Barton Fink

... You are drippin', suh.
Barton looks down at his hands, then pulls a rough brown paper towel from a dispenser.
Mayhew sighs:
MAYHEW

... Mistuh Fink, they have not invented a genre of picture that Bill Mayhew has not, at one time or othuh, been invited to essay. I have taken my stabs at the wrastlin' form, as I have stabbed at so many others, and with as little success. I gather that you are a fresh- man here, eager for an upperclassman's council. However, just at the moment...
He waves his flask.
MAYHEW

... I have drinkin' to do. Why don't you stop at my bungalow, which is numbah fifteen, later on this afternoon...
He turns to leave.
MAYHEW

... and we will discuss wrastlin' scenarios and other things lit'rary.

THE NUMBER "15"
We are close on brass numerals tacked up on a white door.

Muted, from inside, we hear Mayhew's voice – enraged, bellowing. We hear things breaking. Softer, we hear a woman's voice, its tone placating.

REVERSE TRACKING SLOWLY IN
On Barton, standing in front of the door.
The noise abates for a moment. We hear the woman's voice again.
Barton hesitates, listening; he thinks, decides, knocks.
With this the woman's voice stops, and Mayhew starts wailing again.
The door cracks open.
The woman looks as if she has been crying.
WOMAN

... Can I help you?
BARTON

I'm sorry, I... My name is Fink... Uh, Bill asked me to drop by this afternoon. Is he in?
WOMAN

Mr. Mayhew is indisposed at the moment –
From inside, we hear Mayhew's wail.
MAYHEW

HONEY!! WHERE'S M'HONEY!!
The woman glances uncomfortably over her shoulder and steps outside, closing the door behind her.
WOMAN

Mr. Fink, I'm Audrey Taylor, Mr. Mayhew's personal secretary. I know this all must sound horrid. I really do apologize...
Through the door Mayhew is still wailing piteously.
BARTON

Is, uh... Is he okay?
AUDREY

He will be... When he can't write, he drinks.

MAYHEW

WHERE ARE YOU, DAMMIT! WHERE'S M'HONEY!!
She brushes a wisp of hair out of her eyes.
AUDREY

I am sorry, it's so embarassing.
BARTON

How about you? Will you be alright?
AUDREY

I'll be fine... Are you a writer, Mr Fink?
BARTON

Yes I am. I'm working on a wres – please call me Barton.
Audrey reaches out and touches Barton's hand.
AUDREY

I'll tell Bill you dropped by. I'm sure he'll want to reschedule your appointment.
BARTON

Perhaps you and I could get together at some point also. –I'm sorry if that sounds abrupt. I just... I don't know anyone here in this town.
Audrey smile at him.
AUDREY

Perhaps the three of us, Mr. Fink.
BARTON

Please, Barton
AUDREY

Barton. You see, Barton, I'm not just Bill's secretary – Bill and I are... i love. We-
MAYHEW'S VOICE

M'HONEY!! WHERE'S M'HONEY!!
Audrey glances back as we hear the sound of shattering dishes and heavy footsteps.
BARTON

I see.
AUDREY

... I know this must look... funny.
BARTON

No, no –
Hurriedly:
AUDREY

We need each other. We give each other... the things we need –
VOICE

M'HONEY!!... bastard-ass sons of bitches... the water's lappin' up... M'HONEY!!
AUDREY

I'm sorry, Mr. Fink. Please don't judge us. Please...
Flustered, she backs away and closes the door.

CLOSE ON A SMALL WRAPPED PACKAGE
Hand-printed on the package is the message:
"Hope these will turn the trick, Mr. Fink.

– Chet!"

The wrapping is torn away and the small box is opened.
Two thumbtacks are taken out.

BARTON'S HOTEL ROOM
Late at night. The swath of wallpaper behind the bed has sagged away from the wall again, and has been joined by the swath next to it.
Barton enters frame and steps up onto the bed.
He smooths up the first swath and pushes in a thumbtack near the top.

EXTREME CLOSE SHOT
On the tack. As Barton applies pressure to push it in, tacky yellow goo oozes out of the puncture hole and beads around the tack.

ON BARTON
Smoothing up the second swath.
As he pushes in the second tack he pauses, listening.
Muffled, through the wall, we can hear a woman moaning.
After a motionless beat, Barton eases his ear against the wall.

CLOSE ON BARTON
As his ear meets the wall.
The woman's moaning continues. We hear the creaking of bedsprings and her partner, incongruously giggling.
Barton grimaces, gets down off the bed and crosses to the secretary, where he sits. He stares at the paper in the carriage.

HIS POV
The blank part of the page around the key-strike area, under the metal prongs that hold the paper down.
We begin to hear moaning again.

BACK TO BARTON
Still looking; sweating.

HIS POV
Tracking in on the paper, losing the prongs from frame so that we are looking at the pure unblemished white of the page.
The moaning is cut short by two sharp knocks.

