|06-13-2007, 03:04 AM||#62|
Location: I believe in the transcendental qualities of friendship.
|06-13-2007, 03:07 AM||#63|
Location: Punta Arenas, Chile
The great thing about being a registered sex offender is that I don't have to deal with such nonsense as having to explain why I don't vote, thanks to the state of California revoking that privilege.
|06-13-2007, 03:50 AM||#69|
someone more...punk rock?
Location: Ice cream pig out in M1-aud is why i don't play plug in baby the wrong way, like you
THE BIG LEBOWSKI
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:
A way out west there was this 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…...
and I'm talkin' about the Dude here--
sometimes there's a man, wal,
he's the man for his time'n place,
he fits right in there--and that's
the Dude, in Los Angeles...
...and even if he's a lazy man, and
the Dude was certainly that--quite
possibly the laziest in Los Angeles
The Dude glances furtively about and then opens a quart of
milk. He sticks his nose in the spout and sniffs.
...which would place him high in the
runnin' for laziest worldwide--but
sometimes there's a man. . . sometimes
there's a man.
She waits, arms folded.
The Dude, scribbles something at
the little customer's lectern.
Milk beads his mustache.
Lost m’train of throught here. But --
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.
—aw hell, I done innerduced him enough
The Dude, peeks over his shades at
A small black-and white TV next to
the register shows George Bush on the White House lawn with
helicopter rotors spinning behind him.
--- call for a collective action.
This will not stand. This will not stand!
This aggression against, uh, Kuwait.
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.
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.
We want that money, Lebowski. Bunny
said you were good for it.
Hands haul the Dude out of the toilet again.
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.
The inquisitor hauls the Dude's head out one last time and
flops him over so that he sits on the floor, back against
Your wife owes money to Jackie Treehorn, that
means you owe money to Jackie
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.
Oh, no. Don't do tha—
Not on the rug, man.
See, You see what happens, Lebowski?
You see what happens?
Nobody calls me Lebowski. You
got the wrong guy. I'm the Dude,
Your name is Lebowski, Lebowski.
Your wife is Bunny.
Muh muh Wi-- my wife? Bunny?
He holds up his hand.
You see a wedding ring on my finger? Does this
place look like I'm fucking married?
The toilet seat's up man!
The blond man stoops to unzip the satchel. He pulls out a
bowling ball and examines it in the manner of a superstitious
The Dude gropes back in the toilet with one hand.
The Dude's hand comes out of the toilet bowl with his
Sunglasses and puts on his dripping sunglasses.
What the fuck is this?
Obviously you're not a golfer.
The blond man drops the ball which pulverizes the tile.
The Chinese man is zipping his fly.
Isn't this guy supposed to be a
They both look around.
Yeah, 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' time waste.
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 man with black hair, wearing a bowling shirt
turns from the strike to walk back to the bench.
Wahooo, 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 Beer. He has dark worried
eyes and a goatee. Hairy legs emerge from his blue jean shorts.
He also wears a khaki army surplus vest over a black shirt.
This was a valued rug.
This is Walter. He taps a cigarette as he
addresses the Dude.
The Dude, is digging in his bag to remove his bowling ball.
Walter clears his throat.
Donny, the strike-scoring bowler, enters and sits next Walter.
This was, uh--
Yeah man, it really tied the room
This was a valued, uh.
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,
here Donny. You're like a child who
wanders in -
- in the middle of a movie
and wants to--
Walter, walter, what's the point man?
There's no fucking reason--here's my
point, Dude--there's no fucking reason
Yeah Walter, what's your point?
Walter, what's the point. Look--we all know who
was at fault here, what the fuck are
you talking about?
Huh? No! What the fuck are you
--I'm not--we're talking about
unchecked aggression here dude.
What the fuck is he talking about?
Forget it, Donny. You're out of
Walter, the 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?!
The Chinaman is not the issue here dude!
I'm talking about drawing a line in the
sand, Dude. Across this line you do
not,-- also, Dude, Chinaman is
not the preferred nomenclature, uh,
Walter, this isn't a guy who built
the rail- roads, here, this is a guy --
What the fuck are you talk--
Walter, he peed on my rug.
He peed on the Dude's rug.
DONNIE YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR ELEMENT! Dude
the Chinaman is not the issue here.
So who, who--
Jeff Lebowski. The other
Jeffrey Lebowski. The millionaire.
That's fucking interesting man,
that's fucking interesting...
Plus, he has the wealth, obviously,
and the resources, uh, so that there is no
reason, there's no FUCKING reason, why
his wife should go out and owe money all
over town, and then they come and they
pee on your fucking rug! Am I wrong?
Am I wrong!
Okay then. uh,
He elaborately clears his throat.
That rug really tied the room together, did it not?
And this guy peed on it.
You know, this is the fuckin' guy...
I could find this Lebowski guy.
His name is Lebowski? That's your
This is the guy, who should
compensate me for the fucking rug.
His wife goes out and owes money
all over town, and they pee on my rug?
They pee on your fucking Rug?
They peed on my fucking rug.
Thaaat's right Dude; they peed 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:
This is the study. As you can see
the various commendations, awards,
citations, honorary degrees, et cetera.
Hmm, very impressive.
Please, feel free to inspect them.
Hum? Oh, I'm not that-- really, uh.
Oh, Please! Please!
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 received
two years ago in recognition of his
various civic, uh... Oh,
That's a Los Angeles Chamber of
Commerce Business Achiever award,
which is given--oh not necessarily given
Hey, is this uh..?
Given only when there's a worthy,
is this ...?
Is this him with Nancy?
Yes indeed, that is Mr. Lebowski with the
first lady, yes. It was taken when Mrs. Reagan--
That's uh, Lebowski on the left there?
Yeah Of course, Mr. Lebowski on the left...
So he's a crip...you know a, a...
Handicapped, kinda guy?
Mr. Lebowski is disabled, yes.
This picture was taken when Mrs.
Reagan was first lady of the nation,
yes, yes? Not of California.
The dude points to a man in a photo with Jeffery Lewbowski.
In fact he met privately with
the President, though unfortunately
there wasn't time for a photo
Oh, Nancy's pretty good.
Oh, Wonderful woman. We were very happy to--
Uh...these are, uh?
Uh those are Mr. Lebowski's children,
so to speak--
Different mothers, huh?
No, they're not--
So, racially he's pretty cool--
Aha ha ha uh, they're
not literally his children; they're
the Little Lebowski Urban Achievers,
inner-city children of promise but
without the necessary means for a
necessary means, for a higher
education, so Mr. Lebowski has
committed to sending all of them
The young man removes the Dude's finger from one of the plaques.
Excuse me. Thank you, thank you.
Far out. Think he's got room for one
One uh--oh! Heh-heh. You never went
The Dude's finger goes back to the plaque.
Please, uh, don't touch that.
Oh yeah, yeah, no I did, but uh, You know
I spent most of my time uh, occupying various,
administration buildings uh--
--smoking a lot of thai-stick, breaking into
AHa hahahahahaha Yes, --
--and bowling. I'll tell you the
truth, Brandt, I don't remember most
Our continuing track and pan have brought us onto a framed,
Man of the year, Time Magazine cover which in the lower right corner
says, ARE YOU A LEBOWSKI ACHIEVER? Oddly, the Dude's face is on it;
we realize that the display is mirrored.
We hear the door open and the whine of a motor. The Dude,
wearing shorts and an open hooded sweat 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, but I'm very
busy, as I can imagine you are. What
can I do for you sir?
He wheels himself behind a desk. The Dude sits facing him
as Brandt withdraws.
Uh, well sir, it's, uh, this rug I have, it really
tied the room together-uh--
You told Brandt on the phone, he
told me. Where do I fit in?
Well, uh, they were--they were looking for you, these
two guys, uh you know they--
I'll say it again, you told
Brandt on the phone. He told me.
I know what happened. Yes? Yes?
Oh, 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 rug?
Hello! Do you speak English son? Parla
usted Inglese? I'll say it again.
Did I urinate on your rug?
No, like I said, Woo, peed on my rug.
I just want to understand this sir,
every time a rug is micturated upon
in this fair city, I have to
compensate the person?
Come on, man, I'm not trying to scam
anybody here, uh, you know, I'm just--uh
You're just looking for a handout
like every other--are you employed,
Huh? wait wait, let me, let me explain
something to you. Uh, I am not Mr. Lebowski;
you're Mr. Lebowski. I'm the Dude. So that's
what you call me. You know, uh, That, or uh,
his Dudeness, or uh Duder, or uh El Duderino, if,
you know, you're not into the whole
Are you employed, sir?
Employed? ah ha...
You don't go out looking for a job
dressed like that do ya? On a weekday?
Is this a--what day is this?
Well I do work sir, so if you don't mind--
Yeah, I do mind. The Dude minds.
This will not stand, ya know, this agression
will not stand, man. I mean, your wife owes money--
The Big Lebowski slams his fist down on the desk.
My wife, is not the issue here! I
hope that someday my wife will learn
to live on her allowance, which is
ample, but if she does not, that
is her problem, not mine, just
as your rug is your problem, just as
The dude puts on his sunglasses
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 took them from me in Korea
but I went out and achieved anyway.
I cannot solve your problems, sir,
only you can.
Ah fuck it.
Oh, Fuck it! Yes, that's your answer!
That's your answer to everything!
Tattoo it on your forehead!
The Dude gets up out of the chair
Your "revolution" is over, Mr.
Lebowski! Condolences! The bums
As the Dude is heading for the door. Then opens the door.
...My advice to you is, to do what your parents
did! Get a job, sir! The bums will always lose--
do you hear me, Lebowski?
The Dude shuts the door on the old man's bellowing
(muffled) THE BUMS WILL ALWAYS LOSE!
--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 with Brandt and the Dude in front of him.
Well, enjoy, and perhaps we'll see
you again some time, Dude.
Yeah sure, uh,
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.
...if I'm in the
neighborhood, you know,
and uh, I 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 uh, toes?
Uh-huh, heh heh . . I can't blow that far.
The Dude looks over at the pool.
A man in shorts floats in a dipped foam chair in the
You sure he won't mind?
The man bobbing in the foam chair is passed out. He
is thin, in his thirties, with stringy blond hair.
One arm trails off into the water; next to it, an empty
whiskey bottle bobs.
Uli doesn't care about anything.
He's a nihilist.
Ah, that must be exhausting.
You're not blowing.
Our guest has to be getting along,
Ahhh, you're Bunny.
I'll suck your cock for a thousand
Brandt releases a gale of forced laughter:
Ha-ha-ha-ha! Wonderful woman.
We're all very fond of her.
Brandt can't watch though. Or he
has to pay a hundred.
Aha-ha-ha-ha! That's marvelous.
Brandt nervously takes the Dude by the elbow.
The Dude grudgingly allows himself to be led away, still
looking at the young woman back over his shoulder.
Uhhhh...I'm just gonna go find a cash machine.
Scattered by a strike.
Donny backs away from the line, turns and walks back.
Wahooo...I'm slammin' 'em tonight
You guys are dead in the water!!
