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. The Dude blows bubbles. VOICE We want that money, Lebowski. Bunny said you were good for it. Hands haul the Dude out of the toilet. The Dude blubbers and gasps for air. VOICE Where's the money, Lebowski! His head is plunged back into the toilet. VOICE Where's the money, Lebowski! The hands haul him out again, dripping and gasping. VOICE WHERE'S THE FUCKING MONEY, SHITHEAD! DUDE It's uh, it's down there somewhere. Lemme take another look. His head is plunged back in. VOICE Don't fuck with us. If your wife owes money to Jackie Treehorn, that means you owe money to Jackie Treehorn. The inquisitor hauls the Dude's head out one last time and flops him over so that he sits on the floor, back against the toilet. The Dude gropes back in the toilet with one hand. Looming over him is a strapping blond man. Beyond in the living room a young Chinese man unzips his fly and walks over to a rug. CHINESE MAN Ever thus to deadbeats, Lebowski. He starts peeing on the rug. The Dude's hand comes out of the toilet bowl with his sunglasses. DUDE Oh, man. Don't do-- BLOND MAN You see what happens? You see what happens, Lebowski? The Dude puts on his dripping sunglasses. DUDE Look, nobody calls me Lebowski. You got the wrong guy. I'm the Dude, man. BLOND MAN Your name is Lebowski. Your wife is Bunny. DUDE Bunny? Look, moron. He holds up his hands. DUDE You see a wedding ring? Does this place look like I'm fucking married? All my plants are dead! The blond man stoops to unzip the satchel. He pulls ...
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