LITMIR.BIZ

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elements of 1960s counterculture with degrees of bourgeois conformity and standards of success.¹¹ Brooks's new social standard–bearers are much more bourgeois than bohemian; inversely, the Dude is more bohemian than bourgeois. He is little concerned with societal standards of success and insouciantly repudiates the work ethic. But, like Walter, he is also passionate about bowling and is deeply concerned with how his team will perform in the upcoming competition.

      The Dude accepts the basic absurdity of the cosmos, of life in the most advanced civilization ever to grace the face of the earth. His way of life affirms the equal significance or insignificance of all human endeavors, but none of this stops him from judging certain things to be unseemly. The Dude has not so much an ethos as a style, a way of taking it easy, living lightly. Despite his lack of conscious planning and his absence of ambition, he manages to contribute to ongoing natural processes. At one point, he has sex with Maude, the Big Lebowski's libidinous and artistically rebellious daughter. Afterward, she asks a number of questions about his life and his habits of recreation. The zenith of his life was organizing campus protests in the 1960s; his recreation consists in car cruising and the occasional acid flashback. He gets out of bed and notices that Maude remains on her back cradling her legs, a strategy designed to increase the chances of conception. “What did you think this was all about?” she asks. When he expresses worries about the responsibilities of fatherhood, she explains that a deadbeat dad is exactly what she wants.

      The Dude is a kind of comic hero, at least for our narrator (Sam Elliott), who shows up onscreen in the final scene at the bowling alley, where he and the Dude exchange pleasantries. The cowboy matter-of-factly reiterates the Dude's own self-referential proclamation, “The Dude abides,” and offers some reflective, concluding observations:

      The Dude abides. I don't know about you, but I take comfort in that. It's good knowin’ he's out there, the Dude, takin’ her easy for all us sinners. Shoosh. I sure hope he makes the finals. Welp, that about does her, wraps her all up. Things seem to've worked out pretty good for the Dude ’n’ Walter, and it was a purt good story, dontcha think? Made me laugh to beat the band. Parts, anyway. Course—I didn't like seein’ Donny go. But then, happen to know that there's a little Lebowski on the way. I guess that's the way the whole durned human comedy keeps perpetuatin’ itself, down through the generations, westward the wagons, across the sands a time until—aw, look at me, I'm ramblin’ again. Wal, uh hope you folks enjoyed yourselves.

      The Dude's abiding signals an escape, or at least a reprieve, from the world of noir; in spite of the threats to his life, the Dude emerges from the noir plot, from its labyrinth, unscathed. The tone of the ending, the suggestion that the human comedy perpetuates itself through the ongoing birth of new humans, strikes a comic note different from that of mere satire or denunciatory cynicism. Here, the impulses and resources of nature toward reproduction and survival are seen as more powerful than the destructive forces of noir. As Pascal puts it (a sentiment later stolen by Hume), “Nature backs up helpless reason and stops it going so wildly astray.”¹²

      Basic Familial Instincts in Coen Comedy

      As one critic has noted, The Big Lebowski is about “friendship and surrogate families.”¹³ This strikes a note of comic affirmation absent in even the most complex noir films, wherein the family is nearly always a source of the noir trap, and marriages and the begetting of children provide no way out. If surrogate families are at the heart of The Big Lebowski, real families figure prominently in other Coen films, especially in the brothers’ most critically acclaimed neo-noir, Fargo. With a plot akin to that of A Simple Plan (Sam Raimi, 1998), Fargo features criminals undone by their own futile, criminal plans. The characters are blood simple, a phrase that the Coens borrowed from Dashiell Hammett, who borrowed it from police talk to describe the way criminals lose control of full rationality at the moment of committing the crime and, thus, inevitably leave incriminating clues behind. Apparently cold and calculating, they nonetheless act without adequate foresight; the consequences of their acts quickly swirl out of control. Called a film blanc because of the near-whiteout conditions that prevail in the film's setting in the plains of North Dakota, Fargo features criminals who suffer “snow blindness,” the self-deceiving illusion of infallibility.¹⁴ As in Blood Simple, here too criminals are subject to a comedy of errors. Yet Fargo is a very different film from Blood Simple; it inscribes the comedy of criminal error within a more traditional structure of the detective who affirms the goodness of conventional mores, a married and pregnant female detective named Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand in an Oscar-winning performance).

