Barton Fink Page #17

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HIS POV:

Charlie is charging down the hallway, holding his shotgun loosely in front

of his chest, in double-time position. The fire races along with him.

He is bellowing:

CHARLIE:

LOOK UPON ME! I'LL SHOW YOU THE LIFE

OF THE MIND! I'LL SHOW YOU THE LIFE

OF THE MIND!

DEUTSCH:

Terrified, he turns and runs.

REVERSE PULLING DEUTSCH

As he rund down the flaming hallway, pursued by flames, smoke, and Karl

Mundt - who, also on the run, levels his shotgun.

BOOM!

PUSHING DEUTSCH:

His legs and feet spout blood, paddle futilely at the air, then come down in

a twisting wobble, like a car on blown tires, and pitch him helplessly to

the floor.

PULLING CHARLIE:

He slows to a trot and cracks open the shotgun.

PUSHING DEUTSCH:

Weeping and dragging himself forward on his elbows.

PULLING CHARLIE:

He slows to a walk.

BARTON'S ROOM

Barton strains at his handcuffs.

HIS POV:

Through the open doorway we see Charlie pass, pushing two shells into his

shotgun.

PULLING DEUTSCH:

Charlie looms behind him and - THWACK - snaps the shotgun closed.

Deutsch rolls over to rest on his elbows, facing Charlie.

Charlie primes the shotgun - CLACK.

He presses both barrels against the bridge of Deutsh's nose.

CHARLIE:

Heil Hitler.

DEUTSCH:

Screams

CHARLIE:

Tightens a finger over both triggers. He squeezes.

BLAM.

TRACK IN ON BARTON

He flinches.

The gunshot echoes away.

Barton strains at the handcuffs.

We hear Charlie's footsteps approach - slowly, heavily.

THE DOORWAY:

Charlie, walking down the hall, glances in and seems mildly surprised to see

Barton. The set of his jaw relaxes. His expression softens. He pushes his

hat farther back on his head.

CHARLIE:

Barton!

He shakes is head and whistles.

. . . Brother, is it hot.

He walks into the room.

BARTON'S ROOM

As Charlie wearily enters.

CHARLIE:

How you been, buddy?

He props the shotgun in a corner and sits facing Barton, who stared at him.

. . . Don't look at me like that, neighbor.

It's just me - Charlie.

BARTON:

I hear it's Mundt. Madman Mundt.

Charlie reaches a flask from his pocket.

CHARLIE:

Jesus, people can be cruel . . .

He takes a long draught from his flask, then gives a haunted stare.

. . . if it's not my build, it's my

personality.

Charlie is perspiring heavily. The fire rumbles in the hallway.

. . . They say I'm a madman, Barton,

but I'm not mad at anyone. Honest I'm

not. Most guys I just feel sorry for.

Yeah. It tears me up inside, to think

about what they're going through. How

trapped they are. I understand it. I

feel for 'em. So I try and help them

out . . .

He reached up to loosen his tie and pop his collar button.

. . . Jesus. Yeah. I know what it feels

like, when things get all balled up at the

head office. It puts you through hell,

Barton. So I help people out. I just wish

someone would do as much for me . . .

He stares miserably down at his feet.

. . . Jesus it's hot. Sometimes it gets so

hot, I wanna crawl right out of my skin.

Self-pity:

BARTON:

But Charlie - why me? Why -

CHARLIE:

Because you DON'T LISTEN!

A tacky yellow fluid is dripping from Charlie's left ear and running down

his cheek.

. . . Jesus, I'm dripping again.

He pulls some cotton from his pocket and plugs his ear.

. . . C'mon Barton, you think you know

about pain? You think I made your life

hell? Take a look around this dump.

You're just a tourist with a typewriter,

Barton. I live here. Don't you understand

that . . .

His voice is becoming choked.

. . . And you come into MY home . . . And

you complain that I'M making too . . .

much . . . noise.

He looks up at Barton.

There is a long silence.

Finally:

BARTON:

. . . I'm sorry.

Wearily:

CHARLIE:

Don't be.

He rises to his feet and kneels in front of Barton at the foot of the bed.

The two men regard each other.

Charlie grabs two bars of the footboard frame, still staring at Barton. His

muscles tighten, though nothing moves. His neck fans with effort. All of

his muscles tense. His face is a reddening grimace.

With a shriek of protest, the metal gives. The bar to which Barton is

handcuffed had com loose at the top and Barton slides the cuff off it, free.

Charlie gets to his feet.

CHARLIE:

I'm getting off the merry-go-round.

He takes his shotgun and walks to the door.

. . . I'll be next door if you need me.

A thought stops him at the door and he turns to face Barton. Behind him the

hallwya blazes.

. . . Oh, I dropped in on your folks.

And Uncle Dave?

He smiles. Barton looks at him dumbly.

. . . Good people. By the way, that package

I gave you? I lied. It isn't mine.

He leaves.

Barton rises, picks up Charlie's parcel, and his script.

THE HALLWAY:

As Barton emerges. Flames lick the walls, causing the wallpaper to run with

the tack glue sap. Smoke fills the hallway. Barton looks down the hall.

HIS POV:

Charlie stands in front of the door to his room, his briefacse dangling from

one hand, his other hand fumbling in his pocket for his key.

With his hat pushed back on his head and his shoulders slumped with fatigue,

he could be any drummer returning to any hotel after a long hard day on the

road.

He opens the door and goes into his room.

BACK TO BARTON:

He turns and walks up the hallway, his script in one hand, the parcel in the

other.

A horrible moaning sound - almost human - can be heard under the roar of the

fire.

BLACKNESS:

STUDIO HALLWAY:

We are tracking laterally across the lobby of an executive building. From

offscreen we hear:

BARTON:

Fink! Morris or Lillian Fink! Eighty-

five Fulton Street!

Filtered through phone:

OPERATOR:

I understand that, sir -

BARTON:

Or Uncle Dave!

Our track has brought Barton into frame in the foreground, unshaven,

unkempt, bellowing into the telephone. In a hallway in the background, a

secretary gestures for Barton to hurry up.

OPERATOR:

I understand that, sir, but there's still

no answer. Shall I check for trouble on the

line?

Barton slams down the phone.

LIPNIK'S OFFICE

Barton enters, still clinging on to Charlie's parcel.

Lou Breeze stands in one corner censoriously watching Barton. Lipnik is at

the far end of the room, gazing out the window.

LIPNIK:

Fink.

BARTON:

Mr. Lipnik.

LIPNIK:

Colonel Lipnik, if you don't mind.

He turns to face Barton amd we see that he is wearing a smartly pressed

uniform with a lot of fruit salad on the chest.

. . . Siddown.

Barton takes a seat facing Lipnik's desk.

. . . I was commissioned yesterday in the

Army Reserve. Henry Morgenthau arranged it.

He's a dear friend.

BARTON:

Congratulations.

LIPNIK:

Actually it hasn't officially gone through

yet. Had wardrobe whip this up. You gotta

pull teeth to get anything done in this town.

I can understand a little red tape in peacetime,

but now it's all-out warfare agaist the Japs.

Little yellow bastards. They'd love to see me

sit this one out.

BARTON:

Yes sir, they -

LIPNIK:

Anyway, I had Lou read your script for me.

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