2019-08-26 21:35:54 UTC
THE BIG LEBOWSKI
Ethan & 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:
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
We top the rise and the smoggy vastness of Los Angeles at
twilight stretches out before us.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
...and even if he's a lazy man, and
the Dude was certainly that--quite
possibly the laziest in Los Angeles
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.
...which would place him high in the
runnin' for laziest worldwide--but
sometimes there's a man. . . sometimes
there's a man.
Long shot of the glowing Ralph's. There are only two or
three cars parked in the huge lot.
Wal, I lost m'train of thought here.
But--aw hell, I done innerduced him
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.
It's the LeBaron.
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.
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
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
The Dude blows bubbles.
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.
Where's the money, Lebowski!
His head is plunged back into the toilet.
Where's the money, Lebowski!
The hands haul him out again, dripping and gasping.
WHERE'S THE FUCKING MONEY, SHITHEAD!
It's uh, it's down there somewhere.
Lemme take another look.
His head is plunged back in.
Don't fuck with us. If your wife
owes money to Jackie Treehorn, that
means you owe money to Jackie
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 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.
Ever thus to deadbeats, Lebowski.
He starts peeing on the rug.
The Dude's hand comes out of the toilet bowl with his
Oh, man. Don't do--
You see what happens? You see what
The Dude puts on his dripping sunglasses.
Look, nobody calls me Lebowski. You
got the wrong guy. I'm the Dude,
Your name is Lebowski. Your wife is
Bunny? Look, moron.
He holds up his hands.
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
The fuck is this?
The Dude pats at his pockets, takes out a joint and lights
Obviously you're not a golfer.
The blond man drops the ball which pulverizes more tile.
The Chinese man is zipping his fly.
Wasn't this guy supposed to be a
They both look around.
What do you think?
He looks like a fuckin' loser.
The Dude pulls his sunglasses down his nose with one finger
and peeks over them.
Hey. At least I'm housebroken.
The two men look at each other. They turn to leave.
Fuckin' waste of time.
The blond man turns testily at the door.
Thanks a lot, asshole.
ON THE DOOR SLAM WE CUT TO:
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.
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.
This was a valued rug.
He elaborately clears his throat.
This was, uh--
Yeah man, it really tied the room
This was a valued, uh.
Donny, the strike-scoring bowler, enters and sits next Walter.
What tied the room together, Dude?
Were you listening to the story,
Were you listening to the Dude's
I was bowling--
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--
What's your point, Walter?
There's no fucking reason--here's my
point, Dude--there's no fucking reason--
Yeah Walter, what's your point?
What's the point of--we all know who
was at fault, so what the fuck are
you talking about?
Huh? No! What the fuck are you
talking--I'm not--we're talking about
unchecked aggression here--
What the fuck is he talking about?
Forget it, Donny. You're out of
This Chinaman who peed on my rug, I
can't go give him a bill so what the
fuck are you talking about?
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 nomenclature. Asian-
Walter, this is not a guy who built
the rail- roads, here, this is a guy
who peed on my--
What the fuck are you--
Walter, he peed on my rug--
He peed on the Dude's rug--
YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR ELEMENT! This
Chinaman is not the issue, Dude.
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?
Am I wrong!
Okay. That, uh.
He elaborately clears his throat.
That rap really tied the room together, did it not?
And this guy peed on it.
Yeah, I could find this Lebowski guy--
His name is Lebowski? That's your
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.
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:
And this is the study. You can see
the various commendations, honorary
degrees, et cetera.
Yes, uh, very impressive.
Please, feel free to inspect them.
I'm not really, uh.
We are panning the walls, looking at various citations and
certificates unrelated to the ones being discussed offscreen:
That's the key to the city of
Pasadena, which Mr. Lebowski was
given two years ago in recognition
of his various civic, uh.
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--
Hey, is this him with Nancy?
That is indeed Mr. Lebowski with the
first lady, yes, taken when--
Lebowski on the right?
Of course, Mr. Lebowski on the right,
Mrs. Reagan on the left, taken when--
He's handicapped, huh?
Mr. Lebowski is disabled, yes. And
this picture was taken when Mrs.
Reagan was first lady of the nation,
yes, yes? Not of California.
