LOGJAMMIN'
The Dude is at the bar, a bottle of kalhua frozen halfway
to his glass.
From the television set we hear a doorbell ring, and then a
door opening.
On the TV screen the door opens to reveal a sallow-faced
man in blue coyer-alls. It is Dieter, the floater in
Lebowski's pool.
DIETER
Hello. Nein dizbatcher says zere
iss problem mit deine kable.
DUDE
Shit, I know that guy. He's a
nihilist.
MAUDE
And you recognize her, of course.
The girl answering the door is Bunny Lebowski.
Bunny The TV is in here.
DIETER
Za, okay, I bring mein toolz.
Bunny This is my friend Shari. She just came over to use
the shower.
MAUDE
(grimly)
The story is ludicrous.
DIETER
Mein nommen iss Karl. Is hard to
verk in zese clozes--
Maude switches off the set.
MAUDE
Lord. You can imagine where it goes
from here.
DUDE
He fixes the cable?
MAUDE
Don't be fatuous, Jeffrey. Little
matter to me that this woman chose
to pursue a career
in pornography, nor that she has been "banging" Jackie
Treehorn, to use the parlance of our times. However. I am
one of two trustees of the Lebowski Foundation, the other
being my father. The Foundation takes youngsters from Watts
and--
DUDE
Shit yeah, the achievers.
MAUDE
Little Lebowski Urban Achievers,
yes, and proud we are of all of them.
I asked my father about his withdrawal
of a million dollars from the
Foundation account and he told me
about this "abduction", but I tell
you it is preposterous. This
compulsive
fornicator is taking my father for the proverbial ride.
DUDE
Yeah, but my-
MAUDE
I'm getting to your rug. My father
and I don't get along; he doesn't
approve of my lifestyle and, needless
to say, I don't approve of his.
Still, I hardly wish to make my
father's embezzlement a police matter,
so I'm proposing that you try to
recover the money from the people
you delivered it to.
DUDE
Well--sure, I could do that--
MAUDE
If you successfully do so, I will
compensate you to the tune of 1% of
the recovered sum.
DUDE
A hundred.
MAUDE
Thousand, yes, bones or clams or
whatever you call them.
DUDE
Yeah, but what about--
MAUDE
--your rug, yes, well with that money
you can buy any number of rugs that
don't have sentimental value for me.
And I am sorry about that crack on
the jaw.
The Dude fingers his jaw, where the lump from the sap has
all but disappeared.
DUDE
Oh that's okay, I hardly even--
MAUDE
Here's the name and number of a doctor
who will look at it for you. You
will receive no bill. He's a good
man, and thorough.
DUDE
That's really thoughtful but I--
MAUDE
Please see him, Jeffrey. He's a
good man, and thorough.
LIMO
The Dude sits in back holding a White Russian, listening to
the chauffeur, a man of about the same age from whose livery
cap a ponytail emerges.
DRIVER
--So he says, "My son can't hold a
job, my daughter's married to a
fuckin' loser, and I got a rash on
my ass so bad I can't hardly siddown.
But you know me. I can't complain."
THROUGH RASPING LAUGHTER:
DUDE
Fuckin' A, man. I got a rash.
Fuckin' A, man. I gotta tell ya
Tony.
He takes a sip of a freshly-mixed White Russian, which leaves
milk on his mustache.
I was feeling really shitty earlier in the day, I'd lost a
little money, I was down in the dumps.
TONY
Aw, forget about it.
DUDE
Yeah, man! Fuck it! I can't be
worrying about that shit. Life goes
on!
The limo has rolled to a stop. The Dude gets out, still
holding his drink.
TONY
Home sweet home, Mr. L. Who's your
friend in the Volkswagon?
DUDE
Huh?
His eyes on the rearview mirror, Tony jerks a thumb over his
shoulder.
He followed us here.
The Dude turns to look.
HIS POV
Halfway up the block a Volkswagon bug has pulled over to the
curb. In the driver's seat we see a fat man's shape.
THE DUDE
He scowls.
DUDE
When did he-
The Dude is grabbed from behind and muscled away in a half-
nelson by another uniformed chauffeur.
SECOND CHAUFFEUR
Into the limo, you sonofabitch. No
arguments.
As he is frog-marched towards another limo the Dude holds
his drink away from his chest and cups a hand underneath it.
DUDE
Fuck, man! There's a beverage here!
The waiting limo's back door is flung open.
INSIDE
The Dude is shoved in and awkwardly takes a seat facing the
rear. The door is slammed behind him.
LEBOWSKI
Start talking and talk fast you lousy
bum!
BRANDT
We've been frantically trying to
reach you, Dude.
Brandt sits catty-corner from the Dude; directly across from
the Dude is the big Lebowski, a comforter across his knees.
LEBOWSKI
Where's my goddamn money, you bum?!
DUDE
Well we--I don't--
LEBOWSKI
They did not receive the money, you
nitwit! They did not receive the
goddamn money. HER LIFE WAS IN YOUR
HANDS!
BRANDT
This is our concern, Dude.
DUDE
No, man, nothing is fucked here--
LEBOWSKI
NOTHING IS FUCKED! THE GODDAMN PLANE
HAS CRASHED INTO THE MOUNTAIN!
The Dude takes a hurried sip from his drink.
DUDE
C'mon man, who're you gonna believe?
Those guys are--we dropped off the
damn money--
LEBOWSKI
WHAT?!
DUDE
I--the royal we, you know, the
editorial--I dropped off the money,
exactly as per--Look, I've got certain
information, certain things have
come to light, and uh, has it ever
occurred to you, man, that given the
nature of all this new shit, that,
uh, instead of running around blaming
me, that this whole thing might just
be, not, you know, not just such a
simple, but uh--you know?
LEBOWSKI
What in God's holy name are you
blathering about?
DUDE
I'll tell you what I'm blathering
about! I got information--new shit
has come to light and--shit, man!
She kidnapped herself!
Lebowski stares at him, dumbstruck. The Dude is encouraged.
DUDE
Well sure, look at it! Young trophy
wife, I mean, in the parlance of our
times, owes money all over town,
including to known pornographers--
and that's cool, that's cool-- but
I'm saying, she needs money, and of
course they're gonna say they didn't
get it 'cause she wants more, man,
she's gotta feed the monkey, I mean--
hasn't that ever occurred to you...?
Sir?
LEBOWSKI
(quietly)
No. No Mr. Lebowski, that had not
occurred to me.
BRANDT
That had not occurred to us, Dude.
DUDE
Well, okay, you're not privy to all
the new shit, so uh, you know, but
that's what you pay me for. Speaking
of which, would it be possible for
me to get my twenty grand in cash?
I gotta check this with my accountant
of course, but my concern is that,
you know, it could bump me into a
higher tax--
LEBOWSKI
Brandt, give him the envelope.
DUDE
Well, okay, if you've already made
out the check. Brandt is handing
him a letter-sized envelope which is
distended by something inside.
BRANDT
We received it this morning.
The Dude, frowning, untucks its flap, takes out some cotton
wadding and unrolls it.
LEBOWSKI
Since you have failed to achieve,
even in the modest task that was
your charge, since you have stolen
my money, and since you have
unrepentantly betrayed my trust.
The wadding, undone, reveals a smaller wad of gauze taped up
inside. The Dude undoes the tape with his fingernails and
starts to unroll the inner package.
LEBOWSKI
I have no choice but to tell these
bums that they should do whatever is
necessary to recover their money
from you, Jeffrey Lebowski. And
with Brandt as my witness, tell you
this: Any further harm visited upon
Bunny, shall be visited tenfold upon
your head.
Between thumb and forefinger the Dude holds up the contents
of the package--a little toe, with emerald green nail polish.
LEBOWSKI
...By God sir. I will not abide
another toe.
COFFEE SHOP
The Dude and Walter sit at the counter, both staring off
into space, both absently stirring their coffee with little
clinking noises.
AFTER A LONG BEAT:
WALTER
That wasn't her toe.
DUDE
Whose toe was it, Walter?
WALTER
How the fuck should I know? I do
know that nothing about it indicates--
DUDE
The nail polish, Walter.
WALTER
Fine, Dude. As if it's impossible
to get some nail polish, apply it to
someone else's toe--
DUDE
Someone else's--where the fuck are
they gonna--
WALTER
You want a toe? I can get you a
toe, believe me. There are ways,
Dude. You don't wanna know about
it, believe me.
DUDE
But Walter--
WALTER
I'll get you a toe by this
afternoon--with nail polish. These
fucking amateurs. They send us a
toe, we're supposed to shit our-
selves with fear. Jesus Christ. My
point is--
DUDE
They're gonna kill her, Walter, and
then they're gonna kill me--
WALTER
Well that's just, that's the stress
talking, Dude. So far we have what
looks to me like a series of
victimless crimes--
DUDE
What about the toe?
WALTER
FORGET ABOUT THE FUCKING TOE!
A waitress enters.
WAITRESS
Could you please keep your voices
down--this is a family restaurant.
WALTER
Oh, please dear! I've got news for
you: the Supreme Court has roundly
rejected prior restraint!
DUDE
Walter, this isn't a First Amendment
thing.
WAITRESS
Sir, if you don't calm down I'm going
to have to ask you to leave.
WALTER
Lady, I got buddies who died face-
down in the muck so you and I could
enjoy this family restaurant!
