Barton Fink Page #3

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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.

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