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 ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ MONEY, ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥!

DUDE
It's uh, it's down there somewhere.
Lemme take another look.

His head is plunged back in.

VOICE
Don't ♥♥♥♥ 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 ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ 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.

BLOND MAN
The ♥♥♥♥ is this?

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

DUDE
Obviously you're not a golfer.

The blond man drops the ball which pulverizes more tile.

BLOND MAN
Woo?

The Chinese man is zipping his fly.

WOO
Yeah?

BLOND MAN
Wasn't this guy supposed to be a
millionaire?

WOO
Uh?

They both look around.

WOO
♥♥♥♥.

BLOND MAN
What do you think?

WOO
He looks like a ♥♥♥♥♥♥' loser.

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

DUDE
Hey. At least I'm housebroken.

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

WOO
♥♥♥♥♥♥' waste of time.

The blond man turns testily at the door.

BLOND MAN
Thanks a lot, ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥.

ON THE DOOR SLAM WE CUT TO:

BOWLING PINS

Scattered by a strike.

Music and head credits play over various bowling shots--pins
flying, bowlers hoisting balls, balls gliding down lanes,
sliding feet, graceful releases, ball return spinning up a
ball, fingers sliding into fingerholes, etc.

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

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