Barton Fink Page #9

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THE TYPEWRITER:

Barton enters frame and sits down in front of the typewriter.

HIS POV:

Next to the typewriter are several crumpled pieces of paper.

The page in the carriage reads:

FADE IN:

A tenement hotel on the Lower East Side. We can faintly

hear the cry of the fishmongers. It is too early for us

to hear traffic; later, perhaps, we will.

BACK TO BARTON:

Looking down at the page.

CLOSE ON BARTON'S FEET

Swinging in the legwell.

One foot idly swings over to nudge a pair of nicely shined shoes from where

they rest, under the secretary, into the legwell.

We hear typing start.

THE PAGE:

A new paragraph being started: "A large man . . . "

BARTON'S FEET

As he slides them into the shoes.

THE PAGE:

"A large man in tights . . . "

The typing stops.

BARTON:

Looking quizzically at the page. What's wrong?

HIS FEET:

Sliding back and forth - swimming - in his shoes, which are several sizes

too large.

We hear a knock at the door.

BARTON:

He rises and answers the door.

Charlie stands smiling in the doorway, holding a pair of nicely shined

shoes.

CHARLIE:

I hope these are your shoes.

BARTON:

Hi, Charlie.

CHARLIE:

Because that would mean they gave you

mine.

BARTON:

Yeah, as a matter of fact they did.

Come on in.

The two stocking-footed men go into the room and Barton reaches under the

secretary for Charlie's shoes.

CHARLIE:

Jesus, what a day I've had. Ever had

one of those days?

BARTON:

Seems like nothing but, lately.

Chalrie perches on the edge of the bed.

CHARLIE:

Jesus, what a day. Felt like I couldn't've

sold ice water in the Sahara. Jesus. Okay,

so you don't want insurance, so okay, that's

your loss. But God, people can be rude. Feel

like I have to talk to a normal person like

just to restore a little of my . . .

BARTON:

Well, my pleasure. I could use a little lift

myself.

CHARLIE:

A little lift, yeah . . .

Smiling, he takes out his flask.

. . . Good thing they bottle it, huh pal?

He takes a glass from the bedstand and, as he pours Barton a shot:

. . . Did I say rude? People can be goddamn

cruel. Especially some of their housewives.

Okay, so I've got a weight problem. That's

my cross to bear. I dunno . . .

BARTON:

Well it's . . . it's a defense mechanism.

CHARLIE:

Defense against what? Insurance? Something

they need? Something they should be thanking

me for offering? A little peace of mind? . . .

He shakes his head.

. . . Finally decided to knock off early, take

your advice. Went to see a doctor about this.

He indicates his ear, still stuffed with cotton.

. . . He told me it was an ear infection. Ten

dollars, please. I said, hell, I told YOU my

ear was infected. Why don't YOU give ME ten

dollars? Well, THAT led to an argument . . .

He gives a rueful chuckle.

. . . Listen to me belly-achin'. As if my

problems amounted to a hill of beans. How goes

the life of the mind?

BARTON:

Well, it's been better. I can't seem to get

going on this thing. That one idea, the one

that lets you get started - I still haven't

gotten it. Maybe I only had one idea in me -

my play. Maybe once that was done, I was done

being a writer. Christ, I feel like a fraud,

sitting here staring at this paper.

CHARLIE:

Those two love-birds next door drivin' you

nuts?

Barton looks at him curiously.

BARTON:

How did you know about that?

CHARLIE:

Know about it? I can practically see how

they're doin' it. Brother, I wish I had a

piece of that.

BARTON:

Yeah, but -

CHARLIE:

Seems like I hear everything that goes on in

this dump. Pipes or somethin'. I'm just glad

I don't have to ply MY trade in the wee-wee

hours.

He laughs.

. . . Ah, you'll lick this picture business,

believe me. You've got a head on your shoulders.

What is it they say? Where there's a head, there's

a hope?

BARTON:

Where there's life there's hope.

Charlie laughs.

CHARLIE:

That proves you really are a writer!

Barton smiles.

BARTON:

And there's hope for you too, Charlie.

Tomorrow I bet you sell a half-dozen

policies.

CHARLIE:

Thanks, brother. But the fact is, I gotta

pull up stakes temporarily.

BARTON:

You're leaving?

CHARLIE:

In a few days. Out to your stompin' grounds

as a matter of fact - New York City. Things

have gotten all balled up at the Head Office.

BARTON:

I'm truly sorry to hear that, Charlie. I'll

miss you.

CHARLIE:

Well hell, buddy, don't pull a long face! This

is still home for me - I keep my room, and I'll

be back sooner or later . . .

Barton rises and walks over to his writing table.

. . . And - mark my words - by the time I get

back you're picture'll be finished. I know it.

Barton scribbles on a notepad and turns to hand it to Charlie.

BARTON:

New York can be pretty cruel to strangers,

Charlie. If you need a home-cooked meal you

just look up Morris and Lillian Fink. They

live on Fulton Street with my uncle Dave.

We hear a tacky, tearing sound.

Barton looks toward the door.

Charlie rises and walks over to the stand next to where Barton sits.

the two staring men form an odd, motionless tableau - the slight,

bespectacled man seated; the big man standing in a hunch with his hands on

his thighs; their heads close together.

THEIR POV:

A swath of wallpaper in the entryway has pulled away from the wall. It sags

and nods.

CHARLIE (off)

Christ!

THE TWO MEN:

Frozen, looking.

CHARLIE:

. . . Your room does that too?

BARTON:

I guess the heat's sweating off the

wallpaper.

CHARLIE:

What a dump . . .

He heads for the door and Barton follows.

. . . I guess it seems pathetic to a

guy like you.

BARTON:

Well . . .

CHARLIE:

Well it's pathetic, isn't it? I mean

to a guy from New York.

BARTON:

What do you mean?

CHARLIE:

This kind of heat. It's pathetic.

BARTON:

Well, I guess you pick your poison.

CHARLIE:

So they say.

BARTON:

Don't pick up and leave without saying

goodbye.

CHARLIE:

Course not, compadre. You'll see me again.

Barton closes the door.

He goes back to the desk, sits, and stares at the typewriter. After a beat

he tips back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling.

We hear a loud thump.

HIS POV:

The ceiling - a white, seamless space.

As we track in the thumping continues - slowly, rhythmically, progressively

louder - the effect, it seems, of odd doings upstairs.

LOOKING DOWN ON BARTON

From a high angle, tipped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

We track slowly down toward him. The thumping continues, growing louder,

sharper.

HIS POV:

Moving in on the ceiling. We close in on an unblemished area and cease to

have any sense of movement.

With a blur something huge and dark sweeps across the frame to land with a

deafening crash, and an instant later it is gone, having left a huge black

"T" stamped into the white ceiling.

We are pulling back from the white, past the metal prongs of the key-strike

area on a typewriter. More letters appear rapid-fire, growing smaller as

the pull back continues. The thumpimg becomes the clacking of the

typewriter.

BEN GEISLER:

is emerging from his office.

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