As the Donny walks back to the scoring table he points to
another team in black bowling shirts--the Cavaliers--that
shares the lane.
Walter, just arriving, is carrying a leatherette satchel in
one hand and a large plastic carrier in the other.
Alright! Way to go, Donny! If you will it, it
is no dream.
You're fucking twenty minutes late, man.
What the fuck is that?
State of Israel. If you will it,
Dude, it is no dream.
What the fuck're you talking about man?
The carrier. What's in the fucking
Huh? Oh!--Cynthia's dog.
I think it's a Pomeranian.
I Can't leave him home alone or he
eats the furniture. I'm watching 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
taking you're fucking turn, Dude.
He lets the small yapping dog out of the carrier. It scoots
around the bowling table, sniffing at bowlers and wagging
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, this is a fucking show
dog with fucking papers. You can't
board it. It gets upset, its hair
Hey man, Walter, you know--
Fucking dog has fucking papers,
--Over the line!
Smokey turns from his last roll to look at Walter.
I'm sorry Smokey, You were
over the line, that's a foul.
Bullshit. Mark it eight Dude.
Excuse me! Mark it zero. Next frame.
Bullshit. Walter! Mark it eight dude.
Smokey, this is not Nam. This is bowling.
There are rules.
Hey Walter come on, it's just--hey man
it's Smokey. So his toe slipped over a
little, you know, it's just a game, man.
This is a league game. This
determines who enters the next round-
robin, am I wrong?
Yeah, but I wasn't--
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.
You mark that frame an eight, you're
entering a world of pain.
A world of pain.
Look Dude, I ... this
is your partner--
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 knee, making
high body-twisting tail-wagging leaps.
They're calling the cops, man,
put the piece away.
Walter points it at Smokey's head.
MARK IT ZERO!
Walter put the piece away.
YOU THINK I'M FUCKING AROUND HERE?
Walter primes the gun.
MARK IT ZERO!!
All right!! It's fucking zero!
You happy, you crazy fuck?
It's 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.
You can't do that man. These guys, you
know, they'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 he's got emotional
You mean--beyond pacifism?
He's fragile, very fragile!
As the two men get into the car:
Huh. I did not know that. Well,
it's all 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.
Okay then. We play Quintana and
O'Brien next week. They should be
They watch a squad car take a squealing turn into the lot.
Man, willya just, just take it easy, man.
You know, that's your answer for everything,
Dude. And let me point out something--pacifism
is not--look at our current situation
with that camelfucker in Iraq--
pacifism is not something to hide
Just take it easy, man.
I'm perfectly calm, Dude.
Yeah? Wavin' the fuckin' gun around?!
Calmer than you are.
This irritates the Dude further.
Will you just take it easy?
Walter is still smug.
Calmer than you are.
A large, brilliant Persian rug lies in front of the Dude's beat-
up old furniture.
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 Gilbert and I will be submitting
this to the League and asking them
to set aside the round, I don't know,
or maybe, forfeit it to us--
so, like I say, just thought, you
know, fair warning. Tell Walter.
At the bar next to the answering machine the Dude is mixing
kahlua, vodka and milk.
Mr. Lebowski, this is Brandt at, uh,
well--at Mr. Lebowski's office.
Please call us as soon as is
Mr. Lebowski, this is Bell Salnicker
with the Southern Cal Bowling League,
and I just got a, an informal report,
that a member of your team,
uh, Walter Sobchak, drew a firearm
during league play. If this is true
of course, it contraviens a number of
the league's by-laws, and article 27
of the league...
We hear a knock at the door.
It swings open to reveal a short, hairy, muscular but balding
middle-aged man in a blue T-shirt and beige shorts.
Dude, I, I finally, I got the uh, venue I
wanted. Uh, I'm Performing my dance
quintet--you know, my cycle--at Crane
Jackson's Fountain Street Theatre on
Tuesday night, and well I'd love it if
you came and gave me notes.
The Dude takes a swig of his drink.
I'll be there man.
Uh, Dude, uh, tomorrow's already the
Far out. Oh, oh, alright, 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 as soon as you get in and I'll
send the limo. I hope you're not avoiding
this call because of the rug, ha ha, 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.
BRANDT ANNOUNCES, AMBIGUOUSLY:
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..
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?
Uh, I, I don't know, sir.
Is it being prepared to
do the right thing? Whatever the
cost? Isn't that what makes a man?
Ummm..sure. That and a pair of testicles.
Lebowski is turned away from the Dude with a haunted stare, lost
You're joking. But perhaps you're
The Dude pulls a 'Jay' out of his pants pocket.
You mind if I do a jay?
The firelight shows teartracks on his cheeks.
Bunny Lebowski. . . She is the light
of my life. Are you surprised at my
Oh, fuckin' A.
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.
THE DUDE EXAMINES THE FAX:
WE HAVE BUNNY.
Written by men who are unable
to achieve on a level field of play.
GATHER ONE MILLION DOLLARS
IN UNMARKED NON-CONSECUTIVE TWENTIES.
NO FUNNY STUFF.
This is a bummer man. That's a,
that's a bummer.
Brandt will fill you in on the
The Big Lebowski gazes 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 believes that the culprits might
be the very people who, uh, soiled
your rug, and you're in a unique
position to confirm or, disconfirm
He thinks the carpet-pissers did this?
Well Dude, we just don't know.
Music-Spanish version of 'Hotel california' slow motion.
Still in slow motion. We are looking at a tall, thin, Hispanic bowler
He wears an all-in-one dacron-polyester stretch, violet
bowling outfit with a racing stripe down each side.
He has a pink bowling ball which he is holding in front of his face
and he licks the ball. He lowers the ball on his back swing.
Stitched above the breast pocket of his all-in-one is his
first name, "Jesus".
He rolls the pink ball and slams the pins. He turns and to the music,
does a bravado dance and a strut back to the seat taughting the
Wheeling and thrusting a black gloved single finger into the air.
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
Yeah, but he's a fucking pervert,
No. He's a sex offender. With a
record. He did 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 ringing
The VOICE-OVER conversation continues.
When he moved down to Hollywood he had
to go door-to-door to tell everyone
he was 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.
BACK TO WALTER AND THE DUDE
So. How much they give you?
Twenty grand, man. And of course I still
keep the rug.
Just for making the hand-off?
He slips a little black box out of his shorts pocket,
and turns it on.
...They gave uh, Dude a beeper, so
whenever these guys call--
What if it's during a game?
Oh, I told him if it was during league
Donny has been watching Quintana.
What's during league play?
uh, ya know
Life does not stop and start
at your convenience,
you miserable piece of
I, I figure uh,
What's wrong with Walter, Dude?
I figure it's easy money, ya know, it's all
pretty harmless. She probably
What do you mean, Dude?
Rug-peers did not do this.
Look at it. Young trophy wife.
Marries this guy for money, she figures
he isn't giving her enough. Ya know, She
owes money all over town-- aww.
It's all a goddamn fake man. It's like Lenin
said, you look for the person who will
benefit. And uh,uh, you know, uh,
I am the Walrus.
you'll, uh, uh, you know what I'm trying
I am the Walrus.
That fucking bitch!
I am the Walrus.
That's ex-- Shut the fuck up, Donny! V.I. Lenin!
Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov!
What the fuck is he talking about?
Fucking exactly what happened. Those--
We see Quintana and his partner vigorusly shining their bowling balls.
That makes me fucking SICK!
Well, what do you care, 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--
This fuckin' whore...
I don't see any--
...can waltz around town...
- connection with Vietnam, man.
Well, there isn't a literal
Walter, face it, there isn't any
connection. Your roll.
Have it your way, but my point is--
My point is--
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, Liam, a short fat Irishman with tufted brown hair.
I see you rolled your way into the
semis. Dios mio, man. Liam and
me, we're gonna fuck you up.
Yeah well, ya know, that's just,
like uh, your opinion, man.
Quintana looks at Walter.
Let me tell you something, pendejo.
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 till it goes
You said it, man. Nobody fucks with
Jesus walks away. Walter turns his head toward the Dude.
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
On the rug lies a cassette case labeled A: VENICE
BEACH LEAGUE PLAYOFFS 1987. B: Bob
The Dude absently licks his lips as we faintly hear a ball
rumbling down the lane. On its impact with the pins, the
Dude opens his eyes.
A redhead woman looms over him. Next to her a young man
in paint-spattered denims stoops and swings his fist at the
The sap catches the Dude on the chin and sends his head
thunking back onto the rug.
Fireworks 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 redhead 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 breast 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 redhead
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 along with the song
'The Man in Me'.
We are close on the Dude, upside down. As the picture fades
'The Man in Me' continues, 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.
Aaaah...Oh man. Ohhhh...Awwww...
He raises falls back to the bare floor.
The rug is gone.
The beeper on the zipper of his hooded sweat shirt is
blinking red in sync with the continuing irritating beeps.
WIDE ON THE ROOM
The beeps continue.
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 405. They will
call you on the portable phone with
instructions in about forty minutes.
One person only, they were very clear
on that, or I'd go with you. One person
only. What happened to your jaw?
Oh, nothin', man just ah--
They have reached the little desk outside of the big
Lebowski's office; Brandt opens the top cabinet with a key
and takes out an attache case.
Here's the money...
He hands this to the Dude
and the phone...
along with a cellular phone in a battery-pack carrying case.
Please, Dude, follow whatever
instructions they give.
Her life is in your hands.
Oh, man, don't say that man..
Mr. Lebowski asked me to repeat that:
Her life is in your hands.
Oh shit, man.
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. He is wearing combat fatigues,and holds a battered
brown briefcase. He also holds an irregular shape
bundled in a news paper wrapping.
The car stops in front of him
Where the fuck are you going, man?
Take the ringer. I'll drive.
He opens the Dude's door and hands in the briefcase
The Dude takes the briefcase and slides over.
The ringer! The ringer, Dude!
The car drives off.
The Dude opens the briefcase and paws bemusedly through it.
Have they called yet?
What the hell is this?
My dirty undies dude. Laundry,
Walter, I'm sure there's a reason
you brought your dirty undies man.
He closes the briefcase.
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 man.
Oh, but it is a game. You said so
yourself. She kidnapped herself.
I said I thought--
The phone chirps. Dude grabs it.
Who is this?
Dude the Bagman. Where do you want
us to go?
Shit. . . yeah, you know, uh, me
and the driver. I'm not uh,
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?
That is the driver, I told you--
Click. Dial tone.
What the fuck's going on?
What the fuck is going on?
He hung up, man! You fucked it
up! You fucked it up! Her life was
in our hands man!
We're screwed now! We don't get
shit, they're gonna kill her!
We're fucked, Walter!
Nothing is fucked Dude. Come on.
You're being very unDude. They'll
call back. Look, she kidnapped her--
The phone chirps.
Ya see? Nothing's fucked here,
Dude. Nothing is fucked. They're
a bunch of fucking amateurs--
But Walter, Walter will you just shut the fuck up!
Don't say peep when I'm doing business here man.
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?
Just tell me where the fuck you
want us to go.
A HIGHWAY SIGN: SIMI VALLEY ROAD NEXT LEFT.
