Barton Fink Page #4

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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.

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