And in fact he met privately with
the President, though unfortunately
there wasn't time for a photo
Nancy's pretty good.
Wonderful woman. We were very--
These are Mr. Lebowski's children,
so to speak--
Different mothers, huh?
I guess he's pretty, uh, racially
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 means for higher
education, so Mr. Lebowski has
committed to sending all of them
Jeez. Think he's got room for one
One--oh! Heh-heh. You never went
Well, yeah I did, but I spent most
of my time occupying various, um,
--smoking thai-stick, breaking into
--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
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.
Well sir, it's this rug I have, really
tied the room together-
You told Brandt on the phone, he
told me. So where do I fit in?
Well they were looking for you, these
two guys, they were trying to--
I'll say it again, all right? You
told Brandt. He told me. I know
what happened. Yes? Yes?
So you know they were trying to piss
on your rug--
Did I urinate on your rug?
You mean, did you personally come
and pee on my--
Hello! Do you speak English? Parla
usted Inglese? I'll say it again.
Did I urinate on your rug?
Well no, like I said, Woo peed on
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
Come on, man, I'm not trying to scam
anybody here, I'm just--
You're just looking for a handout
like every other--are you employed,
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
Are you employed, sir?
You don't go out and make a living
dressed like that in the middle of a
Is this a--what day is this?
But I do work, so if you don't mind--
No, look. I do mind. The Dude minds.
This will not stand, ya know, this aggression
will not stand, man. I mean, if
your wife owes--
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.
Ah fuck it.
Sure! Fuck it! That's your answer!
Tattoo it on your forehead! Your
answer to everything!
The Dude is heading for the door.
Your "revolution" is over, Mr.
Lebowski! Condolences! The bums
As the Dude opens the door.
...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
--in a high coffered hallway. Brandt
How was your meeting, Mr. Lebowski?
Okay. The old man told me to take
any rug in the house.
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.
Manolo will load it into your car
for you, uh, 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
Well, enjoy, and perhaps we'll see
you again some time, Dude.
Yeah sure, if I'm ever in the
neighborhood, need to use the john.
Arcing around the woman's foot as she finishes painting the
nails emerald green.
The young woman looks up at him. She is in her early
She leans back and extends her leg toward the Dude.
Blow on them.
The Dude pulls his sunglasses down his nose and peeks over
She waggles her foot and giggles.
The Dude tentatively grabs hold of her extended foot.
You want me to blow on your toes?
Uh-huh. . . I can't blow that far.
The Dude looks over at the pool.
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.
Dieter doesn't care about anything.
He's a nihilist.
The young woman smiles.
You're not blowing.
Brandt nervously takes the Dude by the elbow.
Our guest has to be getting along,
The Dude grudgingly allows himself to be led away, still
looking at the young woman.
I'll suck your cock for a thousand
Brandt releases a gale of forced laughter:
Ha-ha-ha-ha! Wonderful woman. Very
free-spirited. We're all very fond
Brandt can't watch though. Or he
has to pay a hundred.
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That's marvelous.
He continues to lead away the Dude, who looks back over his
I'm just gonna find a cash machine.
Scattered by a strike.
Donny calls out from the bench:
Grasshopper Dude--They're dead in
As the Dude walks back to the scoring table he turns to
another team in black bowling shirts--the Cavaliers--that
shares the lane.
Your maples, Carl.
Walter, just arriving, is carrying a leatherette satchel in
one hand and a large plastic carrier in the other.
Way to go, Dude. If you will it, it
is no dream.
You're fucking twenty minutes late.
What the fuck is that?
State of Israel. If you will it,
Dude, it is no--
What the fuck're you talking about?
The carrier. What's in the fucking
Huh? Oh--Cynthia's Pomeranian.
Can't leave him home alone or he
eats the furniture.
What the fuck are you--
I'm saying, Cynthia's Pomeranian.
I'm looking after it while Cynthia
and Marty Ackerman are in Hawaii.
You brought a fucking Pomeranian
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
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?
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
Fucking dog has papers, Dude.--Over
Smokey turns from his last roll to look at Walter.
Over the line, Smokey! I'm sorry.
That's a foul.
Bullshit. Eight, Dude.
Excuse me! Mark it zero. Next frame.
This is not Nam. This is bowling.
