BARTON FINK Screenplay By Ethan Coen & Joel Coen FADE IN: 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 performance. 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 stage: ACTOR 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! ACTRESS Dreaming again! ACTOR 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! MAURY The sun's coming up, kid. They'll be hawking the fish down on Fulton Street. ACTOR Let 'em hawk. Let 'em sing their hearts out. MAURY That's it, kid. Take that ruined choir. Make it sing! ACTOR So long, Maury. MAURY So long. 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: MAURY 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. OLDER MAN FISH! FRESH FISH! As the man walks back off the screen: LILY Let's spit on our hands and get to work. It's late, Maury. MAURY Not any more Lil... Barton mouths the last line in sync with the offscreen actor: MAURY ...It's early. With this the stagehand behind Barton furiously pulls the rope hand-over-hand and we hear thunderous applause and shouts of "Bravo!" 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. BARTON'S POV 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 crowd. The actors turn to smile at Barton in the wings. BARTON He hesitates, unable to take it all in. He is gently nudged toward the stage by the two tuxedoed gentlemen. As he exits toward the stage the applause is deafening. TRACKING SHOT Pushing a maitre 'd who looks back over his shoulder as he leads the way through the restaurant. MAITRE 'D Your table is ready, Monsieur Fink... several members of your party have already arrived... REVERSE Pulling Barton FINK Is Garland Stanford here? MAITRE 'D He called to say he'd be a few minutes late... Ah, here we are... TRACKING IN 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. MAN Barton, Barton, so glad you could make it. You know Richard St. Claire... Barton nods and looks at the woman. MAN ...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 fills it. BARTON Not yet. 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. POPPY Loved it! What power! RICHARD Yeah, it was a corker. BARTON Thanks, Richard, but I know for a fact the only fish you've ever seen were tacked to a the wall of the yacht club. RICHARD Ouch! MAN Bravo! Nevertheless, we were all devastated. POPPY Weeping! Copius tears! What did the Herald say? MAN I happen to have it with me. BARTON Please Derek – POPPY Do read it, do! DEREK "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." BARTON They'll be wrapping fish in it in the morning so I guess it's not a total waste. POPPY Cynic! DEREK Well we can enjoy your success, Barton, even if you can't. BARTON Don't get me wrong – I'm glad it'll do well for you, Derek. DEREK Don't worry about me, dear boy – I want you to celebrate. BARTON 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 adequate. POPPY Well I don't pretend to be a critic, but Lord, I have a gut, and it tells me it was simply marvelous. RICHARD And a charming gut it is. POPPY You dog! RICHARD (baying) Aaa-woooooooo! 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. PULLING BARTON As he draws near. BARTON I thought you were going to join us. Jesus, Garland, you left me alone with those people. GARLAND Don't panic, I'll join you in a minute. What's you think of Richard and Poppy? Barton scowls BARTON The play was marvelous. She wept, copiously. Millions of dollars and no sense. Garland smiles, then draws Barton close. GARLAND 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. BARTON To do what? GARLAND What do you do far a living? BARTON I'm not sure anymore. I guess I try to make a difference. GARLAND 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 every week. BARTON To see pap. GARLAND 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. BARTON I don't know, Garland; my place is here right now. I feel I'm on the brink of success- GARLAND I'd say you're already enjoying some. Barton leans earnestly forward. BARTON 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. BARTON ...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. GARLAND 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 floor. Garland studies him. GARLAND ...Look, they love you, kid – everybody does. You see Caven's review in the Herald? BARTON No, what did it say? GARLAND 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. GARLAND ...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. Absently: BARTON ...That's a rationalization, Garland. Garland smiles gently. GARLAND 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: HOTEL LOBBY 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. THE REVERSE 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 losing volume. 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 it. The lobby is now silent again. CLERK Welcome to the Hotel Earle. May I help you, sir? BARTON I'm checking in. Barton Fink. The clerk flips through cards on the desk. CLERK F-I-N-K. Fink, Barton. That must be you, huh? BARTON Must be. CLERK Okay then, everything seems to be in order. Everything seems to be in order. He is turning to a register around for Barton to sign. CLERK ...Are you a tranz or a rez? BARTON Excuse me? CLERK Transient or resident? BARTON I don't know... I mean, I'll be here, uh, indefinitely. CLERK 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. BARTON Well, I'm going to be working here, mostly at night; I'm a writer. Do you have room service? CLERK Kitchen closes at eight but I'm the night clerk. I can always ring out for sandwiches. The clerk is scribbling something on the back of an index card. CLERK ...Though we provide privacy for the residential guest, we are also a full service hotel including complimentary shoe shine. My name is Chet. He pushes a room key across the counter on top of the index card. Barton looks at the card. On it: "CHET!" Barton looks back up at the clerk. They regard each other for a beat. CLERK ...Okay BARTON Huh? The clerk. CLERK Okey-dokey, go ahead. BARTON What – CLERK Don't you wanna go to your room?! Barton stares at him. BARTON ...What number is it? The clerk stares back. CLERK ...Six-oh-five. I forgot to tell you. As Barton stoops to pick up his two small bags: CLERK ...Those your only bags? BARTON The others are being sent. The clerk leans over the desk to call after him: CLERK I'll keep an eye out for them. I'll keep my eyes peeled, Mr. Fink. Barton is walking to the elevator. 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: BARTON ...Six, please. The elevator man gets slowly to his feet. As he pushes the door closed: ELEVATOR MAN Next stop: Six. SIXTH-FLOOR HALLWAY Barton walks slowly toward us, examining the numbers on the doors. 