英语剧本《巴顿芬克》
时间:2007-10-27 22:00:34来源: 作者:
Barton Fink (1991)
by Joel Coen and Ethan Coen.
Winner PALME D'OR, Cannes 1991.
by Joel Coen and Ethan Coen.
Winner PALME D'OR, Cannes 1991.
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 cast-iron 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
sctor 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:
...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.
...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 embarass 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 calloused 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 kis 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 supprt 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.
. . . 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 perceter.
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.
. . . 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.
. . . 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.
. . . 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.
. . . Though we provide privacy for the
residential guest, we are also a full service
hotel including complimentary shoe shine. My
name 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:
. . . 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.
. . . 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 ceoling.
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.
. . . 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 papers.
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, Lou?
BARTON
It's not as bad as it looks; just a mosquito
in my room -
LIPNIK
Place okay?
To Lou:
. . . 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:
. . . 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 picture.
LOU
Excellent picture.
LIPNIK
We got a treatment on it yet?
LOU
No, not yet Jack. We just bought the story.
Saturday Evening Post.
LIPNIK
Okay, the hell with the story. Wallace Beery
is a wrestler. I wanna know his hopes, his
dreams. Naturally, he'll have to get mixed up
with a bad element. And a romantic interest.
You know the drill. Romantic interest, or else
a young kid. An orphan. What do you think, Lou?
Wally a little too old for a romantic interest?
Look at me, a write in the room and I'm askin'
Lou what the goddamn story should be!
After a robust laugh, he beams at Barton.
. . . 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.
. . . Heard about your show, by the way. My man
in New York saw it. Tells me it was pretty damn
powerful. Pretty damn moving. A little fruity,
he said, but I guess you know what you're doing.
Thank you for your heart. We need more heart in
pictures. We're all expecting great things.
TRACKING SHOT
We are in the sixth-floor hallway of the Earle, late at night. A pair of
shoes sits before each door. Faintly, from one of the rooms, we can hear
the clack. clack. clack. of a typewriter.
It grows louder as we track forward.
EXTREME CLOSE SHOT - TYPEWRITER
Close on the typing so that we see only each letter as it is typed, without
context.
One by one the letters clack on: a-u-d-i-b-l-e. After a short beat, a
period strikes.
BARTON
Elbows on his desk, he looks down at what he has just written. He rolls the
paper up a few lines, looks some more.
THE PAGE
It says:
FADE IN
A tenement building on Manhatten's Lower East Side. Early
morning traffic is audible.
BARTON
After a beat he rolls the sheet back into place.
EXTREME CLOSE SHOT
The letter-strike area. It is lined up to the last period, which is struck
over by a comma. The words "as is" are typed in and we cut back to -
BARTON
- as he continues typing. He stops after several more characters and looks.
Silence.
Breaking the silence, muffled laughter from an adjacent room. A man's
laughter. It is weary, solitary, mirthless.
Barton looks up at the wall directly in front of him.
HIS POV
The picture of the girl on the beach.
BARTON
Staring, as the end-of-the-tether laughing continues. Barton looks back
downat his typewriter as if to resume work, but the sound is too insistent
to ignore.
WIDE SHOT
The room, Barton sitting at his desk, staring at the wall.
The laughter.
Barton pushes his chair back, goes to the door, opens it and looks out.
HIS POV
The empty hallway, a pair of shoes before each door. At the end of the hall
a dim red bulb burns over the door to the staircase, punctuating the sick
yellow glow of the line of wall sconces.
The laughter, though still faint, is more resonant in the empty hall.
Perhaps its quality has changed, or perhaps simply because it is so
insistent, the laughter now might be taken for weeping.
Barton pauses, trying to interpret the sound. He slowly withdraws into his
room.
HIS ROOM
Barton looks down at his typewriter for a beat. The laughter/weeping
continues.
He walks over to his bed, sits down and picks up the house phone.
BARTON
Hello . . . Chet? This is Barton Fink in room
605. Yes, there's uh, there's someone in the
room next door to mine, 604, and he's uh . . .
He's uh . . . making a lot of . . . noise.
After a beat:
. . . 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.
. . . My name's Charlie Meadows. I guess we're
neighbors. . .
Without reaching for the hand.
BARTON
Barton Fink.
Unfazed, Cahrlie 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:
. . . 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.
. . . I spite of what you might think from
tonight, I'm pretty good at it.
BARTON
Doesn't surprise me at all.
CHARLIE
Hell yes. Because I believe in it. Fire,
theft, and casualty are not things that only
happen to other people - that's what I tell
'em. Writing doesn't work out, you might want
to look into it. Providing for basic human
need - a fella could do worse.
BARTON
Thanks, I'll keep it in mind.
CHARLIE
What kind of scribbler are you - newspaperman
did you say?
BARTON
No, I'm actually writing for the pictures now -
CHARLIE
Pictures! Jesus!
He guffaws.
. . . 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:
. . . Is the egg showing or what?!
BARTON
That's okay; actually I am just starting out
in the movies - though I was pretty well
established in New York, some reknown there,
CHARLIE
Oh, it's an exciting time then. I'm not the
best-read mug on the planet, so I guess it's
no surprise I didn't recognize your name.
Jesus, I feel like a heel.
For the first time Barton smiles.
BARTON
That's okay, Charlie. I'm a playwright. My
shows've only played New York. Last one got
a hell of a write-up in the Herald. I guess
that's why they wanted me here.
CHARLIE
Hell, why not? Everyone wants quality. What
kind of venue, that is to say, thematically,
uh . . .
BARTON
What do I write about?
Charlie laughs.
CHARLIE
Caught me trying to be fancy! Yeah, that's it,
Bart.
BARTON
Well, that's a good question. Strange as it may
seem, Charlie, I guess I write about people like
you. The average working stiff. The common
man.
CHARLIE
Well ain't that a kick in the head!
BARTON
Yeah, I guess it is. But in a way, that's exactly the
point. There's a few people in New York -
hopefully our numbers are growing - who feel we
have an opportunity now to forge something real
out of everyday experience, create a theater for the
masses that's based on a few simple truths - not on
some shopworn abstractions about drama that doesn't
hold true today, if they ever did . . .
He gazes at Charlie.
. . . I don't guess this means much to you.
CHARLIE
Hell, I could tell you some stories -
BARTON
And that's the point, that we all have stories. The
hopes and dreams of the common man are as noble as
those of any king. It's the stuff of life - why shouldn't
it be the stuff of theater? Goddamnit, why should that
be a hard pill to swallow? Don't call it new theater,
Charlie; call it real theater. Call it our theater.
CHARLIE
I can see you feel pretty strongly about it.
BARTON
Well, I don't mean to get up on my high horse, but why
shouldn't we look at ourselves up there? Who cares
about the Fifth Earl of Bastrop and Lady Higginbottom
and - and - and who killed Nigel Grinch-Gibbons?
CHARLIE
I can feel my butt getting sore already.
BARTON
Exactly, Charlie! You understand what I'm saying - a lot
more than some of these literary types. Because you're a
real man!
CHARLIE
And I could tell you some stories -
BARTON
Sure you could! And yet many writers do everything in
their power to insulate themselves from the common man -
from where they live, from where they trade, from where
they fight and love and converse and - and - and
. . . so naturally their work suffers, and regresses into
empty formalism and - well, I'm spouting off again, but to
put it in your language, the theater becomes as phony as a
three-dollar bill.
