ON BARTON FINK
He is a bespectacled man in his thirties, hale but somewhat
bookish. He stands, tuxedoed, in the wings of a theater,
looking out at the stage, listening intently to end of a
In the shadows behind him an old stagehand leans against a
flat, expressionlessly smoking a cigarette, one hand on a
thick rope that hangs from the ceiling.
The voices of the performing actors echo in from the offscreen
I’m blowin’ out of here, blowin’ for
good. I’m kissin’ it all goodbye,
these four stinkin’ walls, the six
flights up, the el that roars by at
three A.M. like a castiron wind.
Kiss ‘em goodbye for me, Maury!
I’ll miss ‘em – like hell I will!
Not this time, Lil! I’m awake now,
awake for the first time in years.
Uncle Dave said it: Daylight is a
dream if you’ve lived with your eyes
closed. Well my eyes are open now! I
see that choir, and I know they’re
dressed in rags! But we’re part of
that choir, both of us – yeah, and
you, Maury, and Uncle Dave too!
The sun’s coming up, kid. They’ll be
hawking the fish down on Fulton
Let ‘em hawk. Let ‘em sing their
That’s it, kid. Take that ruined
choir. Make it sing!
So long, Maury.
We hear a door open and close, then approaching footsteps. A
tall, dark actor in a used tweed suit and carrying a beat-up
valise passes in front of Barton: From offscreen stage:
We’ll hear from that kid. And I don’t
mean a postcard.
The actor sets the valise down and then stands waiting int
he shadows behind Barton.
An older man in work clothes – not wardrobe – passes in front
of Barton from the other direction, pauses at the edge of
the stage and cups his hands to his mouth.
FISH! FRESH FISH!
As the man walks back off the screen:
Let’s spit on our hands and get to
work. It’s late, Maury.
Not any more Lil…
Barton mouths the last line in sync with the offscreen actor:
With this the stagehand behind Barton furiously pulls the
rope hand-over-hand and we hear thunderous applause and shouts
As the stagehand finishes bringing the curtain down, somewhat
muting the applause, the backstage actor trots out of frame
toward the stage.
The stagehand pulls on an adjacent rope, bringing the curtain
back up and unmuting the applause.
Barton Fink seems dazed. He has been joined by two other
men, both dressed in tuxedos, both beaming toward the stage.
Looking across a tenement set at the backs of the cast as
the curtain rises on the enthusiastic house. The actors take
their bows and the cry of “Author, Author” goes up from the
The actors turn to smile at Barton in the wings.
He hesitates, unable to take it all in.
He is gently nudged toward the stage by the two tuxedoed
As he exits toward the stage the applause is deafening.
Pushing a maitre ‘d who looks back over his shoulder as he
leads the way through the restaurant.
Your table is ready, Monsieur Fink…
several members of your party have
Is Garland Stanford here?
He called to say he’d be a few minutes
late… Ah, here we are…
Toward a large semi-circular booth. Three guests, two me and
a woman in evening wear, are rising and beaming at Barton. A
fat middle-aged man, one of the tuxedoed gentlemen we saw
backstage, is moving out to let Barton slide in.
Barton, Barton, so glad you could
make it. You know Richard St.
Barton nods and looks at the woman.
…and Poppy Carnahan. We’re drinking
champagne, dear boy, in honor of the
occasion. Have you seen the Herald?
Barton looks sullenly at his champagne glass as the fat man
Well, I don’t want to embarrass you
but Caven could hardly contain
himself. But more important, Richard
and Poppy here loved the play.
Loved it! What power!
Yeah, it was a corker.
Thanks, Richard, but I know for a
fact the only fish you’ve ever seen
were tacked to a the wall of the
Bravo! Nevertheless, we were all
Weeping! Copius tears! What did the
I happen to have it with me.
Please Derek –
Do read it, do!
“Bare Ruined Choirs: Triumph of the
Common Man. The star of the Bare
Ruined Choirs was not seen on the
stage of the Belasco last night –
though the thespians involved all
acquitted themselves admirably. The
find of the evening was the author
of this drama about simple folk –
fish mongers, in fact – whose brute
struggle for existence cannot quite
quell their longing for something
higher. The playwright finds nobility
in the most squalid corners and poetry
in the most callused speech. A tough
new voice in the American theater
has arrived, and the owner of that
voice is named… Barton Fink.”
They’ll be wrapping fish in it in
the morning so I guess it’s not a
Well we can enjoy your success,
Barton, even if you can’t.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m glad it’ll
do well for you, Derek.
Don’t worry about me, dear boy – I
want you to celebrate.
All right, but I can’t start listening
to the critics, and I can’t kid myself
about my own work. A writer writes
from his gut, and his gut tells him
what’s good and what’s… merely
Well I don’t pretend to be a critic,
but Lord, I have a gut, and it tells
me it was simply marvelous.
And a charming gut it is.
Barton turns to look for the source of an insistent jingling.
We swish pan off him to find a busboy marching through the
restaurant displaying a page sign, bell attached, with
Barton’s name on it.
TRACKING IN TOWARD A BAR
A distinguished fifty-year-old gentleman in evening clothes
is nursing a martini, watching Barton approach.
As he draws near.
I thought you were going to join us.
Jesus, Garland, you left me alone
with those people.
Don’t panic, I’ll join you in a
minute. What’s you think of Richard
The play was marvelous. She wept,
copiously. Millions of dollars and
Garland smiles, then draws Barton close.
We have to talk a little business.
I’ve just been on the phone to Los
Angeles. Barton, Capitol Pictures
wants to put you under contract.
They’ve offered you a thousand dollars
a week. I think I can get them to go
as high as two.
To do what?
What do you do far a living?
I’m not sure anymore. I guess I try
to make a difference.
Fair enough. No pressure here, Barton,
because I respect you, but let me
point out a couple of things. One,
here you make a difference to five
hundred fifty people a night – if
the show sells out. Eighty five
million people go to the pictures
To see pap.
Yes, generally, to see pap. However,
point number two: A brief tenure in
Hollywood could support you through
the writing of any number of plays.
I don’t know, Garland; my place is
here right now. I feel I’m on the
brink of success-
I’d say you’re already enjoying some.
Barton leans earnestly forward.
No, Garland, don’t you see? Not the
kind of success where the critics
fawn over you or the producers like
Derek make a lot of money. No, a
real success – the success we’ve
been dreaming about – the creation
of a new, living theater of, about,
and for the common man! If I ran off
to Hollywood now I’d be making money,
going to parties, meeting the big
shots, sure, but I’d be cutting myself
off from the wellspring of that
success, from the common man.
He leans back and chuckles ruefully.
…I guess I’m sprouting off again.
But I am certain of this, Garland:
I’m capable of more good work. Maybe
better work than I did in Choirs. It
just doesn’t seem to me that Los
Angeles is the place to lead the
life of mind.
Okay Barton, you’re the artist, I’m
just the ten percenter. You decide
what you want and I’ll make it happen.
I’m only asking that your decision
be informed by a little realism – if
I can use that word and Hollywood in
the same breath.
Barton glumly lights a cigarette and gazes out across the
Garland studies him.
…Look, they love you, kid –
everybody does. You see Caven’s review
in the Herald?
No, what did it say?
Take my copy. You’re the toast of
Broadway and you have the opportunity
to redeem that for a little cash –
strike that, a lot of cash.
Garland looks at Barton for a reaction, but gets none.
…The common man’ll still be here
when you get back. What the hell,
they might even have one or two of
‘em out in Hollywood.
…That’s a rationalization, Garland.
Garland smiles gently.
Barton, it was a joke.
We hear a distant rumble. It builds slowly and we cut to:
A GREAT WAVE
Crushing against the Pacific shore.
The roar of the surf slips away as we dissolve to:
A high wide shot from the front door, looking down across
wilting potted palms, brass cuspidors turning green, ratty
wing chairs; the fading decor is deco-gone-to-seed.
Amber light, afternoon turning to evening, slopes in from
behind us, washing the derelict lobby with golden highlights.
Barton Fink enters frame from beneath the camera and stops
in the middle foreground to look across the lobby.
We are framed on his back, his coat and hat. The lobby is
empty. There is a suspended beat as Barton takes it in.
Barton moves toward the front desk.
As Barton stops at the empty desk. He hits a small silver
bell next to the register. Its ring-out goes on and on without
After a long beat there is a dull scuffle of shoes on stairs.
Barton, puzzled, looks around the empty lobby, then down at
the floor behind the front desk.
A TRAP DOOR
It swings open and a young man in a faded maroon uniform,
holding a shoebrush and a shoe – not one of his own – climbs
up from the basement.
He closes the trap door, steps up to the desk and sticks his
finger out to touch the small silver bell, finally muting
The lobby is now silent again.
Welcome to the Hotel Earle. May I
help you, sir?
I’m checking in. Barton Fink.
The clerk flips through cards on the desk.
F-I-N-K. Fink, Barton. That must be
Okay then, everything seems to be in
order. Everything seems to be in
He is turning to a register around for Barton to sign.
…Are you a tranz or a rez?
Transient or resident?
I don’t know… I mean, I’ll be here,
Rez. That’ll be twenty-five fifty a
week payable in advance. Checkout
time is twelve sharp, only you can
forget that on account you’re a rez.
If you need anything, anything at
all, you dial zero on your personal
in-room telephone and talk to me. My
name is Chet.
Well, I’m going to be working here,
mostly at night; I’m a writer. Do
you have room service?
Kitchen closes at eight but I’m the
night clerk. I can always ring out
The clerk is scribbling something on the back of an index
…Though we provide privacy for the
residential guest, we are also a
full service hotel including
complimentary shoe shine. My name is
He pushes a room key across the counter on top of the index
Barton looks at the card.