It flashes by in the headlights of the roaring car.
That was the sign man.
Walter wrestles the car onto the two-lane road.
So, all we gotta do is get her back,
no one's in a position to complain,
and we keep the baksheesh.
Yeah, terrific, Walter. But you haven't
told me how we're gonna get her back. Where
That's the simple part, Dude.
We make the handoff, I grab one of 'em
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. Once a plan
gets too complex, everything can
go wrong. If there's one thing I
learned in Nam--
The phone chirps.
You are coming to a vooden bridge.
When you cross the bridge you srow ze bag
from ze left vindow of ze moving
kar. You're being vatched.
Click. Dial tone.
What'd he say? Where's the hand-
There is no fucking hand-off man.
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.
No, 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'll fucking
understand it! That's the beauty of it!
Wooden bridge, huh?
I'm throwing the money, Walter!
We're not fucking around man!
Ok, dude the bridge is coming up! Gimme the
Fuck that! Walter I love you, but
sooner or later you're gonna have to
face the fact that you're a goddamn
Okay, Dude. No time to argue.
Hey man! hey--
Here's the bridge--
Walter! hey--hey walter hey--
There is the bump and new steady of the car on the bridge.
The Dude is holding the money briefcase from
the back seat. Walter reaches one arm across Dude's body to
grab the laundry.
There goes the ringer.
He flings it out the window.
What the fuck!
OK Dude, your wheel!
Walter Hey, Hey what the fuck?
At fifteen em-pee-aitch
I roll out! I double back, grab one
of 'em and beat it out of him! The
Walter grabs across the seat at the paper-wrapped bundle.
You didn't think I was rolling out
of here naked did ya!
Walter, Walter what the--
Walter has flung open his door and is leaning halfway out
over the road.
Fifteen! Dude This is it! Let's
take that hill!
Walter hey Walter--
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 up holding the satchel of money.
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
The front of his car is crumpled into a pole. 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!! 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 dude, let's go bowling.
Walter stands at the end of the lane with a cigarette in his mouth
and holding a bowling ball up in front of him. Slowly he walks
to the line and rolls.
He returns from the lane to where the Dude sits in the
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, uh, I don't kn..
um-- what exactly is the problem?
Ah, the problem is--what do you
mean what's the--
The portable phone stops ringing.
There was no--we didn't uh--
they're gonna kill that poor woman man.
What the fuck're you talking about?
That poor woman--that poor slut--
kidnapped herself, Com'on Dude. You said
Man! I said I thought she
kidnapped herself! You're the one
who's so fucking certain--
That's right, Dude, 100 % certain--
Donny is trotting excitedly up.
They posted the next round of the
Donny, shut the fu--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!
He already posted it.
WELL THEY CAN FUCKING UN-POST IT!
WHO GIVES A SHIT! Uh, they're gonna kill
that poor woman man. What am I gonna
C'mon Dude, uh, eventually she'll get
sick of her little game and, you
know, wander on 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 Donny, is shabbas. The Jewish
day of rest. That means I don't work,
I um, 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!
Walter, how am I going to--hows--
Shomer fucking shabbas!
The Dude gets to his feet with the portable phone.
Oh fuck, that, that's it. I'm out of here.
Aw come on Dude.
Walter looks at Donny and silently mouths the words, 'What a fucking baby'.
Walter stumbles up and he and Donny join the Dude as he walks out of the bowling
alley. He rubs his leg that he hurt falling out of the car.
Dude! Dude! ... ow, fuck, you just tell him, uh
tell him we made the drop and everything went, uh
Oh yeah, how'd it go?
Went alright. Dude's car got a little
Walter, we didn't make the fucking
hand- off man! They didn't get, the
fucking money and they're gonna--
"They're gonna kill that poor woman."
He waves both arms as if conducting a symphony orchestra.
They're gonna Kill that poor woman.
Hey 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? They're a bunch of 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 sittin' in the trunk of our
"Our" car, Walter?
And what do they got? My dirty
undies. My fucking whites---Say,
Dude, where is your car?
The three bowlers, stopped at the edge of the lot, stare out
at an empty parking space.
Who's got your undies, Walter?
Where's your car, Dude?
You don't know, Walter?
Hmm. It was parked in a handicapped
zone. Perhaps they towed it.
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 goin' home, Donny.
Your phone's ringing, Dude.
Thank you, Donny.
DUDE'S LIVING ROOM
The Dude is sitting forward in his easy chair,
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:
Uh, yeah, uh, Green. Some uh, brown,
uh or, rust, coloration.
And was there anything of value in
Oh uh, yeah. Uh, a tape deck. Some
Creedence tapes. And there was
a, uh. . .uh my briefcase.
In the briefcase?
Uh, uh Papers. Ya know, just papers.
Uh you know, my papers. Business papers.
The Dude reacts to the question by pushing back into the chair.
And what do you do, sir?
The home phone starts ringing--a ring distinct from the
chirp of the portable. The Dude makes no move to answer it.
My rug was also stolen.
Your rug was in the car.
The Dude waves his hand over the floor.
The Dude looks over at the phone.
Finally the rings stop as an answering machine kicks on.
Dude's Voice on Machine, 'The Dude's not in. Leave a message
after the beep. It takes a minute.'
You find them much? Uh these stolen cars?
Sometimes. I wouldn't hold out much
hope for the tape deck though.
Or the Creedence.
Well what about uhhhhhh, the briefcase?
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 one who took
Well, I guess we can close the file
on that one.
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 the floor. The furnishings are
spare given the space.
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 brushes in both hands
with which she flicks paint down at the canvas.
Two young men in paint-spattered shorts, T-shirts and sneakers
reach the sling shortly after it reaches the end of its track
and slowly lower the woman to the floor.
I'll be with you in a moment, Mr.
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
Does the female form make you
uncomfor- table, Mr. Lebowski?
Uh, is that what this is a picture of?
In a sense, yes.
My art has been commended as being
strongly vaginal. Which bothers
some men. The word itself makes
some men uncomfortable. Vagina.
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
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.
She hands the dude a cloth.
Your face... As for this "kidnapping"--
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.
Yeah, right, but, but let me explain
something about that rug--
Do you like sex, Mr. Lebowski?
Sex. The physical act of love.
Coitus. Do you like it?
I was talking about my rug.
You're not interested in sex?
You mean coitus?
I like it too. It's a male myth
about feminists that we hate sex.
It can be a natural, zesty enterprise.
However there are some people--
it is called satyriasis in men,
nymphomania in women--who engage
in it compulsively and without joy.
Oh yes Mr. Lebowski, these unfortunate
souls cannot love in the true sense
of the word. Our mutual acquaintance
Bunny is one of these.
Listen, Maude uh, I'm sorry if your
stepmother is a nympho, but uh, I don't
see what this has to do with uh--do you
have any kahlua?
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
Uli is driving a car.
Oh, I know that guy. He's a
A THIRD CARD:
A FOURTH CARD:
The Dude is at the bar, a bottle of Kahlua frozen halfway
to his glass.
From the television set we hear a doorbell ring, and then a
On the TV screen the door opens to reveal a sallow-faced
man in White cover-alls. It is Uli, the floater in
Lebowski's pool. The girl answering the door is Bunny Lebowski.
Hello. Mein dizbatcher says zere
iss somezing wrong mit deine kable.
Yeah, come on in, I'm not really sure
exactly what's really wrong with the cable.
Dat's vhy day zent me, I'm un exspert.
The TV's in here.
You recognize her, of course.
Za, okay, I bring mein toolz.
Oh, that's my friend Shari.
She just came over to use the shower.
The story is ludicrous.
Mein nommen ist Karl.
ich bin expert.
You must be here to fix the cable.
Good lord. You can imagine where it goes
He fixes the cable?
Don't be fatuous, Jeffrey.
Maude switches off the set.
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--
Shit yeah, the achievers.
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.
Yeah, but my-
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.
However, 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.
Well-- I could do that--
If you successfully do so, I will
compensate you to the tune of 10% of
the recovered sum.
Thousand, yes, bones or clams or
whatever you call them.
Yeah ah, but, but what about my uh--
--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
Oh that's that's fine. It doesn't even uh--
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.
Tha, tha, That's thoughtful but--
Please see him, Jeffrey. He's a
good man, and thorough.
The Dude sits in back holding a White Russian, listening to
the chauffeur, a man of about the same age.
--So he says, "My wife's a pain in
the ass. She's always tryin' to bust my
friggin aggets, my daughter's married to a
Jadrool loser bastard, I got a rash
so bad on my ass I can't even siddown.
But you know me. I can't complain."
THROUGH RASPING LAUGHTER:
Fuckin' A, man. I got a rash man.
He takes a sip of a freshly-mixed White Russian, which leaves
milk on his mustache.
...I gotta tell ya Ton' man, earlier
in the day, I was feeling really
shitty man. Really down in the dumps.
Lost a little money...
Heyh you know what? Forgeddaboutit huh, forgedaboutit.
Yeah, fuck it man! I can't be
worried about that shit. Life goes
Well home sweet home, Mr. L.
The limo has rolled to a stop. The Dude gets out, still
holding his drink.
Hey yo, com'eer. Who's your
friend in the Volkswagon?
Tony jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
The Dude turns to look.
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.
Yeah, he followed us here.
The Dude scowls.
When did he start fol--whoaaaa
--what the fuck!
The Dude is grabbed from behind and muscled away in a half-
nelson by another uniformed chauffeur.
Into the limo, you sonofabitch. No
As he is frog-marched towards another limo the Dude holds
his drink away from his chest and up out of the way.
Hey, hey, hey careful, man! There's a beverage here!
The waiting limo's back door is flung open.
The Dude is shoved in and awkwardly and he lands on his side
in a seat facing the front. The door is slammed behind him.
His drink is still intact.
Start talking and talk fast you lousy
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.
Where's my goddamn money, you bum?!
Well, well we--I, I, I don't--
They did not receive the money, you
nitwit! They did not receive the
money! HER LIFE WAS IN YOUR
This is our concern, Dude.
No, man, nothing is fucked here--
NOTHING IS FUCKED!
THE GODDAMN PLANE HAS CRASHED INTO THE MOUNTAIN!
Well man, come on, who're you gonna believe?
Those guys or uh--we dropped off the
I--the royal we, you know, the
editorial--I dropped off the money,
exactly as per--Look, man I've got certain
information alright? Certain things have
come to light, and uh, ya know, has it ever
occurred to you, that uh, instead of uh, you know
running around, uh uh, blaming me, given the
nature of all this new shit, you know it, it
it, this could be a uh, a lot more uh, uh, uh, uh,
complex, I mean it's not just, it might not
be, just such a simple, uh--you know?
What in God's holy name are you
Well I'll tell you what I'm blathering
about! I got information man--new shit
has come to light and and--shit, man!
She kidnapped herself!
Lebowski stares at him, dumbstruck. The Dude is encouraged.
Well sure man, look at it! Ya know. A young trophy
wife, in the parlance of our times, ya know.