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. HIS ROOM 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. BARTON 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. VOICE How d'ya like your room! BARTON ...Who is this? VOICE Chet! BARTON ...Who? VOICE Chet! From downstairs! Barton wearily rubs the bridge of his nose. VOICE ...How d'ya like your room! A PILLOW 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. HIS POV A naked, peeling ceiling. The hum – a mosquito, perhaps – stops. BARTON 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. Silence again. We hear the rising mosquito hum. FADE OUT EXECUTIVE OFFICE 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. REVERSE From behind a huge white desk, a burly man in an expensive suit gets to his feet and strides across the room. MAN Is that him?! Barton Fink?! Lemme put my arms around this guy! He bear-hugs Barton. MAN ...How the hell are ya? Good trip? He separates without waiting for an answer. MAN My name is Jack Lipnik. I run this dump. You know that – you read the papers. Lipnik is lumbering back to his desk. MAN 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, Lou? BARTON It's not as bad as it looks; just a mosquito in my room – LIPNIK Place okay? To Lou: LIPNIK ...Where did we put him? BARTON I'm at the Earle. LIPNIK Never heard of it. Let's move him to the Grand, or the Wilshire, or hell, he can stay at my place. BARTON Thanks, but I wanted a place that was less... LIPNIK 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. (to Lou) ...so what kind of pictures does he like? LOU Mr. Fink hasn't given a preference, Mr. Lipnik. LIPNIK How's about it, Bart? BARTON To be honest, I don't go to the pictures much, Mr. Lipnik – 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? BARTON ...Yes, thank you. LIPNIK Lou. Lou immediately rises and leaves. Lipnik's tone becomes confidential: LIPNIK ...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. LIPNIK 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. LIPNIK ...Thanks Lou. Join us. Join us. Talking about the Wallace Beery picture. LOU Excellent picture. LIPNIK We got a treatment on it yet? LOU No, not yet Jack. We just bought the story. Saturday Evening Post. LIPNIK Okay, the hell with the story. Wallace Beery is a wrestler. I wanna know his hopes, his dreams. Naturally, he'll have to get mixed up with a bad element. And a romantic interest. You know the drill. Romantic interest, or else a young kid. An orphan. What do you think, Lou? Wally a little too old for a romantic interest? Look at me, a writer in the room and I'm askin' Lou what the goddamn story should be! After a robust laugh, he beams at Barton. LIPNIK ...Well Bart, which is it? Orphan? Dame? BARTON ...Both maybe? There is a disappointed silence. Lipnik looks at Lou. Lou clears his throat. LOU ...Maybe we should do a treatment. LIPNIK Ah, hell, let Bart take a crack at it. He'll get into the swing of things or I don't know writers. Let's make it a dame, Bart, keep it simple. We don't gotta tackle the world our first time out. The important thing is we all have that Barton Fink feeling, but since you're Barton Fink I'm assuming you have it in spades. Seriously Bart, I like you. We're off to a good start. Dammit, if all our writers were like you I wouldn't have to get so goddamn involved. I'd like to see something by the end of the week. Lou is getting to his feet and signaling for Barton to do likewise. LIPNIK ...Heard about your show, by the way. My man in New York saw it. Tells me it was pretty damn powerful. Pretty damn moving. A little fruity, he said, but I guess you know what you're doing. Thank you for your heart. We need more heart in pictures. We're all expecting great things. TRACKING SHOT We are in the sixth-floor hallway of the Earle, late at night. A pair of shoes sits before each door. Faintly, from one of the rooms, we can hear the clack. clack. clack. of a typewriter. It grows louder as we track forward. EXTREME CLOSE SHOT – TYPEWRITER Close on the typing so that we see only each letter as it is typed, without context. One by one the letters clack on: a-u-d-i-b-l-e. After a short beat, a period strikes. BARTON Elbows on his desk, he looks down at what he has just written. He rolls the paper up a few lines, looks some more. THE PAGE It says: FADE IN: A TENEMENT BUILDING On Manhattan's Lower East Side. Early morning traffic is audible. BARTON After a beat he rolls the sheet back into place. EXTREME CLOSE SHOT The letter-strike area. It is lined up to the last period, which is struck over by a comma. The words "as is" are typed in and we cut back to – BARTON – as he continues typing. He stops after several more characters and looks. Silence. Breaking the silence, muffled laughter from an adjacent room. A man's laughter. It is weary, solitary, mirthless. Barton looks up at the wall directly in front of him. HIS POV The picture of the girl on the beach. BARTON Staring, as the end-of-the-tether laughing continues. Barton looks back down at his typewriter as if to resume work, but the sound is too insistent to ignore. WIDE SHOT The room, Barton sitting at his desk, staring at the wall. The laughter. Barton pushes his chair back, goes to the door, opens it and looks out. HIS POV The empty hallway, a pair of shoes before each door. At the end of the hall a dim red bulb burns over the door to the staircase, punctuating the sick yellow glow of the line of wall sconces. The laughter, though still faint, is more resonant in the empty hall. Perhaps its quality has changed, or perhaps simply because it is so insistent, the laughter now might be taken for weeping. Barton pauses, trying to interpret the sound. He slowly withdraws into his room. HIS ROOM Barton looks down at his typewriter for a beat. The laughter/weeping continues. He walks over to his bed, sits down and picks up the house phone. BARTON Hello... Chet? This is Barton Fink in room 605. Yes, there's uh, there's someone in the room next door to mine, 604, and he's uh... He's uh... making a lot of... noise. After a beat: BARTON ...Thank you. He cradles the phone. The laughter continues for a moment or two, then abruptly stops with the muffled sound of the telephone ringing next door. Barton looks at the wall. The muffled sound of a man talking. The sound of the earpiece being pronged. Muffled footsteps next door. The sound of the neighbor's door opening and shutting. Footsteps approaching the hall. A hard, present knock at Barton's door. Barton hesitates for a beat, then rises to go get the door. ON THE DOOR As Barton opens it. Standing in the hall is a large man – a very large man – in short sleeves, suspenders, and loosened tie. His face is slightly flushed, with the beginnings of sweat. MAN Did you... Somebody just complained... Hastily: BARTON No, I didn't – I mean, I did call down, not to complain exactly, I was just concerned that you might – not that it's my business, but that you might be in some kind of... distress. You see, I was trying to work, and it's, well, it was difficult – MAN Yeah. I'm damn sorry, if I bothered you. The damn walls here, well, I just apologize like hell... He sticks his hand out. MAN ...My name's Charlie Meadows. I guess we're neighbors... Without reaching for the hand. BARTON Barton Fink. Unfazed, Charlie Meadows unpockets a flask. CHARLIE Neighbor, I'd feel better about the damned inconvenience if you'd let me buy you a drink. BARTON That's all right, really, thank you. CHARLIE All right, hell, you trying to work and me carrying on in there. Look, the liquor's good, wuddya say? As he enters: CHARLIE ... You got a glass? It's the least I can do. BARTON Okay... a quick one, sure... He gets two glasses from the wash basin. Charlie sits down on the edge of the bed and uncorks his flask. CHARLIE Yeah, just a nip. I feel like hell, all the carryings-on next door. BARTON That's okay, I assure you. It's