There are rules.
Come on Walter, it's just--it's
Smokey. So his toe slipped over a
little, it's just a game.
This is a league game. This
determines who enters the next round-
robin, am I wrong?
Am I wrong!?
Yeah, but I wasn't over. Gimme the
marker, Dude, I'm marking it an
Walter takes out a gun.
Smokey my friend, you're entering a
world of pain.
Mark that frame an eight, you're
entering a world of pain.
A world of pain.
A manager in a bowling-shirt style uniform is running for a
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.
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.
Walter, they're calling the cops,
put the piece away.
MARK IT ZERO!
YOU THINK I'M FUCKING AROUND HERE?
MARK IT ZERO!!
All right! There it is! It's fucking
He points frantically at the score projected above the lane.
You happy, you crazy fuck?
This is a league game, Smokey!
Walter and the Dude walk to the Dude's car. The Pomeranian
trots happily behind Walter who totes the empty carrier.
Walter, you can't do that. These
guys're like me, they're pacificists.
Smokey was a conscientious objector.
You know Dude, I myself dabbled with
pacifism at one point. Not in Nam,
And you know Smokey has emotional
You mean--beyond pacifism?
He's fragile, man! He's very fragile!
As the two men get into the car:
Huh. I did not know that. Well,
it's water under the bridge. And we
do enter the next round-robin, am I
No, you're not wrong--
Am I wrong!
You're not wrong, Walter, you're
just an asshole.
They watch a squad car take a squealing turn into the lot.
Okay then. We play Quintana and
O'Brien next week. They'll be
Just, just take it easy, 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
Well, just take 't easy, man.
I'm perfectly calm, Dude.
Yeah? Wavin' a gun around?!
Calmer than you are.
-his irritates the Dude further.
Just take it easy, man!
Walter is still smug.
Calmer than you are.
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.
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--
--so, like I say, just thought, you
know, fair warning. Tell Walter.
Mr. Lebowski, this is Brandt at, uh,
well--at Mr. Lebowski's office.
Please call us as soon as is
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.
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, 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.
Sure Allan, I'll be there.
Dude, uh, tomorrow is already the
Yeah, yeah I know. Okay.
Just, uh, just slip the rent under
BACK IN THE LIVING ROOM
The voice continues on the machine.
--serious infraction, and examine
your standing. Thank you. Beep.
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.
We are pushing Brandt down the high-ceilinged hallway.
Distantly, we hear a dolorous soprano. Brandt talks back
We've had some terrible news. Mr.
Lebowski is in seclusion in the West
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:
Jeffrey Lebowski waves the Dude in without looking around.
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?
I don't know, sir.
Is it. . . is it, being prepared to
do the right thing? Whatever the
price? Isn't that what makes a man?
Sure. That and a pair of testicles.
Lebowski turns away from the Dude with a haunted stare, lost
You're joking. But perhaps you're
The Dude thumps at his chest pocket.
Mind if I smoke a jay?
He turns back around and the firelight shows teartracks on
Bunny Lebowski. . . She is the light
of my life. Are you surprised at my
Strong men also cry. . . Strong men
He clears his throat.
I received this fax this morning.
Brandt hastily pulls a flimsy sheet from his clipboard and
hands it to the Dude.
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.
THE DUDE EXAMINES THE FAX:
WE HAVE BUNNY. GATHER ONE MILLION DOLLARS IN UNMARKED NON-
CONSECUTIVE TWENTIES. AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS. NO FUNNY STUFF.
Lebowski looks soulfully at the Dude.
Brandt will fill you in on the
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
The soprano's singing is once again faint. Brandt's voice
Mr. Lebowski is prepared to make a
generous offer to you to act as
courier once we get instructions for
Why me, man?
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
So he thinks it's the carpet-pissers,
Well Dude, we just don't know.
CRASH--scattered by a strike, in slow motion.
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.
Fucking Quintana--that creep can
BACK TO THE BOWLER
Displaying great slow-motion form as the Dude and Walter's
conversation continues over.
Yeah, but he's a fucking pervert,
The man is a sex offender. With a
record. Spent six months in Chino
for exposing himself to an eight-
We see Quintana, in pressed jeans and a stretchy sweater,
walking up a stoop in a residential neighborhood and zinging
The VOICE-OVER conversation continues.
