"THE BIG LEBOWSKI" (1998)

,.--

by

Joel and Ethan 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:

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 .tllilt. 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 1 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.

Il'."TERIORRALPH'S

It is late, the supermarket all but deserted. We are tracking in on a fortyish man in Bermuda shorts and sunglasses at the dairy case. He is the Dude. His rumpled look and relaxed manner s_uggest a man in whom casualness runs deep.

He is feeling quarts of milk for coldness and examining their expiration dates.

Voice-Over

r

... Now this story I'm about to unfold took place back in the early nineties--just about the time of our conflict with Sad 1m and the Eye-rackies. I only mention it 'cause some- times there's a man--I won't say a hee-ro, •cause what's a hee-ro?--but sometimes there's a man .. .

The Dude glances furtively about and then opens a quart of milk . He sticks his nose in the spout and sniffs .

. . . and I'm talkin' about the Dude here-- sometimes there's a man who, wal, he's the man for his time'n place, he fits right in there--and that ' s the Dude, in Los Angeles.

She waits, arms · folded. A small black-and white TV next to her register shows George Bush on the White House lawn with helicopter rote.rs spinning behind him.

The Dude, peeking over his shades, scribbles something at the little customer's lectern . Milk beads his mustache.

Voice-Over ... and even if he's a lazy man, and the Dude was certainly that--quite possibly the laziest in Los Angeles County ...

The Dude has his Ralph's Shopper's Club card to one side and is making out a check to Ralph's for sixty-nine cents .

. . . which would place him high in the . runnin 1 for laziest worldwide--but sometimes there's a man ... sometimes there's a man ...

Long shot of the glowing Ralph's. There are only two or three cars parked in the huge lot.

Voice-Over ... wal, I lost m'train of thought here ..

\ "

. but--aw hell, I done innerduced him enough.

The Dude is a small figure walking across the vast lot. Next to him walks a Mexican carry-out boy in a red apron and cap carrying a small brown bag holding the quart of milk . The two men's footsteps echo in the still of the night.

After a beat of walking the Dude offhandedly points.

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 doorfrarne and wallboard and rips through it , leaving an ovoid hole .

The Dude is propelled across the bedroom and on into a small bathroom, the satchel once again.taking away a piece of doorframe. His head is plunged into the toilet. The paper bag hugged to his chest explodes milk as it hits the toilet rim and the satchel pulverizes tile as it crashes to the floor.

The Dude blows bubbles .

Hands haul the Dude out of the toilet. The Dude blubbers and gasps for air.

Where's the money, Lebowski!

His head is plunged back into the toilet .

. . Where's the money, Lebowski!

~ t'·'

The hands haul him out again, dripping and gasping .

. . . WHERE'S THE FUCKING K>NEY, SHITHEAD!

His head is plunged back in.

The inquisitor hauls the Dude's head out one last time and flops him over so that he sits on the floor, back against the toilet. The Dude gropes back in the toilet with one hand.

Looming over him is a strapping blond man.

..

Beyond in the living room a young Chinese man unzips his fly and walks over to a rug.

He starts peeing on the rug.

The Dude ' s hand comes out of the toilet bowl with his sunglasses.

The Dude puts on his dripping sunglasses.

Dude . Bunny? Look; moron.

He holds up his hands.

,- . \

... You see a wedding ring? Does this place look like I'm fucking married? All my plants are dead!

The blond man stoops ·to unzip the satchel. He pulls out a bowling ball and examines it in the manner of a superstitious native.

The Dude pats at his pockets, takes out a joint and lights it.

The blond man drops the hall which pulverizes more tile.

The Chinese man is zipping his fly.

They both look around.

. . . Fuck.

The Dude pulls his sunglasses down his nose with one finger and peeks over them .

The two men look at each other. They turn to leave.

The blond man turns testily at the door.

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 ba11·, fingers sliding into fingerholes, etc.

The music turns into boomy source music, coming from a distant jukebox, as the credits end over a clattering strike.

A lanky blonde man with stringy hair tied back in a ponytail turns from the strike to walk back to the bench.

We are tracking in on the circular bench towards a big man nursing a large plastic cup of.Bud. He has dark worried eyes and a goatee. Hairy legs- emerge from his khaki shorts . He also wears a khaki army surplus shirt with the sleeves cut off over an old bowling shirt. This is Walter. He squints through the smoke from his own cigarette as he adresses the Dude at the sc,.>ring table.

The Dude, also holding a large plastic cup of Bud, wears some of its foam on his mustache .

He elaborately clears his throat.

This was, uh--

Donny, the strike-scoring-bowler, enters and sits next Walter.

element .

He elaborately clears his throat .

. That rug really tied the room together, did it not?

We pull back from the name JEFFREY LEBOWSKIengraved in silver to reveal that the plaque, from Variety Clubs International, honors Lebowski as ACHIEVEROF THE YEAR.

Reflected in the plaque we see the Dude entering the room with a young man. We hear the two men talk:

We are panning the walls, looking at various citations and certificates unrelated to the ones being discussed offscreen:

lady of the nation, yes, yes? not of California.

Dude . Jeez. Think he's got room for one more?

Our continuing track and pan have brought us onto a framed Life Magazine cover which is headlined ARE YOU A LEBOWSKIACHIEVER? Oddly, the Dude 1 s sunglassed face is on it·; we realize that, under the magazine's logo and headline, the display is mirrored.

We hear the door open and the whine of a motor. The Dude, wearing shorts and a bowling shirt, turns to look.

So does Brandt, the ypung man we've been listening to. He wears a suit and has his hands clasped in front of his groin.

Entering the room is a fat sixtyish man in a motorized wheelchair--Jeff Lebowski.

He wheels himself behind a desk. The Dude sits facing him as Brandt withdraws.

~ Lebowski ( You don't go out and make a living dressed

like~ in the middle of a weekday.

The Dude rises.

The Dude is heading for the door .

. . . Your •revolutionft is over, Mr. Lebowski! Condolences! The bums lost!

As the Dude opens the door:

. • . My advice is, do what your parents did! Get a job, sir! The bums will always lose-- do you hear me, Lebowski? THE BUMSWILL ALWAYS--

The Dude shuts the door on the old man's bellowing to find himself--

--in a high coffered hallway. Brandt is approaching.

A houseman with a rolled-up carpet on one shoulder goes down a stone walk that winds through the back lawn, past a swimming pool to a garage. Brandt and the Dude follow.

Tracking toward the pool. A young woman sits facing it, her back to us , leaning forward to paint her toenails.

Beyond her a black form floats in an inflatable chair in the pool.

