Barton Fink Page #10

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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 sh*t! 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 sh*t

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 b*tches! 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-

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