DETECCI ´ ON AUTOM ´ ATICA

Bunny Lebowski: Ulli doesn’t care about anything. He’s a nihilist.

The Dude: Ah. Must be exhausting.

—The Big Lebowski (1998)

From their inaugural film, Blood Simple (1984), through the film blanc Fargo (1996), to The Man Who Wasn’t There (2001), the Coen brothers have exhibited a preoccupation with the themes, characters, and stylistic tech-niques of film noir. By the time they made Blood Simple in 1984, neo-noir was already established as a recognized category of film.¹ Prior to Quentin Tarantino’s darkly comedic unraveling of noir motifs in Reservoir Dogs (1992) and Pulp Fiction (1994), the Coens were already making consciously comic use of noir plots and stylistic techniques. Lacking Tarantino’s penchant for hyperactive and culturally claustrophobic allusions to pop culture, the Coens focus, instead, on traditional noir character types and intricate plots whose complexity is bizarre.

Because it is so often characterized by self-conscious deployment of the techniques of classic noir, neo-noir evinces a strong inclination toward pastiche and the satiric. This makes comic themes more at home in the world of neo-noir than they were in the founding era of noir. Classic noir avoids overt moral lessons and leaves little room for well-adjusted, happy, virtuous types of Americans. The world of classic noir proffers a “disturbing vision . . . that qualifies all hope and suggests a potentially fatal vulnerability” against which no one is adequately protected.² Classic noir has deeply democratic

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instincts: no one wins because the unforgiving laws of the human condition apply universally to every individual. The grim pessimism of classic noir is hardly congenial to the sorts of comic films that flourished in America during the same time period.

This does not mean, however, that comedy is utterly alien to classic noir. The depiction of characters as trapped in a labyrinth at the mercy of a hostile fate can transform the tone of the action from the gravely tragic to the absurdly comic. What initially seems serious and ominous can, over time, come to seem humorous. Angst and fear can be sustained for only so long; endless and pointless terror becomes predictable and laughable. But the shift to a comic perspective involves more than the mere passage of time;

comedy is more than tragedy plus time. What matters is the passage of time without any prospect of hope or intelligibility. Life in an absurd universe is rife with comic possibilities. Struggle and striving begin to appear superflu-ous and foolish. A classic noir film such as Detour (Edgar G. Ulmer, 1945) toys with its main character to such an extent that his continued gravity can come to seem a self-inflicted farce. Similarly, the degradation of affec-tion—the perverse erotic attractions in which noir often wallows—lends itself to wry, detached irony, the dominant tone in Sunset Boulevard (Billy Wilder, 1950).

The baroque sensibility of noir has always contained the seeds of stylistic excess, even of the celebration of style for its own sake. In neo-noir, the accen-tuation of hopelessness and the overtly self-conscious deployment of artistic technique make the turn to dark comedy nearly inevitable. By contrast with classic noir films, whose style is reserved and less self-conscious, neo-noirs almost inevitably draw attention to their style, going so far in some cases as to make style itself the subject of the film. In the very act of recognizing the artifice, we are in on the joke, on the sleight of hand performed by the filmmaker. The result is amusement, even laughter.

As Foster Hirsch points out, one of the distinguishing features of neo-noir is a “cavalier amorality” that can steep viewers in a “depraved point of view.”³ Jean-Pierre Chartier’s early and negative reaction to noir seems to apply more aptly to certain neo-noir films. Chartier lamented noir’s “pes-simism and disgust toward humanity.” Devoid of even the most “fleeting image of love” or of characters who might “rouse our pity or sympathy,”

noir, he felt, presents “monsters, criminals whose evils nothing can ex-cuse, whose actions imply that the only source for the fatality of evil is in themselves.”⁴

