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Barton Fink (1991)

by Joel Coen and Ethan Coen.
Winner PALME D'OR, Cannes 1991.

More info about this movie on IMDb.com


FOR EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES ONLY


FADE IN:
ON BARTON FINK

He is a bespectacled man in his thirties, hale but somewhat bookish.  He
stands, tuxedoed, in the wings of a theater, looking out at the stage,
listening intently to end of a performance.

In the shadows behind him an old stagehand leans against a flat,
expressionlessly smoking a cigarette, one hand on a thick rope that hangs
from the ceiling.

The voices of the performing actors echo in from the offscreen stage:

		ACTOR
	I'm blowin' out of here, blowin' for good.
	I'm kissin' it all goodbye, these four stinkin'
	walls, the six flights up, the el that roars
	by at three A.M. like a cast-iron wind.  Kiss
	'em goodbye for me, Maury!  I'll miss 'em -
	like hell I will!

		ACTRESS
	Dreaming again!

		ACTOR
	Not this time, Lil!  I'm awake now, awake
	for the first time in years.  Uncle Dave said
	it: Daylight is a dream if you've lived with
	your eyes closed.  Well my eyes are open now!
	I see that choir, and I know they're dressed
	in rags!  But we're part of that choir, both of
	us - yeah, and you, Maury, and Uncle Dave too!

		MAURY
	The sun's coming up, kid.  They'll be hawking
	the fish down on Fulton Street.

		ACTOR
	Let 'em hawk.  Let 'em sing their hearts out.

		MAURY
	That's it, kid.  Take that ruined choir.  Make it
	sing!

		ACTOR
	So long, Maury.

		MAURY
	So long.

We hear a door open and close, then approaching footsteps.  A tall, dark
sctor in a used tweed suit and carrying a beat-up valise passes in front of
Barton:

From offscreen stage:

		MAURY
	We'll hear from that kid.  And I don't mean a
	postcard.

The actor sets the valise down and then stands waiting int he shadows behind
Barton.

An older man in work clothes - not wardrobe - passes in front of Barton from
the other direction, pauses at the edge of the stage and cups his hands to
his mouth.

		OLDER MAN
	FISH!  FRESH FISH!

As the man walks back off the screen:

		LILY
	Let's spit on our hands and get to work.  It's
	late, Maury.

		MAURY
	Not any more Lil...

Barton mouths the last line in sync with the offscreen actor:

	...It's early.

With this the stagehand behind Barton furiously pulls the rope hand-over-
hand and we hear thunderous applause and shouts of "Bravo!"

As the stagehand finishes bringing the curtain down, somewhat muting the
applause, the backstage actor trots out of frame toward the stage.

The stagehand pulls on an adjacent rope, bringing the curtain back up and
unmuting the applause.

Barton Fink seems dazed.  He has been joined by two other men, both dressed
in tuxedos, both beaming toward the stage.



BARTON'S POV

Looking across a tenement set at the backs of the cast as the curtain rises
on the enthusiastic house.  The actors take their bows and the cry of
"Author, Author" goes up from the crowd.

The actors turn to smile at Barton in the wings.



BARTON

He hesitates, unable to take it all in.

He is gently nudged toward the stage by the two tuxedoed gentlemen.

As he exits toward the stage the applause is deafening.



TRACKING SHOT

Pushing a maitre 'd who looks back over his shoulder as he leads the way
through the restaurant.

		MAITRE 'D
	Your table is ready, Monsieur Fink...several members
	of your party have already arrived...



REVERSE

Pulling Barton

		FINK
	Is Garland Stanford here?

		MAITRE 'D
	He called to say he'd be a few minutes late...
	Ah, here we are...



TRACKING IN

Toward a large semi-circular booth.  Three guests, two me and a woman in
evening wear, are rising and beaming at Barton.  A fat middle-aged man, one
of the tuxedoed gentlemen we saw backstage, is moving out to let Barton
slide in.

		MAN
	Barton, Barton, so glad you could make it.  You know
	Richard St. Claire...

Barton nods and looks at the woman.

	...and Poppy Carnahan.  We're drinking champagne,
	dear boy, in honor of the occasion.  Have you seen
	the Herald?

Barton looks sullenly at his champagne glass as the fat man fills it.

		BARTON
	Not yet.

		MAN
	Well, I don't want to embarass you but Caven could
	hardly contain himself.  But more important, Richard and
	Poppy here loved the play.

		POPPY
	Loved it!  What power!

		RICHARD
	Yeah, it was a corker.

		BARTON
	Thanks, Richard, but I know for a fact the only fish
	you've ever seen were tacked to a the wall of the yacht
	club.

		RICHARD
	Ouch!

		MAN
	Bravo!  Nevertheless, we were all devastated.

		POPPY
	Weeping!  Copius tears!  What did the Herald say?

		MAN
	I happen to have it with me.

		BARTON
	Please Derek -

		POPPY
	Do read it, do!

		DEREK
	"Bare Ruined Choirs: Triumph of the Common Man.  The
	star of the Bare Ruined Choirs was not seen on the stage
	of the Belasco last night - though the thespians involved
	all acquitted themselves admirably.  The find of the evening
	was the author of this drama about simple folk - fish
	mongers, in fact - whose brute struggle for existence
	cannot quite quell their longing for something higher.  The
	playwright finds nobility in the most squalid corners and
	poetry in the most calloused speech.  A tough new voice in
	the American theater has arrived, and the owner of that
	voice is named . . . Barton Fink."

		BARTON
	They'll be wrapping fish in it in the morning so I guess
	it's not a total waste.

		POPPY
	Cynic!

		DEREK
	Well we can enjoy your success, Barton, even if you can't.

		BARTON
	Don't get me wrong - I'm glad it'll do well for you, Derek.

		DEREK
	Don't worry about me, dear boy - I want you to celebrate.

		BARTON
	All right, but I can't start listening to the critics, and I
	can't kis myself about my own work.  A writer writes from
	his gut, and his gut tells him what's good and what's...
	merely adequate.

		POPPY
	Well I don't pretend to be a critic, but Lord, I have a gut,
	and it tells me it was simply marvelous.

		RICHARD
	And a charming gut it is.

		POPPY
	You dog!

		RICHARD
		(baying)
	Aaa-woooooooo!

Barton turns to look for the source of an insistent jingling.  We swish pan
off him to find a busboy marching through the restaurant displaying a page
sign, bell attached, with Barton's name on it.



TRACKING IN TOWARD A BAR

A distinguished fifty-year-old gentleman in evening clothes is nursing a
martini, watching Barton approach.



PULLING BARTON

As he draws near.

		BARTON
	I thought you were going to join us.  Jesus, Garland, you
	left me alone with those people.

		GARLAND
	Don't panic, I'll join you in a minute.  What's you think of
	Richard and Poppy?

Barton scowls

		BARTON
	The play was marvelous.  She wept, copiously.  Millions of
	dollars and no sense.

Garland smiles, then draws Barton close.

		GARLAND
	We have to talk a little business.  I've just been on the
	phone to Los Angeles.  Barton, Capitol Pictures wants to
	put you under contract.  They've offered you a thousand
	dollars a week.  I think I can get them to go as high as
	two.

		BARTON
	To do what?

		GARLAND
	What do you do far a living?

		BARTON
	I'm not sure anymore.  I guess I try to make a difference.

		GARLAND
	Fair enough.  No pressure here, Barton, because I respect
	you, but let me point out a couple of things.  One, here
	you make a difference to five hundred fifty people a
	night - if the show sells out.  Eighty-five million people
	go to the pictures every week.

		BARTON
	To see pap.			GARLAND
	Yes, generally, to see pap.  However, point number two: A
	brief tenure in Hollywood could supprt you through the
	writing of any number of plays.

		BARTON
	I don't know, Garland; my place is here right now.  I feel
	I'm on the brink of success-

		GARLAND
	I'd say you're already enjoying some.

Barton leans earnestly forward.

		BARTON
	No, Garland, don't you see?  Not the kind of success where
	the critics fawn over you or the producers like Derek make
	a lot of money.  No, a real success - the success we've been
	dreaming about - the creation of a new, living theater of,
	about, and for the common man!  If I ran off to Hollywood
	now I'd be making money, going to parties, meeting
	the big shots, sure, but I'd be cutting myself off from the
	wellspring of that success, from the common man.

He leans back and chuckles ruefully.

	. . . I guess I'm sprouting off again.  But I am certain of
	this, Garland: I'm capable of more good work.  Maybe
	better work than I did in Choirs.  It just doesn't seem to
	me that Los Angeles is the place to lead the life of mind.

		GARLAND
	Okay Barton, you're the artist, I'm just the ten perceter.
	You decide what you want and I'll make it happen.  I'm
	only asking that your decision be informed by a little
	realism - if I can use that word and Hollywood in the
	same breath.

Barton glumly lights a cigarette and gazes out across the floor.  Garland
studies him.

	. . . Look, they love you, kid - everybody does.  You see
	Caven's review in the Herald?

		BARTON
	No, what did it say?

		GARLAND
	Take my copy.  You're the toast of Broadway and you have
	the opportunity to redeem that for a little cash - strike
	that, a lot of cash.

Garland looks at Barton for a reaction, but gets none.

	. . . The common man'll still be here when you get back.
	What the hell, they might even have one or two of 'em
	out in Hollywood.

Absently:

		BARTON
	. . . That's a rationalization, Garland.

Garland smiles gently.

		GARLAND
	Barton, it was a joke.

We hear a distant rumble.  It builds slowly and we cut to:



A GREAT WAVE

Crushing against the Pacific shore.

The roar of the surf slips away as we dissolve to:



HOTEL LOBBY

A high wide shot from the front door, looking down across wilting potted
palms, brass cuspidors turning green, ratty wing chairs; the fading decor
is deco-gone-to-seed.

Amber light, afternoon turning to evening, slopes in from behind us, washing
the derelict lobby with golden highlights.

Barton Fink enters frame from beneath the camera and stops in the middle
foreground to look across the lobby.

We are framed on his back, his coat and hat.  The lobby is empty.  There is
a suspended beat as Barton takes it in.

Barton moves toward the front desk.



THE REVERSE

As Barton stops at the empty desk.  He hits a small silver bell next to the
register.  Its ring-out goes on and on without losing volume.

After a long beat there is a dull scuffle of shoes on stairs.  Barton,
puzzled, looks around the empty lobby, then down at the floor behind the
front desk.



A TRAP DOOR

It swings open and a young man in a faded maroon uniform, holding a
shoebrush and a shoe - not one of his own - climbs up from the basement.

He closes the trap door, steps up to the desk and sticks his finger out to
touch the small silver bell, finally muting it.

The lobby is now silent again.

		CLERK
	Welcome to the Hotel Earle.  May I help you,
	sir?

		BARTON
	I'm checking in.  Barton Fink.

The clerk flips through cards on the desk.

		CLERK
	F-I-N-K.  Fink, Barton.  That must be you,
	huh?

		BARTON
	Must be.

		CLERK
	Okay then, everything seems to be in order.
	Everything seems to be in order.

He is turning to a register around for Barton to sign.

	. . . Are you a tranz or a rez?

		BARTON
	Excuse me?

		CLERK
	Transient or resident?

		BARTON
	I don't know...I mean, I'll be here, uh,
	indefinitely.

		CLERK
	Rez.  That'll be twenty-five fifty a week
	payable in advance.  Checkout time is twelve
	sharp, only you can forget that on account
	you're a rez.  If you need anything, anything
	at all, you dial zero on your personal in-room
	telephone and talk to me.  My name is Chet.

		BARTON
	Well, I'm going to be working here, mostly at
	night; I'm a writer.  Do you have room service?