Arcing around the woman's foot as she finishes painting the nails emerald green .

Looking.

The young woman looks up at him. She is in her early twenties. She leans back and extends her leg toward the Dude.

The Dude pulls his sunglasses down his nose and peeks over them.

She waggles her foot and giggles.

The Dude tentatively grabs hold of her extended foot.

_ The Dude looks over at the pool.

The man bobbing in the inflatable chair is passed out. He is thin, in his thirties, with long stringy blond hair. He wears black leather pants and a black leather jacket, open, shirtless, exposing fine blond chest hair and pale skin. One ann trails off into the water; next to it, an empty whiskey bottle bobs.

. Dude - Practicing?

The young woman smiles.

Young woman You're not blowing.

Brandt nervously takes the Dude by the elbow.

The Dude grudgingly allows himself to be led away, still looking at the young woman.

Brandt releases a gale of forced laughter:

. Brandt Ha-ha-ha-ha! Wonderful woman. Very free- spirited. We're all very fond of her.

He continues to lead away the Dude, who looks back over his shoulder:

Scattered by a strike.

Donny calls out from the bench:

As the Dude walks back to the scoring table he turns to another team in black bowling shirts--the Cavaliers--that shares the lane .

DUde Your maples, earl.

Walter, just arriving, is carrying a leatherette satchel in one hand and a large plastic carrier in the other.

~ carrier. What's in the fucking carrier? r

He lets the small yapping dog out of the carrier. It scoots around the bowling table, sniffing at bowlers and wagging its tail.

Smokey turns from his last roll to look at Walter.

Walter takes out a gun.

A manager in a bowling-shirt style uniform is running for a phone.

Walter primes the gun and points it at his head.

The Pomeranian is excitedly yapping at Walter's elbow, ma.king high body-twisting tail-wagging leaps.

He points frantically at the score projected above the lane .

. . . You happy, you crazy fuck?

Walter and the Dude walk to the Dude's car. The Pomeranian trots happily behind Walter· who totes the empty carrier.

~alter You mean--beyond pacifism?

As the two men get into the car:

They watch a squad car take a squealing turn into the lot.

This irritates the Dude further.

Walter is still smug .

A large, brilliant Persian rug lies beneath the Dude's beat-up

old furniture.

At the table next to the answering machine the Dude is mixing kalhua, rum and milk.

A beep .

Beep.

We hear the doorbell.

It swings open to reveal a short, hairy, muscular but balding middle-aged man in a black T-shirt and black cut-off jeans.

Dude.

performing my dance quintet--you know, my cycle--at ~rane Jackson's Fountain Street Theatre on Tuesday night, and I'd love it if you came and gave me notes.

The Dude takes a swig of his kalhua.

The voice continues on the machine.

Beep.

We are pushing Brandt down the high-ceilinged hallway. Distantly, we hear a dolorous soprano. Brandt talks back over his shoulder:

Brandt throws open a pair of heavy double doors. The music washes over us as we enter a great study where Jeffrey Lebowski, a blanket thrown over his knees, stares hauntedly into a fire, listening to Lohengrin.

Brandt announces, ambiguously:

Jeffrey Lebowski waves the Dude in without looking around.

Lebowski turns away from ·the Dude with a haunted stare, lost in thought.

The Dude thumps at his chest pocket.

Dude

'

Mind if I smoke a jay?

,-.. \ Lebowski

. Bunny . . .

He turns back around and the firelight shows teartracks on his cheeks.

He clears his throat .

. I received this fax this morning.

Brandt hastily pulls a flimsy sheet from his clipboard and hands it to the Dude. ·

.. . As you can see, it is a ransom note. Sent by cowards . Men who are unable to achieve on a le"el field of play. Men who will not sign their names. Weaklings. Bwns.

The Dude examines the fax:

WE HAVEBUNNY. GATHERONE MILLION DOLLARS IN UNMARKED NON-CONSECUTIVE TWENTIES. AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS . NO FUNNY STUFF.

Lebowski looks soulfully at the Dude .

He wheels his chair around to once again gaze into the fire. Brandt tugs at the Dude's shirt and points him back to the hall.

The soprano's singing is once again faint. Brandt's voice is hushed:

CRASH--scattered by a strike, in slow motion.

Still in slow motion. we are looking across the length of the · bowling alley at a tall, thin, Hispanic bowler displaying perfect form. He wears an all-in-one dacron-polyester stretch bowling outfit with a racing stripe down each side.

On the Dude, sitting next to Walter in the molded plastic chairs. The Dude is staring off towards the bowler.

Displaying great slow-motion form as the Dude and Walter's conversation continues over.

We see Quintana, in pressed jeans and a stretchy sweater, walking up a stoop in a residential neighborhood and ringing the bell. The voice-over conversation continues.

Walter . When he moved down to Venice he had to go door-to-door to tell everyone he 1 s a pederast.

The door swings open and a beer-swilling middle-aged man looks dully out at Quintana, who looks hesitantly up .

scattered by a strike.

wheeling and thrusting a black gloved fist into the air.- Stitched above the breast pocket of his all-in-one is . his first name, "Jesus" .

They have been joined by Donny.

He slips a little black box out of his shirt pocket.

They gave Dude a beeper, so whenever these guys call-- ·

Donny has been watching Quintana.

It's your roll.

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 nJesusn stitched on the breast. He is holding a fancy black-and-red leather ball satchel (perhaps a Sylvia Wein). Behind him stands his partner, O'Brien, a short fat Irishman with tufted red hair.

Quintana looks at Walter.

"Dude Jesus.

Jesus walks away. Walter nods sadly.

We are looking down at the Dude who is prone on the rug . His eyes are closed. He wears a Walkman headset. Leaking tinnily through the headphones we can just hear an intermittent clatter.

In his outflung hand lies a casette case labeled VENICE BEACH LEAGUE PLAYOFFS 1987 .

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.

He screams.

A blonde woman looms over him. Next to her a young man in paint- spattered denims stoops and swings something towards the camera.

The sap catches the Dude on the chin and sends his --neiilt_~~rik_!"~·g. . - back onto the rug .

A million stars explode against a field of black.

We hear the "La-la-la-la" of The Man in Me.

The black field dissolves into the pattern of the rug. The rug rolls away to reveal an aerial view of the city of Los Angeles at twilight, moving below us at great speed .

The Dude is flying over the city, his arms thrown out in front of him, the wind whipping his hair and billowing his bowling shirt. He looks up.

Ahead the mysterious blonde woman wings away, riding on the Dude's rug like a shiek on a magic carpet. She is ·outpacing us, growing smaller .

