The Coen brothers’ 1998 stoner-noir is Raymond Chandler filtered through dirty bong water, where almost every line of dialogue is a hazy, hilarious non sequitur. My favorite is when accidental P.I. Jeff Bridges (forever the Dude) is ambushed in his tub by nihilists bearing a ferret. “Hey, nice marmot,” he greets them, with his usual unflustered amiability. Nothing rattles Bridges’ Dude, not a lost rug, not a leering Tara Reid, not a lisping John Turturro, not a raving John Goodman, not a simpering Steve Buscemi, and not even shrieking performance artist Julianne Moore, who joins Bridges in a Busby Berkeley-style bowling fantasy that sums up the movie’s sweet, silly spirit. Outdoor movie screens at dusk. (R) BRIAN MILLER

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