THE DOOR
As it swings open.
Charlie Meadows leans in, smiling.
CHARLIE

Howdy, neighbor.
BARTON

Charlie. How are you.
CHARLIE

Jesus, I hope I'm not interrupting you again. I heard you walking around in here. Figured I'd drop by.
BARTON

Yeah, come in Charlie. Hadn't really gotten started yet – what happened to your ear?
– for Charle's left ear is plugged with cotton wadding. As he enters:
CHARLIE

Oh, yeah. An ear infection, chronic thing. Goes away for a while, but it always comes back. Gotta put cotton in it to staunch the flow of pus. Don't worry, it's not contagious.
BARTON

Seen a doctor?
Charlie gives a dismissive wave.
CHARLIE

Ah, doctors. What's he gonna tell me? Can't trade my head in for a new one.
BARTON

No, I guess you're stuck with the one you've got. Have a seat.
Charlie perches on the corner of the bed.
CHARLIE

Thanks, I'd invite you over to my place, but it's a goddamn mess. You married, Bart?
BARTON

Nope.
CHARLIE

I myself have yet to be lassoed.
He takes his flask out.
CHARLIE

... Got a sweetheart?
BARTON

No... I guess it's something about my work. I get so worked up over it, I don't know; I don't really have a lot of attention left over, so it would be a little unfair...
CHARLIE

Yeah, the ladies do ask for attention. In my experience, they pretend to give it, but it's generally a smoke-screen for demanding it back – with interest. How about family, Bart? How're you fixed in that department?
Barton smiles.
BARTON

My folks live in Brooklyn, with my uncle.
CHARLIE

Mine have passed on. It's just the three of us now...
He taps himself on the head, chuckling.
CHARLIE

... What's the expression – me myself and I.
BARTON

Sure, that's tough, but in a sense, we're all alone in this world aren't we Charlie? I'm often surrounded by family and friends, but...
He shrugs.
CHARLIE

Mm... You're no stranger to loneliness, then. I guess I got no beef; especially where the dames are concerned. In my line of work I get opportunities galore – always on the wing, you know what I'm saying. I could tell stories to curl your hair – but it looks like you've already heard 'em!
He laughs at his reference to Barton's curly hair, and pulls a dog-eared photograph from his wallet. As he hands it to Barton:

CHARLIE

... That's me in Kansas City, plying my trade.

THE PHOTO
Charlie smiles and waves with one foot up on the running board of a 1939 roadster. A battered leather briefcase dangles from one hand.
CHARLIE

... It was taken by one of my policy holders. They're more than just customers to me, Barton. they really appreciate what I have to offer them. Ya see, her hubby was out of town at the time –
BARTON

You know, in a way, I envy you Charlie. Your daily routine – you know what's expected. You know the drill. My job is to plumb the depths, so to speak, dredge something up from inside, something honest. There's no road map for that territory...
He looks from Charlie to the Underwood.
BARTON

... and exploring it can be painful. The kind of pain most people don't know anything about.
He looks back at Charlie.
BARTON

... This must be boring you.
CHARLIE

Not at all. It's damned interesting.
BARTON

Yeah...
He gives a sad chuckle.
BARTON

... Probably sounds a little grand coming from someone who's writing a wrestling picture for Wallace Beery.
CHARLIE

Beery! You got no beef there! He's good. Hell of an actor – though, for my money, you can't beat Jack Oakie. A stitch, Oakie. Funny stuff, funny stuff. But don't get me wrong – Beery, a wrestling picture, that could be a pip. Wrestled some myself back in school. I guess you know the basic moves.
BARTON

Nope, never watched any. I'm not that interested in the act itself –
CHARLIE

Okay, but hell, you should know what it is. I can show you in about thirty seconds.
He is getting down on his hands and knees.
CHARLIE

... You're a little out of your weight class, but just for purposes of demonstration –
BARTON

That's all right, really –
CHARLIE

Not a bit of it, compadre! Easiest thing in the world! You just get down on your knees to my left, slap your right hand here...
He indicated his own right bicep.
CHARLIE

... and your left hand here.
He indicated his left bicep.
Barton hesitates.
CHARLIE

... You can do it, champ!
Barton complies.
CHARLIE

... All right now, when I say "Ready... wrestle!" you try and pin me, and I try and pin you. That's the whole game. Got it?
BARTON

... Yeah, okay.
CHARLIE

Ready...wrestle!
With one clean move Charlie flips Barton onto his back, his head and shoulders hitting with a thump. Charlie pins Barton's shoulders with his own upper body.
But before the move even seems completed Charlie is standing again, offering his hand down to Barton.
Damn, there I go again. We're gonna wake the downstairs neighbors. I didn't hurt ya, did I?
Barton seems dazed, but not put out.
BARTON

It's okay, it's okay.
CHARLIE

Well, that's all that wrestling is. Except usually there's more grunting and squirming before the pin. Well, it's your first time. And you're out of your weight class.
Barton has propped himself up and is painfully massaging the back of his head. This registers on Charlie.
CHARLIE

... Jesus, I did hurt you!
He clomps hurriedly away.
CHARLIE

... I'm just a big, clumsy lug. I sure do apologize.
We hear water running, and Charlie reenters with a wet towel.
Barton accepts the towel and presses it to his head.
CHARLIE

... You sure you're okay?
Barton gets to his feet.
BARTON

I'm fine, Charlie. Really I am. Actually, it's been helpful, but I guess I should get back to work.
Charlie looks at him with some concern, then turns and heads for the door.
CHARLIE

Well, it wasn't fair of me to do that. I'm pretty well endowed physically.
He opens the door.
CHARLIE

... Don't feel bad, though. I wouldn't be much of a match for you at mental gymnastics. Gimme a holler if you need anything.
The door closes.
Barton crosses to the secretary and sits down, rubbing the back of his head. He rolls up the carriage and looks at the page in the typewriter.

HIS POV
The page.
FADE IN:

A TENEMENT BUILDING
On Manhatten's Lower East Side. Early morning traffic is audible, as is the cry fishmongers.

BACK TO BARTON
He rubs the back of his head, wincing, as he stares at the page.
His gaze drifts up.

HIS POV
The bathing beauty.

BARTON
Looking at the picture. He presses the heels of his hands against his ears.