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.
What's a pederast, Walter?
Shut the fuck up, Donny.
scattered by a strike.
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.
Anyway. How much they offer you?
Twenty grand. And of course I still
keep the rug.
Just for making the hand-off?
He slips a little black box out of his shirt pocket.
...They gave Dude a beeper, so
whenever these guys call--
What if it's during a game?
I told him if it was during league
Donny has been watching Quintana.
If what's during league play?
Life does not stop and start at your
convenience, you miserable piece of
What's wrong with Walter, Dude?
I figure it's easy money, it's all
pretty harmless. I mean she probably
What do you mean, 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--
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
I am the Walrus.
That fucking bitch!
I am the Walrus.
Shut the fuck up, Donny! V.I. Lenin!
Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov!
What the fuck is he talking about?
That's fucking exactly what happened,
Dude! That makes me fucking SICK!
Yeah, well, what do you care, Walter?
Yeah Dude, why is Walter so pissed
Those rich fucks! This whole fucking
thing-- I did not watch my buddies
die face down in the muck so that
this fucking strumpet--
I don't see any connection to Vietnam,
Well, there isn't a literal
Walter, face it, there isn't any
connection. It's your roll.
Have it your way. The point is--
It's your roll--
The fucking point is--
It's your roll.
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.
I see you rolled your way into the
semis. Deos mio, man. Seamus and
me, we're gonna fuck you up.
Yeah well, that's just, ya know,
like, your opinion, man.
Quintana looks at Walter.
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
You said it, man. Nobody fucks with
Jesus walks away. Walter nods sadly.
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
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.
A blonde woman looms over him. Next to her a young man
in paint-spattered denims stoops and swings something towards
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
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.
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.
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.
We push Brandt down the familiar marble hallway.
Again there is a distant aria. Brandt throws out a
wrist to look at his watch.
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
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.
Here's the money, and the phone.
Please, Dude, follow whatever
instructions they give.
Her life is in your hands.
Oh, man, don't say that..
Mr. Lebowski asked me to repeat that:
Her life is in your hands.
Her life is in your hands, Dude.
And report back to us as soon as
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.
Take the ringer. I'll drive.
The Dude takes the briefcase and slides over.
The ringer! The ringer, Dude! Have
they called yet?
The Dude opens the briefcase and paws bemusedly through it
as the car starts rolling.
What the hell is this?
My dirty undies. Laundry, Dude.
He closes the briefcase.
Walter, I'm sure there's a reason
you brought your dirty undies--
Thaaaat's right, Dude. The weight.
The ringer can't look empty.
Walter--what the fuck are you
Well you're right, Dude, I got to
thinking. I got to thinking why
should we settle for a measly fucking
We? What the fuck we? You said you
just wanted to come along--
My point, Dude, is why should we
settle for twenty grand when we can
keep the entire million. Am I wrong?
Yes you're wrong. This isn't a
fucking game, Walter--
It is a fucking game. You said so
yourself, Dude--she kidnapped herself--
The phone chirps. Dude grabs it.
Who is this?
Dude the Bagman. Where do you want
us to go?
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--
Shut the fuck up.
Walter looks over at the Dude and bellows:
Dude, are you fucking this up?
Who is that?
The driver man, I told you--
Click. Dial tone.
Oh shit. Walter.
What the fuck is going on there?
They hung up, Walter! You fucked it
up! You fucked it up! Her life was
in our hands!
We're screwed now! We don't get
shit and they're gonna kill her!
We're fucked, Walter!
Dude, nothing is fucked. Come on.
You're being very unDude. They'll
call back. Look, she kidnapped her--
The phone chirps.
Ya see? Nothing is fucked up here,
Dude. Nothing is fucked. These
guys are fucking amateurs--
Shutup, Walter! Don't fucking say
peep when I'm doing business here.
Okay Dude. Have it your way.
The Dude unclips the phone from the battery pack.
But they're amateurs.
The Dude glares at Walter. Into the phone:
Okay, vee proceed. But only if there
is no funny stuff.
So no funny stuff. Okay?
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.
That was the sign.
Walter wrestles the car onto the two-lane road.
Yeah. So as long as we get her back,
nobody's in a position to complain.