THE DUDE GETS UP:
DUDE
All right, I'm leaving. I'm sorry
ma'am.
WALTER
Don't run away from this, Dude!
Goddamnit, this affects all of us!
The Dude has left frame; Walter calls after him:
WALTER
Our basic freedoms!
He looks defiantly around.
WALTER
I'm staying. Finishing my coffee.
He stirs the coffee, bopping his head in time to the Muzak,
affecting nonchalance.
WALTER
Finishing my coffee.
DUDE'S BATHROOM
A dripping noise.
The Dude sits in the bathtub, staring stuporously, a joint
pinched in one hand, a washcloth draped over his head.
We hear the phone ringing in the other roam.
The Dude is staring at his toes, which protrude from the
soapy water, splayed against the far side of the tub.
After the Dude's outgoing message we hear:
VOICE THROUGH MACHINE
Mr. Lebowski, this is Duty Officer
Rolvaag of the L.A.P.D.
The Dude looks stuporously up, his head swaying.
VOICE THROUGH MACHINE
We've recovered your vehicle. It
can be claimed at the North Hollywood
Auto Circus there on Victory.
DUDE
Far out. Far fuckin' out.
MESSAGE
You'll just need to present a--
The message is interrupted by loud smashing sounds, as of
someone applying a baseball bat to the answering machine.
DUDE
Hunh?
He looks blearily at the open doorway.
A tall man dressed in black leather with a cricket paddle is
striding across the living room towards the bathroom.
DUDE
Hey! This is a private residence,
man!
The man has entered the bathroom and, in stride, swings the
cricket paddle up to smash the overhead light. Two other
men are entering behind him.
The room is dark now except for spill from the living room;
the men are backlit shapes.
One of them holds a string at the other end of which a small
animal skitters excitedly about the floor.
The Dude looks curiously at the small, nattering animal.
DUDE
Nice marmot.
The man with the string scoops up the marmot and tosses it,
screaming, into the bathtub.
The Dude screams.
The marmot splashes frantically, biting at the Dude in a
frenzy of fearful aggression.
FIRST MAN
Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.
The Dude, screaming, grabs the lip of the tub and starts to
hoist himself up but the first man lays a palm on top of his
head and squishes him back into the water.
SECOND MAN
You think veer kidding und making
mit de funny stuff?
THIRD MAN
Vee could do things you only dreamed
of, Lebowski.
SECOND MAN
Ja, vee could really do it, Lebowski.
Vee belief in nossing.
He scoops the marmot out of the water. It shakes itself
off, spraying the Dude.
DUDE
Jesus!
DIETER
Vee belief in nossing, Lebowski!
NOSSING!!
The marmot, back on the floor, is skittering around, shaking
itself and convulsing in little sneezes.
DUDE
Jesus Christ!
FIRST MAN
Tomorrow vee come back und cut off
your chonson.
DUDE
Excuse me?
FIRST MAN
I SAY VEE CUT OFF YOUR CHONSON!
The three men turn to leave. Over their retreating backs:
SECOND MAN
Just sink about zat, Lebowski.
FIRST MAN
Ja, your viggly penis, Lebowski.
SECOND MAN
Ja, und maybe vee stamp on it und
skvush it, Lebowski!
NORTH HOLLYWOOD AUTO CIRCUS
A policeman with a clipboard is leading the Dude through a
large parking lot.
POLICEMAN
You're lucky she wasn't chopped, Mr.
Lebowski. Must've been a joyride
situation; they abandoned the car
once they hit the retaining wall.
They have reached the Dude's car. The driver's side
exterior has been scraped raw. The policeman hands the Dude
a door handle and an exterior rear-view mirror.
POLICEMAN
These were on the road next to the
car. You'll have to get in on the
other side.
The Dude climbs in the passenger side.
DUDE
My fucking briefcase! It's not here!
POLICEMAN
Yeah, sorry, I saw that on the report.
You're lucky they left the tape deck
though.
DUDE
My fucking briefcase! Jesus--what's
that smell?
POLICEMAN
Uh, yeah. Probably a vagrant, slept
in the car. Or perhaps just used it
as a toilet, and moved on.
The Dude tries to roll down the driver's window but it will
not go; he bellows through the glass:
DUDE
When will you find these guys? I
mean, do you have any promising leads?
The policeman laughs, agreeing broadly.
POLICEMAN
Leads, yeah. I'll just check with
the boys down at the Crime Lab.
They've assigned four more detectives
to the case, got us working in shifts.
The Dude looks sadly through his window at the policeman
rocking back on his heels, his raucous laughter muffled by
the glass.
BOWLING ALLEY BAR
The Dude, Walter and Donny sit at the bar, the Dude with a
White Russian, Walter with a beer, and Donny eating beer
nuts.
DONNY
And then they're gonna stamp on it?!
WALTER
Oh for Christ--will you shut the
fuck up, Donny.
DUDE
I figure my only hope is that the
big Lebowski kills me before the
Germans can cut my dick off.
WALTER
Now that is ridiculous, Dude. No
one is going to cut your dick off.
DUDE
Thanks Walter.
WALTER
Not if I have anything to say about
it.
DUDE
(bitterly)
Yeah, thanks Walter. That gives me
a very secure feeling.
WALTER
Dude--
DUDE
That makes me feel all warm inside.
WALTER
Now Dude--
DUDE
This whole fucking thing--I could
be sitting here with just pee-stains
on my rug.
Walter sadly shakes his head.
WALTER
Fucking Germans. Nothing changes.
Fucking Nazis.
DONNY
They were Nazis, Dude?
WALTER
Come on, Donny, they were threatening
castration!
DONNY
Uh-huh.
WALTER
Are you gonna split hairs?
DONNY
No--
WALTER
Am I wrong?
DONNY
Well--
DUDE
They're nihilists.
WALTER
Huh?
DUDE
They kept saying they believe in
nothing.
WALTER
Nihilists! Jesus.
Walter looks haunted.
Say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism,
Dude, at least it's an ethos.
DUDE
Yeah.
WALTER
And let's also not forget--let's not
forget, Dude--that keeping wildlife,
an amphibious rodent, for uh,
domestic, you know, within the city--
that isn't legal either.
DUDE
What're you, a fucking park ranger
now?
WALTER
No, I'm--
DUDE
Who gives a shit about the fucking
marmot!
WALTER
--We're sympathizing here, Dude--
DUDE
Fuck your sympathy! I don't need
your sympathy, man, I need my fucking
Johnson!
DONNY
What do you need that for, Dude?
WALTER
You gotta buck up, man, you can't go
into the tournament with this negative
attitude--
DUDE
Fuck the tournament! Fuck you,
Walter!
There is a moment of stunned silence.
WALTER
Fuck the tournament?!
SAD; QUIET:
WALTER
Okay Dude. I can see you don't want
to be cheered up. C'mon Donny, let's
go get a lane.
They leave the Dude sitting morosely at the bar. As he stares
DOWN INTO HIS EMPTY GLASS:
DUDE
Another Caucasian, Gary.
VOICE
Right, Dude.
STILL STARING DOWN AT THE BAR:
DUDE
Friends like these, huh Gary.
GARY
That's right, Dude.
The pop song on the jukebox has ended; someone puts on
"Tumbling Tumbleweeds."
A man saunters up to the bar to take the stool that Walter
vacated. He is middle-aged, amiable, craggily handsome--Sam
Elliot, perhaps. He has a large Western-style mustache and
wears denims, a yoked shirt and a cowboy hat.
TO THE BARTENDER:
MAN
D'ya have a good sarsaparilla?
We recognize the voice of The Stranger whose narration opened
the movie.
BARTENDER
Sioux City Sarsaparilla.
The Stranger nods.
THE STRANGER
That's a good one.
Waiting for his drink, he looks amiably around the bar. His
crinkled eyes settle on the Dude.
THE STRANGER
How ya doin' there, Dude?
The Dude, still staring down at his drink, shakes his head.
DUDE
Ahh, not so good, man.
THE STRANGER
One a those days, huh. Wal, a wiser
fella than m'self once said, sometimes
you eat the bar and sometimes the
bar, wal, he eats you.
DUDE
(absently)
Uh-huh. That some kind of Eastern
thing?
THE STRANGER
Far from it.
DUDE
Mm.
The bartender puts a brown bottle and a frosted glass on the
bar in front of The Stranger, who touches his hat brim.
THE STRANGER
Much obliged.
He looks back at the Dude.
THE STRANGER
I like your style, Dude.
THE DUDE LOOKS UP, ABSENTLY:
DUDE
Well I like your style too, man.
Got a whole cowboy thing goin'.
THE STRANGER
Thankie. . . Just one thing, Dude.
D'ya have to use s'many cuss words?
The Dude looks at The Stranger as if just now noticing how
out of place the cowpoke is.
DUDE
The fuck are you talking about?
The Stranger chuckles indulgently and pushes off from the
bar.
THE STRANGER
Okay, have it your way.
He brushes his hat brim with a fingertip.
THE STRANGER
Take it easy, Dude.
DUDE
Yeah. Thanks man.
He is gone. "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" is ending as we hear an
offscreen voice, breaking the spell:
VOICE
Dude! Dude!
THE DUDE LOOKS:
Tony, the unformed limo driver, is at the door of the bar,
beckoning.