HIS POV
The bathing beauty. Faint, but building, is the sound of the surf.

BARTON
Head cocked. The surf is mixing into another liquid sound.
Barotn looks sharply around.

THE BATHROOM
Barton enters.
The sink, which Charlie apparently left running when he wet Barton's towel, is overflowing. Water spills onto the tile floor.
Barton hurriedly shuts off the tap, rolls up one sleeve and reaches into the sink.
As his hand emerges, holding something, we hear the unclogged sink gulp water.

BARTON'S HAND
Holding a dripping wad of cotton.

BARTON
After a brief, puzzled look he realizes where the cotton came from – and convulsively flips it away.
FADE OUT
FADE IN:

ON THE TITLE PAGE OF A BOOK:
"NEBUCHADNEZZAR

By

W.P. Mayhew"
A hand enters with pen to inscribe:
"To Barton –
May this little entertainment divert you in your sojourn

among the Philistines.

– Bill"

The book is closed and picked up.

WIDER
As-thoomp!-the heavy volume is deposited across the table, in front of Barton, by Mayhew.
Barton, Mayhew, and Audrey are seated around a picnic table. It is one of a few tables littering the lot of a small stucco open-air hamburger stand.

It is peaceful early evening. The last of the sunlight slopes down through palm trees. Barton, Mayhew, and Audrey are the only customers at the stand. Mayhew's black Ford stands alone at the edge of the lot.
Mayhew leans back in his chair.
MAYHEW

If I close m'eyes I can almost smell the live oak.
AUDREY

That's hamburger grease, Bill.
MAYHEW

Well, m'olfactory's turnin' womanish on me – lyin' and deceitful...
His eyes still closed, he waves a limp hand gently in the breeze.
MAYHEW

... Still, I must say. I haven't felt peace like this since the grand productive days. Don't you find it so, Barton? Ain't writin' peace?
BARTON

Well... actually, no Bill...
Barton looks nervously at Audrey before continuing.
BARTON

... No, I've always found that writing comes from a great inner pain. Maybe it's a pain that comes from a realization that one must do something for one's fellow man – to help somehow to ease his suffering. Maybe it's a personal pain. At any rate, I don't believe good work is possible without it.
MAYHEW

Mmm. Wal, me, I just enjoy maikn' things up. Yessir. Escape... It's when I can't write, can't escape m'self, that I want to tear m'head off and run screamin' down the street with m'balls in a fruitpickers pail. Mm...
He sighs and reaches for a bottle of Wild Turkey.
MAYHEW

... This'll sometimes help.
AUDREY

That doesn't help anything, Bill.
BARTON

That's true, Bill. I've never found it to help my writing.
Mayhew is becoming testy:
MAYHEW

Your writing? Son, have you ever heard the story of Soloman's mammy-
Audrey, anticipating, jumps hastily in. She taps the book on the table.
AUDREY

You should read this, Barton. I think it's Bill's finest, or among his finest anyway.
Mayhew looks at her narrowly.
MAYHEW

So now I'm s'posed to roll over like an ol' bitch dog gettin' ger belly scratched.
AUDREY

Bill –
BARTON

Look, maybe it's none of my business, but a man with your talent – don't you think your first obligation would be to your gift? Shouldn't you be doing whatever you have to do to work again?
MAYHEW

And what would that be, son?
BARTON

I don't know exactly. But I do know what you're doing with that drink. You're cutting yourself off from your gift, and from me and Audrey, and from your fellow man, and from everything your art is about.
MAYHEW

No son, thisahere moonshine's got nothin' to do with shuttin' folks out. No, I'm usin' it to build somethin'.
BARTON

What's that?
MAYHEW

I'm buildin' a levee. Gulp by gulp, brick by brick. Raisin' up a levee to keep that ragin' river of manure from lappin' at m'door.
AUDREY

Maybe you better too, Barton. Before you get buried under his manure.
Mayhew chuckles.
MAYHEW

M'honey pretends to be impatient with me, Barton, but she'll put up with anything.
AUDREY

Not anything, Bill. Don't test me.
BARTON

You're lucky she puts up with as much as she does.
Mayhew is getting to his feet.
MAYHEW

Am I? Maybe to a schoolboy's eye. People who know about the human heart, though, mebbe they'd say, Bill over here, he gives his honey love, and she pays him back with pity – the basest coin there is.
AUDREY

Stop it, Bill!
He wanders over to a corner of the lot between two palm trees, still clutching his bottle, his back to Barton and Audrey, and urinates into the grass.
He is singing – loudly – "Old Black Joe."
Audrey walks over to him.

BARTON
Watching her go.

HIS POV
Audrey touches Mayhew's elbow. He looks at her, stops singing, she murmurs something, and he bellows:
MAYHEW

The truth, m'honey, is a tart that does not bear scrutiny.
She touches him again, murmuring, and he lashes out at her, knocking her to the ground.
Breach my levee at your peril!

BARTON
He rises.

AUDREY
Coming back to Barton.

MAYHEW
Stumbling off down the dusty road, muttering to himself and waving his bottle of Wild Turkey.
AUDREY

Let him go.
BARTON

That son of a bitch... Don't get me wrong, he's a fine writer.
He looks down the road. Mayhew is a small lone figure, weaving in the dust.
MAYHEW

I'll jus' walk on down to the Pacific, and from there I'll... improvise.
BARTON

Are you all right?
We hear distant bellowing:
MAYHEW

Silent upon a hill in Darien!
Audrey bursts into tears. Barton puts his arms around her and she leans into him.
BARTON

Audrey, you can't put up with this.
Gradually, she collects herself, wiping her tears.
AUDREY

... Oh Barton, I feel so... sorry for him!
BARTON

What?! He's a son of a bitch!
AUDREY

No, sometimes he just... well, he thinks about Estelle. His wife still lives in Fayettesville. She's... disturbed.
BARTON

Really?...
He considers this for a moment, but his anger returns.
BARTON

... Well that doesn't excuse his behavior.
AUDREY

He'll wander back when he's sober and apologize. He always does.
BARTON

Okay, but that doesn't excuse his –
AUDREY

Barton. Empathy requires... understanding.
BARTON

What. What don't I understand?
Audrey gazes at him.

