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 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 Suspects (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 condition 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, cannibalism in The Silence of the Lambs (Jonathan Demme, 1991), and maiming in Reservoir Dogs—into quasi-comic expressions of exuberant amoral energy. 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. Criticisms 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 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, between 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 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