just that I was trying to work – CHARLIE What kind of work do you do, Barton, if you don't mind my asking? BARTON Well, I'm a writer, actually. CHARLIE You don't say. That's a tough racket. My hat's off to anyone who can make a go of it. Damned interesting work, I'd imagine. BARTON Can be. Not easy, but – CHARLIE Damned difficult, I'd imagine. As he hands Charlie a glass: BARTON And what's your line, Mr. Meadows? CHARLIE Hell no! Call me Charlie. Well Barton, you might say I sell peace of mind. Insurance is my game – door-to-door, human contact, still the only way to move merchandise. He fills a glass with whiskey and swaps it for the empty glass. CHARLIE ...In spite of what you might think from tonight, I'm pretty good at it. BARTON Doesn't surprise me at all. CHARLIE Hell yes. Because I believe in it. Fire, theft, and casualty are not things that only happen to other people – that's what I tell 'em. Writing doesn't work out, you might want to look into it. Providing for basic human need – a fella could do worse. BARTON Thanks, I'll keep it in mind. CHARLIE What kind of scribbler are you – newspaperman did you say? BARTON No, I'm actually writing for the pictures now – CHARLIE Pictures! Jesus! He guffaws. CHARLIE ...I'm sorry, brother, I was just sitting here thinking I was talking to some ambitious youngster, eager to make good. Hell, you've got it made! Writing for pictures! Beating out that competition! And me being patronizing! He gestures toward his face: CHARLIE ...Is the egg showing or what?! BARTON That's okay; actually I am just starting out in the movies – though I was pretty well established in New York, some renown there, CHARLIE Oh, it's an exciting time then. I'm not the best-read mug on the planet, so I guess it's no surprise I didn't recognize your name. Jesus, I feel like a heel. For the first time Barton smiles. BARTON That's okay, Charlie. I'm a playwright. My shows've only played New York. Last one got a hell of a write-up in the Herald. I guess that's why they wanted me here. CHARLIE Hell, why not? Everyone wants quality. What kind of venue, that is to say, thematically, uh... BARTON What do I write about? Charlie laughs. CHARLIE Caught me trying to be fancy! Yeah, that's it, Bart. BARTON Well, that's a good question. Strange as it may seem, Charlie, I guess I write about people like you. The average working stiff. The common man. CHARLIE Well ain't that a kick in the head! BARTON Yeah, I guess it is. But in a way, that's exactly the point. There's a few people in New York – hopefully our numbers are growing – who feel we have an opportunity now to forge something real out of everyday experience, create a theater for the masses that's based on a few simple truths – not on some shopworn abstractions about drama that doesn't hold true today, if they ever did... He gazes at Charlie. BARTON ...I don't guess this means much to you. CHARLIE Hell, I could tell you some stories– BARTON And that's the point, that we all have stories. The hopes and dreams of the common man are as noble as those of any king. It's the stuff of life – why shouldn't it be the stuff of theater? Goddamnit, why should that be a hard pill to swallow? Don't call it new theater, Charlie; call it real theater. Call it our theater. CHARLIE I can see you feel pretty strongly about it. BARTON Well, I don't mean to get up on my high horse, but why shouldn't we look at ourselves up there? Who cares about the Fifth Earl of Bastrop and Lady Higginbottom and – and – and who killed Nigel Grinch-Gibbons? CHARLIE I can feel my butt getting sore already. BARTON Exactly, Charlie! You understand what I'm saying – a lot more than some of these literary types. Because you're a real man! CHARLIE And I could tell you some stories – BARTON Sure you could! And yet many writers do everything in their power to insulate themselves from the common man – from where they live, from where they trade, from where they fight and love and converse and – and – and... so naturally their work suffers, and regresses into empty formalism and – well, I'm spouting off again, but to put it in your language, the theater becomes as phony as a three dollar bill. CHARLIE Yeah, I guess that's tragedy right there. BARTON Frequently played, seldom remarked. Charlie laughs. CHARLIE Whatever that means. Barton smiles with him. BARTON You're all right, Charlie. I'm glad you stopped by. I'm sorry if – well I know I sometimes run on. CHARLIE Hell no! Jesus, I'm the kind of guy, I'll let you know if I'm bored. I find it all pretty damned interesting. I'm the kind schmoe who's generally interested in the other guy's point of view. BARTON Well, we've got something in common then. Charlie is getting to his feet and walking to the door. CHARLIE Well Christ, if there's any way I can contribute, or help, or whatever– Barton chuckles and extends his hand. BARTON Sure, sure Charlie, you can help by just being yourself. CHARLIE Well, I can tell you some stories – He pumps Barton's hand, then turns and pauses in the doorway. CHARLIE ...And look, I'm sorry as hell about the interruption. Too much revelry late at night, you forget there are other people in the world. BARTON See you, Charlie. Charlie closes the door and is gone. Barton goes back to his desk and sits. Muffled, we can hear the door of the adjacent room opening and closing. Barton looks at the wall. HIS POV The bathing beauty. From offscreen we hear a sticky, adhesive-giving-way sound. BARTON He looks around to the opposite – bed – wall. HIS POV The wallpaper is lightly sheened with moisture from the heat. One swath of wallpaper is just 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 flower. BACK TO BARTON He goes over to the bed and steps up onto it. He smooths the wallpaper back up against the wall. He looks at his hand. HIS HAND Sticky with tacky yellow wall sweat. He wipes it onto his shirt. We hear a faint mosquito hum. Barton looks around. FADE OUT A TYPEWRITER Whirring at high speed. The keys strike too quickly for us to make out the words. SLOW TRACK IN On Barton, sitting on a couch in an office anteroom, staring blankly. Distant phones ring. Barton's eyes are tired and bloodshot. HIS POV A gargoyle secretary sits typing a document. The office door opens in the background and a short middle- aged man in a dark suit emerges. To his secretary: EXECUTIVE I'm eating on the lot today – He notices Barton. EXECUTIVE ...Who's he? The secretary looks over from her typing to consult a slip of paper on her desk. SECRETARY Barton Fink, Mr. Geisler. GEISLER More please. BARTON I'm a writer, Mr. Geisler. Ted Okum said I should drop by morning to see you about the – GEISLER Ever act? BARTON ...Huh? No, I'm – GEISLER We need Indians for a Norman Steele western. BARTON I'm a writer. Ted O – GEISLER Think about it, Fink. Writers come and go; we always need Indians. BARTON I'm a writer. Ted Okum said you're producing this Wallace Beery picture I'm working on. GEISLER What!? Ted Okum doesn't know shit. They've assigned me enough pictures for a goddamn year. What Ted Okum doesn't know you could almost squeeze into the Hollywood Bowl. BARTON Then who should I talk to? Geisler gives a hostile stare. Without looking at her, he addresses the secretary: GEISLER Get me Lou Breeze. He perches on the edge of the desk, an open hand