MAUDE'S LOFT
She strides toward us, naked under a robe which she is just
cinching shut. Paint flecks her skin.
MAUDE
Jeffrey, you haven't gone to the
doctor.
DUDE
No it's fine, really, uh--
MAUDE
Do you have any news regarding my
father's money?
DUDE
I, uh... money, yeah, I gotta
respecfully, 69 you know, tender my
resignation on that matter, 'cause
it looks like your mother really was
kidnapped after all.
MAUDE
She most certainly was not!
DUDE
Hey man, why don't you fucking listen
occasionally? You might learn
something. Now I got--
MAUDE
And please don't call her my mother.
DUDE
Now I got--
MAUDE
She is most definitely the perpetrator
and not the victim.
DUDE
I'm telling you, I got definitive
evidence--
MAUDE
From who?
DUDE
The main guy, Dieter--
MAUDE
Dieter Hauff?
DUDE
Well--yeah, I guess--
MAUDE
Her "co-star" in the beaver picture?
DUDE
Beaver? You mean vagina?--I mean,
you know him?
MAUDE
Dieter has been on the fringes of--
well, of everything in L.A., for
about twenty years. Look at my LP's.
Under 'Autobahn.'
The Dude fingers through the albums filling one bookshelf.
MAUDE
That was his group--they released
one album in the mid-seventies.
The Dude stops between two albums.
DUDE
Roy Orbison. . . Pink Floyd.
MAUDE
Huh? Autobahn. A-u-t-o. Their
music is a sort of--ugh--techno-pop.
The Dude pulls out an album with a worn sleeve. On it is
the group's name, Autobahn, the album name, Nagelbett, and a
picture
OF THREE YOUNG GERMANS, THEIR FOREHEADS LOOMING BELOW
SLICKED-
back hair, gazing upward in thin-lipped epiphany. They are
wearing severe but modishly retro suits. Each has his name
under his picture--Dieter, Kieffer; and Franz. A bed of
nails is the only set dressing on the cyc.
DUDE
Jeez. I miss vinyl.
MAUDE
Is he pretending to be the abductor?
DUDE
Well...yeah--
MAUDE
Look, Jeffrey, you don't really
kidnap someone that you're acquainted
with. You can't get away with it if
the hostage knows who you are.
DUDE
Well yeah...I know that.
MAUDE
So Dieter has the money?
DUDE
Well, no, not exactly. It's a
complicated case, Maude. Lotta ins.
Lotta outs. And a lotta strands to
keep in my head, man. Lotta strands
in old Duder's--
MAUDE
Do you still have that doctor's
number?
DUDE
Huh? No, really, I don't even have
the bruise any more, I--
She is scribbling.
MAUDE
Please Jeffrey. I don't want to be
responsible for any delayed after-
effects.
DUDE
Delayed after-eff--
MAUDE
I want you to see him immediately.
She is picking up a telephone.
MAUDE
I'll see if he's available. He's a
good man, and thorough.
CLOSE SHOT THE DUDE
His eyes are closed, a headset on, his shirt off. Leaking
tinnily through the headset we hear the opening bars of
"Comin' Up Around the Bend."
Behind him, cropped so that we see only a little of his torso,
a white-smocked figure taps at the Dude's back. After a
moment the figure circles to one side, out of frame. His
hand reaches in to pull one arm of the headset away from the
Dude's ear, and as he does so the music issues more strongly.
VOICE
Could you slide your shorts down
please, Mr. Lebowski?
The Dude's eyes open.
DUDE
Huh? No, she, she hit me right here.
VOICE
I understand sir. Could you slide
your shorts down please?
DUDE'S CAR
The Dude is driving home. A Creedence tape plays. The Dude
is sucking down a joint. He glances at the rear-view mirror--
and, noticing something, looks again.
HIS POV
A Volkswagon bug is following, a lone fat man driving.
THE DUDE
His eyes still on the mirror, he absently takes the joint
between thumb and forefinger of his right hand and flicks it
out the driver's window--except that the window is not open.
The butt bounces off the glass and around the car, showering
sparks.
DUDE'S CROTCH
The glowing butt rolls down the car seat between his legs.
The Dude screams.
THE STREET
The car careens wildly as the surrounding traffic veers off
to, make way, horns blaring. The car finally spins and comes
to rest with its passenger side wrapped into a telephone
poll.
INSIDE THE CAR
The Dude frantically grabs at his door, which won't open,
and then slides over to push at the passenger door, which
also won't open.
DUDE
Fuck Me.
But he is sitting on the passenger side now, away from
the lit butt. He looks around for it.
Smoke is wisping up from between the Driver's seat cushion
and back cushion.
DUDE
Fuckola, man.
He takes his beer and pours it in between the cushions.
There is a hissing sound. But there is a piece of paper
sticking out from between the cushions.
The Dude pulls it out.
It is lined spiral notebook paper, slightly singed and
dripping beer, covered with handwriting. In the upper right-
hand corner is the name Lawrence Sellers, and under that,
Mrs. Jamtoss 5th Period. The theme is titled "The Louisiana
Purchase." In red ink is a large circled D and some
handwritten marginal comments; misspelled words are circled
in red throughout.
CRANE JACKSON'S FOUNTAIN STREET THEATER
We are behind Walter, the Dude, and Donny, facing the stage
in the background where Allan, the Dude's balding landlord,
is performing a dance moderne.
As Walter talks to the Dude he leans in to him, his voice
hushed, so as not to disturb the rest of the very sparse
audience.
WALTER
He lives in North Hollywood on
Radford, near the In-and-Out Burger--
DUDE
The In-and-Out Burger is on Camrose.
WALTER
Near the In-and-Out Burger--
DONNY
Those are good burgers, Walter.
WALTER
Shut the fuck up, Donny. This kid
is in the ninth grade, Dude, and his
father is--are you ready for this?--
Arthur Digby Sellers.
DUDE
Who the fuck is that?
WALTER
Huh?
DUDE
Who the fuck is Arthur Digby Sellers?
WALTER
Who the f--have you ever heard of a
little show called Branded, Dude?
DUDE
Yeah.
WALTER
All but one man died? There at Bitter
Creek?
DUDE
Yeah yeah, I know the fucking show
Walter, so what?
WALTER
Fucking Arthur Digby Sellers wrote
156 episodes, Dude.
DUDE
Uh-huh.
WALTER
The bulk of the series.
DUDE
Uh-huh.
WALTER
Not exactly a lightweight.
DUDE
No.
WALTER
And yet his son is a fucking dunce.
DUDE
Uh.
WALTER
Yeah, go figure. Well we'll go out
there after the, uh, the.
He waves a hand vaguely toward the stage.
WALTER
What have you. We'll, uh--
DONNY
We'll be near the In-and-Out Burger.
WALTER
Shut the fuck up, Donny. We'll, uh,
brace the kid--he'll be a pushover.
We'll get that fucking money, if he
hasn't spent it already. Million
fucking clams. And yes, we'll be
near the, uh--some burgers, some
beers, a few laughs. Our fucking
troubles are over, Dude.
RESIDENTIAL AREA
The Dude and Walter are pulling up in front of a dilapidated
house sitting on a scrubby lot. Parked incongruously in
front of the house is a brand new red Corvette.
DUDE
Fuck me, man! That kid's already
spent all the money!
WALTER
Hardly Dude, a new 'vette? The kid's
still got, oh, 96 to 97 thousand,
depending on the options. Wait in
the car, Donny.
THE FRONT DOOR
Walter rings the bell. It is opened by a matronly Spanish
woman.
WOMAN
Jace?
WALTER
Hello, Pilar? My name is Walter
Sobchak, we spoke on the phone, this
is my associate Jeffrey Lebowski.
WOMAN
Jace.
WALTER
May we uh, we wanted to talk about
little Larry. May we come in?
WOMAN
Jace.
They enter a dim living room and stand, looking about, as
Pilar
CALLS UP THE STAIRS:
PILAR
Larry! Sweetie! Dat mang is here!
There is a rhythmic compressor sound; Walter places it and
nudges the Dude. At the other end of the living room a man
lies on something that looks like a hospital gurney with its
midsection enclosed by a motorized stainless-steel bubble.
It is an iron lung, artificially breathing with distinct
hisses in and out.
WALTER
That's him, Dude.
VIVA VOCE
And a good day to you, sir.
PILAR
See down, please.
WALTER
Thank you, ma'am.
He and the Dude sit on a sagging green sofa. In a lowered
voice, to Pilar:
WALTER
Does he, uh. . . Is he still writing?
PILAR
No, no. He has healt' problems.
WALTER
Uh-huh.
HE BELLOWS ACROSS THE ROOM:
WALTER
I just want to say, sir, that we're
both enormous--on a personal level,
Branded, especially the early
episodes, has been a source of, uh,
inspir---
There are footsteps on the stairs. Larry, a fifteen-year-
old, looks at the two men.
PILAR
See down, Sweetie. These are the
policeman--
WALTER
No ma'am, I didn't mean to give the
impression that we're police exactly.
We're hoping that it will not be
necessary to call the police.
He adopts his command voice in turning to Larry:
WALTER
But that is up to little Larry here.
Isn't it, Larry?
Walter pops the latches on his attache case and takes out
the homework, which is now in a ziploc bag. He holds it out
at arm's length, displaying it to Larry.