She uh, uh, owes money all over town,
including to known pornographers--ha,
and that's cool, that's that's cool--
I- I'm saying, she needs money man, and
uh, you know, of course they're gonna say
they didn't get it, uh uh, because she wants
more, man, she's gotta feed the monkey,
I I mean--uh, hasn't that ever occurred to you man?
No Mr. Lebowski, that had not
occurred to me.
That had not occurred to us, Dude.
Uh, okay, ya know, you guys aren't privy to all
the new shit, so uh, you know, but hey,
that's what you, that's what you pay me for. Aha...
The Dude takes a hurried sip from his drink.
Um. Speaking of which, do you think uh,
that you could uh, give me my
twenty thousand in cash? Uh, my concern is,
and I've gotta check with, with my accountant,
but that this might bump me up into a
higher tax uh--
Brandt, give him the envelope.
Oh well, if you've already got the,
check made out, that that's cool.
Brandt is handing him a letter-sized envelope which is
distended by something inside.
We received it this morning.
The Dude, frowning, untucks its flap, takes out some cotton
wadding and unrolls it.
Since you have failed to achieve,
even in the modest task that was
your charge, since you have stolen
my money, since you have
unrepentantly betrayed my trust.
I have no choice but to tell these
bums to do whatever is necessary to
recover their money from you,
Jeffrey Lebowski. And with Brandt
as my witness, I will tell you this:
The wadding, undone, reveals a smaller wad of gauze taped up
inside. The Dude starts to unroll the inner package.
Any further harm visited upon
Bunny, will be visited tenfold upon
Between thumb and forefinger the Dude holds up the contents
of the package--a little toe, with emerald green nail polish.
...My God sir. I will not abide
The Dude and Walter sit at the counter, both staring off
into space, both absently stirring their coffee with little
AFTER A LONG BEAT:
That wasn't her toe dude.
Whose toe was it, Walter?
How the fuck should I know? I do
know that nothing about it indicates--
The nail polish, Walter.
Fine, Dude. As if it's impossible
to get some nail polish, apply it to
someone else's toe--
Someone else's--where the fuck are
they gonna get--
You want a toe? I can get you a
toe, believe me. There are ways,
You don't wanna know about
it, believe me.
Yeah, but Walter--
Hell I can get you a toe by 3 0'clock this
afternoon--with nail polish. These
They send us a toe, we're supposed
to shit ourselves with fear. Jesus Christ.
The point is--
They're gonna kill her, Walter, and
then they're gonna kill me--
Dude that's, that's just the stress
talking, man. Now so far we have what
appears to me, to be a series of
What about the toe?
FORGET ABOUT THE FUCKING TOE!
A waitress enters.
Excuse me sir, could you please keep your voices
down, this is a family restaurant.
Oh, please dear! For your information:
the Supreme Court has roundly
rejected prior restraint!
C'mon Walter, this is not a First Amendment
Sir, if you don't calm down I'm going
to have to ask you to leave.
Lady, I got buddies who died face-
down in the muck so that you and I could
enjoy this family restaurant!
THE DUDE GETS UP:
All right, I'm out of here.
Hey Dude, don't go away man!
Com'on, this affects all of us man!
The Dude has left frame; Walter calls after him:
Our basic freedoms!
He looks defiantly around.
I'm staying. I'm Finishing my coffee.
He takes a drink of the coffee, then hits the counter lightly
with his hands, and then he folds his arms on the counter,
Enjoying my coffee.
A dripping noise.
We see the Dude's toes, which protrude from the
soapy water, splayed against the far side of the tub.
The Dude sits in the bathtub, surrounded by lit candles.
A joint in a roach clip in one hand.
The Dude takes a hit from the joint.
We hear the phone ringing in the other room.
The camera cuts to a small table next to the tub which
has more candles on it, a tape recorder and a tape case
labeled, 'Song of the Whale', which we hear in the background.
After the Dude's outgoing message we hear:
VOICE THROUGH MACHINE
Mr. Lebowski, this is Duty Officer
Rolvaag of the L.A.P.D.
We've recovered your automobile.
It can be claimed at...
VOICE THROUGH MACHINE
...the North Hollywood
Auto Circus there on Victory.
...The hours there on weekdays will be 10:30 to 5
Far fuckin' out.
You'll just need to present a claim--
The message is interrupted by loud smashing sounds, as of
someone applying a baseball bat to the answering machine.
He looks blearily at the open doorway.
A tall man dressed in black with a cricket paddle is
smashing the answer machine.
Hey !Hey! This is a private residence,
A man holdin a leash with a small animal on it skittering
excitedly on the floor, has entered the bathroom and,
two other men, including the one with the cricket bat
are entering behind him.
They turn on the light to the bathroom as the enter.
The Dude looks curiously at the small, nattering animal.
Ah, nice marmot.
The first man, with the leash, 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.
Ver is za money Lebowski.
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 his shoulder
and squishes him back into the water. The Dude hits at the marmot
splashing water everywhere. The first man then scoops the marmot
out of the water. It shakes itself off, spraying the Dude.
You sink veer kidding und making
mit de funny stuff?
Vee could do things you only dreamed
The marmot, back on the floor, is skittering around, shaking
itself and convulsing in little sneezes.
Ja, vee belief in nossing.
Vee belief in nossing, Lebowski!
und tomorrow vee come back und
vee cut off your chonson.
I SAY VEE CUT OFF YOUR CHONSON!
Just sink about zat, Lebowski.
The three men turn to leave. Over their retreating backs:
Ja, your viggly penis, Lebowski.
The second man turns off the light as he leaves the room.
Ja, und maybe vee stamp on it und
skvush it, Lebowski!
The man with the cricket bat smashes something made of glass
on his way out of the bungalow.
NORTH HOLLYWOOD AUTO CIRCUS
It was discovered last night in Van Nuys,
uh lodged against an abutment.
Oh man, lodged where!!
A policeman with a clipboard is leading the Dude through a
large parking lot.
You're lucky she didn't chopped, Mr.
Must've been a joyride situation;
they abandoned the vehicle once they
hit the retaining wall.
They have reached the Dude's car. The driver's side
exterior has been scraped raw. The Dude looks in the window.
Oooh my fucking briefcase man! It's not here! Shit!
Yeah I saw that on the report. Sorry
uh, you gotta get in on the other side.
Uh, the side view was found on the road
by the car.
The policeman hands the Dude an exterior rear-view mirror.
You're lucky they left the tape deck though,
and the Creedence.
The Dude climbs in the passenger side.
Awh! Jesus--what's that smell, man?
Uh, yeah. Its ah, probably a vagrant, slept
in the car. Or maybe just used it
as a toilet, and moved on.
The Dude bellows through the glass on the driver's side:
Hey man, are you gonna find these guys?
Or, you know uh, I mean, do you got any
promising uh, uh, leads? Or--
Leads, yeah sure. I'll uh, just check with
the boys down at the Crime Lab.
They uh, got uh, four more detectives working
on the case. They've 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 policeman laughs hysterically.
BOWLING ALLEY BAR
The Dude, Walter and Donny sit at the bar, the Dude with a
White Russian, Walter with a beer, and Donny with a soda.
My only hope is that the
big Lebowski kills me before the
Germans can cut my dick off.
Now that is just ridiculous, Dude. No
one's going to cut your dick off.
Thank you Walter.
Not if I have anything to say about
Thank you Walter. That makes me
feel very secure.
That makes me feel warm inside.
This whole fucking thing--I could
be sitting here with just pee-stains
on my rug.
Walter shakes his head.
But no man, I gotta--you know.
Fucking Germans. Nothing changes.
They were Nazis, Dude?
Come on, Donny, they were threatening
Are we gonna split hairs here?
Am I wrong?
Man. They were nihilists, man.
They kept saying they believe in
Nihilists! Fuck me.
Walter looks haunted.
I mean say what you want about the
tenets of National Socialism, Dude,
at least it's an ethos.
And let's also not forget--let's not
forget, Dude--that keeping wildlife, uh,
an amphibious rodent, for uh, you know,
domestic, within the city--
that ain't legal either.
What're you, a fucking park ranger
No, I'm just trying to uh--
Who gives a shit about the fucking
--We're sympathizing here, Dude--
Fuck sympathy! I don't need
your fucking sympathy, man,
I need my fucking Johnson!
What do you need that for, Dude?
You gotta buck up, man, you cannot
drag this negative energy into the
Fuck the tournament! Fuck you,
There is a moment of stunned silence.
Fuck the tournament?!
Okay Dude. I can see you don't want
to be cheered up here. C'mon Donny, let's
go get us a lane.
They leave the Dude sitting morosely at the bar. As he stares
DOWN INTO HIS EMPTY GLASS:
Another Caucasian, Gary.
STILL STARING DOWN AT THE BAR:
Friends like these, huh Gary.
That's right, Dude.
The song, "Tumbling Tumbleweeds." starts playing signaling
an 'atmosphere' change. The bowling alley is a distant sound.
Gary sits the Dude's drink in front of him and the camera pans
out to show a 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. And he is seated
on the stool that Walter vacated.
TO THE BARTENDER:
D'ya got a good sarsaparilla?
We recognize the voice of The Stranger whose narration opened
Sioux City Sarsaparilla.
The Stranger nods.
Yeah, that's a good one.
Waiting for his drink, he looks amiably around the bar. His
crinkled eyes settle on the Dude.
How ya doin' there, Dude?
The Dude looks over at the Stranger.
Not to good, man.
One a those days, huh.
Wal, a wiser fella than m'self once said,
sometimes you eat the bar en...
The bartender puts a brown bottle and a frosted glass on the
bar in front of The Stranger.
He looks back at the Dude.
... and sometimes the
bar, wal, he eats you.
Hmm. That some kind of Eastern
Far from it.
The starnger reaches for his drink and pauses before drinking.
I like your style, Dude.
Well I dig your style too, man.
Got a whole cowboy thing goin'.
Thankie, there's just one thing, Dude.
D'ya have to use s'many cuss words?
THE DUDE LOOKS UP, ABSENTLY:
What the fuck are you talking about?
The Stranger chuckles indulgently and pushes off from the
Okay Dude, have it your way.
He stands up from the bar stool and looks at the Dude.
Take 'er easy, Dude.
Yeah. Thanks man.
He is gone. "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" is ending as Gray places
the phone in front of the Dude:
Call for ya Dude.
The Dude picks up the phone that Gary just put in front of him.
Jeffrey, you have not gone to the
Uh, oh yeah, no no, I haven't yet, Uh--
I'd like to see you immediately.
We see a thin man dressed in black, with close cropped hair,
sitting in a black leather chair, reading a magazine.
He looks up at the Dude as he walks in the room.
So you're Lebowski?
Maudie's told me all about you.
She'll be back in a minute, sit down.
Do you want a drink?
Yeah, sure, White Russian.
The Dude sits down in the other leather chair.
The bar's over there.
The Dude gets up to go over to the bar.
So what do you do Lebowski?
Who the fuck are you man?
Just a friend of Maudie's.
Yeah? The friend with the cleft asshole?
The man snickers and laughs again.
Whadda you do?
MAN (giggles and snickers)
Oh, nothing much.