On it: “CHET!” Barton looks back up at the clerk. They regard
each other for a beat.
Okey-dokey, go ahead.
Don’t you wanna go to your room?!
Barton stares at him.
…What number is it?
The clerk stares back.
…Six-oh-five. I forgot to tell
As Barton stoops to pick up his two small bags:
…Those your only bags?
The others are being sent.
The clerk leans over the desk to call after him:
I’ll keep an eye out for them. I’ll
keep my eyes peeled, Mr. Fink.
Barton is walking to the elevator.
Barton enters and sets down his bags.
An aged man with white stubble, wearing a greasy maroon
uniform, sits on a stool facing the call panel. He does not
acknowledge Barton’s presence.
After a beat:
The elevator man gets slowly to his feet. As he pushes the
Next stop: Six.
Barton walks slowly toward us, examining the numbers on the
The long, straight hallway is carpeted with an old stained
forest green carpet. The wallpaper shows faded yellowing
palm trees. Barton sticks his key in the lock of a door
midway down the hall.
As Barton enters.
The room is small and cheaply furnished. There is a lumpy
bed with a worn yellow coverlet, an old secretary table, and
a wooden luggage stand.
As Barton crosses the room we follow to reveal a sink and
wash basin, a house telephone on a rickety night stand, and
a window with yellowing sheers looking on an air shaft.
Barton throws his valise onto the bed where it sinks,
jittering. He shrugs off his jacket.
Pips of sweat stand out on Barton’s brow. The room is hot.
He walks across the room, switches on an oscillating fan and
struggles to throw open the window. After he strains at it
for a moment, it slides open with a great wrenching sound.
Barton picks up his Underwood and places it on the secretary
table. He gives the machine a casually affectionate pat.
Next to the typewriter are a few sheets of house stationary:
“THE HOTEL EARLE: A DAY OR A LIFETIME.”
We pan up to a picture in a cheap wooden frame on the wall
above the desk. A bathing beauty sits on the beach under a
cobalt blue sky. One hand shields her eyes from the sun as
she looks out at a crashing surf.
The sound of the surf mixes up.
Looking at the picture
TRACKING IN ON THE PICTURE
The surf mixes up louder. We hear a gull cry.
The sound snaps off with the ring of a telephone.
THE HOUSE PHONE
On the nightstand next to the bed. With a groan of bedsprings
Barton sits into frame and picks up the telephone.
How d’ya like your room!
…Who is this?
Chet! From downstairs!
Barton wearily rubs the bridge of his nose.
…How d’ya like your room!
As Barton’s head drops down into frame against it.
He reaches over and turns off the bedside light.
He lies back and closes his eyes.
A long beat.
We hear a faint hum, growing louder.
Barton opens his eyes.
A naked, peeling ceiling. The hum – a mosquito, perhaps –
His eyes move this way and that. After a silent beat, he
shuts them again.
After another silent beat, we hear – muffled, probably from
am adjacent room – a brief, dying laugh. It is sighing and
weary, like the end of a laughing fit, almost a sob.
We hear the rising mosquito hum.
Barton Fink is ushered into a large, light office by an
obsequious middle- aged man in a sagging suit.
There are mosquito bites on Barton’s face.
From behind a huge white desk, a burly man in an expensive
suit gets to his feet and strides across the room.
Is that him?! Barton Fink?! Lemme
put my arms around this guy!
He bear-hugs Barton.
…How the hell are ya? Good trip?
He separates without waiting for an answer.
My name is Jack Lipnik. I run this
dump. You know that – you read the
Lipnik is lumbering back to his desk.
Lou treating you all right? Got
everything you need? What the hell’s
the matter with your face? What the
hell’s the matter with his face,
It’s not as bad as it looks; just a
mosquito in my room –
…Where did we put him?
I’m at the Earle.
Never heard of it. Let’s move him to
the Grand, or the Wilshire, or hell,
he can stay at my place.
Thanks, but I wanted a place that
Less Hollywood? Sure, say it, it’s
not a dirty word. Sat whatever the
hell you want. The writer is king
here at Capitol Pictures. You don’t
believe me, take a look at your
paycheck at the end of every week –
that’s what we think of the writer.
…so what kind of pictures does he
Mr. Fink hasn’t given a preference,
How’s about it, Bart?
To be honest, I don’t go to the
pictures much, Mr. Lipnik –
That’s okay, that’s okay, that’s
okay – that’s just fine. You probably
just walked in here thinking that
was going to be a handicap, thinking
we wanted people who knew something
about the medium, maybe even thinking
there was all kind of technical mumbo-
jumbo to learn. You were dead wrong.
We’re only interested in one thing:
Can you tell a story, Bart? Can you
make us laugh, can you make us cry,
can you make us wanna break out in
joyous song? Is that more than one
thing? Okay. The point is, I run
this dump and I don’t know the
technical mumbo-jumbo. Why do I run
it? I’ve got horse-sense, goddamnit.
Showmanship. And also, and I hope
Lou told you this, I bigger and meaner
than any other kike in this town.
Did you tell him that, Lou? And I
don’t mean my dick’s bigger than
yours, it’s not a sexual thing –
although, you’re the writer, you
would know more about that. Coffee?
…Yes, thank you.
Lou immediately rises and leaves. Lipnik’s tone becomes
…He used to have shares in the
company. An ownership interest. Got
bought out in the twenties – muscled
out according to some. Hell, according
to me. So we keep him around, he’s
got a family. Poor schmuck. He’s
sensitive, don’t mention the old
days. Oh hell, say whatever you want.
Look, barring a preference, Bart,
we’re gonna put you to work on a
wrestling picture. Wallace Beery. I
say this because they tell me you
know the poetry of the street. That
would rule out westerns, pirate
pictures, screwball, Bible, Roman…
He rises and starts pacing.
But look, I’m not one of these guys
thinks poetic has gotta be fruity.
We’re together on that, aren’t we? I
mean I’m from New York myself – well,
Minsk if you wanna go way back, which
we won’t if you don’t mind and I
ain’t askin’. Now people’re gonna
tell you, wrestling. Wallace Beery,
it’s a B picture. You tell them,
bullshit. We don’t make B pictures
here at Capitol. Let’s put a stop
to that rumor right now.
Lou enters with coffee.
…Thanks Lou. Join us. Join us.
Talking about the Wallace Beery
We got a treatment on it yet?
No, not yet Jack. We just bought the
story. Saturday Evening Post.
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 writer in
the room and I’m askin’ Lou what the
goddamn story should be!
After a robust laugh, he beams at Barton.
…Well Bart, which is it? Orphan?
There is a disappointed silence. Lipnik looks at Lou. Lou
clears his throat.
…Maybe we should do a treatment.
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
…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.
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
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.
Elbows on his desk, he looks down at what he has just written.
He rolls the paper up a few lines, looks some more.
A TENEMENT BUILDING
On Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Early morning traffic is
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 –
– as he continues typing. He stops after several more
characters and looks.
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.
The picture of the girl on the beach.
Staring, as the end-of-the-tether laughing continues. Barton
looks back down at his typewriter as if to resume work, but
the sound is too insistent to ignore.
The room, Barton sitting at his desk, staring at the wall.
Barton pushes his chair back, goes to the door, opens it and
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
The laughter, though still faint, is more resonant in the
Perhaps its quality has changed, or perhaps simply because
it is so insistent, the laughter now might be taken for
Barton pauses, trying to interpret the sound. He slowly
withdraws into his room.
Barton looks down at his typewriter for a beat. The
He walks over to his bed, sits down and picks up the house
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:
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
Did you… Somebody just complained…
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 –
Yeah. I’m damn sorry, if I bothered
you. The damn walls here, well, I
just apologize like hell…
He sticks his hand out.
…My name’s Charlie Meadows. I guess
Without reaching for the hand.
Unfazed, Charlie Meadows unpockets a flask.
Neighbor, I’d feel better about the
damned inconvenience if you’d let me
buy you a drink.
That’s all right, really, thank you.
All right, hell, you trying to work
and me carrying on in there. Look,
the liquor’s good, wuddya say?
As he enters:
… You got a glass? It’s the least
I can do.
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.
Yeah, just a nip. I feel like hell,
all the carryings-on next door.
That’s okay, I assure you. It’s just
that I was trying to work –
What kind of work do you do, Barton,
if you don’t mind my asking?
Well, I’m a writer, actually.
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,
Can be. Not easy, but –
Damned difficult, I’d imagine.
As he hands Charlie a glass:
And what’s your line, Mr. Meadows?
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
He fills a glass with whiskey and swaps it for the empty
…In spite of what you might think
from tonight, I’m pretty good at it.
Doesn’t surprise me at all.
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
Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.
What kind of scribbler are you –
newspaperman did you say?
No, I’m actually writing for the
pictures now –
…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
He gestures toward his face:
…Is the egg showing or what?!
That’s okay; actually I am just
starting out in the movies – though
I was pretty well established in New
York, some renown there,
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.
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.
Hell, why not? Everyone wants quality.
What kind of venue, that is to say,
What do I write about?
Caught me trying to be fancy! Yeah,
that’s it, Bart.
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
Well ain’t that a kick in the head!
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.
…I don’t guess this means much to
Hell, I could tell you some stories–
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.
I can see you feel pretty strongly
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?
I can feel my butt getting sore
Exactly, Charlie! You understand
what I’m saying – a lot more than
some of these literary types. Because
you’re a real man!
And I could tell you some stories –
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.
Yeah, I guess that’s tragedy right
Frequently played, seldom remarked.