WALTER
Is this your homework, Larry?
Larry does not respond.
WALTER
Is this your homework, Larry?
DUDE
Look, man, did you--
WALTER
Dude, please!. . . Is this your
homework, Larry?
DUDE
Just ask him if he--ask him about
the car, man!
Walter is still holding out the homework.
WALTER
Is this yours, Larry? Is this your
homework, Larry?
DUDE
Is the car out front yours?
WALTER
Is this your homework, Larry?
DUDE
We know it's his fucking homework,
Walter! Where's the fucking money,
you little brat?
Throughout Walter has been staring at Larry with the homework
extended towards him.
WALTER
Look, Larry. . . Have you ever heard
of Vietnam?
DUDE
Oh, for Christ's sake, Walter!
WALTER
You're going to enter a world of
pain, son. We know that this is
your homework. We know you stole a
car--
DUDE
And the fucking money!
WALTER
And the fucking money. And we know
that this is your homework, Larry.
No answer.
WALTER
You're gonna KILL your FATHER, Larry!.
FINALLY, IN DISGUST:
WALTER
Ah, this is pointless.
As he shoves the homework back in the attache case:
WALTER
All right, Plan B. You might want
to watch out the front window there,
Larry.
He is heading for the door. The Dude, puzzled, rises to
follow him.
WALTER
This is what happens when you FUCK a
STRANGER in the ASS, Larry.
OUTSIDE
Walter is striding down the lawn with his attache case like
an enraged encyclopedia salesman. Without looking back at,
the Dude, who follows:
WALTER
Fucking language problem, Dude.
He pops the Dude's trunk, flings in the briefcase and takes
out a tire iron.
WALTER
Maybe he'll understand this.
He is walking over to the Corvette.
WALTER
YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!
CRASH! He swings the crowbar into the windshield, which
shatters.
WALTER
YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS?!
CRASH! He takes out the driver's window.
WALTER
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FUCK A
STRANGER IN THE ASS!
Lights are going on in houses down the street. Distant dogs
bark.
WALTER
HERE'S WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!
CRASH!
WALTER
HERE'S WHAT HAPPENS! FUCK A STRANGER
IN THE ASS!
CRASH!
A man in a sleeveless T-shirt and boxer shorts has run over
behind Walter and grabbed him from behind on a backswing of
the crowbar.
MAN
WHAT THE FUCK JOO DOING, MANG?!
He wrestles the crowbar away from the startled Walter.
MAN
I JUS' BAWDEEZ FUCKEEN CAR LASS WEEK!
Walter cringes before the enraged Mexican.
WALTER
Hunh?
The man looks about, wildly.
MAN
I KILL JOO, MANG! I--I KILL JOR
FUCKEEN CAR!
He runs over to the Dude's car.
DUDE
No! No! NO! THAT'S NOT--
CRASH! CRASH!
MAN
I FUCKEEN KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!
CRASH!
MAN
I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!
INSIDE THE CAR
Glass rains in on a terrified, cringing, Donny.
MAN
I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!
ON A DEAFENING CRASH WE CUT TO:
THE DUDE'S CAR
We are looking into the car through the broken windshield as
it rattles down the freeway. Wind whistles through the caved-
in windows.
The Dude drives, his jaw clenched, staring grimly out at the
road. Walter, beside him, and Donny in the back seat, munch
'on In-and-Out Burgers.
Creedence music plays above the bluster of wind.
DUDE'S BUNGALOW
As the Dude talks on the phone he is hammering a two-by-four
into the floor just inside, and parallel to, the front door.
DUDE
I accept your apology. . . No I, I
just want to handle it myself from
now on. . . No. That has nothing to
do with it. . . .Yes, it made it
home, I'm calling from home. No,
Walter, it didn't look like Larry
was about to crack.
He finishes hammering, rises and grabs a straightbacked chair
that stands nearby.
DUDE
Well that's your perception. . .
Well you're right, Walter, and the
unspoken Message is FUCK YOU AND
LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE. . . Yeah,
I'll be at practice.
He hangs up and has just finished sliding the chair into
place with its top under the doorknob and its legs braced
against the two-by-four, thus wedging the door closed, when
the door is opened--outwards. The chair clatters to the
floor.
DUDE
Huh?
Woo and the blond man who earlier peed on the rug stride in,
kicking the chair away.
WOO
Pin your diapers on, Lebowski. Jackie
Treehorn wants to see you.
BLOND MAN
And we know which Lebowski you are,
Lebowski.
WOO
Yeah. Jackie Treehorn wants to talk
to the deadbeat Lebowski.
BLOND MAN
You're not dealing with morons here.
BLACKNESS
Out of the blackness something is falling toward us. It is
a woman, falling in slow motion, her limbs flailing, her
mouth contorted by either fear or ecstasy. She is topless.
She falls past the camera, leaving blackness, then after a
beat reappears, rising into the night sky.
MALIBU BEACH
A crowd of mostly tanned middle-aged men with blow-dried
hair, wearing jogging outfits and other expensively casual
attire, are blanket-tossing the squealing young woman in
nightmarish slow motion.
WIDER
It is a party, lit by festive beach lights and standing
kerosene heaters. 1960's mainstream jazz, of the Mancini-
Brubeck school, has been piped down to speakers on the beach'.
In long shot now the woman rises, squealing, disappears
into darkness, descends into light, rises again.
A man walks towards the camera through the pools of beach
light. He is handsome, fiftyish, wearing cotton twill pants
and a Turnbull & Asher shirt with a foulard knotted at the
neck. Behind him, the woman rises and falls, appears and
disappears.
MAN
Hello Dude, thanks for coming. I'm
Jackie Treehorn.
INSIDE THE BEACH HOUSE
The Dude is looking around at the '60's modern decor.
DUDE
This is quite a pad you got here,
man. Completely unspoiled.
TREEHORN
What's your drink, Dude?
DUDE
White Russian, thanks. How's the
smut business, Jackie?
TREEHORN
I wouldn't know, Dude. I deal in
publishing, entertainment, political
advocacy, and--
DUDE
Which one was Logjammin'?
TREEHORN
Regrettably, it's true, standards
have fallen in adult entertainment.
It's video, Dude. Now that we're
competing with the amateurs, we can't
afford to invest that little extra
in story, production value, feeling.
He taps his forehead with one finger.
TREEHORN
People forget that the brain is the
biggest erogenous zone--
DUDE
On you, maybe.
He hands him the drink.
TREEHORN
Of course, you do get the good with
the bad. The new technology permits
us to do exciting things with
interactive erotic software. Wave
of the future, Dude. 100% electronic.
DUDE
Uh-huh. Well, I still jerk off
manually.
TREEHORN
Of course you do. I can see you're
anxious for me to get to the point.
Well Dude, here it is. Where's Bunny?
DUDE
I thought you might know, man.
TREEHORN
Me? How would I know? The only
reason she ran off was to get away
from her rather sizable debt to me.
DUDE
But she hasn't run off, she's been--
Treehorn waves this off.
TREEHORN
I've heard the kidnapping story, so
save it. I know you're mixed up in
all this, Dude, and I don't care
what you're trying to take off her
husband. That's your business. All
I'm saying is, I want mine.
DUDE
Yeah, well, right man, there are
many facets to this, uh, you know,
many interested parties. If I can
find your money, man-- what's in it
for the Dude?
TREEHORN
Of course, there's that to discuss.
Refill?
DUDE
Does the Pope shit in the woods?
TREEHORN
Let's say a 10% finder's fee?
DUDE
Okay, Jackie, done. I like the way
you do business. Your money is being
held by a kid named Larry Sellers.
He lives in North Hollywood, on
Radford, near the In-and-Out Burger.
A real fuckin' brat, but I'm sure
your goons'll be able to get it off
him, mean he's only fifteen and he's
flunking social studies. So if you'll
just write me a check for my ten per
cent. . . of half a million. . .
fifty grand.
He is getting to his feet, but sways woozily.
DUDE
I'll go out and mingle.--Jesus, you
mix a hell of a Caucasian, Jackie.
The Dude shakes his head, tries to focus.
TREEHORN
A fifteen-year-old? Is this your
idea of a joke?
Jackie Treehorn's image starts to swim. He is joined on
either side by Woo and the blond man, all three men looking
grimly down at the Dude.
DUDE
No funny stuff, Jackie. . . the kid's
got it. Hiya, fellas. . . kid just
wanted a car. All the Dude ever
wanted. . . was his rug back. . .
not greedy. . . it really.
He squints at Jackie Treehorn, who swims in and out of focus.
Tied the room together.
He tips forward, spilling his drink off the table.
FROM UNDER THE GLASS COFFEE TABLE
Looking up at the Dude as his face hits the glass and
squishes.
FAST FADE OUT
BLACK
THE STRANGER'S VOICE
Darkness warshed over the Dude--
darker'n a black steer's tookus on a
moonless prairie night. There was
no bottom.
We hear a thundering bass.
SCRATCHY WHITE TITLE CARD:
JACKIE TREEHORN PRESENTS
ANOTHER TITLE CARD:
THE DUDE
AND
MAUDE LEBOWSKI
IN
THIRD TITLE CARD:
GUTTERBALLS
The title logo is a suggestively upright bowling pin flanked
by a pair of bowling balls. The bending bass sound turns
into the lead-in to Kenny Rogers and the First Edition's
"Just Dropped In."