CHARLIE
Yeah, I guess that's tragedy right there.
BARTON
Frequently played, seldom remarked.
Charlie laughs.
CHARLIE
Whatever that means.
Barton smile with him.
BARTON
You're all right, Charlie. I'm glad you stopped by. I'm
sorry if - well I know I sometimes run on.
CHARLIE
Hell no! Jesus, I'm the kind of guy, I'll let you know if
I'm bored. I find it all pretty damned intersting. I'm the
kind schmoe who's generally interested in the other guy's
point of view.
BARTON
Well, we've got something in common then.
Charlie is getting to his feet and walking to the door.
CHARLIE
Well Christ, if there's any way I can contribute, or help,
or whatever -
Barton chuckles and extende his hand.
BARTON
Sure, sure Charlie, you can help by just being yourself.
CHARLIE
Well, I can tell you some stories -
He pumps Barton's hand, then turns and pauses in the doorway.
. . . And look, I'm sorry as hell about the interruption.
Too much revelry late at night, you forget there are other
people in the world.
BARTON
See you, Charlie.
Charlie closes the door and is gone.
Barton goes back to his desk and sits.
Muffled, we can hear the door of the adjacent room opening and closing.
Barton looks at the wall.
HIS POV
The bathing beauty.
From offscreen we hear a sticky, adhesive-giving-way sound.
BARTON
He looks around to the opposite - bed - wall.
HIS POV
The wallpaper is lightly sheened with moisture from the heat.
One swath of wallpaper is just finifhing sagging away from the wall. About
three feet of the wall, where it meets the ceiling, is exposed.
The strip of wallpaper, its glue apparently melted, sags and nods above the
bed. It glistens yellow, like a fleshy tropical flower.
BACK TO BARTON
He goes over to the bed and steps up onto it. He smooths the wallpaper back
up against the wall.
He looks at his hand.
HIS HAND
Sticky with tacky yellow wall sweat
He wipes it onto his shirt.
We hear a faint mosquito hum.
Barton looks around.
FADE OUT
A TYPEWRITER
Whirring at high speed. The keys strike too quickly for us to make out the
words.
SLOW TRACK IN
On Barton, sitting on a couch in an office anteroom, staring blankly.
Distant phones ring. Barton's eyes are tired and bloodshot.
HIS POV
A gargoyle secretary sits typing a document.
The office door opens in the background and a short middle-aged man in a
dark suit emerges.
To his secretary:
EXECUTIVE
I'm eating on the lot today -
He notices Barton.
. . . Who's he?
The secretary looks over from her typing to consult a slip of paper on her
desk.
SECRETARY
Barton Fink, Mr. Geisler.
GEISLER
More please.
BARTON
I'm a writer, Mr. Geisler. Ted Okum said I should
drop by morning to see you about the -
GEISLER
Ever act?
BARTON
. . . Huh? No, I'm -
GEISLER
We need Indians for a Norman Steele western.
BARTON
I'm a writer. Ted O -
GEISLER
Think about it, Fink. Writers come and go; we
always need Indians.
BARTON
I'm a writer. Ted Okum said you're producing
this Wallace Beery picture I'm working on.
GEISLER
What!? Ted Okum doesn't know shit. They've
assigned me enough pictures for a gaddamn
year. What Ted Okum doesn't know you could
almost squeeze into the Hollywood Bowl.
BARTON
Then who should I talk to?
Geisler gives a hostile stare. Without looking at her, he addresses the
secretary:
GEISLER
Get me Lou Breeze.
He perches on the edge of the desk, an open hand out toward the secretary,
as he glares wordlessly at Barton.
After a moment:
SECRETARY
Is he in for Mr. Geisler?
She puts the phone in Geisler's hand.
GEISLER
Lou? How's Lipnik's ass smell this morning?
. . . Yeah?. . .Yeah?. . .Okay, the reason I'm
calling, I got a writer here, Fink, all screwy.
Says I'm producing that Wallace Beery wrestling
picture - what'm I, the goddamn janitor around
here? . . . Yeah, well who'd you get that from?
. . . Yeah, well tell Lipnik he can kiss my dimpled
ass . . . Shit! No, alright . . . No, no, all right.
Without looking he reaches the phone back. The secretary takes it
and cradles it.
. . . Okay kid, let's chow.
COMISSARY
Barton and Geisler sit eating in a semicircular booth. Geisler
speaks through a mouthful of food:
GEISLER
Don't worry about it. It's just a B picture. I bring
it in on budget, they'll book it without even screening
it. Life is too short.
BARTON
But Lipnik said he wanted to look at the script, see
something by the end of the week.
GEISLER
Sure he did. And he forgot about it before your ass
left his sofa.
BARTON
Okay. I'm just having trouble getting started. It's
funny, I'm blocked up. I feel like I need some kind
of indication of . . . what's expected -
GEISLER
Wallace Beery. Wrestling picture. What do you
need, a road map?
Geisler chews on his cottage cheese and stares at Barton.
. . . Look, you're confused? You need guidance? Talk
to another writer.
BARTON
Who?
Geisler rises and throws his napkin onto his plate.
GEISLER
Jesus, throw a rock in here, you'll hit one. And do
me a favor, Fink: Throw it hard.
COMISSARY MEN'S ROOM
Barton stands at a urinal.
He stares at the wall in front of him as he pees. After a moment, he cocks
his head, listening.
We hear a throat clearing, as if by a tenor preparing for a difficult
passage. It is followed by the gurgling ruch of vomit.
Barton buttons his pants and turns to face the stalls.
There is more businesslike throat clearing.
Barton stoops.
HIS POV
We boom down to show the blue serge pants and well-polished shoes of the
stall's kneeling occupant.
A white handkerchief has been spread on the floor to protect the trouser
knees.
The toilet flushes. The man rises, picks up his handkerchief up off the
floor and gives it a smart flap.
BARTON
He quickly straightens and goes to the sink. He starts washing his hands.
We hear the stall door being unlatched.
Barton glances over his shoulder.
HIS POV
The stall door opening.
BARTON
Quickly, self-consciously, he looks back down at his hands.
HIS POV
His hands writhing under the running water. We hear footsteps approaching.
BARTON
Forcing himself to look at his hands. We hear the man reach the adjacent
sink and turn on the tap.
Barton can't help glancing up.
THE MAN
A dapper little man in a neat blue serge suit. He has warm brown eyes, a
patrician nose, and a salt-and-pepper mustache. He smiles pleasantly at
Barton.
BARTON
He gives a nervous smile - more like a tic - and looks back down at his
hands. We hear the man gargling water and spitting into the sink.
After a moment, Barton looks up again.
THE MAN
Reacting to barton's look as he washes his hands. This time, a curt nod
accompanies his pleasant smile.
BARTON
Looks back down, then up again.
THE MAN
Extends a dripping hand.
MAN
Bill Mayhew. Sorry about the odor.
His speech is softly accented, from the South.
BARTON
Barton Fink.
They shake, then return to their ablutions.
We hold on Barton as we hear Mayhew's faucet being turned off and his foot-
steps receding. For some reason, Barton's eyes are widening.
BARTON
. . . Jesus. W.P.!
The dapper little man stops and turns.