Whatever that means.
Barton smiles with him.
You’re all right, Charlie. I’m glad
you stopped by. I’m sorry if – well
I know I sometimes run on.
Hell no! Jesus, I’m the kind of guy,
I’ll let you know if I’m bored. I
find it all pretty damned interesting.
I’m the kind schmoe who’s generally
interested in the other guy’s point
Well, we’ve got something in common
Charlie is getting to his feet and walking to the door.
Well Christ, if there’s any way I
can contribute, or help, or whatever–
Barton chuckles and extends his hand.
Sure, sure Charlie, you can help by
just being yourself.
Well, I can tell you some stories –
He pumps Barton’s hand, then turns and pauses in the doorway.
…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.
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
Barton looks at the wall.
The bathing beauty.
From offscreen we hear a sticky, adhesive-giving-way sound.
He looks around to the opposite –
bed – wall.
The wallpaper is lightly sheened with moisture from the heat.
One swath of wallpaper is just finishing 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
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.
Sticky with tacky yellow wall sweat.
He wipes it onto his shirt.
We hear a faint mosquito hum.
Barton looks around.
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
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:
I’m eating on the lot today –
He notices Barton.
The secretary looks over from her typing to consult a slip
of paper on her desk.
Barton Fink, Mr. Geisler.
I’m a writer, Mr. Geisler. Ted Okum
said I should drop by morning to see
you about the –
…Huh? No, I’m –
We need Indians for a Norman Steele
I’m a writer. Ted O –
Think about it, Fink. Writers come
and go; we always need Indians.
I’m a writer. Ted Okum said you’re
producing this Wallace Beery picture
I’m working on.
What!? Ted Okum doesn’t know shit.
They’ve assigned me enough pictures
for a goddamn year. What Ted Okum
doesn’t know you could almost squeeze
into the Hollywood Bowl.
Then who should I talk to?
Geisler gives a hostile stare. Without looking at her, he
addresses the secretary:
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:
Is he in for Mr. Geisler?
She puts the phone in Geisler’s hand.
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.
…Okay kid, let’s chow.
Barton and Geisler sit eating in a semicircular booth. Geisler
speaks through a mouthful of food:
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.
But Lipnik said he wanted to look at
the script, see something by the end
of the week.
Sure he did. And he forgot about it
before your ass left his sofa.
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 –
Wallace Beery. Wrestling picture.
What do you need, a road map?
Geisler chews on his cottage cheese and stares at Barton.
…Look, you’re confused? You need
guidance? Talk to another writer.
Geisler rises and throws his napkin onto his plate.
Jesus, throw a rock in here, you’ll
hit one. And do me a favor, Fink:
Throw it hard.
COMMISSARY 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
Barton buttons his pants and turns to face the stalls.
There is more businesslike throat clearing.
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.
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.
The stall door opening.
Quickly, self-consciously, he looks back down at his hands.
His hands writhing under the running water. We hear footsteps
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.
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.
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.
Reacting to barton’s look as he washes his hands. This time,
a curt nod accompanies his pleasant smile.
Looks back down, then up again.
Extends a dripping hand.
Bill Mayhew. Sorry about the odor.
His speech is softly accented, from the South.
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.
The dapper little man stops and turns.
I beg your pardon?
W.P. Mayhew? The writer?
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
Mayhew cocks his head with a politely patient smile. Finally
Barton brings out:
…You’re the finest novelist of our
Mayhew leans against a stall.
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.
…Yes, Mistuh Fink, some of the
news reaches us in Hollywood.
He is taking out a flask and unscrewing its lid.
Sir, I’m flattered that you even
recognize my name. My God, I had no
idea you were in Hollywood.
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
He clears his throat, takes a swig from the flask, and waves
it at Barton.
…A little social lubricant, Mistuh
It’s still a little early for me.
So be it.
He knocks back some more.
…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
Mayhew eyes him appraisingly, and at length clears his throat.
…You are drippin’, suh.
Barton looks down at his hands, then pulls a rough brown
paper towel from a dispenser.
…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.
…I have drinkin’ to do. Why don’t
you stop at my bungalow, which is
numbah fifteen, later on this
He turns to leave.
…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
Barton hesitates, listening; he thinks, decides, knocks.
With this the woman’s voice stops, and Mayhew starts wailing
The door cracks open.
The woman looks as if she has been crying.
…Can I help you?
I’m sorry, I… My name is Fink…
Uh, Bill asked me to drop by this
afternoon. Is he in?
Mr. Mayhew is indisposed at the
From inside, we hear Mayhew’s wail.
HONEY!! WHERE’S M’HONEY!!
The woman glances uncomfortably over her shoulder and steps
outside, closing the door behind her.
Mr. Fink, I’m Audrey Taylor, Mr.
Mayhew’s personal secretary. I know
this all must sound horrid. I really
Through the door Mayhew is still wailing piteously.
Is, uh… Is he okay?
He will be… When he can’t write,
WHERE ARE YOU, DAMMIT! WHERE’S
She brushes a wisp of hair out of her eyes.
I am sorry, it’s so embarassing.
How about you? Will you be alright?
I’ll be fine… Are you a writer, Mr
Yes I am. I’m working on a wres –
please call me Barton.
Audrey reaches out and touches Barton’s hand.
I’ll tell Bill you dropped by. I’m
sure he’ll want to reschedule your
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 smiles at him.
Perhaps the three of us, Mr. Fink.
Barton. You see, Barton, I’m not
just Bill’s secretary – Bill and I
are… I love. We-
M’HONEY!! WHERE’S M’HONEY!!
Audrey glances back as we hear the sound of shattering dishes
and heavy footsteps.
…I know this must look… funny.
No, no –
We need each other. We give each
other… the things we need –
M’HONEY!!… bastard-ass sons of
bitches… the water’s lappin’ up…
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
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
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
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
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.
Tracking in on the paper, losing the prongs from frame so
that we are looking at the pure unblemished white of the
The moaning is cut short by two sharp knocks.
As it swings open. Charlie Meadows leans in, smiling.
Charlie. How are you.
Jesus, I hope I’m not interrupting
you again. I heard you walking around
in here. Figured I’d drop by.
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
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.
Seen a doctor?
Charlie gives a dismissive wave.
Ah, doctors. What’s he gonna tell
me? Can’t trade my head in for a
No, I guess you’re stuck with the
one you’ve got. Have a seat.
Charlie perches on the corner of the bed.
Thanks, I’d invite you over to my
place, but it’s a goddamn mess. You
I myself have yet to be lassoed.
He takes his flask out.
…Got a sweetheart?
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…
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?
My folks live in Brooklyn, with my
Mine have passed on. It’s just the
three of us now…
He taps himself on the head, chuckling.
…What’s the expression – me myself
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…
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
He laughs at his reference to Barton’s curly hair, and pulls
a dog-eared photograph from his wallet. As he hands it to
…That’s me in Kansas City, plying
Charlie smiles and waves with one foot up on the running
board of a 1939 roadster. A battered leather briefcase dangles
from one hand.
…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 –
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.
…and exploring it can be painful.
The kind of pain most people don’t
know anything about.
He looks back at Charlie.
…This must be boring you.
Not at all. It’s damned interesting.
He gives a sad chuckle.
…Probably sounds a little grand
coming from someone who’s writing a
wrestling picture for Wallace Beery.
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
Nope, never watched any. I’m not
that interested in the act itself –
Okay, but hell, you should know what
it is. I can show you in about thirty
He is getting down on his hands and knees.
…You’re a little out of your weight
class, but just for purposes of
That’s all right, really –
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.
…and your left hand here.
He indicated his left bicep.
…You can do it, champ!
…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?
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.
It’s okay, it’s okay.
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.
…Jesus, I did hurt you!
He clomps hurriedly away.
…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.
…You sure you’re okay?
Barton gets to his feet.
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.
Well, it wasn’t fair of me to do
that. I’m pretty well endowed
He opens the door.
…Don’t feel bad, though. I wouldn’t
be much of a match for you at mental
gymnastics. Gimme a holler if you
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.
A TENEMENT BUILDING
On Manhattan’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
His gaze drifts up.
The bathing beauty.
Looking at the picture. He presses the heels of his hands
against his ears.
The bathing beauty. Faint, but building, is the sound of the
Head cocked. The surf is mixing into another liquid sound.
Barton looks sharply around.
The sink, which Charlie apparently left running when he wet
Barton’s towel, is overflowing. Water spills onto the tile
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.
Holding a dripping wad of cotton.
After a brief, puzzled look he realizes where the cotton
came from – and convulsively flips it away.
ON THE TITLE PAGE OF A BOOK:
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.
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.
If I close m’eyes I can almost smell
the live oak.
That’s hamburger grease, Bill.
Well, m’olfactory’s turnin’ womanish
on me – lyin’ and deceitful…
His eyes still closed, he waves a limp hand gently in the
…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?
Well… actually, no Bill…
Barton looks nervously at Audrey before continuing.
…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
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.
He sighs and reaches for a bottle of Wild Turkey.
…This’ll sometimes help.
That doesn’t help anything, Bill.
That’s true, Bill. I’ve never found
it to help my writing.
Mayhew is becoming testy:
Your writing? Son, have you ever
heard the story of Soloman’s mammy-
Audrey, anticipating, jumps hastily in. She taps the book on
You should read this, Barton. I think
it’s Bill’s finest, or among his
Mayhew looks at her narrowly.
So now I’m s’posed to roll over like
an ol’ bitch dog gettin’ ger belly
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
And what would that be, son?
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.
No son, thisahere moonshine’s got
nothin’ to do with shuttin’ folks
out. No, I’m usin’ it to build
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.