out toward the secretary, as he glares wordlessly at Barton. After a moment: SECRETARY Is he in for Mr. Geisler? She puts the phone in Geisler's hand. GEISLER Lou? How's Lipnik's ass smell this morning?... Yeah?... Yeah?... Okay, the reason I'm calling, I got a writer here, Fink, all screwy. Says I'm producing that Wallace Beery wrestling picture – what'm I, the goddamn janitor around here?... Yeah, well who'd you get that from?... Yeah, well tell Lipnik he can kiss my dimpled ass... Shit! No, alright... No, no, all right. Without looking he reaches the phone back. The secretary takes it and cradles it. GEISLER ...Okay kid, let's chow. COMMISSARY Barton and Geisler sit eating in a semicircular booth. Geisler speaks through a mouthful of food: GEISLER Don't worry about it. It's just a B picture. I bring it in on budget, they'll book it without even screening it. Life is too short. BARTON But Lipnik said he wanted to look at the script, see something by the end of the week. GEISLER Sure he did. And he forgot about it before your ass left his sofa. BARTON Okay. I'm just having trouble getting started. It's funny, I'm blocked up. I feel like I need some kind of indication of... what's expected – GEISLER Wallace Beery. Wrestling picture. What do you need, a road map? Geisler chews on his cottage cheese and stares at Barton. GEISLER ...Look, you're confused? You need guidance? Talk to another writer. BARTON Who? Geisler rises and throws his napkin onto his plate. GEISLER Jesus, throw a rock in here, you'll hit one. And do me a favor, Fink: Throw it hard. 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 vomit. Barton buttons his pants and turns to face the stalls. There is more businesslike throat clearing. Barton stoops. HIS POV We boom down to show the blue serge pants and well-polished shoes of the stall's kneeling occupant. A white handkerchief has been spread on the floor to protect the trouser knees. The toilet flushes. The man rises, picks up his handkerchief up off the floor and gives it a smart flap. BARTON He quickly straightens and goes to the sink. He starts washing his hands. We hear the stall door being unlatched. Barton glances over his shoulder. HIS POV The stall door opening. BARTON Quickly, self-consciously, he looks back down at his hands. HIS POV His hands writhing under the running water. We hear footsteps approaching. BARTON Forcing himself to look at his hands. We hear the man reach the adjacent sink and turn on the tap. Barton can't help glancing up. THE MAN A dapper little man in a neat blue serge suit. He has warm brown eyes, a patrician nose, and a salt-and-pepper mustache. He smiles pleasantly at Barton. BARTON He gives a nervous smile – more like a tic – and looks back down at his hands. We hear the man gargling water and spitting into the sink. After a moment, Barton looks up again. THE MAN Reacting to barton's look as he washes his hands. This time, a curt nod accompanies his pleasant smile. BARTON Looks back down, then up again. THE MAN Extends a dripping hand. MAN Bill Mayhew. Sorry about the odor. His speech is softly accented, from the South. BARTON Barton Fink. They shake, then return to their ablutions. We hold on Barton as we hear Mayhew's faucet being turned off and his foot-steps receding. For some reason, Barton's eyes are widening. BARTON ...Jesus. W.P.! The dapper little man stops and turns. MAYHEW I beg your pardon? BARTON W.P. Mayhew? The writer? MAYHEW Just Bill, please. Barton stands with his back to the sink, facing the little man, his hands dripping onto the floor. There is a short pause. Barton is strangely agitated, his voice halting but urgent. BARTON Bill!... Mayhew cocks his head with a politely patient smile. Finally Barton brings out: BARTON ...You're the finest novelist of our time. Mayhew leans against a stall. MAYHEW Why thank you, son, how kind. Bein' occupied here in the worship of Mammon, I haven't had the chance yet to see your play – He smiles at Barton's surprise. MAYHEW ...Yes, Mistuh Fink, some of the news reaches us in Hollywood. He is taking out a flask and unscrewing its lid. BARTON Sir, I'm flattered that you even recognize my name. My God, I had no idea you were in Hollywood. MAYHEW All of us undomesticated writers eventually make their way out here to the Great Salt Lick. Mebbe that's why I allus have such a powerful thrust. He clears his throat, takes a swig from the flask, and waves it at Barton. MAYHEW ...A little social lubricant, Mistuh Fink? BARTON It's still a little early for me. MAYHEW So be it. He knocks back some more. BARTON ...Bill, if I'm imposing you should say so, I know you're very busy – I just, uh... I just wonder if I could ask you a favor... That is to say, uh... have you ever written a wrestling picture? Mayhew eyes him appraisingly, and at length clears his throat. MAYHEW ...You are drippin', suh. Barton looks down at his hands, then pulls a rough brown paper towel from a dispenser. Mayhew sighs: MAYHEW ...Mistuh Fink, they have not invented a genre of picture that Bill Mayhew has not, at one time or othuh, been invited to essay. I have taken my stabs at the wrastlin' form, as I have stabbed at so many others, and with as little success. I gather that you are a fresh-man here, eager for an upperclassman's council. However, just at the moment... He waves his flask. MAYHEW ...I have drinkin' to do. Why don't you stop at my bungalow, which is numbah fifteen, later on this afternoon... He turns to leave. MAYHEW ...and we will discuss wrastlin' scenarios and other things lit'rary. THE NUMBER "15" We are close on brass numerals tacked up on a white door. Muted, from inside, we hear Mayhew's voice – enraged, bellowing. We hear things breaking. Softer, we hear a woman's voice, its tone placating. REVERSE TRACKING SLOWLY IN On Barton, standing in front of the door. The noise abates for a moment. We hear the woman's voice again. Barton hesitates, listening; he thinks, decides, knocks. With this the woman's voice stops, and Mayhew starts wailing again. The door cracks open. The woman looks as if she has been crying. WOMAN ...Can I help you? BARTON I'm sorry, I... My name is Fink... Uh, Bill asked me to drop by this afternoon. Is he in? WOMAN Mr. Mayhew is indisposed at the moment– From inside, we hear Mayhew's wail. MAYHEW HONEY!! WHERE'S M'HONEY!! The woman glances uncomfortably over her shoulder and steps outside, closing the door behind her. WOMAN Mr. Fink, I'm Audrey Taylor, Mr. Mayhew's personal secretary. I know this all must sound horrid. I really do apologize... Through the door Mayhew is still wailing piteously. BARTON Is, uh... Is he okay? AUDREY He will be... When he can't write, he drinks. MAYHEW WHERE ARE YOU, DAMMIT! WHERE'S M'HONEY!! She brushes a wisp of hair out of her eyes. AUDREY I am sorry, it's so embarassing. BARTON How about you? Will you be alright? AUDREY I'll be fine... Are you a writer, Mr Fink? BARTON Yes I am. I'm working on a wres – please call me Barton. Audrey reaches out and touches Barton's hand. AUDREY I'll tell Bill you dropped by. I'm sure he'll want to reschedule your appointment. BARTON Perhaps you and I could get together at some point also. –I'm sorry if that sounds abrupt. I just... I don't know anyone here in this town. Audrey smiles at him. AUDREY Perhaps the three of