MAYHEW
I beg your pardon?
BARTON
W.P. Mayhew? The writer?
MAYHEW
Just Bill, please.
Barton stands with his back to the sink, facing the little man, his hands
dripping onto the floor. There is a short pause. Barton is strangely
agitated, his voice halting but urgent.
BARTON
Bill! . . .
Mayhew cocks his head with a politely patient smile. Finally Barton brings
out:
. . . 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.
. . . 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.
. . . 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:
. . . 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 afternoon . . .
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 again.
Barton hesitates, listening; he thinks, decides, knocks.
With this the woman's voice stops, and Mayhew starts wailing again.
The door cracks open.
The woman looks as if she has been crying.
WOMAN
. . . Can I help you?
BARTON
I'm sorry, I . . . My name is Fink . . . Uh,
Bill asked me to drop by this afternoon. Is
he in?
WOMAN
Mr. Mayhew is indisposed at the moment -
From inside, we hear Mayhew's wail.
MAYHEW
HONEY!! WHERE'S M'HONEY!!
The woman glances uncomfortably over her shoulder and steps outside, closing
the door behind her.
WOMAN
Mr. Fink, I'm Audrey Taylor, Mr. Mayhew's
personal secretary. I know this all must
sound horrid. I really do apologize . . .
Through the door Mayhew is still wailing piteously.
BARTON
Is, uh . . . Is he okay?
AUDREY
He will be . . . When he can't write, he
drinks.
MAYHEW
WHERE ARE YOU, DAMMIT! WHERE'S M'HONEY!!
She brushes a wisp of hair out of her eyes.
AUDREY
I am sorry, it's so embarassing.
BARTON
How about you? Will you be alright?
AUDREY
I'll be fine . . . Are you a writer,
Mr Fink?
BARTON
Yes I am. I'm working on a wres - please
call me Barton.
Audrey reaches out and touches Barton's hand.
AUDREY
I'll tell Bill you dropped by. I'm sure
he'll want to reschedule your appointment.
BARTON
Perhaps you and I could get together at some
point also. -I'm sorry if that sounds abrupt.
I just . . . I don't know anyone here in this
town.
Audrey smile at him.
AUDREY
Perhaps the three of us, Mr. Fink.
BARTON
Please, Barton
AUDREY
Barton. You see, Barton, I'm not just Bill's
secretary - Bill and I are . . . i love. We-
MAYHEW'S VOICE
M'HONEY!! WHERE'S M'HONEY!!
Audrey glances back as we hear the sound of shattering dishes and heavy
footsteps.
BARTON
I see.
AUDREY
. . . I know this must look . . . funny.
BARTON
No, no -
Hurriedly:
AUDREY
We need each other. We give each other . . . the
things we need -
VOICE
M'HONEY!! . . . bastard-ass sons of bitches . . .
the water's lappin' up . . . M'HONEY!!
AUDREY
I'm sorry, Mr. Fink. Please don't judge us.
Please . . .
Flustered, she backs away and closes the door.
CLOSE ON A SMALL WRAPPED PACKAGE
Hand-printed on the package is the message:
Hope these will turn the trick, Mr. Fink.
- Chet!
The wrapping is torn away and the small box is opened.
Two thumbtacks are taken out.
BARTON'S HOTEL ROOM
Late at night. The swath of wallpaper behind the bed has sagged away from
the wall again, and has been joined by the swath next to it.
Barton enters frame and steps up onto the bed.
He smooths up the first swath and pushes in a thumbtack near the top.
EXTREME CLOSE SHOT
On the tack. As Barton applies pressure to push it in, tacky yellow goo
oozes out of the puncture hole and beads around the tack.
ON BARTON
Smoothing up the second swath.
As he pushes in the second tack he pauses, listening.
Muffled, through the wall, we can hear a woman moaning.
after a motionless beat, Barton eases his ear against the wall.
CLOSE ON BARTON
As his ear meets the wall.
The woman's moaning continues. We hear the creaking of bedsprings and her
partner, incongruously giggling.
Barton grimaces, gets down off the bed and crosses to the secretary, where
he sits. He stares at the paper in the carriage.
HIS POV
The blank part of the page around the key-strike area, under the metal
prongs that hold the paper down.
We begin to hear moaning again.
BACK TO BARTON
Still looking; sweating.
HIS POV
Tracking in on the paper, losing the prongs from frame so that we are
looking at the pure unblemished white of the page.
The moaning is cut short by two sharp knocks.
THE DOOR
As it swings open.
Charlie Meadows leans in, smiling.
CHARLIE
Howdy, neighbor.
BARTON
Charlie. How are you.
CHARLIE
Jesus, I hope I'm not interrupting you again.
I heard you walking around in here. Figured
I'd drop by.
BARTON
Yeah, come in Charlie. Hadn't really gotten
started yet - what happened to your ear?
- for Charle's left ear is plugged with cotton wadding. As he enters:
CHARLIE
Oh, yeah. An ear infection, chronic thing.
Goes away for a while, but it always comes
back. Gotta put cotton in it to staunch the
flow of pus. Don't worry, it's not contagious.
BARTON
Seen a doctor?
Charlie gives a dismissive wave.
CHARLIE
Ah, doctors. What's he gonna tell me? Can't
trade my head in for a new one.
BARTON
No, I guess you're stuck with the one you've
got. Have a seat.
Charlie perches on the corner of the bed.
CHARLIE
Thanks, I'd invite you over to my place, but
it's a goddamn mess. You married, Bart?
BARTON
Nope.
CHARLIE
I myself have yet to be lassoed.
He takes his flask out.
. . . 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.
. . . 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:
. . . 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.
. . . 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.
CHARLIE
Not at all. It's damned interesting.
BARTON
Yeah . . .
He gives a sad chuckle.
. . . 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.
. . . 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.
. . . and your left hand here.
He indicated his left bicep.
Barton hesitates.
. . . You can do it, champ!
Barton complies.
. . . All right now, when I say "Ready...
wrestle!" you try and pin me, and I try
and pin you. That's the whole game. Got
it?
BARTON
. . . Yeah, okay.
CHARLIE
Ready . . .wrestle!
With one clean move Charlie flips Barton onto his back, his head and
shoulders hitting with a thump. Charlie pins Barton's shoulders with his
own upper body.
But before the move even seems completed Charlie is standing again, offering
his hand down to Barton.
Damn, there I go again. We're gonna wake the
downstairs neighbors. I didn't hurt ya, did I?
Barton seems dazed, but not put out.
BARTON
It's okay, it's okay.
CHARLIE
Well, that's all that wrestling is. Except
usually there's more grunting and squirming
before the pin. Well, it's your first time.
And you're out of your weight class.
Barton has propped himself up and is painfully massaging the back of his
head. This registers on Charlie.
. . . 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.
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.
. . . Don't feel bad, though. I wouldn't be
much of a match for you at mental gymnastics.
Gimme a holler if you need anything.
The door closes.
Barton crosses to the secretary and sits down, rubbing the back of his head.
He rolls up the carriage and looks at the page in the typewriter.
HIS POV
The page.
FADE IN
A tenement building on Manhatten's Lower East Side. Early
morning traffic is audible, as is the cry fishmongers.
BACK TO BARTON
He rubs the back of his head, wincing, as he stares at the page.
His gaze drifts up.
HIS POV
The bathing beauty.