Maybe you better too, Barton. Before
you get buried under his manure.
M’honey pretends to be impatient
with me, Barton, but she’ll put up
Not anything, Bill. Don’t test me.
You’re lucky she puts up with as
much as she does.
Mayhew is getting to his feet.
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.
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.
Watching her go.
Audrey touches Mayhew’s elbow. He looks at her, stops singing,
she murmurs something, and he bellows:
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!
Coming back to Barton.
Stumbling off down the dusty road, muttering to himself and
waving his bottle of Wild Turkey.
Let him go.
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.
I’ll jus’ walk on down to the Pacific,
and from there I’ll… improvise.
Are you all right?
We hear distant bellowing:
Silent upon a hill in Darien!
Audrey bursts into tears. Barton puts his arms around her
and she leans into him.
Audrey, you can’t put up with this.
Gradually, she collects herself, wiping her tears.
…Oh Barton, I feel so… sorry for
What?! He’s a son of a bitch!
No, sometimes he just… well, he
thinks about Estelle. His wife still
lives in Fayettesville. She’s…
He considers this for a moment, but his anger returns.
…Well that doesn’t excuse his
He’ll wander back when he’s sober
and apologize. He always does.
Okay, but that doesn’t excuse his –
Barton. Empathy requires…
What. What don’t I understand?
Audrey gazes at him.
He is very distant now, weaving but somehow dignified in his
light summer suit. “Old Black Joe” floats back to us in the
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
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
The hum fades down to silence.
Barton’s eyes shift.
The typewriter sits on the secretary, a piece of paper rolled
halfway through the carriage.
Barton enters frame and sits down in front of the typewriter.
Next to the typewriter are several crumpled pieces of paper.
The page in the carriage reads:
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
We hear typing start.
A new paragraph being started: “A large man…”
As he slides them into the shoes.
“A large man in tights…”
The typing stops.
Looking quizzically at the page. What’s wrong?
Sliding back and forth – swimming – in his shoes, which are
several sizes too large.
We hear a knock at the door.
He rises and answers the door.
Charlie stands smiling in the doorway, holding a pair of
nicely shined shoes.
I hope these are your shoes.
Because that would mean they gave
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.
Jesus, what a day I’ve had. Ever had
one of those days?
Seems like nothing but, lately.
Chalrie perches on the edge of the bed.
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
Well, my pleasure. I could use a
little lift myself.
A little lift, yeah…
Smiling, he takes out his flask.
…Good thing they bottle it, huh
He takes a glass from the bedstand and, as he pours Barton a
…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…
Well it’s… it’s a defense mechanism.
Defense against what? Insurance?
Something they need? Something they
should be thanking me for offering?
A little peace of mind?…
He shakes his head.
…Finally decided to knock off early,
take your advice. Went to see a doctor
He indicates his ear, still stuffed with cotton.
…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.
…Listen to me belly-achin’. As if
my problems amounted to a hill of
beans. How goes the life of the mind?
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.
Those two love-birds next door drivin’
Barton looks at him curiously.
How did you know about that?
Know about it? I can practically see
how they’re doin’ it. Brother, I
wish I had a piece of that.
Yeah, but –
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
…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?
Where there’s life there’s hope.
That proves you really are a writer!
And there’s hope for you too, Charlie.
Tomorrow I bet you sell a half-dozen
Thanks, brother. But the fact is, I
gotta pull up stakes temporarily.
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.
I’m truly sorry to hear that, Charlie.
I’ll miss you.
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
Barton rises and walks over to his writing table.
…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.
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
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
A swath of wallpaper in the entryway has pulled away from
the wall. It sags and nods.
THE TWO MEN
…Your room does that too?
I guess the heat’s sweating off the
What a dump…
He heads for the door and Barton follows.
…I guess it seems pathetic to a
guy like you.
Well it’s pathetic, isn’t it? I mean
to a guy from New York.
What do you mean?
This kind of heat. It’s pathetic.
Well, I guess you pick your poison.
So they say.
Don’t pick up and leave without saying
Course not, compadre. You’ll see me
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
We hear a loud thump.
The ceiling – a white, seamless space.
As we track in the thumping continues – slowly, rhythmically,
progressively louder – the effect, it seems, of odd doings
LOOKING DOWN ON BARTON
From a high angle, tipped back in his chair, staring at the
We track slowly down toward him. The thumping continues,
growing louder, sharper.
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
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.
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:
Yeah. Fink. Come in.
The clack of the typewriter resumes as Barton rises.
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.
Wuddya got for me – what the hell
happened to your face?
Nothing. It’s just a mosquito bite.
Like hell it is; there are no
mosquitos in Los Angeles. Mosquitos
breed in swamps – this is a desert
town. Wuddya got for me?
On the Beery picture! Where are we?
Well, to tell you the truth, I’m
having some trouble getting started–
Getting STARTED! Christ Jesus!
Started?! You mean you don’t have
Well not much.
Geisler leaps to his feet and paces.
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!
I’m afraid I don’t really understand
that genre. maybe that’s the prob-
Understand shit! I though you were
gonna consult another writer on this!
Well, I’ve talked to Bill Mayhew-
Bill Mayhew! Some help! The guy’s a
He’s a great writer –
You don’t understand. He’s in pain,
because he can’t write-
Souse! Souse! He manages to write
his name on the back of his paycheck
But… I thought no one cared about
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.
I don’t understand-
Are you deaf, he LIKES you! He’s
taken an interest! What the hell did
you say to him?
I didn’t say anything-
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.
I can’t write anything by tomorrow.
Who said write? Jesus, Jack can’t
read. You gotta TELL it to him-tell
him SOMEthing for Chrissake.
Well what do I tell him?
Geisler rubs a temple, studies Barton for a beat, then picks
up a telephone.
As he waits, Geisler gives Barton a withering stare. It
continues throughout the phone conversation.
… 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.
…This ought to give you some ideas.
He jots an address on a piece of paper and hands it to Barton.
…Eight-fifteen tomorrow morning at
Lipnik’s house. Ideas. Broad strokes.
Don’t cross me, Fink.
Black-and-white footage. A middle-aged man with a clapstick
enters and shouts:
DEVIL ON THE CANVAS, twelve baker
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.
The wrestler rises from his stool and heads toward center
ring and the camera. He affects a German accent:
I will destroy him!
He passes the camera.
The clapper enters again.
Twelve baker take two.
Clap! He exits.
The wrestler moves toward the camera.
I will destroy him!
The clapper enters
Twelve baker take three.
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:
I will destroy him!… I will destroy
him!… I will destroy him!… I
will destroy him!…
Another off-microphone, distant voice from the screen:
Okay, take five…
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.
Twelve charlie take one-
ON THE CLAP:
BACK TO BARTON
Staring at the screen, dull, wan, and forlorn.
The angle is low – canvas level. We hold for a brief moment
on the empty canvas before two wrestlers crash down into
The German is underneath, on his back, pinned by the other
The referee enters, cropped at the knees, and throws counting
fingers down into frame.
The German bucks and throws his opponent out of frame.
Twelve charlie take two.
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:
The foot falls continue.
THE HOTEL ROOM
Night. Barton paces frantically back and forth.
He looks at his watch.
It is 12:30.
CLOSE ON THE PHONE
It is lifted out of the cradle.
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, 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
…Who is this?
Barton. I’m sorry, it’s Barton Fink.
Through the phone, in the background, we hear Mayhew’s drunken
Sons of bitches! Drown ‘em all!
We hear various objects dropping or being thrown to the floor.
Barton, I’m afraid it’s not a good
Drown all those rascals…
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
I said drown ‘em all! Who is that?
There is more clatter.
Audrey’s voice is hushed, close to the phone:
All right Barton, I’ll see if I can
Who is that?! Gaddamn voices come
into the house… sons of bitches…
If you could, I’d –
If I can. He gets jealous; he-
Goddamn voices… DROWN ‘EM!
I need help, 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
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:
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
There is a knock at the door.
Barton swings his feet off the bed.
Barton opens the door to Audrey.
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.
Now that’s all right, Barton.
Everything’ll be all right.
Yes. Thank you. How’s Bill?
Oh, he’s… he drifted off. He’ll
sleep for a while now. What is it
you have to do, exactly?
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-
It’s alright, Barton. You don’t have
to write actual scenes?
No, but the whole goddamn – Audrey?
Have you ever had to read any of
Bill’s wrestling scenarios?
Yes, I’m afraid I have.
What are they like? What are they
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 backwoods 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
She laughs – then stops, realizing that she has laughed. She
looks at Barton.
She shakes her head.
…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.
Did what for Bill?
You wrote his scripts for him?
Well, the basic ideas were frequently
You wrote Bill’s scripts! Jesus
Christ, you wrote his – what about
Before Bill came to Hollywood.
Audrey is clearly reluctant to travel this path.
Well, Bill was ALWAYS the author, so
What do you mean so to speak?! Audrey,
how long have you been his…
Barton, I think we should concentrate
on OUR little project-
I want to know how many of Bill’s
books you wrote!
I want to know!
Barton, honestly, only the last couple-
And my input was mostly… EDITORIAL,
really, when he’d been drinking-
I’ll bet. Jesus – “The grand
productive days.” What a goddamn
He resumes pacing.
…W.P. Mayhew. William Goddamn
Phony Mayhew. All his guff about
escape. Hah! I’LL say he escaped!
Barton sighs and looks at his watch.
…Well, we don’t have much time.
He sits down next to Audrey. Audrey’s tone is gentle.
It’ll be fine… Don’t judge him,
Barton. Don’t condescend to him…
She strokes Barton’s hair.