		CLERK
	Kitchen closes at eight but I'm the night clerk.
	I can always ring out for sandwiches.

The clerk is scribbling something on the back of an index card.

	. . . Though we provide privacy for the
	residential guest, we are also a full service
	hotel including complimentary shoe shine.  My
	name Chet.

He pushes a room key across the counter on top of the index card.

Barton looks at the card.

On it: "CHET!"

Barton looks back up at the clerk.  They regard each other for a beat.

		CLERK
	. . . Okay

		BARTON
	Huh?

The clerk.

		CLERK
	Okey-dokey, go ahead.

		BARTON
	What -

		CLERK
	Don't you wanna go to your room?!

Barton stares at him.

		BARTON
	. . . What number is it?

The clerk stares back.

		CLERK
	. . . Six-oh-five.  I forgot to tell
	you.

As Barton stoops to pick up his two small bags:

	. . . Those your only bags?

		BARTON
	The others are being sent.

The clerk leans over the desk to call after him:

		CLERK
	I'll keep an eye out for them.  I'll
	keep my eyes peeled, Mr. Fink.

Barton is walking to the elevator.



ELEVATOR

Barton enters and sets down his bags.

An aged man with white stubble, wearing a greasy maroon uniform, sits on a
stool facing the call panel.  He does not acknowledge Barton's presence.

After a beat:

		BARTON
	. . . Six, please.

The elevator man gets slowly to his feet.  As he pushes the door closed:

		ELEVATOR MAN
	Next stop: Six.



SIXTH-FLOOR HALLWAY

Barton walks slowly toward us, examining the numbers on the doors.

The long, straight hallway is carpeted with an old stained forest green
carpet.  The wallpaper shows faded  yellowing palm trees.

Barton sticks his key in the lock of a door midway down the hall.



HIS ROOM

As Barton enters.

The room is small and cheaply furnished.  There is a lumpy bed with a worn-
yellow coverlet, an old secretary table, and a wooden luggage stand.

As Barton crosses the room we follow to reveal a sink and wash basin, a
house telephone on a rickety night stand, and a window with yellowing sheers
looking on an air shaft.

Barton throws his valise onto the bed where it sinks, jittering.  He shrugs
off his jacket.

Pips of sweat stand out on Barton's brow.  The room is hot.

He walks across the room, switches on an oscillating fan and struggles to
throw open the window.  After he strains at it for a moment, it slides open
with a great wrenching sound.

Barton picks up his Underwood and places it on the secretary table.  He
gives the machine a casually affectionate pat.

Next to the typewriter are a few sheets of house stationary: THE HOTEL EARLE:
A DAY OR A LIFETIME.

We pan up to a picture in a cheap wooden frame on the wall above the desk.
A bathing beauty sits on the beach under a cobalt blue sky.  One hand
shields her eyes from the sun as she looks out at a crashing surf.

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.



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.

		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 shit.  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 . . . Shit!  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 cocks
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

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 cocks 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 bitches . . .
	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

As his ear meets the wall.

The woman's moaning continues.  We hear the creaking of bedsprings and her
partner, incongruously giggling.

Barton grimaces, gets down off the bed and crosses to the secretary, where
he sits.  He stares at the paper in the carriage.



HIS POV

The blank part of the page around the key-strike area, under the metal
prongs that hold the paper down.

We begin to hear moaning again.



BACK TO BARTON

Still looking; sweating.



HIS POV

Tracking in on the paper, losing the prongs from frame so that we are
looking at the pure unblemished white of the page.

The moaning is cut short by two sharp knocks.



THE DOOR

As it swings open.

Charlie Meadows leans in, smiling.

		CHARLIE
	Howdy, neighbor.

		BARTON
	Charlie.  How are you.

		CHARLIE
	Jesus, I hope I'm not interrupting you again.
	I heard you walking around in here.  Figured
	I'd drop by.

		BARTON
	Yeah, come in Charlie.  Hadn't really gotten
	started yet - what happened to your ear?

- for Charle's left ear is plugged with cotton wadding.  As he enters:

		CHARLIE
	Oh, yeah.  An ear infection, chronic thing.
	Goes away for a while, but it always comes
	back.  Gotta put cotton in it to staunch the
	flow of pus.  Don't worry, it's not contagious.

		BARTON
	Seen a doctor?

Charlie gives a dismissive wave.

		CHARLIE
	Ah, doctors.  What's he gonna tell me?  Can't
	trade my head in for a new one.

		BARTON
	No, I guess you're stuck with the one you've
	got.  Have a seat.

Charlie perches on the corner of the bed.

		CHARLIE
	Thanks, I'd invite you over to my place, but
	it's a goddamn mess.  You married, Bart?

		BARTON
	Nope.

		CHARLIE
	I myself have yet to be lassoed.

He takes his flask out.

	. . . Got a sweetheart?

		BARTON
	No . . . I guess it's something about my
	work.  I get so worked up over it, I
	don't know; I don't really have a lot of
	attention left over, so it would be a
	little unfair . . .

		CHARLIE
	Yeah, the ladies do ask for attention. In
	my experience, they pretend to give it, but
	it's generally a smoke-screen for demanding
	it back - with interest.  How about family,
	Bart?  How're you fixed in that department?

Barton smiles.

		BARTON
	My folks live in Brooklyn, with my uncle.

		CHARLIE
	Mine have passed on.  It's just the three of
	us now . . .

He taps himself on the head, chuckling.

	. . . What's the expression - me myself and
	I.

		BARTON
	Sure, that's tough, but in a sense, we're
	all alone in this world aren't we Charlie?
	I'm often surrounded by family and friends,
	but . . .

He shrugs.

		CHARLIE
	Mm...You're no stranger to loneliness, then.
	I guess I got no beef; especially where the
	dames are concerned.  In my line of work I
	get opportunities galore - always on the
	wing, you know what I'm saying.  I could tell
	stories to curl your hair - but it looks
	like you've already heard 'em!

He laughs at his reference to Barton's curly hair, and pulls a dog-eared
photograph from his wallet.  As he hands it to Barton:

	. . . That's me in Kansas City, plying my
	trade.



THE PHOTO

Charlie smiles and waves with one foot up on the running board of a 1939
roadster.  A battered leather briefcase dangles from one hand.

		CHARLIE
	. . . It was taken by one of my policy holders.
	They're more than just customers to me, Barton.
	they really appreciate what I have to offer them.
	Ya see, her hubby was out of town at the time -

		BARTON
	You know, in a way, I envy you Charlie. Your
	daily routine - you know what's expected.
	You know the drill.  My job is to plumb the
	depths, so to speak, dredge something up from
	inside, something honest.  There's no road map
	for that territory . . .

He looks from Charlie to the Underwood.

	. . . and exploring it can be painful.  The
	kind of pain most people don't know anything
	about.

He looks back at Charlie.

	. . . This must be boring you.

		CHARLIE
	Not at all.  It's damned interesting.

		BARTON
	Yeah . . .

He gives a sad chuckle.

	. . . Probably sounds a little grand coming
	from someone who's writing a wrestling picture
	for Wallace Beery.

		CHARLIE
	Beery!  You got no beef there!  He's good.
	Hell of an actor - though, for my money, you
	can't beat Jack Oakie.  A stitch, Oakie.
	Funny stuff, funny stuff.  But don't get me
	wrong - Beery, a wrestling picture, that could
	be a pip.  Wrestled some myself back in school.
	I guess you know the basic moves.

		BARTON
	Nope, never watched any.  I'm not that
	interested in the act itself -

		CHARLIE
	Okay, but hell, you should know what it is.  I
	can show you in about thirty seconds.

He is getting down on his hands and knees.

	. . . You're a little out of your weight class,
	but just for purposes of demonstration -

		BARTON
	That's all right, really -

		CHARLIE
	Not a bit of it, compadre!  Easiest thing in
	the world!  You just get down on your knees
	to my left, slap your right hand here . . .

He indicated his own right bicep.

	. . . and your left hand here.

He indicated his left bicep.

Barton hesitates.

	. . . You can do it, champ!

Barton complies.

	. . . All right now, when I say "Ready...
	wrestle!" you try and pin me, and I try
	and pin you.  That's the whole game.  Got
	it?

		BARTON
	. . . Yeah, okay.

		CHARLIE
	Ready . . .wrestle!

With one clean move Charlie flips Barton onto his back, his head and
shoulders hitting with a thump.  Charlie pins Barton's shoulders with his
own upper body.

But before the move even seems completed Charlie is standing again, offering
his hand down to Barton.

	Damn, there I go again.  We're gonna wake the
	downstairs neighbors.  I didn't hurt ya, did I?

Barton seems dazed, but not put out.

		BARTON
	It's okay, it's okay.

		CHARLIE
	Well, that's all that wrestling is.  Except
	usually there's more grunting and squirming
	before the pin.  Well, it's your first time.
	And you're out of your weight class.

Barton has propped himself up and is painfully massaging the back of his
head.  This registers on Charlie.

	 . . . Jesus, I did hurt you!

He clomps hurriedly away.

	. . . I'm just a big, clumsy lug.  I sure do
	apologize.

We hear water running, and Charlie reenters with a wet towel.

Barton accepts the towel and presses it to his head.

	. . . You sure you're okay?

Barton gets to his feet.

		BARTON
	I'm fine, Charlie.  Really I am.  Actually,
	it's been helpful, but I guess I should get
	back to work.

Charlie looks at him with some concern, then turns and heads for the door.

		CHARLIE
	Well, it wasn't fair of me to do that.  I'm
	pretty well endowed physically.

He opens the door.

	 . . . Don't feel bad, though.  I wouldn't be
	much of a match for you at mental gymnastics.
	Gimme a holler if you need anything.

The door closes.

Barton crosses to the secretary and sits down, rubbing the back of his head.
He rolls up the carriage and looks at the page in the typewriter.



HIS POV

The page.

FADE IN

A tenement building on Manhatten's Lower East Side.  Early
morning traffic is audible, as is the cry fishmongers.



BACK TO BARTON

He rubs the back of his head, wincing, as he stares at the page.

His gaze drifts up.



HIS POV

The bathing beauty.



BARTON

Looking at the picture.  He presses the heels of his hands against his ears.



HIS POV

The bathing beauty.  Faint, but building, is the sound of the surf.



BARTON

Head cocked.  The surf is mixing into another liquid sound.

Barotn looks sharply around.



THE BATHROOM

Barton enters.

The sink, which Charlie apparently left running  when he wet Barton's towel,
is overflowing.  Water spills onto the tile floor.

Barton hurriedly shuts off the tap, rolls up one sleeve and reaches into the
sink.

As his hand emerges, holding something, we hear the unclogged sink gulp
water.



BARTON'S HAND

Holding a dripping wad of cotton.



BARTON

After a brief, puzzled look he realizes where the cotton came from - and
convulsively flips it away.

FADE OUT



FADE IN:

On the title page of a book:

NEBUCHADNEZZAR
      By
  W.P. Mayhew

A hand enters with pen to inscribe:

To Barton-

May this little entertainment divert you in your sojourn
among the Philistines.
						-Bill

The book is closed and picked up.



WIDER

As-thoomp!-the heavy volume is deposited across the table, in front of
Barton, by Mayhew.

Barton, Mayhew, and Audrey are seated around a picnic table.  It is one of
a few tables littering the lot of a small stucco open-air hamburger stand.

It is peaceful early evening.  The last of the sunlight slopes down through
palm trees.  Barton, Mayhew, and Audrey are the only customers at the stand.
Mayhew's black Ford stands alone at the edge of the lot.

Mayhew leans back in his chair.

		MAYHEW
	If I close m'eyes I can almost smell the
	live oak.

		AUDREY
	That's hamburger grease, Bill.