BARTON
Looking at the picture. He presses the heels of his hands against his ears.
HIS POV
The bathing beauty. Faint, but building, is the sound of the surf.
BARTON
Head cocked. The surf is mixing into another liquid sound.
Barotn looks sharply around.
THE BATHROOM
Barton enters.
The sink, which Charlie apparently left running when he wet Barton's towel,
is overflowing. Water spills onto the tile floor.
Barton hurriedly shuts off the tap, rolls up one sleeve and reaches into the
sink.
As his hand emerges, holding something, we hear the unclogged sink gulp
water.
BARTON'S HAND
Holding a dripping wad of cotton.
BARTON
After a brief, puzzled look he realizes where the cotton came from - and
convulsively flips it away.
FADE OUT
FADE IN:
On the title page of a book:
NEBUCHADNEZZAR
By
W.P. Mayhew
A hand enters with pen to inscribe:
To Barton-
May this little entertainment divert you in your sojourn
among the Philistines.
-Bill
The book is closed and picked up.
WIDER
As-thoomp!-the heavy volume is deposited across the table, in front of
Barton, by Mayhew.
Barton, Mayhew, and Audrey are seated around a picnic table. It is one of
a few tables littering the lot of a small stucco open-air hamburger stand.
It is peaceful early evening. The last of the sunlight slopes down through
palm trees. Barton, Mayhew, and Audrey are the only customers at the stand.
Mayhew's black Ford stands alone at the edge of the lot.
Mayhew leans back in his chair.
MAYHEW
If I close m'eyes I can almost smell the
live oak.
AUDREY
That's hamburger grease, Bill.
MAYHEW
Well, m'olfactory's turnin' womanish on me -
lyin' and deceitful . . .
His eyes still closed, he waves a limp hand gently in the breeze.
. . . 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.
. . . 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.
. . . This'll sometimes help.
AUDREY
That doesn't help anything, Bill.
BARTON
That's true, Bill. I've never found it to
help my writing.
Mayhew is becoming testy:
MAYHEW
Your writing? Son, have you ever heard the
story of Soloman's mammy-
Audrey, anticipating, jumps hastily in. She taps the book on the table.
AUDREY
You should read this, Barton. I think it's
Bill's finest, or among his finest anyway.
Mayhew looks at her narrowly.
MAYHEW
So now I'm s'posed to roll over like an ol'
bitch dog gettin' ger belly scratched.
AUDREY
Bill-
BARTON
Look, maybe it's none of my business, but a
man with your talent - don't you think your
first obligation would be to your gift?
Shouldn't you be doing whatever you have to
do to work again?
MAYHEW
And what would that be, son?
BARTON
I don't know exactly. But I do know what
you're doing with that drink. You're cutting
yourself off from your gift, and from me
and Audrey, and from your fellow man, and
from everything your art is about.
MAYHEW
No son, thisahere moonshine's got nothin' to
do with shuttin' folks out. No, I'm usin'
it to build somethin'.
BARTON
What's that?
MAYHEW
I'm buildin' a levee. Gulp by gulp, brick
by brick. Raisin' up a levee to keep that
ragin' river of manure from lappin' at
m'door.
AUDREY
Maybe you better too, Barton. Before you get
buried under his manure.
Mayhew chuckles.
MAYHEW
M'honey pretends to be impatient with me, Barton,
but she'll put up with anything.
AUDREY
Not anything, Bill. Don't test me.
BARTON
You're lucky she puts up with as much as she does.
Mayhew is getting to his feet.
MAYHEW
Am I? Maybe to a schoolboy's eye. People who
know about the human heart, though, mebbe they'd
say, Bill over here, he gives his honey love, and
she pays him back with pity - the basest coin there
is.
AUDREY
Stop it, Bill!
He wanders over to a corner of the lot between two palm trees, still
clutching his bottle, his back to Barton and Audrey, and urinates into the
grass.
He is singing - loudly - "Old Black Joe."
Audrey walks over to him.
BARTON
Watching her go.
HIS POV
Audrey touches Mayhew's elbow. He looks at her, stops singing, she murmurs
something, and he bellows:
MAYHEW
The truth, m'honey, is a tart that does
not bear scrutiny.
She touches him again, murmuring, and he lashes out at her, knocking her to
the ground.
Breach my levee at your peril!
BARTON
He rises.
AUDREY
Coming back to Barton.
MAYHEW
Stumbling off down the dusty road, muttering to himself and waving his
bottle of Wild Turkey.
AUDREY
Let him go.
BARTON
That son of a bitch . . . Don't get me
wrong, he's a fine writer.
He looks down the road. Mayhew is a small lone figure, weaving in the dust.
MAYHEW
I'll jus' walk on down to the Pacific,
and from there I'll...improvise.
BARTON
Are you all right?
We hear distant bellowing:
MAYHEW
Silent upon a hill in Darien!
Audrey bursts into tears. Barton puts his arms around her and she leans
into him.
BARTON
Audrey, you can't put up with this.
Gradually, she collects herself, wiping her tears.
AUDREY
. . . Oh Barton, I feel so . . . sorry
for him!
BARTON
What?! He's a son of a bitch!
AUDREY
No, sometimes he just . . . well, he
thinks about Estelle. His wife still
lives in Fayettesville. She's . . .
disturbed.
BARTON
Really? . . .
He considers this for a moment, but his anger returns.
. . . 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.
. . . Good thing they bottle it, huh pal?
He takes a glass from the bedstand and, as he pours Barton a shot:
. . . 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.
. . . Finally decided to knock off early, take
your advice. Went to see a doctor about this.
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?
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.
. . . 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.
. . . 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.
. . . I guess it seems pathetic to a
guy like you.
BARTON
Well . . .
CHARLIE
Well it's pathetic, isn't it? I mean
to a guy from New York.
BARTON
What do you mean?
CHARLIE
This kind of heat. It's pathetic.
BARTON
Well, I guess you pick your poison.
CHARLIE
So they say.
BARTON
Don't pick up and leave without saying
goodbye.
CHARLIE
Course not, compadre. You'll see me again.
Barton closes the door.
He goes back to the desk, sits, and stares at the typewriter. After a beat
he tips back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling.
We hear a loud thump.
HIS POV
The ceiling - a white, seamless space.
As we track in the thumping continues - slowly, rhythmically, progressively
louder - the effect, it seems, of odd doings upstairs.
LOOKING DOWN ON BARTON
From a high angle, tipped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
We track slowly down toward him. The thumping continues, growing louder,
sharper.
HIS POV
Moving in on the ceiling. We close in on an unblemished area and cease to
have any sense of movement.
With a blur something huge and dark sweeps across the frame to land with a
deafening crash, and an instant later it is gone, having left a huge black
"T" stamped into the white ceiling.
We are pulling back from the white, past the metal prongs of the key-strike
area on a typewriter. More letters appear rapid-fire, growing smaller as
the pull back continues. The thumpimg becomes the clacking of the
typewriter.
BEN GEISLER
is emerging from his office.
As he enters the secretary stops typing, glances down at a slip of paper,
and murmurs tonelessly, without looking up:
SECRETARY
Barton Fink.
GEISLER
Yeah. Fink. Come in.
The clack of the typewriter resumes as Barton rises.
GEISLER'S OFFICE
The two men enter.
