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Niki Wurster Visit our Movie Scripts Page screenplay 451: http://www.geocities.com/~screenplay451/ Mao Guangqin 2 0 2000-01-23T11:50:00Z 2000-01-23T11:50:00Z 24 17697 100874 Pumpkin Software 840 201 123880 9.2504 21 0 0 Barton Fink
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.
CLERK
... 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.
CLERK
... 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:
CLERK
...
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.
VOICE
...
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.
MAN
...
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:
LIPNIK
...
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?