		MAYHEW
	Well, m'olfactory's turnin' womanish on me -
	lyin' and deceitful . . .

His eyes still closed, he waves a limp hand gently in the breeze.

	. . . Still, I must say.  I haven't felt
	peace like this since the grand productive
	days.  Don't you find it so, Barton?  Ain't
	writin' peace?

		BARTON
	Well . . . actually, no Bill . . .

Barton looks nervously at Audrey before continuing.

	. . . No, I've always found that writing comes
	from a great inner pain.  Maybe it's a pain
	that comes from a realization that one must
	do something for one's fellow man - to help
	somehow to ease his suffering.  Maybe it's a
	personal pain.  At any rate, I don't believe
	good work is possible without it.

		MAYHEW
	Mmm.  Wal, me, I just enjoy maikn' things up.
	Yessir.  Escape...It's when I can't write, can't
	escape m'self, that I want to tear m'head off
	and run screamin' down the street with m'balls
	in a fruitpickers pail.  Mm . . .

He sighs and reaches for a bottle of Wild Turkey.

	. . . This'll sometimes help.

		AUDREY
	That doesn't help anything, Bill.

		BARTON
	That's true, Bill.  I've never found it to
	help my writing.

Mayhew is becoming testy:

		MAYHEW
	Your writing?  Son, have you ever heard the
	story of Soloman's mammy-

Audrey, anticipating, jumps hastily in.  She taps the book on the table.

		AUDREY
	You should read this, Barton.  I think it's
	Bill's finest, or among his finest anyway.

Mayhew looks at her narrowly.

		MAYHEW
	So now I'm s'posed to roll over like an ol'
	bitch dog gettin' ger belly scratched.

		AUDREY
	Bill-

		BARTON
	Look, maybe it's none of my business, but a
	man with your talent - don't you think your
	first obligation would be to your gift?
	Shouldn't you be doing whatever you have to
	do to work again?

		MAYHEW
	And what would that be, son?

		BARTON
	I don't know exactly.  But I do know what
	you're doing with that drink.  You're cutting
	yourself off  from your gift, and from me
	and Audrey, and from your fellow man, and
	from everything your art is about.

		MAYHEW
	No son, thisahere moonshine's got nothin' to
	do with shuttin' folks out.  No, I'm usin'
	it to build somethin'.

		BARTON
	What's that?

		MAYHEW
	I'm buildin' a levee.  Gulp by gulp, brick
	by brick.  Raisin' up a levee to keep that
	ragin' river of manure from lappin' at
	m'door.

		AUDREY
	Maybe you better too, Barton.  Before you get
	buried under his manure.

Mayhew chuckles.

		MAYHEW
	M'honey pretends to be impatient with me, Barton,
	but she'll put up with anything.

		AUDREY
	Not anything, Bill.  Don't test me.

		BARTON
	You're lucky she puts up with as much as she does.

Mayhew is getting to his feet.

		MAYHEW
	Am I?  Maybe to a schoolboy's eye.  People who
	know about the human heart, though, mebbe they'd
	say, Bill over here, he gives his honey love, and
	she pays him back with pity - the basest coin there
	is.

		AUDREY
	Stop it, Bill!

He wanders over to a corner of the lot between two palm trees, still
clutching his bottle, his back to Barton and Audrey, and urinates into the
grass.

He is singing - loudly - "Old Black Joe."

Audrey walks over to him.



BARTON

Watching her go.



HIS POV

Audrey touches Mayhew's elbow.  He looks at her, stops singing, she murmurs
something, and he bellows:

		MAYHEW
	The truth, m'honey, is a tart that does
	not bear scrutiny.

She touches him again, murmuring, and he lashes out at her, knocking her to
the ground.

	Breach my levee at your peril!



BARTON

He rises.



AUDREY

Coming back to Barton.



MAYHEW

Stumbling off down the dusty road, muttering to himself and waving his
bottle of Wild Turkey.

		AUDREY
	Let him go.

		BARTON
	That son of a bitch . . . Don't get me
	wrong, he's a fine writer.

He looks down the road.  Mayhew is a small lone figure, weaving in the dust.

		MAYHEW
	I'll jus' walk on down to the Pacific,
	and from there I'll...improvise.

		BARTON
	Are you all right?

We hear distant bellowing:

		MAYHEW
	Silent upon a hill in Darien!

Audrey bursts into tears.  Barton puts his arms around her and she leans
into him.

		BARTON
	Audrey, you can't put up with this.

Gradually, she collects herself, wiping her tears.

		AUDREY
	. . . Oh Barton, I feel so . . . sorry
	for him!

		BARTON
	What?!  He's a son of a bitch!

		AUDREY
	No, sometimes he just . . . well, he
	thinks about Estelle.  His wife still
	lives in Fayettesville.  She's . . .
	disturbed.

		BARTON
	Really? . . .

He considers this for a moment, but his anger returns.

	. . . Well that doesn't excuse his
	behavior.

		AUDREY
	He'll wander back when he's sober and
	apologize.  He always does.

		BARTON
	Okay, but that doesn't excuse his -

		AUDREY
	Barton.  Empathy requires . . .
	understanding.

		BARTON
	What.  What don't I understand?

Audrey gazes at him.



MAYHEW

He is very distant now, weaving but somehow dignified in his light summer
suit.  "Old Black Joe" floats back to us in the twilight.

FADE OUT



BARTON'S HOTEL ROOM

From a high angle, booming down on Barton.

The room is dark.  Barton lies fully clothed, stretched out on the bed,
asleep.  The hum of the mosquito fades up in the stillness.

Suddenly Barton slaps his cheek.  His eyes open, but he remains still.  The
hum fades up again.

Barton reaches over and turns on the bedside lamp.  His eyes shift this way
and that as he waits, listening.

The hum fades down to silence.

Barton's eyes shift.



HIS POV

The typewriter sits on the secretary, a piece of paper rolled halfway
through the carriage.



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.

As he enters the secretary stops typing, glances down at a slip of paper,
and murmurs tonelessly, without looking up:

		SECRETARY
	Barton Fink.

		GEISLER
	Yeah.  Fink.  Come in.

The clack of the typewriter resumes as Barton rises.



GEISLER'S OFFICE

The two men enter.

This office is considerably smaller than Lipnik's, done in grays and black.
There are pictures on the wall of Geisler with various celebrities.

Geisler sits behind his desk.

		GEISLER
	Wuddya got for me - what the hell
	happened to your face?

		BARTON
	Nothing.  It's just a mosquito bite.

		GEISLER
	Like hell it is; there are no mosquitos
	in Los Angeles.  Mosquitos breed in
	swamps - this is a desert town.  Wuddya
	got for me?

		BARTON
	Well I . . .

		GEISLER
	On the Beery picture!  Where are we?
	Wuddya got?

		BARTON
	Well, to tell you the truth, I'm having
	some trouble getting started -

		GEISLER
	Getting STARTED!  Christ Jesus!  Started?!
	You mean you don't have ANYthing?!

		BARTON
	Well not much.

Geisler leaps to his feet and paces.

		GEISLER
	What do you think this is?  HAMLET?  GONE
	WITH THE WIND?  RUGGLES OF RED GAP?  It's
	a goddamn B picture!  Big men in tights!
	You know the drill!

		BARTON
	I'm afraid I don't really understand that
	genre.  maybe that's the prob-

		GEISLER
	Understand shit!  I though you were gonna
	consult another writer on this!

		BARTON
	Well, I've talked to Bill Mayhew-

		GEISLER
	Bill Mayhew!  Some help!  The guy's a souse!

		BARTON
	He's a great writer-

		GEISLER
	A souse!

		BARTON
	You don't understand.  He's in pain, because
	he can't write-

		GEISLER
	Souse!  Souse!  He manages to write his name
	on the back of his paycheck every week!

		BARTON
	But . . . I thought no one cared about this
	picture.

		GEISLER
	You thought!  Where'd you get THAT from?  You
	thought!  I don't know what the hell you said
	to Lipnik, but the sonofabitch LIKES you!  You
	understand that, Fink?  He LIKES you!  He's
	taken an interest.  NEVER make Lipnik like you.
	NEVER!

Some puzzlement shows through Barton's weariness.

		BARTON
	I don't understand-

		GEISLER
	Are you deaf, he LIKES you!  He's taken an
	interest!  What the hell did you say to him?

		BARTON
	I didn't say anything-

		GEISLER
	Well he's taken an interest!  That means he'll
	make your life hell, which I could care less
	about, but since I drew the short straw to
	supervise this turkey, he's gonna be all over
	me too!  Fat-assed sonofabitch called me
	yesterday to ask how it's going - don't worry,
	I covered for you.  Told him you were making
	progress and we were all very excited.  I told
	him it was great, so now MY ass is on the line.
	He wants you to tell him all about it tomorrow.

		BARTON
	I can't write anything by tomorrow.

		GEISLER
	Who said write?  Jesus, Jack can't read.  You
	gotta TELL it to him-tell him SOMEthing for
	Chrissake.

		BARTON
	Well what do I tell him?

Geisler rubs a temple, studies Barton for a beat, then picks up a telephone.

		GEISLER
	Projection . . .

As he waits, Geisler gives Barton a witherng stare.  It continues throughout
the phone conversation.

	. . . Jerry?  Ben Geisler here.  Any of the
	screening rooms free this afternoon? . . .
	Good, book it for me.  A writer named Fink
	is gonna come in and you're gonna show him
	wrestling pictures . . . I don't give a shit
	which ones!  WRESTLING pictures!  Wait a minute-
	isn't Victor Sjoderberg shooting one now? . . .
	Show him some of the dailies on that.

He slams down the phone.

	 . . . This ought to give you some ideas.

He jots an address on a piece of paper and hands it to Barton.

	 . . . Eight-fifteen tomorrow morning at
	Lipnik's house.  Ideas.  Broad strokes.
	Don't cross me, Fink.



SCREEN

Black-and-white footage.  A middle-aged man with a clapstick enters and
shouts:

		CLAPPER
	DEVIL ON THE CANVAS, twelve baker take one.

Clap!  The clapper withdraws.  The angle is on a corner of the ring, where
an old corner man stands behind his charge, a huge man in tights who is a
little too flabby to be a real athlete.  His hair is plastered against his
bullet skull and he has a small mustache.

		VOICE
	Action.

The wrestler rises from his stool and heads toward center ring and the
camera.  He affects a German accent:

		WRESTLER
	I will destroy him!

He passes the camera.

		VOICE
	Cut.

Flash frames.

The clapper enters again.

		CLAPPER
	Twelve baker take two.

Clap!  He exits.

The wrestler moves toward the camera.

		WRESTLER
	I will destroy him!

		VOICE
	Cut.

The clapper enters

		CLAPPER
	Twelve baker take three.

Clap!

		WRESTLER
	I will destroy him!



SLOW TRACK IN ON BARTON

Seated alone in a dark screening room, the shaft of the projection beam
flickering over his left shoulder.

As we creep in closer:

		WRESTLER (off)
	I will destroy him! . . . I will destroy
	him! . . . I will destroy him! . . . I will
	destroy him! . . .

Another off-microphone, distant voice from the screen:

		VOICE
	Okay, take five . . .



THE SCREEN

A jerky pan, interrupted by flash frames.  The wrestler is standing in a
corner joking with a makeup girl who pats down his face as he smokes a
cigarette.

A cut in the film and another clapstick enters.

		CLAPPER
	Twelve charlie take one-

On the clap:



BACK TO BARTON

Staring at the screen, dull, wan, and forlorn.

		VOICE (off)
	Action.



THE SCREEN

The angle is low - canvas level.  We hold for a brief moment on the empty
canvas before two wrestlers crash down into frame.

The German is underneath, on his back, pinned by the other man.