This office is considerably smaller than Lipnik's, done in grays and black.
There are pictures on the wall of Geisler with various celebrities.
Geisler sits behind his desk.
GEISLER
Wuddya got for me - what the hell
happened to your face?
BARTON
Nothing. It's just a mosquito bite.
GEISLER
Like hell it is; there are no mosquitos
in Los Angeles. Mosquitos breed in
swamps - this is a desert town. Wuddya
got for me?
BARTON
Well I . . .
GEISLER
On the Beery picture! Where are we?
Wuddya got?
BARTON
Well, to tell you the truth, I'm having
some trouble getting started -
GEISLER
Getting STARTED! Christ Jesus! Started?!
You mean you don't have ANYthing?!
BARTON
Well not much.
Geisler leaps to his feet and paces.
GEISLER
What do you think this is? HAMLET? GONE
WITH THE WIND? RUGGLES OF RED GAP? It's
a goddamn B picture! Big men in tights!
You know the drill!
BARTON
I'm afraid I don't really understand that
genre. maybe that's the prob-
GEISLER
Understand shit! I though you were gonna
consult another writer on this!
BARTON
Well, I've talked to Bill Mayhew-
GEISLER
Bill Mayhew! Some help! The guy's a souse!
BARTON
He's a great writer-
GEISLER
A souse!
BARTON
You don't understand. He's in pain, because
he can't write-
GEISLER
Souse! Souse! He manages to write his name
on the back of his paycheck every week!
BARTON
But . . . I thought no one cared about this
picture.
GEISLER
You thought! Where'd you get THAT from? You
thought! I don't know what the hell you said
to Lipnik, but the sonofabitch LIKES you! You
understand that, Fink? He LIKES you! He's
taken an interest. NEVER make Lipnik like you.
NEVER!
Some puzzlement shows through Barton's weariness.
BARTON
I don't understand-
GEISLER
Are you deaf, he LIKES you! He's taken an
interest! What the hell did you say to him?
BARTON
I didn't say anything-
GEISLER
Well he's taken an interest! That means he'll
make your life hell, which I could care less
about, but since I drew the short straw to
supervise this turkey, he's gonna be all over
me too! Fat-assed sonofabitch called me
yesterday to ask how it's going - don't worry,
I covered for you. Told him you were making
progress and we were all very excited. I told
him it was great, so now MY ass is on the line.
He wants you to tell him all about it tomorrow.
BARTON
I can't write anything by tomorrow.
GEISLER
Who said write? Jesus, Jack can't read. You
gotta TELL it to him-tell him SOMEthing for
Chrissake.
BARTON
Well what do I tell him?
Geisler rubs a temple, studies Barton for a beat, then picks up a telephone.
GEISLER
Projection . . .
As he waits, Geisler gives Barton a witherng stare. It continues throughout
the phone conversation.
. . . 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.
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!! . . .
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! . . .
PAGE IN TYPEWRITER
The screaming drops out abruptly at cut. We hear only the sound of heavy
footfalls on carpet.
Below the opening paragraph, two new words have been added to the
typescript:
Orphan?
Dame?
The foot falls continue.
THE HOTEL ROOM
Night. Barton paces frantically back and forth.
He looks at his watch.
HIS POV
It is 12:30.
CLOSE ON THE PHONE
It is lifted out of the cradle.
BARTON
Hello, Chet, it's Barton Fink in 605.
Can you try a number for me in Hollywood
. . . Slausen 6-4304.
We pull back to frame in Barton as we hear his call ring through. Barton
sweats.
Pick it up . . . Pick it up. Pick it-
AUDREY
Hello.
BARTON
Audrey, listen, I need help. I know it's
late and I shouldn't be calling you like
this - believe me I wouldn't have if I could
see any other alternative, but I - I'm sorry
- listen, how are you - I'm sorry. You
doing okay?
AUDREY
. . . Who is this?
BARTON
Barton. I'm sorry, it's Barton Fink.
Through the phone, in the background, we hear Mayhew's drunken bellowing.
MAYHEW
Sons of bitches! Drown 'em all!
We hear various objects dropping or being thrown to the floor.
AUDREY
Barton, I'm afraid it's not a good time-
MAYHEW
Drown all those rascals . . .
BARTON
I'm sorry, I just feel like -I know I
shouldn't ask, I just need some kind of
help, I just, I have a deadline tomorrow-
MAYHEW
I said drown 'em all! Who is that?
There is more clatter.
Audrey's voice is hushed, close to the phone:
AUDREY
All right Barton, I'll see if I can slip
away-
MAYHEW
Who is that?! Gaddamn voices come into
the house . . . sons of bitches . . .
BARTON
If you could, I'd-
AUDREY
If I can. He gets jealous; he-
MAYHEW
Goddamn voices . . . DROWN 'EM!
BARTON
I need help, Audrey.
AUDREY
I'll try to slip out. If he quiets down,
passes out . . . I'm afraid he thinks -
well, he said you were a buffoon, Barton.
He becomes irrational-
MAYHEW
Hesh up! Be still now! DROWN 'EM!
DROWN 'EM! DROWN-
WIDE ON THE ROOM
Later. It is quiet. We are craning down toward the bed, where Barton lies
stretched out, his head buried beneath a pillow as if to blot out the world.
The track reveals the wristwatch on Barton's dangled arm: 1:30.
THE HALLWAY
At the end of the dimly lit corridor a red light blinks on over the
elevator, with a faint bell.
BACK TO BARTON
With two violent and simultaneous motions he whips the pillow off his head
and throws out his other wrist to look at his watch.
There is a knock at the door.
Barton swings his feet off the bed.
THE DOORWAY
Barton opens the door to Audrey.
AUDREY
Hello, Barton.
BARTON
Audrey, thank you for coming. Thank you.
I'm sorry to be such a . . . such a . . .
Thank you.
They enter the main room, where Audrey perches on the edge of the bed.
AUDREY
Now that's all right, Barton. Everything'll
be all right.
BARTON
Yes. Thank you. How's Bill?
AUDREY
Oh, he's . . . he drifted off. He'll sleep
for a while now. What is it you have to do,
exactly?
Barton paces.
BARTON
Well I have to come up with - an outline, I'd
guess you call it. The story. The whole
goddamn story. Soup to nuts. Three acts.
The whole goddamn-
AUDREY
It's alright, Barton. You don't have to write
actual scenes?
BARTON
No, but the whole goddamn - Audrey? Have you
ever had to read any of Bill's wrestling
scenarios?
Audrey laughs.
AUDREY
Yes, I'm afraid I have.
BARTON
What are they like? What are they about?
AUDREY
Well, usually, they're . . . simply morality
tales. There's a good wrestler, and a bad
wrestler whom he confronts at the end. In
between, the good wrestler has a love interest
or a child he has to protect. Bill would usually
make the good wrestler a backwwods type, or a
convict. And sometimes, instead of a waif, he'd
have the wrestler protecting an idiot manchild.
The studio always hated that. Oh, some of the
scripts were so . . . spirited!
She laughs - then stops, realizing that she has laughed. She looks at
Barton.
. . . 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.
BARTON
Did what for Bill?
Guardedly:
AUDREY
Well . . . THIS.
BARTON
You wrote his scripts for him?
AUDREY
Well, the basic ideas were frequently his-
BARTON
You wrote Bill's scripts! Jesus Christ,
you wrote his - what about before that?