The Dude is walking down a long corridor dressed as a cable
repairman. The Dude's face is washed with a brilliant light
as the corridor opens onto a gleaming bowling alley.
In the center of the alley stands Maude Lebowski, singing
operatic harmony to the Kenny Rogers song. She wears an
armored breastplate and Norse headgear, has braided pigtails,
and holds a trident.
The Dude stands behind her and, pressed up against her, helps
her with her follow-through as she releases a bowling ball.
The lane is straddled by a line of chorines in spangly mini-
skirts, their arms akimbo, Busby-Berkley style, their legs
turning the lane into a tunnel leading to the pins at the
end.
But it is no longer a bowling ball rolling between their
legs--it is the Dude himself, levitating inches off the lane,
the tools from his utility belt swinging free. He is face
down, his arms, torpedolike, pressed against his sides.
His point of view shows the lane rushing by below, the little
ball-guide arrows zipping by.
The Dude twists his body around, performing a barrel-roll so
that he is now gliding along the lane face-up.
Now his point of view looks up the dresses of the passing
chorines.
The Dude smiles dreamily and does a backstroke motion so
that he is once again gliding face-down. He looks forward
and his forward momentum blows back his hair.
Coming at us, as we go through the last few pairs of legs,
are the approaching pins. We hit the pins, scattering them,
and rush on into black.
A body drops down into the blackness in slow motion--a topless
woman, squealing, her legs kicking.
As she drops out of frame, leaving blackness again, three
men are entering from the background, emerging into a pool
of light. It is the Germans, advancing ominously, wielding
oversized shears which they menacingly scissor.
The Dude, now standing in a field of black, reacts to the
advancing Germans. He turns and runs, fists pumping.
The scissoring sound of the shears turns into the whoosh of
car-bys. The field of black is punctured by headlights.
The Dude is running blearily down the middle of the Pacific
Coast Highway. Cars rush by on either side, horns blaring.
With the BLOO-WHUP of a short siren blast, a squad car with
flashing gumballs pulls up.
SQUAD CAR
The Dude sits in the back seat, his head lolling with the
motion of the car as he blearily sings the theme of Branded:
DUDE
He was innocent. Not a charge was
true. And they say he ran awaaaaaay.
CHIEF'S OFFICE
The Dude is hurled against the chief's desk, which he bounces
off of, to come to rest more or less seated in a facing chair.
His wallet is tossed onto the desk.
The chief leans forward, takes the wallet and sorts through
it with disgusted incredulity.
CHIEF
This is your only I.D.?
He is looking at the Ralph's Shopper's Club card.
DUDE
I know my rights.
CHIEF
You don't know shit, Lebowski.
DUDE
I want a fucking lawyer, man. I
want Bill Kunstler.
CHIEF
What are you, some kind of sad-assed
refugee from the fucking sixties?
DUDE
Uh-huh.
CHIEF
Mr. Treehorn tells us that he had to
eject you from his garden party,
that you were drunk and abusive.
DUDE
That guy treats women like objects,
man.
CHIEF
Mr. Treehorn draws a lot of water in
this town, Lebowski. You don't draw
shit. We got a nice quiet beach
community here, and I aim to keep it
nice and quiet. So let me make
something plain. I don't like you
sucking around bothering our citizens,
Lebowski. I don't like your jerk-
off name, I don't like your jerk-off
face, I don't like your jerk- off
behavior, and I don't like you, jerk-
off --do I make myself clear?
The Dude stares.
DUDE
I'm sorry, I wasn't listening.
The Chief hurls his steaming mug of coffee at the Dude. It
hits him in the forehead with a thud, the scalding coffee
splashing everywhere.
The Chief is already up off his chair, rounding the desk.
DUDE
--Ow! Fucking fascist!
The Chief slaps him twice.
CHIEF
Stay out of Malibu, Lebowski!
He kicks the chair out from under the Dude, and then starts
kicking at him.
CHIEF
Stay out of Malibu, deadbeat! Keep
your ugly fucking goldbricking ass
out of my beach community!
CAB
The Dude, in the back seat of a taxicab that rocks and squeaks
with every bump, is gingerly touching at sore spots on his
face and scalp.
"Peaceful Easy Feeling" is on the radio.
DUDE'S POV
The back of the driver, a large black man with rasta dreds
under a knit cap.
DUDE
Jesus, man, can you change the
station?
DRIVER
Fuck you man! You don't like my
fucking music, get your own fucking
cab!
DUDE
I've had a--
DRIVER
I pull over and kick your ass out,
man!
DUDE
--had a rough night, and I hate the
fucking Eagles, man--
DRIVER
That's it! Outta this fucking cab!
THE STREET
The cab screeches over towards the curb. Another car,
oncoming, its radio blaring Metallica, speeds by.
INSIDE THE OTHER CAR
It is a red convertible. The driver, singing loudly and
badly along with the radio, her hair blowing in the wind, a
dreamy smile on her face as she speeds along, higher than a
kite, is Bunny Lebowski.
THE FOOTWELL
On the accelerator her right foot, in an open-toed bright
red high-heeled shoe, has five painted toes.
When she downshifts her left foot enters to engage the clutch.
Five more toes.
DUDE'S BUNGALOW
The Dude staggers in the open front door, one hand pressed
to a lump on his forehead, and looks around.
DUDE
Jesus.
The place is a wreck. Furniture has been overturned,
upholstery slashed, drawers dumped.
Quiet.
The door to the bedroom starts to creak open.
The Dude cringes.
Maude emerges from the bedroom. She is wearing a bathrobe.
MAUDE
Jeffrey.
DUDE
Maude?
She pulls open the bathrobe as she approaches.
MAUDE
Love me.
The Dude is stupefied.
DUDE
That's my robe.
THOOMP! ON THE EMBRACE WE CUT TO:
BLACK
After a beat, a long sigh, and then a voice from the
blackness:
MAUDE
Tell me a little about yourself,
Jeffrey.
DUDE
Well, uh. . . Not much to tell.
A match is dragged across a headboard; the Dude is lighting
himself a joint. He shakes the match out to restore blackness
except for the glowing tip of the joint.
DUDE
I was, uh, one of the authors of the
Port Huron Statement.--The original
Port Huron Statement.
MAUDE
Uh-huh.
DUDE
Not the compromised second draft.
And then I, uh. . . Ever hear of the
Seattle Seven?
MAUDE
Mmnun.
Click--the Dude turns on a bedside lamp. He and Maude lie
next to each other in bed.
DUDE
And then. . . let's see, I uh--music
business briefly.
MAUDE
Oh?
DUDE
Yeah. Roadie for Metallica. Speed
of Sound Tour.
MAUDE
Uh-huh.
DUDE
Bunch of assholes. And then, you
know, little of this, little of that.
My career's, uh, slowed down a bit
lately.
MAUDE
What do you do for fun?
DUDE
Oh, you know, the usual. Bowl.
Drive around. The occasional acid
flashback.
He climbs out of bed but Maude remains in it. She wedges a
pillow into the small of her back and clasps a hand on each
kneecap. She pulls her knees in toward her chest to keep
her pelvis raised.
MAUDE
What happened to your house?
DUDE
Jackie Treehorn trashed the place.
Wanted to save the finder's fee.
MAUDE
Finder's fee?
DUDE
He thought I had your father's money,
so he got me out of the way while he
looked for it.
MAUDE
It's not my father's money, it's the
Foundation's. Why did he think you
had it? And who does?
DUDE
Larry Sellers, a high-school kid.
Real fucking brat.
He picks a White Russian off the bedside table.
MAUDE
Jeffrey--
DUDE
It's a complicated case, Maude.
Lotta ins, lotta outs. Fortunately
I've been adhering to a pretty strict,
uh, drug regimen to keep my mind,
you know, limber. I'm real fucking
close to your father's money, real
fucking close. It's just--
MAUDE
I keep telling you, it's the
Foundation's money. Father doesn't
have any.
DUDE
Huh? He's fucking loaded.
MAUDE
No no, the wealth was all Mother's.
DUDE
But your father--he runs stuff, he--
MAUDE
We did let Father run one of the
companies, briefly, but he didn't do
very well at it.
DUDE
But he's--
MAUDE
He helps administer the charities
now, and I give him a reasonable
allowance. He has no money of his
own. I know how he likes to present
himself; Father's weakness is vanity.
Hence the slut.
DUDE
Huh. Jeez. Well, so, did he--is
that yoga?
Throughout, Maude has been lying on her back with her knees
pulled in.
MAUDE
It increases the chances of
conception.
The Dude spits some White Russian.
DUDE
Increases?
MAUDE
Well yes, what did you think this
was all about? Fun and games?
DUDE
Well...no, of course not--
MAUDE
I want a child.
DUDE
Yeah, okay, but see, the Dude--
MAUDE
Look, Jeffrey, I don't want a partner.
In fact I don't want the father to
be someone I have to see socially,
or who'll have any interest in rearing
the child himself.
DUDE
Huh...
Something occurs to him.
DUDE
So...that doctor.
MAUDE
Exactly. What happened to your face?
Did Jackie Treehorn do that as well?
The Dude is staring off into space, thinking. His answer is
absent.
DUDE
No, the, uh, police chief of Malibu.
