“At the end of a Storm” Vol.4
The Blonde and “The Big Lebowski”
The Blonde and “The Big Lebowski”
A rambling tale of a Blonde, a Blind Date, a lot of luck and a lot more ten pin bowling
9th June 2022
So there I was, lost in idle thoughts, chalking the end of my pool cue and readying myself for yet another break off shot, when the day just turned that tiniest of fractions weirder. My old friend Hunter swore by his phrase “When the going gets weird, the weird turn Pro” and boy was this day, and now night, going to get ever so slightly, and far more twistedly, weird. Firstly I was dressed in someone else’s dress shirt and cloaked in the musk of someone else’s aftershave. Then I had the tremendous idea of inviting my friend Barry (name changed to protect the innocent) to chauffeur me to a blind date that went as badly and as awkwardly as can possibly be in this, the worst of all pre-internet dating worlds.
So Barry and I took a semblance of solace in a pint and a game of pool and then, the weirdness really descended.
The eagerly awaited break off shot would be remarkable had anyone in the intervening three decades ever believed me, but alas, like the charlatans that they are, no-one ever did. You see, I conjured magic with that pool cue, a dab of blue chalk and a ginormous amount of good fortune, but we’ll return to this mythical happening in due course. But first, before, and very much after this magic trick with a pool ball, I had become enchanted by a golden haired vision of beauty in the corner of the room. Every time I looked in her vague direction (the volume of which increased rapidly and very quickly), she appeared to be looking straight back at me. Was it a trick of the light in this corridor shaped “room” inside a local pub? Was it an apparition or a golden haired Angel perhaps? What was clearly apparent, dubious lights and ghostly apparitions apart, was that the golden haired vision of goddamn beauty was leaving and clearly urging me to say a brief “hello” before she did.
So instead I got my friend Barry to chase her home in his car at high speed before I leapt out and chased after her down a dark side alley to her apartment block, probably shouting something ridiculous like “I’m not a weirdo! I’m just the shy and silent type and you are so ridiculously beautiful you couldn’t possibly be looking at me” when she turned around, scribbled her name and telephone number, and the year of 1993 was going to get a whole lot more interesting.
According to The Matrix bible of choice Wikipedia, 1993 was a weird old year. Take the following as an example from the very top of the page for the year under discussion:
“The year 1993 in the Kwajalein Atoll in the Marshall Islands had only 364 days, since its calendar advanced 24 hours to the Eastern Hemisphere side of the International Date Line, skipping August 21, 1993.”
They just skipped a day!
Didn’t exist!
They declared 21st August 1993 null and void. Just put a red cross through the date on the calendar and moved on to tomorrow!
Genius!
Elsewhere in 1993, the catalogue of weirdness was inked into history for ever more, and the first example oh so prescient to today’s weird world. Kary Mullis was awarded a Nobel Peace Prize for Chemistry for the invention of the PCR test that was so heavily used during the “Pandemic”. Even a cursory glance of those videos, those historically archived videos of the time whereby Mr Mullis himself states that a PCR test cannot be used in a test for an infectious disease demonstrates there is something seriously rotten in Denmark and, as the last two and a half years of our lives have also demonstrated, the rot has set in deep, and in lockstep, around the world. Strange how Mr Mullis left this mortal coil mere months before the worldwide use of his technology was incorrectly used.
It is indeed a weird old world.
Do you want to feel old? Well 1993 saw the births of, amongst other luminaries, French World Cup winning footballer Paul Pogba, and singer songwriters Niall Horan, Ariana Grande and George Ezra, with further sporting examples Marc Marquez, Jordan Spieth and Harry Kane all celebrating their arrivals into this craziest of all worlds. The celebrity death list for the year contains a King of Belgium as well as the original genial man who, when angered, turn a violent shade of green and grew into an entirely different man altogether! Bill Bixby (1934–1993) was the mild mannered scientist who tended to rip his shirts to shreds in anger as he transformed into the UK tea-time hero “The Incredible Hulk”, and if you didn’t have a tear in your eye when poor old Bill, backpack slung over his shoulder trying to hitchhike from town to town at the end of every episode, then you had a heart of pure stone.