The Dude does a couple of lazy crawl strokes and then notices that a bowling ball has materialized in his forward hand. His bemusement turns to concern over the aerodynamic implications just as the ball seems to suddenly assume its weight, abruptly snapping his arm down, and him after it.

He is falling.

From a high angle we see the Dude hurtling down toward the city,

dragged by the ball.

A reverse looking up shows the Dude hurtling toward us out of the inky sky, his eyes wide with horror. Led by the bowling ball, he zooms p~st the camera leaving us in black.

we hear a distant rumble, like thunder. Dull reflections materialize in the darkness. They are glints off the shiny surface of an oncoming bowling ball.

We pull back to reveal that the blackness was the inside of a ball return, and the gleaming bowling ball is being regurgitated up at us, overtaking us.

The Dude looks up, up, up at the looming ball, its mass rolling a huge ~hadow across his face.

The gleaming ball shows three dead black holes rolling toward us --finger holes.

The largest--thumb--hole rolls directly over us, engulfing us once again in black . .

The black rolls away and we are spinning--spinning down a bowling lane--our point of view that of someone .trapped in the thumbhole of the rolling ball.

We see the receding bowler spinning away. It is the blonde woman, perfonning her follow-through.

Floor spins up at us and then away; ceiling spins up and away; the length of the alley with pins at the end; floor; ceiling; approaching pins; again and again.

We hit the pins and clatter into blackness. We hear pins spin, hit each other and drop.

We hear an irritating, insistent beeping.

We are close on the Dude, upside down. As the picture fades in the bowling noises continue, but filtered and faint. They come from the Dude's Walkman, the headset of which is now askew, with one ann off his ear.

As the Dude opens his eyes we spiral slowly upward to put him right side around. His head is now resting against hardwood floor, not rug.

He raises himself onto his elbows and massages the red lump on his jaw. The beeper on his belt is blinking red in sync with the continuing irritating beeps.

An end table is upset, but otherwise the furniture is in place .

The rug is gone.

The Dude looks around. The bowling sounds continue. The beeps continue .

The phone starts to jangle.

We push Brandt down the familiar marble hallway. Again there is a distant aria. Brandt throws out a wrist to look at his watch.

They have reached the little desk outside of the big Lebowski's office; Brandt opens its bottom drawer with a key and takes out an attache case . He hands this to the Dude along with a cellular phone in a battery-pack carrying case ..

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 SOBCHAKSECURITY. Though he is wearing khaki shorts and shirt, the fact that he holds a battered brown briefcase makes him look oddly like a commuter. He also holds an irregular shape bundled in brown wrapping paper.

The car stops in front of him and_he opens the Dude's door and hands in the briefcase.

The Dude takes the briefcase and slides over.

The Dude opens the briefcase and paws bemusedly through it as the car starts rolling.

He closes the briefcase.

Walter, I'm sure there's a reason you

brought your dirty undies--

Dude . Yeah, but--

The phone chirps.

Dude grabs it.

Beat.

Hello?

Walter looks over at the Dude and bellows:

Click. Dial tone.

Oh shit. Walter, he ...

The phone chirps .

. . . Ya see? Nothing is fucked up here, Dude. Nothing is fucked. These guys are fucking amateurs--

The Dude unclips the phone from the batte·ry pack.

But they're amateurs.

The Dude glares at Walter. Into the phone:

A HIGHWAY SIGN: SIMI VALLEY ROAD

It flashes by in the headlights of the roaring car.

Walter wr.estles the car onto the two-lane road.

He looks at the Dude.

Huh?

The phone chizps.

Click. Dial tone.

Walter stares dumbly for a beat.

There is the bump and new steady of the car on the bridge. The Dude is twisting around to pull the money briefcase from the back seat. Walter reaches one arm across Dude's body to grab the laundry . ·

. .. and here goes the ringer.

He flings it out the window .

out! I double back, grab one of em and beat it out of him! The uzi!

Walter points.across the seat at the paper-wrapped bundle.

Dude · Walter, please--

Walter has flung open his door and is leaning halfway out over the road.

Walter rolls out with his parcel, giving a loud grunt as he hits the pavement. The car swerves and lurches and the OU:de, cursing, takes the wheel.

OtITSIDE

Walter twnbles onto the shoulder and--RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!--muzzle flashes tea~ open the wrapping paper .

The car rocks and the Dude wrestles with the wheel .

OtITSIDE

The car clunks and screams around in a skid.

The Dude is thrown forward as the car hits something .

OtITSIDE

As the Dude struggles out holding the satchel of money. The front of his car is crumpled into a tree. The car body sags back to the left, where the ~ear wheel has been shot out.

Walter is just rising from the ground massaging an injured knee.

The Dude runs up the road toward the bridge, frantically waving the satchel in the air.

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 dire~tion. It is closely followed by two more roaring motorcycles.

The Dude and Walter stand in the middle of the road, watching the three red tail lights fishtail away .

After a long staring silence:

. A ball rumbles in to scatter ten pins.

He turns from the lane to where the Dude sits in the nook of molded plastic chairs. The Dude listlessly holds the portable phone in his lap. It is ringing.

The portal:>le phone stops ringing.

Donny is trotting excitedly up.

.Donny Burkhalter.

The Dude gets to his feet with the portable phone.

Walter and Donny join the Dude as he walks out of the bowling alley.

... Hell, you just tell him--well, you tell him, uh, we made the hand-off, everything went, uh, you know--

He waves both arms as if conducting a symphony orchestra .

. · Kill that poor woman.

The three bowlers, stopped at the edge of the lot, stare out at an empty parking space.

The Dude walks away across the lot. The portable phone starts ringing again.

The Dude is slwnped disconsolately back in his easy chair, fingers of one hand cupped over his sunglasses. Facing him on the couch are two uniformed policeman, one middle-aged, the other a fresh-faced rookie.

At the cut the portable phone, in the Dude's lap, is chirping. The Dude waits for ·the rings to end. When they do:

Dully:

There is silence. Dude continues to stare at a spot on the floor. The older cop stares at him .

. . Me, I don't drink coffee . But it's nice when they offer.

At length:

The Dude taps the floor with his foot.

Dude· No. Here.

The Dude stares at the floor.

Silence.

The home phone starts ringing--a ring distinct from the chirp of the portable . The Dude makes no move to answer it. Finally the rings stop as an answering machine kicks on.

Dude's Voice on Machine The Dude's not in. Leave a_ message after the beep . It takes a minute.

Beep .