The referee enters, cropped at the knees, and throws counting fingers down
into frame.

		REFEREE
	One . . . two . . .

		WRESTLER
	AAAAHHHH!!

The German bucks and throws his opponent out of frame.

		VOICE
	Cut.

		CLAPPER
	Twelve charlie take two.

Crash.

		REFEREE
	One . . . two . . .

		WRESTLER
	AAAAHHHH!!



BARTON

Glazed.

		WRESTLER (off)
	AAAAAAHHHHHH!! . . . AAAAAAHHHHHH!! . . .
	AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! . . .



PAGE IN TYPEWRITER

The screaming drops out abruptly at cut.  We hear only the sound of heavy
footfalls on carpet.

Below the opening paragraph, two new words have been added to the
typescript:

Orphan?

Dame?

The foot falls continue.



THE HOTEL ROOM

Night.  Barton paces frantically back and forth.

He looks at his watch.



HIS POV

It is 12:30.



CLOSE ON THE PHONE

It is lifted out of the cradle.

		BARTON
	Hello, Chet, it's Barton Fink in 605.
	Can you try a number for me in Hollywood
	. . . Slausen 6-4304.

We pull back to frame in Barton as we hear his call ring through.  Barton
sweats.

	Pick it up . . . Pick it up.  Pick it-

		AUDREY
	Hello.

		BARTON
	Audrey, listen, I need help.  I know it's
	late and I shouldn't be calling you like
	this - believe me I wouldn't have if I could
	see any other alternative, but I - I'm sorry
	- listen, how are you - I'm sorry.  You
	doing okay?

		AUDREY
	. . . Who is this?

		BARTON
	Barton.  I'm sorry, it's Barton Fink.

Through the phone, in the background, we hear Mayhew's drunken bellowing.

		MAYHEW
	Sons of bitches!  Drown 'em all!

We hear various objects dropping or being thrown to the floor.

		AUDREY
	Barton, I'm afraid it's not a good time-

		MAYHEW
	Drown all those rascals . . .

		BARTON
	I'm sorry, I just feel like -I know I
	shouldn't ask, I just need some kind of
	help, I just, I have a deadline tomorrow-

		MAYHEW
	I said drown 'em all!  Who is that?

There is more clatter.

Audrey's voice is hushed, close to the phone:

		AUDREY
	All right Barton, I'll see if I can slip
	away-

		MAYHEW
	Who is that?!  Gaddamn voices come into
	the house . . . sons of bitches . . .

		BARTON
	If you could, I'd-

		AUDREY
	If I can.  He gets jealous; he-

		MAYHEW
	Goddamn voices . . . DROWN 'EM!

		BARTON
	I need help, Audrey.

		AUDREY
	I'll try to slip out.  If he quiets down,
	passes out . . . I'm afraid he thinks -
	well, he said you were a buffoon, Barton.
	He becomes irrational-

		MAYHEW
	Hesh up!  Be still now!  DROWN 'EM!
	DROWN 'EM!  DROWN-



WIDE ON THE ROOM

Later.  It is quiet.  We are craning down toward the bed, where Barton lies
stretched out, his head buried beneath a pillow as if to blot out the world.

The track reveals the wristwatch on Barton's dangled arm: 1:30.



THE HALLWAY

At the end of the dimly lit corridor a red light blinks on over the
elevator, with a faint bell.



BACK TO BARTON

With two violent and simultaneous motions he whips the pillow off his head
and throws out his other wrist to look at his watch.

There is a knock at the door.

Barton swings his feet off the bed.



THE DOORWAY

Barton opens the door to Audrey.

		AUDREY
	Hello, Barton.

		BARTON
	Audrey, thank you for coming.  Thank you.
	I'm sorry to be such a . . . such a . . .
	Thank you.

They enter the main room, where Audrey perches on the edge of the bed.

		AUDREY
	Now that's all right, Barton.  Everything'll
	be all right.

		BARTON
	Yes.  Thank you.  How's Bill?

		AUDREY
	Oh, he's . . . he drifted off.  He'll sleep
	for a while now.  What is it you have to do,
	exactly?

Barton paces.

		BARTON
	Well I have to come up with - an outline, I'd
	guess you call it.  The story.  The whole
	goddamn story.  Soup to nuts.  Three acts.
	The whole goddamn-

		AUDREY
	It's alright, Barton.  You don't have to write
	actual scenes?

		BARTON
	No, but the whole goddamn - Audrey?  Have you
	ever had to read any of Bill's wrestling
	scenarios?

Audrey laughs.

		AUDREY
	Yes, I'm afraid I have.

		BARTON
	What are they like?  What are they about?

		AUDREY
	Well, usually, they're . . . simply morality
	tales.  There's a good wrestler, and a bad
	wrestler whom he confronts at the end.  In
	between, the good wrestler has a love interest
	or a child he has to protect.  Bill would usually
	make the good wrestler a backwwods type, or a
	convict.  And sometimes, instead of a waif, he'd
	have the wrestler protecting an idiot manchild.
	The studio always hated that.  Oh, some of the
	scripts were so . . . spirited!

She laughs - then stops, realizing that she has laughed.  She looks at
Barton.

	. . . Barton.

She shakes her head.

	. . . Look, it's really just a formula.  You
	don't have to type your soul into it.  We'll
	invent some names and a new setting.  I'll
	help you and it won't take any time at all.
	I did it for Bill so many times -

Barton's pacing comes up short.

		BARTON
	Did what for Bill?

Guardedly:

		AUDREY
	Well . . . THIS.

		BARTON
	You wrote his scripts for him?

		AUDREY
	Well, the basic ideas were frequently his-

		BARTON
	You wrote Bill's scripts!  Jesus Christ,
	you wrote his - what about before that?

		AUDREY
	Before what?

		BARTON
	Before Bill came to Hollywood.

Audrey is clearly reluctant to travel this path.

		AUDREY
	Well, Bill was ALWAYS the author, so to
	speak-

		BARTON
	What do you mean so to speak?!  Audrey,
	how long have you been his . . . secretary?

		AUDREY
	Barton, I think we should concentrate on
	OUR little project-

		BARTON
	I want to know how many of Bill's books
	you wrote!

		AUDREY
	Barton!

		BARTON
	I want to know!

		AUDREY
	Barton, honestly, only the last couple-

		BARTON
	Hah!

		AUDREY
	And my input was mostly . . . EDITORIAL,
	really, when he'd been drinking-

		BARTON
	I'll bet.  Jesus - "The grand productive
	days."  What a goddamn phony.

He resumes pacing.

	. . . W.P. Mayhew.  Willam Goddamn Phony
	Mayhew.  All his guff about escape.  Hah!
	I'LL say he escaped!

Barton sighs and looks at his watch.

	. . . Well, we don't have much time.

He sits down next to Audrey.  Audrey's tone is gentle.

		AUDREY
	It'll be fine . . . Don't judge him, Barton.
	Don't condescend to him . . .

She strokes Barton's hair.

	. . . It's not as simple as you think.  I
	helped Bill most by appreciating him, by
	understanding him.  We all need understanding,
	Barton.  Even you, tonight, it's all you
	really need . . .

She kisses him.

As Barton tentatively responds, we are panning away.

We frame up on the door to the bathroom and track in toward the sink.  We
can hear the creak of bedsprings and Audrey and Barton's breath, becoming
labored.

The continuing track brings us up to and over the lid of the sink to frame
up its drain, a perfect black circle in the porcelain white.

We track up to the drain and are enveloped by it as the sound of lovemaking
mixes into the groaning of pipes.

BLACK


............................................................................

FADE IN

BARTON

The hum of a mosquito brings us out of the black and we are looking down at
Barton, in bed, asleep.  It is dawn.

Barton's eyes snap open.



HIS POV

The white ceiling.  A humming black speck flits across the white.



BARTON

Slowly, cautiously, he props himself up, his look following the sound of the
mosquito.

His gaze travels down and to one side and is arrested as the hum stops.



HIS POV

Audrey lies facing away on her side of the bed, half covered by a blanket.



BARTON

Gingerly, he reaches over and draws the blanket down Audrey's back.



HIS POV

The alabaster white of Audrey's back.

The mosquito is feeding on it.



EXTREME CLOSE ON BARTON'S EYES

Looking.



EXTREME CLOSE ON THE MOSQUITO

Swelling with blood.



WIDER

As Barton's hand comes through frame and slaps Audrey's back.

She doesn't react.

Barton draws his hand away.  Audrey's back is smeared with blood.



ON BARTON

He looks at his hand.



HIS POV

His hand is dripping with blood.  Too much blood.



BACK TO BARTON

Eyes wide, he looks down at the bed.



HIS POV

Blood seeps up into the sheet beneath the curve of Audrey's back.



BARTON

He pulls Audrey's shoulder.



AUDREY

She rolls onto her back.  Her eyes are wide and lifeless.

Her stomach is nothing but blood.  The top sheet, drawn to her waist is
drenched red and clings to her body.



BARTON

He screams.

He screams again.

We hear rapid and heavy footfalls next door, a door opening and closing,
and then a loud banging on Barton's door.

Barton's head spins towards the door.  He is momentarily frozen.

Another knock.

Barton leaps to his feet and hurries to the door.



THE DOORWAY

Over Barton's shoulder as he cracks the door.

Charlie stands in the hall in his boxer shorts and a sleeveless tee.

		CHARLIE
	Are you all right?

Barton stares dumbly for a moment.

	. . . Can I come in?

		BARTON
	No! . . . I'm fine.  Thank you.

		CHARLIE
	Are you sure -

		BARTON
	No . . . no . . .

Barton is nodding as he shuts the door in Charlie's face.

He walks back into the room.



HIS POV

Audrey's corpse, in long shot, face up on the bed.



BARTON

He walks toward the bed, wheels before he reaches it, and starts back toward
the door.

He stops short and turns back again to the room.  He averts his eyes - as it
happens, toward the secretary.

He walks stiffly over and sits, his back to Audrey.



CLOSE ON BARTON

As he sits in.  He stares emptily down at the desk, in shock, totally shut
down.  Behind him, we can see Audrey on the bed.

He stares for a long beat.

Strange, involuntary noises come from his throat.  He is not in control.

Becoming aware of the noise he is making, he stops.

He lurches to his feet.



THE DOORWAY

As Barton enters, opens the door, and sticks his head out.



HALLWAY

Barton peers out the see if the coast is clear.



HIS POV

The long hallway.

In the deep background, Chet, the night clerk, is stooping in front of a
door to pick up a pair of shoes.  Next to him is a castored shoe caddy.

All of the doorways between us and Chet are empty of shoes.



CHET

Close on him as, mid-stoop, he looks up.



CHET'S POV

Up the long hall.  In the deep background a door is closing.



CHET

He pauses, then straightens up and puts the shoes on the shoe caddy.  It
squeaks as he pushes it on down the hall.



BARTON'S ROOM

Barton stands at the door, listening to a very faint squeak.  Eventually it
becomes inaudible.

He cracks the door again, looks out, and exits.



HALLWAY

Barton goes to Charlie's room and knocks.

Footfalls end as the door is cracked open.

		CHARLIE
	Barton.  Are you all right?

		BARTON
	No . . . Can I come in?

		CHARLIE
	Why don't we go to your room-

		BARTON
	Charlie, I'm in trouble.  You've
	gotta help me.

Once again he is breathing hard.

Charlie steps out into the hall and shuts the door behind him.

		CHARLIE
	Get a grip on yourself, brother.
	Whatever the problem is, we'll sort
	it out.

		BARTON
	Charlie, I'm in trouble - something
	horrible's happened - I've gotta call
	the police . . .

Charlie leads him towards his room.

	. . . Will you stay with me till they
	get here?