Frank Zappa departed to play some eccentric music in heaven and days later the infamous Colombian drug cartel boss Pablo Escobar was finally gunned down forever. That concluded the December roll call of 1993 and ended a year that saw River Phoenix cruelly taken from us aged just 23 as well as more deeply established actors of their generation in Stewart Granger, Raymond Burr and Vincent Price. Audrey Hepburn departed for the great beyond in the same January month as superstar wrestler Andre The Giant, the end of March documented the sad and devastating death of Bruce Lee’s son Brandon and four April days separated the killing of David Koresh and the burning down of religious cult temple in Waco, Texas, and the death of Mexican civil rights activist Cesar Chavez.
All in all, 1993 was a weird year and just as weird as all the others.
Closer to home I was, in words only my dear old Mum could brilliantly pull off “eating me out of house and home” and a rich man in Madonna’s material world. I had finally departed the first actual full-time job of my life and landed myself the job I always kind of hoped I’d achieve by working in the 13 Storey office complex in the then tallest building in my hometown of Portsmouth, and the place I always saw myself working one day. The insurance office building dominated the 1980’s and early 1990’s skyline and after giving my very best Oliver style plea at my first interview “I just want someone to give me a chance!”, a gentle West Indian chap did just that. I obviously despised the place by the time I left 6 or so years later but in 1993/1994, I wanted to work in that very building and I wanted someone to give me a chance to do so. I had disposable income rattling around inside my pockets, football matches to travel to the length and breadth of England, blind dates to go on, two spectacularly ill advised office romances and a work promotion that finally released the caged bird to extend his wings. But that’s getting ahead of ourselves again, for we must meet “Kate” first.
Kate (name changed to protect the innocent) had the roundest of faces, the pockmarked freckles of youth and the gentlest curls of a beautifully blonde mane of flowing hair. She was 17 going on 18 and oh so very beautiful. I was 21 going on 22 and a boisterous and gregarious young man hidden deep inside the awkward outsider screaming silently for attention. Apart from the numbers I haven’t changed and I hope that young girl who’s heart I stole and broke into a thousand pieces still plays the piano. If you haven’t had the extreme pleasure of sitting and listening to someone play a musical instrument up close and unhindered from any outside noise, then you simply haven’t lived. Plus I was in love and whenever Kate sat down to fool around and tinker amongst the ivories, well it’s a rare pleasure that never leaves you.
Kate was beautiful and had the biggest smile you ever did see. It proverbially “lit up the room” and when she wasn’t playing her piano she was winning over my dear old Mum as well as a healthy circle of close friends. We had this tryst Kate and I, of intertwining our little fingers, as some heathens do in the event of a jinx, but ours was of youthful love and solidarity.
So how does a year long fairy-tale romance coalesce with a film that wouldn’t be released until 4 or 5 years later? Well frankly, it doesn’t. I’d like to spin a yarn about how we were ambushed by nihilists who put an amphibious rodent in my bath or pissed on my rug and a rug that, according to legend “really tied the room together”. Or a tale of weed smoking and watching the world descend into personal anarchy through the prism of my own apathy. I could certainly turn my hand to a little fetish erotica and a tale of twisted desire that was once tasted but will forever be spiritually unrequited. I could say Kate was “Maude” and that whilst desperately wanting to be “The Dude” I tended to teeter between the madness of “Donny” and “Walter” and that I’ve often mistaken myself for Jesus.
I could write and embellish that, absolutely, and far too easily than you’d perhaps be inclined to imagine.
We had a fucking laugh did Kate and I and we played a LOT of ten pin bowling in between. Here’s my original review of the film “The Big Lebowski” written a decade or so ago. Hope this fills in a gap or two and I’ll see on the other side after a couple of “strikes” and a damn fine “spare”.
“You mind if I do a J?”
Following a tumbleweed through an open Los Angeles, “The Stranger” (Sam Elliott) narrates an opening monologue about “The Dude” (Jeff Bridges) and we’re immediately introduced to the world of Jeffrey Lebowski aka The Dude. A stoner and carefree attitude to match, he is mistaken for “The Big Lebowski” (David Huddleston) a multi millionaire with a life and attitude vastly differently to The Dude. A urinated on rug “they pee’d on the rug, Walter!” he demands compensation from the intended target. A stolen rug later, not to mention the offer of a blowjob from The Big Lebowski’s wife “Bunny” (Tara Reid) and The Dude is embroiled in a kidnap payoff that goes disastrously and hilariously wrong! This, the Coen Brother’s first big out and out comedy, is a romp and laugh out loud funny from beginning to end. Using their staple theme of a simple plan going horribly awry, this masterpiece of a film is subtly funny too with a host of rich characters and star turns in many cameo and supporting roles.