MAYHEW
He is very distant now, weaving but somehow dignified in his light summer suit. "Old Black Joe" floats back to us in the twilight.
FADE OUT

BARTON'S HOTEL ROOM
From a high angle, booming down on Barton.
The room is dark. Barton lies fully clothed, stretched out on the bed, asleep. The hum of the mosquito fades up in the stillness.

Suddenly Barton slaps his cheek. His eyes open, but he remains still. The hum fades up again.
Barton reaches over and turns on the bedside lamp. His eyes shift this way and that as he waits, listening.
The hum fades down to silence.
Barton's eyes shift.

HIS POV
The typewriter sits on the secretary, a piece of paper rolled halfway through the carriage.

THE TYPEWRITER
Barton enters frame and sits down in front of the typewriter.

HIS POV
Next to the typewriter are several crumpled pieces of paper.
The page in the carriage reads:
FADE IN:

A TENEMENT HOTEL
On the Lower East Side. We can faintly hear the cry of the fishmongers. It is too early for us to hear traffic; later, perhaps, we will.

BACK TO BARTON
Looking down at the page.

CLOSE ON BARTON'S FEET
Swinging in the legwell.
One foot idly swings over to nudge a pair of nicely shined shoes from where they rest, under the secretary, into the legwell.

We hear typing start.

THE PAGE
A new paragraph being started: "A large man..."

BARTON'S FEET
As he slides them into the shoes.

THE PAGE
"A large man in tights..."
The typing stops.

BARTON
Looking quizzically at the page. What's wrong?

HIS FEET
Sliding back and forth – swimming – in his shoes, which are several sizes too large.
We hear a knock at the door.

BARTON
He rises and answers the door.
Charlie stands smiling in the doorway, holding a pair of nicely shined shoes.
CHARLIE

I hope these are your shoes.
BARTON

Hi, Charlie.
CHARLIE

Because that would mean they gave you mine.
BARTON

Yeah, as a matter of fact they did. Come on in.
The two stocking-footed men go into the room and Barton reaches under the secretary for Charlie's shoes.
CHARLIE

Jesus, what a day I've had. Ever had one of those days?
BARTON

Seems like nothing but, lately.
Chalrie perches on the edge of the bed.
CHARLIE

Jesus, what a day. Felt like I couldn't've sold ice water in the Sahara. Jesus. Okay, so you don't want insurance, so okay, that's your loss. But God, people can be rude. Feel like I have to talk to a normal person like just to restore a little of my...
BARTON

Well, my pleasure. I could use a little lift myself.
CHARLIE

A little lift, yeah...
Smiling, he takes out his flask.
CHARLIE

... Good thing they bottle it, huh pal?
He takes a glass from the bedstand and, as he pours Barton a shot:
CHARLIE

... Did I say rude? People can be goddamn cruel. Especially some of their housewives. Okay, so I've got a weight problem. That's my cross to bear. I dunno...
BARTON

Well it's... it's a defense mechanism.
CHARLIE

Defense against what? Insurance? Something they need? Something they should be thanking me for offering? A little peace of mind?...
He shakes his head.
CHARLIE

... Finally decided to knock off early, take your advice. Went to see a doctor about this.
He indicates his ear, still stuffed with cotton.
CHARLIE

... He told me it was an ear infection. Ten dollars, please. I said, hell, I told YOU my ear was infected. Why don't YOU give ME ten dollars? Well, THAT led to an argument...
He gives a rueful chuckle.
CHARLIE

... Listen to me belly-achin'. As if my problems amounted to a hill of beans. How goes the life of the mind?
BARTON

Well, it's been better. I can't seem to get going on this thing. That one idea, the one that lets you get started – I still haven't gotten it. Maybe I only had one idea in me – my play. Maybe once that was done, I was done being a writer. Christ, I feel like a fraud, sitting here staring at this paper.
CHARLIE

Those two love-birds next door drivin' you nuts?
Barton looks at him curiously.
BARTON

How did you know about that?
CHARLIE

Know about it? I can practically see how they're doin' it. Brother, I wish I had a piece of that.
BARTON

Yeah, but –
CHARLIE

Seems like I hear everything that goes on in this dump. Pipes or somethin'. I'm just glad I don't have to ply MY trade in the wee-wee hours.
He laughs.
CHARLIE

... Ah, you'll lick this picture business, believe me. You've got a head on your shoulders. What is it they say? Where there's a head, there's a hope?
BARTON

Where there's life there's hope.
Charlie laughs.
CHARLIE

That proves you really are a writer!
Barton smiles.
BARTON

And there's hope for you too, Charlie. Tomorrow I bet you sell a half-dozen policies.
CHARLIE

Thanks, brother. But the fact is, I gotta pull up stakes temporarily.
BARTON

You're leaving?
CHARLIE

In a few days. Out to your stompin' grounds as a matter of fact – New York City. Things have gotten all balled up at the Head Office.
BARTON

I'm truly sorry to hear that, Charlie. I'll miss you.
CHARLIE

Well hell, buddy, don't pull a long face! This is still home for me – I keep my room, and I'll be back sooner or later...
Barton rises and walks over to his writing table.
CHARLIE

... And – mark my words – by the time I get back you're picture'll be finished. I know it.
Barton scribbles on a notepad and turns to hand it to Charlie.
BARTON

New York can be pretty cruel to strangers, Charlie. If you need a home-cooked meal you just look up Morris and Lillian Fink. They live on Fulton Street with my uncle Dave.
We hear a tacky, tearing sound.
Barton looks toward the door.
Charlie rises and walks over to the stand next to where Barton sits.
The two staring men form an odd, motionless tableau – the slight, bespectacled man seated; the big man standing in a hunch with his hands on his thighs; their heads close together.