		CHARLIE
	Don't worry about it, Barton.  We can
	sort it-

He is pushing Barton's door open, but Barton grabs an elbow to stop him.

		BARTON
	Before you go in - I didn't do this.  I
	don't know how it happened, but I didn't
	. . . I want you to know that . . .

Charlie looks into his eyes.  For a moment the two men stare at each other -
Charlie's look inquisitive, Barton's supplicating.

Finally, Charlie nods.

		CHARLIE
	Okay.

He turns and pushes open the door.



BARTON'S ROOM

The two men enter.

Barton lingers by the door.  Charlie walks into the foreground to look off
toward the bed.

His eyes widen and he screams.

He turns and disappears into the bathroom.  We hear vomiting, then the flush
of a toilet.

		CHARLIE
	Jesus . . . Jesus . . . Jesus have mercy . . .

His reaction has not encouraged Barton, who is more and more agitated.

Charlie emerges from the bathroom, sweating.

	. . . Jesus, Barton, what the hell is this?
	What're we gonna do?

		BARTON
	I've gotta call the police - or you could call
	for me -

		CHARLIE
	Hold on -

		BARTON
	You gotta believe me -

		CHARLIE
	Hold on -

		BARTON
	I didn't do this, I did NOT do this -

		CHARLIE
	Hold on.  Stop.  Take a deep breath.  Tell
	me what happened.

		BARTON
	I don't know!  I woke up, she was . . . God,
	you gotta believe me!

Charlie, in spite of himself, is sneaking horrified glances back into the
room.

		CHARLIE
	I believe you, brother, but this don't look
	good.

		BARTON
	We gotta call the police -

		CHARLIE
	Hold on.  I said hold on, so hold on.

		BARTON
	Yeah.

		CHARLIE
	What do you think happened?

		BARTON
	I don't know!  Maybe it was her . . . boyfriend.
	I passed out.  I don't know.  Won't the police
	be able to -

		CHARLIE
	Stop with the police!  Wake up, friend!  This does
	not look good!  They hang people for this!

		BARTON
	But I didn't do it - don't you believe me?

		CHARLIE
	I believe you - I KNOW you.  But why should the
	police?

Barton gives him a dumb stare.

	. . . Did you . . . Barton, between you and me,
	dis you have sexual intercourse?

Barton stares at Charlie.  He swallows.

Charlie shakes his head.

	Jesus . . . They can tell that . . .

		BARTON
	They GOTTA believe me, Charlie!  They gotta have
	mercy!

		CHARLIE
	You're in pictures, Barton.  Even if you got
	cleared eventually, this would ruin you.

He turns and starts toward the bed.

	. . . Wait in the bathroom.



BATHROOM

Later.  Barton, still in his underwear, sits leaning against the wall,
staring glassily at his feet.

From the other room we hear the creak of bedsprings and the sounds of bed
clothes being torn off.

Finally there is a last creak of bedsprings and the sound of Charlie
grunting under great weight.

We hear heavy footsteps approaching.

Barton looks up through the open bathroom door.



HIS POV

Charlie is groping for the front doorknob, cradling the sheet-swaddled body
in his arms.



BACK TO BARTON

His neck goes rubbery.  His eyes roll up.  His head lolls back to hit the
wall.

BLACK

Slap!  Slap!

We are low on Charlie, who is following through on a slap and backing away,
having aroused Barton.  Charlie is now wearing pants but is still in his
sleeveless tee, which has blood flecks across the belly.

		CHARLIE
	You passed out.

Barton looks groggily up.

		BARTON
	. . . Uh-huh . . . Where's Audrey?

		CHARLIE
	She's dead, Barton!  If that was her name.



TRACKING IN ON BARTON

He stares at Charlie.

		CHARLIE (off)
	Barton, listen to me.  You gotta act like
	nothing's happened.  Put this totally out
	of your head.  I know that's hard, but your
	play from here on out is just to go about
	business as usual.  Give us some time to
	sort this out . . .

Barton looks at his watch.



THE WATCH

7:45.

		CHARLIE (off)
	. . . Just put it out of you head . . .



TRACKING

Toward a pool set in a grand yard with shaped hedges and statuary set amid
palms trees.

Sunlight glitters angrily off the water; we are approaching Jack Lipnik who
sits poolside in a white deck chair.

		LIPNIK
	Bart!  So happy to see ya!



REVERSE

Pulling Barton, who is being escorted by Lou Breeze.

Barton is haggard, sunken eyes squinting against too much sun.

		LIPNIK
	Sit!  Talk!  Relax for a minute, then
	talk!  Drink?

As Barton sits:

		BARTON
	Yeah . . . rye whiskey?

		LIPNIK
	Boy!  You writers!  Work hard, play hard!
	That's what I hear, anyway . . .

He laughs, then barks at Lou Breeze.

	. . . Lou.

Lou exits.

		LIPNIK
	Anyway.  Ben Geisler tells me things're
	going along great.  Thimks we've got a
	real winner in this one.  And let me tell
	you something, I'm counting on it.  I've
	taken an interest.  Not to interfere, mind
	you - hardly seems necessary in your case.
	A writer - a storyteller - of your stature.
	Givitta me in bold strokes, Bart.  Gimme
	the broad outlines.  I'm sitting in the
	audience, the lights go down, Capitol logo
	comes up . . . you're on!

He beams expectantly at Barton.

Barton licks his parched lips.

		BARTON
	Yeah, okay . . . well . . . we fade in . . .

Lipnik is nodding, already involved in the story.

	. . . It's a tenement building.  On the
	Lower East Side . . .

		LIPNIK
	Great!  He's poor, this wrestler!  He's
	had to struggle!

		BARTON
	And then . . . well . . .

Barton looks back out at the pool, his eyes closed to slits against the sun.
He looks back at Lipnik.

	. . . Can I be honest, Mr. Lipnik?

		LIPNIK
	CAN you?  You damn well better be.  Jesus,
	if I hadn't been honest in my business
	dealings - well, of course, you can't always
	be honest, not with the sharks swimming
	around this town - but if you're a writer,
	you don't think about those things - if I'd
	been totally honest, I wouldn't be within a
	mile of this pool - unless I was cleaning it.
	But that's no reason for you not to be.
	Honest, I mean.  Not cleaning the pool.

Lou has entered with a drik, which he sets next to Barton.  Lou sits.

Barton looks around, takes the drink, sips at it greedily, but must finally
take the plunge.

		BARTON
	Well . . . to be honest, I'm never really
	comfortable discussing a work in progress.
	I've got it all worked out in my head, but
	sometimes if you force it out in words -
	prematurely - the wrong words - well, your
	meaning changes, and it changes your own
	mind, and you never get it back - so I'd
	just as soon not talk about it.

Lipnik stares at him.  His smile has disappeared.  There is a long beat.

Lou Breeze clears his throat.  He apparently feels obliged to fill the
silence.

		LOU
	. . . Mr. Fink.  Never mind me.  Never mind
	how long I've been in pictures.  Mr. Lipnik
	has been in pictures just about since they
	were invented.  HE practically invented them.

Lipnik has turned to look curiously at Lou.

	. . . Now I think if he's interested in what
	one of his contract employees is doing while
	he draws pay, I think that employee ought to
	tell him, if he wants to stay an employee.
	Right now the contents of your head are the
	property of Capitol Pictures, so if I were you
	I would speak up.  And pretty goddamn fast.

Lou looks at Barton, expectantly.  Lipnik continues to stare at Lou.

There is a long silence, terribly heavy.

Finally, Lipnik explodes - at Lou.

		LIPNIK
	You lousy sonofabitch!  You're telling this man -
	this ARTIST - what to do?!

Lou Breeze is stunned.

		LOU
	Mr. Lipnik, I -

		LIPNIK
	This man creates for a living!  He puts food
	on your table and on mine!  THANK him for it!
	Thank him, you ugrateful sonofabitch!  Thank
	him or YOU'RE fired!

Barton is staring, aghast.

		BARTON
	Mr. Lipnik, that's not really necessar-

Lipnik, still staring at Lou, gives no sign of hearing Barton.  He rises
and points.

		LIPNIK
	Get down on your knees, you sonofabitch!  Get
	down on your knees and kiss this man's feet!

		LOU
	Mr. Lipnik, please -

		BARTON
	I - Mr. Lipnik -

		LIPNIK
	KISS THIS MAN'S FEET!!

Lou, aghast, looks at Barton.

Barton, aghast, can only return the same stunned look.

Lipnik snarls at Lou:

	. . . Okay, get out of here.  You're fired,
	you understand me?  Get out of my sight.

Lou gets stiffly tp his feet and stumbles away.

		BARTON
	Mr. Lipnik, I -

		LIPNIK
	I apologize, Barton.

		BARTON
	No no, Mr. Breeze has actually been a great
	help -

		LIPNIK
	You don't have to cover for him.  It's noble
	of you, but these things happen in business.

		BARTON
	Mr. Lipnik, I really would feel much better
	if you could reconsider -

		LIPNIK
	Ah, forget it, kid.  I want you to pull this
	out of your head.  If that sonofabitch wouldn't
	apologize to you, goddammit, I will.  I respect
	your artistry and your methods, and if you can't
	fill us in yet, well hell, we should be kissing
	your feet for your fine efforts.

He gets down on his knees in front of Barton.

	. . . You know in the old country we were taught,
	as very young children, that there's no shame in
	supplicatin' yourself when you respect someone.

Barton stares, horrified, at Lipnik, on the ground at his feet.

	. . . On behalf of Capitol Pictures, the
	administration, and all a the stockholders,
	please accept this as a symbol of our apology
	and respect.



BARTON'S POV

Lipnik kisses his shoe and looks up at him.

Behind Lipnik the pool glitters.



BARTON'S ROOM

The cut has a hard musical sting.  Out of the sting comes a loud but
distorted thumping noise.

We are looking down, high angle, form one corner of the room.  We are
presented with a motionless tableau: Barton sits, hunched, in the far
corner, elbows on knees, staring at the bed in front of him.  He wears only
trousers and a T-shirt and his body and face glisten with sweat.  The bed's
sheets have been stripped and the ratty gray mattress has an enormous
rust-red stain in the middle.

After a beat, in the fareground, the only motion in the scene: A bead of
tavky yelow wall-sweat dribbles down the near wall.

Sience, then the thumping repeats, resolving itself to a knock at the door.

Barton rises slowly and crosses to the door.



THE DOOR

Barton opens it to Charlie, who is dressed in a baggy suit, his hair slicked
back, a tan fedora pushed back on his head.  It is the first time we have
seen him well turned out.

A battered briefcase is on the floor next to him.  He holds a parcel in his
left hand, about one foot square, wrapped in brown paper and tied up with
twine.

		CHARLIE
	Barton.  Can I come in?

Barton stands back from the door and Charlie picks up his briefcase and
enters.



THE ROOM

As the two men enter.

		BARTON
	Jesus . . . You're leaving.

		CHARLIE
	Have to, old timer.  Just for a while.

Barton sounds desparate:

		BARTON
	Jesus, Charlie, I . . .

		CHARLIE
	Everything's okay, believe me.  I know
	it's rough mentally, but everything's
	taken care of.

		BARTON
	Charlie!  I've got no one else here!
	You're the only person I know in Los
	Angeles . . .

He starts weeping

	. . . that I can talk to.

Charlie, also disturbed and unhappy, wraps both arms around Barton.

Barton sobs unashamedly into his shoulder.  Charlie is somber.

		CHARLIE
	It's okay . . . It's okay . . .

		BARTON
	Charlie, I feel like I'm going crazy -
	like I'm losing my mind.  I don't know
	what to do . . . I didn't do it, believe
	me.  I'm sure of that, Charlie.  I just . . .