But first, who is The Dude?
“The Dude” (Jeff Bridges) A stoner/hippy, The Dude is brilliantly brought to life by Jeff Bridges. The performance has everything and is so natural at times it’s almost as though Bridges is playing the part with no care for the camera whatsoever. It’s just so relaxed, natural and an ease of performance that is so captivating. And hilarious throughout. Named Jeffrey Lebowski, he always corrects anyone daring to call him by that name and early in the film he introduces himself to his Lebowski namesake by reiterating the immortal and iconic lines “I’m The Dude. So that’s what you call me. You know, that or, His Dudeness, or Duder, or El Duderino if you’re not into the whole brevity thing”.
And always, despite the crazy ride we endure and indeed enjoy with him, “The Dude Abides!”
Always bowling, he is joined in a trio of chaos with best friends “Walter Sobchak” (John Goodman) and “Donny Kerabatsos” (Steve Buscemi). Walter is an angry and permanently on edge war veteran, with John Goodman’s amazing performance in it’s own surreal way, an equal to the role of The Dude. Goodman is incredible at times, a force of nature and anger, he is also subtle and often funny, though not always intentionally!. During a game of bowling, an opponent refuses to accept he stepped over the bowling line, and Goodman, steaming from the ludicrous injustice of this pulls a gun with the immortal line “Mark it Zero! It’s a League game Smoke”. The interplay with Donny, a deliberately understated and quieter role for Steve Buscemi is excellent (“shut the fuck up Donny”), but the three characters together, riffing anecdotal tales and jibes are superb and are the core of the film.
In an all star supporting cast, David Huddleston is excellent as the other Jeffrey Lebowski with his daughter “Maude Lebowski” brilliantly played by Julianne Moore. Philip Seymour Hoffman also makes his bow in a Coen Brothers film for the first time as The Big Lebowski’s assistant “Brandt” and although a cameo, is hilarious in every scene. The painfully awkward moments shared between these three excellent actors as they deal with a missing toe, a missing body and of course the missing rug is priceless. The film is scattered with further bizarre and surreal supporting performances, notably “Jackie Treehorn” (Ben Gazzara) and a camp star turn as “Knox Harrington” from David Thewlis as friend and confidant to Maude Lebowski. His performance of over the top exuberance and surreal engagements with Maude sum up the film brilliantly. There are also important cameos for returnees to previous Coen Brothers films with Peter Stormare as “Karl Hungus” a nihilist with a penchant for marmosets and the brilliant John Turturro as “Jesus Quintana” who was given one of a host of classic screenplay lines “Nobody fucks with the Jesus!”.
With two especially surreal, drug induced interludes between scenes, a terrific screenplay that is laced with quotable classics, subtle comedy that will still make you smile on repeated watching, this is the Coen Brothers at their very best. Carter Burwell again provides a minimal score, but it’s the soundtrack that stands out and there are a multitude to choose from, echoing The Dude’s preference for the late 60’s, early 70’s vibe. Bob Dylan’s “The Man in Me”, The Gypsy Kings version of “Hotel California” Kenny Rogers’ “Just Dropped in (To see what Condition my Condition was in) and Mozart’s “Requiem in D Minor” complete an eclectic mix and a thoroughly recommended stand alone soundtrack album, all of which fit the film perfectly. There are many, many others.
Two hours with The Dude are a joy and funny as hell. As The Stranger narrates at the end, it’s good that we have someone like The Dude in the world.
Amen to that.
This is the main theme of the film and it could be argued this theme is heightened against his best friend Walter. With the film rooted approximately in 1991 (and the film starts with President George HW Bush declaring war against Iraq), Walter, with constant, if comedic references to Vietnam and his unresolved anger, we root for The Dude, his outlook on life and more pacifist tendencies. We see the film entirely through the eyes of The Dude and follow his every move and therein lies the juxtaposition the film espouses, of The Dude’s slacker, laid back and neutral take on life to his best friend’s explosive reactions.
Roger Deakins excellent cinematography deserved more recognition than it received and similarly the film as a whole, which is still largely seen as a cult classic and which did not feature at any of the main festival award shows. A film that has spawned a religion and yearly conventions in many worldwide cities, perhaps that is the film’s ultimate recommendation and reward.