us, Mr. Fink. BARTON Please, Barton. AUDREY Barton. You see, Barton, I'm not just Bill's secretary – Bill and I are... I love. We- MAYHEW'S VOICE M'HONEY!! WHERE'S M'HONEY!! Audrey glances back as we hear the sound of shattering dishes and heavy footsteps. BARTON I see. AUDREY ...I know this must look... funny. BARTON No, no – Hurriedly: AUDREY We need each other. We give each other... the things we need – VOICE M'HONEY!!... bastard-ass sons of bitches... the water's lappin' up... M'HONEY!! AUDREY I'm sorry, Mr. Fink. Please don't judge us. Please... Flustered, she backs away and closes the door. CLOSE ON A SMALL WRAPPED PACKAGE Hand-printed on the package is the message: "Hope these will turn the trick, Mr. Fink. – Chet!" The wrapping is torn away and the small box is opened. Two thumbtacks are taken out. BARTON'S HOTEL ROOM Late at night. The swath of wallpaper behind the bed has sagged away from the wall again, and has been joined by the swath next to it. Barton enters frame and steps up onto the bed. He smooths up the first swath and pushes in a thumbtack near the top. EXTREME CLOSE SHOT On the tack. As Barton applies pressure to push it in, tacky yellow goo oozes out of the puncture hole and beads around the tack. ON BARTON Smoothing up the second swath. As he pushes in the second tack he pauses, listening. Muffled, through the wall, we can hear a woman moaning. After a motionless beat, Barton eases his ear against the wall. CLOSE ON BARTON As his ear meets the wall. The woman's moaning continues. We hear the creaking of bedsprings and her partner, incongruously giggling. Barton grimaces, gets down off the bed and crosses to the secretary, where he sits. He stares at the paper in the carriage. HIS POV The blank part of the page around the key-strike area, under the metal prongs that hold the paper down. We begin to hear moaning again. BACK TO BARTON Still looking; sweating. HIS POV Tracking in on the paper, losing the prongs from frame so that we are looking at the pure unblemished white of the page. The moaning is cut short by two sharp knocks. THE DOOR As it swings open. Charlie Meadows leans in, smiling. CHARLIE Howdy, neighbor. BARTON Charlie. How are you. CHARLIE Jesus, I hope I'm not interrupting you again. I heard you walking around in here. Figured I'd drop by. BARTON Yeah, come in Charlie. Hadn't really gotten started yet – what happened to your ear? – for Charle's left ear is plugged with cotton wadding. As he enters: CHARLIE Oh, yeah. An ear infection, chronic thing. Goes away for a while, but it always comes back. Gotta put cotton in it to staunch the flow of pus. Don't worry, it's not contagious. BARTON Seen a doctor? Charlie gives a dismissive wave. CHARLIE Ah, doctors. What's he gonna tell me? Can't trade my head in for a new one. BARTON No, I guess you're stuck with the one you've got. Have a seat. Charlie perches on the corner of the bed. CHARLIE Thanks, I'd invite you over to my place, but it's a goddamn mess. You married, Bart? BARTON Nope. CHARLIE I myself have yet to be lassoed. He takes his flask out. CHARLIE ...Got a sweetheart? BARTON No... I guess it's something about my work. I get so worked up over it, I don't know; I don't really have a lot of attention left over, so it would be a little unfair... CHARLIE Yeah, the ladies do ask for attention. In my experience, they pretend to give it, but it's generally a smoke- screen for demanding it back – with interest. How about family, Bart? How're you fixed in that department? Barton smiles. BARTON My folks live in Brooklyn, with my uncle. CHARLIE Mine have passed on. It's just the three of us now... He taps himself on the head, chuckling. CHARLIE ...What's the expression – me myself and I. BARTON Sure, that's tough, but in a sense, we're all alone in this world aren't we Charlie? I'm often surrounded by family and friends, but... He shrugs. CHARLIE Mm... You're no stranger to loneliness, then. I guess I got no beef; especially where the dames are concerned. In my line of work I get opportunities galore – always on the wing, you know what I'm saying. I could tell stories to curl your hair – but it looks like you've already heard 'em! He laughs at his reference to Barton's curly hair, and pulls a dog-eared photograph from his wallet. As he hands it to Barton: CHARLIE ...That's me in Kansas City, plying my trade. THE PHOTO Charlie smiles and waves with one foot up on the running board of a 1939 roadster. A battered leather briefcase dangles from one hand. CHARLIE ...It was taken by one of my policy holders. They're more than just customers to me, Barton. They really appreciate what I have to offer them. Ya see, her hubby was out of town at the time – BARTON You know, in a way, I envy you Charlie. Your daily routine – you know what's expected. You know the drill. My job is to plumb the depths, so to speak, dredge something up from inside, something honest. There's no road map for that territory... He looks from Charlie to the Underwood. BARTON ...and exploring it can be painful. The kind of pain most people don't know anything about. He looks back at Charlie. BARTON ...This must be boring you. CHARLIE Not at all. It's damned interesting. BARTON Yeah... He gives a sad chuckle. BARTON ...Probably sounds a little grand coming from someone who's writing a wrestling picture for Wallace Beery. CHARLIE Beery! You got no beef there! He's good. Hell of an actor – though, for my money, you can't beat Jack Oakie. A stitch, Oakie. Funny stuff, funny stuff. But don't get me wrong – Beery, a wrestling picture, that could be a pip. Wrestled some myself back in school. I guess you know the basic moves. BARTON Nope, never watched any. I'm not that interested in the act itself – CHARLIE Okay, but hell, you should know what it is. I can show you in about thirty seconds. He is getting down on his hands and knees. CHARLIE ...You're a little out of your weight class, but just for purposes of demonstration – BARTON That's all right, really – CHARLIE Not a bit of it, compadre! Easiest thing in the world! You just get down on your knees to my left, slap your right hand here... He indicated his own right bicep. CHARLIE ...and your left hand here. He indicated his left bicep. Barton hesitates. CHARLIE ...You can do it, champ! Barton complies. CHARLIE ...All right now, when I say "Ready... wrestle!" you try and pin me, and I try and pin you. That's the whole game. Got it? BARTON ...Yeah, okay. CHARLIE Ready... wrestle! With one clean move Charlie flips Barton onto his back, his head and shoulders hitting with a thump. Charlie pins Barton's shoulders with his own upper body. But before the move even seems completed Charlie is standing again, offering his hand down to Barton. CHARLIE Damn, there I go again. We're gonna wake the downstairs neighbors. I didn't hurt ya, did I? Barton seems dazed, but not put out. BARTON It's okay, it's okay. CHARLIE Well, that's all that wrestling is. Except usually there's more grunting and squirming before the pin. Well, it's your first time. And you're out of your weight class. Barton has propped himself up and is painfully massaging the back of his head. This registers on Charlie. CHARLIE ...Jesus, I did hurt you! He clomps hurriedly away. CHARLIE ...I'm just a big, clumsy lug. I sure do apologize. We hear water running, and Charlie