And we keep the baksheesh.
Terrific, Walter. But you haven't
told me how we get her back. Where
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.
Yeah. That's a great plan, Walter.
That's fucking ingenious, if I
understand it correctly. That's a
Swiss fucking watch.
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.
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
Click. Dial tone.
What'd he say? Where's the hand-
There is no fucking hand-off, Walter!
At a wooden bridge we throw the money
out of the car!
We throw the money out of the moving
Walter stares dumbly for a beat.
We can't do that, Dude. That fucks
up our plan.
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
Wooden bridge, huh?
I'm throwing the money, Walter!
We're not fucking around!
The bridge is coming up! Gimme the
ringer, Dude! Chop-chop!
Fuck that! I love you, Walter, but
sooner or later you're gonna have to
face the fact that you're a goddamn
Okay, Dude. No time to argue. Here's
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.
Your wheel, Dude! I'm rolling out!
What the fuck?
Your wheel! At fifteen em-pee-aitch
I roll out! I double back, grab one
of 'em and beat it out of him! The
Walter points across the seat at the paper-wrapped bundle.
You didn't think I was rolling out
of here naked!
Walter has flung open his door and is leaning halfway out
over the road.
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.
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.
The car clunks and screams around in a skid.
The Dude is thrown forward as the car hits something.
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
The Dude runs up the road toward the bridge,
frantically waving the satchel in the air.
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
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:
Ahh fuck it, let's go bowling.
A ball rumbles in to scatter ten pins.
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.
Aitz chaim he, Dude. As the ex used
What the fuck is that supposed to
mean? What the fuck're we gonna
Huh? Oh, him, yeah. Well I don't
see, um-- what exactly is the problem?
The portable phone stops ringing.
Huh? The problem is--what do you
mean what's the--there's no--we didn't--
they're gonna kill that poor woman--
What the fuck're you talking about?
That poor woman--that poor slut--
kidnapped herself, Dude. You said
No, Walter! I said I thought she
kidnapped herself! You're the one
who's so fucking certain--
That's right, Dude, 1 % certain--
Donny is trotting excitedly up.
They posted the next round of the
Donny, shut the f--when do we play?
This Saturday. Quintana and--
Saturday! Well they'll have to
Walter, what'm I gonna tell Lebowski?
I told that fuck down at the league
office-- who's in charge of
I told that kraut a fucking thousand
times I don't roll on shabbas.
It's already posted.
WELL THEY CAN FUCKING UN-POST IT!
Who gives a shit, Walter? What about
that poor woman? What do we tell--
C'mon Dude, eventually she'll get
sick of her little game and, you
know, wander back--
How come you don't roll on Saturday,
I'm shomer shabbas.
What's that, Walter?
Yeah, and in the meantime what do I
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!
The Dude gets to his feet with the portable phone.
That's it. I'm out of here.
For Christ's sake, Dude.
Walter and Donny join the Dude as he walks out of the bowling
Hell, you just tell him--well, you tell him, uh, we made the
hand-off, everything went, uh, you know--
Oh yeah, how'd it go?
Went alright. Dude's car got a little
But Walter, we didn't make the fucking
hand- off! They didn't get, the
fucking money and they're gonna--
Yeah yeah, "kill that poor woman."
He waves both arms as if conducting a symphony orchestra.
Kill that poor woman.
Walter, if you can't ride in a car,
how d'you get around on Shammas--
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?
Who's got a fucking million fucking
dollars parked in the trunk of our
car out here?
"Our" car, 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.
Who has your undies, Walter?
Where's your car, Dude?
You don't know, Walter? You seem to
know the answer to everything else!
Hmm. Well, we were in a handicapped
spot. It, uh, it was probably towed.
It's been stolen, Walter! You fucking
know it's been stolen!
Well, certainly that's a possibility,
Aw, fuck it.
The Dude walks away across the lot. The portable phone starts
Where you going, Dude?
I'm going home, Donny.
Your phone's ringing, 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:
1972 Pontiac LeBaron.
Green. Some brown, or, uh, rust,
And was there anything of value in
Huh? Oh. Yeah. Tape deck. Couple
of Creedence tapes. And there was
a, uh. . . my briefcase.
In the briefcase?
I love love
I love love