THEIR POV
A swath of wallpaper in the entryway has pulled away from the wall. It sags and nods.
CHARLIE

(off)

Christ!

THE TWO MEN
Frozen, looking.
CHARLIE

... Your room does that too?
BARTON

I guess the heat's sweating off the wallpaper.
CHARLIE

What a dump...
He heads for the door and Barton follows.
CHARLIE

... I guess it seems pathetic to a guy like you.
BARTON

Well...
CHARLIE

Well it's pathetic, isn't it? I mean to a guy from New York.
BARTON

What do you mean?
CHARLIE

This kind of heat. It's pathetic.
BARTON

Well, I guess you pick your poison.
CHARLIE

So they say.
BARTON

Don't pick up and leave without saying goodbye.
CHARLIE

Course not, compadre. You'll see me again.
Barton closes the door.
He goes back to the desk, sits, and stares at the typewriter. After a beat he tips back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling.
We hear a loud thump.

HIS POV
The ceiling – a white, seamless space.
As we track in the thumping continues – slowly, rhythmically, progressively louder – the effect, it seems, of odd doings upstairs.

LOOKING DOWN ON BARTON
From a high angle, tipped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
We track slowly down toward him. The thumping continues, growing louder, sharper.

HIS POV
Moving in on the ceiling. We close in on an unblemished area and cease to have any sense of movement.
With a blur something huge and dark sweeps across the frame to land with a deafening crash, and an instant later it is gone, having left a huge black "T" stamped into the white ceiling.
We are pulling back from the white, past the metal prongs of the key-strike area on a typewriter. More letters appear rapid-fire, growing smaller as the pull back continues. The thumpimg becomes the clacking of the typewriter.

BEN GEISLER
Is emerging from his office.
As he enters the secretary stops typing, glances down at a slip of paper, and murmurs tonelessly, without looking up:
SECRETARY

Barton Fink.
GEISLER

Yeah. Fink. Come in.
The clack of the typewriter resumes as Barton rises.

GEISLER'S OFFICE
The two men enter.
This office is considerably smaller than Lipnik's, done in grays and black. There are pictures on the wall of Geisler with various celebrities.

Geisler sits behind his desk.
GEISLER

Wuddya got for me – what the hell happened to your face?
BARTON

Nothing. It's just a mosquito bite.
GEISLER

Like hell it is; there are no mosquitos in Los Angeles. Mosquitos breed in swamps – this is a desert town. Wuddya got for me?
BARTON

Well I...
GEISLER

On the Beery picture! Where are we? Wuddya got?
BARTON

Well, to tell you the truth, I'm having some trouble getting started –
GEISLER

Getting STARTED! Christ Jesus! Started?! You mean you don't have ANYthing?!
BARTON

Well not much.
Geisler leaps to his feet and paces.
GEISLER

What do you think this is? HAMLET? GONE WITH THE WIND? RUGGLES OF RED GAP? It's a goddamn B picture! Big men in tights! You know the drill!
BARTON

I'm afraid I don't really understand that genre. maybe that's the prob-
GEISLER

Understand shit! I though you were gonna consult another writer on this!
BARTON

Well, I've talked to Bill Mayhew-
GEISLER

Bill Mayhew! Some help! The guy's a souse!
BARTON

He's a great writer –
GEISLER

A souse!
BARTON

You don't understand. He's in pain, because he can't write-
GEISLER

Souse! Souse! He manages to write his name on the back of his paycheck every week!
BARTON

But... I thought no one cared about this picture.
GEISLER

You thought! Where'd you get THAT from? You thought! I don't know what the hell you said to Lipnik, but the sonofabitch LIKES you! You understand that, Fink? He LIKES you! He's taken an interest. NEVER make Lipnik like you. NEVER!
Some puzzlement shows through Barton's weariness.
BARTON

I don't understand-
GEISLER

Are you deaf, he LIKES you! He's taken an interest! What the hell did you say to him?
BARTON

I didn't say anything-
GEISLER

Well he's taken an interest! That means he'll make your life hell, which I could care less about, but since I drew the short straw to supervise this turkey, he's gonna be all over me too! Fat-assed sonofabitch called me yesterday to ask how it's going – don't worry, I covered for you. Told him you were making progress and we were all very excited. I told him it was great, so now MY ass is on the line. He wants you to tell him all about it tomorrow.
BARTON

I can't write anything by tomorrow.
GEISLER

Who said write? Jesus, Jack can't read. You gotta TELL it to him-tell him SOMEthing for Chrissake.
BARTON

Well what do I tell him?
Geisler rubs a temple, studies Barton for a beat, then picks up a telephone.
GEISLER

Projection...
As he waits, Geisler gives Barton a witherng stare. It continues throughout the phone conversation.
GEISLER

... Jerry? Ben Geisler here. Any of the screening rooms free this afternoon?... Good, book it for me. A writer named Fink is gonna come in and you're gonna show him wrestling pictures... I don't give a shit which ones! WRESTLING pictures! Wait a minute- isn't Victor Sjoderberg shooting one now?... Show him some of the dailies on that.