reenters with a wet towel. Barton accepts the towel and presses it to his head. CHARLIE ...You sure you're okay? Barton gets to his feet. BARTON I'm fine, Charlie. Really I am. Actually, it's been helpful, but I guess I should get back to work. Charlie looks at him with some concern, then turns and heads for the door. CHARLIE Well, it wasn't fair of me to do that. I'm pretty well endowed physically. He opens the door. CHARLIE ...Don't feel bad, though. I wouldn't be much of a match for you at mental gymnastics. Gimme a holler if you need anything. The door closes. Barton crosses to the secretary and sits down, rubbing the back of his head. He rolls up the carriage and looks at the page in the typewriter. HIS POV The page. FADE IN: A TENEMENT BUILDING On 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 page. His gaze drifts up. HIS POV The bathing beauty. BARTON Looking at the picture. He presses the heels of his hands against his ears. HIS POV The bathing beauty. Faint, but building, is the sound of the surf. BARTON Head cocked. The surf is mixing into another liquid sound. Barton looks sharply around. THE BATHROOM Barton enters. The sink, which Charlie apparently left running when he wet Barton's towel, is overflowing. Water spills onto the tile floor. Barton hurriedly shuts off the tap, rolls up one sleeve and reaches into the sink. As his hand emerges, holding something, we hear the unclogged sink gulp water. BARTON'S HAND Holding a dripping wad of cotton. BARTON After a brief, puzzled look he realizes where the cotton came from – and convulsively flips it away. FADE OUT FADE IN: ON THE TITLE PAGE OF A BOOK: "NEBUCHADNEZZAR BY W.P. Mayhew" A hand enters with pen to inscribe: "To Barton – May this little entertainment divert you in your sojourn among the Philistines. – Bill" The book is closed and picked up. WIDER As-thoomp!-the heavy volume is deposited across the table, in front of Barton, by Mayhew. Barton, Mayhew, and Audrey are seated around a picnic table. It is one of a few tables littering the lot of a small stucco open-air hamburger stand. It is peaceful early evening. The last of the sunlight slopes down through palm trees. Barton, Mayhew, and Audrey are the only customers at the stand. Mayhew's black Ford stands alone at the edge of the lot. Mayhew leans back in his chair. MAYHEW If I close m'eyes I can almost smell the live oak. AUDREY That's hamburger grease, Bill. MAYHEW Well, m'olfactory's turnin' womanish on me – lyin' and deceitful... His eyes still closed, he waves a limp hand gently in the breeze. MAYHEW ...Still, I must say. I haven't felt peace like this since the grand productive days. Don't you find it so, Barton? Ain't writin' peace? BARTON Well... actually, no Bill... Barton looks nervously at Audrey before continuing. BARTON ...No, I've always found that writing comes from a great inner pain. Maybe it's a pain that comes from a realization that one must do something for one's fellow man – to help somehow to ease his suffering. Maybe it's a personal pain. At any rate, I don't believe good work is possible without it. MAYHEW Mmm. Wal, me, I just enjoy maikn' things up. Yessir. Escape... It's when I can't write, can't escape m'self, that I want to tear m'head off and run screamin' down the street with m'balls in a fruitpickers pail. Mm... He sighs and reaches for a bottle of Wild Turkey. MAYHEW ...This'll sometimes help. AUDREY That doesn't help anything, Bill. BARTON That's true, Bill. I've never found it to help my writing. Mayhew is becoming testy: MAYHEW Your writing? Son, have you ever heard the story of Soloman's mammy- Audrey, anticipating, jumps hastily in. She taps the book on the table. AUDREY You should read this, Barton. I think it's Bill's finest, or among his finest anyway. Mayhew looks at her narrowly. MAYHEW So now I'm s'posed to roll over like an ol' bitch dog gettin' ger belly scratched. AUDREY Bill – BARTON Look, maybe it's none of my business, but a man with your talent – don't you think your first obligation would be to your gift? Shouldn't you be doing whatever you have to do to work again? MAYHEW And what would that be, son? BARTON I don't know exactly. But I do know what you're doing with that drink. You're cutting yourself off from your gift, and from me and Audrey, and from your fellow man, and from everything your art is about. MAYHEW No son, thisahere moonshine's got nothin' to do with shuttin' folks out. No, I'm usin' it to build somethin'. BARTON What's that? MAYHEW I'm buildin' a levee. Gulp by gulp, brick by brick. Raisin' up a levee to keep that ragin' river of manure from lappin' at m'door. AUDREY Maybe you better too, Barton. Before you get buried under his manure. Mayhew chuckles. MAYHEW M'honey pretends to be impatient with me, Barton, but she'll put up with anything. AUDREY Not anything, Bill. Don't test me. BARTON You're lucky she puts up with as much as she does. Mayhew is getting to his feet. MAYHEW Am I? Maybe to a schoolboy's eye. People who know about the human heart, though, mebbe they'd say, Bill over here, he gives his honey love, and she pays him back with pity – the basest coin there is. AUDREY Stop it, Bill! He wanders over to a corner of the lot between two palm trees, still clutching his bottle, his back to Barton and Audrey, and urinates into the grass. He is singing – loudly – "Old Black Joe." Audrey walks over to him. BARTON Watching her go. HIS POV Audrey touches Mayhew's elbow. He looks at her, stops singing, she murmurs something, and he bellows: MAYHEW The truth, m'honey, is a tart that does not bear scrutiny. She touches him again, murmuring, and he lashes out at her, knocking her to the ground. MAYHEW Breach my levee at your peril! BARTON He rises. AUDREY Coming back to Barton. MAYHEW Stumbling off down the dusty road, muttering to himself and waving his bottle of Wild Turkey. AUDREY Let him go. BARTON That son of a bitch... Don't get me wrong, he's a fine writer. He looks down the road. Mayhew is a small lone figure, weaving in the dust. MAYHEW I'll jus' walk on down to the Pacific, and from there I'll... improvise. BARTON Are you all right? We hear distant bellowing: MAYHEW Silent upon a hill in Darien! Audrey bursts into tears. Barton puts his arms around her and she leans into him. BARTON Audrey, you can't put up with this. Gradually, she collects herself, wiping her tears. AUDREY ...Oh Barton, I feel so... sorry for him! BARTON What?! He's a son of a bitch! AUDREY No, sometimes he just... well, he thinks about Estelle. His wife still lives in Fayettesville. She's... disturbed. BARTON Really?... He considers this for a moment, but his anger returns. BARTON ...Well that doesn't excuse his behavior. AUDREY He'll wander back when he's sober and apologize. He always does. BARTON Okay, but that doesn't excuse his – AUDREY Barton. Empathy requires... understanding. BARTON What. What don't I understand? Audrey gazes at him. MAYHEW He is very distant now, weaving but somehow dignified in his light summer suit. "Old Black Joe" floats back to us in the twilight. FADE OUT BARTON'S HOTEL ROOM From a high angle, booming down on Barton. The room is dark. Barton lies fully clothed, stretched out on the bed, asleep. The hum of the mosquito fades up in the stillness. Suddenly Barton slaps his cheek. His eyes open, but he