…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
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
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.
The white ceiling. A humming black speck flits across the
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
Audrey lies facing away on her side of the bed, half covered
by a blanket.
Gingerly, he reaches over and draws the blanket down Audrey’s
The alabaster white of Audrey’s back.
The mosquito is feeding on it.
EXTREME CLOSE ON BARTON’S EYES
EXTREME CLOSE ON THE MOSQUITO
Swelling with blood.
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
He looks at his hand.
His hand is dripping with blood. Too much blood.
BACK TO BARTON
Eyes wide, he looks down at the bed.
Blood seeps up into the sheet beneath the curve of Audrey’s
He pulls Audrey’s shoulder.
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.
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
Barton leaps to his feet and hurries to the door.
Over Barton’s shoulder as he cracks the door.
Charlie stands in the hall in his boxer shorts and a
Are you all right?
Barton stares dumbly for a moment.
…Can I come in?
No!… I’m fine. Thank you.
Are you sure –
Barton is nodding as he shuts the door in Charlie’s face.
He walks back into the room.
Audrey’s corpse, in long shot, face up on the bed.
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
Becoming aware of the noise he is making, he stops.
He lurches to his feet.
As Barton enters, opens the door, and sticks his head out.
Barton peers out the see if the coast is clear.
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.
Close on him as, mid-stoop, he looks up.
Up the long hall. In the deep background a door is closing.
He pauses, then straightens up and puts the shoes on the
shoe caddy. It squeaks as he pushes it on down the hall.
Barton stands at the door, listening to a very faint squeak.
Eventually it becomes inaudible.
He cracks the door again, looks out, and exits.
Barton goes to Charlie’s room and knocks.
Footfalls end as the door is cracked open.
Barton. Are you all right?
No… Can I come in?
Why don’t we go to your room-
Charlie, I’m in trouble. You’ve gotta
Once again he is breathing hard.
Charlie steps out into the hall and shuts the door behind
Get a grip on yourself, brother.
Whatever the problem is, we’ll sort
Charlie, I’m in trouble – something
horrible’s happened – I’ve gotta
call the police…
Charlie leads him towards his room.
…Will you stay with me till they
Don’t worry about it, Barton. We can
He is pushing Barton’s door open, but Barton grabs an elbow
to stop him.
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
Finally, Charlie nods.
He turns and pushes open the door.
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.
Jesus… Jesus… Jesus have mercy…
His reaction has not encouraged Barton, who is more and more
Charlie emerges from the bathroom, sweating.
…Jesus, Barton, what the hell is
this? What’re we gonna do?
I’ve gotta call the police – or you
could call for me –
Hold on –
You gotta believe me –
Hold on –
I didn’t do this, I did NOT do this–
Hold on. Stop. Take a deep breath.
Tell me what happened.
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.
I believe you, brother, but this
don’t look good.
We gotta call the police –
Hold on. I said hold on, so hold on.
What do you think happened?
I don’t know! Maybe it was her…
boyfriend. I passed out. I don’t
know. Won’t the police be able to –
Stop with the police! Wake up, friend!
This does not look good! They hang
people for this!
But I didn’t do it – don’t you believe
I believe you – I KNOW you. But why
should the police?
Barton gives him a dumb stare.
…Did you… Barton, between you
and me, did you have sexual
Barton stares at Charlie. He swallows.
Charlie shakes his head.
Jesus… They can tell that…
They GOTTA believe me, Charlie! They
gotta have mercy!
You’re in pictures, Barton. Even if
you got cleared eventually, this
would ruin you.
He turns and starts toward the bed.
…Wait in the 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.
Charlie is groping for the front doorknob, cradling the
sheetswaddled body in his arms.
BACK TO BARTON
His neck goes rubbery. His eyes roll up. His head lolls back
to hit the wall.
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.
You passed out.
Barton looks groggily up.
…Uh-huh… Where’s Audrey?
She’s dead, Barton! If that was her
TRACKING IN ON BARTON
He stares at Charlie.
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
Barton looks at his watch.
…Just put it out of you head…
Toward a pool set in a grand yard with shaped hedges and
statuary set amid palms trees.
Sunlight glitters angrily off the water; we are approaching
Jack Lipnik who sits poolside in a white deck chair.
Bart! So happy to see ya!
Pulling Barton, who is being escorted by Lou Breeze.
Barton is haggard, sunken eyes squinting against too much
Sit! Talk! Relax for a minute, then
As Barton sits:
Yeah… rye whiskey?
Boy! You writers! Work hard, play
hard! That’s what I hear, anyway…
He laughs, then barks at Lou Breeze.
Anyway. Ben Geisler tells me things’re
going along great. Thinks we’ve got
a real winner in this one. And let
me tell you something, I’m counting
on it. I’ve taken an interest. Not
to interfere, mind you – hardly seems
necessary in your case. A writer – a
storyteller – of your stature.
Givitta me in bold strokes, Bart.
Gimme the broad outlines. I’m sitting
in the audience, the lights go down,
Capitol logo comes up… you’re on!
He beams expectantly at Barton. Barton licks his parched
Yeah, okay… well… we fade in…
Lipnik is nodding, already involved in the story.
…It’s a tenement building. On the
Lower East Side…
Great! He’s poor, this wrestler!
He’s had to struggle!
And then… well…
Barton looks back out at the pool, his eyes closed to slits
against the sun. He looks back at Lipnik.
…Can I be honest, Mr. Lipnik?
CAN you? You damn well better be.
Jesus, if I hadn’t been honest in my
business dealings – well, of course,
you can’t always be honest, not with
the sharks swimming around this town
– but if you’re a writer, you don’t
think about those things – if I’d
been totally honest, I wouldn’t be
within a mile of this pool – unless
I was cleaning it. But that’s no
reason for you not to be. Honest, I
mean. Not cleaning the pool.
Lou has entered with a drink, which he sets next to Barton.
Barton looks around, takes the drink, sips at it greedily,
but must finally take the plunge.
Well… to be honest, I’m never really
comfortable discussing a work in
progress. I’ve got it all worked
out in my head, but sometimes if you
force it out in words – prematurely
– the wrong words – well, your meaning
changes, and it changes your own
mind, and you never get it back – so
I’d just as soon not talk about it.
Lipnik stares at him. His smile has disappeared. There is a
Lou Breeze clears his throat. He apparently feels obliged to
fill the silence.
…Mr. Fink. Never mind me. Never
mind how long I’ve been in pictures.
Mr. Lipnik has been in pictures just
about since they were invented. HE
practically invented them.
Lipnik has turned to look curiously at Lou.
…Now I think if he’s interested in
what one of his contract employees
is doing while he draws pay, I think
that employee ought to tell him, if
he wants to stay an employee. Right
now the contents of your head are
the property of Capitol Pictures, so
if I were you I would speak up. And
pretty goddamn fast.
Lou looks at Barton, expectantly. Lipnik continues to stare
There is a long silence, terribly heavy.
Finally, Lipnik explodes – at Lou.
You lousy sonofabitch! You’re telling
this man – this ARTIST – what to
Lou Breeze is stunned.
Mr. Lipnik, I –
This man creates for a living! He
puts food on your table and on mine!
THANK him for it! Thank him, you
ungrateful sonofabitch! Thank him or
Barton is staring, aghast.
Mr. Lipnik, that’s not really necessar-
Lipnik, still staring at Lou, gives no sign of hearing Barton.
He rises and points.
Get down on your knees, you
sonofabitch! Get down on your knees
and kiss this man’s feet!
Mr. Lipnik, please –
I – Mr. Lipnik –
KISS THIS MAN’S FEET!!
Lou, aghast, looks at Barton.
Barton, aghast, can only return the same stunned look.
Lipnik snarls at Lou:
…Okay, get out of here. You’re
fired, you understand me? Get out
of my sight.
Lou gets stiffly to his feet and stumbles away.
Mr. Lipnik, I –
I apologize, Barton.
No no, Mr. Breeze has actually been
a great help –
You don’t have to cover for him.
It’s noble of you, but these things
happen in business.
Mr. Lipnik, I really would feel much
better if you could reconsider –
Ah, forget it, kid. I want you to
pull this out of your head. If that
sonofabitch wouldn’t apologize to
you, goddammit, I will. I respect
your artistry and your methods, and
if you can’t fill us in yet, well
hell, we should be kissing your feet
for your fine efforts.
He gets down on his knees in front of Barton.
…You know in the old country we
were taught, as very young children,
that there’s no shame in supplicatin’
yourself when you respect someone.
Barton stares, horrified, at Lipnik, on the ground at his
…On behalf of Capitol Pictures,
the administration, and all a the
stockholders, please accept this as
a symbol of our apology and respect.
Lipnik kisses his shoe and looks up at him.
Behind Lipnik the pool glitters.
The cut has a hard musical sting. Out of the sting comes a
loud but distorted thumping noise.
We are looking down, high angle, form one corner of the room.
We are presented with a motionless tableau: Barton sits,
hunched, in the far corner, elbows on knees, staring at the
bed in front of him. He wears only trousers and a T-shirt
and his body and face glisten with sweat. The bed’s sheets
have been stripped and the ratty gray mattress has an enormous
rust-red stain in the middle.
After a beat, in the foreground, the only motion in the scene:
A bead of tacky yellow wall-sweat dribbles down the near
Silence, then the thumping repeats, resolving itself to a
knock at the door.
Barton rises slowly and crosses to the door.
Barton opens it to Charlie, who is dressed in a baggy suit,
his hair slicked back, a tan fedora pushed back on his head.
It is the first time we have seen him well turned out.
A battered briefcase is on the floor next to him. He holds a
parcel in his left hand, about one foot square, wrapped in
brown paper and tied up with twine.