The Human Comedy Perpetuates Itself 29

Nietzsche and Nihilism

There are, then, important links between neo-noir and nihilism. According to its most trenchant analysts, nihilism involves the dissolution of standards of judgment; for the nihilist, there is no longer any basis for distinguishing truth from falsity, good from evil, noble from base action, or higher from lower ways of life. Nietzsche thought that nihilism would be the defining characteristic of the twentieth century, an epoch in which “the highest val-ues” would “devalue themselves” and the “question ‘why?’” would find “no answer.”⁵ Nietzsche is most famous for proclaiming the death of God. He certainly does not mean that a previously existing supreme being has sud-denly expired; instead, he holds that the notion of God, created by humans to serve a variety of needs, is becoming increasingly less credible. But Nietzsche does not limit the effects of nihilism to religion; nihilism undermines all tran-scendent claims and standards, including those underlying modern science and democratic politics. The great questions and animating visions—those regarding truth, justice, love, and beauty—that previously gave shape and purpose to human life no longer resonate in the human soul. All moral codes are seen to be merely conventional and, hence, optional.

For most human beings, decline, diminution, and despair accompany nihilism. The bulk of humanity falls into the category of the last man: “Alas, the time of the most despicable man is coming, he that is no longer able to despise himself. Behold, I show you the last man. What is love? What is a star? Thus asks the last man and blinks. The earth has become small and on it hops the last man who makes everything small.” The contented, petty last men create a society that is ruthlessly homogeneous (“everybody wants the same, everybody is the same”) and addicted to physical comfort (“one has one’s little pleasure for the day and one’s little pleasure for the night; one has a regard for health”).⁶ These are the passive nihilists, the pessimists, the representatives of “the decline and recession of the power of the spirit.”⁷

But nihilism is “ambiguous.” If, in one sense, nihilism is the “unwelcome guest,” it is also an opportunity, clearing a path for “increased power of the spirit.”⁸ Active nihilists see the decline of traditional moral and religious systems as an occasion for the thoroughgoing destruction of desiccated ways of life and the creation of a new order of values. Active nihilists, the philosopher-artists of the future, will engage in the “transvaluation of values.”

They stand beyond good and evil and engage in aesthetic self-creation, a

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project that is an affront to society’s religious and democratic conventions, rooted, as they are, in moral absolutes or democratic consensus.

At times, Nietzsche’s remedy for the nihilistic epoch, his path beyond nihilism, promotes a particularly virulent form of aristocracy. As he puts it frankly in the chapter “What Is Noble?” in Beyond Good and Evil,

Every enhancement of the type “man” has so far been the work of an aristocratic society—and so it will be again and again—a society that believes in the long ladder of an order of rank and differences in value between man and man, and that needs slavery in some sense or another. With that pathos of distance that grows out of the ingrained difference between strata . . . keeping down and keeping at a distance, that other, more mysterious pathos could not have grown up either—the craving for an ever new widening of distances within the soul itself, the development of ever higher, rare, more remote, further-stretching, more comprehensive states . . . the continual

“self-overcoming of man.”⁹

What Nietzsche calls the pathos of distance is at work in a variety of neo-noir dramas, from Body Heat (Lawrence Kasdan, 1981) and Cape Fear (Martin Scorsese, 1991) and Basic Instinct (Paul Verhoeven, 1992) to The Usual Sus-pects (Bryan Singer, 1995).¹⁰ In these neo-noir films, certain characters rise above the noir labyrinth, not by passing through it or learning to navigate its shifting waters but by acts of diabolical will. Impervious to the laws of the human condition, these characters get away with lives of criminality. This shift constitutes a movement in the direction of nihilism and a recoiling from the fundamentally democratic world of classic noir. The human con-dition is no longer universal; the noir trap is no longer seen as an indelible feature. Instead, it constrains only those who lack the willpower, or will to power, necessary to rise above, and control, conventions. Neo-noir’s greatest departure from classic noir consists in a turn to aristocratic nihilism. The most resourceful of these characters are in control of the noir plot, using their cunning and artistry to ensnare others. Were it not so cumbersome, we might call this the nihilistic myth of the American super-antihero.

Nihilistic comedy has no limits on the targets of its humor; it turns the most atrocious of human acts—rape and beating in Cape Fear, cannibal-ism in The Silence of the Lambs (Jonathan Demme, 1991), and maiming in Reservoir Dogs—into quasi-comic expressions of exuberant amoral energy.