remains still. The hum fades up again. Barton reaches over and turns on the bedside lamp. His eyes shift this way and that as he waits, listening. The hum fades down to silence. Barton's eyes shift. HIS POV The typewriter sits on the secretary, a piece of paper rolled halfway through the carriage. THE TYPEWRITER Barton enters frame and sits down in front of the typewriter. HIS POV Next to the typewriter are several crumpled pieces of paper. The page in the carriage reads: FADE IN: A TENEMENT HOTEL On the Lower East Side. We can faintly hear the cry of the fishmongers. It is too early for us to hear traffic; later, perhaps, we will. BACK TO BARTON Looking down at the page. CLOSE ON BARTON'S FEET Swinging in the legwell. One foot idly swings over to nudge a pair of nicely shined shoes from where they rest, under the secretary, into the legwell. We hear typing start. THE PAGE A new paragraph being started: "A large man..." BARTON'S FEET As he slides them into the shoes. THE PAGE "A large man in tights..." The typing stops. BARTON Looking quizzically at the page. What's wrong? HIS FEET Sliding back and forth – swimming – in his shoes, which are several sizes too large. We hear a knock at the door. BARTON He rises and answers the door. Charlie stands smiling in the doorway, holding a pair of nicely shined shoes. CHARLIE I hope these are your shoes. BARTON Hi, Charlie. CHARLIE Because that would mean they gave you mine. BARTON Yeah, as a matter of fact they did. Come on in. The two stocking-footed men go into the room and Barton reaches under the secretary for Charlie's shoes. CHARLIE Jesus, what a day I've had. Ever had one of those days? BARTON Seems like nothing but, lately. Chalrie perches on the edge of the bed. CHARLIE Jesus, what a day. Felt like I couldn't've sold ice water in the Sahara. Jesus. Okay, so you don't want insurance, so okay, that's your loss. But God, people can be rude. Feel like I have to talk to a normal person like just to restore a little of my... BARTON Well, my pleasure. I could use a little lift myself. CHARLIE A little lift, yeah... Smiling, he takes out his flask. CHARLIE ...Good thing they bottle it, huh pal? He takes a glass from the bedstand and, as he pours Barton a shot: CHARLIE ...Did I say rude? People can be goddamn cruel. Especially some of their housewives. Okay, so I've got a weight problem. That's my cross to bear. I dunno... BARTON Well it's... it's a defense mechanism. CHARLIE Defense against what? Insurance? Something they need? Something they should be thanking me for offering? A little peace of mind?... He shakes his head. CHARLIE ...Finally decided to knock off early, take your advice. Went to see a doctor about this. He indicates his ear, still stuffed with cotton. CHARLIE ...He told me it was an ear infection. Ten dollars, please. I said, hell, I told YOU my ear was infected. Why don't YOU give ME ten dollars? Well, THAT led to an argument... He gives a rueful chuckle. CHARLIE ...Listen to me belly-achin'. As if my problems amounted to a hill of beans. How goes the life of the mind? BARTON Well, it's been better. I can't seem to get going on this thing. That one idea, the one that lets you get started – I still haven't gotten it. Maybe I only had one idea in me – my play. Maybe once that was done, I was done being a writer. Christ, I feel like a fraud, sitting here staring at this paper. CHARLIE Those two love-birds next door drivin' you nuts? Barton looks at him curiously. BARTON How did you know about that? CHARLIE Know about it? I can practically see how they're doin' it. Brother, I wish I had a piece of that. BARTON Yeah, but – CHARLIE Seems like I hear everything that goes on in this dump. Pipes or somethin'. I'm just glad I don't have to ply MY trade in the wee-wee hours. He laughs. CHARLIE ...Ah, you'll lick this picture business, believe me. You've got a head on your shoulders. What is it they say? Where there's a head, there's a hope? BARTON Where there's life there's hope. Charlie laughs. CHARLIE That proves you really are a writer! Barton smiles. BARTON And there's hope for you too, Charlie. Tomorrow I bet you sell a half-dozen policies. CHARLIE Thanks, brother. But the fact is, I gotta pull up stakes temporarily. BARTON You're leaving? CHARLIE In a few days. Out to your stompin' grounds as a matter of fact – New York City. Things have gotten all balled up at the Head Office. BARTON I'm truly sorry to hear that, Charlie. I'll miss you. CHARLIE Well hell, buddy, don't pull a long face! This is still home for me – I keep my room, and I'll be back sooner or later... Barton rises and walks over to his writing table. CHARLIE ...And – mark my words – by the time I get back you're picture'll be finished. I know it. Barton scribbles on a notepad and turns to hand it to Charlie. BARTON New York can be pretty cruel to strangers, Charlie. If you need a home-cooked meal you just look up Morris and Lillian Fink. They live on Fulton Street with my uncle Dave. We hear a tacky, tearing sound. Barton looks toward the door. Charlie rises and walks over to the stand next to where Barton sits. The two staring men form an odd, motionless tableau – the slight, bespectacled man seated; the big man standing in a hunch with his hands on his thighs; their heads close together. THEIR POV A swath of wallpaper in the entryway has pulled away from the wall. It sags and nods. CHARLIE (off) Christ! THE TWO MEN Frozen, looking. CHARLIE ...Your room does that too? BARTON I guess the heat's sweating off the wallpaper. CHARLIE What a dump... He heads for the door and Barton follows. CHARLIE ...I guess it seems pathetic to a guy like you. BARTON Well... CHARLIE Well it's pathetic, isn't it? I mean to a guy from New York. BARTON What do you mean? CHARLIE This kind of heat. It's pathetic. BARTON Well, I guess you pick your poison. CHARLIE So they say. BARTON Don't pick up and leave without saying goodbye. CHARLIE Course not, compadre. You'll see me again. Barton closes the door. He goes back to the desk, sits, and stares at the typewriter. After a beat he tips back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling. We hear a loud thump. HIS POV The ceiling – a white, seamless space. As we track in the thumping continues – slowly, rhythmically, progressively louder – the effect, it seems, of odd doings upstairs. LOOKING DOWN ON BARTON From a high angle, tipped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. We track slowly down toward him. The thumping continues, growing louder, sharper. HIS POV Moving in on the ceiling. We close in on an unblemished area and cease to have any sense of movement. With a blur something huge and dark sweeps across the frame to land with a deafening crash, and an instant later it is gone, having left a huge black "T" stamped into the white ceiling. We are pulling back from the white, past the metal prongs of the key-strike area on a typewriter. More letters appear rapid-fire, growing smaller as the pull back continues. The thumpimg becomes the clacking of the typewriter. BEN GEISLER Is emerging from his office. As he enters the secretary stops typing, glances down at a slip of paper, and murmurs tonelessly, without looking up: SECRETARY Barton Fink. GEISLER Yeah. Fink. Come in. The clack of the typewriter resumes as Barton rises. GEISLER'S