A real reactionary. . . So your
father. . . Oh man, I get it!
MAUDE
What?
The Dude is leaving the bedroom.
DUDE
Yeah, my thinking about the case,
man, it had become uptight. Yeah.
Your father--
LIVING ROOM
The Dude finishes punching a number into the phone.
PHONE VOICE
This is Walter Sobchak. I'm not in;
leave a message after the beep.
FROM THE BEDROOM:
MAUDE'S VOICE
What're you talking about?
Beep.
DUDE
Walter, if you're there, pick up the
fucking phone. Pick it up, Walter,
this is an emergency. I'm not--
WALTER
Dude?
DUDE
Walter, listen, I'm at my place, I
need you to come pick me up--
WALTER
I can't drive, Dude, it's erev
shabbas.
DUDE
Huh?
WALTER
Erev shabbas. I can't drive. I'm
not even supposed to pick up the
phone, unless it's an emergency.
DUDE
It is a fucking emergency.
WALTER
I understand. That's why I picked
up the phone.
DUDE
THEN WHY CAN'T YOU--fuck, never mind,
just call Donny then, and ask him to--
WALTER
Dude, I'm not supposed to make calls--
DUDE
WALTER, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE, WE GOTTA
GO TO PASADENA! COME PICK ME UP OR
I'M OFF THE FUCKING BOWLING TEAM!
MAUDE'S VOICE
Jeffrey?
THE DUDE
He emerges on his front stoop, pulling on a shirt. His
attention is caught by something down the street.
HIS POV
A car is parked halfway down the block. We can see the
shape of a fat man in the driver's seat.
THE DUDE
Striding purposefully down the street.
HIS POV
The fat man leans forward and we hear the sound of the car's
ignition coughing, but the engine will not turn over. More
whines and coughs; no start.
The man hurriedly fumbles in front of him. He brings up a
newspaper, which he holds before his face.
THE DUDE
As he gets to the car. He reaches through the open driver's
window and grabs the newspaper and hurls it to the ground.
He is revved with nervous energy.
DUDE
Get out of that fucking car, man!
The man nervously complies. The Dude flinches at the man's
movement as he gets out.
The man cringes, reacting to the Dude's flinch.
He is wearing a cheap blue serge suit. He is bald with a
short fringe and a mustache.
The Dude shouts to cover his fear:
DUDE
Who the fuck are you, man! Come on,
man!
MAN
Relax, man! No physical harm
intended!
DUDE
Who the fuck are you? Why've you
been following me? Come on, fuckhead!
MAN
Hey, relax man, I'm a brother shamus.
The Dude is stunned.
DUDE
Brother Shamus? Like an Irish monk?
MAN
Irish m--What the fuck are you talking
about? My name's Da Fino! I'm a
private snoop! Like you, man!
DUDE
Huh?
DA FINO
A dick, man! And let me tell you
something: I dig your work. Playing
one side against the other--in bed
with everybody--fabulous stuff, man.
DUDE
I'm not a--ah, fuck it, just stay
away from my fucking lady friend,
man.
DA FINO
Hey hey, I'm not messing with your
special lady--
DUDE
She's not my special lady, she's my
fucking lady friend. I'm just helping
her conceive, man!
DA FINO
Hey, man, I'm not--
DUDE
Who're you working for? Lebowski?
Jackie Treehorn?
DA FINO
The Gundersons.
DUDE
The? Who the fff--
DA FINO
The Gundersons. It's a wandering
daughter job. Bunny Lebowski, man.
Her real name is Fawn Gunderson.
Her parents want her back.
He is fumbling in his wallet.
DA FINO
See?
The Dude looks at the picture.
It is probably a school portrait, unmistakably Bunny, but
fresh-faced, much younger looking, with a corn-fed smile and
straight Partridge Family hair and bangs.
DUDE
Jesus fucking Christ.
DA FINO
Crazy, huh? Ran away a year ago.
He is holding out another picture.
The Gundersons told me to show her this when I found her.
The family farm.
A bleak farmhouse and silo are the only features on a flat
snow-swept landscape.
Outside of Moorhead, Minnesota. They think it'll make her
homesick.
DUDE
Boy. How ya gonna keep 'em down on
the farm once they seen Karl Hungus.
He hands back the picture.
She's been kidnapped, Da Fino. Or maybe not, but she's
definitely not around.
DA FINO
Fuck, man! That's terrible!
DUDE
Yeah, it sucks.
DA FINO
Well maybe you and me could pool our
resources--trade information--
professional courtesy--compeers, you
know--
We hear distant yapping, growing louder with the hum of an
approaching car.
DUDE
Yeah, I get it. Fuck off, Da Fino.
And stay away from my special la--
from my fucking lady friend.
The Dude steps out to meet Walter's car as it pulls up, its
passenger window open and the pomeranian leaning out and
yapping.
DENNY'S
Four people sit at a booth: Dieter, Kieffer, Franz, all in
black leather, and a young woman with long stringy blonde
hair, wearing torn and patched jeans and a ribbed sleeveless
tee-shirt, worn thin with age. She is apparently braless,
and is teutonically pale with birthmarks on her face and
arms.
Notable is her camera-side leg, which ends in a bandage-
swaddled foot. Dried rust-colored blood stains the tip of
the bandage. The four are arguing, loudly, in German.
They seem very unhappy. A waitress enters with a checkpad
and pen.
WAITRESS
You folks ready?
The German shouting stops. Dieter looks sourly up.
DIETER
I haff lingenberry pancakes.
KIEFFER
Lingenberry pancakes.
FRANZ
Sree picks in blanket.
The woman speaks to Dieter in German. He nods.
DIETER
Lingenberry pancakes.
WALTER'S CAR
Walter's eyes are on the road as he listens, driving, to the
Dude, whose speech is occasionally punctuated by yaps from
the back seat.
DUDE
I mean we totally fucked it up, man.
We fucked up his pay-off. And got
the kidnappers all pissed off, and
the big Lebowski yelled at me a lot,
but he didn't do anything. Huh?
WALTER
Well it's, sometimes the cathartic,
uh.
DUDE
I'm saying if he knows I'm a fuck-
up, then why does he still leave me
in charge of getting back his wife?
Because he fucking doesn't want her
back, man! He's had enough! He no
longer digs her! It's all a show!
But then, why didn't he give a shit
about his million bucks? I mean, he
knew we didn't hand off his briefcase,
but he never asked for it back.
WALTER
What's your point, Dude?
DUDE
His million bucks was never in it,
man! There was no money in that
briefcase! He was hoping they'd
kill her! You throw out a ringer
for a ringer!
WALTER
Yeah?
DUDE
Shit yeah!
WALTER
Okay, but how does all this add up
to an emergency?
DUDE
Huh?
WALTER
I'm saying, I see what you're getting
at, Dude, he kept the money, but my
point is, here we are, it's shabbas,
the sabbath, which I'm allowed to
break only if it's a matter of life
and death--
DUDE
Walter, come off it. You're not
even fucking Jewish, you're--
WALTER
What the fuck are you talking about?
DUDE
You're fucking Polish Catholic--
WALTER
What the fuck are you talking about?
I converted when I married Cynthia!
Come on, Dude!
DUDE
Yeah, and you were--
WALTER
You know this!
DUDE
And you were divorced five fucking
years ago.
WALTER
Yeah? What do you think happens
when you get divorced? You turn in
your library card? Get a new driver's
license? Stop being Jewish?
DUDE
This driveway.
AS HE TURNS:
WALTER
I'm as Jewish as fucking Tevye
DUDE
It's just part of your whole sick
Cynthia thing. Taking care of her
fucking dog. Going to her fucking
synagogue. You're living in the
fucking past.
WALTER
Three thousand years of beautiful
tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax--
YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT I LIVE IN THE
PAST! I--Jesus. What the hell
happened?
He is looking off as the car slows. The Dude looks where
Walter is looking.
THE LEBOWSKI MANSION
Walter's car pulls up the drive into the foreground and he
and the Dude get out.
Both are gaping off at the front lawn.
WALTER
Jesus Christ.
THEIR POV
Tire treads lead across the manicured front lawn to where a
little red sports car rests with its hood crumpled into a
palm trunk.
TRACKING DOWN THE GREAT HALLWAY
Through the French doors at its far end we can see Bunny,
naked, briefly bouncing on the diving board before splashing
into the illuminated pool outside. Heavy metal music filters
in from a boom box by the pool.
Brandt, approaching, stoops and straightens, stoops and
straightens, picking up the discarded clothes that run the
length of the hall.
BRANDT
He can't see you, Dude.
We pull the Dude and Walter as they approach the doors to
the great study. Walter's dog follows, stiffly waving its
tail.
DUDE
Where'd she been?
BRANDT
Visiting friends of hers in Palm
Springs. Just picked up and left,
never bothered to tell us.
DUDE
But I guess she told Dieter.
WALTER
Jesus, Dude! He never even kidnapped
her.
BRANDT
Who's this gentleman, Dude?
WALTER
Who'm I? I'm a fucking VETERAN!
BRANDT
You shouldn't go in there, Dude!
He's very angry!
BANG--the Dude and Walter push through the double doors into--
THE GREAT ROOM
The big Lebowski turns at the sound of the door. His
wheelchair hums as he spins it around.
LEBOWSKI
(bitterly)
Well, she's back. No thanks to you.