~ Female Voice on Machine

Mr. Lebowski, I'd like to see you. Call when you get home and I'll send a car for you. My name is Maude Lebowski . I'm the woman who took the rug.

Beep. Dial tone.

We are moving through the open living area of a large downtown L.A . loft~ A huge unfinished canvas, lit by standing industrial lights, dominates one wall. The furnishing's are spare given the space. On the floor is the Dude's brilliant rug.

We hear a rumble like an approaching bowling ball. The Dude, standing in the middle of the loft, looks into the murky depths of the cavernous space.

Something huge and white hurtles towards the Dude's head. As it roars overhead he ducks, and spins to watch it pass.

We see the backside of a naked woman in a sling suspended from a ceiling track rumbling over a canvas that lies on the floor. She is holding a paint bucket in one hand and a brush in the other, with which she flicks paint down at the canvas.

The Dude. turns again as he hears running footsteps. Two young men in paint-spattered shorts, T-shirts and sneakers reach the sling shortly after it reaches the end of its track and haul it back for another push.

She rumbles by .in another pass· .

. . . All right, we'll do the blue tomorrow. Elfranco. Pedro. Help me down.

The two men help Maude out of her sling. She is naked except for leather harness straps which ring her breasts and wrap her thighs and give her something of a dominatrix look .

. . . Does the female form make you uncomfor- table, Mr. Lebowski?

so

This to Elfranco, who has handed her a robe .

. . . All right, Mr. Lebowski, let's get down to cases. My father told me he's agreed to let you have the rug, but it was a gift from me to my late mother, and so was not his to give. Now. As for this ... "kidnapping"--

She is aiming a remote at a projection TV.

The screen flickers to life. A title card:

BUNNYLaJOYA

in

A third card:

From the television set we hear a doorbell ring, and then a door opening.

On the TV screen the door opens to reveal a sallow-faced man in blue cover-alls. It is Dieter, the floater in Lebowski's pool.

Maude · And you recognize her, of course.

The girl answering the door is Bunny Lebowski.

Y.iaude switches off the set.

~ \

fornicator is taking my father for the proverbial ride.

The Dude fingers his jaw, where the lump from the sap has all but disappeared.

The Dude sits in back holding a White Russian, listening to the chauffeur, a man of about the same age from whose livery cap a ponytail emerges.

Through rasping laughter :

He takes a sip of a freshly-mixed White Russian, which leaves milk on his mustache .

. . . I was feeling really shitty earlier in the day, I'd lost a little money, I was down in the dumps ...

The limo has rolled to a stop. The Dude gets out, still holding his drink.

His eyes on the rearview mirror, Tony jerks · a thumb over his shoulder.

... He followed us here.

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.

He scowls.

The Dude is grabbed from behind and muscled away in a half-nelson by another uniformed chauffeur.

As he is frog-marched towards another limo the Dude holds his drink away from his chest and cups a hand underneath it.

The waiting lime's back door is flung open .

The Dude is shoved in and awkwardly takes a seat facing the rear. The door is slarraned behind him.

Brandt sits catty-corner from the Dude; directly across from the Dude is the big Lebowski, a comforter across his knees.

The Dude takes a hurried sip from his drink.

Lebowski stares at him, dumbstruck. The Dude is encouraged .

. . . Well sure, look at it! Young trophy wife, I mean, in the parlance of our times, owes money all over town, including to known

pornographers--and that's cool, that's cool-- but I'm saying, she needs money, and of course they're gonna say they didn't get it •cause she wants more, man, she's gotta feed the monkey, I mean--hasn't that ever occurred to you ... ? Sir?

Brandt is handing him a letter-sized envelope which is distended by something inside.

The Dude, frowning, untucks its flap, takes out some cotton wadding and unrolls it .

The wadding, undone, reveals a smaller wad of gauze taped up inside. The Dude undoes the tape with his fingernails and starts to unroll the inner package.·

... I have no choice but to tell these bums that they should do whatever is necessary to

recover their money from~, Jeffrey Lebowski. And with Brandt as my witness, I tell you this: Any further harm visited upon Bunny, shall be visited tenfold upon~ head .

Between thwnb and forefinger the Dude holds up the contents of the package--a little toe, with emerald green nail polish.

By God sir. I will not abide another toe.

The Dude and Walter sit at the counter, both staring off into space, both absently stirring their coffee with little clinking noises.

After a long beat:

A waitress enters.

The Dude gets up:

this affects all of us!

The Dude has left frame; Walter calls after him:

... Our basic freedoms!

He looks defiantly around .

. . . I'm staying. Finishing my coffee.

He stirs the coffee, bopping his head in time to the Muzak, affecting nonchalance .

. . . Finishing my coffee.

A dripping noise.

The Dude sits in the bathtub, staring stuporously, a joint pinched in one hand, a washcloth draped over his head.

We hear the phone ringing in the other room.

The Dude is staring at his toes, which protrude from the soapy water, splayed against the far side of the tub.

After the Dude 1 s outgoing message we hear:

The Dude looks stuporously up, his head swaying .

. . . We've recovered your vehicle. It can be claimed at the North Hollywood Auto Circus there on Victory ...

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 leather wi_th a cricket paddle is striding across the living room towards the bathroom.

The man has entered the bathroom and, in stride, swings the cricket paddle up to smash the overhead light. Two other men are entering behind him.

The room is dark now except for spill from the living room; the men are backlit shapes.

One of them holds a string at the other end of which a small animal skitters excitedly about the floor.

The Dude looks curiously at the small, nattering animal.

The man with the string scoops up the marmot and tosses it, squealing, into the bathtub.

The Dude screams.

The marmot splashes frantically, biting at the Dude in a frenzy of fearful aggression .

The Dude, screaming, grabs the lip of the tub and starts to hoist himself up but the first man lays a palm on top of his head and squushes him back into the water.

He scoops the marmot out of the water. It shakes itself off, spraying the Dude.

,,..,_.

Dieter

\

Vee belief in nossing, Lebowski! NOSSING!!

The marmot, back on the floor, is skittering around, shaking itself and convulsing in little sneezes .

The three men turn to leave. Over their retreating backs:

A policeman with a clipboard is leading the Dude through a large parking lot.

They have reached the Dude's car. The driver's side exterior has been scraped raw. The policeman hands the Dude a door handle and an exterior rear-view mirror .

. . These were on the road next to the car.

You'll have to get in on the other side.

The Dude climbs in the passenger side.

The Dude tries .to roll down the driver's window but it will not go; he bellows throug_h the glass:

The policeman laughs, agreeing broadly.

The Dude looks sadly through his window at the policeman rocking back on his heels, his raucous laughter muffled by the glass.