AUDREY
Before what?
BARTON
Before Bill came to Hollywood.
Audrey is clearly reluctant to travel this path.
AUDREY
Well, Bill was ALWAYS the author, so to
speak-
BARTON
What do you mean so to speak?! Audrey,
how long have you been his . . . secretary?
AUDREY
Barton, I think we should concentrate on
OUR little project-
BARTON
I want to know how many of Bill's books
you wrote!
AUDREY
Barton!
BARTON
I want to know!
AUDREY
Barton, honestly, only the last couple-
BARTON
Hah!
AUDREY
And my input was mostly . . . EDITORIAL,
really, when he'd been drinking-
BARTON
I'll bet. Jesus - "The grand productive
days." What a goddamn phony.
He resumes pacing.
. . . W.P. Mayhew. Willam Goddamn Phony
Mayhew. All his guff about escape. Hah!
I'LL say he escaped!
Barton sighs and looks at his watch.
. . . Well, we don't have much time.
He sits down next to Audrey. Audrey's tone is gentle.
AUDREY
It'll be fine . . . Don't judge him, Barton.
Don't condescend to him . . .
She strokes Barton's hair.
. . . It's not as simple as you think. I
helped Bill most by appreciating him, by
understanding him. We all need understanding,
Barton. Even you, tonight, it's all you
really need . . .
She kisses him.
As Barton tentatively responds, we are panning away.
We frame up on the door to the bathroom and track in toward the sink. We
can hear the creak of bedsprings and Audrey and Barton's breath, becoming
labored.
The continuing track brings us up to and over the lid of the sink to frame
up its drain, a perfect black circle in the porcelain white.
We track up to the drain and are enveloped by it as the sound of lovemaking
mixes into the groaning of pipes.
BLACK
............................................................................
FADE IN
BARTON
The hum of a mosquito brings us out of the black and we are looking down at
Barton, in bed, asleep. It is dawn.
Barton's eyes snap open.
HIS POV
The white ceiling. A humming black speck flits across the white.
BARTON
Slowly, cautiously, he props himself up, his look following the sound of the
mosquito.
His gaze travels down and to one side and is arrested as the hum stops.
HIS POV
Audrey lies facing away on her side of the bed, half covered by a blanket.
BARTON
Gingerly, he reaches over and draws the blanket down Audrey's back.
HIS POV
The alabaster white of Audrey's back.
The mosquito is feeding on it.
EXTREME CLOSE ON BARTON'S EYES
Looking.
EXTREME CLOSE ON THE MOSQUITO
Swelling with blood.
WIDER
As Barton's hand comes through frame and slaps Audrey's back.
She doesn't react.
Barton draws his hand away. Audrey's back is smeared with blood.
ON BARTON
He looks at his hand.
HIS POV
His hand is dripping with blood. Too much blood.
BACK TO BARTON
Eyes wide, he looks down at the bed.
HIS POV
Blood seeps up into the sheet beneath the curve of Audrey's back.
BARTON
He pulls Audrey's shoulder.
AUDREY
She rolls onto her back. Her eyes are wide and lifeless.
Her stomach is nothing but blood. The top sheet, drawn to her waist is
drenched red and clings to her body.
BARTON
He screams.
He screams again.
We hear rapid and heavy footfalls next door, a door opening and closing,
and then a loud banging on Barton's door.
Barton's head spins towards the door. He is momentarily frozen.
Another knock.
Barton leaps to his feet and hurries to the door.
THE DOORWAY
Over Barton's shoulder as he cracks the door.
Charlie stands in the hall in his boxer shorts and a sleeveless tee.
CHARLIE
Are you all right?
Barton stares dumbly for a moment.
. . . Can I come in?
BARTON
No! . . . I'm fine. Thank you.
CHARLIE
Are you sure -
BARTON
No . . . no . . .
Barton is nodding as he shuts the door in Charlie's face.
He walks back into the room.
HIS POV
Audrey's corpse, in long shot, face up on the bed.
BARTON
He walks toward the bed, wheels before he reaches it, and starts back toward
the door.
He stops short and turns back again to the room. He averts his eyes - as it
happens, toward the secretary.
He walks stiffly over and sits, his back to Audrey.
CLOSE ON BARTON
As he sits in. He stares emptily down at the desk, in shock, totally shut
down. Behind him, we can see Audrey on the bed.
He stares for a long beat.
Strange, involuntary noises come from his throat. He is not in control.
Becoming aware of the noise he is making, he stops.
He lurches to his feet.
THE DOORWAY
As Barton enters, opens the door, and sticks his head out.
HALLWAY
Barton peers out the see if the coast is clear.
HIS POV
The long hallway.
In the deep background, Chet, the night clerk, is stooping in front of a
door to pick up a pair of shoes. Next to him is a castored shoe caddy.
All of the doorways between us and Chet are empty of shoes.
CHET
Close on him as, mid-stoop, he looks up.
CHET'S POV
Up the long hall. In the deep background a door is closing.
CHET
He pauses, then straightens up and puts the shoes on the shoe caddy. It
squeaks as he pushes it on down the hall.
BARTON'S ROOM
Barton stands at the door, listening to a very faint squeak. Eventually it
becomes inaudible.
He cracks the door again, looks out, and exits.
HALLWAY
Barton goes to Charlie's room and knocks.
Footfalls end as the door is cracked open.
CHARLIE
Barton. Are you all right?
BARTON
No . . . Can I come in?
CHARLIE
Why don't we go to your room-
BARTON
Charlie, I'm in trouble. You've
gotta help me.
Once again he is breathing hard.
Charlie steps out into the hall and shuts the door behind him.
CHARLIE
Get a grip on yourself, brother.
Whatever the problem is, we'll sort
it out.
BARTON
Charlie, I'm in trouble - something
horrible's happened - I've gotta call
the police . . .
Charlie leads him towards his room.
. . . Will you stay with me till they
get here?
CHARLIE
Don't worry about it, Barton. We can
sort it-
He is pushing Barton's door open, but Barton grabs an elbow to stop him.
BARTON
Before you go in - I didn't do this. I
don't know how it happened, but I didn't
. . . I want you to know that . . .
Charlie looks into his eyes. For a moment the two men stare at each other -
Charlie's look inquisitive, Barton's supplicating.
Finally, Charlie nods.
CHARLIE
Okay.
He turns and pushes open the door.
BARTON'S ROOM
The two men enter.
Barton lingers by the door. Charlie walks into the foreground to look off
toward the bed.
His eyes widen and he screams.
He turns and disappears into the bathroom. We hear vomiting, then the flush
of a toilet.
CHARLIE
Jesus . . . Jesus . . . Jesus have mercy . . .
His reaction has not encouraged Barton, who is more and more agitated.
Charlie emerges from the bathroom, sweating.
. . . Jesus, Barton, what the hell is this?
What're we gonna do?
BARTON
I've gotta call the police - or you could call
for me -
CHARLIE
Hold on -
BARTON
You gotta believe me -
CHARLIE
Hold on -
BARTON
I didn't do this, I did NOT do this -
CHARLIE
Hold on. Stop. Take a deep breath. Tell
me what happened.
BARTON
I don't know! I woke up, she was . . . God,
you gotta believe me!
Charlie, in spite of himself, is sneaking horrified glances back into the
room.