DUDE
Where's the money, Lebowski?
WALTER
A MILLION BUCKS FROM FUCKING NEEDY
LITTLE URBAN ACHIEVERS! YOU ARE
SCUM, MAN!
The dog yaps.
LEBOWSKI
Who the hell is he?
WALTER
I'll tell you who I am! I'm the guy
who's gonna KICK YOUR PHONY
GOLDBRICKING ASS!
DUDE
We know the briefcase was empty,
man. We know you kept the million
bucks yourself.
LEBOWSKI
Well, you have your story, I have
mine. I say I entrusted the money
to you, and you stole it.
WALTER
AS IF WE WOULD EVER DREAM OF TAKING
YOUR BULLSHIT MONEY!
DUDE
You thought Bunny'd been kidnapped
and you could use it as a pretext to
make some money disappear. All you
needed was a sap to pin it on, and
you'd just met me. You thought,
hey, a deadbeat, a loser, someone
the square community won't give a
shit about.
LEBOWSKI
Well? Aren't you?
DUDE
Well. . . yeah.
LEBOWSKI
All right, get out. Both of you.
WALTER
Look at that fucking phony, Dude!
Pretending to be a fucking
millionaire!
LEBOWSKI
I said out. Now.
WALTER
Let me tell you something else.
I've seen a lot of spinals, Dude,
and this guy is a fake. A fucking
goldbricker.
He is crossing to Lebowski.
WALTER
This guy fucking walks. I've never
been more certain of anything in my
life!
LEBOWSKI
Stay away from me, mister!
Walter reaches around from behind and hoists the big Lebowski
out of the wheelchair by his armpits.
WALTER
Walk, you fucking phony!
The big Lebowski waggles helplessly, his rubbery feet grazing
the floor like a Raggedy Ann's. The pomeranian gaily leaps
and yaps.
LEBOWSKI
Put me down, you son of a bitch!
DUDE
Walter!
WALTER
It's all over, man! We call your
fucking bluff!
DUDE
WALTER, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! HE'S
CRIPPLED! PUT HIM DOWN!
WALTER
Sure, I'll put him down, Dude. RAUSS!
ACHTUNG, BABY!!
He shoves the big Lebowski forward and he crumples to the
floor, weeping.
WALTER
Oh, shit.
LEBOWSKI
(sobbing)
You're bullies! Cowards, both of
you!
Walter is abashed. The Big Lebowski flails about on the
floor.
WALTER
Oh, shit.
DUDE
He can't walk, Walter!
WALTER
Yeah, I can see that, Dude.
LEBOWSKI
You monsters!
DUDE
Help me put him back in his chair.
Walter moves to comply.
WALTER
Shit, sorry man.
THROUGH HIS TEARS:
LEBOWSKI
Stay away from me! You bullies!
You and these women! You won't leave
a man his fucking balls!
DUDE
Walter, you fuck!
WALTER
Shit, Dude, I didn't know. I
wouldn't've done it if I knew he was
a fucking crybaby.
DUDE
We're sorry, man. We're really sorry.
The Dude has picked up the Big Lebowski's plaid lap warmer
and is frantically tucking it back in around his waist and
batting the dog away.
DUDE
There ya go. Sorry man.
Walter, puzzled, hands on hips, stands over the big Lebowski.
WALTER
Shit. He didn't look like a spinal.
TEN PINS
Scattered at the cut.
DUDE AND WALTER
Each with a beer at the scoring table.
WALTER
Sure you'll see some tank battles.
But fighting in desert is very
different from fighting in canopy
jungle.
DUDE
Uh-huh.
WALTER
I mean 'Nam was a foot soldier's war
whereas, uh, this thing should be a
fucking cakewalk. I mean I had an
M16, Jacko, not an Abrams fucking
tank. Just me and Charlie, man,
eyeball to eyeball.
DUDE
Yeah.
WALTER
That's fuckin' combat. The man in
the black pyjamas, Dude. Worthy
fuckin' adversary.
DONNY
Who's in pyjamas, Walter?
WALTER
Shut the fuck up, Donny. Not a bunch
of fig-eaters with towels on their
heads tryin' to find reverse on a
Soviet tank. This is not a worthy--
VOICE
HEY!
The Dude and Walter look.
Quintana is bellowing from the lip of the lane, and is
restrained by O'Brien.
QUINTANA
What's this "day of rest" shit, man?!
Walter looks at him innocently.
QUINTANA
What is this bullshit, man? I don't
fucking care! It don't matter to
Jesus! But you're not fooling me!
You might fool the fucks in the league
office, but you don't fool Jesus!
It's bush league psych-out stuff!
Laughable, man! I would've fucked
you in the ass Saturday, I'll fuck
you in the ass next Wednesday instead!
QUINTANA
He makes hip-grinding coital motions as O'Brien leads him
away.
QUINTANA
You got a date Wednesday, man!
Walter, his head cocked, and the Dude, peeking over his
shades, watch him go.
WALTER
He's cracking.
BOWLING ALLEY PARKING LOT
Donny, Walter and the Dude emerge from the alley, each holding
his leatherette ball satchel.
WALTER
A tree of life, Dude. To all who
cling to it.
They react to the droning synthesizer-based technopop coming
from a boom box.
REVERSE
Dieter, Kieffer and Franz, in shiny black leather, stand in
a line facing them in the all-but-deserted lot. Behind them
orange flames lick gently at the Dude's car, which has been
put to the torch. The orange flames glow on the men's
creaking leather. Next to the car are three motorcycles,
parked in a neat row. The Dude looks sadly at the burning
car.
DUDE
They finally did it. They killed my
fucking car.
DIETER
Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.
KIEFFER
Ja, uzzervize vee kill ze girl.
FRANZ
Ja, it seems you forgot our little
deal, Lebowski.
DUDE
You don't have the fucking girl,
dipshits. We know you never did.
So you've got nothin' on my Johnson.
DUDE
The men in black, stunned, confer amongst themselves in
German. Under his breath:
DONNY
Are these the Nazis, Walter?
Walter answers, also sotto voce, his eyes still on the three
men:
WALTER
They're nihilists, Donny, nothing to
be afraid of.
The Germans stop conferring.
DIETER
Vee don't care. Vee still vant zat
money or vee fuck you up.
KIEFFER
Ja, vee still vant ze money. Vee
sreaten you.
He pulls an uzi from under his coat. It glints in the
firelight.
WALTER
Fuck you. Fuck the three of you.
DUDE
Hey, cool it Walter.
Walter ignores the Dude, addresses the Germans:
WALTER
There's no ransom if you don't have
a fucking hostage. That's what ransom
is. Those are the fucking rules.
DIETER
Zere ARE no ROOLZ!
WALTER
NO RULES! YOU CABBAGE-EATING SONS-
OF- BITCHES--
KIEFFER
His girlfriend gafe up her toe! She
sought we'd be getting million
dollars! Iss not fair!
WALTER
Fair! WHO'S THE FUCKING NIHILIST
HERE! WHAT ARE YOU, A BUNCH OF
FUCKING CRYBABIES?!
DUDE
Hey, cool it Walter. Listen, pal,
there never was any money. The big
Lebowski gave me an empty briefcase,
man, so take it up with him.
WALTER
AND I'D LIKE MY UNDIES BACK!
The Germans confer again, in German.
Donny is visibly frightened.
DONNY
Are they gonna hurt us, Walter?
WALTER 'S TONE IS GENTLE:
WALTER
They won't hurt us, Donny. These
men are cowards.
THE CONFERENCE ENDS:
DIETER
Okay. Vee take ze money you haf on
you und vee call it eefen.
WALTER
Fuck you.
The Dude is digging into his pocket.
DUDE
Come on, Walter, we're ending this
thing cheap.
Walter's eyes, burning with hatred, are locked on Dieter's.
WALTER
What's mine is mine.
DUDE
Come on, Walter!.
Louder, to the Germans, as he looks in his wallet:
DUDE
Four dollars here!
He inspects the change in his palm.
DUDE
Almost five!
DONNY
(tremulously)
I got eighteen dollars, Dude.
WALTER
(grimly)
What's mine is mine.
With a ring of steel, Dieter produces a glinting saber.
DIETER
VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN! VEE TAKE YOUR
MONEY!
WALTER
(coolly)
Come and get it.
DIETER
VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN!
WALTER
Come and get it. Fucking nihilist.
DIETER
I FUCK YOU! I FUCK YOU!
WALTER
Show me what you got. Nihilist.
Dipshit with a nine-toed woman.
In a rage, Dieter charges.
DIETER
I FUCK YOU! I FUCK YOU!
WALTER
hurls his leather satchel.
KIEFFER
Watching Dieter's charge, is caught off-guard. The bowling
ball thuds into his chest and lifts him off his feet.
He falls back, his uzi clattering away.
WALTER
twists away as Dieter reaches him; grabs Dieter's head in
both hands; draws Dieter's head up to his mouth, which closes
on Dieter's ear.
DUDE
He rushes Franz but draws up short as Franz sends out karate
kicks, his leather pants squeaking and popping. Franz gives
a loud cry with each kick; the Dude leans back, throwing his
arms up, evading the kicks.
WALTER
His jaw is still clamped on Dieter's ear. Dieter draws his
saber against Walter's side, drawing blood.