Maude enters the room wearing a green outer garment.
MAN (to Maude)
Uh, yeah. How are you? Uh,
listen Maude, I've got to uh--
tender my resignation or whatever,
because uh, looks like your mother
really was kidnapped after all.
She most certainly was not!
Hey man, why don't you fucking listen
occasionally? You might learn
something. Now I got--
And please don't call her my mother.
The man in the chair starts giggling.
She is most definitely the perpetrator
and not the victim.
I'm telling you, I got pretty definitive
From the main guy, Uli.
Her "co-star" in the beaver picture?
Beav-? You mean vagina?--I mean,
you know the guy?
I might have introduced them
for all I know
Maude walks past the man in the chair on her way to the counter.
Do you remember Uli?
He's a musician, he used to have a group,
'Autoban'. Look in my LPs they released
one album in the late seventies.
The Dude fingers through the albums filling a metal rack.
Their music is a sort of--ugh--techno-pop..
The Dude stops between two albums.
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 forheads looming below
slicked back hair, gazing upward in thin-lipped epiphany. They are
wearing red shirts, red lipstick, black ties and black pants.
A bed of nails is the only set dressing on the cyc.
So he's pretending to be the abductor?
Look, Jeffrey, you don't really
kidnap someone you're acquainted
with. The whole idea is that the
hostage can't be able to identify
you, after you've let them go.
Well I, I I know that.
The man in the black chair giggles hysterically.
What the fuck is with this guy?
Who is he?
Knox Harrington, the video artist.
The man continues to giggle and snicker.
So Uli has the money?
Well uh, no, not exactly. Uh, uh uh,
This is a very complicated case, Maude.
You know a Lotta ins, a Lotta outs,
a lotta what-have-yous. And uh, lotta
strands to keep in my head, man.
Lotta strands in old Duder's head.
The phone is ringing. Knox Harrington is motioning to Maude
for permission to answer it. He picks up the phone.
Well if Uli doesn't have it, then who does?
KNOX HARRINGTON (laughing)
It's Sandró about Biennale.
Uh, look, I have to take this
Do you still have that doctor's
Huh? No, really, It's not even,
not even brused anymore
Maude is holding up another phone in her hand.
Oh please Jeffrey. I don't want to be
responsible for any delayed after-
She pushes a button on the phone.
Knox is laughing in the background.
Di a me Sandró. Si.
Si. Si! Chè ridículo.
Both Knox, who has been listening to the phone conversation,
and Maude, break into hysterical laughter.
The Dude stands there looking bewildered.
CLOSE SHOT THE DUDE
His eyes are closed, a headset on, Leaking tinnily
through the headset we hear the last bars of
Elvis Costello's " My Mood Swings."
Behind him, cropped so that we see only a little of his torso,
a white-smocked figure. The figure comes up to the Dude and pull one arm of
the headset away from the Dude's ear, and as he does so the music
issues more strongly. he pulls back the Dude's hair and checks his ear.
The figure circles to one side, out of frame.
Could you slide your shorts down
Mr. Lebowski, please?
The Dude's eyes open.
Hmm? No, no man, she, she hit me right here.
I understand. Could you slide
your shorts down please?
The Dude is driving home. A Creedence tape plays. The Dude
is sucking down a joint and a beer. He glances at the rear-view mirror--
and, noticing something, looks again.
A Volkswagon bug is following, a lone fat man driving.
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 down into the Dude's lap,
The glowing butt rolls down the car seat between his legs.
The Dude screams. He frantically trys to put it out with his right hand.
Then he pours the beer into his crotch.
The car careens wildly as the surrounding traffic veers off
to, make way, horns blaring. The car finally swerves left and
smashes into a green dumpster that was sitting on the street,
knocking it over.
INSIDE THE CAR
The Dude sits stunned, his sun glasses are askewed on his nose.
The Dude grabs at his door, which won't open, and then slides over.
He is sitting on the passenger side now, away from the lit butt.
He looks around for it.
Then he looks out both sides of the car for the blue volkswagon
that has disappeared. He looks back at the seat. There is a piece
of paper sticking out from between the cushions.
The Dude pulls it out.
It is lined notebook paper, severly wrinkled and
dripping beer, and covered with handwriting. The theme is titled
"The Louisiana Purchase." In red ink is a large 'circled D',
right of that is, 'Mrs. Jamtoss, History, period 4'. To the left
of the circled D is the name 'Larry Sellers'. Some handwritten
marginal comments and misspelled words are circled in red throughout.
CRANE JACKSON'S FOUNTAIN STREET THEATER
We are in front of the Dude, and Donny, facing the stage
where Marty, the Dude's balding landlord, is performing
a dance moderne. Walter enters from the side and sits two
seats down from the Dude.
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
He lives in North Hollywood on
Radford, near the In-and-Out Burger.
Uh, the In-and-Out Burger's on Camrose.
Near the In-and-Out Burger. Th--
Those are good burgers, Walter.
Shut the fuck up, Donny. The kid
is in ninth grade, Dude, and his
father is--are you ready for this?--
His father is, Arthur Digby Sellers.
Who the fuck is that?
Who the fuck is Arthur Digby Sellers?
Who the fu-- have you ever heard of a
little show called Branded, Dude?
Yeah. Yes I know--
All but one man died? There at Bitter
Yeah, I know the fucking show
Walter, so what?
Fucking Arthur Digby Sellers wrote
156 episodes, Dude.
Bulk of the series.
Not exactly a lightweight.
And yet his son is a fucking dunce.
Anyway uh, we'll go there after the uh,
He waves a hand vaguely toward the stage.
what have you. We'll, brace
the kid, should be a push over--
We'll be near the In-and-Out Burger.
SHUT THE FUCK UP, Donny. We'll, go out
there and we'll brace the kid--he should
be a pushover. We'll get that fucking
million dollars back, if he hasn't spent
it already. A million fucking clams. And
yes, we'll be near the, uh--
The Dude looks over at Walter and points to the stage.
Hey, shussh shussh, man.
...some burgers, some beers,
a few laughs. Our fucking
troubles are over, Dude.
The Dude's car chugs to a stop on a residential street.
Awwww fuck me, man! That kid's already
spent all the money man!
Parked incongruously in front of the small white house
is a brand new red Corvette
New 'vette? Hardly Dude, I'd say he
still has, 960 to 970 thousand dollars
left, depending on the options. Wait in
the car, Donny.
THE FRONT DOOR
Walter knocks on the door. It is opened by a matronly Spanish
Pilar? My name is Walter
Sobchak, this is my associate
Jeffrey Lebowski. Uh, we came to
talk about little Larry. May we
They enter a living room and stand, looking about.
There is a rhythmic compressor sound; Walter places it and
nudges the Dude.
That's him, 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.
AND A GOOD DAY TO YOU, SIR.
Ay, see down, please.
CALLS UP THE STAIRS:
Larry! Sweetie! Dat mang is here!
He and the Dude sit on a plastic protected sofa. In a lowered
voice, to Pilar:
Is he, . . . Does he still write?
Oh no, no. He has healt' problems.
HE BELLOWS ACROSS THE ROOM:
Uh sir, I just want to say, uh, that we're
both--on a personal level, really enormous fans.
Branded, especially the early episodes, was truly
a source of inspiration.
Larry, a fifteen-year-old, enteres the room and looks at the two men.
Sweetie see down. This man is the police.
Oh no ma'am, We didn't want to give the
impression that we were police exactly.
We're hoping it won't be necessary to
call the police. But that's 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.
Is this your homework, Larry?
Larry does not respond.
Is this your homework, Larry?
Look, man, Is--
Dude, please!. . .
...Is this your homework, Larry?
Just ask him about the car man.
Walter is still holding out the homework.
Is this yours, Larry? Is this your
Is that your car out front?
Is this your homework, Larry?
We know it's his fucking homework!
Where's the fucking money,
you little brat?!
Throughout Walter has been staring at Larry with the homework
extended towards him.
Look, Larry. . . Have you ever heard
Oh, for Christ's sake, Walter!
You're entering a world of
pain, son. We know that this is
your homework. We know you stole a
And the fucking money!
And the fucking money. And we know
that this is your homework.
We're gonna cut your dick off Larry.
You're KILLING your FATHER, Larry!.
FINALLY, IN DISGUST:
Alright, this is pointless.
As he shoves the homework back in the attache case:
Ok, time for Plan B. You might want
to watch out that front window Larry.
He is heading for the door.
Son, this is what happens when you FUCK a
STRANGER in the ASS.
Walter is striding down the lawn with his attache case like
an enraged encyclopedia salesman. Without looking back at,
the Dude, who follows:
Fucking language problem here.
Little prick is stonewallin' me.
The Dude comes out of the house.
Walter, what are you doing man?
Walter pops the Dude's trunk, flings in the briefcase and takes
out a crowbar.
What are you doing?
Here you go Larry.
He is walking over to the Corvette.
YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS,
YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS LARRY!
CRASH! He swings the crowbar into the back window, which
YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS?!
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FUCK A
STRANGER IN THE ASS LARRY!
CRASH! He takes out the driver's window.
Larry is watching out the front window. A light comes on
in the house across the street. Dogs are barking.
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS LARRY.
Walter reaches in the car and turns on the headlights.
YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS LARRY?
YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS! WHEN YOU
FUCK A STRANGER IN THE ASS!
CRASH! Walter smashes the windshield continually.
Lights are going on in houses down the street. Distant
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS,
YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS LARRY?
YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS LARRY?
YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS LARRY WHEN
YOU FUCK A STRANGER IN THE ASS?
Walter moves to the front of the car and smashes a headlamp.
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS LARRY!
CRASH! The other headlamp gets hit.
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS LARRY!
Walter is now smashing in the hood.
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS LARRY!
MY BABY, STOP IT!
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FUCK A STRANGER--
A man in a open shrit with an under shirt and boxer shorts has run over
behind Walter and grabbed him from behind on a backswing of
WHAT THE FUCK JOO DOING, MANG?! STOP IT!
He wrestles the crowbar away from the startled Walter.
Oh hey, hey man.
I JUS' BAWDEEZ FUCKEEN CAR LASS WEEK!
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,
I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL JOO
Hey, I'm sorry.
Walter cringes before the enraged Mexican.
The man looks about, wildly.
I JUS' BAWDEEZ FUCKEEN CAR LASS WEEK!
The man looks over at the Dudes car.
I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR MAN!
He runs over to the Dude's car.
Whoa..No! Hey! Hey! THAT'S NOT his--HEY
THUMP! CRASH! the man hits the Dude's trunk and back window with the crowbar.
FUCK JOO AHHGGG, GOD DAMMIT FUCK JOO!
Oh no, no man, no.
YOU LIKE DAT, FUCK JOO!
CRASH! The man smashes out the left rear window.
NO! no awwwww, noooo.
CRASH! The man starts smashing the Dude's windshield.
I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR 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-
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.
Santana music plays above the bluster of wind.
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.
I accept your apology. . . No I just,
I just want to handle it by myself from
now on. No, no . . No! That has nothing to
do with it. .