Barton. Can I come in?
Barton stands back from the door and Charlie picks up his
briefcase and enters.
As the two men enter.
Jesus… You’re leaving.
Have to, old timer. Just for a while.
Barton sounds desperate:
Jesus, Charlie, I…
Everything’s okay, believe me. I
know it’s rough mentally, but
everything’s taken care of.
Charlie! I’ve got no one else here!
You’re the only person I know in Los
He starts weeping
…that I can talk to.
Charlie, also disturbed and unhappy, wraps both arms around
Barton sobs unashamedly into his shoulder. Charlie is somber.
It’s okay… It’s okay…
Charlie, I feel like I’m going crazy
– like I’m losing my mind. I don’t
know what to do… I didn’t do it,
believe me. I’m sure of that, Charlie.
His breath comes in short gasping heaves.
…I just don’t know what… to do–
You gotta get a grip on, brother.
You gotta just carry on – just for a
few days, till I get back. Try and
stay here, keep your door locked.
Don’t talk to anyone. We just gotta
keep our heads and we’ll figure it
Yeah, but Charlie –
Dammit, don’t argue with me. You
asked me to believe you – well I do.
Now don’t argue with me.
He looks at Barton for a beat.
…Look, pal – can you do something
Charlie hands him his parcel.
…Keep this for me, till I get back.
Barton, snuffling, accepts the package.
…It’s just personal stuff. I don’t
wanna drag it with me, but I don’t
trust ‘em downstairs, and I’d like
to think it’s in good hands.
Funny, huh, when everything that’s
important to a guy, everything he
wants to keep from a lifetime – when
he can fit it into a little box like
that. I guess… I guess it’s kind
Wallowing in self-pity:
It’s more than I’ve got.
Well, keep it for me. Maybe it’ll
bring you good luck. Yeah, it’ll
help you finish your script. You’ll
think about me…
He thumps his chest.
…Make me your wrestler. Then you’ll
lick that story of yours.
Barton is tearfully sincere:
Charlie solemnly thrusts out his hand.
Yeah, well, see you soon, friend.
You’re gonna be fine.
Barton shakes. As they walk to the door:
You’ll be back?
Don’t worry about that, compadre.
I’ll be back.
Barton shuts the door behind Charlie, locks it, and turns
The room. The bed. The blood-stained mattress.
Barton walks across the room and sits carefully at the edge
of the bed, avoiding the rust-colored stain. For a long beat,
he sits still, but something is building inside.
Finally, when we hear the distant ding of the elevator
arriving for Charlie, it erupts:
Barton sobs, with the unself-conscious grief of an abandoned
HIGH WIDE SHOT
Barton weeping, alone on the bed, next to the rust-colored
With the fade in, the sound of the surf mixes up.
We pan down the picture to discover that a snapshot has been
tucked into a corner of the picture frame: it is the snap of
Charlie, smiling and waving, with his foot up on the running
board of the 1939 Ford roadster.
Sitting at the desk, staring at the picture. From his glazed
eyes and the way his mouth hangs open, we may assume he has
been staring at the picture for some time.
He notices something on the desk and picks it up.
The Holy Bible – Placed by the Gideons.
Barton opens it, randomly, to the Book of Daniel. The text
is set in ornately Gothic type.
“5. And the king, Nebuchadnezzar, answered and said to the
Chaldeans, I recall not my dream; if ye will not make known
unto me my dream, and its interpretation, ye shall be cut in
pieces, and of your tents shall be made a dunghill.”
Staring at the passage. His mouth hangs open.
Barton riffles to the first page.
In bold type at the top:
“THE BOOK OF GENESIS”
Underneath, in the same ornately Gothic type:
“Chapter One 1. Fade in on a tenement building on Manhattan’s
Lower East Side. Faint traffic noise is audible; 2. As is
the cry of fishmongers.”
Squinting at the page through bloodshot eyes.
His mouth hangs open.
BARTON’S ROOM – DAY
At the cut the harsh clackety-clack of typing bangs in.
Sunlight burns against the sheers of Barton’s window, making
it a painfully bright patch in the room which itself remains
Barton sits at the secretary, typing furiously.
He finishes a page, yanks it out of the carriage, and places
it face-down on a short stack of face-down pages.
He feeds in a blank sheet and resumes his rapid typing. He
is sweating, unshaven, and more haggard even than when we
left him the previous night.
The telephone rings. After several rings Barton stops typing
and answers it, absently, still looking at his work. His
voice is hoarse.
Hello… Chet… Who?…
He puts the receiver down on the desk, leans over the
typewriter, and examines something he has just written.
He picks the phone back up and listens for a beat.
… No, don’t send them up here.
I’ll be right down.
A small oscillating fan whirs up in a corner of the elevator.
We pan down to Barton, who is riding down with Pete, the old
elevator operator. Barton’s voice is hoarse with fatigue.
…You read the Bible, Pete?
I think so… Anyway, I’ve heard
They ride for a beat.
Late afternoon sun slants in from one side. The lobby has
the same golden ambiance as when first we saw it.
Barton is walking toward two wing chairs in the shadows,
from which two men in suits are rising. One is tall, the
All three sit in ancient maroon swing chairs. Mastrionotti
perches on the edge of his chair; Deutsch slumps back in the
shadows, studying Barton.
Got a couple questions to ask ya.
What do you do, Fink?
Oh yeah? What kind of write?
Well as a matter of fact, I write
for the pictures.
Big fuckin’ deal.
You want my partner to kiss your
Would that be good enough for ya?
No, I – I didn’t mean to sound –
What DID you mean?
I – I’ve got respect for – for working
guys, like you –
Jesus! Ain’t that a load off! You
live in 605?
How long you been up there, Fink?
A week, eight, nine days –
Is this multiple choice?
Nine days – Tuesday –
You know this slob?
He is holding a small black-and-white photograph out toward
There is a long beat as Barton studies the picture.
…Yeah, he… he lives next door to
That’s right, Fink, he lives next
door to you.
Ever talk to him?
…Once or twice. His name is Charlie
Yeah, and I’m Buck Rogers.
His name is Mundt. Karl Mundt.
Also known as Madman Mundt.
He’s a little funny in the head.
What did… What did he –
Funny. As in, he likes to ventilate
people with a shotgun and then cut
their heads off.
Yeah, he’s funny that way.
Started in Kansas City. Couple of
Couple of days ago we see the same
M.O. out in Los Feliz.
Doctor. Ear, nose and throat man,.
All of which he’s now missin’.
Well, some of his throat was there.
Physician, heal thyself.
Good luck with no fuckin’ head.
Hollywood precinct finds another
stiff yesterday. Not too far from
here. This one’s better looking than
Female caucasian, thirty years old.
Nice tits. No head. You ever see
Mundt with anyone meets that
But, you know, with the head still
…No. I never saw him with anyone
So. You talked to Mundt, what about?
Nothing, really. Said he was in the
Deutsch indicates Mastrionotti.
Yeah, and he’s Buck Rogers.
No reputable company would hire a
guy like that.
Well that’s what he said.
He… I’m trying to think… Nothing,
really… He… He said he liked
Jack Oakie pictures.
Mastrionotti looks at Deutsch. Deutsch looks at Mastrionotti.
After a beat, Mastrionotti looks back at Barton.
Ya know, Fink, ordinarily we say
anything you might remember could be
helpful. But I’ll be frank with you:
That is not helpful.
Ya see how he’s not writing it down?
Fink. That’s a Jewish name, isn’t
Mastrionotti gets to his feet, looking around the lobby.
Yeah, I didn’t think this dump was
He digs in his pocket.
…Mundt has disappeared. I don’t
think he’ll be back. But…
He hands Barton a card.
…give me a call if you see him. Or
if you remember something that isn’t
We are tracking toward the paper-wrapped parcel that sits on
the nightstand next to Barton’s bed.
Barton enters and picks it up. He holds it for a beat, looking
at it, then brings it over to the secretary and sits.
He shakes it.
No sound; whatever is inside is well packed.
Barton holds it up to his ear and listens for a long beat,
as if it were a seashell and he is listening for the surf.
Finally he puts it on his desk, beneath the picture of the
bathing beauty, and starts typing, quickly and steadily.
Some time later; Barton still types. He is face to us; beyond
him we can see the bed with its rust-colored stain.
The phone rings. Barton ignores it. It continues to ring.
Barton rises and exits frame; we hold on to the bed in the
background. We hear Barton’s footsteps on the bathroom tile
as the phone continues ringing.
Barton sits back into frame stuffing cotton into each ear.
He resumes typing.
Barton typing. The desk trembles under the working of the
typewriter. Charlie’s parcel chatters.
Barton takes a finished page out of the carriage and places
it face down on the growing stack to his right. He feeds in
a new page. We hear the muted ding of the elevator down the
hall. Barton resumes typing.
We hear a knock on Barton’s door. Barton does not react,
apparently not hearing.
We are close on the bottom of the door. Someone in the hallway
is sliding a note beneath the door; then his shadow disappears
and his footsteps recede.
The note is a printed message headed: “While You Were Out…
” Underneath are the printed words: “You were called by”
and, handwritten in the space following: “Mr. Ben Geisler.”
Handwritten below, in the message space:
“Thank you. Lipnik loved your meeting. Keep up the good work.”
Barton’s offscreen typing continues steadily.
A perfectly symmetrical wide low angle shot of the empty
hall. Shoes are set put in front of each door except for
one in the middle background.
At the cut in we hear faint, regular typing.
We hold for a beat. There is no motion. The long, empty hall.
The distant typing.
