Barton Fink

LIPNIK

... Thanks Lou. Join us. Join us. Talking about the Wallace Beery picture.
LOU

Excellent picture.
LIPNIK

We got a treatment on it yet?
LOU

No, not yet Jack. We just bought the story. Saturday Evening Post.
LIPNIK

Okay, the hell with the story. Wallace Beery is a wrestler. I wanna know his hopes, his dreams. Naturally, he'll have to get mixed up with a bad element. And a romantic interest. You know the drill. Romantic interest, or else a young kid. An orphan. What do you think, Lou? Wally a little too old for a romantic interest? Look at me, a write in the room and I'm askin' Lou what the goddamn story should be!
After a robust laugh, he beams at Barton.
LIPNIK

... Well Bart, which is it? Orphan? Dame?
BARTON

... Both maybe?
There is a disappointed silence. Lipnik looks at Lou.
Lou clears his throat.
LOU

... Maybe we should do a treatment.
LIPNIK

Ah, hell, let Bart take a crack at it. He'll get into the swing of things or I don't know writers. Let's make it a dame, Bart, keep it simple. We don't gotta tackle the world our first time out. The important thing is we all have that Barton Fink feeling, but since you're Barton Fink I'm assuming you have it in spades. Seriously Bart, I like you. We're off to a good start. Dammit, if all our writers were like you I wouldn't have to get so goddamn involved. I'd like to see something by the end of the week.
Lou is getting to his feet and signaling for Barton to do likewise.
LIPNIK

... Heard about your show, by the way. My man in New York saw it. Tells me it was pretty damn powerful. Pretty damn moving. A little fruity, he said, but I guess you know what you're doing. Thank you for your heart. We need more heart in pictures. We're all expecting great things.

TRACKING SHOT
We are in the sixth-floor hallway of the Earle, late at night. A pair of shoes sits before each door. Faintly, from one of the rooms, we can hear the clack. clack. clack. of a typewriter.

It grows louder as we track forward.

EXTREME CLOSE SHOT – TYPEWRITER
Close on the typing so that we see only each letter as it is typed, without context.
One by one the letters clack on: a-u-d-i-b-l-e. After a short beat, a period strikes.

BARTON
Elbows on his desk, he looks down at what he has just written. He rolls the paper up a few lines, looks some more.

THE PAGE
It says:
FADE IN:

A TENEMENT BUILDING
On Manhatten's Lower East Side. Early morning traffic is audible.

BARTON
After a beat he rolls the sheet back into place.

EXTREME CLOSE SHOT
The letter-strike area. It is lined up to the last period, which is struck over by a comma. The words "as is" are typed in and we cut back to –

BARTON
– as he continues typing. He stops after several more characters and looks.
Silence.
Breaking the silence, muffled laughter from an adjacent room. A man's laughter. It is weary, solitary, mirthless.
Barton looks up at the wall directly in front of him.

HIS POV
The picture of the girl on the beach.

BARTON
Staring, as the end-of-the-tether laughing continues. Barton looks back downat his typewriter as if to resume work, but the sound is too insistent to ignore.

WIDE SHOT
The room, Barton sitting at his desk, staring at the wall.
The laughter.
Barton pushes his chair back, goes to the door, opens it and looks out.

HIS POV
The empty hallway, a pair of shoes before each door. At the end of the hall a dim red bulb burns over the door to the staircase, punctuating the sick yellow glow of the line of wall sconces.
The laughter, though still faint, is more resonant in the empty hall.
Perhaps its quality has changed, or perhaps simply because it is so insistent, the laughter now might be taken for weeping.
Barton pauses, trying to interpret the sound. He slowly withdraws into his room.

HIS ROOM
Barton looks down at his typewriter for a beat. The laughter/weeping continues.
He walks over to his bed, sits down and picks up the house phone.
BARTON

Hello... Chet? This is Barton Fink in room 605. Yes, there's uh, there's someone in the room next door to mine, 604, and he's uh... He's uh... making a lot of... noise.
After a beat:
BARTON

... Thank you.
He cradles the phone. The laughter continues for a moment or two, then abruptly stops with the muffled sound of the telephone ringing next door.
Barton looks at the wall.
The muffled sound of a man talking.
The sound of the earpiece being pronged.
Muffled footsteps next door.
The sound of the neighbor's door opening and shutting.
Footsteps approaching the hall.
A hard, present knock at Barton's door.
Barton hesitates for a beat, then rises to go get the door.

ON THE DOOR
As Barton opens it. Standing in the hall is a large man – a very large man – in short sleeves, suspenders, and loosened tie. His face is slightly flushed, with the beginnings of sweat.

