Barton Fink Page #6

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He quickly straightens and goes to the sink. He starts washing his hands.

We hear the stall door being unlatched.

Barton glances over his shoulder.

HIS POV:

The stall door opening.

BARTON:

Quickly, self-consciously, he looks back down at his hands.

HIS POV:

His hands writhing under the running water. We hear footsteps approaching.

BARTON:

Forcing himself to look at his hands. We hear the man reach the adjacent

sink and turn on the tap.

Barton can't help glancing up.

THE MAN:

A dapper little man in a neat blue serge suit. He has warm brown eyes, a

patrician nose, and a salt-and-pepper mustache. He smiles pleasantly at

Barton.

BARTON:

He gives a nervous smile - more like a tic - and looks back down at his

hands. We hear the man gargling water and spitting into the sink.

After a moment, Barton looks up again.

THE MAN:

Reacting to barton's look as he washes his hands. This time, a curt nod

accompanies his pleasant smile.

BARTON:

Looks back down, then up again.

THE MAN:

Extends a dripping hand.

MAN:

Bill Mayhew. Sorry about the odor.

His speech is softly accented, from the South.

BARTON:

Barton Fink.

They shake, then return to their ablutions.

We hold on Barton as we hear Mayhew's faucet being turned off and his foot-

steps receding. For some reason, Barton's eyes are widening.

BARTON:

. . . Jesus. W.P.!

The dapper little man stops and turns.

MAYHEW:

I beg your pardon?

BARTON:

W.P. Mayhew? The writer?

MAYHEW:

Just Bill, please.

Barton stands with his back to the sink, facing the little man, his hands

dripping onto the floor. There is a short pause. Barton is strangely

agitated, his voice halting but urgent.

BARTON:

Bill! . . .

Mayhew c*cks his head with a politely patient smile. Finally Barton brings

out:

. . . You're the finest novelist of our

time.

Mayhew leans against a stall.

MAYHEW:

Why thank you, son, how kind. Bein' occupied

here in the worship of Mammon, I haven't had

the chance yet to see your play -

He smiles at Barton's surprise.

. . . Yes, Mistuh Fink, some of the news

reaches us in Hollywood.

He is taking out a flask and unscrewing its lid.

BARTON:

Sir, I'm flattered that you even recognize

my name. My God, I had no idea you were

in Hollywood.

MAYHEW:

All of us undomesticated writers eventually

make their way out here to the Great Salt

Lick. Mebbe that's why I allus have such

a powerful thrust.

He clears his throat, takes a swig from the flask, and waves it at Barton.

. . . A little social lubricant, Mistuh Fink?

BARTON:

It's still a little early for me.

MAYHEW:

So be it.

He knocks back some more.

BARTON:

. . . Bill, if I'm imposing you should say

so, I know you're very busy - I just, uh

. . . I just wonder if I could ask you a

favor . . . That is to say, uh . . . have

you ever written a wrestling picture?

Mayhew eyes him appraisingly, and at length clears his throat.

MAYHEW:

. . . You are drippin', suh.

Barton looks down at his hands, then pulls a rough brown paper towel from

a dispenser.

Mayhew sighs:

. . . Mistuh Fink, they have not invented a

genre of picture that Bill Mayhew has not, at

one time or othuh, been invited to essay. I

have taken my stabs at the wrastlin' form, as

I have stabbed at so many others, and with as

little success. I gather that you are a fresh-

man here, eager for an upperclassman's council.

However, just at the moment . . .

He waves his flask.

. . . I have drinkin' to do. Why don't you stop

at my bungalow, which is numbah fifteen, later

on this afternoon . . .

He turns to leave.

. . . and we will discuss wrastlin' scenarios and

other things lit'rary.

THE NUMBER "15"

We are close on brass numerals tacked up on a white door.

Muted, from inside, we hear Mayhew's voice - enraged, bellowing. We hear

things breaking. Softer, we hear a woman's voice, its tone placating.

REVERSE TRACKING SLOWLY IN

on Barton, standing in front of the door.

The noise abates for a moment. We hear the woman's voice again.

Barton hesitates, listening; he thinks, decides, knocks.

With this the woman's voice stops, and Mayhew starts wailing again.

The door cracks open.

The woman looks as if she has been crying.

WOMAN:

. . . Can I help you?

BARTON:

I'm sorry, I . . . My name is Fink . . . Uh,

Bill asked me to drop by this afternoon. Is

he in?

WOMAN:

Mr. Mayhew is indisposed at the moment -

From inside, we hear Mayhew's wail.

MAYHEW:

HONEY!! WHERE'S M'HONEY!!

The woman glances uncomfortably over her shoulder and steps outside, closing

the door behind her.

WOMAN:

Mr. Fink, I'm Audrey Taylor, Mr. Mayhew's

personal secretary. I know this all must

sound horrid. I really do apologize . . .

Through the door Mayhew is still wailing piteously.

BARTON:

Is, uh . . . Is he okay?

AUDREY:

He will be . . . When he can't write, he

drinks.

MAYHEW:

WHERE ARE YOU, DAMMIT! WHERE'S M'HONEY!!

She brushes a wisp of hair out of her eyes.

AUDREY:

I am sorry, it's so embarassing.

BARTON:

How about you? Will you be alright?

AUDREY:

I'll be fine . . . Are you a writer,

Mr Fink?

BARTON:

Yes I am. I'm working on a wres - please

call me Barton.

Audrey reaches out and touches Barton's hand.

AUDREY:

I'll tell Bill you dropped by. I'm sure

he'll want to reschedule your appointment.

BARTON:

Perhaps you and I could get together at some

point also. -I'm sorry if that sounds abrupt.

I just . . . I don't know anyone here in this

town.

Audrey smile at him.

AUDREY:

Perhaps the three of us, Mr. Fink.

BARTON:

Please, Barton

AUDREY:

Barton. You see, Barton, I'm not just Bill's

secretary - Bill and I are . . . i love. We-

MAYHEW'S VOICE

M'HONEY!! WHERE'S M'HONEY!!

Audrey glances back as we hear the sound of shattering dishes and heavy

footsteps.

BARTON:

I see.

AUDREY:

. . . I know this must look . . . funny.

BARTON:

No, no -

Hurriedly:

AUDREY:

We need each other. We give each other . . . the

things we need -

VOICE:

M'HONEY!! . . . bastard-ass sons of b*tches . . .

the water's lappin' up . . . M'HONEY!!

AUDREY:

I'm sorry, Mr. Fink. Please don't judge us.

Please . . .

Flustered, she backs away and closes the door.

CLOSE ON A SMALL WRAPPED PACKAGE

Hand-printed on the package is the message:

Hope these will turn the trick, Mr. Fink.

- Chet!

The wrapping is torn away and the small box is opened.

Two thumbtacks are taken out.

BARTON'S HOTEL ROOM

Late at night. The swath of wallpaper behind the bed has sagged away from

the wall again, and has been joined by the swath next to it.

Barton enters frame and steps up onto the bed.

He smooths up the first swath and pushes in a thumbtack near the top.

EXTREME CLOSE SHOT

On the tack. As Barton applies pressure to push it in, tacky yellow goo

oozes out of the puncture hole and beads around the tack.

ON BARTON:

Smoothing up the second swath.

As he pushes in the second tack he pauses, listening.

Muffled, through the wall, we can hear a woman moaning.

after a motionless beat, Barton eases his ear against the wall.

CLOSE ON BARTON:

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