he hesitates, unable to take it all in.
not yet.
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.
please derek –
they'll be wrapping fish in it in the morning so i guess it's not a total waste.
don't get me wrong – i'm glad it'll do well for you, derek.
all right, but i can't start listening to the critics, and i can't kid myself about my own work. a writer writes from his gut, and his gut tells him what's good and what's.  merely adequate.
i thought you were going to join us. jesus, garland, you left me alone with those people.
the play was marvelous. she wept, copiously. millions of dollars and no sense.
to do what?
i'm not sure anymore. i guess i try to make a difference.
to see pap.
i don't know, garland; my place is here right now. i feel i'm on the brink of success-
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.
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.
no, what did it say?
that's a rationalization, garland.
i'm checking in. barton fink.
must be.
excuse me?
i don't know.  i mean, i'll be here, uh, indefinitely.
well, i'm going to be working here, mostly at night; i'm a writer. do you have room service?
huh?
what –
what number is it?
the others are being sent.
six, please.
looking at the picture
who is this?
who?
his eyes move this way and that. after a silent beat, he shuts them again.
it's not as bad as it looks; just a mosquito in my room –
i'm at the earle.
thanks, but i wanted a place that was less.
to be honest, i don't go to the pictures much, mr. lipnik –
yes, thank you.
both maybe?
elbows on his desk, he looks down at what he has just written. he rolls the paper up a few lines, looks some more.
after a beat he rolls the sheet back into place.
– as he continues typing. he stops after several more characters and looks.
staring, as the end-of-the-tether laughing continues. barton looks back down at his typewriter as if to resume work, but the sound is too insistent to ignore.
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.
thank you.
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 –
barton fink.
that's all right, really, thank you.
okay.  a quick one, sure.
that's okay, i assure you. it's just that i was trying to work –
well, i'm a writer, actually.
can be. not easy, but –
and what's your line, mr. meadows?
doesn't surprise me at all.
thanks, i'll keep it in mind.
no, i'm actually writing for the pictures now –
that's okay; actually i am just starting out in the movies – though i was pretty well established in new york, some renown there,
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.
what do i write about?
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.
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.
i don't guess this means much to you.
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.
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?
exactly, charlie! you understand what i'm saying – a lot more than some of these literary types. because you're a real man!
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.
frequently played, seldom remarked.
you're all right, charlie. i'm glad you stopped by. i'm sorry if – well i know i sometimes run on.
well, we've got something in common then.
sure, sure charlie, you can help by just being yourself.
see you, charlie.
he looks around to the opposite – bed – wall.
i'm a writer, mr. geisler. ted okum said i should drop by morning to see you about the –
huh? no, i'm –
i'm a writer. ted o –
i'm a writer. ted okum said you're producing this wallace beery picture i'm working on.
then who should i talk to?
but lipnik said he wanted to look at the script, see something by the end of the week.
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 –
who?
he quickly straightens and goes to the sink. he starts washing his hands. we hear the stall door being unlatched.
quickly, self-consciously, he looks back down at his hands.
forcing himself to look at his hands. we hear the man reach the adjacent sink and turn on the tap.
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.
looks back down, then up again.
barton fink.
jesus. w.p.!
w.p. mayhew? the writer?
bill!.
you're the finest novelist of our time.
sir, i'm flattered that you even recognize my name. my god, i had no idea you were in hollywood.
it's still a little early for me.
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?
i'm sorry, i.  my name is fink.  uh, bill asked me to drop by this afternoon. is he in?
is, uh.  is he okay?
how about you? will you be alright?
yes i am. i'm working on a wres – please call me 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.
please, barton.
i see.
no, no –
charlie. how are you.
yeah, come in charlie. hadn't really gotten started yet – what happened to your ear?
seen a doctor?
no, i guess you're stuck with the one you've got. have a seat.
nope.
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.
my folks live in brooklyn, with my uncle.
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.
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.
and exploring it can be painful. the kind of pain most people don't know anything about.
this must be boring you.
yeah.
probably sounds a little grand coming from someone who's writing a wrestling picture for wallace beery.
nope, never watched any. i'm not that interested in the act itself –
that's all right, really –
yeah, okay.
it's okay, it's okay.
i'm fine, charlie. really i am. actually, it's been helpful, but i guess i should get back to work.
looking at the picture. he presses the heels of his hands against his ears.
head cocked. the surf is mixing into another liquid sound. barton looks sharply around.
after a brief, puzzled look he realizes where the cotton came from – and convulsively flips it away.
well.  actually, no bill.
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.
that's true, bill. i've never found it to help my writing.
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?
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.
what's that?
you're lucky she puts up with as much as she does.
watching her go.
he rises.
that son of a bitch.  don't get me wrong, he's a fine writer.
are you all right?
audrey, you can't put up with this.
what?! he's a son of a bitch!
really?.
well that doesn't excuse his behavior.
okay, but that doesn't excuse his –
what. what don't i understand?
looking quizzically at the page. what's wrong?
he rises and answers the door.
hi, charlie.
yeah, as a matter of fact they did. come on in.
seems like nothing but, lately.
well, my pleasure. i could use a little lift myself.
well it's.  it's a defense mechanism.
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.
how did you know about that?
yeah, but –
where there's life there's hope.
and there's hope for you too, charlie. tomorrow i bet you sell a half-dozen policies.
you're leaving?
i'm truly sorry to hear that, charlie. i'll miss you.
