The Big Lebowski

We are floating up a steep scrubby slope. We hear male voices

gently singing "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" and a deep, affable,

Western-accented voice--Sam Elliot's, perhaps:

VOICE-OVER

A way out west there was a fella,

fella I want to tell you about, fella

by the name of Jeff Lebowski. At

least, that was the handle his lovin'

parents gave him, but he never had

much use for it himself. This

Lebowski, he called himself the Dude.

Now, Dude, that's a name no one would

self-apply where I come from. But

then, there was a lot about the Dude

that didn't make a whole lot of sense

to me. And a lot about where he

lived, like- wise. But then again,

maybe that's why I found the place

s'durned innarestin'.

We top the rise and the smoggy vastness of Los Angeles at

twilight stretches out before us.

VOICE-OVER

They call Los Angeles the City of

Angels. I didn't find it to be that

exactly, but I'll allow as there are

some nice folks there. 'Course, I

can't say I seen London, and I never

been to France, and I ain't never

seen no queen in her damn undies as

the fella says. But I'll tell you

what, after seeing Los Angeles and

thisahere story I'm about to unfold--

wal, I guess I seen somethin' ever'

bit as stupefyin' as ya'd see in any

a those other places, and in English

too, so I can die with a smile on my

face without feelin' like the good

Lord gypped me.

INTERIOR RALPH'S

It is late, the supermarket all but deserted. We are tracking

in on a fortyish man in Bermuda shorts and sunglasses at the

dairy case. He is the Dude. His rumpled look and relaxed

manner suggest a man in whom casualness runs deep.

He is feeling quarts of milk for coldness and examining their

expiration dates.

VOICE-OVER

Now this story I'm about to unfold

took place back in the early nineties--

just about the time of our conflict

with Sad'm and the Eye-rackies. I

only mention it 'cause some- times

there's a man--I won't say a hee-ro,

'cause what's a hee-ro?--but sometimes

there's a man.

The Dude glances furtively about and then opens a quart of

milk. He sticks his nose in the spout and sniffs.

VOICE-OVER

And I'm talkin' about the Dude here--

sometimes there's a man who, wal,

he's the man for his time'n place,

he fits right in there--and that's

the Dude, in Los Angeles.

CHECKOUT GIRL:

She waits, arms folded. A small black-and white TV next to

her register shows George Bush on the White House lawn with

helicopter rotors spinning behind him.

GEORGE BUSH:

This aggression will not stand. . .

This will not stand!

The Dude, peeking over his shades, scribbles something at

the little customer's lectern. Milk beads his mustache.

VOICE-OVER

...and even if he's a lazy man, and

the Dude was certainly that--quite

possibly the laziest in Los Angeles

County.

The Dude has his Ralph's Shopper's Club card to one side and

is making out a check to Ralph's for sixty-nine cents.

VOICE-OVER

...which would place him high in the

runnin' for laziest worldwide--but

sometimes there's a man. . . sometimes

there's a man.

EXTERIOR RALPH'S

Long shot of the glowing Ralph's. There are only two or

three cars parked in the huge lot.

VOICE-OVER

Wal, I lost m'train of thought here.

But--aw hell, I done innerduced him

enough.

The Dude is a small figure walking across the vast lot.

Next to him walks a Mexican carry-out boy in a red apron and

cap carrying a small brown bag holding the quart of milk.

The two men's footsteps echo in the still of the night.

After a beat of walking the Dude offhandedly points.

DUDE:

It's the LeBaron.

DUDE'S HOUSE

The Dude is going up the walkway of a small Venice bungalow

court. He holds the paper sack in one hand and a small

leatherette satchel in the other. He awkwardly hugs the

grocery bag against his chest as he turns a key in his door.

INSIDE:

The Dude enters and flicks on a light.

His head is grabbed from behind and tucked into an armpit.

We track with him as he is rushed through the living room,

his arm holding the satchel flailing away from his body.

Going into the bedroom the outflung satchel catches a piece

of doorframe and wallboard and rips through it, leaving a

hole.

The Dude is propelled across the bedroom and on into a small

bathroom, the satchel once again taking away a piece of

doorframe. His head is plunged into the toilet. The paper

bag hugged to his chest explodes milk as it hits the toilet

rim and the satchel pulverizes tile as it crashes to the

floor.

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