OFFICE The two men enter. This office is considerably smaller than Lipnik's, done in grays and black. There are pictures on the wall of Geisler with various celebrities. Geisler sits behind his desk. GEISLER Wuddya got for me – what the hell happened to your face? BARTON Nothing. It's just a mosquito bite. GEISLER Like hell it is; there are no mosquitos in Los Angeles. Mosquitos breed in swamps – this is a desert town. Wuddya got for me? BARTON Well I... GEISLER On the Beery picture! Where are we? Wuddya got? BARTON Well, to tell you the truth, I'm having some trouble getting started– GEISLER Getting STARTED! Christ Jesus! Started?! You mean you don't have ANYthing?! BARTON Well not much. Geisler leaps to his feet and paces. GEISLER What do you think this is? HAMLET? GONE WITH THE WIND? RUGGLES OF RED GAP? It's a goddamn B picture! Big men in tights! You know the drill! BARTON I'm afraid I don't really understand that genre. maybe that's the prob- GEISLER Understand shit! I though you were gonna consult another writer on this! BARTON Well, I've talked to Bill Mayhew- GEISLER Bill Mayhew! Some help! The guy's a souse! BARTON He's a great writer – GEISLER A souse! BARTON You don't understand. He's in pain, because he can't write- GEISLER Souse! Souse! He manages to write his name on the back of his paycheck every week! BARTON But... I thought no one cared about this picture. GEISLER You thought! Where'd you get THAT from? You thought! I don't know what the hell you said to Lipnik, but the sonofabitch LIKES you! You understand that, Fink? He LIKES you! He's taken an interest. NEVER make Lipnik like you. NEVER! Some puzzlement shows through Barton's weariness. BARTON I don't understand- GEISLER Are you deaf, he LIKES you! He's taken an interest! What the hell did you say to him? BARTON I didn't say anything- GEISLER Well he's taken an interest! That means he'll make your life hell, which I could care less about, but since I drew the short straw to supervise this turkey, he's gonna be all over me too! Fat-assed sonofabitch called me yesterday to ask how it's going – don't worry, I covered for you. Told him you were making progress and we were all very excited. I told him it was great, so now MY ass is on the line. He wants you to tell him all about it tomorrow. BARTON I can't write anything by tomorrow. GEISLER Who said write? Jesus, Jack can't read. You gotta TELL it to him-tell him SOMEthing for Chrissake. BARTON Well what do I tell him? Geisler rubs a temple, studies Barton for a beat, then picks up a telephone. GEISLER Projection... As he waits, Geisler gives Barton a withering stare. It continues throughout the phone conversation. GEISLER ... Jerry? Ben Geisler here. Any of the screening rooms free this afternoon?... Good, book it for me. A writer named Fink is gonna come in and you're gonna show him wrestling pictures... I don't give a shit which ones! WRESTLING pictures! Wait a minute- isn't Victor Sjoderberg shooting one now?... Show him some of the dailies on that. He slams down the phone. GEISLER ...This ought to give you some ideas. He jots an address on a piece of paper and hands it to Barton. GEISLER ...Eight-fifteen tomorrow morning at Lipnik's house. Ideas. Broad strokes. Don't cross me, Fink. SCREEN Black-and-white footage. A middle-aged man with a clapstick enters and shouts: CLAPPER DEVIL ON THE CANVAS, twelve baker take one. Clap! The clapper withdraws. The angle is on a corner of the ring, where an old corner man stands behind his charge, a huge man in tights who is a little too flabby to be a real athlete. His hair is plastered against his bullet skull and he has a small mustache. VOICE Action. The wrestler rises from his stool and heads toward center ring and the camera. He affects a German accent: WRESTLER I will destroy him! He passes the camera. VOICE Cut. Flash frames. The clapper enters again. CLAPPER Twelve baker take two. Clap! He exits. The wrestler moves toward the camera. WRESTLER I will destroy him! VOICE Cut. The clapper enters CLAPPER Twelve baker take three. Clap! WRESTLER I will destroy him! SLOW TRACK IN ON BARTON Seated alone in a dark screening room, the shaft of the projection beam flickering over his left shoulder. As we creep in closer: WRESTLER (off) I will destroy him!... I will destroy him!... I will destroy him!... I will destroy him!... Another off-microphone, distant voice from the screen: VOICE Okay, take five... THE SCREEN A jerky pan, interrupted by flash frames. The wrestler is standing in a corner joking with a makeup girl who pats down his face as he smokes a cigarette. A cut in the film and another clapstick enters. CLAPPER Twelve charlie take one- ON THE CLAP: BACK TO BARTON Staring at the screen, dull, wan, and forlorn. VOICE (off) Action. THE SCREEN The angle is low – canvas level. We hold for a brief moment on the empty canvas before two wrestlers crash down into frame. The German is underneath, on his back, pinned by the other man. The referee enters, cropped at the knees, and throws counting fingers down into frame. REFEREE One... two... WRESTLER AAAAHHHH!! The German bucks and throws his opponent out of frame. VOICE Cut. CLAPPER Twelve charlie take two. Crash. REFEREE One... two... WRESTLER AAAAHHHH!! BARTON Glazed. WRESTLER (off) AAAAAAHHHHHH!!... AAAAAAHHHHHH!!... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!... PAGE IN TYPEWRITER The screaming drops out abruptly at cut. We hear only the sound of heavy footfalls on carpet. Below the opening paragraph, two new words have been added to the typescript: "Orphan?" "Dame?" The foot falls continue. THE HOTEL ROOM Night. Barton paces frantically back and forth. He looks at his watch. HIS POV It is 12:30. CLOSE ON THE PHONE It is lifted out of the cradle. BARTON Hello, Chet, it's Barton Fink in 605. Can you try a number for me in Hollywood... Slausen 6-4304. We pull back to frame in Barton as we hear his call ring through. Barton sweats. BARTON Pick it up... Pick it up. Pick it- AUDREY Hello. BARTON Audrey, listen, I need help. I know it's late and I shouldn't be calling you like this – believe me I wouldn't have if I could see any other alternative, but I – I'm sorry - listen, how are you – I'm sorry. You doing okay? AUDREY ...Who is this? BARTON Barton. I'm sorry, it's Barton Fink. Through the phone, in the background, we hear Mayhew's drunken bellowing. MAYHEW Sons of bitches! Drown 'em all! We hear various objects dropping or being thrown to the floor. AUDREY Barton, I'm afraid it's not a good time- MAYHEW Drown all those rascals... BARTON I'm sorry, I just feel like –I know I shouldn't ask, I just need some kind of help, I just, I have a deadline tomorrow- MAYHEW I said drown 'em all! Who is that? There is more clatter. Audrey's voice is hushed, close to the phone: AUDREY All right Barton, I'll see if I can slip away- MAYHEW Who is that?! Gaddamn voices come into the house... sons of bitches... BARTON If you could, I'd – AUDREY If I can. He gets jealous; he- MAYHEW Goddamn voices... DROWN 'EM! BARTON I need help, Audrey. AUDREY I'll try to slip out. If he quiets down, passes out... I'm afraid he thinks – well, he said you were a buffoon, Barton. He becomes irrational– MAYHEW Hesh up! Be still now! DROWN 'EM! DROWN 'EM! DROWN – WIDE ON THE ROOM Later. It is quiet. We are craning down towa