He slams down the phone.
GEISLER

... This ought to give you some ideas.
He jots an address on a piece of paper and hands it to Barton.
GEISLER

... Eight-fifteen tomorrow morning at Lipnik's house. Ideas. Broad strokes. Don't cross me, Fink.

SCREEN
Black-and-white footage. A middle-aged man with a clapstick enters and shouts:
"CLAPPER DEVIL ON THE CANVAS, twelve baker take one."
Clap! The clapper withdraws. The angle is on a corner of the ring, where an old corner man stands behind his charge, a huge man in tights who is a little too flabby to be a real athlete. His hair is plastered against his bullet skull and he has a small mustache.
VOICE

Action.
The wrestler rises from his stool and heads toward center ring and the camera. He affects a German accent:
WRESTLER

I will destroy him!
He passes the camera.
VOICE

Cut.
Flash frames.
The clapper enters again.
CLAPPER

Twelve baker take two.
Clap! He exits.
The wrestler moves toward the camera.
WRESTLER

I will destroy him!
VOICE

Cut.
The clapper enters
CLAPPER

Twelve baker take three.
Clap!
WRESTLER

I will destroy him!

SLOW TRACK IN ON BARTON
Seated alone in a dark screening room, the shaft of the projection beam flickering over his left shoulder.
As we creep in closer:
WRESTLER

(off)

I will destroy him!... I will destroy him!... I will destroy him!... I will destroy him!...
Another off-microphone, distant voice from the screen:
VOICE

Okay, take five...

THE SCREEN
A jerky pan, interrupted by flash frames. The wrestler is standing in a corner joking with a makeup girl who pats down his face as he smokes a cigarette.
A cut in the film and another clapstick enters.
CLAPPER

Twelve charlie take one-
On the clap:

BACK TO BARTON
Staring at the screen, dull, wan, and forlorn.
VOICE

(off)

Action.

THE SCREEN
The angle is low – canvas level. We hold for a brief moment on the empty canvas before two wrestlers crash down into frame.
The German is underneath, on his back, pinned by the other man.
The referee enters, cropped at the knees, and throws counting fingers down into frame.
REFEREE

One... two...
WRESTLER

AAAAHHHH!!
The German bucks and throws his opponent out of frame.
VOICE

Cut.
CLAPPER

Twelve charlie take two.
Crash.
REFEREE

One... two...
WRESTLER

AAAAHHHH!!

BARTON
Glazed.
WRESTLER

(off)

AAAAAAHHHHHH!!... AAAAAAHHHHHH!!... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!...

PAGE IN TYPEWRITER
The screaming drops out abruptly at cut. We hear only the sound of heavy footfalls on carpet.
Below the opening paragraph, two new words have been added to the typescript:
"Orphan?"
"Dame?"
The foot falls continue.

THE HOTEL ROOM
Night. Barton paces frantically back and forth.
He looks at his watch.

HIS POV
It is 12:30.

CLOSE ON THE PHONE
It is lifted out of the cradle.
BARTON

Hello, Chet, it's Barton Fink in 605. Can you try a number for me in Hollywood... Slausen 6-4304.
We pull back to frame in Barton as we hear his call ring through. Barton sweats.
Pick it up... Pick it up. Pick it-
AUDREY

Hello.
BARTON

Audrey, listen, I need help. I know it's late and I shouldn't be calling you like this – believe me I wouldn't have if I could see any other alternative, but I – I'm sorry - listen, how are you – I'm sorry. You doing okay?
AUDREY

... Who is this?
BARTON

Barton. I'm sorry, it's Barton Fink.
Through the phone, in the background, we hear Mayhew's drunken bellowing.
MAYHEW

Sons of bitches! Drown 'em all!
We hear various objects dropping or being thrown to the floor.
AUDREY

Barton, I'm afraid it's not a good time-
MAYHEW

Drown all those rascals...
BARTON

I'm sorry, I just feel like –I know I shouldn't ask, I just need some kind of help, I just, I have a deadline tomorrow-
MAYHEW

I said drown 'em all! Who is that?
There is more clatter.
Audrey's voice is hushed, close to the phone:
AUDREY

All right Barton, I'll see if I can slip away-
MAYHEW

Who is that?! Gaddamn voices come into the house... sons of bitches...
BARTON

If you could, I'd –
AUDREY

If I can. He gets jealous; he-
MAYHEW

Goddamn voices... DROWN 'EM!
BARTON

I need help, Audrey.
AUDREY

I'll try to slip out. If he quiets down, passes out... I'm afraid he thinks – well, he said you were a buffoon, Barton. He becomes irrational –
MAYHEW

Hesh up! Be still now! DROWN 'EM! DROWN 'EM! DROWN –

WIDE ON THE ROOM
Later. It is quiet. We are craning down toward the bed, where Barton lies stretched out, his head buried beneath a pillow as if to blot out the world.
The track reveals the wristwatch on Barton's dangled arm: 1:30.

THE HALLWAY
At the end of the dimly lit corridor a red light blinks on over the elevator, with a faint bell.

BACK TO BARTON
With two violent and simultaneous motions he whips the pillow off his head and throws out his other wrist to look at his watch.
There is a knock at the door.
Barton swings his feet off the bed.

