An amusing article in today’s NYT arts section reports on an academic conference devoted to the film The Big Lebowski and on the book that came out of it, The Year’s Work in Lebowski Studies, published by Indiana University Press. This cult film has apparently spawned a cottage industry of academic criticism, and as a former member of the university press community I have to smile. Over the 26 years I held down a desk in that endeavor, I always felt that the slogan of university presses should be “Keeping the World Safe for Pedantry”; it’s nice to know that some are also keeping it safe for insanity.
I actually re-acquainted myself with this film a couple of months ago. I had recently read Pynchon’s latest, Inherent Vice, whose protagonist, Doc Sportello, reminded a few critics of the Dude. The commonality is that both are potheads trying to solve a mystery, within a plot conducive to paranoia, while negotiating the world on their own terms. The difference is that, while Doc Sportello is a private eye who solves mysteries for a living, the Dude is your Hitchcockian victim of false identity simply trying to find out who peed on his rug. Because as fans know, that rug really tied the room together.
I actually re-acquainted myself with this film a couple of months ago. I had recently read Pynchon’s latest, Inherent Vice, whose protagonist, Doc Sportello, reminded a few critics of the Dude. The commonality is that both are potheads trying to solve a mystery, within a plot conducive to paranoia, while negotiating the world on their own terms. The difference is that, while Doc Sportello is a private eye who solves mysteries for a living, the Dude is your Hitchcockian victim of false identity simply trying to find out who peed on his rug. Because as fans know, that rug really tied the room together.
This is definitely a film that retains its quirky charm over repeated viewings. John Goodman and Steve Buscemi in supporting roles perfectly complement Jeff Bridges, while a band of German nihilists capture the Coen brothers’ innate wackiness. Sam Elliot narrates charmingly for no apparent reason. And the musical sequences are high-camp Hollywood via acid flashback.
Quoting the article, “Admirers of the Dude are already dangerously close to becoming Internet-age versions of Parrotheads, the weekend-warrior Jimmy Buffett fans who tip back margaritas — and embarrass their children — while wearing flip-flops, board shorts, Hawaiian shirts and coconut bras.” I like to think not. I prefer to imagine admirers of the Dude as folks who’d just as soon maintain a healthy detachment from an insane world. Some of us choose solitary pursuits; the Dude chose bowling. Whatever it takes.
The Dude abides.
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