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.
i guess the heat's sweating off the wallpaper.
well.
what do you mean?
well, i guess you pick your poison.
don't pick up and leave without saying goodbye.
nothing. it's just a mosquito bite.
well i.
well, to tell you the truth, i'm having some trouble getting started–
well not much.
i'm afraid i don't really understand that genre. maybe that's the prob-
well, i've talked to bill mayhew-
he's a great writer –
you don't understand. he's in pain, because he can't write-
but.  i thought no one cared about this picture.
i don't understand-
i didn't say anything-
i can't write anything by tomorrow.
well what do i tell him?
glazed.
hello, chet, it's barton fink in 605. can you try a number for me in hollywood.  slausen 6-4304.
pick it up.  pick it up. pick it-
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?
barton. i'm sorry, it's barton fink.
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-
if you could, i'd –
i need help, audrey.
audrey, thank you for coming. thank you. i'm sorry to be such a.  such a.  thank you.
yes. thank you. how's bill?
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-
no, but the whole goddamn – audrey? have you ever had to read any of bill's wrestling scenarios?
what are they like? what are they about?
did what for bill?
you wrote his scripts for him?
you wrote bill's scripts! jesus christ, you wrote his – what about before that?
before bill came to hollywood.
what do you mean so to speak?! audrey, how long have you been his.  secretary?
i want to know how many of bill's books you wrote!
i want to know!
hah!
i'll bet. jesus – "the grand productive days." what a goddamn phony.
w.p. mayhew. william goddamn phony mayhew. all his guff about escape. hah! i'll say he escaped!
well, we don't have much time.
the hum of a mosquito brings us out of the black and we are looking down at barton, in bed, asleep. it is dawn.
slowly, cautiously, he props himself up, his look following the sound of the mosquito.
gingerly, he reaches over and draws the blanket down audrey's back.
he pulls audrey's shoulder.
he screams.
no!.  i'm fine. thank you.
no.  no.
he walks toward the bed, wheels before he reaches it, and starts back toward the door.
no.  can i come in?
charlie, i'm in trouble. you've gotta help me.
charlie, i'm in trouble – something horrible's happened – i've gotta call the police.
will you stay with me till they get here?
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.
i've gotta call the police – or you could call for me –
you gotta believe me –
i didn't do this, i did not do this–
i don't know! i woke up, she was.  god, you gotta believe me!
we gotta call the police –
yeah.
i don't know! maybe it was her.  boyfriend. i passed out. i don't know. won't the police be able to –
but i didn't do it – don't you believe me?
they gotta believe me, charlie! they gotta have mercy!
uh-huh.  where's audrey?
yeah.  rye whiskey?
yeah, okay.  well.  we fade in.
it's a tenement building. on the lower east side.
and then.  well.
can i be honest, mr. lipnik?
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.
mr. lipnik, that's not really necessar-
i – mr. lipnik –
mr. lipnik, i –
no no, mr. breeze has actually been a great help –
mr. lipnik, i really would feel much better if you could reconsider –
jesus.  you're leaving.
jesus, charlie, i.
charlie! i've got no one else here! you're the only person i know in los angeles.
that i can talk to.
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.
i just don't know what.  to do–
yeah, but charlie –
sure, charlie.
it's more than i've got.
thanks, charlie.
you'll be back?
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.
staring at the passage. his mouth hangs open.
squinting at the page through bloodshot eyes.
hello.  chet.  who?.
 no, don't send them up here. i'll be right down.
you read the bible, pete?
yeah.
yeah.
uh-huh.
i write.
well as a matter of fact, i write for the pictures.
no, i – i didn't mean to sound –
i – i've got respect for – for working guys, like you –
yeah.
a week, eight, nine days –
nine days – tuesday –
yeah, he.  he lives next door to me.
once or twice. his name is charlie meadows.
what did.  what did he –
no. i never saw him with anyone else.
nothing, really. said he was in the insurance business.
well that's what he said.
he.  i'm trying to think.  nothing, really.  he.  he said he liked jack oakie pictures.
yeah.
hello? operator! i can't.  oh!
garland, it's me.
yeah, i'm fine, garland – i have to talk to you. i'm calling long distance.
i'm fine, garland, but i have to talk with you.
it's about what i'm writing, garland. it's really.  i think it's really big.
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.
very important, garland. i just thought you should know that. whatever happens.
have you read the bible, garland?
yes.  isn't it?
sound a little what?
thanks, garland. thanks for all the encouragement.
nitwit.
dancing animatedly, almost maniacally, his fingers jabbing the air.
caught up in his dancing, oblivious to the girl.
this is my dance, sailor!
i'm a writer! celebrating the completion of something good! do you understand that, sailor? i'm a writer!
i'm a writer, you monsters! i create! he points at his head.
this is my uniform!
this is how i serve the common man! this is where i –
keep your filthy eyes off that.
charlie.  charlie's back.
could you come back later? it's just.  too hot.  my head is killing me.
sex?! he's a man! we wrestled!
charlie's back. it's hot.  he's back.
i hear it's mundt. madman mundt.
but charlie – why me? why –
i'm sorry.
fink! morris or lillian fink! eighty- five fulton street!
or uncle dave!
mr. lipnik.
congratulations.
yes sir, they –
with all due respect, sir, i think it's the best work i've done.
yes sir.
i'm sorry if i let you down.
i tried to show you something beautiful. something about all of us –
he walks a few more paces and sits down on the sand, looking out to see. his gaze shifts to one side.
he stares, transfixed, at the woman.
following her with his eyes.
yes.  it is.
i don't know.
i.  i don't know.
you're very beautiful. are you in pictures?