Barton Fink Page #5

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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.

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