The Human Comedy Perpetuates Itself 31 It mocks our longing for justice, for the protection of the innocent and the punishment of the heinous criminal, and for truth and understanding. The comic unraveling of the horror genre from within begins with the celebration of the evil antihero as beyond good and evil, as more interesting, attractive, and complex than the purportedly good characters in a story. Once this nihilistic move has been made, it is quite natural to repudiate and mock properly human longing for justice, truth, and love. Nihilism, as Nietzsche saw, entails the diminution of human aspiration to the vanishing point; it involves the death of man.

These are the consequences of the nihilistic turn in neo-noir, which repudiates justice, love, and truth in favor of aesthetic self-creation. Criti-cisms of conventional conceptions of justice, truth, and other ideals are not necessarily nihilistic. Indeed, the very notion of a critique presupposes that one has, implicitly at least, an awareness that things are not as they should be, that it would be better for things to be otherwise. As Shakespeare writes in King Lear, “This is not the worst, so long as we can say ‘this is the worst’”

(4.1). But thoroughgoing nihilism eviscerates any such standards or, what is more to the point, even the intelligibility of the quest for such standards.

Gravity cannot be sustained. Audiences are entertained by the demonic superheroes who put on a good show and are much more clever and wittier than other, conventional characters. A character such as Hannibal Lecter (Anthony Hopkins) in The Silence of the Lambs is at first terrifying, then entertaining, and finally humorous as, in the film’s final frames, he responds to a question as to his plans by saying, wryly, that he’ll be having an old friend for dinner.

Noir, Nihilism, and Comedy in The Big Lebowski

The comic denouement of The Silence of the Lambs signals the unraveling of the hero genre from within, a point driven home with great gusto in such spoofs of the genre as Scream (Wes Craven, 1996) and Scary Movie (Keenan Ivory Wayans, 2000) and their sequels. If the gravity of the quest to understand and fend off evil produces no great insight about good or evil, just the surface aesthetics of the evildoer, then the audience, having become jaded, anticipates the aesthetics of evil and sees the whole drama as a farce. There is, thus, an opening for a democratic rejoinder to the sort of angst-ridden nihilism that celebrates the tragic heroism of the loner who faces the meaninglessness of life with gravity. The democratic and comic

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response is: Why bother? What’s all the fuss about? If there is no meaning, then why get worked up about anything? And what, in a pointless universe, could possibly provide a basis for distinguishing, as Nietzsche wants to, be-tween noble and base ways of facing the abyss? This sort of comedy mocks radicals of all sorts, whether they be nihilists or zealous reformers. Such is the inspiration for the Coen brothers’ comic leveling of nihilism in The Big Lebowski (1998).

The Big Lebowski begins and ends with the noir commonplace: voice-over narration. As a tumbleweed blows down the streets of Los Angeles and over a beach, the narrator introduces “the Dude,” a name no one else would

“self-apply.” “Our story,” he relates, is set in the early 1990s, at the time of our national “conflict with Saddam and the Iraqis.” Sometimes, the narrator continues, “a man is, I won’t say a hero, but sometimes a man is just right for his time and place.” That man is the Dude, the “laziest man in LA County,”

an achievement that puts him high in the “running for laziest worldwide.”

The camera turns to the Dude, wearing shorts and a bathrobe and shopping for groceries. A television in the store plays President George H. W. Bush’s speech about the Iraqi threat: “This aggression will not stand.”

Later that day, the Dude is attacked at home by intruders who call him Lebowski, stuff his head in the toilet, and demand that he repay the money his wife owes Jackie Treehorn. A perplexed Dude objects that no one calls him Lebowski and that he’s not married—gesturing to the raised toilet seat as confirming evidence. The intruders suddenly come to their senses and one of them asks, “Isn’t this guy supposed to be a millionaire?” In a parting gesture, they urinate on the rug—an act of defilement that the Dude regrets because “that rug really tied the room together.”

These opening scenes introduce readily identifiable neo-noir themes.