He finishes hammering,
. .Yes, the car made it
home, You're calling at home. No,
Walter, it did not look like Larry
was about to crack. Well that's your
perception. You know Walter you're
right, there is an unspoken message
here, it's FUCK YOU, LEAVE ME THE
FUCK ALONE. . . Yeah, I'll be at
He hangs up and he rises and grabs a straightbacked chair
that stands nearby. He 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
Woo and the blond man who earlier peed on the rug stride in,
moving the chair away.
Pin your diapers on, Lebowski. Jackie
Treehorn wants to see you.
Jackie Treehorn knows which Lebowski you are,
Jackie Treehorn wants to see
to the deadbeat Lebowski.
You're not dealing with morons here.
Out of the blackness something is falling toward us. It is
a woman, falling in slow motion, her limbs flailing, her
mouth contorted by laughter. She is topless.
She falls past the camera, leaving blackness, then after a
beat reappears, rising into the night sky.
A group of mostly tanned men, some with long
hair, wearing tank tops, are blanket-tossing the laughing
young woman in nightmarish slow motion.
It is a party, lit by festive beach lights and standing
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 a cotton twill
vanilla white, suit pants and jacket and what appears to be
a long sleeved, red, silk shirt.
Behind him, the woman rises and falls, appears and
Hello Dude, thanks for coming. I'm
INSIDE THE BEACH HOUSE
The Dude is looking around at the '60's modern decor.
Quite a pad you got here,
man. Completely unspoiled.
What's your drink, Dude?
White Russian, thanks.
How's the smut business, Jackie?
I wouldn't know, Dude. I deal in
publishing, entertainment, political
Which one's Logjammin'?
Yes 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 in little extras
like story, production value, feelings.
He hands him the drink.
He taps his forehead with one finger.
that the brain is the
biggest erogenous zone--
On you, maybe.
Of course, you have to take the good with
the bad. The new technology permits
us to do very exciting things in
interactive erotic software. Wave
of the future, Dude. 100% electronic.
Hmmm. Well, I still jerk off
Ah heh, ha ha Of course you do.
Well, I can see you're
anxious for me to get to the point.
Well, here it is Dude. Where's Bunny?
Well I thought you might know that, man.
Why would I? She only ran off to get away
from that rather sizable debt to me.
Uuno, she didn't run off, she's been uh--
Treehorn waves this off.
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 get from the
husband. That's your business. All
I'm saying is, I want mine.
Yeah, right man, there are a lot of
uh, facets uh, to this. A lotta
interested parties uh--
The phone rings.
Jackie answers the phone.
Yeah, Oh yeah? Where's that?
The Dude becomes very interested in watching Jackie scribble
on a note pad.
Jackie hangs up, pulls the top sheet off the note pad,
and gets up, folds the paper, and turns toward the dude.
Jackie walks out of the room.
The Dude leaps up and quickly walks over to check on
Jackie's return. Then he grabs a pencil and hurriedly
shades the etching left by the pen on the note pad,
reveiling a drawing of a man with a unusually large penis.
The Dude is somewhat startled by what he sees.
The Dude hears a door shut and he grabs the top sheet of the
note pad and puts it in the pocket of his pants as he races
back to the couch and re-positions him self as he was when
Jackie enters the room.
No problamo man... So uh, if I uh,
can find your money, ah, what's in it
for the Dude?
Well of course, there's that to discuss.
Yeah, did the Pope shit in the woods?
A 10% finder's fee? Is that alright?
Uumm! Okay, done Jackie. Yeah, I dig the way
you do business man. Your money is being
held by a kid named Larry Sellers.
He lives in North Hollywood, on
Radford, Uh, by the In-and-Out Burger.
Jackie brings him the drink.
A real fuckin' brat, but I'm sure
your goons can get it off uh, him
I mean he's fifteen...unh
flunking social studies. So if you
could just uh, write me a check for
my ten percent. . . of half a million.
. . five grand.
He is getting to his feet, but sways woozily
and he falls backward.
I'll go out and mingle.--Ahem um, you
mix a hell of a Caucasian, Jackie.
The Dude shakes his head, tries to focus
and he has to sit back down.
A fifteen-year-old? Is this some
sort of a joke?
Words are echoing and 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.
Awww, no joke. No funny stuff, Jackie
. . . the kid's got it. Hi, fellas
. . . kid just wanted a car.
The Dude drops his drink to the carpet.
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.
FROM UNDER THE GLASS COFFEE TABLE
Looking up at the Dude as his face hits the glass and
FAST FADE OUT
THE STRANGER'S VOICE
Darkness warshed over the Dude--
darker'n a black steer's tookus on a
moonless prairie night. There was
We hear a thundering bass.
SCRATCHY WHITE TITLE CARD:
JACKIE TREEHORN PRESENTS
ANOTHER TITLE CARD:
THIRD TITLE CARD:
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. He is performing Marty's 'cycle' as he walks.
The Dude's face is washed with a brilliant light
as the corridor opens onto a gleaming bowling alley.
He gazes up at a 'eight mile high' rack of bowling shoes.
At the top is a large full moon which is the source of the light.
Behind the counter is a man that seems to be Saddam Hussain.
Saddam pulls a pair of silver and gold bowling shoes from the
rack and hands them to the Dude.
The Dude is now dancing down a long flight of stairs that seem
to stretch out to a starry infinity. They go down to the center
of a circular platform that contains 32 dancers and a bowling
lane on the other side of the platform that stretches out into
the starry void.
The dancers have '3d' cut outs of bowling pins on their heads.
They are dancing around a central figure, Maude. Maude is wearing
a bowling ball breasted, armored breastplate and Norse headgear,
has braided pigtails, and holds a trident.
The Dude continues to dance down the stairs toward the platform,
which is the same black and white tile as the stairs.
He holds a black and red swirled bowling ball high over his
head. He slowly approches Maude from behind. The Dude stands
behind her and, pressed up against her, helps her with her
follow-through as she releases the 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
But it is no longer a bowling ball rolling between their
legs--it is the Dude himself, levitating inches off the lane,
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
The Dude smiles dreamily and does another barrel-roll 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 siren sqealing to a stop, a squad car with
flashing gumballs pulls up.
The Dude sits in the back seat, his head lolling with the
motion of the car as he blearily sings the theme of Branded:
He was innocent. Not a charge was
true. And they say he ran awaaaaaay.
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.
This is your only I.D.?
He is looking at the Ralph's Shopper's Club card.
I know my rights man.
The Chief of police takes a piece of folded paper from the
wallet and opens it up to find the 'drawing' and the word
Treehorn on the top.
You don't know shit, Lebowski.
I want a fucking lawyer, man. I
want Bill Kunstler man...or umm,
or Ronald Kuby.
Mr. Treehorn tells us that he had to
eject you from his garden party,
that you were drunk and abusive.
Mr. Treehorn, treats objects like,
Mr. Treehorn draws a lot of water in
this town, You don't draw shit Lebowski.
Now we got a nice quiet little 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 absently.
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
The Chief is already up off his chair, rounding the desk.
--Ow! Fucking fascist!
The Chief pushes the Dude and the chair backwards to the floor.
STAY OUT OF MALIBU, LEBOWSKI!!
He kicks the Dude.
STAY OUT OF MALIBU, DEADBEAT! Keep
your ugly fucking goldbricking ass
out of my beach community!
The Dude, in the back seat of a taxicab. He is
gingerly touching at sore spots on his
face and scalp.
"Peaceful Easy Feeling" is on the radio.
The back of the driver, a large black man with a brimless,
black leather cap on his head.
Jesus, man, can you change the
Fuck you man! You don't like my
fucking music, get your own fucking
I've had a really ruff--
I'll pull over the side and kick your ass out!
Man, c'mon I had a rough night, and I hate the
fucking Eagles, man.
The cab screeches over towards the curb. Another car,
oncoming, its horn blaring, speeds by.
The driver stops the cab and gets out and opens the Dude's
door and reaches in and pulls the Dude out of the cab.
Outta my fucking cab!
Man man! Hey!
The cab driver gets back in the cab and screeches away.
Coming up the road behind the Dude is a red convertible,
which passes him quickly. 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.
When she downshifts her left foot enters to engage the clutch,
in an open-toed bright red sandle shoe, that has five green painted toes.
On the accelerator her right foot has five more toes.
The Dude cautiously looks in the open front door. He goes
in and looks around.
The place is a wreck. Furniture has been overturned,
upholstery slashed, drawers dumped.
He moves forward into the room and trips over the nailed 2x4.
He turns and looks back at the 2x4.
Maude emerges from the bedroom. She is wearing a bathrobe.
She pulls open the bathrobe and lets it drop to the floor.
The Dude is stupefied.
Uh, that's my robe.
WE CUT TO:
After a beat, a voice from the blackness:
Tell me a about yourself, Jeffrey.
Well, not much to tell.
A match is dragged across a headboard; the Dude is lighting
himself a 'roach', which he holds in a roach clip.
I uh, I was, uh, one of the authors of the
Port Huron Statement.-- Uh the original
Port Huron Statement.
The Dude and Maude lie next to each other in bed.
Not the compromised second draft.
The Dude tokes on the roach.
Uh, and then I, uh. . .ummm, ever
hear of the Seattle Seven?
That was me...and uh, uh, six other guys.
Uhh, And then uh. . .the music
Yeah. Roadie for Metallica.
Speed of Sound Tour.
Bunch of assholes. And then, uh, you
know, a little of this, a little of that.
The Dude tokes the roach again.
Uh, my career's, slowed down a little
What do you do for, for recreation?
Oh, the usual. Bowl. Drive around.
The occasional acid flashback.
He sucks on the roach and he gets some burning ash in his throat.
He starts coughing and climbs out of bed but Maude remains in it.
What happened to your house?
She wedges a pillow into the small of her back.
Oh, Jackie Treehorn trashed the place.
He thought I had your father's money,
he got me out of the way while he
looked for it. Coctail?
No thanks. It's not my father's money,
it's the Foundation's. Why did he think
you have it? And who does?
She clasps a hand on each kneecap, and pulls her knees
in toward her chest to keep her pelvis raised.
Oh, Larry Sellers, this high-school kid.
Real fucking brat.
He starts mixing a White Russian at the bar in the living room.
Ya Know, this is a very complicated case,
Maude. Lotta ins, lotta outs. Uh, ya know.
Fortunately I'm adhering to a pretty strict,
uh, drug uh, regimen to keep my mind,
you know, uh limber ya know. I'm very fucking
close to your father's money.
I keep telling you, it's the
Foundation's money. Father doesn't
The Dude re-enters the bedroom.
Ummph, Whadda you talking about?
He's fucking loaded.
No no, the wealth was all Mother's.
Waa--he runs stuff, uh, you know--
We did let him run one of the
companies, briefly, but he didn't do
very well at it.
Ah..he's uh, you know.
No. 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.
Uh. Do you think he uh,--what is
Throughout, Maude has been lying on her back with her knees
pulled in and now she is rolling back and forth on the bed.
It increases the chances of
The Dude spits some White Russian.
Well yes, what did you think this
was all about? Fun and games?
I want a child.