CHARLIE
I believe you, brother, but this don't look
good.
BARTON
We gotta call the police -
CHARLIE
Hold on. I said hold on, so hold on.
BARTON
Yeah.
CHARLIE
What do you think happened?
BARTON
I don't know! Maybe it was her . . . boyfriend.
I passed out. I don't know. Won't the police
be able to -
CHARLIE
Stop with the police! Wake up, friend! This does
not look good! They hang people for this!
BARTON
But I didn't do it - don't you believe me?
CHARLIE
I believe you - I KNOW you. But why should the
police?
Barton gives him a dumb stare.
. . . Did you . . . Barton, between you and me,
dis you have sexual intercourse?
Barton stares at Charlie. He swallows.
Charlie shakes his head.
Jesus . . . They can tell that . . .
BARTON
They GOTTA believe me, Charlie! They gotta have
mercy!
CHARLIE
You're in pictures, Barton. Even if you got
cleared eventually, this would ruin you.
He turns and starts toward the bed.
. . . Wait in the bathroom.
BATHROOM
Later. Barton, still in his underwear, sits leaning against the wall,
staring glassily at his feet.
From the other room we hear the creak of bedsprings and the sounds of bed
clothes being torn off.
Finally there is a last creak of bedsprings and the sound of Charlie
grunting under great weight.
We hear heavy footsteps approaching.
Barton looks up through the open bathroom door.
HIS POV
Charlie is groping for the front doorknob, cradling the sheet-swaddled body
in his arms.
BACK TO BARTON
His neck goes rubbery. His eyes roll up. His head lolls back to hit the
wall.
BLACK
Slap! Slap!
We are low on Charlie, who is following through on a slap and backing away,
having aroused Barton. Charlie is now wearing pants but is still in his
sleeveless tee, which has blood flecks across the belly.
CHARLIE
You passed out.
Barton looks groggily up.
BARTON
. . . Uh-huh . . . Where's Audrey?
CHARLIE
She's dead, Barton! If that was her name.
TRACKING IN ON BARTON
He stares at Charlie.
CHARLIE (off)
Barton, listen to me. You gotta act like
nothing's happened. Put this totally out
of your head. I know that's hard, but your
play from here on out is just to go about
business as usual. Give us some time to
sort this out . . .
Barton looks at his watch.
THE WATCH
7:45.
CHARLIE (off)
. . . Just put it out of you head . . .
TRACKING
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.
LIPNIK
Bart! So happy to see ya!
REVERSE
Pulling Barton, who is being escorted by Lou Breeze.
Barton is haggard, sunken eyes squinting against too much sun.
LIPNIK
Sit! Talk! Relax for a minute, then
talk! Drink?
As Barton sits:
BARTON
Yeah . . . rye whiskey?
LIPNIK
Boy! You writers! Work hard, play hard!
That's what I hear, anyway . . .
He laughs, then barks at Lou Breeze.
. . . Lou.
Lou exits.
LIPNIK
Anyway. Ben Geisler tells me things're
going along great. Thimks 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 lips.
BARTON
Yeah, okay . . . well . . . we fade in . . .
Lipnik is nodding, already involved in the story.
. . . It's a tenement building. On the
Lower East Side . . .
LIPNIK
Great! He's poor, this wrestler! He's
had to struggle!
BARTON
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?
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 drik, which he sets next to Barton. Lou sits.
Barton looks around, takes the drink, sips at it greedily, but must finally
take the plunge.
BARTON
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 long beat.
Lou Breeze clears his throat. He apparently feels obliged to fill the
silence.
LOU
. . . 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 at Lou.
There is a long silence, terribly heavy.
Finally, Lipnik explodes - at Lou.
LIPNIK
You lousy sonofabitch! You're telling this man -
this ARTIST - what to do?!
Lou Breeze is stunned.
LOU
Mr. Lipnik, I -
LIPNIK
This man creates for a living! He puts food
on your table and on mine! THANK him for it!
Thank him, you ugrateful sonofabitch! Thank
him or YOU'RE fired!
Barton is staring, aghast.
BARTON
Mr. Lipnik, that's not really necessar-
Lipnik, still staring at Lou, gives no sign of hearing Barton. He rises
and points.
LIPNIK
Get down on your knees, you sonofabitch! Get
down on your knees and kiss this man's feet!
LOU
Mr. Lipnik, please -
BARTON
I - Mr. Lipnik -
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 tp his feet and stumbles away.
BARTON
Mr. Lipnik, I -
LIPNIK
I apologize, Barton.
BARTON
No no, Mr. Breeze has actually been a great
help -
LIPNIK
You don't have to cover for him. It's noble
of you, but these things happen in business.
BARTON
Mr. Lipnik, I really would feel much better
if you could reconsider -
LIPNIK
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 feet.
. . . On behalf of Capitol Pictures, the
administration, and all a the stockholders,
please accept this as a symbol of our apology
and respect.
BARTON'S POV
Lipnik kisses his shoe and looks up at him.
Behind Lipnik the pool glitters.
BARTON'S ROOM
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 fareground, the only motion in the scene: A bead of
tavky yelow wall-sweat dribbles down the near wall.
Sience, then the thumping repeats, resolving itself to a knock at the door.
Barton rises slowly and crosses to the door.
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.
CHARLIE
Barton. Can I come in?
Barton stands back from the door and Charlie picks up his briefcase and
enters.
THE ROOM
As the two men enter.
BARTON
Jesus . . . You're leaving.
CHARLIE
Have to, old timer. Just for a while.
Barton sounds desparate:
BARTON
Jesus, Charlie, I . . .
CHARLIE
Everything's okay, believe me. I know
it's rough mentally, but everything's
taken care of.
BARTON
Charlie! I've got no one else here!
You're the only person I know in Los
Angeles . . .
He starts weeping
. . . that I can talk to.
Charlie, also disturbed and unhappy, wraps both arms around Barton.
Barton sobs unashamedly into his shoulder. Charlie is somber.
CHARLIE
It's okay . . . It's okay . . .
BARTON
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. I just . . .
His breath comes in short gasping heaves.
. . . I just don't know what . . .
to do -
CHARLIE
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 out.
BARTON
Yeah, but Charlie -
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 for
me?
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.
Still snuffling:
BARTON
Sure, Charlie.
CHARLIE
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 of pathetic.
Wallowing in self-pity:
BARTON
It's more than I've got.
CHARLIE
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:
BARTON
Thanks, Charlie.
Charlie solemnly thrusts out his hand.
CHARLIE
Yeah, well, see you soon, friend. You're
gonna be fine.
Barton shakes. As they walk to the door:
BARTON
You'll be back?
CHARLIE
Don't worry about that, compadre. I'll
be back.
Barton shuts the door behind Charlie, locks it, and turns around.
HIS POV
The room. The bed. The blood-stained mattress.
Barton wlaks 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 some-
thing 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 child.
HIGH WIDE SHOT
Barton weeping, alone on the bed, next to the rust-colored stain.
FADE OUT
FADE IN
BATHING BEAUTY
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.
BARTON
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.
HIS POV
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.
BARTON
Staring at the passage. His mouth hangs open.
THE BIBLE
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.
BARTON
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 fairly dim.
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.
BARTON
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.
ELEVATOR
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.