His breath comes in short gasping heaves.

	. . . I just don't know what . . .
	to do -

		CHARLIE
	You gotta get a grip on, brother.  You
	gotta just carry on - just for a few
	days, till I get back.  Try and stay
	here, keep your door locked.  Don't talk
	to anyone.  We just gotta keep our heads
	and we'll figure it out.

		BARTON
	Yeah, but Charlie -

		CHARLIE
	Dammit, don't argue with me.  You asked me
	to believe you - well I do.  Now don't
	argue with me.

He looks at Barton for a beat.

	. . . Look, pal - can you do something for
	me?

Charlie hands him his parcel.

	. . . Keep this for me, till I get back.

Barton, snuffling, accepts the package.

	. . . It's just personal stuff.  I don't
	wanna drag it with me, but I don't trust
	'em downstairs, and I'd like to think it's
	in good hands.

Still snuffling:

		BARTON
	Sure, Charlie.

		CHARLIE
	Funny, huh, when everything that's important
	to a guy, everything he wants to keep from
	a lifetime - when he can fit it into a little
	box like that.  I guess . . . I guess it's
	kind of pathetic.

Wallowing in self-pity:

		BARTON
	It's more than I've got.

		CHARLIE
	Well, keep it for me.  Maybe it'll bring
	you good luck.  Yeah, it'll help you finish
	your script.  You'll think about me . . .

He thumps his chest.

	. . . Make me your wrestler.  Then you'll
	lick that story of yours.

Barton is tearfully sincere:

		BARTON
	Thanks, Charlie.

Charlie solemnly thrusts out his hand.

		CHARLIE
	Yeah, well, see you soon, friend.  You're
	gonna be fine.

Barton shakes.  As they walk to the door:

		BARTON
	You'll be back?

		CHARLIE
	Don't worry about that, compadre.  I'll
	be back.

Barton shuts the door behind Charlie, locks it, and turns around.



HIS POV

The room.  The bed.  The blood-stained mattress.

Barton wlaks across the room and sits carefully at the edge of the bed,
avoiding the rust-colored stain.  For a long beat, he sits still, but some-
thing is building inside..

Finally, when we hear the distant ding of the elevator arriving for Charlie,
it erupts:

Barton sobs, with the unself-conscious grief of an abandoned child.



HIGH WIDE SHOT

Barton weeping, alone on the bed, next to the rust-colored stain.

FADE OUT



FADE IN

BATHING BEAUTY

With the fade in, the sound of the surf mixes up.

We pan down the picture to discover that a snapshot has been tucked into a
corner of the picture frame: it is the snap of Charlie, smiling and waving,
with his foot up on the running board of the 1939 Ford roadster.



BARTON

Sitting at the desk, staring at the picture.  From his glazed eyes and the
way his mouth hangs open, we may assume he has been staring at the picture
for some time.

He notices something on the desk and picks it up.



HIS POV

The Holy Bible - Placed by the Gideons.

Barton opens it, randomly, to the Book of Daniel.  The text is set in
ornately Gothic type.

5. And the king, Nebuchadnezzar, answered and said to the
Chaldeans, I recall not my dream; if ye will not make
known unto me my dream, and its interpretation, ye shall
be cut in pieces, and of your tents shall be made a dunghill.



BARTON

Staring at the passage.  His mouth hangs open.



THE BIBLE

Barton riffles to the first page.

In bold type at the top:

THE BOOK OF GENESIS

Underneath, in the same ornately Gothic type:

Chapter One
1. Fade in on a tenement building on Manhattan's Lower
East Side.  Faint traffic noise is audible;
2. As is the cry of fishmongers.



BARTON

Squinting at the page through bloodshot eyes.

His mouth hangs open.



BARTON'S ROOM - DAY

At the cut the harsh clackety-clack of typing bangs in.  Sunlight burns
against the sheers of Barton's window, making it a painfully bright patch
in the room which itself remains fairly dim.

Barton sits at the secretary, typing furiously.

He finishes a page, yanks it out of the carriage, and places it face-down
on a short stack of face-down pages.

He feeds in a blank sheet and resumes his rapid typing.  He is sweating,
unshaven, and more haggard even than when we left him the previous night.

The telephone rings.  After several rings Barton stops typing and answers
it, absently, still looking at his work.  His voice is hoarse.

		BARTON
	Hello . . . Chet . . . Who? . . .

He puts the receiver down on the desk, leans over the typewriter, and
examines something he has just written.

He picks the phone back up and listens for a beat.

	. . . No, don't send them up here.
	I'll be right down.



ELEVATOR

A small oscillating fan whirs up in a corner of the elevator.

We pan down to Barton, who is riding down with Pete, the old elevator
operator.  Barton's voice is hoarse with fatigue.

		BARTON
	. . . You read the Bible, Pete?

		PETE
	Holy Bible?

		BARTON
	Yeah.

		PETE
	I think so . . . Anyway, I've heard
	about it.

Barton nods.

They ride for a beat.



LOBBY

Late afternoon sun slants in from one side.  The lobby has the same golden
ambiance as when first we saw it.

Barton is walking toward two wing chairs in the shadows, from which two men
in suits are rising.  One is tall, the other short.

		POLICEMAN
	Fink?

		BARTON
	Yeah.

		POLICEMAN 2
	Detective Mastrionotti.

		POLICEMAN 1
	Detective Deutsch.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	L.A.P.D.

		BARTON
	Uh-huh.

All three sit in ancient maroon swing chairs.  Mastrionotti perches on the
edge of his chair; Deutsch slumps back in the shadows, studying Barton.

		DEUTSCH
	Got a couple questions to ask ya.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	What do you do, Fink?

Still hoarse:

		BARTON
	I write.

		DEUTSCH
	Oh yeah?  What kind of write?

		BARTON
	Well as a matter of fact, I write for
	the pictures.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Big fuckin' deal.

		DEUTSCH
	You want my partner to kiss your ass?

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Would that be good enough for ya?

		BARTON
	No, I - I didn't mean to sound -

		DEUTSCH
	What DID you mean?

		BARTON
	I - I've got respect for - for working
	guys, like you -

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Jesus!  Ain't that a load off!  You live
	in 605?

		BARTON
	Yeah.

		DEUTSCH
	How long you been up there, Fink?

		BARTON
	A week, eight, nine days -

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Is this multiple choice?

		BARTON
	Nine days - Tuesday -

		DEUTSCH
	You know this slob?

He is holding a small black-and-white photograph out toward Barton.

There is a long beat as Barton studies the picture.

		BARTON
	. . . Yeah, he . . . he lives next
	door to me.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	That's right, Fink, he lives next door
	to you.

		DEUTSCH
	Ever talk to him?

		BARTON
	. . . Once or twice.  His name is Charlie
	Meadows.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Yeah, and I'm Buck Rogers.

		DEUTSCH
	His name is Mundt.  Karl Mundt.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Also known as Madman Mundt.

		DEUTSCH
	He's a little funny in the head.

		BARTON
	What did . . . What did he -

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Funny.  As in, he likes to ventilate
	people with a shotgun and then cut their
	heads off.

		DEUTSCH
	Yeah, he's funny that way.

		BARTON
	I . . .

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Started in Kansas City.  Couple of
	housewives.

		DEUTSCH
	Couple of days ago we see the same M.O.
	out in Los Feliz.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Doctor.  Ear, nose and throat man,.

		DEUTSCH
	All of which he's now missin'.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Well, some of his throat was there.

		DEUTSCH
	Physician, heal thyself.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Good luck with no fuckin' head.

		DEUTSCH
	Anyway.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Hollywood precinct finds another stiff
	yesterday.  Not too far from here.  This
	one's better looking than the doc.

		DEUTSCH
	Female caucasian, thirty years old.  Nice
	tits.  No head.  You ever see Mundt with
	anyone meets that description?

		MASTRIONOTTI
	But, you know, with the head still on.

		BARTON
	. . . No.  I never saw him with anyone
	else.

		DEUTSCH
	So.  You talked to Mundt, what about?

		BARTON
	Nothing, really.  Said he was in the insurance
	business.

Deutsch indicates Mastrionotti.

		DEUTSCH
	Yeah, and he's Buck Rogers.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	No reputable company would hire a guy like
	that.

		BARTON
	Well that's what he said.

		DEUTSCH
	What else?

		BARTON
	He . . . I'm trying to think . . . Nothing,
	really . . . He . . . He said he liked Jack
	Oakie pictures.

Mastrionotti looks at Deutsch.  Deutsch looks at Mastrionotti.  After a
beat, Mastrionotti looks back at Barton.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Ya know, Fink, ordinarily we say anything you
	might remember could be helpful.  But I'll be
	frank with you: That is not helpful.

		DEUTSCH
	Ya see how he's not writing it down?

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Fink.  That's a Jewish name, isn't it?

		BARTON
	Yeah.

Mastrionotti gets to his feet, looking around the lobby.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Yeah, I didn't think this dump was
	restricted.

He digs in his pocket.

	. . . Mundt has disappeared.  I don't
	think he'll be back.  But . . .

He hands Barton a card.

	. . . give me a call if you see him.  Or
	if you remember something that isn't totally
	idiotic.



BARTON'S ROOM

We are tracking toward the paper-wrapped parcel that sits on the nightstand
next to Barton's bed.

Barton enters and picks it up.  He holds it for a beat, looking at it, then
brings it over to the secretary and sits.

He shakes it.

No sound; whatever is inside is well packed.

Barton holds it up to his ear and listens for a long beat, as if it were a
seashell and he is listening for the surf.

Finally he puts it on his desk, beneath the picture of the bathing beauty,
and starts typing, quickly and steadily.



DISSOLVE THROUGH TO:
REVERSE

Some time later; Barton still types.  He is face to us; beyond him we can
see the bed with its rust-colored stain.

The phone rings.  Barton ignores it.  It continues to ring.

Barton rises and exits frame; we hold on to the bed in the background.  We
hear Barton's footsteps on the bathroom tile as the phone continues ringing.

Barton sits back into frame stuffing cotton into each ear.  He resumes
typing.



ANOTHER ANGLE

Barton typing.  The desk trembles under the working of the typewriter.
Charlie's parcel chatters.

Barton takes a finished page out of the carriage and places it face down on
the growing stack to his right.  He feeds in a new page.  We hear the muted
ding of the elevator down the hall.  Barton resumes typing.

We hear a knock on Barton's door.  Barton does not react, apparently not
hearing.



THE DOORWAY

We are close on the bottom of the door.  Someone in the hallway is sliding
a note beneath the door; then his shadow disappears and his footsteps
recede.

The note is a printed message headed: "While You Were Out . . . " Underneath
are the printed words: "You were called by" and, handwritten in the space
following: "Mr. Ben Geisler."

Handwritten below, in the message space:

Thank you.
Lipnik loved your meeting.
Keep up the good work.

Barton's offscreen typing continues steadily.

FADE OUT



HALLWAY

A perfectly symmetrical wide low angle shot of the empty hall.  Shoes are
set put in front of each door except for one in the middle background.

At the cut in we hear faint, regular typing.

We hold for a beat.  There is no motion.  The long, empty hall.  The distant
typing.

We hold.

The typing stops.  There is a beat of quiet.

It is broken by the sound of a door opening.  It is the shoeless door in the
middle background.

A hand reaches out to place a pair of shoes in the doorway.

The hand withdraws.

The door closes.

A short beat of silence.

The distant typing resumes.

The long empty hall.  The distant typing.

FADE OUT

Over the black we hear the distant sound of a woman's voice, tinny and
indistict.

		WOMAN
	Just a minute and I'll connect you . . .



FADE IN
CLOSE ON BARTON

His eyes are red-rimmed and wild.  He sits on the edge of his bed holding
the phone to his ear.