MAN

Did you... Somebody just complained...
Hastily:
BARTON

No, I didn't – I mean, I did call down, not to complain exactly, I was just concerned that you might – not that it's my business, but that you might be in some kind of... distress. You see, I was trying to work, and it's, well, it was difficult –
MAN

Yeah. I'm damn sorry, if I bothered you. The damn walls here, well, I just apologize like hell...
He sticks his hand out.
MAN

... My name's Charlie Meadows. I guess we're neighbors...
Without reaching for the hand.
BARTON

Barton Fink.
Unfazed, Charlie Meadows unpockets a flask.
CHARLIE

Neighbor, I'd feel better about the damned inconvenience if you'd let me buy you a drink.
BARTON

That's all right, really, thank you.
CHARLIE

All right, hell, you trying to work and me carrying on in there. Look, the liquor's good, wuddya say?
As he enters:
CHARLIE

... You got a glass? It's the least I can do.
BARTON

Okay... a quick one, sure...
He gets two glasses from the wash basin.
Charlie sits down on the edge of the bed and uncorks his flask.
CHARLIE

Yeah, just a nip. I feel like hell, all the carryings-on next door.
BARTON

That's okay, I assure you. It's just that I was trying to work –

CHARLIE

What kind of work do you do, Barton, if you don't mind my asking?
BARTON

Well, I'm a writer, actually.
CHARLIE

You don't say. That's a tough racket. My hat's off to anyone who can make a go of it. Damned interesting work, I'd imagine.
BARTON

Can be. Not easy, but –
CHARLIE

Damned difficult, I'd imagine.
As he hands Charlie a glass:
BARTON

And what's your line, Mr. Meadows?
CHARLIE

Hell no! Call me Charlie. Well Barton, you might say I sell peace of mind. Insurance is my game – door-to-door, human contact, still the only way to move merchandise.
He fills a glass with whiskey and swaps it for the empty glass.
CHARLIE

... I spite of what you might think from tonight, I'm pretty good at it.
BARTON

Doesn't surprise me at all.
CHARLIE

Hell yes. Because I believe in it. Fire, theft, and casualty are not things that only happen to other people – that's what I tell 'em. Writing doesn't work out, you might want to look into it. Providing for basic human need – a fella could do worse.
BARTON

Thanks, I'll keep it in mind.
CHARLIE

What kind of scribbler are you – newspaperman did you say?
BARTON

No, I'm actually writing for the pictures now –
CHARLIE

Pictures! Jesus!
He guffaws.
CHARLIE

... I'm sorry, brother, I was just sitting here thinking I was talking to some ambitious youngster, eager to make good. Hell, you've got it made! Writing for pictures! Beating out that competition! And me being patronizing!
He gestures toward his face:
CHARLIE

... Is the egg showing or what?!
BARTON

That's okay; actually I am just starting out in the movies – though I was pretty well established in New York, some reknown there,
CHARLIE

Oh, it's an exciting time then. I'm not the best-read mug on the planet, so I guess it's no surprise I didn't recognize your name. Jesus, I feel like a heel.
For the first time Barton smiles.
BARTON

That's okay, Charlie. I'm a playwright. My shows've only played New York. Last one got a hell of a write-up in the Herald. I guess that's why they wanted me here.
CHARLIE

Hell, why not? Everyone wants quality. What kind of venue, that is to say, thematically, uh...
BARTON

What do I write about?
Charlie laughs.
CHARLIE

Caught me trying to be fancy! Yeah, that's it, Bart.
BARTON

Well, that's a good question. Strange as it may seem, Charlie, I guess I write about people like you. The average working stiff. The common man.
CHARLIE

Well ain't that a kick in the head!
BARTON

Yeah, I guess it is. But in a way, that's exactly the point. There's a few people in New York – hopefully our numbers are growing – who feel we have an opportunity now to forge something real out of everyday experience, create a theater for the masses that's based on a few simple truths – not on some shopworn abstractions about drama that doesn't hold true today, if they ever did...
He gazes at Charlie.
BARTON

... I don't guess this means much to you.
CHARLIE

Hell, I could tell you some stories –
BARTON

And that's the point, that we all have stories. The hopes and dreams of the common man are as noble as those of any king. It's the stuff of life – why shouldn't it be the stuff of theater? Goddamnit, why should that be a hard pill to swallow? Don't call it new theater, Charlie; call it real theater. Call it our theater.
CHARLIE

I can see you feel pretty strongly about it.
BARTON

Well, I don't mean to get up on my high horse, but why shouldn't we look at ourselves up there? Who cares about the Fifth Earl of Bastrop and Lady Higginbottom and – and – and who killed Nigel Grinch-Gibbons?