Back in 1993 and before I continued a trend that remains in place to this very day of breaking hearts due to my inner failings, angst and anxieties, Kate and I played a lot of ten pin bowling. When you visit a bowling alley now nearly three decades later, they tend to be brightly signposted and surrounded by other brightly signposted avenues of excitement. In Portsmouth of 1993 you entered a commonly known building as a “Mecca”, a damp and dark temple to the dark arts, and which when upstairs exploded like some unexplained Tardis into a huge, if 1970’s worn and shabby, huge bingo hall, nightclub and bowling alley. And with the presentation of an easily forged student card on a Tuesday or Sunday night you could bowl away until your heart was as content and satisfied as Jesus above for the princely sum of £1.50 (shoes included). It was restricted, if memory serves me, to between 6pm and 10pm so we’d arrive early, leave late, consume a couple of beers each and get the bus home drunk and happy and having the time of our silly lives.
A life, lest we forget that would not have materialised had I not been spurned on a horribly awkward blind date. Barry parked the car, I told him I’d return when I’d met my date and we were all set for a drink in a pub in beautiful Old Portsmouth. I returned far sooner than my friend expected and naturally laughed his socks off at me and my predicament as, when approaching the blind date at the agreed time and picturesque spot, she flatly refused to even acknowledge me and walked hastily away! If it was my blind date, then she clearly didn’t like the look of me, and who could blame her?
Earlier that day, and upon hearing of my grand luck at securing a date my golden hearted friend Gareth said I simply had to borrow one of his new shirts. Through a haze of weed smoke Gareth assured me that the “Ralph Lauren” brand of clothing was going to be a huge hit on the streets of Portsmouth, and so much so, he happened to have acquired a couple that fell off a back of a lorry. They often did, back in the day in my old Portsmouth hometown. The backs of lorries were notorious for having fairly valuable things simply falling out the back of them. With a dab of Gareth’s aftershave (presumably snagged from a similarly flimsy unlocked lorry), his pale yellow/off white dress shirt, my smartest of “going out” jeans (stop laughing!) and a pair of Adidas, surely I looked the absolute 1990’s business?
Luckily a golden haired young lady thought so, and not because of this fluke trick shot with a pool ball that, like the other heathens I’ve encountered, you simply won’t believe. But first, picture the scene: Huge pub with restaurant leading onto a party reception hall and adjoining hotel to your left, bar in front of you and toilets to the right. Right? But there used to be (maybe still is as the pub remains open to this day) an almost sliver of a long corridor shaped room with maybe 8/9 pool tables in a row. Fairly cramped, windows scattered along one side and a permanent brick wall on the other with small floating tables for drinks. In between are six or so length ways pool tables that were probably a grand sum of 20p a game. Essentially, you slapped a whole host of 20p pieces on the side of the table that signified the table was occupied and for some time to come.
Now on this magical night Barry and I were perhaps 3/4’s of the way down the pool tabling line and the golden haired vision of my future was standing and watching a game on the room’s very first table. We may have shared glances before the mythical shot, maybe not, but we certainly did afterward. So the fluke is fairly easy to describe as well as being seemingly far too easy to dismiss, but I’ll leave you with this to make up your minds: Chalk applied, I crashed the cue ball bouncing into the packed triangle of balls, clipping the first ball before bounding into the cushion behind after not hitting another ball. The cushion threw the ball up and at a 45 degree angle toward the wall behind, the impact of the wall cushioned the blow of the cue ball, which duly dropped directly into a pint of lager, sending the yellow contents overflowing and streaming over the sides as the ball sunk into the bottom of the glass.
It’s hardly Derren Brown or David Blaine, I’ll grant you that, but, abracadabra? True?
Unbelievable?
Who’s to say? (It is true by the way)
I hope that piano playing vision of loveliness still plays today, amid a calm and peaceful life.
For “The Blonde”.
The Blonde and “The Big Lebowski” also moonlights as chapter 2 (of 47) inside my recently self-published book “At the end of a Storm”, the first of 3 volumes of rambling musings published during March 2024.
"At the end of a Storm" - available via Amazon
Thanks for reading. I hope this message in a bottle in The Matrix finds you well, prospering, and the right way up in an upside down world.