His voice is unnaturally loud:

		BARTON
	Hello?  Operator!  I can't . . . Oh!

He stops, reaches up, takes a cotton wad out of his ear.

We hear various clicks and clacks as the telephone lines switch, and then a
distant ring.  The phone rings three or four times before it is answered by
a groggy voice.

		VOICE
	. . . Hello.

		BARTON
	Garland, it's me.

		GARLAND
	Barton?  What time is it?  Are you all
	right?

		BARTON
	Yeah, I'm fine, Garland - I have to talk
	to you.  I'm calling long distance.

		GARLAND
	Okay.

Muffled, we hear Garlend speaking to someone else.

	. . . It's Barton.  Calling long distance.

Back into the receiver:

	. . . What is it Barton?  Are you okay?

		BARTON
	I'm fine, garland, but I have to talk with
	you.

		GARLAND
	Go ahead, son.

		BARTON
	It's about what I'm writing, Garland.  It's
	really . . . I think it's really big.

		GARLAND
	What do you mean, Barton?

		BARTON
	Not big in the sense of large - although it's
	that too.  I mean important.  This may be the
	most IMPORTANT work I've done.

		GARLAND
	Well, I'm . . . glad to hear that -

		BARTON
	Very important, Garland.  I just thought you
	should know that.  Whatever happens.

		GARLAND
	. . . That's fine.

		BARTON
	Have you read the Bible, Garland?

		GARLAND
	. . . Barton, is everything okay?

		BARTON
	Yes . . . Isn't it?

		GARLAND
	Well, I'm just asking.  You sound a
	little -

Guardedly:

		BARTON
	Sound a little what?

		GARLAND
	Well, you just . . . sound a little -

Bitterly:

		BARTON
	Thanks, Garland.  Thanks for all the
	encouragement.

He slams down the phone.



OVER HIS SHOULDER

A one-quarter shot on Barton from behind as he picks up the cotton wad and
sticks it back in his right ear.

He resumes typing, furiously.

After a beat he mutters, still typing.

		BARTON
	. . . Nitwit.



THE BATHING BEAUTY

Later.  We hear typing and the roar of the surf.'



CLOSE ON TYPEWRITER

We are extremely close on the key-strike area.  As we cut in Barton is
typing:

p-o-s-t-c-a-r-d-.

The carriage returns a couple of times and T-H-E--E-N-D is typed in.

The paper is ripped out of the carriage.



CLOSE ON A STACK OF PAGES

Lying face down on the desk; the last page is added, face down, to the pile.

The pile is picked up, its edges are straightened with a couple of thumps
against the desktop, and then the pile is replaced on the desk, face up.

The title page reads:

	THE BURLYMAN
A Motion Picture Scenario
	     By
	 Barton Fink

Barton's right hand enters frame to deposit a small cotton wad on top of
the script.

Barton's left hand enters to deposit another small cotton wad on top of the
script.

We hear Barton walk away.  We hear bath water run.



THE BATHING BEAUTY

Still looking out to sea.




USO HALL

We are booming down to the dance floor as a raucous band plays an up-tempo
number.



BARTON

Dancing animatedly, almost maniacally, his fingers jabbing the air.

The hall is crowded, but Barton is one of few men not in uniform.



USO GIRL

Giggling, dancing opposite Barton.

		GIRL
	You're cute!



BARTON

Caught up in his dancing, oblivious to the girl.

A white uniformed arm reaches in to tap Barton on the shoulder.

		SAILOR
	'Scuse me, buddy, mind if I cut in?

Barton glares at him.

		BARTON
	This is MY dance, sailor!

		SAILOR
	C'mon buddy, I'm shipping out tomorrow.

For some reason, Barton is angry.

		BARTON
	I'm a writer!  Celebrating the completion
	of something GOOD!  Do you understand
	that, sailor?  I'm a WRITER!

His bellowing has drawn onlookers' attention.

		VOICES
	Step aside, four-eyes!  Let someone else
	spin the dame!  Give the navy a dance!
	Hey, Four-F, take a hike!

Barton turns furiously against the crowd.

		BARTON
	I'm a writer, you monsters!  I CREATE!

He points at his head.

	. . . This is my uniform!

He taps his skull.

	. . . THIS is how I serve the common
	man!  THIS is where I -

WHAPP!  An infantry man tags Barton's chin on the button.  Bodies surge.
The crowd gasps.  The band blares nightmarishly on.



HOTEL HALLWAY

Quiet at the cut.

After a beat, there is a faint ding at the end of the hall and, as the
elevator door opens, we faintly hear:

		PETE
	This stop: six.

Barton, disheveled, emerges and stumbles wearily down the hall.  He stops in
front of his door, takes his key out, and enters the room.



BARTON'S POV

Mastrionotti is sitting on the edge of the bed reading Barton's manuscript.

Deutsch stands in front of the desk staring at the bathing beauty.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Mother: What is to become of him.  Father:
	We'll be hearing from that crazy wrestler.
	And I don't mean a postcard.  Fade out.  The
	end.

He looks up at Barton.

	. . . I thought you said you were a writer.

		DEUTSCH
	I dunno, Duke.  I kinda liked it.

		BARTON
	Keep your filthy eyes off that.

Deutsch turns toward Barton and throws a folded newspaper at him.

		DEUTSCH
	You made morning papers, Fink.

Barton opens the paper.  A headline reads:  Writer Found Headless in Chavez
Ravine.  The story has two pictures - a studio publicity portrait of Mayhew,
and a photograph of the crime scene: two plainclothes detectives stare down
into a gulley as a uniformed cop restrains a pair of leashed dogs.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Second one of your friends to end up dead.

		DEUTSCH
	You didn't tell us you knew the dame.

With a jerk of his thumb, Mastrionotti indicates the bloodstained bed.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Sixth floor too high for you, Fink?

		DEUTSCH
	Give you nose bleeds?

Barton crosses the room and sits at the foot of the bed, staring at the
newspaper.

	Just tell me one thing, Fink:  Where'd
	you put their heads?

Distractedly:

		BARTON
	Charlie . . . Charlie's back . . .

		MASTRIONOTTI
	No kidding, bright boy - we smelt Mundt
	all over this.  Was he the idea man?

		DEUTSCH
	Tell us where the heads are, maybe they'll
	go easy on you.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	Only fry you once.

Barton rubs his temples.

		BARTON
	Could you come back later?  It's just . . .
	too hot . . . My head is killing me.

		DEUTSCH
	All right, forget the heads.  Where's
	Mundt, Fink?

		MASTRIONOTTI
	He teach you to do it?

		DEUTSCH
	You two have some sick sex thing?

		BARTON
	Sex?!  He's a MAN!  We WRESTLED!

		MASTRIONOTTI
	You're a sick fuck, Fink.

		DEUTSCH
	All right, moron, you're under arrest.

Barton seems oblivious to the two men.

		BARTON
	Charlie's back.  It's hot . . . He's
	back.

Down the hall we hear the ding of the arriving elevator.

Mastrionotti cocks his head with a quizzical look.

He rises and walks slowly out into the hall.  Deutsch wathces him go.



HIS POV

Mastrionotti in the hallway in full shot, framed by the door, still looking
puzzled.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	. . . Fred . . .

Deutsch stands and pushes his suit coat back past the gun on his hip,
revealing a pair of handcuffs on his belt.  He unhitches the cuffs and slips
one around Barton's right wrist and the other around a loop in the wrought
iron footboard of the bed.

		DEUTSCH
	Sit tight, Fink.



THE HALLWAY

As Deutsch joins Mastrionotti.

		DEUTSCH
	Why's it so goddamn hot out here?

		MASTRIONOTTI
	. . . Fred . . .

Deutsch looks where Mastrionotti is looking.



THE WALL

Tacky yellow fluid streams down.  The walls are pouring sweat.

The hallway is quiet.



MASTRIONOTTI AND DEUTSCH

They look at each other.  They look down the hall.



THEIR POV

The elevator stands open at the far end of the empty hall.

For a long beat, nothing.

Finally Pete, the elevator man, emerges.

At this distance, he is a small figure, stumbling this way and that, his
hands presseed against the sides of his head.

He turns to face Mastrionotti and Deutsch and takes a few steps forward,
still clutching his head.



MASTRIONOTTI AND DEUTSCH

Watching.



PETE

He takes on last step, then collapses.

As he pitches forward his hands fall away from his head.  His head separates
from his neck, hits the floor, and rolls away from his body with a dull
irregular trundle sound.



MASTRIONOTTI AND DEUTSCH

Wide-eyed, they look at each other, then back down the hall.

All is quiet.



THE HALLWAY

Smoke is beginning to drift into the far end of the hall.

We hear a muted rumble.



MASTRIONOTTI AND DEUTSCH

Mastrionotti tugs at his tie.  He slowly unholsters his gun.  Deutsch
slowly, hypnotically, follows suit.

		DEUTSCH
	. . . Show yourself, Mundt!

More quiet.



THE HALLWAY

More smoke.



LOW STEEP ANGLE ON ELEVATOR DOOR

The crack where the floor of the elevator meets that of the hall.

It flickers with red light from below.  Bottom-lit smoke sifts up.



CLOSE ON MASTRIONOTTI

Standing in the foreground, gun at ready.  Sweat pours down his face.

Behind him, Deutsch stands nervously in the light-spill from Barton's
doorway.

The rumble and crackle of fire grows louder.



THE HALLWAY

More smoke.



PATCH OF WALL

Sweating.

A swath of wallpaper sags away from the top of the wall, exposing glistening
lath underneath.

With a light airy pop, the lathwork catches on fire.



MASTRIONOTTI AND DEUTSCH

Sweating.

		DEUTSCH
	. . . Mundt!



THEIR POV

The hallway.  Its end-facing-wall slowly spreads flame from where the
wallpaper droops.



LOW STEEP ANGLE ON ELEVATOR DOOR

More red bottom-lit smoke seeps up from the crack between elevator and
hallway floors.

With a groan of tension relieved cables and a swaying of the elevator door,
a pair of feet crosses the threshold into the doorway.



JUMPING BACK

Wide on the hallway.  Charlie Meadows has emerged from the elevator and is
hellishly backlit by the flame.

His suit coat hangs open.  His hat is pushed back on his head.  From his
right hand his briefcase dangles.

He stands motionless, facing us.  There is something monumental in his
posture, shoulders thrown back.



MASTRIONOTTI

Tensed.  Behind him, Deutsch gulps.

		MASTRIONOTTI
	There's a boy, Mundt.  Put the policy
	case down and your mitts in the air.



CHARLIE

He leans slowly down to put the briefcase on the floor.



CLOSE ON MASTRIONOTTI

Relax.  He murmurs:

		MASTRIONOTTI
	He's complying.



BACK TO CHARLIE

He straightens up from the briefcase, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands.

BOOM!  The shotgun spits fire.

Mastrionotti's face is peppered by buckshot and he is blown back down the
hallway into Deutsch.

Bellowing fills the hallway over the roar of the fire:

		CHARLIE
	LOOK UPON ME!  LOOK UPON ME!  I'LL SHOW
	YOU THE LIFE OF THE MIND!!



THE HALLWAY

The fire starts racing down the hallway.



CLOSE STEEP ANGLE ON PATCH OF WALL

Fire races along the wall-sweat goopus.



TRACK IN ON DEUTSCH

His eyes widen at Charlie and the approaching fire; his gun dangles
fprgotten from his right hand.



HIS POV

Charlie is charging down the hallway, holding his shotgun loosely in front
of his chest, in double-time position.  The fire races along with him.

