Barton Fink Page #5

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CHARLIE:

I can see you feel pretty strongly about it.

BARTON:

Well, I don't mean to get up on my high horse, but why

shouldn't we look at ourselves up there? Who cares

about the Fifth Earl of Bastrop and Lady Higginbottom

and - and - and who killed Nigel Grinch-Gibbons?

CHARLIE:

I can feel my butt getting sore already.

BARTON:

Exactly, Charlie! You understand what I'm saying - a lot

more than some of these literary types. Because you're a

real man!

CHARLIE:

And I could tell you some stories -

BARTON:

Sure you could! And yet many writers do everything in

their power to insulate themselves from the common man -

from where they live, from where they trade, from where

they fight and love and converse and - and - and

. . . so naturally their work suffers, and regresses into

empty formalism and - well, I'm spouting off again, but to

put it in your language, the theater becomes as phony as a

three-dollar bill.

CHARLIE:

Yeah, I guess that's tragedy right there.

BARTON:

Frequently played, seldom remarked.

Charlie laughs.

CHARLIE:

Whatever that means.

Barton smile with him.

BARTON:

You're all right, Charlie. I'm glad you stopped by. I'm

sorry if - well I know I sometimes run on.

CHARLIE:

Hell no! Jesus, I'm the kind of guy, I'll let you know if

I'm bored. I find it all pretty damned intersting. I'm the

kind schmoe who's generally interested in the other guy's

point of view.

BARTON:

Well, we've got something in common then.

Charlie is getting to his feet and walking to the door.

CHARLIE:

Well Christ, if there's any way I can contribute, or help,

or whatever -

Barton chuckles and extende his hand.

BARTON:

Sure, sure Charlie, you can help by just being yourself.

CHARLIE:

Well, I can tell you some stories -

He pumps Barton's hand, then turns and pauses in the doorway.

. . . And look, I'm sorry as hell about the interruption.

Too much revelry late at night, you forget there are other

people in the world.

BARTON:

See you, Charlie.

Charlie closes the door and is gone.

Barton goes back to his desk and sits.

Muffled, we can hear the door of the adjacent room opening and closing.

Barton looks at the wall.

HIS POV:

The bathing beauty.

From offscreen we hear a sticky, adhesive-giving-way sound.

BARTON:

He looks around to the opposite - bed - wall.

HIS POV:

The wallpaper is lightly sheened with moisture from the heat.

One swath of wallpaper is just finifhing sagging away from the wall. About

three feet of the wall, where it meets the ceiling, is exposed.

The strip of wallpaper, its glue apparently melted, sags and nods above the

bed. It glistens yellow, like a fleshy tropical flower.

BACK TO BARTON:

He goes over to the bed and steps up onto it. He smooths the wallpaper back

up against the wall.

He looks at his hand.

HIS HAND:

Sticky with tacky yellow wall sweat

He wipes it onto his shirt.

We hear a faint mosquito hum.

Barton looks around.

FADE OUT:

A TYPEWRITER:

Whirring at high speed. The keys strike too quickly for us to make out the

words.

SLOW TRACK IN:

On Barton, sitting on a couch in an office anteroom, staring blankly.

Distant phones ring. Barton's eyes are tired and bloodshot.

HIS POV:

A gargoyle secretary sits typing a document.

The office door opens in the background and a short middle-aged man in a

dark suit emerges.

To his secretary:

EXECUTIVE:

I'm eating on the lot today -

He notices Barton.

. . . Who's he?

The secretary looks over from her typing to consult a slip of paper on her

desk.

SECRETARY:

Barton Fink, Mr. Geisler.

GEISLER:

More please.

BARTON:

I'm a writer, Mr. Geisler. Ted Okum said I should

drop by morning to see you about the -

GEISLER:

Ever act?

BARTON:

. . . Huh? No, I'm -

GEISLER:

We need Indians for a Norman Steele western.

BARTON:

I'm a writer. Ted O -

GEISLER:

Think about it, Fink. Writers come and go; we

always need Indians.

BARTON:

I'm a writer. Ted Okum said you're producing

this Wallace Beery picture I'm working on.

GEISLER:

What!? Ted Okum doesn't know sh*t. They've

assigned me enough pictures for a gaddamn

year. What Ted Okum doesn't know you could

almost squeeze into the Hollywood Bowl.

BARTON:

Then who should I talk to?

Geisler gives a hostile stare. Without looking at her, he addresses the

secretary:

GEISLER:

Get me Lou Breeze.

He perches on the edge of the desk, an open hand out toward the secretary,

as he glares wordlessly at Barton.

After a moment:

SECRETARY:

Is he in for Mr. Geisler?

She puts the phone in Geisler's hand.

GEISLER:

Lou? How's Lipnik's ass smell this morning?

. . . Yeah?. . .Yeah?. . .Okay, the reason I'm

calling, I got a writer here, Fink, all screwy.

Says I'm producing that Wallace Beery wrestling

picture - what'm I, the goddamn janitor around

here? . . . Yeah, well who'd you get that from?

. . . Yeah, well tell Lipnik he can kiss my dimpled

ass . . . Sh*t! No, alright . . . No, no, all right.

Without looking he reaches the phone back. The secretary takes it

and cradles it.

. . . Okay kid, let's chow.

COMISSARY:

Barton and Geisler sit eating in a semicircular booth. Geisler

speaks through a mouthful of food:

GEISLER:

Don't worry about it. It's just a B picture. I bring

it in on budget, they'll book it without even screening

it. Life is too short.

BARTON:

But Lipnik said he wanted to look at the script, see

something by the end of the week.

GEISLER:

Sure he did. And he forgot about it before your ass

left his sofa.

BARTON:

Okay. I'm just having trouble getting started. It's

funny, I'm blocked up. I feel like I need some kind

of indication of . . . what's expected -

GEISLER:

Wallace Beery. Wrestling picture. What do you

need, a road map?

Geisler chews on his cottage cheese and stares at Barton.

. . . Look, you're confused? You need guidance? Talk

to another writer.

BARTON:

Who?

Geisler rises and throws his napkin onto his plate.

GEISLER:

Jesus, throw a rock in here, you'll hit one. And do

me a favor, Fink: Throw it hard.

COMISSARY MEN'S ROOM

Barton stands at a urinal.

He stares at the wall in front of him as he pees. After a moment, he c*cks

his head, listening.

We hear a throat clearing, as if by a tenor preparing for a difficult

passage. It is followed by the gurgling ruch of vomit.

Barton buttons his pants and turns to face the stalls.

There is more businesslike throat clearing.

Barton stoops.

HIS POV:

We boom down to show the blue serge pants and well-polished shoes of the

stall's kneeling occupant.

A white handkerchief has been spread on the floor to protect the trouser

knees.

The toilet flushes. The man rises, picks up his handkerchief up off the

floor and gives it a smart flap.

BARTON:

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