THE DOORWAY
Barton opens the door to Audrey.
AUDREY

Hello, Barton.
BARTON

Audrey, thank you for coming. Thank you. I'm sorry to be such a... such a... Thank you.
They enter the main room, where Audrey perches on the edge of the bed.
AUDREY

Now that's all right, Barton. Everything'll be all right.
BARTON

Yes. Thank you. How's Bill?
AUDREY

Oh, he's... he drifted off. He'll sleep for a while now. What is it you have to do, exactly?
Barton paces.
BARTON

Well I have to come up with – an outline, I'd guess you call it. The story. The whole goddamn story. Soup to nuts. Three acts. The whole goddamn-
AUDREY

It's alright, Barton. You don't have to write actual scenes?
BARTON

No, but the whole goddamn – Audrey? Have you ever had to read any of Bill's wrestling scenarios?
Audrey laughs.
AUDREY

Yes, I'm afraid I have.
BARTON

What are they like? What are they about?
AUDREY

Well, usually, they're... simply morality tales. There's a good wrestler, and a bad wrestler whom he confronts at the end. In between, the good wrestler has a love interest or a child he has to protect. Bill would usually make the good wrestler a backwwods type, or a convict. And sometimes, instead of a waif, he'd have the wrestler protecting an idiot manchild. The studio always hated that. Oh, some of the scripts were so... spirited!
She laughs – then stops, realizing that she has laughed. She looks at Barton.
AUDREY

... Barton.
She shakes her head.
AUDREY

... Look, it's really just a formula. You don't have to type your soul into it. We'll invent some names and a new setting. I'll help you and it won't take any time at all. I did it for Bill so many times –
Barton's pacing comes up short.
BARTON

Did what for Bill?
Guardedly:
AUDREY

Well... THIS.
BARTON

You wrote his scripts for him?
AUDREY

Well, the basic ideas were frequently his-
BARTON

You wrote Bill's scripts! Jesus Christ, you wrote his – what about before that?
AUDREY

Before what?
BARTON

Before Bill came to Hollywood.
Audrey is clearly reluctant to travel this path.
AUDREY

Well, Bill was ALWAYS the author, so to speak-
BARTON

What do you mean so to speak?! Audrey, how long have you been his... secretary?
AUDREY

Barton, I think we should concentrate on OUR little project-
BARTON

I want to know how many of Bill's books you wrote!
AUDREY

Barton!
BARTON

I want to know!
AUDREY

Barton, honestly, only the last couple-
BARTON

Hah!
AUDREY

And my input was mostly... EDITORIAL, really, when he'd been drinking-
BARTON

I'll bet. Jesus – "The grand productive days." What a goddamn phony.
He resumes pacing.
BARTON

... W.P. Mayhew. Willam Goddamn Phony Mayhew. All his guff about escape. Hah! I'LL say he escaped!
Barton sighs and looks at his watch.
BARTON

... Well, we don't have much time.
He sits down next to Audrey. Audrey's tone is gentle.
AUDREY

It'll be fine... Don't judge him, Barton. Don't condescend to him...
She strokes Barton's hair.
AUDREY

... It's not as simple as you think. I helped Bill most by appreciating him, by understanding him. We all need understanding, Barton. Even you, tonight, it's all you really need...
She kisses him.
As Barton tentatively responds, we are panning away.
We frame up on the door to the bathroom and track in toward the sink. We can hear the creak of bedsprings and Audrey and Barton's breath, becoming labored.
The continuing track brings us up to and over the lid of the sink to frame up its drain, a perfect black circle in the porcelain white.
We track up to the drain and are enveloped by it as the sound of lovemaking mixes into the groaning of pipes.
BLACK
FADE IN:

BARTON
The hum of a mosquito brings us out of the black and we are looking down at Barton, in bed, asleep. It is dawn.
Barton's eyes snap open.

HIS POV
The white ceiling. A humming black speck flits across the white.

BARTON
Slowly, cautiously, he props himself up, his look following the sound of the mosquito.
His gaze travels down and to one side and is arrested as the hum stops.

HIS POV
Audrey lies facing away on her side of the bed, half covered by a blanket.

BARTON
Gingerly, he reaches over and draws the blanket down Audrey's back.

HIS POV
The alabaster white of Audrey's back.
The mosquito is feeding on it.

EXTREME CLOSE ON BARTON'S EYES
Looking.

EXTREME CLOSE ON THE MOSQUITO
Swelling with blood.

WIDER
As Barton's hand comes through frame and slaps Audrey's back.
She doesn't react.
Barton draws his hand away. Audrey's back is smeared with blood.

ON BARTON
He looks at his hand.

HIS POV
His hand is dripping with blood. Too much blood.

BACK TO BARTON
Eyes wide, he looks down at the bed.

HIS POV
Blood seeps up into the sheet beneath the curve of Audrey's back.

BARTON
He pulls Audrey's shoulder.

AUDREY
She rolls onto her back. Her eyes are wide and lifeless.
Her stomach is nothing but blood. The top sheet, drawn to her waist is drenched red and clings to her body.

BARTON
He screams.
He screams again.
We hear rapid and heavy footfalls next door, a door opening and closing, and then a loud banging on Barton's door.
Barton's head spins towards the door. He is momentarily frozen.
Another knock.
Barton leaps to his feet and hurries to the door.

THE DOORWAY
Over Barton's shoulder as he cracks the door.
Charlie stands in the hall in his boxer shorts and a sleeveless tee.
CHARLIE

Are you all right?
Barton stares dumbly for a moment.
CHARLIE

... Can I come in?
BARTON

No!... I'm fine. Thank you.
CHARLIE

Are you sure –
BARTON

No... no...
Barton is nodding as he shuts the door in Charlie's face.
He walks back into the room.

HIS POV
Audrey's corpse, in long shot, face up on the bed.