Okay, Yeah, okay but let me,
let me explain something about
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 raising
the child himself.
Something occurs to him.
So...that doctor uh.
Exactly. Now what happened to your face?
Did Jackie Treehorn do that as well?
The Dude is staring off into space, thinking. His answer is
No, uhhh, It was the Chief of police of Malibu.
A real reactionary. . . So your
father. . . Oh yeah, I get it! Yeah, Yeah!
Oh man, my thinking about this case,
had become very uptight. Yeah.
The Dude is leaves the bedroom.
FROM THE BEDROOM:
Jeffery! What're you talking about?
The Dude finishes punching a number into the phone.
The phone is ringing on the other end.
Walter, if you're there, pick up the
fucking phone man. C'mon Walter, pick
it up, man, this is an emergency...
C'mon I'm not--
Yeah, listen Walter, I'm at my place, I
need you to come pick me up.
I can't drive, Dude, it's erev
Erev shabbas. I can't drive.
I'm not even supposed to pick up the
phone, unless it's an emergency.
This IS a fucking emergency.
I understand. That's why I picked
up the phone.
WALTER, YOU FUCK, WE GOTTA
GO TO PASADENA MAN! COME PICK ME UP OR
I'M OFF THE FUCKING BOWLING TEAM!
He emerges on his front stoop, pulling on a sweatshirt. His
attention is caught by something down the street.
A car is parked halfway down the block. We can see the
shape of a fat man in the driver's seat.
Striding purposefully down the street.
The fat man leans forward and we hear the sound of the car's
ignition coughing, but the engine will not turn over.
Get out of that fucking car man.
The man hurriedly fumbles in front of him. He brings up a
newspaper, which he holds before his face.
Get out of that fucking car!
Get the fuck out of the car man!
As he gets to the car He is revved with nervous energy.
He tries to open the door but it is locked, so he reaches
through the open driver's window to unlock it, but the man
Get out of the fuckin--
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:
Who the fuck are you, man!?
Easy man, relax, man! No
physical harm intended!
Who the fuck are you?
Ok man, I'm ok.
Why're you following me around?
Come on, fuckhead!
Hey, relax man, I'm a brother shamus.
The Dude is stunned.
Brother Shamus? Like an Irish monk?
What the fuck are you talking
about? My name's Da Fino! I'm a
private snoop! Like you, man!
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.
I'm not-- fuck it man, just stay
away from my fucking lady friend.
Hey hey, I'm not messing with your
She's not my special lady, she's my
fucking lady friend. I'm just helping
her conceive, man!
Hey, man, I'm not--uh
Who're you working for? Lebowski?
Uh, Jackie Treehorn?
The? Who who, who the fuck are the Knudsens?
The Knudsens. It's a wandering
daughter job. Bunny Lebowski, man.
Her real name is Fawn Knudsen.
Her parents want her back.
He reaches into his inner suit coat pocket and pulls out two photos.
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.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Crazy, huh? Ran away about a year ago.
He is holding out another picture.
The Knudsens told me I should show her
this when I found her. It's the family farm.
A bleak farmhouse and and out buildings are the only features on a flat
It's outside uhh Moorhead, Minnesota.
They think it'll make her homesick.
Ssss Oh boy. How ya gonna keep 'em down on
the farm once they've seen Karl Hungus.
He hands back the picture.
She's been kidnapped, Da Fino.
Oh man, that's terrible.
Oh I don't know, maybe not, but she's
definitely not around.
Hey, uh, phfff, maybe you and me could
pool our resources--trade information--
uh, professional courtesy--
compeers, you know what I mean.
We hear distant yapping, growing louder with the hum of an
Yeah yeah, I get it. Fuck off, Da Fino.
And stay away from my special--
from my fucking lady friend man.
The Dude steps out to meet Walter's van as it pulls up, its
passenger window open and the pomeranian leaning out and
STACKS OF PANCAKES HOUSE
Four people sit at a booth: Uli and the second and third man.
Also a young woman with long stringy blonde hair, wearing jeans
and a zebra striped sleeveless shirt. She is apparently braless,
and is teutonically pale on her face and arms. A waitress stands
at the table with a pen and a check pad.
The second man seems to be asleep. They are looking at menus
Uli looks sourly up and hands his menu to the waitress.
Uhh the lingonberry pancakes.
Aufwachen (Wake up) Arschloch (asshole)!
Sree picks in blanket.
The woman speaks to Uli in German.
Für (for) mich (me) auch (too) Heidelberg
Pfannkuchen (pancakes), Uli, Heidelberg
She has lingonberry pancakes.
As the four are talking, in German.
The camera stays with the girl and follows down her camera-side
leg, which ends in a bandage-swaddled foot.
Dried rust-colored blood stains the tip of the bandage.
Walter's eyes are on the road as he listens to the
Dude, while driving.
I mean we totally fucked it up, man.
We fucked up his pay-off. We got
the kidnappers all pissed off at us,
and Lebowski, he yelled at me a lot,
but he didn't do anything. Huh?
The dog is barks in the back of the van.
Well, sometimes the cathartic,
No No, I'm saying if he knows I'm a
fuck-up, why does he leave me
in charge of getting his wife back?
Because he doesn't fucking want her
back, man! He's had enough! He no
longer digs her! It's all a show!
Ok? But then, why didn't he give a shit
about his million bucks? I mean, he
knows we never handed off his briefcase,
but he never asked for it back. The
million bucks was never in the briefcase.
The briefcase was fucking empty, man!
The asshole was hoping that they would
kill her! You threw out a ringer
for a ringer!
Huut! Okay, but how does all this add up
to an emergency?
I'm saying, I see what you're getting
at, Dude, he kept the money, my
point is, huum, here we are, it's shabbas,
the sabbath, which I'm allowed to
break only if it's a matter of life
Will you come off it Walter. You're not
even fucking Jewish, man.
What the fuck are you talking about?
Man, you're fucking Polish Catholic.
What the fuck are you talking about?
I converted when I married Cynthia!
Come on, Dude!
Yeah, yeah yeah!
You know this!
Yeah, and five fucking years ago,
you were divorced.
So, what are you saying?
When you get divorced, you turn in
your library card? You get a new
license? You stop being Jewish?
This is the driveway.
AS HE TURNS:
I'm as Jewish as fucking Tevye
Man, you know, it's it's all a part
of your sick Cynthia thing man. Taking
care of her fucking dog. Going to
her fucking synagogue. You're living
in the fucking past.
Three thousand years of beautiful
tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax--
YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT I'M LIVING IN THE FUCKING
PAST! I--Jesus. What the hell
He is looking off as the van slows. The Dude looks where
Walter is looking. They see a red sports car crashed into
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.
Tire treads lead across the front lawn to where the
little red sports car rests with its hood crumpled into
Un huh, un huh, un huh, un huh.
What the fuck?
The Dude, Walter and the dog enter the front door and
descend the stairs into the 'great hall'.
TRACKING DOWN THE GREAT HALLWAY
Brandt, approaching, stoops and straightens, stoops and
straightens, picking up the discarded clothes that run the
length of the hall. Through the French doors at its far end
we can see Bunny, naked, briefly bouncing past the windows.
Where was she man?
Visiting friends of hers in Palm
Springs. She just picked up and left,
never bothered to tell us.
Well I guess the fucking nihilist
knew where she was!
Jesus, Dude! She never even kidnapped
Who's this gentleman, Dude?
The Dude grabs Walters arm.
I'm a fucking veteran, that's who I am!
We watch the Dude and Walter as they approach the doors to
the great study. Walter's dog follows, stiffly waving its
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's wheelchair hums as he rolls toward them.
So? She's back. No thanks to you.
Where's the fucking money, Lebowski?
A MILLION BUCKS...
...FROM FUCKING NEEDY LITTLE...
...URBAN ACHIEVERS! YOU ARE
Who the hell is he?
Who am I, Who am I?
I'm the guy who's gonna KICK...
...YOUR PHONY GOLDBRICKING ASS!
That's who I am!
MAN! We know the briefcase was fucking empty,
We know you kept the million bucks for yourself.
You have your story, I have
mine. I say I entrusted the money
to you, and you stole it.
AS IF WE WOULD EVER DREAM OF TAKING
YOUR BULLSHIT MONEY!
You thought that Bunny had been kidnapped
and you were fucking glad man. You could
use it as an excuse to make some money
disappear. All you needed was a sap to
pin it on, and you'd just met me. You you,
human paraquat! You figured, oh, here's
a loser, you know a, a a, deadbeat, someone
the square community won't give a shit about.
Well? Aren't ya?
Well. . . yeah, but you--
Get out. Both of you.
Look at that fucking phony, Dude!
Pretending to be a fucking
Out of this house. Now you bums.
Let me tell you something else.
I've seen a lot of spinals, Dude,
and this guy is a fake. A fucking
He is crossing to Lebowski.
Stay away from me, mister!
This guy fucking walks. I've never
been more certain of anything in my
You stay away from me.
WALTER, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! HE'S
I've never been more certain
of anything in my life.
Stay away from me I said.
Walter reaches around and hoists the big Lebowski
out of the wheelchair by his armpits.
Get away from me!
Walk, you fucking phony!
The big Lebowski yells in horror and waggles helplessly, his rubbery feet grazing
the floor like a Raggedy Ann's. The pomeranian gaily leaps and yaps.
PUT HIM DOWN MAN!
Yeah, I'll put him down, Dude. RAUSS!
He shoves the big Lebowski forward and he crumples to the
The dog is barking. It comes over to the Big Lebowski who is
flailing about on the floor, and licks his face.
The Big lebowski pushes him away.
C'mon man, help me put him back in his chair.
Donny is poised at the end of the lane, he approaches the
line and releases a bowling ball. He watches the ball as it
rolls and swerves into the pins. His face smiling the pins
scattered but when the pins settle there is one pin
left standing. Donny's expression changes. He stares at it
in disbelief. In the background as a distant echo we hear
Walter talking about Iraq.
DUDE AND WALTER
Each with a beer at the scoring table.
Sure you'll see some tank battles.
But fighting in desert is very
different from fighting in canopy
Donny returns to a seat next to Walter.
He is still thinking about something and
I mean 'Nam was a foot soldier's war
whereas, uh, this thing should uh,
you know, be a piece of cake.
I mean I had an M16, Jacko, not an Abrams
fucking tank. Me and Charlie,
eyeball to eyeball.
The Dude is applying a clear liquid on his finger tips
using a cap brush.
That's fuckin' combat. The man in
the black pyjamas, Dude. Worthy
Who's in pyjamas, Walter?
Shut the fuck up, Donny.
Where as what we have here, a bunch
of fig-eaters, wearing towels on their
heads tryin' to find reverse on a
Soviet tank. This, this is not a worthy
The Dude and Walter look.
Quintana is bellowing from the lip of the lane, and is
restrained by O'Brien.
What's this "day of rest" shit?!
What's this bullshit, I don't
fucking care! It don't matter to
Jesus! But you're not fooling me man!
You might fool the fucks in the league
office, but you don't fool Jesus!
It's bush league psych-out stuff!