CHARLIE

I can feel my butt getting sore already.
BARTON

Exactly, Charlie! You understand what I'm saying – a lot more than some of these literary types. Because you're a real man!
CHARLIE

And I could tell you some stories –
BARTON

Sure you could! And yet many writers do everything in their power to insulate themselves from the common man – from where they live, from where they trade, from where they fight and love and converse and – and – and... so naturally their work suffers, and regresses into empty formalism and – well, I'm spouting off again, but to put it in your language, the theater becomes as phony as a three-dollar bill.
CHARLIE

Yeah, I guess that's tragedy right there.
BARTON

Frequently played, seldom remarked.
Charlie laughs.
CHARLIE

Whatever that means.
Barton smile with him.
BARTON

You're all right, Charlie. I'm glad you stopped by. I'm sorry if – well I know I sometimes run on.
CHARLIE

Hell no! Jesus, I'm the kind of guy, I'll let you know if I'm bored. I find it all pretty damned intersting. I'm the kind schmoe who's generally interested in the other guy's point of view.
BARTON

Well, we've got something in common then.
Charlie is getting to his feet and walking to the door.
CHARLIE

Well Christ, if there's any way I can contribute, or help, or whatever –
Barton chuckles and extende his hand.
BARTON

Sure, sure Charlie, you can help by just being yourself.
CHARLIE

Well, I can tell you some stories –
He pumps Barton's hand, then turns and pauses in the doorway.
CHARLIE

... And look, I'm sorry as hell about the interruption. Too much revelry late at night, you forget there are other people in the world.
BARTON

See you, Charlie.
Charlie closes the door and is gone.
Barton goes back to his desk and sits.
Muffled, we can hear the door of the adjacent room opening and closing.
Barton looks at the wall.

HIS POV
The bathing beauty.
From offscreen we hear a sticky, adhesive-giving-way sound.

BARTON
He looks around to the opposite – bed – wall.

HIS POV
The wallpaper is lightly sheened with moisture from the heat.
One swath of wallpaper is just finifhing sagging away from the wall. About three feet of the wall, where it meets the ceiling, is exposed.
The strip of wallpaper, its glue apparently melted, sags and nods above the bed. It glistens yellow, like a fleshy tropical flower.

BACK TO BARTON
He goes over to the bed and steps up onto it. He smooths the wallpaper back up against the wall.
He looks at his hand.

HIS HAND
Sticky with tacky yellow wall sweat
He wipes it onto his shirt.
We hear a faint mosquito hum.
Barton looks around.
FADE OUT

A TYPEWRITER
Whirring at high speed. The keys strike too quickly for us to make out the words.

SLOW TRACK IN
On Barton, sitting on a couch in an office anteroom, staring blankly. Distant phones ring. Barton's eyes are tired and bloodshot.

HIS POV
A gargoyle secretary sits typing a document.
The office door opens in the background and a short middle-aged man in a dark suit emerges.
To his secretary:
EXECUTIVE

I'm eating on the lot today –
He notices Barton.
EXECUTIVE

... Who's he?
The secretary looks over from her typing to consult a slip of paper on her desk.
SECRETARY

Barton Fink, Mr. Geisler.
GEISLER

More please.
BARTON

I'm a writer, Mr. Geisler. Ted Okum said I should drop by morning to see you about the –
GEISLER

Ever act?
BARTON

... Huh? No, I'm –
GEISLER

We need Indians for a Norman Steele western.
BARTON

I'm a writer. Ted O –
GEISLER

Think about it, Fink. Writers come and go; we always need Indians.
BARTON

I'm a writer. Ted Okum said you're producing this Wallace Beery picture I'm working on.
GEISLER

What!? Ted Okum doesn't know shit. They've assigned me enough pictures for a gaddamn year. What Ted Okum doesn't know you could almost squeeze into the Hollywood Bowl.
BARTON

Then who should I talk to?
Geisler gives a hostile stare. Without looking at her, he addresses the secretary:
GEISLER

Get me Lou Breeze.
He perches on the edge of the desk, an open hand out toward the secretary, as he glares wordlessly at Barton.
After a moment:
SECRETARY

Is he in for Mr. Geisler?
She puts the phone in Geisler's hand.
GEISLER

Lou? How's Lipnik's ass smell this morning?... Yeah?...Yeah?...Okay, the reason I'm calling, I got a writer here, Fink, all screwy. Says I'm producing that Wallace Beery wrestling picture – what'm I, the goddamn janitor around here?... Yeah, well who'd you get that from?... Yeah, well tell Lipnik he can kiss my dimpled ass... Shit! No, alright... No, no, all right.
Without looking he reaches the phone back. The secretary takes it and cradles it.
GEISLER

... Okay kid, let's chow.