BARTON
He walks toward the bed, wheels before he reaches it, and starts back toward the door.
He stops short and turns back again to the room. He averts his eyes – as it happens, toward the secretary.
He walks stiffly over and sits, his back to Audrey.

CLOSE ON BARTON
As he sits in. He stares emptily down at the desk, in shock, totally shut down. Behind him, we can see Audrey on the bed.
He stares for a long beat.
Strange, involuntary noises come from his throat. He is not in control.
Becoming aware of the noise he is making, he stops.
He lurches to his feet.

THE DOORWAY
As Barton enters, opens the door, and sticks his head out.

HALLWAY
Barton peers out the see if the coast is clear.

HIS POV
The long hallway.
In the deep background, Chet, the night clerk, is stooping in front of a door to pick up a pair of shoes. Next to him is a castored shoe caddy.

All of the doorways between us and Chet are empty of shoes.

CHET
Close on him as, mid-stoop, he looks up.

CHET'S POV
Up the long hall. In the deep background a door is closing.

CHET
He pauses, then straightens up and puts the shoes on the shoe caddy. It squeaks as he pushes it on down the hall.

BARTON'S ROOM
Barton stands at the door, listening to a very faint squeak. Eventually it becomes inaudible.
He cracks the door again, looks out, and exits.

HALLWAY
Barton goes to Charlie's room and knocks.
Footfalls end as the door is cracked open.
CHARLIE

Barton. Are you all right?
BARTON

No... Can I come in?
CHARLIE

Why don't we go to your room-
BARTON

Charlie, I'm in trouble. You've gotta help me.
Once again he is breathing hard.
Charlie steps out into the hall and shuts the door behind him.
CHARLIE

Get a grip on yourself, brother. Whatever the problem is, we'll sort it out.
BARTON

Charlie, I'm in trouble – something horrible's happened – I've gotta call the police...
Charlie leads him towards his room.
BARTON

... Will you stay with me till they get here?
CHARLIE

Don't worry about it, Barton. We can sort it-
He is pushing Barton's door open, but Barton grabs an elbow to stop him.
BARTON

Before you go in – I didn't do this. I don't know how it happened, but I didn't... I want you to know that...
Charlie looks into his eyes. For a moment the two men stare at each other – Charlie's look inquisitive, Barton's supplicating.
Finally, Charlie nods.
CHARLIE

Okay.
He turns and pushes open the door.

BARTON'S ROOM
The two men enter.
Barton lingers by the door. Charlie walks into the foreground to look off toward the bed.
His eyes widen and he screams.
He turns and disappears into the bathroom. We hear vomiting, then the flush of a toilet.
CHARLIE

Jesus... Jesus... Jesus have mercy...
His reaction has not encouraged Barton, who is more and more agitated.
Charlie emerges from the bathroom, sweating.
CHARLIE

... Jesus, Barton, what the hell is this? What're we gonna do?
BARTON

I've gotta call the police – or you could call for me –
CHARLIE

Hold on –
BARTON

You gotta believe me –
CHARLIE

Hold on –
BARTON

I didn't do this, I did NOT do this –
CHARLIE

Hold on. Stop. Take a deep breath. Tell me what happened.
BARTON

I don't know! I woke up, she was... God, you gotta believe me!
Charlie, in spite of himself, is sneaking horrified glances back into the room.
CHARLIE

I believe you, brother, but this don't look good.
BARTON

We gotta call the police –
CHARLIE

Hold on. I said hold on, so hold on.
BARTON

Yeah.
CHARLIE

What do you think happened?
BARTON

I don't know! Maybe it was her... boyfriend. I passed out. I don't know. Won't the police be able to –
CHARLIE

Stop with the police! Wake up, friend! This does not look good! They hang people for this!
BARTON

But I didn't do it – don't you believe me?
CHARLIE

I believe you – I KNOW you. But why should the police?
Barton gives him a dumb stare.
CHARLIE

... Did you... Barton, between you and me, dis you have sexual intercourse?
Barton stares at Charlie. He swallows.
Charlie shakes his head.
CHARLIE

Jesus... They can tell that...
BARTON

They GOTTA believe me, Charlie! They gotta have mercy!
CHARLIE

You're in pictures, Barton. Even if you got cleared eventually, this would ruin you.
He turns and starts toward the bed.
CHARLIE

... Wait in the bathroom.

BATHROOM
Later. Barton, still in his underwear, sits leaning against the wall, staring glassily at his feet.
From the other room we hear the creak of bedsprings and the sounds of bed clothes being torn off.
Finally there is a last creak of bedsprings and the sound of Charlie grunting under great weight.
We hear heavy footsteps approaching.
Barton looks up through the open bathroom door.

HIS POV
Charlie is groping for the front doorknob, cradling the sheet-swaddled body in his arms.

BACK TO BARTON
His neck goes rubbery. His eyes roll up. His head lolls back to hit the wall.

BLACK
Slap! Slap!
We are low on Charlie, who is following through on a slap and backing away, having aroused Barton. Charlie is now wearing pants but is still in his sleeveless tee, which has blood flecks across the belly.

CHARLIE

You passed out.
Barton looks groggily up.
BARTON

... Uh-huh... Where's Audrey?
CHARLIE

She's dead, Barton! If that was her name.

TRACKING IN ON BARTON
He stares at Charlie.
CHARLIE

(off)

Barton, listen to me. You gotta act like nothing's happened. Put this totally out of your head. I know that's hard, but your play from here on out is just to go about business as usual. Give us some time to sort this out...
Barton looks at his watch.

THE WATCH
7:45.