Walter doesn't react to the wound. Growling as Dieter
screams, he worries his ear, waggling his head with his jaws
clamped.
THE SABER
Dieter drops it.
DUDE
Awkwardly circling, evading Franz's kicks.
WALTER
still worrying the ear. With a tearing sound his head and
Dieter's separate.
DIETER, EARLESS, SCREAMS:
DIETER
I FUCK YOU! YOU CANNOT HURT ME! I
BELIEF IN NUSSING!
Walter spits his ear into his face.
DUDE
The Dude and Franz, both now panting heavily, have yet to
establish body contact. Franz continues to kick.
FRANZ
VEAKLING!
WALTER
draws back his fist.
DIETER
NUSSING!
WALTER
ANTI-SEMITE!
Bam!--A powerhouse blow to the middle of his face drops Dieter
for the count.
DUDE AND FRANZ
With a piercing shriek Franz finally summons the nerve to
charge the Dude, hands raised to deliver karate blows.
As he reaches the Dude--WHHAP--the boom box swings into
frame to smash him in the face. Its volume shoots up.
Walter bashes him a few more times over the head. The music
screeches to static, then quiet. Laid out now, Franz too is
quiet.
All quiet.
Walter, panting, looks around.
WALTER
We've got a man down, Dude.
With a hand pressed to his bleeding side he trots over to
Donny, who lies gasping on the ground.
The Dude, also panting, rises and trots over.
DUDE
Hy God! They shot him, Walter!
WALTER
No Dude.
DUDE
They shot Donny!
Donny gasps for air. His eyes, wide, go from the Dude to
Walter. One hand still clutches his eighteen dollars.
WALTER
There weren't any shots.
DUDE
Then what's...
WALTER
It's a heart attack.
DUDE
Wha.
WALTER
Call the medics, Dude.
DUDE
Wha. . . Donny--
WALTER
Hurry Dude. I'd go but I'm pumping
blood. Might pass out.
The Dude runs into the lanes. Walter lays a reassuring hand
on Donny's shoulder.
WALTER
Rest easy, good buddy, you're doing
fine. We got help choppering in.
FADE OUT
HOLD IN BLACK
THE DUDE AND WALTER
---
They sit side by side, forearms on knees, in a nondescript
waiting area. Walter bounces the fingertips of one hand off
those of the other. They sit. They wait.
A tall thin man in a conservative black suit enters. He
eyes the Dude's bowling attire and sunglasses and Walter's
army surplus, but doesn't make an issue of it.
MAN
Hello, gentlemen. You are the
bereaved?
DUDE
Yeah man.
MAN
Francis Donnelly. Pleased to meet
you.
DUDE
Jeffrey Lebowski.
WALTER
Walter Sobchak.
DUDE
The Dude, actually. Is what, uh.
DONNELLY
Excuse me?
DUDE
Nothing.
DONNELLY
Yes. I understand you're taking
away the remains.
WALTER
Yeah.
DONNELLY
We have the urn.
He nods through a door. Another man in a black suit enters
to carefully deposit a large silver urn on the desktop.
DONNELLY
And I assume this is credit card?
He is vaguely handing a large leather folder across the desk
to whomever wants to take it.
WALTER
Yeah.
He takes it, opens it, puts on reading glasses that sit
halfway down his nose, and inspects the bill with his head
pulled back for focus and cocked for concentration. Silence.
The Dude smiles at Donnelly. Donnelly gives back a
mortician's smile. At length Walter holds the bill towards
Donnelly, pointing.
WALTER
What's this?
DONNELLY
That is for the urn.
WALTER
Don't need it. We're scattering the
ashes.
DONNELLY
Yes, so we were informed. However,
we must of course transmit the remains
to you in a receptacle.
WALTER
This is a hundred and eighty dollars.
DONNELLY
Yes sir. It is our most modestly
priced receptacle.
DUDE
Well can we--
WALTER
A hundred and eighty dollars?!
DONNELLY
They range up to three thousand.
WALTER
Yeah, but we're--
DUDE
Can we just rent it from you?
DONNELLY
Sir, this is a mortuary, not a rental
house.
WALTER
We're scattering the fucking ashes!
DUDE
Walter--
WALTER
JUST BECAUSE WE'RE BEREAVED DOESN'T
MEAN WE'RE SAPS!
DONNELLY
Sir, please lower your voice--
DUDE
Hey man, don't you have something
else you could put it in?
DONNELLY
That is our most modestly priced
receptacle.
WALTER
GODDAMNIT! IS THERE A RALPH'S AROUND
HERE?!
POINT DUME -- DAY
It is a high, wind-swept bluff. Walter and the Dude walk
towards the lip of the bluff. Parked in the background is
one lonely car, Walter's.
Walter is carrying a bright red coffee can with a blue plastic
lid. When they reach the edge the two men stand awkwardly
for a beat. Finally:
WALTER
I'll say a few words.
The Dude clasps his hands in front of him. Walter clears
his throat.
WALTER
Donny was a good bowler, and a good
man. He was. . . He was one of us.
He was a man who loved the outdoors,
and bowling, and as a surfer explored
the beaches of southern California
from Redondo to Calabassos. And he
was an avid bowler. And a good
friend. He died--he died as so many
of his generation, before his time.
In your wisdom you took him, Lord.
As you took so many bright flowering
young men, at Khe San and Lan Doc
and Hill 364. These young men gave
their lives. And Donny too. Donny
who. . . who loved bowling.
Walter clears his throat.
WALTER
And so, Theodore--Donald--Karabotsos,
in accordance with what we think
your dying wishes might well have
been, we commit your mortal remains
to the bosom of.
Walter is peeling the plastic lid off the coffee can.
WALTER
the Pacific Ocean, which you loved
so well.
AS HE SHAKES OUT THE ASHES:
WALTER
Goodnight, sweet prince.
The wind has blown all of the ashes into the Dude, standing
just to the side of and behind Walter. The Dude stands,
frozen. Finished eulogizing, Walter looks back.
WALTER
Shit, I'm sorry Dude.
He starts brushing off the Dude with his hands.
WALTER
Goddamn wind.
Heretofore motionless, the Dude finally explodes, slapping
Walter's hands away.
DUDE
Goddamnit Walter! You fucking
asshole!
WALTER
Dude! Dude, I'm sorry!
The Dude is near tears.
DUDE
You make everything a fucking
travesty!
WALTER
Dude, I'm--it was an accident!
The Dude gives Walter a furious shove.
DUDE
What about that shit about Vietnam!
WALTER
Dude, I'm sorry--
DUDE
What the fuck does Vietnam have to
do with anything! What the fuck
were you talking about?!
Walter for the first time is genuinely distressed, almost
lost.
WALTER
Shit Dude, I'm sorry--
DUDE
You're a fuck, Walter!
He gives Walter a weaker shove. Walter seems dazed, then
wraps his arms around the Dude.
WALTER
Awww, fuck it Dude. Let's go bowling.
THE LANES THE DUDE AND WALTER BOWLING
We watch each of them glide across the floor, release, follow
through--gracefully. We have never seen them bowl before.
They are quite good. Each wears a black armband on his
bowling shirt.
BAR AREA
The Dude walks up to the bar.
DUDE
Two oat sodas, Gary.
GARY
Right. Good luck tomorrow.
DUDE
Thanks, man.
GARY
Sorry to hear about Donny.
DUDE
Yeah. Well, you know, sometimes you
eat the bear, and, uh.
"Tumbling Tumbleweeds" has come up on the jukebox, and The
Stranger ambles up to the bar.
THE STRANGER
Howdy do, Dude.
DUDE
Oh, hey man, how are ya? I wondered
if I'd see you again.
THE STRANGER
Wouldn't miss the semis. How things
been goin'?
DUDE
Ahh, you know. Strikes and gutters,
ups and downs.
The Stranger's eyes crinkle merrily.
THE STRANGER
Sure, I gotcha.
The bartender has put two gleaming beers on the counter.
DUDE
Thanks, Gary...Take care, man, I
gotta get back.
THE STRANGER
Sure. Take it easy, Dude--I know
that you will.
THE DUDE, LEAVING, NODS:
DUDE
Yeah man. Well, you know, the Dude
abides.
Gazing after him, The Stranger drawls, savoring the words:
THE STRANGER
The Dude abides.
He gives his head a shake of appreciation, then looks into
the camera.
THE STRANGER
I don't know about you, but I take
comfort in that. It's good knowin'
he's out there, the Dude, takin' her
easy for all us sinners. Shoosh. I
sure hope he makes The finals. Welp,
that about does her, wraps her all
up. Things seem to've worked out
pretty good for the Dude'n Walter,
and it was a purt good story, dontcha
think? Made me laugh to beat the
band. Parts, anyway. Course--I
didn't like seein' Donny go. But
then, happen to know that there's a
little Lebowski on the way. I guess
that's the way the whole durned human
comedy keeps perpetuatin' it-self,
down through the generations, westward
the wagons, across the sands a time
until-- aw, look at me, I'm ramblin'
again. Wal, uh hope you folks enjoyed
yourselves.
He brushes his hat brim with a fingertip as we begin to pull
back.
THE STRANGER
Catch ya further on down the trail.
As we pull away The Stranger swivels in to the bar. As his
voice fades:
THE STRANGER
...Say friend, ya got any more a
that good sarsaparilla?...
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