The Dude, Walter and Donny sit at the bar, the Dude with a White Russian, Walter with a beer, and Donny eating beer nuts.

Walter sadly shakes his head.

Walter looks haunted .

. . . Say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it's an ethos .

There is a moment of stunned silence.

Sad; quiet :

Okay Dude . I can see you don't want to be cheered up . C'mon Donny, let's go get a lane .

They leave the Dude sitting morosely at the bar. As he stares down into his empty glass:

Still staring down at the bar: ·

The pop song on the jukebox has ended ; someone puts on "Tumbling Tumbleweeds . "

A man saunters up to the bar to take the stool that Walter vacated. He is middle-aged, amiable, craggily handsome--Sam Elliot, perhaps. He has a large Western-style mustache and wears denims, a yoked shirt and a cowboy hat. · ·

To the bartender:

We recognize the voice of The Stranger whose narration opened the

movie.

The Stranger nods.

waiting for his drink, he looks amiably around the bar. His crinkled eyes settle on the Dude.

The Dude, still staring down at his drink, shakes his head.

• Dude

Mm.

The bartender puts a ·brown bottle and a frosted glass on the bar in front of The Stranger, who touches his hat brim.

He looks back at the Dude .

. I like your style, Dude.

The Dude looks up, absently:

tr' to use s•many cuss words? •·. The Dude looks at The Stranger as if just now noticing how out of place the cowpoke is.

The Stranger chuckles indulgently and pushes off from the bar.

He brushes his hat brim with a fingertip.

Taker easy, Dude.

He is gone. "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" is ending as we hear an offscreen voice, breaking the spell:

The Dude looks:

Tony, the uniformed limo driver, is at the door of the bar, beckoning.

She strides toward us, naked under a robe which she is just cinching shut. Paint flecks her skin.

you know, tender my resignation on that matter, 'cause it looks like your mother really was kidnapped after all.

Dude -~ Hey man, why don't you fucking listen occasionally? You might learn something. Now I got--

The Dude fingers through the albums filling one bookshelf.

That was his group--they released one

album in the mid-seventies.

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 Gennans, their foreheads looming below slicked- back hair, gazing upward in thin-lipped epiphany. They are wearing severe but modishly ~etro suits. Each has his name under his picture--Dieter, Kieffer/ and Franz. A bed of nails is the only set dressing on the eye.

Dud~ Well yeah .. X know that ...

She is scribbling.

She is picking up a telephone .

. I'll see if he ' s available. He's a good man, and thorough.

His eyes are closed, a headset on, his shirt off. Leaking tinnily through the headset we hear the opening bars of "Comin ' Up Around the Bend."

Behind him, cropped so that we see only a little of his torso, a white-smocked figure taps at the Dude's back.

After a moment the figure circles to one side, out of frame. His hand reaches in to pull one arm of the headset away from the Dude's ear, and as he does so the music issues more strongly.

The Dude's eyes open.

The Dude is driving home. A Creedence tape plays.

The Dude is sucking down a joint. He glances at the rear-view

mirror--and, noticing something, looks again.

A Volkswagen 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 around the car, showering sparks.

The glowing butt rolls down the car seat between his legs .

The Dude scream _s.

The car careens wildly as the surrounding .traffic veers off to make way, horns blaring. The car finally spins and comes to rest with its passenger side wrapped into a telephone poll .

The Dude frantically grabs at his door, which won't open, and - then slides over to push at the passenger door, which also won't open.

But he is sitting on the passenger side now, away from the iit butt. He looks around for it.

Smoke is wisping up from between the driver's seat cushion and back cushion .

. Fuckola, man ...

He takes his beer and pours it in between the cushions. There is a hissing . sound . But there is a piece of paper sticking out from between ·the cushions.·

The Dude pulls it out.

It is lined spiral notebook paper, slightly singed and dripping beer, covered with handwriting. In the upper right-hand corner is the name Lawrence Sellers, and under that, Mrs. Jamtoss 5th Period. The theme is titled "The Louisiana Purchase." In red ink is a large circled D and some handwritten marginal comments;· misspelled words are circled in red throughout.

we are behind Walter, the Dude, and Donny, facing the stage in the background where Allan, the Dude's balding landlord, is performing a dance moderne.

As Walter talks to the Dude he leans in to him, his voice hushed, so as not to disturb the rest of the very sparse audience.

D~nny Those are good burgers, Walter.

He waves a hand vaguely toward the stage .

what have you. We'll, uh--

The Dude and Walter are pulling up in front of a dilapidated house sitting on a scrubby lot. Parked incongruously in front of the house is a brand new red Corvette .

Walter rings the bell. It is opened by a matronlr Spanish woman.

~-

They enter a dim living room and stand, looking about, as Pilar calls up the stairs:

There is a rhythmic compressor sound; Walter places it and nudges the Dude. At the other end of the living room a man lies on something that looks like a hospital gurney with its midsection enclosed by a motorized stainless-steel bubble. It is an iron lung, artificially breathing.with distinct hisses in and out.

Viva voce:

. And a good day to you, sir.

He and the Dude sit on a sagging green sofa. In a lowered voice, to Pilar:

Does he, uh ... Is he still writing?

He bellows across the room:

... I just want to say, sir, that we're both enormous--on a personal level, Branded. especially the early episodes, has been a source of, uh, inspir---

There are footsteps on the stairs. Larry, a fifteen-year-old, looks at the two men.

He adopts his command voice in turning to Larry:

. But that is up to little Larry here. Isn't it, Larry?

Walter pops the latches on his attache case and takes out the homework, which is now in a ziploc bag. He holds it out at arm's length, displaying it to Larry .

. . . Is this your homework, Larry?

Larry does not respond.

Is this your homework, Larry?

Walter is still holding out the homework.

Throughout Walter has been staring at Larry with the homework extended towards him.

No answer.

.. You•re gonna KILL your FATHER, Larry! ...

Finally, in disgust: .

. . . Ah, this is pointless.

As he shoves the homework back in the attache case :

... All right, Plan B. You might want to watch out the front window there, Larry.

He is heading for the door. The Dude, puzzled, rises to follow him.

. This is what happens when.you FUCK a STRANGER in the ASS, Larry.

Walter is striding down the lawn with his attache case like an enraged encyclopedia salesman. Without looking back at the Dude, who follows:

He pops the Dude's trunk, flings in the briefcase and takes out a tire iron .

. . Maybe he'll understand this.

He is walking over to the Corvette .

. YOU SEE WHATHAPPENS, LARRY!

CRASH! He swings the crowbar into the windshield, which shatters .

