Home sweet home, Mr. L. Who's your
friend in the Volkswagon?
His eyes on the rearview mirror, Tony jerks a thumb over his
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.
When did he-
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 cups a hand underneath it.
Fuck, man! There's a beverage here!
The waiting limo's back door is flung open.
The Dude is shoved in and awkwardly takes a seat facing the
rear. The door is slammed behind him.
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 we--I don't--
They did not receive the money, you
nitwit! They did not receive the
goddamn 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!
The Dude takes a hurried sip from his drink.
C'mon man, who're you gonna believe?
Those guys are--we dropped off the
I--the royal we, you know, the
editorial--I dropped off the money,
exactly as per--Look, I've got certain
information, certain things have
come to light, and uh, has it ever
occurred to you, man, that given the
nature of all this new shit, that,
uh, instead of running around blaming
me, that this whole thing might just
be, not, you know, not just such a
simple, but uh--you know?
What in God's holy name are you
I'll tell you what I'm blathering
about! I got information--new shit
has come to light and--shit, man!
She kidnapped herself!
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...?
No. No Mr. Lebowski, that had not
occurred to me.
That had not occurred to us, Dude.
Well, okay, you're not privy to all
the new shit, so uh, you know, but
that's what you pay me for. Speaking
of which, would it be possible for
me to get my twenty grand in cash?
I gotta check this with my accountant
of course, but my concern is that,
you know, it could bump me into a
Brandt, give him the envelope.
Well, okay, if you've already made
out the check. 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, and since you have
unrepentantly betrayed my trust.
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 you, Jeffrey Lebowski. And
with Brandt as my witness, tell you
this: Any further harm visited upon
Bunny, shall 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.
...By 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.
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
You want a toe? I can get you a
toe, believe me. There are ways,
Dude. You don't wanna know about
it, believe me.
I'll get you a toe by this
afternoon--with nail polish. These
fucking amateurs. They send us a
toe, we're supposed to shit our-
selves with fear. Jesus Christ. My
They're gonna kill her, Walter, and
then they're gonna kill me--
Well that's just, that's the stress
talking, Dude. So far we have what
looks to me like a series of
What about the toe?
FORGET ABOUT THE FUCKING TOE!
A waitress enters.
Could you please keep your voices
down--this is a family restaurant.
Oh, please dear! I've got news for
you: the Supreme Court has roundly
rejected prior restraint!
Walter, this isn't 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 you and I could
enjoy this family restaurant!
THE DUDE GETS UP:
All right, I'm leaving. I'm sorry
Don't run away from this, Dude!
Goddamnit, 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,
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 roam.
The Dude is staring at his toes, which protrude from the
soapy water, splayed against the far side of the tub.
After the Dude's outgoing message we hear:
VOICE THROUGH MACHINE
Mr. Lebowski, this is Duty Officer
Rolvaag of the L.A.P.D.
The Dude looks stuporously up, his head swaying.
VOICE THROUGH MACHINE
We've recovered your vehicle. It
can be claimed at the North Hollywood
Auto Circus there on Victory.
Far out. Far fuckin' out.
You'll just need to present a--
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 with a cricket paddle is
striding across the living room towards the bathroom.
Hey! This is a private residence,
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,
screaming, into the bathtub.
The Dude screams.
The marmot splashes frantically, biting at the Dude in a
frenzy of fearful aggression.
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 top of his
head and squishes him back into the water.
You think veer kidding und making
mit de funny stuff?
Vee could do things you only dreamed
Ja, vee could really do it, Lebowski.
Vee belief in nossing.
He scoops the marmot out of the water. It shakes itself
off, spraying the Dude.
Vee belief in nossing, Lebowski!
The marmot, back on the floor, is skittering around, shaking
itself and convulsing in little sneezes.
Tomorrow vee come back und cut off
I SAY VEE CUT OFF YOUR CHONSON!
The three men turn to leave. Over their retreating backs:
Just sink about zat, Lebowski.
Ja, your viggly penis, Lebowski.
Ja, und maybe vee stamp on it und
skvush it, Lebowski!
NORTH HOLLYWOOD AUTO CIRCUS
A policeman with a clipboard is leading the Dude through a
large parking lot.
You're lucky she wasn't chopped, Mr.
Lebowski. Must've been a joyride
situation; they abandoned the car
once they hit the retaining wall.
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
The Dude climbs in the passenger side.
My fucking briefcase! It's not here!
Yeah, sorry, I saw that on the report.
You're lucky they left the tape deck
My fucking briefcase! Jesus--what's
Uh, yeah. Probably a vagrant, slept
in the car. Or perhaps just used it
as a toilet, and moved on.
The Dude tries to roll down the driver's window but it will
not go; he bellows through the glass:
When will you find these guys? I
mean, do you have any promising leads?
The policeman laughs, agreeing broadly.
