Barton Fink Page #13

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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.

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