BARTON
. . . You read the Bible, Pete?
PETE
Holy Bible?
BARTON
Yeah.
PETE
I think so . . . Anyway, I've heard
about it.
Barton nods.
They ride for a beat.
LOBBY
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 other short.
POLICEMAN
Fink?
BARTON
Yeah.
POLICEMAN 2
Detective Mastrionotti.
POLICEMAN 1
Detective Deutsch.
MASTRIONOTTI
L.A.P.D.
BARTON
Uh-huh.
All three sit in ancient maroon swing chairs. Mastrionotti perches on the
edge of his chair; Deutsch slumps back in the shadows, studying Barton.
DEUTSCH
Got a couple questions to ask ya.
MASTRIONOTTI
What do you do, Fink?
Still hoarse:
BARTON
I write.
DEUTSCH
Oh yeah? What kind of write?
BARTON
Well as a matter of fact, I write for
the pictures.
MASTRIONOTTI
Big fuckin' deal.
DEUTSCH
You want my partner to kiss your ass?
MASTRIONOTTI
Would that be good enough for ya?
BARTON
No, I - I didn't mean to sound -
DEUTSCH
What DID you mean?
BARTON
I - I've got respect for - for working
guys, like you -
MASTRIONOTTI
Jesus! Ain't that a load off! You live
in 605?
BARTON
Yeah.
DEUTSCH
How long you been up there, Fink?
BARTON
A week, eight, nine days -
MASTRIONOTTI
Is this multiple choice?
BARTON
Nine days - Tuesday -
DEUTSCH
You know this slob?
He is holding a small black-and-white photograph out toward Barton.
There is a long beat as Barton studies the picture.
BARTON
. . . Yeah, he . . . he lives next
door to me.
MASTRIONOTTI
That's right, Fink, he lives next door
to you.
DEUTSCH
Ever talk to him?
BARTON
. . . Once or twice. His name is Charlie
Meadows.
MASTRIONOTTI
Yeah, and I'm Buck Rogers.
DEUTSCH
His name is Mundt. Karl Mundt.
MASTRIONOTTI
Also known as Madman Mundt.
DEUTSCH
He's a little funny in the head.
BARTON
What did . . . What did he -
MASTRIONOTTI
Funny. As in, he likes to ventilate
people with a shotgun and then cut their
heads off.
DEUTSCH
Yeah, he's funny that way.
BARTON
I . . .
MASTRIONOTTI
Started in Kansas City. Couple of
housewives.
DEUTSCH
Couple of days ago we see the same M.O.
out in Los Feliz.
MASTRIONOTTI
Doctor. Ear, nose and throat man,.
DEUTSCH
All of which he's now missin'.
MASTRIONOTTI
Well, some of his throat was there.
DEUTSCH
Physician, heal thyself.
MASTRIONOTTI
Good luck with no fuckin' head.
DEUTSCH
Anyway.
MASTRIONOTTI
Hollywood precinct finds another stiff
yesterday. Not too far from here. This
one's better looking than the doc.
DEUTSCH
Female caucasian, thirty years old. Nice
tits. No head. You ever see Mundt with
anyone meets that description?
MASTRIONOTTI
But, you know, with the head still on.
BARTON
. . . No. I never saw him with anyone
else.
DEUTSCH
So. You talked to Mundt, what about?
BARTON
Nothing, really. Said he was in the insurance
business.
Deutsch indicates Mastrionotti.
DEUTSCH
Yeah, and he's Buck Rogers.
MASTRIONOTTI
No reputable company would hire a guy like
that.
BARTON
Well that's what he said.
DEUTSCH
What else?
BARTON
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.
MASTRIONOTTI
Ya know, Fink, ordinarily we say anything you
might remember could be helpful. But I'll be
frank with you: That is not helpful.
DEUTSCH
Ya see how he's not writing it down?
MASTRIONOTTI
Fink. That's a Jewish name, isn't it?
BARTON
Yeah.
Mastrionotti gets to his feet, looking around the lobby.
MASTRIONOTTI
Yeah, I didn't think this dump was
restricted.
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 totally
idiotic.
BARTON'S ROOM
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.
DISSOLVE THROUGH TO:
REVERSE
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.
ANOTHER ANGLE
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.
THE DOORWAY
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.
FADE OUT
HALLWAY
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.
We hold.
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.
FADE OUT
Over the black we hear the distant sound of a woman's voice, tinny and
indistict.
WOMAN
Just a minute and I'll connect you . . .
FADE IN
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:
BARTON
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.
VOICE
. . . Hello.
BARTON
Garland, it's me.
GARLAND
Barton? What time is it? Are you all
right?
BARTON
Yeah, I'm fine, Garland - I have to talk
to you. I'm calling long distance.
GARLAND
Okay.
Muffled, we hear Garlend speaking to someone else.
. . . It's Barton. Calling long distance.
Back into the receiver:
. . . What is it Barton? Are you okay?
BARTON
I'm fine, garland, but I have to talk with
you.
GARLAND
Go ahead, son.
BARTON
It's about what I'm writing, Garland. It's
really . . . I think it's really big.
GARLAND
What do you mean, Barton?
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.
GARLAND
Well, I'm . . . glad to hear that -
BARTON
Very important, Garland. I just thought you
should know that. Whatever happens.
GARLAND
. . . That's fine.
BARTON
Have you read the Bible, Garland?
GARLAND
. . . Barton, is everything okay?
BARTON
Yes . . . Isn't it?
GARLAND
Well, I'm just asking. You sound a
little -
Guardedly:
BARTON
Sound a little what?
GARLAND
Well, you just . . . sound a little -
Bitterly:
BARTON
Thanks, Garland. Thanks for all the
encouragement.
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.
BARTON
. . . Nitwit.
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:
p-o-s-t-c-a-r-d-.
The carriage returns a couple of times and T-H-E--E-N-D is typed in.
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:
THE BURLYMAN
A Motion Picture Scenario
By
Barton Fink
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.
USO HALL
We are booming down to the dance floor as a raucous band plays an up-tempo
number.
BARTON
Dancing animatedly, almost maniacally, his fingers jabbing the air.
The hall is crowded, but Barton is one of few men not in uniform.
USO GIRL
Giggling, dancing opposite Barton.
GIRL
You're cute!
BARTON
Caught up in his dancing, oblivious to the girl.
A white uniformed arm reaches in to tap Barton on the shoulder.
SAILOR
'Scuse me, buddy, mind if I cut in?
Barton glares at him.
BARTON
This is MY dance, sailor!
SAILOR
C'mon buddy, I'm shipping out tomorrow.
For some reason, Barton is angry.
BARTON
I'm a writer! Celebrating the completion
of something GOOD! Do you understand
that, sailor? I'm a WRITER!
His bellowing has drawn onlookers' attention.
VOICES
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.
BARTON
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 on.
HOTEL HALLWAY
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:
PETE
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.
BARTON'S POV
Mastrionotti is sitting on the edge of the bed reading Barton's manuscript.
Deutsch stands in front of the desk staring at the bathing beauty.
MASTRIONOTTI
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 writer.
DEUTSCH
I dunno, Duke. I kinda liked it.
BARTON
Keep your filthy eyes off that.
Deutsch turns toward Barton and throws a folded newspaper at him.
DEUTSCH
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.
MASTRIONOTTI
Second one of your friends to end