Leads, yeah. I'll just check with
the boys down at the Crime Lab.
They've assigned four more detectives
to the case, 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
BOWLING ALLEY BAR
The Dude, Walter and Donny sit at the bar, the Dude with a
White Russian, Walter with a beer, and Donny eating beer
And then they're gonna stamp on it?!
Oh for Christ--will you shut the
fuck up, Donny.
I figure my only hope is that the
big Lebowski kills me before the
Germans can cut my dick off.
Now that is ridiculous, Dude. No
one is going to cut your dick off.
Not if I have anything to say about
Yeah, thanks Walter. That gives me
a very secure feeling.
That makes me feel all warm inside.
This whole fucking thing--I could
be sitting here with just pee-stains
on my rug.
Walter sadly shakes his head.
Fucking Germans. Nothing changes.
They were Nazis, Dude?
Come on, Donny, they were threatening
Are you gonna split hairs?
Am I wrong?
They kept saying they believe in
Walter looks haunted.
Say what you like 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,
an amphibious rodent, for uh,
domestic, you know, within the city--
that isn't legal either.
What're you, a fucking park ranger
Who gives a shit about the fucking
--We're sympathizing here, Dude--
Fuck your sympathy! I don't need
your sympathy, man, I need my fucking
What do you need that for, Dude?
You gotta buck up, man, you can't go
into the tournament with this negative
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. 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:
Another Caucasian, Gary.
STILL STARING DOWN AT THE BAR:
Friends like these, huh Gary.
That's right, Dude.
The pop song on the jukebox has ended; someone puts on
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:
D'ya have a good sarsaparilla?
We recognize the voice of The Stranger whose narration opened
Sioux City Sarsaparilla.
The Stranger nods.
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, still staring down at his drink, shakes his head.
Ahh, not so good, man.
One a those days, huh. Wal, a wiser
fella than m'self once said, sometimes
you eat the bar and sometimes the
bar, wal, he eats you.
Uh-huh. That some kind of Eastern
Far from it.
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:
Well I like your style too, man.
Got a whole cowboy thing goin'.
Thankie. . . Just one thing, Dude.
D'ya have 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 fuck are you talking about?
The Stranger chuckles indulgently and pushes off from the
Okay, have it your way.
He brushes his hat brim with a fingertip.
Take it easy, Dude.
Yeah. Thanks man.
He is gone. "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" is ending as we hear an
offscreen voice, breaking the spell:
THE DUDE LOOKS:
Tony, the unformed limo driver, is at the door of the bar,
She strides toward us, naked under a robe which she is just
cinching shut. Paint flecks her skin.
Jeffrey, you haven't gone to the
No it's fine, really, uh--
Do you have any news regarding my
I, uh... money, yeah, I gotta
respecfully, 69 you know, tender my
resignation on that matter, 'cause
it 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.
Now I got--
She is most definitely the perpetrator
and not the victim.
I'm telling you, I got definitive
The main guy, Dieter--
Well--yeah, I guess--
Her "co-star" in the beaver picture?
Beaver? You mean vagina?--I mean,
you know him?
Dieter has been on the fringes of--
well, of everything in L.A., for
about twenty years. Look at my LP's.
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.
Roy Orbison. . . Pink Floyd.
Huh? Autobahn. A-u-t-o. Their
music is a sort of--ugh--techno-pop.
The Dude pulls out an album with a worn sleeve. On it is
the group's name, Autobahn, the album name, Nagelbett, and a
OF THREE YOUNG GERMANS, THEIR FOREHEADS LOOMING BELOW
back hair, gazing upward in thin-lipped epiphany. They are
wearing severe but modishly retro suits. Each has his name
under his picture--Dieter, Kieffer; and Franz. A bed of
nails is the only set dressing on the cyc.
Jeez. I miss vinyl.
Is he pretending to be the abductor?
Look, Jeffrey, you don't really
kidnap someone that you're acquainted
with. You can't get away with it if
the hostage knows who you are.
Well yeah...I know that.
So Dieter has the money?
Well, no, not exactly. It's a
complicated case, Maude. Lotta ins.
Lotta outs. And a lotta strands to
keep in my head, man. Lotta strands
in old Duder's--
Do you still have that doctor's
Huh? No, really, I don't even have
the bruise any more, I--
She is scribbling.
Please Jeffrey. I don't want to be
responsible for any delayed after-
I want you to see him immediately.
She is picking up a telephone.
I'll see if he's available. He's a
good man, and thorough.
CLOSE SHOT THE DUDE
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.
Could you slide your shorts down
please, Mr. Lebowski?
The Dude's eyes open.
Huh? No, she, she hit me right here.
I understand sir. Could you slide
your shorts down please?
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 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 around the car, showering
The glowing butt rolls down the car seat between his legs.
The Dude screams.
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
INSIDE THE CAR
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 lit butt. He looks around for it.