COMISSARY
Barton and Geisler sit eating in a semicircular booth. Geisler
speaks through a mouthful of food:
GEISLER

Don't worry about it. It's just a B picture. I bring it in on budget, they'll book it without even screening it. Life is too short.
BARTON

But Lipnik said he wanted to look at the script, see something by the end of the week.
GEISLER

Sure he did. And he forgot about it before your ass left his sofa.
BARTON

Okay. I'm just having trouble getting started. It's funny, I'm blocked up. I feel like I need some kind of indication of... what's expected –
GEISLER

Wallace Beery. Wrestling picture. What do you need, a road map?
Geisler chews on his cottage cheese and stares at Barton.
GEISLER

... Look, you're confused? You need guidance? Talk to another writer.
BARTON

Who?
Geisler rises and throws his napkin onto his plate.
GEISLER

Jesus, throw a rock in here, you'll hit one. And do me a favor, Fink: Throw it hard.

COMISSARY MEN'S ROOM
Barton stands at a urinal.
He stares at the wall in front of him as he pees. After a moment, he cocks his head, listening.
We hear a throat clearing, as if by a tenor preparing for a difficult passage. It is followed by the gurgling ruch of vomit.

Barton buttons his pants and turns to face the stalls.
There is more businesslike throat clearing.
Barton stoops.

HIS POV
We boom down to show the blue serge pants and well-polished shoes of the stall's kneeling occupant.
A white handkerchief has been spread on the floor to protect the trouser knees.
The toilet flushes. The man rises, picks up his handkerchief up off the floor and gives it a smart flap.

BARTON
He quickly straightens and goes to the sink. He starts washing his hands. We hear the stall door being unlatched.
Barton glances over his shoulder.

HIS POV
The stall door opening.

BARTON
Quickly, self-consciously, he looks back down at his hands.

HIS POV
His hands writhing under the running water. We hear footsteps approaching.

BARTON
Forcing himself to look at his hands. We hear the man reach the adjacent sink and turn on the tap.
Barton can't help glancing up.

THE MAN
A dapper little man in a neat blue serge suit. He has warm brown eyes, a patrician nose, and a salt-and-pepper mustache. He smiles pleasantly at Barton.

BARTON
He gives a nervous smile – more like a tic – and looks back down at his hands. We hear the man gargling water and spitting into the sink.

After a moment, Barton looks up again.

THE MAN
Reacting to barton's look as he washes his hands. This time, a curt nod accompanies his pleasant smile.

BARTON
Looks back down, then up again.

THE MAN
Extends a dripping hand.
MAN

Bill Mayhew. Sorry about the odor.
His speech is softly accented, from the South.
BARTON

Barton Fink.
They shake, then return to their ablutions.
We hold on Barton as we hear Mayhew's faucet being turned off and his foot- steps receding. For some reason, Barton's eyes are widening.
BARTON

... Jesus. W.P.!
The dapper little man stops and turns.
MAYHEW

I beg your pardon?
BARTON

W.P. Mayhew? The writer?
MAYHEW

Just Bill, please.
Barton stands with his back to the sink, facing the little man, his hands dripping onto the floor. There is a short pause. Barton is strangely agitated, his voice halting but urgent.
BARTON

Bill!...
Mayhew cocks his head with a politely patient smile. Finally Barton brings out:
BARTON

... You're the finest novelist of our time.
Mayhew leans against a stall.
MAYHEW

Why thank you, son, how kind. Bein' occupied here in the worship of Mammon, I haven't had the chance yet to see your play –
He smiles at Barton's surprise.
MAYHEW

... Yes, Mistuh Fink, some of the news reaches us in Hollywood.
He is taking out a flask and unscrewing its lid.
BARTON

Sir, I'm flattered that you even recognize my name. My God, I had no idea you were in Hollywood.
MAYHEW

All of us undomesticated writers eventually make their way out here to the Great Salt Lick. Mebbe that's why I allus have such a powerful thrust.
He clears his throat, takes a swig from the flask, and waves it at Barton.
MAYHEW

... A little social lubricant, Mistuh Fink?
BARTON

It's still a little early for me.
MAYHEW

So be it.
He knocks back some more.
BARTON

... Bill, if I'm imposing you should say so, I know you're very busy – I just, uh... I just wonder if I could ask you a favor... That is to say, uh... have you ever written a wrestling picture?
Mayhew eyes him appraisingly, and at length clears his throat.
MAYHEW