Barton Fink Page #3

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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.

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