The typing stops. There is a beat of quiet.
It is broken by the sound of a door opening. It is the
shoeless door in the middle background.
A hand reaches out to place a pair of shoes in the doorway.
The hand withdraws.
The door closes.
A short beat of silence.
The distant typing resumes.
The long empty hall. The distant typing.
OVER THE BLACK
We hear the distant sound of a woman’s voice, tinny and
Just a minute and I’ll connect you…
CLOSE ON BARTON
His eyes are red-rimmed and wild. He sits on the edge of his
bed holding the phone to his ear.
His voice is unnaturally loud:
Hello? Operator! I can’t… Oh!
He stops, reaches up, takes a cotton wad out of his ear.
We hear various clicks and clacks as the telephone lines
switch, and then a distant ring. The phone rings three or
four times before it is answered by a groggy voice.
Garland, it’s me.
Barton? What time is it? Are you all
Yeah, I’m fine, Garland – I have to
talk to you. I’m calling long
Muffled, we hear Garland speaking to someone else.
…It’s Barton. Calling long distance.
Back into the receiver:
…What is it Barton? Are you okay?
I’m fine, garland, but I have to
talk with you.
Go ahead, son.
It’s about what I’m writing, Garland.
It’s really… I think it’s really
What do you mean, Barton?
Not big in the sense of large –
although it’s that too. I mean
important. This may be the most
IMPORTANT work I’ve done.
Well, I’m… glad to hear that –
Very important, Garland. I just
thought you should know that. Whatever
Have you read the Bible, Garland?
…Barton, is everything okay?
Yes… Isn’t it?
Well, I’m just asking. You sound a
Sound a little what?
Well, you just… sound a little–
Thanks, Garland. Thanks for all the
He slams down the phone.
OVER HIS SHOULDER
A one-quarter shot on Barton from behind as he picks up the
cotton wad and sticks it back in his right ear.
He resumes typing, furiously.
After a beat he mutters, still typing.
THE BATHING BEAUTY
Later. We hear typing and the roar of the surf.’
CLOSE ON TYPEWRITER
We are extremely close on the key-strike area. As we cut in
Barton is typing:
The carriage returns a couple of times and “T-H-E–E-N-D” is
The paper is ripped out of the carriage.
CLOSE ON A STACK OF PAGES
Lying face down on the desk; the last page is added, face
down, to the pile. The pile is picked up, its edges are
straightened with a couple of thumps against the desktop,
and then the pile is replaced on the desk, face up. The
title page reads:
Motion Picture Scenario
Barton’s right hand enters frame to deposit a small cotton
wad on top of the script.
Barton’s left hand enters to deposit another small cotton
wad on top of the script.
We hear Barton walk away. We hear bath water run.
THE BATHING BEAUTY
Still looking out to sea.
We are booming down to the dance floor as a raucous band
plays an up-tempo number.
Dancing animatedly, almost maniacally, his fingers jabbing
The hall is crowded, but Barton is one of few men not in
Giggling, dancing opposite Barton.
Caught up in his dancing, oblivious to the girl.
A white uniformed arm reaches in to tap Barton on the
‘Scuse me, buddy, mind if I cut in?
Barton glares at him.
This is MY dance, sailor!
C’mon buddy, I’m shipping out
For some reason, Barton is angry.
I’m a writer! Celebrating the
completion of something GOOD! Do
you understand that, sailor? I’m a
His bellowing has drawn onlookers’ attention.
Step aside, four-eyes! Let someone
else spin the dame! Give the navy a
dance! Hey, Four-F, take a hike!
Barton turns furiously against the crowd.
I’m a writer, you monsters! I CREATE!
He points at his head.
…This is my uniform!
He taps his skull.
…THIS is how I serve the common
man! THIS is where I –
WHAPP! An infantry man tags Barton’s chin on the button.
Bodies surge. The crowd gasps. The band blares nightmarishly
Quiet at the cut.
After a beat, there is a faint ding at the end of the hall
and, as the elevator door opens, we faintly hear:
This stop: six.
Barton, disheveled, emerges and stumbles wearily down the
hall. He stops in front of his door, takes his key out, and
enters the room.
Mastrionotti is sitting on the edge of the bed reading
Deutsch stands in front of the desk staring at the bathing
Mother: What is to become of him.
Father: We’ll be hearing from that
crazy wrestler. And I don’t mean a
postcard. Fade out. The end.
He looks up at Barton.
…I thought you said you were a
I dunno, Duke. I kinda liked it.
Keep your filthy eyes off that.
Deutsch turns toward Barton and throws a folded newspaper at
You made morning papers, Fink.
Barton opens the paper. A headline reads: Writer Found
Headless in Chavez Ravine. The story has two pictures – a
studio publicity portrait of Mayhew, and a photograph of the
crime scene: two plainclothes detectives stare down into a
gulley as a uniformed cop restrains a pair of leashed dogs.
Second one of your friends to end up
You didn’t tell us you knew the dame.
With a jerk of his thumb, Mastrionotti indicates the
Sixth floor too high for you, Fink?
Give you nose bleeds?
Barton crosses the room and sits at the foot of the bed,
staring at the newspaper.
Just tell me one thing, Fink: Where’d
you put their heads?
Charlie… Charlie’s back…
No kidding, bright boy – we smelt
Mundt all over this. Was he the idea
Tell us where the heads are, maybe
they’ll go easy on you.
Only fry you once.
Barton rubs his temples.
Could you come back later? It’s
just… too hot… My head is killing
All right, forget the heads. Where’s
He teach you to do it?
You two have some sick sex thing?
Sex?! He’s a MAN! We WRESTLED!
You’re a sick fuck, Fink.
All right, moron, you’re under arrest.
Barton seems oblivious to the two men.
Charlie’s back. It’s hot… He’s
Down the hall we hear the ding of the arriving elevator.
Mastrionotti cocks his head with a quizzical look.
He rises and walks slowly out into the hall. Deutsch wathces
Mastrionotti in the hallway in full shot, framed by the door,
still looking puzzled.
Deutsch stands and pushes his suit coat back past the gun on
his hip, revealing a pair of handcuffs on his belt. He
unhitches the cuffs and slips one around Barton’s right wrist
and the other around a loop in the wrought iron footboard of
Sit tight, Fink.
As Deutsch joins Mastrionotti.
Why’s it so goddamn hot out here?
Deutsch looks where Mastrionotti is looking.
Tacky yellow fluid streams down. The walls are pouring sweat.
The hallway is quiet.
MASTRIONOTTI AND DEUTSCH
They look at each other. They look down the hall.
The elevator stands open at the far end of the empty hall.
For a long beat, nothing.
Finally Pete, the elevator man, emerges.
At this distance, he is a small figure, stumbling this way
and that, his hands presseed against the sides of his head.
He turns to face Mastrionotti and Deutsch and takes a few
steps forward, still clutching his head.
MASTRIONOTTI AND DEUTSCH
He takes on last step, then collapses.
As he pitches forward his hands fall away from his head. His
head separates from his neck, hits the floor, and rolls away
from his body with a dull irregular trundle sound.
MASTRIONOTTI AND DEUTSCH
Wide-eyed, they look at each other, then back down the hall.
All is quiet.
Smoke is beginning to drift into the far end of the hall.
We hear a muted rumble.
MASTRIONOTTI AND DEUTSCH
Mastrionotti tugs at his tie. He slowly unholsters his gun.
Deutsch slowly, hypnotically, follows suit.
… Show yourself, Mundt!
LOW STEEP ANGLE ON ELEVATOR DOOR
The crack where the floor of the elevator meets that of the
It flickers with red light from below. Bottom-lit smoke sifts
CLOSE ON MASTRIONOTTI
Standing in the foreground, gun at ready. Sweat pours down
Behind him, Deutsch stands nervously in the light-spill from
The rumble and crackle of fire grows louder.
PATCH OF WALL
A swath of wallpaper sags away from the top of the wall,
exposing glistening lath underneath.
With a light airy pop, the lathwork catches on fire.
MASTRIONOTTI AND DEUTSCH
The hallway. Its end-facing-wall slowly spreads flame from
where the wallpaper droops.
LOW STEEP ANGLE ON ELEVATOR DOOR
More red bottom-lit smoke seeps up from the crack between
elevator and hallway floors.
With a groan of tension relieved cables and a swaying of the
elevator door, a pair of feet crosses the threshold into the
Wide on the hallway. Charlie Meadows has emerged from the
elevator and is hellishly backlit by the flame.
His suit coat hangs open. His hat is pushed back on his head.
From his right hand his briefcase dangles.
He stands motionless, facing us. There is something monumental
in his posture, shoulders thrown back.
Tensed. Behind him, Deutsch gulps.
There’s a boy, Mundt. Put the policy
case down and your mitts in the air.
He leans slowly down to put the briefcase on the floor.
CLOSE ON MASTRIONOTTI
Relax. He murmurs:
BACK TO CHARLIE
He straightens up from the briefcase, a sawed-off shotgun in
BOOM! The shotgun spits fire.
Mastrionotti’s face is peppered by buckshot and he is blown
back down the hallway into Deutsch.
Bellowing fills the hallway over the roar of the fire:
LOOK UPON ME! LOOK UPON ME! I’LL
SHOW YOU THE LIFE OF THE MIND!!
The fire starts racing down the hallway.
CLOSE STEEP ANGLE ON PATCH OF WALL
Fire races along the wall-sweat goopus.
TRACK IN ON DEUTSCH
His eyes widen at Charlie and the approaching fire; his gun
dangles forgotten from his right hand.
Charlie is charging down the hallway, holding his shotgun
loosely in front of his chest, in double-time position. The
fire races along with him.