. . . YOU SEE WHATHAPPENS?!

CRASH! He takes out the driver's window .

STRANGER IN THE ASS!

Lights are going on in houses down the street. Distant dogs bark.

. . . HERE'S WHATHAPPENS, LARRY!

CRASH!

• • • HERE ' S WHAT HAPPENS ! FOCK A STRANGER IN THE ASS!

CRASH!

A man iri a sleeveless T-shirt and boxer shorts has run over behind Walter and grabbed him from behind on a backswing of the crowbar.

He wrestles the crowbar away from the startled Walter.

I JUS' BAWDEEZFOCICEENCAR LASS WEEK!

Walter cringes before the enraged Mexican.

The man looks about, wildly.

He runs over to the Dude's car.

CRASH ! CRASH!

CRASH!

I KILL JOR FUCKEENCAR!

Glass rains in on a terr~fied, cringing, Donny.

On a deafening CRASH we cut to:

we are looking into the car through the broken windshield as it rattles down the freeway. Wind whistles through the caved-in windows.

The Dude drives, his jaw clenched, staring grimly out at the road. Walter, beside him, and Donny in the back seat, munch on In-and-Out Burgers.

Creedence music plays above the bluster of wind .

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.

He finishes hammering, rises and grabs a straightbacked chair that stands nearby .

. . . Well _ that's your perception . .. Well you're right, Walter, and the unspoken message is FUCKYOU AND LEAVEME THE FUCK ALONE... Yeah, I'll be at practice.

He hangs up and has just finished sliding the chair into place with its top under the doorknob and its legs braced against the two-by-four, thus wedging the door closed , when the door is opened--outwards. The chair clatters to the floor.

Woo and the blond man who earlier peed on the :n1g stride in, kicking the chair away.

woo Pin your diapers on, Lebowski. Jackie Treehorn wants to see you.

~ deadbeat Leb~wski. r '·

Out of the blackness something is falling toward us. It is a woman, falling in slow motion, her limbs flailing, her mouth contorted by either fear or ecstasy. She is topless. She falls past the camera, leaving blackness, then after a beat reappears, rising into the night sky.

~IBU BEACH

A crowd of mostly tanned middle-aged men with blow-dried hair, wearing jogging outfits and other expensively casual attire, are blanket-tossing the squealing young woman in nightmarish slow motion.

It is a party, lit by festive beach lights and standing kerosene heaters. 1960's mainstream jazz, of the Mancini-Brubeck school, has been piped down to speakers on the beach.

In long shot now the woman rises, squealing, disappears into darkness, descends into light, rises again.

A man walks towards the camera through the pools of beach light. He is handsome, fiftyish, wearing cotton twill pants and a Turnbull & Asher shirt with a foulard knotted at the neck. Behind him, the woman rises and falls, appears and disappears.

The Dude is looking around at the '60 1 s modern decor.

Completely unspoiled.

He taps his forehead with one finger.

People forget that the brain is the biggest erogenous zone--

He hands him the drink.

Tr~ehorn Of course, you do get the good with the bad. The new technology permits us to do exciting things with i~teractive erotic software. Wave of the future, Dude. 100% electronic.

Dude· I thought you might know, man.

ran off was to get away from her rather sizable debt to me.

~ Dude , ·

But she hasn't run off, she's been--

Treehorn waves this off.

He is getting to his feet, but sways woozily .

. . . I'll go out and mingle.--Jesus, you mix a hell of a Caucasian, Jackie.

The Dude shakes his head, tries to focus.

Jackie Treehorn•s image starts to swim. He is joined on either side by Woo and the blond man, all three men looking grimly down at the Dude. \' " · Dude

No funny stuff, Jackie . . . the kid's got it . . . Hiya, fellas ... kid just wanted a car . . . all the Dude ever wanted ... was his rug back ... not greedy ... it really ...

He squints at Jackie Treehorn, who swims in and out of focus .

. tied the room togethe ·r.

He tips forward, spilling his drink off the table.

Looking up at the Dude as his face hits the glass and squushes.

The Stranger 1 s Voice Darkness warshed over the Dude--darker'n a black steer•s tookus on a moonless prairie night. There was no bottom.

We hear a thrumming bass .

SCRATCHY WHITE TITLE CARD:

ANOTHER TITLE CARD:

~UDE LEBOWSKI

in

A THIRD TITLE CARD:

pair of bowling balls. The bending bass sound turns into the lead-in to Kenny Rogers and the First Edition's •Just Dropped In."

The Dude is walking down a long corridor dressed as a cable repairman. The Dude's face is washed with a brilliant light as the corridor opens onto a gleaming bowling alley.

In the center of the alley stands Maude Lebowski, singing operatic harmony to the Kenny Rogers song. She wears an annored breastplate and Norse headgear, has braided pigtails, and holds a trident .

The Dude stands behind her and, pressed up against her, helps her with her follow-through as she releases a bowling ball.

The lane is straddled by a line of chorines in spangly mini- skirts, their arms akimbo, Busby-Berkley style, their legs turning the lane into a tunnel leading to the pins at the end .

But it is no longer a bowling ball rolling between their legs--it is the Dude himself, levitating inches off the lane, the tools from his utility belt swinging free. He is face down, his arms, torpedolike, pressed against his sides.

His point of view shows the lane rushing by below, the little ball-guide arrows zipping by .

The Dude twists his body around, performing a barrel-roll so that he is now gliding along the lane face-up.

Now his point of view looks up the dresses of the passing chorines .

The Dude smiles dreamily and does a backstroke motion so that he is once again gliding face-down . He looks forward and his forward momentum blows back his hair .

Corning 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, squeaiing, 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 Ge:anans. 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 bl~arily down the middle of the Pacific Coast Highway. Cars rush by on either side, horns blaring.

.

With the BLOO-WHUP of a short siren blast, a squad car with flashing gumballs pulls up.

The Dude sits in the back seat, his head lolling with the motion of the car as he blearily sings the theme of Branded:

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.

He is looking at the Ralph's Shopper's Club card.

The Dude stares.

The Chief hurls his steaming mug of coffee at the Dude. It hits him in the forehead with a thud, the scalding coffee splashing eve;)"Where.

The Chief is already up off his chair, rounding the desk.

The Chief slaps him twice.

He kicks the chair out from under the Dude, and then starts kicking at him.

Stay out of Malibu, deadbeat! Keep your ugly fucking goldbricking ass out of my beach community!

The oude, in the back seat of a taxicab that rocks and squeaks with every bump, is gingerly touching at sore spots on his face and scalp.

