In `The Big Lebowski,' the Dude abides
GUNDER KEHOE
Scene Movie Critic
It is not often that a film transcends its medium to become more than a fictional tale. "The Big Lebowski" is one such feature; its realm is so rich with character that it becomes a universe unto itself. "Lebowski's" aesthetic value is of little importance because the inhabitants of this universe are not merely played by actors — they do not stop breathing when the final credits role.
At the heart of this Lebowski universe lies a single misunderstood man: the Dude. One can easily write him off as a deadbeat just as they do in Malibu. The Dude, however, is not a nitwit or a lousy bum, nor is he a sad-assed refugee from the '60s; he is a man in which laziness runs deep. But this is precisely what makes him special.
There is finally a human who can bring honor to unemployment and make apathy an artform. One has to admire his peculiar view on time, the way days run together and calendars are of no consequence. The Dude's every move is a lesson in relaxation. He ambles around like a bag of dirty laundry, exuding a sense of ease with the simple stretch of his back or in the shrug of his shoulders.
Dude is a devoted friend who always forgives after the most heated dispute, and his resilient posturing is a marvelous attribute.
Perhaps Dude's most admirable skill is his knack for finding value in worthless things. His Persian carpet certainly tied the room together, but was it worth the trouble that eventually ensued? He has so much pride in a single floor covering, the way he balances on one leg, arms outstretched, eyes studying the fabric under his feet.
Although Dude accomplishes nothing in life, he is oddly successful. It is necessary to know why. His dudeness is filled with strands of information. By examining these facets, we can shed more light on his nature. Then, as the Stranger (Sam Elliot) says, maybe everyone can take comfort in knowing the Dude is out there.
The Dude has a genuine affection for comfortable furniture and he never meets a foreign space that he cannot quickly make his own. In many ways, Dude is chameleon-like, possessing the natural talent to become one with his environment. While meeting with Jackie Treehorn, Dude adopts the Porn King's unspoiled palace. He melds seamlessly with the orange couch and it feels as though he is fully stitched to the fabric. Dude's posture in the back of Maude's limo is the essence of relaxation. It becomes impossible to think that the limousine is not his daily mode of transport. He does this time and again, consistently claiming space that almost never belongs to him.
Successful limbering of the body is a necessity for Dude's daily survival. He initiates every league game with a soothing lower back stretch that guarantees sufficient mobility. Each morning begins with the mixing of a cocktail followed by an effective quadricep routine that will ensure the longevity of his bowling career. There is something charming about this body language that expresses volumes in subtle motions.
The Dude's clothing line is engineered for comfort. Without the rumpled garments, his gestures just wouldn't be the same. Perhaps his most important asset is the adorned vintage baseball jersey with nondescript Asian lettering. Most people don't realize that the Japanese man on the front is a stenciled portrait of Sadaharu Oh, the Eastern equivalent of Babe Ruth.
Indeed, Dude is a cultured man. On cool days, he comfortably inhabits a thick woolen sweater that probably kept him warm in the early years while drafting the original Port Huron statement.
We cannot exclude the flimsy jelly sandals he wore thin while protesting Vietnam as a member of the Seattle Seven. Each threadbare item is like the skin off his back — right down to his Munsingwear undies.
Dude suffers misfortune at every turn, yet he is resilient. His casualness always prevails. Three cowardly nihilists burst into his private residence armed with a cricket club and a marmot, then proceed to rip Dude's bungalow to shreds. An Asian man, known only as Woo, pees on his carpet while the troubled adolescent, Larry Sellers, has the audacity to hijack Dude's rust-colored car. Old Duder's place is wrecked. With his majestic Gran Torino ruined and a carpet micterated upon, the Dude shrugs it off.
Though saddened by the passage of his bowling buddy, Theodore Donald Karabotsos (Steve Buscemi), Dude moves on, instilling full trust in the Stranger's Eastern wisdom: Sometimes you eat the bar and sometimes the bar eats you. Taking the good with the bad, the Dude so eloquently summarizes at the end of his journey: "Strikes and gutters, ups and downs."
Perhaps it is Dude's selfless dedication to friendship that defines his heroic personality. Walter Sobcheck's (John Goodman) behavior is excessive and his obsession with Vietnam drives Dude insane. Together, their interaction is more like a fledgling couple than an inseparable pair. There is, however, something gratifying in watching a pacifist interact with a grizzled vet. Every interaction sends Dude in an uncontrollable tailspin but, like a true friend, he holds no grudges. Dude survives Walter's botched hand-off, his pesky Pomeranian as well as Donny's windswept human remains, but he never stays angry and always returns to the Venice Beach bowling league.
Dude befriends his landlord, Marty, a man struggling to carve his voice in the Los Angeles art world. Marty is clearly nervous during his dance quintet; his unenviable figure suffers under mismatching jumpsuit and floral garb and his somersaults lack the necessary grace. Dude, however, manages to stay attentive while Walter rudely discusses a heavy-weight television writer and directions to the In & Out Burger. Although he never shares his notes, Dude's critique will surely help Marty become the performance artist that he strives to be.
We also cannot overlook the way Dude volunteers his coital services to help Maude (Julianne Moore) conceive a child. Although family life is not on Dude's long-term agenda, he nevertheless donates the most coveted seed in Los Angeles county.
There's an unspoken nobility in Dude's devotion to life's simple pleasures; rarely does a man take so much pride in things so meaningless. He is certainly excited at the prospect of attaining a small fortune but never is it more important than even a few drops of White Russian.
When Big Lebowski's goon pulls Dude's arm to an impossible angle, he sacrifices his bowling career for the sake of his beverage. He swallows the pain, adjusts his body, hoists the Caucasian over his head and avoids losing the cocktail.
Never is Dude more content than when he savors the warm water of his bathtub. The environment is idyllic: aromatic candles flicker and a pre-recorded whale soundtrack fills the air. Dude takes a small hit from his joint and releases a sigh of pinned up stress, "Ahhh...." Of course, the peace doesn't last as Dude's privacy is rudely invaded by three burnt out techno-pop artists and a herbivorous rodent. The short-lived tranquility, however, is evidence of what truly arouses Dude's pleasure.
The most telling commitment to his lifestyle is when Maude tempts Dude with the physical act of love. Maude's nakedness is hidden under Dude's robe, and when she unveils herself, he remains unmoved by the female form. Rather than jumping at the prospect of coitus, a puzzled Dude says, "that's my robe." Only The Dude could dismiss sex and bestow such importance on a tattered piece of terry cloth.
The Dude's stature is perfectly summarized in one glorious image. He stares into a mirror and surrounding his reflection we see "Time Life: Man of the Year." There is a certain irony that Dude would be enshrined by such prestigious accolades, but, in a strange way, the honor is rightfully his.
The message is clear: The Dude is the patriarch who reigns over this universe. Maybe only his ardent supporters would agree, but never has there been a man that has achieved so much by doing so little.
The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not of The Observer.
All Scene Stories for Thursday, April 13, 2000