He is bellowing:
LOOK UPON ME! I’LL SHOW YOU THE LIFE
OF THE MIND! I’LL SHOW YOU THE LIFE
OF THE MIND!
Terrified, he turns and runs.
REVERSE PULLING DEUTSCH
As he runs down the flaming hallway, pursued by flames, smoke,
and Karl Mundt – who, also on the run, levels his shotgun.
His legs and feet spout blood, paddle futilely at the air,
then come down in a twisting wobble, like a car on blown
tires, and pitch him helplessly to the floor.
He slows to a trot and cracks open the shotgun.
Weeping and dragging himself forward on his elbows.
He slows to a walk.
Barton strains at his handcuffs.
Through the open doorway we see Charlie pass, pushing two
shells into his shotgun.
Charlie looms behind him and – THWACK – snaps the shotgun
Deutsch rolls over to rest on his elbows, facing Charlie.
Charlie primes the shotgun – CLACK.
He presses both barrels against the bridge of Deutsh’s nose.
Tightens a finger over both triggers. He squeezes.
TRACK IN ON BARTON
The gunshot echoes away.
Barton strains at the handcuffs.
We hear Charlie’s footsteps approach – slowly, heavily.
Charlie, walking down the hall, glances in and seems mildly
surprised to see Barton. The set of his jaw relaxes. His
expression softens. He pushes his hat farther back on his
He shakes is head and whistles.
…Brother, is it hot.
He walks into the room.
As Charlie wearily enters.
How you been, buddy?
He props the shotgun in a corner and sits facing Barton, who
stared at him.
…Don’t look at me like that,
neighbor. It’s just me – Charlie.
I hear it’s Mundt. Madman Mundt.
Charlie reaches a flask from his pocket.
Jesus, people can be cruel…
He takes a long draught from his flask, then gives a haunted
…if it’s not my build, it’s my
Charlie is perspiring heavily. The fire rumbles in the
…They say I’m a madman, Barton,
but I’m not mad at anyone. Honest
I’m not. Most guys I just feel sorry
for. Yeah. It tears me up inside, to
think about what they’re going
through. How trapped they are. I
understand it. I feel for ‘em. So I
try and help them out…
He reached up to loosen his tie and pop his collar button.
…Jesus. Yeah. I know what it feels
like, when things get all balled up
at the head office. It puts you
through hell, Barton. So I help people
out. I just wish someone would do as
much for me…
He stares miserably down at his feet.
…Jesus it’s hot. Sometimes it gets
so hot, I wanna crawl right out of
But Charlie – why me? Why –
Because you DON’T LISTEN!
A tacky yellow fluid is dripping from Charlie’s left ear and
running down his cheek.
…Jesus, I’m dripping again.
He pulls some cotton from his pocket and plugs his ear.
…C’mon Barton, you think you know
about pain? You think I made your
life hell? Take a look around this
dump. You’re just a tourist with a
typewriter, Barton. I live here.
Don’t you understand that…
His voice is becoming choked.
…And you come into MY home… And
you complain that I’M making too…
He looks up at Barton.
There is a long silence.
He rises to his feet and kneels in front of Barton at the
foot of the bed.
The two men regard each other.
Charlie grabs two bars of the footboard frame, still staring
at Barton. His muscles tighten, though nothing moves. His
neck fans with effort. All of his muscles tense. His face
is a reddening grimace.
With a shriek of protest, the metal gives. The bar to which
Barton is handcuffed had come loose at the top and Barton
slides the cuff off it, free.
Charlie gets to his feet.
I’m getting off the merry-go-round.
He takes his shotgun and walks to the door.
…I’ll be next door if you need me.
A thought stops him at the door and he turns to face Barton.
Behind him the hallway blazes.
…Oh, I dropped in on your folks.
And Uncle Dave?
He smiles. Barton looks at him dumbly.
…Good people. By the way, that
package I gave you? I lied. It isn’t
Barton rises, picks up Charlie’s parcel, and his script.
As Barton emerges. Flames lick the walls, causing the
wallpaper to run with the tack glue sap. Smoke fills the
hallway. Barton looks down the hall.
Charlie stands in front of the door to his room, his briefcase
dangling from one hand, his other hand fumbling in his pocket
for his key.
With his hat pushed back on his head and his shoulders slumped
with fatigue, he could be any drummer returning to any hotel
after a long hard day on the road.
He opens the door and goes into his room.
BACK TO BARTON
He turns and walks up the hallway, his script in one hand,
the parcel in the other.
A horrible moaning sound – almost human – can be heard under
the roar of the fire.
We are tracking laterally across the lobby of an executive
building. From offscreen we hear:
Fink! Morris or Lillian Fink! Eighty-
five Fulton Street!
Filtered through phone:
I understand that, sir –
Or Uncle Dave!
Our track has brought Barton into frame in the foreground,
unshaven, unkempt, bellowing into the telephone. In a hallway
in the background, a secretary gestures for Barton to hurry
I understand that, sir, but there’s
still no answer. Shall I check for
trouble on the line?
Barton slams down the phone.
Barton enters, still clinging on to Charlie’s parcel.
Lou Breeze stands in one corner censoriously watching Barton.
Lipnik is at the far end of the room, gazing out the window.
Colonel Lipnik, if you don’t mind.
He turns to face Barton and we see that he is wearing a
smartly pressed uniform with a lot of fruit salad on the
Barton takes a seat facing Lipnik’s desk.
…I was commissioned yesterday in
the Army Reserve. Henry Morgenthau
arranged it. He’s a dear friend.
Actually it hasn’t officially gone
through yet. Had wardrobe whip this
up. You gotta pull teeth to get
anything done in this town. I can
understand a little red tape in
peacetime, but now it’s all-out
warfare against the Japs. Little
yellow bastards. They’d love to see
me sit this one out.
Yes sir, they –
Anyway, I had Lou read your script
He taps distastefully at the script on his desk, which has a
slightly charred title page.
…I gotta tell you, Fink. It won’t
With all due respect, sir, I think
it’s the best work I’ve done.
Don’t gas me, Fink. If you’re opinion
mattered, then I guess I’d resign
and let YOU run the the studio. It
doesn’t and you won’t, and the
lunatics are not going to run THIS
particular asylum. So let’s put a
stop to THAT rumor right now.
I had to call Beery this morning,
let him know we were pushing the
picture back. After all I’d told
him about quality, about that Barton
Fink feeling. How disappointed we
were. Wally was heartbroken. The man
was devastated. He was – well, I
didn’t actually call him, Lou did.
But that’s a fair description, isn’t
Hell, I could take you through it
step by step, explain why your story
stinks, but I won’t insult your
intelligence. Well all right, first
of all: This is a wrestling picture;
the audience wants to see action,
drama, wrestling, and plenty of it.
They don’t wanna see a guy wrestling
with his soul – well, all right, a
little bit, for the critics – but
you make it the carrot that wags the
dog. Too much of it and they head
for exits and I don’t blame ‘em.
There’s plenty of poetry right inside
that ring, Fink. Look at “Hell Ten
“Blood, Sweat, and Canvas”.
Look at “Blood, Sweat, and Canvas”.
These are big movies, Fink. About
big men, in tights – both physically
and mentally. But especially
physically. We don’t put Wallace
Beery in some fruity movie about
suffering – I thought we were together
I’m sorry if I let you down.
You didn’t let ME down. Or even Lou.
We don’t live or die by what you
scribble, Fink. You let Ben Geisler
down. He liked you. Trusted you. And
that’s why he’s gone. Fired. That
guy had a heart as big as the
outdoors, and you fucked him. He
tried to convince me to fire you
too, but that would be too easy. No,
you’re under contract and you’re
gonna stay that way. Anything you
write will be the property of Capitol
Pictures. And Capitol Pictures will
not produce anything you write. Not
until you grow up a little. You ain’t
no writer, Fink – you’re a goddamn
I tried to show you something
beautiful. Something about all of
This sets Lipnik off:
You arrogant sonofabitch! You think
you’re the only writer who can give
me that Barton Fink feeling?! I got
twenty writers under contract that I
can ask for a Finktype thing from.
You swell-headed hypocrite! You
just don’t get it, do you? You think
the whole world revolves inside
whatever rattles inside that little
kike head of yours. Get him outta my
sight, Lou. Make sure he stays in
town, though; he’s still under
contract. I want you in town, Fink,
and outta my sight. Now get lost.
There’s a war on.
Crashing against the Pacific shore.
At midday, almost deserted. In the distance we see Barton
The paper-wrapped parcel swings from the twine in his left
He walks a few more paces and sits down on the sand, looking
out to see. His gaze shifts to one side.
Down the beach, a bathing beauty walks along the edge of the
water. She looks much like the picture on the wall in Barton’s
He stares, transfixed, at the woman.
Very beautiful, backlit by the sun, approaching.
Following her with his eyes.
Her eyes meet Barton’s. She says something, but her voice is
lost in the crash of the surf.
Barton cups a hand to his ear.
I said it’s a beautiful day…
Yes… It is…
What’s in the box?
Barton shrugs and shakes his head.
I don’t know.
Isn’t it yours?
I… I don’t know…
She nods and sits down on the sand several paces away from
him, facing the water but looking back over her shoulder at
…You’re very beautiful. Are you in
Don’t be silly.
She turns away to look out at the sea.
Facing the ocean. Barton sits in the middle foreground, back
to us, the box in the sand next to him.
The bathing beauty sits, back to us, in the middle background.
The surf pounds.
The sun sparkles off the water.
THE END[amazonjs asin=”B006QJSM36″ locale=”JP” title=”バートン・フィンク DVD”]