Smoke is wisping up from between the Driver's seat cushion
and back cushion.
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.
CRANE JACKSON'S FOUNTAIN STREET THEATER
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
He lives in North Hollywood on
Radford, near the In-and-Out Burger--
The In-and-Out Burger is on Camrose.
Near the In-and-Out Burger--
Those are good burgers, Walter.
Shut the fuck up, Donny. This kid
is in the ninth grade, Dude, and his
father is--are you ready for this?--
Arthur Digby Sellers.
Who the fuck is that?
Who the fuck is Arthur Digby Sellers?
Who the f--have you ever heard of a
little show called Branded, Dude?
All but one man died? There at Bitter
Yeah yeah, I know the fucking show
Walter, so what?
Fucking Arthur Digby Sellers wrote
156 episodes, Dude.
The bulk of the series.
Not exactly a lightweight.
And yet his son is a fucking dunce.
Yeah, go figure. Well we'll go out
there after the, uh, the.
He waves a hand vaguely toward the stage.
What have you. We'll, uh--
We'll be near the In-and-Out Burger.
Shut the fuck up, Donny. We'll, uh,
brace the kid--he'll be a pushover.
We'll get that fucking money, if he
hasn't spent it already. Million
fucking clams. And yes, we'll be
near the, uh--some burgers, some
beers, a few laughs. Our fucking
troubles are over, Dude.
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.
Fuck me, man! That kid's already
spent all the money!
Hardly Dude, a new 'vette? The kid's
still got, oh, 96 to 97 thousand,
depending on the options. Wait in
the car, Donny.
THE FRONT DOOR
Walter rings the bell. It is opened by a matronly Spanish
Hello, Pilar? My name is Walter
Sobchak, we spoke on the phone, this
is my associate Jeffrey Lebowski.
May we uh, we wanted to talk about
little Larry. May we come in?
They enter a dim living room and stand, looking about, as
CALLS UP THE STAIRS:
Larry! Sweetie! Dat mang is here!
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.
That's him, Dude.
And a good day to you, sir.
See down, please.
Thank you, ma'am.
He and the Dude sit on a sagging green sofa. In a lowered
voice, to Pilar:
Does he, uh. . . Is he still writing?
No, no. He has healt' problems.
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,
There are footsteps on the stairs. Larry, a fifteen-year-
old, looks at the two men.
See down, Sweetie. These are the
No ma'am, I didn't mean to give the
impression that we're police exactly.
We're hoping that it will not be
necessary to call the police.
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?
Look, man, did you--
Dude, please!. . . Is this your
Just ask him if he--ask him about
the car, man!
Walter is still holding out the homework.
Is this yours, Larry? Is this your
Is the car out front yours?
Is this your homework, Larry?
We know it's his fucking homework,
Walter! 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 going to enter 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, Larry.
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,
He is heading for the door. The Dude, puzzled, rises to
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:
Fucking language problem, Dude.
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 WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!
CRASH! He swings the crowbar into the windshield, which
YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS?!
CRASH! He takes out the driver's window.
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FUCK A
STRANGER IN THE ASS!
Lights are going on in houses down the street. Distant dogs
HERE'S WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!
HERE'S WHAT HAPPENS! FUCK A STRANGER
IN THE ASS!
A man in a sleeveless T-shirt and boxer shorts has run over
behind Walter and grabbed him from behind on a backswing of
WHAT THE FUCK JOO DOING, MANG?!
He wrestles the crowbar away from the startled Walter.
I JUS' BAWDEEZ FUCKEEN CAR LASS WEEK!
Walter cringes before the enraged Mexican.
The man looks about, wildly.
I KILL JOO, MANG! I--I KILL JOR
He runs over to the Dude's car.
No! No! NO! THAT'S NOT--
I FUCKEEN KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!
I KILL JOR FUCKEEN CAR!
INSIDE THE CAR
Glass rains in on a terrified, cringing, Donny.
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.
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.
I accept your apology. . . No I, I
just want to handle it myself from
now on. . . No. That has nothing to
do with it. . . .Yes, it made it
home, I'm calling from home. No,
Walter, it didn't look like Larry
was about to crack.
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 FUCK YOU AND
LEAVE ME 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
Woo and the blond man who earlier peed on the rug stride in,
kicking the chair away.
Pin your diapers on, Lebowski. Jackie
Treehorn wants to see you.
And we know which Lebowski you are,
Yeah. Jackie Treehorn wants to talk
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 either fear or ecstasy. She is topless.
She falls past the camera, leaving blackness, then after a
beat reappears, rising into the night sky.
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
Hello Dude, thanks for coming. I'm
Hungry Sloth Productions
"I made a montage the other day, and steve winter came into my house, knocked over a painting, and told my dad to withdraw sponsorship of my film."
"mount a camera to a sloth and mount the sloth at the place they're playing at."
-Leckett on the Shiny Toy Guns show