There is the theme of the loner, certainly not the hero of the old westerns, but rather the uprooted drifter, symbolized in the tumbleweed blown by chance forces beyond its control or comprehension. Then there is the motif of a shallow and artificially constructed political culture, suggested in the television coverage of the Gulf War. As we shall see, the film replays 1960s themes of the establishment versus the antiestablishment, especially in the contrast between the two Lebowskis. Finally, there is the noir staple of the

“wrong man,” the chance misidentification of an ordinary man as a culprit or criminal of some sort, a misidentification that sparks a series of trials on the part of the wrongly accused. Comic incongruity arises from the theme of the wrong man and from the repeated presence of the Dude in settings

The Human Comedy Perpetuates Itself 33 where he clearly does not belong, what the Coens call the anachronism of incompatibility.

The Dude’s social life revolves around bowling with his friends Walter (John Goodman), a Vietnam vet and recent convert to Judaism, and Donny (Steve Buscemi), a pleasant, shy follower. Learning about the intruders, Walter insists that the issue is not the rug but the other Jeff Lebowski, whom the men were after. The Dude decides to visit the Big Lebowski (David Hud-dleston), a man confined to a wheelchair as a result of injuries suffered in the Korean War. When the Dude asks for remuneration for his destroyed rug and proclaims, “This aggression will not stand,” Lebowski taunts him, saying that, when he lost his legs in Korea, he did not ask for a handout.

He “went out and achieved”: “Your revolution is over. The bums lost.” Soon after this encounter, a humbled and weepy Lebowski invites the Dude back to the house and shows him a ransom note, indicating that his wife, Bunny, has been kidnapped. The Dude takes a drag off his joint and says, “Bum-mer, man.” Lebowski offers the Dude twenty thousand dollars and his own beeper to act as a courier. An incredulous Dude asks Lebowski’s assistant,

“He thinks the carpet pissers did this?”

Throughout much of the film, someone in a blue car follows the Dude.

Late in the film, he runs up to the car and yanks out the driver, who explains that he is a “private dick,” working on the same case as the one the Dude’s working on. He then admits fawningly, “I admire your work. The way you play one side against the other.” Here, the Dude once again plays the wrong man role; this time he is misidentified as a professional, a private detective with the knowledge and cleverness to manipulate human character types for his own ends.

This is, of course, a complete illusion; to underscore the Dude’s impo-tence, the Coens immediately shift to a scene in which a group of Germans break into his apartment and find him in his bathtub. As he complains that this is a “private residence,” they drop a marmot into the tub just between his legs and announce, “We want the money. We believe in nothing. If we don’t get the money, we will come back tomorrow and cut off your johnson.”

Walter shares the Dude’s dislocation, but he, unlike the Dude, is troubled by his rootlessness. The Dude is often irked at Walter’s strange Jewish devo-tion. When the Dude accuses him of living in the past, Walter responds,

“Three thousand years of beautiful tradition from Moses to Sandy Koufax, you’re goddamn right I’m living in the fucking past!” Walter wants to have an identity, to define himself in relation to a way of life, a tradition larger

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than himself. How badly he wants this is clear from his willingness to rate National Socialism above nihilism on the “ethos” scale. Yet his own embrace of Judaism, a result of his marriage to a Jewish woman from whom he is now divorced, serves to underscore the absurdity of attempting to intro-duce an ethos into a fragmented contemporary culture. His Judaism is an incoherent mixture of various elements, dislocated from contexts in which they originally may have made a kind of sense. Walter ranks bowling on about the same level as his religious devotion. Concerned about the Dude’s preoccupation with the case of the missing wife, Walter exclaims, “We can’t drag this negative energy into the tournament.”

Without any direct contribution from the Dude, the case wraps up nicely.

It turns out that Bunny was just on an unannounced vacation. Outside the bowling alley, the Germans, who think that Bunny is still missing, torch the Dude’s car and demand money, claiming that, if they are not paid, they will kill Bunny. A timid Donny asks: “Are these the Nazis?” Walter replies,

“No, these men are nihilists. There’s nothing to be afraid of. . . . These men

“No, these men are nihilists. There’s nothing to be afraid of. . . . These men