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From the moment of its conception, The Big Lebowski was destined for cult status. One can almost picture its creators, the brothers Joel and Ethan Coen, giggling and winking at one another as they dropped each classic movie reference into their screenplay, presiding over their creation like movie gods from above. But not even they, in their infinite wisdom, could have foreseen the subsequent explosion of DVD sales, the online tributes, and yes, the annual Lebowski fests featuring the original Jeff "The Dude" Lebowski (actually named Dowd in real life).
Reputedly the laziest man in Los Angeles County, which "would place him high in the running for laziest worldwide," this indolent bum is the archetypal man for his particular time and place. Mistaken for an older, richer Lebowski, he becomes entangled in a kidnapping plot worthy of Raymond Chandler, a quandary that doesn't seem to cramp his laid-back style one iota. The Coens fiendishly subvert normal audience expectations by refusing to do anything redemptive with this character. The Dude does not learn to be a responsible member of society. He does not accrue any valuable life lessons. He does not overcome obstacles to succeed in the end. When a problem comes up, his solution is always the same: "Let's go bowling." And his credo, "The Dude abides," has morphed for some into a full-blown religious doctrine.
The film is narrated by a wizened drifter known simply as The Stranger (a brilliant Sam Elliot, parodying the kind of role he often plays in TV westerns). As the film's governing deity, he recounts The Dude's story from an omniscient perspective, pausing every so often to pontificate about life, the universe, and everything. One needn't be especially perceptive to discover that his philosophical whimsy amounts to nothing more than a series of bromides, each one slightly more ridiculous than the last. Most people fail to notice that when he gets up to exit the bar, he almost takes off in the wrong direction (one of the film's most charming details). The point is that absurdity lies at the center of the cosmos. Life is a fascinating journey to nowhere in particular, and the voice of reason is merely a western cliché. People are born and die arbitrarily, but, according to the narration, "That's the way the whole darned human comedy keeps perpetuating itself, down through the generations, westward the wagons, across the sands of time." Is all this cause for alarm? Not according to the Coens. After all, what reason have we to be depressed in a world that affords such rich pleasures as In-N-Out burgers, late-night bowling, and Credence Clearwater Revival? As The Stranger puts it, "It's good knowin' he's out there, The Dude, takin' 'er easy for all us sinners." This playful wink at substitutionary atonement is the Coens' cockeyed way of justifying all the previous madness. The Coen Brothers are often referred to as "pasticheurs," which is really just a fancy way of saying that they haven't got an original bone in their bodies. But originality has always been a subjective term, and if Quentin Tarantino is be commended for purloining themes, ideas, and attitudes from innumerable exploitation films, so too should the Coens (although they tend to draw their inspirations from screwball comedies and hardboiled detective novels). It is the manner in which they juggle these disparate elements and orchestrate them into a cohesive whole that confirms their genius. Watching "The Big Lebowski," one can only smile at their audacity. In a dark world where nothing seems to abide for long, they ask us to embrace our inner Dudes. Nathaniel Bell graduated
with a B.A. in film, television, and radio from Biola University, where
he served as chief film critic for the school newspaper, "The Chimes."
He has written movie reviews for cbn.com,
www.netlistings.com,
and www.johnmarkreynolds.com,
and maintains a film blog at www.realmbeyondwords.blogspot.com.
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The
Big Lebowski
With characters like Jesus, a trash-talking Latino bowler clad in garish purple togs, dream sequences staged like Busby Berkeley dance numbers, and more f-bombs than any other film in recent memory, it's no wonder it became the stuff of midnight marquees. Yet for all its in-jokes and eccentricities, the key to its magic has always been its namesake, Jeff Lebowski, better known as The Dude (disarmingly played by Jeff Bridges). 
More
or less a satire of American culture in the nineties, the film never plays
mean. For although it skewers contemporary art culture (realized in a
freakishly avant-garde Julianne Moore), pokes fun at shell-shocked Vietnam
veterans (John Goodman), and parodies just about every other social stereotype
one can think of, there is an unmistakable affection for these fractured
characters, especially when they do stupid things (which, unsurprisingly,
is quite often). This beguiling sense of warmth is about the only thing
that keeps The Big Lebowski grounded in reality. The rest inhabits
that strange space known only to the Coen brothers, and if you are willing
to divorce yourself from the real world for an hour or two, the whole
thing suddenly becomes hysterically funny. In this World According to
Coen, former television writers dictate from artificial lungs, profligate
porn producers host orgies on massive beachfront estates, and German nihilists
stop for lingonberry pancakes before continuing on their death mission.
This type of Los Angeles exists only in the movies.