"Peaceful Easy Feeling" is on the radio.

The back of the driver, a large black man with rasta dreds under a knit cap.

The cab screeches over towards the curb. Another car, oncoming, its radio blaring Metallica, speeds by .

It is a red convertible. The driver, singing loudly and badly along with the radio, her hair blowing in the wind, a dreamy smile on her face as she speeds along, higher than a kite, is Bunny Lebowski.

On the accelerator her right foot, in an open-toed bright red high-heeled shoe, has five painted toes.

When she downshifts her left foot enters to engage the clutch.

Five more toes.

The Dude staggers in the open front door, one hand pressed to a lump on his forehead, and looks around.

The place is a wreck. Furniture has been overturned, upholstery slashed, drawers dumped.

Quiet.

The door to the bedroom starts to creak open.

The Dude cringes.

¥..aude emerges from the bedroom. She is wearing a bathrobe.

She pulls open the bathrobe as she approaches.

The Dude is stupefied .

Thoomp! On the embrace we cut to:

After a beat, a long sigh, and then a voice from the blackness:

A match is dragged across a headboard; the Dude is lighting himself a joint. He shakes the match out to restore blackness except for the glowing tip of the joint .

. . . I was, uh, one of the authors of the Port Huron Statement.--The original Port Huron Statement.

Click--che Dude turns on a bedside lamp. He and Maude lie next to each other in bed.

Dude . Yeah. Roadie for Metallica. Speed of Sound Tour.

He climbs out of bed but Maude remains in it. She wedges a pillow into the small of her back and clasps a hand on each kneecap . She pulls her knees in toward her chest to keep her

pelvis raised.

He picks a White Russian off the bedside table.

Throughout, Maude has been lying on her back with her knees pulled in.

The Dude spits some White Russian .

Something occurs to him .

. . . So . . . that doctor .

The Dude is staring off into space, thinking. His answer is absent:

The Dude is leaving the bedrqom.

The Dude finishes punching a number into the phone.

From the bedroom:

Maude's.Voice What're you talking about?

Beep.

Maude's voice Jeffrey?

He emerges on his front stoop, pulling on a shirt.

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 . More whines and coughs; no rtart.

The man hurriedly fumbles in front of him. He brings ·up a newspaper, which he holds before his face.

As he gets to the car. He reaches through the open driver's window and grabs the newspaper and hurls it to the ground. He is revved with nervous energy.

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:

The Dude is stunned .

He is fumbling in his wallet.

. . . See?

The Dude looks at the picture.

It is probably a school portrait, unrnist~kably Bunny, but fresh- faced, much younger looking, with a corn-fed smile and straight Partridge Family hair and bangs.

He is holding out another picture .

. . . The Gundersons told me to show her this when I found her. The family fa:rm ...

A bleak farmhouse and silo are the only features on a flat snow- swept landscape.

Outside of Moorhead, Minnesota. They think it'll make her homesick.

He hands back the picture.

She's been kidnapped, Da Fino. Or maybe not, but she's definitely not around.

we hear distant yapping, growing louder with the hum of an approaching car.

The Dude steps out to meet Walter's car as it pulls up, its passenger window open and the pomeranian leaning out and yapping .

.. DENNY'S

Four people sit at a booth: Dieter, Kieffer, Franz, all in black leather, and a young woman with long stringy blonde hair, wearing torn and patched jeans and a ribbed sleeveless tee-shirt, worn thin with age. She is apparently braless, and is teutonically pale with birthmarks on her face and arms.

Notable is her camera-side leg, which ends in a bandage-swaddled foot. Dried rust-colored blood stains the tip of the bandage.

The four are arguing, ·1oudly, in German . They seem very unhappy.

A waitress enters with a checkpad and pen .

The German shouting stops. Dieter looks sourly up.

The woman speaks to Dieter in German. He nods.

WALTERIs CAR

Walter's eyes are on the road as he listens, driving, to the Dude, whose speech i :, occasionally punctuated by yaps from the back seat.

hand off his briefcase, but he never asked m:it.~-

As he turns:

He is looking off as the car slows . The Dude looks where Walter is looking .

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 manicured front lawn to where a little red sports car rests with its hood crumpled into a palm trunk.

Through the French doors at its far end we can see Bunny, naked, briefly bouncing on the diving board before splashing into the illumina _ted pool outside. Heavy metal music filters in from a boom box by the pool.

Brandt, approaching, stoops and straightens, stoops and straightens, picking up the discarded clothes that run the length of the hall.

We pull the Dude and Walter as they approach the doors to the great study. Walter's dog follows, stiffly waving its tail.

BANG--the Dude and Walter push through the double doors into--

The big Lebowski turns at the sound of the door. His wheelchair. hums as he spins it around.

Well, she's back. No thanks to you.

The dog yaps.

He is crossing to Lebowski .

. . . This guy fucking walks. I've never been more certain of anything in my life!

Walter reaches around from behind and hoists the big Lebowski out of the wheelchair by his armpits.

The big Lebowski waggles helplessly, his rubbery feet grazing the floor like a Raggedy Ann's. The pomeranian gaily leaps and yaps.

He shoves the big Lebowski forward and he crumples to the floor, weeping.

You're bullies! Cowards, both of you!

Walter is abashed . The Big Lebowski flails about on the floor.

Walter moves to comply.

Through his tears:

The Dude has picked up the Big Lebowski's plaid lap warmer and is frantically tucking it back in around his waist and batting the dog away.

There ya go. Sorry man ...

Walter, puzzled, hands on hips, stands over the big Lebowski.

1.0S

Scattered at the cut.

Each with a beer at the scoring table.

Donny . Who's in pyjamas, Walter?

The Dude and Walter look .

Quintana is bellowing from the lip of the lane, and is restrained by O'Brien.

Walter looks at him innocently .

. . . What is this bullshit, man? I don't fucking care! It don't matter to Jesus! But you're not fooling me! You might fool the fucks in the league office, but you don't fool Jesus! It's bush league psych-out stuff! Laughable, man! I would've fucked you in the ass Saturday, I'll fuck you in the ass next Wednesday instead!

He makes hip-grinding coital motions as O'Brien leads him away .

. . . You got a date Wednesday, man!

Walter, his head cocked, and the Dude, peeking over his shades, watch him go.

Donny, Walter and the Dude emerge from the alley, each holding his leatherette ball satchel.

They react to the droning synthesizer-based technopop coming from a boom box.

Dieter, Kieffer and Franz, in shiny black leather, stand in a line facing them in the all-but-deserted lot. Behind them orange flames lick gently at the Dude's car, which has been put to the torch. The orange flames glow on the men's creaking leather.