      In the final scenes of Fargo, Marge's role as commentator eclipses in significance her role as investigator. Indeed, the criminals seem destined to destroy themselves. Marge's comments about her expected baby affirm a certain way of life as making sense, as bearing fruit, and as something worth preserving and handing on to the next generation. Her domestic life is void of the sort of calculating, radically individualist spirit that infects the families of the criminals in the film and the typical families that inhabit other noir films.

      Despite its gruesome violence and somber tone, Fargo's conclusion calls to mind certain features of classical comedy, which often ends with a wedding, an affirmation of order, especially of the marital bond as the cornerstone of hope in society. Affirming the reasonableness of conventions, classical comedy mocks radicals—be they criminals or well-intentioned reformers. Marge does not seek deeper meaning beneath the surface; committed to a conventional understanding of justice, she is not on a great quest to discern the nature and causes of evil. The causes, if there are any discernible (greed for a “little bit of money”), are readily available on the surface of criminal action; yet, given the risks, the cost, and the affront to natural goodness (“It's a beautiful day”), evil remains inexplicable: “I just don't understand it.” Marge witnesses at close range the noir trap of criminality, but it does not destroy her—or even tempt her.

      In a review of Fargo entitled “The Banality of Virtue,” Laura Miller observes the “dullness of the Midwestern characters” and the essential emptiness of their values. She wonders, “In the universe of Fargo, where virtue is a kind of ignorance and wickedness a nullity, where do real people fit in?”¹⁵ Indeed, the Coens’ alternatives to nihilists, the characters who avoid entrapment by the noir vices of lust and greed, seem not so much virtuous as incapable of the complexities of vice. They seem to suffer from a sort of Forrest Gump syndrome, a sort of banality of goodness, a strange and comic counterpoint to Hannah Arendt's famous thesis concerning the banality of evil.¹⁶ If this line of interpretation were correct, then we might see the substance, or lack thereof, in the Coens’ films as a “knowing, highly allusive” form of filmmaking that is no more than “pastiche.”¹⁷

      Yet the gentle levity with which the Coens treat these characters and the way the characters embody natural tendencies, which they cannot themselves articulate, suggest the presence of something more than mere banality. Foster Hirsch, for example, describes McDormand's character as “a cockeyed optimist, wide-eyed but hardly stupid.”¹⁸ Indeed, the interweaving of comedy and fertility harks back to pagan and Shakespearean comedy, with the celebration of rites of fertility and marriage, of an order of nature that overcomes human vice and frailty and reconciles opposing forces and conflicting wills. No such complete reconciliation is possible in neo-noir, not even in the Coens’ comic neo-noir. Yet the Coens’ penchant for presenting fertility and, in some films, familial fidelity as ways of avoiding entanglement in the noir traps of lust and greed points in the direction of such comic reconciliation.

      The themes of family and procreation are the preeminent issues in the Coens’ early pure comedy, Raising Arizona (1987), the story of a recidivist petty thief, Hi (Nicolas Cage), and a female prison guard, Ed (Holly Hunter). Over a number of years and many return trips to prison, Hi falls in love with Ed, and she accepts his proposal of marriage. The film includes a number of noir themes—crime, repetition, entrapment, and the spoiling of the future by deeds committed in the past. Yet here those noir themes are, ultimately, inscribed within an overarching comic structure that contains both the theme of fertility and that of hopeful reconciliation. Throughout much of the film, Hi appears incapable of learning or altering his behavior. He admits in a voice-over

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