Laughable, man! HA HA! I would've fucked
you in the ass Saturday, I'll fuck
you in the ass next Wednesday instead!
He makes hip-grinding coital motions as O'Brien leads him
You got a date Wednesday, baby!
Walter, and the Dude watch him go. Walter turns
and looks at the Dude.
BOWLING ALLEY PARKING LOT
Donny, Walter and the Dude emerge from the alley, each holding
his leatherette ball satchel.
The whole concept abates,
I mean many learned men have disputed this,
but in the 14th century the Rambam
They react to the droning synthesizer-based technopop coming
from a boom box.
Uli and his two friends, in shiny black leather, stand in
a line facing them in the all-but-deserted lot. Behind them
orange flames lick gently in 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
Well, they finally did it. They killed my
Vee vant zat money, Lebowski.
Ja, uzzervize vee kill ze girl.
Ja, it seems you forgot our little
You don't have the fucking girl,
dipshit. We know you never did.
The men in black, stunned, confer amongst themselves in
German. Under his breath:
Are these the Nazis, Walter?
Walter answers, also sotto voce, his eyes still on the three
No Donny, these men are nihilists, there's
nothing to be afraid of.
The Germans stop conferring.
Vee don't care. Vee still vant zat
money Lebowski or vee fuck you ups.
Fuck you. Fuck the three of you.
Hey, cool it Walter.
Walter ignores the Dude, addresses the Germans:
No, without a hostage there is no ransom.
That's what ransom is. Those are the fucking rules.
His girlfriend gafe up her toe!
She sought we vould get a million dollars!
Iss not fair!
FAIR! WHO'S THE FUCKING NIHILIST
AROUND HERE! YOU, BUNCH OF
Hey, cool it Walter. Hey look, pal,
there never was any money. The big
Lebowski gave me an empty briefcase,
so take it up with him man.
And, I would like my undies back!
Donny is visibly frightened.
Are these guys gonna hurt us, Walter?
WALTER 'S TONE IS GENTLE:
No, Donny. These men are cowards.
The Germans confer again, in German.
THE CONFERENCE ENDS:
Okay. So vee take ze money you haf on
you und vee call it eefen.
Hey no, come on, Walter, come on,
we're ending this thing cheap man.
The Dude is digging into his pocket.
Walter's eyes, burning with hatred, are locked on Uli's.
No! What's mine is mine.
Oh, Come on, Walter!.
No funny stuff
He looks in his wallet:
Alright! Alright uh,
No funny stuff!
I got uh, four bucks...
He inspects the change in his palm.
I got eighteen dollars, Dude.
What's mine is mine.
VEE FUCK YOU UP, MAN! VEE TAKES THE
Come and get it.
With a ring of steel, Uli produces a glinting saber.
VEE FUCK YOU UP!
Come on man.
Show me what you got. Nihilist.
I FUCK YOU!
Walter, come on he's got
a sword thing man!
Dipshit with a nine-toed woman.
I FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!
hurls his leather satchel.
THE SECOND NIHILIST
Is caught off-guard. The bowling
ball thuds into his chest and buckles him over.
He falls forward onto one hand, gasping.
Uli charges at Walter with the saber.
I FUCK YOU, I PIG STICK--
Uli cuts Walter's side with the sword and Walter makes him drop it.
Walter twists away and grabs Uli's head in both hands; draws Uli's
head up to his mouth, which closes on Uli's ear.
The Dude confronts the other Nihilist but draws up short as
he sends out karate kicks, The Nihilist gives a shout with
each kick; the Dude leans back, throwing his arms up, evading
THE THIRD MAN
I FUCK YOU!
Take it easy man!
THE THIRD MAN
I FUCK YOU!
Take the four dollars!
THE THIRD MAN
I FUCK YOU!... I FUCK YOU IN THE ASS!
His jaw is still clamped on Uli's ear.
Walter is growling as Uli screams, he worries his ear,
wagging his head.
The second Nihilist is crawling on his stomach gasping.
I'm gonna hit you with the fuckin' ball man.
He is awkwardly circling, evading the third Nilhilist's kicks,
as he swings the ball bag.
Still worrying the ear. With a tearing sound his head and
ULI, EARLESS, SCREAMS.
Walter spits his ear into the air, the camera follows it up.
THE THIRD MAN (to the dude off camera)
VEAKLING! I FUCK YOU!
Walter draws back his fist.
Bam!--A powerhouse blow to the middle of his face drops Uli
for the count.
The second Nihilist is still pulling himself along on his stomach.
DUDE AND THIRD NIHILIST
The Dude and the third Nihilist, both now panting heavily, have yet to
establish body contact. The Nihilist continues to kick.
THE THIRD MAN
I FUCK YOU IN THE ASS!
I FUCK YOU IN THE ASS!
Finally he summons the nerve to charge the Dude,
hands raised to deliver karate blows.
THE THIRD MAN
I FUCK YOU. I FUCK YOU.
I FUCK YOU. I FUCK--
WHHAP--the boom box swings into frame to smash him in the face.
Walter then bashes him in the back and he falls forward.
Walter, panting, looks around.
We've got a man down, Dude.
He and the Dude run over to where
Donny, lies gasping on the ground.
God! They shot him, man!
He's not shot. No Dude.
They shot Donny?
Donny gasps for air.
There weren't any shots fired.
It's a heart attack.
Call the medics, Dude.
I'd go myself but I'm pumping
blood. Might pass out.
The Dude runs into the lanes. Walter cradles
Donny's shoulders with his right arm. He pats
a reassuring left hand on Donny's chest and sholder.
Rest easy, good buddy, you're doing
fine. We got help choppering in.
HOLD IN BLACK
THE DUDE AND WALTER
They sit side by side. We hear footsteps coming up a
cavernous stair well. Walter is reading what appears
to be a Bible that was on the mortuary Director's desk.
The Dude is sitting very still, gazing up at a Psalm
that is on a marble wall, in six inch gold letters, behind
the desk. It says,
AS FOR MAN, HIS DAYS ARE AS GRASS, AS A FLOWER OF THE FIELD.
SO HE FLORISHETH, FOR THE WIND PASSETH OVER IT AND IT IS GONE.
A tall thin man in a conservative black suit enters.
Hello, gentlemen. You are the
Francis Donnelly. Pleased to meet
The Dude, actually. It's uh...
Yes. I understand you're taking
away the remains.
We have the urn.
He nods to his right.
And I assume this is credit card?
He is vaguely handing a large leather folder across the desk
to whomever wants to take it.
He takes it, opens it, removes his glasses, 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 places the folder on the desk with bill
facing Donnelly, pointing.
That's for the urn.
Don't need it. We're scattering the
Yes, so we were informed. However,
we must of course transmit the remains
to you in a receptacle.
This is a hundred and eighty dollars.
It is our most modestly priced receptacle.
Uh, well can we just uh--
A hundred and eighty dollars?!
They range up to three thousand.
Uh, we're uh--Uhmm.
Can't, can't we just rent it from you man?
Sir, this is a mortuary, not a rental
We're scattering the fucking ashes!
Walter, Walter, Walter--
WHAT JUST BECAUSE WE'RE BEREAVED DOESN'T
MEAN WE'RE SAPS!
Walter hits the desk with his fist.
Sir, please lower your voices.
Man, don't you have, you know, something
uh, else we can put 'im in? You know?
That is our most modestly priced
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.
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:
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 he explored
the beaches of southern California,
Walter extends his hand out palm up to point at the beach below.
from La Jolla...
Walter moves his hand to the north.
...to Leo Carillo and up to Pismo.
He died--he died as so many young men
of his generation, before his time.
In your wisdom Lord you took him.
As you took so many bright flowering
young men, at Khe San and Lan Doc...
The Dude shakes his head in disgust.
...and Hill 364. These young men gave
their lives. And so'd Donny.
Donny who loved bowling.
Walter holds the Folger's coffee can up in both hands.
And so, Theodore--Donald--Karabotsos,
in accordance with what we think
your dying wishes might well have
been, we commit your final mortal remains
to the bosom of...
Walter takes the can in his right hand and waves
it at the ocean from left to right and back again.
...the Pacific Ocean, which
you loved so well.
Walter peels the plastic lid off the coffee can.
Goodnight, sweet prince.
AS HE SHAKES OUT THE ASHES:
The wind has blown most of the ashes into the Dude, standing
just to the side of and behind Walter. The Dude stands,
frozen. Finished eulogizing, Walter looks down at his shirt
and brushes some of the ashes off his shirt.
Walter turns around and sees the ashes all over the Dude.
Oh shit Dude, I'm sorry.
He starts brushing off the Dude with his hands.
Goddamn wind. Fuck.
Heretofore motionless, the Dude finally explodes, slapping
Walter's hands away.
Goddamnit Walter! You fucking
Shit! Dude, I'm sorry!
The Dude gives Walter a furious shove.
Everything's a fucking
travesty with you man!
Look Dude, I'm sorry. It was an accident!
What was zat-- What was that shit about Vietnam!
Look Dude, I'm sorry--
What the fuck does anything have to
do with Vietnam! What the fuck
are you talking about?!
Walter for the first time is genuinely distressed, almost
Dude, I'm sorry.
He gives Walter a weaker shove. Walter seems dazed, then
wraps his arms around the Dude.
Come on Dude. Hey fuck it man. Let's go bowling.
We hear 'Send Me Dead Flowers' playing on the jukebox, as
the camera focuses on a lane and as it follows a bowling ball
down the lane into a strike. The view changes to back of the
pin setter and the mechanics involved in resetting the pins.
The far end of the bowling alley is closed and a man is
cleaning one of the lanes. In the center, a lone bowler
rolls a strike as The Dude walks up to the bar.
Two oat sodas, Gary.
Right. Good luck tomorrow.
Yeah. Thanks, man.
Aw, sorry to hear about Donny.
Ah, yeah. Well, you know, sometimes you
eat the bar, and, sometimes uh, you know...
The Dude turns to his left and notices the 'Stranger'
sitting at the bar.
Howdy do, Dude.
I wondered if I'd see you again.
I Wouldn't miss the semis.
How things been goin'?
Ahh, you know. Strikes and gutters,
ups and downs.
The bartender has put two gleaming beers on the counter.
The Stranger's eyes crinkle merrily.
Sure, I gotcha.
Yeah. Thanks, Gary...Well take care, man,
gotta get back.
Sure. Take it easy, Dude--
I know that you will.
THE DUDE, LEAVING, HOLDS UP HIS ARMS AND NODS:
Yeah. Well, the Dude abides.
The dude leaves and walks back to the lanes and holds up the beers.
Gazing after him, The Stranger drawls, savoring the words:
The Dude abides...
He gives his head a shake of appreciation, then looks into
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. I didn't
like seein' Donny go. But then,
I 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 we-- aw, look at me, I'm ramblin'
again. Wal, uh hope you folks enjoyed
He brushes his hat brim with a fingertip as we begin to pull
Catch ya later on down the trail.
As we pull away The Stranger swivels in to the bar. As his
...Say friend, ya got any more of
that good sarsaparilla?...
A lone bowler rolls a strike?