Next to the car are three motorcycles, parked in a neat row.

The Dude looks sadly at the burning car .

The men in black, stunned, confer amongst themselves in Gennan.

Under his breath: r-

Walter answers, also sotto voce, his eyes still on the three men:

The Germans stop conferring.

He pulls an uzi from under his coat. It glints in the firelight.

Walter ignores the Dude, addresses the Germans:

The Getmans confer again, in German.

Donny is visibly frightened.

Walter's tone is gentle:

The conference ends:

The Dude is digging into his pocket.

Walter's eyes, burning with hatred, are locked on Dieter's.

Louder, to the Germans, as he looks in his wallet:

Four dollars here!

He inspects the change in his palm.

Almost five!

With a ring of steel, Dieter produces a glinting saber.

,-. . Walter \ (coolly)

Come and get it.

In a rage, Dieter charges.

hurls his leather satchel.

Watching Dieter's charge, is caught off-guard. The bowling ball thuds into his chest and lifts him off his feet.

He falls back, his uzi clattering away.

twists away as Dieter reaches ~im; grabs Dieter's head in both hands; draws Dieter's head up ~o his mouth, which closes on Dieter's ear.

He rushes Franz but draws up short as Franz sends out karate kicks, his leather pants squeaking and popping. Franz gives a loud cry with each kick; the Dude leans back, throwing his arms up, evading the kicks.

His jaw is still clamped on Dieter's ear. Dieter draws his saber against Walter's side, drawing blood.

Walter doesn't react to the wound. Growling as Dieter screams, he worries his ear, waggling his head with his jaws clamped.

Dieter drops it .

Awkwardly circling, evading Franz's kicks.

still worrying the ear. With a tearing sound his head and Dieter's separate.

Dieter, earless, screams:

Walter spits his ear into his face.

The Dude and Franz, both now panting heavily, have yet to establish body contact. Franz continues to kick.

draws back his fist .

Bam!--A powerhouse blow to the middle of his face drops Dieter for the count.

With a piercing shriek Franz finally summons the nerve to charge the Dude, hands raised to deliver karate blows.

As he reaches the Dude--WHHAP--the boom box swings into frame to smash him in the face. Its volume shoots up.

Walter bashes him a few more times over the head. The music screeches to static, then quiet. Laid out now, Franz too is quiet.

All quiet.

Walter, panting, looks around.

With a hand pressed to his bleeding side he trots over to Donny,

who lies gasping on the ground.

The Dude, also panting , rises and trots over.

Donny gasps for air. His eyes, wide, go from the Dude to Walter. One hand still clutches his eighteen dollars.

The Dude runs into the lanes.

Walter lays a reassuring hand on Donny's shoulder.

.Rest easy, good buddy, you're doing fine. We got help choppering in .

They sit side by side, forearms on knees, in a nondescript waiting area. Walter bounces the fingertips of one hand off those of the other. They sit. They wait.

A tall thin man in a ·conservative black suit enters. · He eyes the Dude's bowling attire and sunglasses and Walter's army surplus, but doesn't make an .issue of it.

He nods through a door. Another man in a black suit enters to carefully deposit a large silver urn on the desktop .

. 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, puts on reading glasses that sit halfway down his nose, and inspects the bill with his head pulled back for focus and cocked·for concentration.

Silence.

The Dude smiles at Donnelly.

Donnelly gives back a mortician's smile.

At length Walter holds the bill towards Donnelly, pointing .

. . . What's this?

. Donnelly Sir, this is a mortuary, not a rental house.

It is a high, wind-swept bluff. Walter and the DUde walk towards the lip of the bluff. Parked in the background is one lonely car, Walter ' s.

Walter is carrying a bright red coffee can with a blue plastic lid.

When they reach the edge the two men stand awkwardly for a beat . · Finally:

The Dude clasps his hands in front of him . Walter clears his throat .

. .. Donny was a good bowler, and a good man. He was ... He was one of us. He was a man who loved the outdoors, and bowling, and as a surfer explored the beaches of southern California from Redondo to Calabassos. And he was an avid bowler. And a good friend . He died--he died as so many of his genera- tion, before his time. In your wisdom you took him, Lord. As you took -so many bright flowering young men, at Khe San and Lan Doc and Hill 364. These young men gave their lives. And Donny too. Donny who ... who

loved bowling ...

Walter clears his throat .

. . . And so, Theodore--Donald--Karabotsos, in accordance with what we think your dying wishes might well have been, we commit your mortal remains to the bosom of.

Walter is peeling the plastic lid off the coffee can .

the Pacific Ocean, which you loved so well.

As he shakes out the ashes:

... Goodnight, sweet prince.

The wind has blown all of the ashes into the Dude, standing just to the side of and behind Walter.

The Dude stands, frozen .

Finished eulogizing, Walter looks back .

. . . Shit, I'm sorry Dude.

He starts brushing off the Dude with his hands .

. . . Goddamn wind.

Heretofore motionless, the Dude finally explodes, slapping Walter's hands away.

The Dude is near tears.

The Dude gives Walter a furious shove.

l.17

Walter for the first time is genuinely distressed, almost lost.

He gives Walter a weaker shove . Walter seems dazed, then wraps his arms around the Dude.

We watch each of them glide across the floor, release, follow through--gracefully. We have never seen them bowl before. They are quite good. Each wears a black armband on his bowling shirt.

The Dude walks up to the bar.

bear, and, uh ...

•Tumbling Tumbleweeds" has come up on the jukebox, and The Stranger ambles up to the bar.

The Stranger's eyes crinkle merrily.

The bartender has put two gleaming beers on the counter.

The Dude, leaving, nods:

Gazing after him, The Stranger drawls, savoring the words:

He gives his head a shake of appreciation, then looks into the camera .

. .. I don't know about you, but I take comfort in that . It's good knowin' he's out there, the Dude, takin' her easy for all us sinners. Shoosh. I sure hope he makes the

finals. Welp, that about does her, wraps her all up. Things seem to've worked out pretty good for the Dude'n Walter, and it was a purt good story, dontcha think? Made me laugh to beat the band. Parts, anyway. Course--I · didn't like seein' Donny go. But then, 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-- aw, look at me, I'm ramblin' again. Wal, uh hope you folks enjoyed yourselves ...

He brusheshis hat brim with a fingertip as we begin topull back. .,~

. . . Catch ya further on down the trail.

As we pullaway. The Stranger swivels in to the bar. Ashis voice fades:

... Say friend, ya got any more a that good sarsaparilla? ...

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