He is bellowing:

		CHARLIE
	LOOK UPON ME!  I'LL SHOW YOU THE LIFE
	OF THE MIND!  I'LL SHOW YOU THE LIFE
	OF THE MIND!

DEUTSCH

Terrified, he turns and runs.



REVERSE PULLING DEUTSCH

As he rund down the flaming hallway, pursued by flames, smoke, and Karl
Mundt - who, also on the run, levels his shotgun.

BOOM!



PUSHING DEUTSCH

His legs and feet spout blood, paddle futilely at the air, then come down in
a twisting wobble, like a car on blown tires, and pitch him helplessly to
the floor.



PULLING CHARLIE

He slows to a trot and cracks open the shotgun.



PUSHING DEUTSCH

Weeping and dragging himself forward on his elbows.



PULLING CHARLIE

He slows to a walk.



BARTON'S ROOM

Barton strains at his handcuffs.



HIS POV

Through the open doorway we see Charlie pass, pushing two shells into his
shotgun.



PULLING DEUTSCH

Charlie looms behind him and - THWACK - snaps the shotgun closed.

Deutsch rolls over to rest on his elbows, facing Charlie.

Charlie primes the shotgun - CLACK.

He presses both barrels against the bridge of Deutsh's nose.

		CHARLIE
	Heil Hitler.



DEUTSCH

Screams



CHARLIE

Tightens a finger over both triggers.  He squeezes.

BLAM.



TRACK IN ON BARTON

He flinches.

The gunshot echoes away.

Barton strains at the handcuffs.

We hear Charlie's footsteps approach - slowly, heavily.



THE DOORWAY

Charlie, walking down the hall, glances in and seems mildly surprised to see
Barton.  The set of his jaw relaxes.  His expression softens.  He pushes his
hat farther back on his head.

		CHARLIE
	Barton!

He shakes is head and whistles.

	. . . Brother, is it hot.

He walks into the room.



BARTON'S ROOM

As Charlie wearily enters.

		CHARLIE
	How you been, buddy?

He props the shotgun in a corner and sits facing Barton, who stared at him.

	. . . Don't look at me like that, neighbor.
	It's just me - Charlie.

		BARTON
	I hear it's Mundt.  Madman Mundt.

Charlie reaches a flask from his pocket.

		CHARLIE
	Jesus, people can be cruel . . .

He takes a long draught from his flask, then gives a haunted stare.

	. . . if it's not my build, it's my
	personality.

Charlie is perspiring heavily.  The fire rumbles in the hallway.

	. . . They say I'm a madman, Barton,
	but I'm not mad at anyone.  Honest I'm
	not.  Most guys I just feel sorry for.
	Yeah.  It tears me up inside, to think
	about what they're going through.  How
	trapped they are.  I understand it.  I
	feel for 'em.  So I try and help them
	out . . .

He reached up to loosen his tie and pop his collar button.

	. . . Jesus.  Yeah.  I know what it feels
	like, when things get all balled up at the
	head office.  It puts you through hell,
	Barton.  So I help people out.  I just wish
	someone would do as much for me . . .

He stares miserably down at his feet.

	. . . Jesus it's hot.  Sometimes it gets so
	hot, I wanna crawl right out of my skin.

Self-pity:

		BARTON
	But Charlie - why me?  Why -

		CHARLIE
	Because you DON'T LISTEN!

A tacky yellow fluid is dripping from Charlie's left ear and running down
his cheek.

	. . . Jesus, I'm dripping again.

He pulls some cotton from his pocket and plugs his ear.

	. . . C'mon Barton, you think you know
	about pain?  You think I made your life
	hell?  Take a look around this dump.
	You're just a tourist with a typewriter,
	Barton.  I live here.  Don't you understand
	that . . .

His voice is becoming choked.

	. . . And you come into MY home . . . And
	you complain that I'M making too . . .
	much . . . noise.

He looks up at Barton.

There is a long silence.

Finally:

		BARTON
	. . . I'm sorry.

Wearily:

		CHARLIE
	Don't be.

He rises to his feet and kneels in front of Barton at the foot of the bed.

The two men regard each other.

Charlie grabs two bars of the footboard frame, still staring at Barton.  His
muscles tighten, though nothing moves.  His neck fans with effort.  All of
his muscles tense.  His face is a reddening grimace.

With a shriek of protest, the metal gives.  The bar to which Barton is
handcuffed had com loose at the top and Barton slides the cuff off it, free.

Charlie gets to his feet.

		CHARLIE
	I'm getting off the merry-go-round.

He takes his shotgun and walks to the door.

	. . . I'll be next door if you need me.

A thought stops him at the door and he turns to face Barton.  Behind him the
hallwya blazes.

	. . . Oh, I dropped in on your folks.
	And Uncle Dave?

He smiles.  Barton looks at him dumbly.

	. . . Good people.  By the way, that package
	I gave you?  I lied.  It isn't mine.

He leaves.

Barton rises, picks up Charlie's parcel, and his script.



THE HALLWAY

As Barton emerges.  Flames lick the walls, causing the wallpaper to run with
the tack glue sap.  Smoke fills the hallway.  Barton looks down the hall.



HIS POV

Charlie stands in front of the door to his room, his briefacse dangling from
one hand, his other hand fumbling in his pocket for his key.

With his hat pushed back on his head and his shoulders slumped with fatigue,
he could be any drummer returning to any hotel after a long hard day on the
road.

He opens the door and goes into his room.



BACK TO BARTON

He turns and walks up the hallway, his script in one hand, the parcel in the
other.

A horrible moaning sound - almost human - can be heard under the roar of the
fire.

BLACKNESS



STUDIO HALLWAY

We are tracking laterally across the lobby of an executive building.  From
offscreen we hear:

		BARTON
	Fink!  Morris or Lillian Fink!  Eighty-
	five Fulton Street!

Filtered through phone:

		OPERATOR
	I understand that, sir -

		BARTON
	Or Uncle Dave!

Our track has brought Barton into frame in the foreground, unshaven,
unkempt, bellowing into the telephone.  In a hallway in the background, a
secretary gestures for Barton to hurry up.

		OPERATOR
	I understand that, sir, but there's still
	no answer.  Shall I check for trouble on the
	line?

Barton slams down the phone.



LIPNIK'S OFFICE

Barton enters, still clinging on to Charlie's parcel.

Lou Breeze stands in one corner censoriously watching Barton.  Lipnik is at
the far end of the room, gazing out the window.

		LIPNIK
	Fink.

		BARTON
	Mr. Lipnik.

		LIPNIK
	Colonel Lipnik, if you don't mind.

He turns to face Barton amd we see that he is wearing a smartly pressed
uniform with a lot of fruit salad on the chest.

	. . . Siddown.

Barton takes a seat facing Lipnik's desk.

	. . . I was commissioned yesterday in the
	Army Reserve.  Henry Morgenthau arranged it.
	He's a dear friend.

		BARTON
	Congratulations.

		LIPNIK
	Actually it hasn't officially gone through
	yet.  Had wardrobe whip this up.  You gotta
	pull teeth to get anything done in this town.
	I can understand a little red tape in peacetime,
	but now it's all-out warfare agaist the Japs.
	Little yellow bastards.  They'd love to see me
	sit this one out.

		BARTON
	Yes sir, they -

		LIPNIK
	Anyway, I had Lou read your script for me.

He taps distastefully at the script on his desk, which has a slightly
charred title page.

	. . . I gotta tell you, Fink.  It won't wash.

		BARTON
	With all due respect, sir, I think it's the
	best work I've done.

		LIPNIK
	Don't gas me, Fink.  If you're opinion mattered,
	then I guess I'd resign and let YOU run the the
	studio.  It doesn't and you won't, and the
	lunatics are not going to run THIS particular
	asylum.  So let's put a stop to THAT rumor right
	now.

Listlessly:

		BARTON
	Yes sir.

		LIPNIK
	I had to call Beery this morning, let him know
	we were pushing the picture back.  After all I'd
	told him about quality, about that Barton Fink
	feeling.  How disappointed we were.  Wally was
	heartbroken.  The man was devastated.  He was -
	well, I didn't actuall call him, Lou did.  But
	that's a fair dexcription, isn't it Lou?

		LOU
	Yes, Colonel.

		LIPNIK
	Hell, I could take you through it step by step,
	explain why your story stinks, but I won't
	insult your intelligence.  Well all right, first
	of all: This is a wrestling picture; the audiece
	wants to see action, drama, wrestling, and plenty
	of it.  They don't wanna see a guy wrestling with
	his soul - well, all right, a little bit, for the
	critics - but you make it the carrot that wags the
	dog.  Too much of it and they head for exits and I
	don't blame 'em.  There's plenty of poetry right
	inside that ring, Fink.  Look at "Hell Ten Feet
	Square".

		LOU
	"Blood, Sweat, and Canvas".

		LIPNIK
	Look at "Blood, Sweat, and Canvas". These are big
	movies, Fink.  About big men, in tights - both
	physically and mentally.  But especially physically.
	We don't put Wallace Beery in some fruity movie
	about suffering - I thought we were together on that.

		BARTON
	I'm sorry if I let you down.

		LIPNIK
	You didn't let ME down.  Or even Lou.  We don't live
	or die by what you scribble, Fink.  You let Ben Geisler
	down.  He like you.  Trusted you.  And that's why he's
	gone.  Fired.  that guy had a heart as big as the
	outdoors, and you fucked him.  He tried to convince
	me to fire you too, but that would be too easy.  No,
	you're under contract and you're gonna stay that way.
	Anything you write will be the property of Capitol
	Pictures.  And Capitol Pictures will not produce
	anything you write.  Not until you grow up a little.
	You ain't no writer, Fink - you're a goddamn write-off.

		BARTON
	I tried to show you something beautiful.  Something
	about all of US -

This sets Lipnik off:

		LIPNIK
	You arrogant sonofabitch!  You think you're the
	only writer who can give me that Barton Fink
	feeling?!  I got twenty writers under contract
	that I cna ask for a Fink-type thing from.  You
	swell-headed hypocrite!  You just don't get it,
	do you?  You think the whole world revolves inside
	whatever rattles inside that little kike head of
	yours.  Get him outta my sight, Lou.  Make sure he
	stays in town, though; he's still under contract.
	I want you in town, Fink, and outta my sight.  Now
	get lost.  There's a war on.



THE SURF

Crashing against the Pacific shore.



THE BEACH

At midday, almost deserted.  In the distance we see Barton walking.  The
paper-wrapped parcel swings from the twine in his left hand.



BARTON

He walks a few more paces and sits down on the sand, looking out to see.
His gaze shifts to one side.



HIS POV

Down the beach, a bathing beauty walks along the edge of the water.  She
looks much like the picture on the wall in Barton's hotel room.



BARTON

He stares, transfixed, at the woman.



THE WOMAN

Very beautiful, backlit by the sun, approaching.



BARTON

Following her with his eyes.



THE WOMAN

Her eyes meet Barton's.  She says something, but her voice is lost in the
crash of the surf.

Barton cups a hand to his ear.

		BEAUTY
	I said it's a beautiful day . . .

		BARTON
	Yes . . . It is . . .

		BEAUTY
	What's in the box?

Barton shrugs and shakes his head.

		BARTON
	I don't know.

		BEAUTY
	Isn't it yours?

		BARTON
	I . . . I don't know . . .

She nods and sits down on the sand svereal paces away from him, facing the
water but looking back over her shoulder at Barton.

	. . . You're very beautiful.  Are you in
	pictures?

She laughs.

		BEAUTY
	Don't be silly.

She turns away to look out at the sea.



WIDER

Facing the ocean.  Barton sits in the middle foreground, back to us, the box
in the sand next to him.

The bathing beauty sits, back to us, in the middle background.

The surf pounds.

The sun sparkles off the water.

The End
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