Dreaming of Barton Fink
Jun 5th, 2008 | By Rick | Category: Analysis and Comment, Reviews
The Brothers Coen are not known for explaining themselves. In fact, they often go out of their way not to.And the height of this obfuscatory impulse is Barton Fink. Perhaps not coincidentally, until No Country for Old Men, it was their most critically well-received: it won the Palm d’Or at Cannes, as well as Best Director and Best Actor. It was the first film in the festival’s history to do so.
Leftist playwright Fink (John Turturro, above) is the talk of Broadway with his social realist play Bare Ruined Choirs, in which he “celebrated the virtues of the common man” in ways that only effete, Eastern intellectuals can. After the success of his play, he’s lured out to Hollywood to work as a contract writer
for Capitol Pictures’ studio head Jack Lipnick (Michael Lerner, left), who’s forever saying stuff like: “Writing is king here at Capital pictures. You don’t believe me, look at your paycheck at the end of the week.” Lipnick assigns Fink a Wallace Beery wrestling picture, but it soon becomes clear that though he talks about respecting the writer, he views them as peons, there only to support his own ambitions. This mirrors and illuminates Barton’s own “love” for the common man. Though he doesn’t know it, he’s getting a taste of his own medicine.
The studio puts him up at the Hotel Earle, which comes complete with
weird employees and a hallway straight out of The Shining. The Earle is in a constant state of impending doom: the doors shut with hollow. echoing thuds. There’s a constant wind, blowing down the empty halls. The shoes of unseen guests line wait ominously outside their doors. Barton soon meets his neighbor, Charlie Meadows (John Goodman), a salesman who is the very model of the proletariat he finds so noble. Naturally, Barton is condescending toward him. After that first meeting, and after drinking from Charlie’s hip flask, the playwright comes down 
with a severe case of writer’s block.
Meanwhile, he befriends W.P. “Bill” Mayhew (John Mahoney), an acclaimed novelist writing for the movies; Mayhew’s a raging alcoholic, who abuses his assistant/mistress Audrey (Judy Davis). After a particularly frustrating evening, Barton calls Audrey, hoping to get her help in writing his screenplay. They wind up in bed, and in the morning, he finds her lying next to him, dead in a pool of blood.
Charlie comes to the rescue, disposing of the body and comforting the hysterical Barton before leaving on a business trip. But before he goes, he gives the playwright a suspiciously-shaped box. It’s stuff, he says, from his life. Barton should keep it for him, and maybe it’ll bring him good luck. Miraculously, it does: his
writer’s block is suddenly cured.
The Coens refuse to spell out what any of this means, they refuse to tie up their loose ends. Although we suspect that it’s Audrey’s head in the box, we’re never shown explicitly. Even after we’re told that Charlie’s really serial killer Madman Mundt, known for decapitating his victims, we don’t know much more than we did. As he roars through the Earle with a shotgun, the hall catches fire behind him, seemingly by the force of his own will. We’re left to ask “Just who is Charlie, anyway?”
It’s possible, of course, that none of it really happens, that it’s all contained in Barton’s fevered imagination, brought on by boredom or his bout of writer’s block. When Meadows/Mundt appears in the flaming hallway, he seems to point to that in what he screams: “Look upon me: I’ll show you the life of the mind, I’ll show you the life of the mind!”
The film also functions as a metaphor for “selling out” one’s talents: Barton sells his soul to Hollywood,
personified at times by the demonic Charlie Meadows and other times, perhaps, by Jack Lipnick. Indeed, identity is a constant theme. As the film progresses, Barton becomes more and more Charlie’s double — in one scene, the bellhop has mixed up their shoes outside the door, and they sit on the bed, side-by-side in their suspenders, putting them on. There are other doubles as well: Lipnick’s professed “love” of the writer mirrors Barton’s own, equally self-centered regard for the proletariat. Mayhew’s debauched lifestyle — besides being an hilarious send-up of William Faulkner — foreshadows what might 
become of Barton himself. And before immolating himself in the fire he just set, Charlie gives Barton his identity, he “passes the baton” in the form of the suspicious box.
Along the way, the Coens drop Biblical references that may — or may not — mean something. Mayhew’s latest script is called “Nebuchadnezzar.” Barton questions the elevator operator about whether he’s read the Bible, then incorporates a verse from Genesis into the first line of his play: “And God said Let there be light; and there was light.”
Of course, light is just what the brothers refuse to shed. When Barton first turns to the Bible for inspiration, it opens to what appears to be Daniel 2:30, in which the King of the Chaldeans warns “if ye will not make known unto me the dream, with the interpretation thereof, ye shall be cut in pieces, and your houses shall be made a dunghill.” Perhaps that’s their “up yours” to the studio bosses, and indeed the general public, who demand clear and simple interpretations of their flickering dreams. [Even here the Coens can't resist screwing with someone diligent -- or foolish -- enough to look up the verse: it's not there. It's not Daniel 2:30 but 2:5 that the film quotes. Even when they seem to be making known unto us an interpretation, they're messing with our heads.]
In the end, Barton sits on a beach, in monosyllabic conversation with a beautiful woman who is herself the double of a picture on the wall of his room. “What’s in the box?” she asks. “I don’t know,” he replies. “Isn’t it yours?” she asks. “I don’t know,” he replies. And that’s what we all have to admit after watching this sometimes maddening, sometimes hilarious, always entertaining film: we just don’t know.
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I have a friend who tells me, if he ever taught an English class, he would show this film the first day.
I’ve loved this movie since the day it came out, and I was less than 10 years old.
Coen’s are brilliant! But I still don’t know what the hell it means…..
Great piece Rick
I’m with on this one, I haven’t the foggiest. I love the film dearly and have watched it over and over but I’m no closer to ‘getting it’.
Glad that you gave John Mahoney the credit he deserves for his brilliant take on Faulkner, I always find that this role never gets the accolade it deserves.
“Honey! Where’s my honey?”
I wasn’t really convinced that this film had anything but atmosphere, something I think a lot of Coen brothers films suffer from. I saw it because I heard Barton was based loosely on Clifford Odets. As a Group Theatre enthusiast, I thought it would be interesting.
I will say, however, that nobody does atmosphere like the Coens.
Joe, why would your friend show it in an English class? The Faulkner send-up? The Clifford Odets thing? I am a fan of the Coens, and this flick in particular, but not since I was 10 … you’ve got me beat!
Ib — I love John Mahoney! Frasier wouldn’t have been half the show without him and his razor-sharp timing, and his drunken bellowing in this flick is hilarious.
Marilyn — I know what you mean. I think sometimes — and this might have been one of them — they just hang some ideas on a bare plot structure — let’s see, Odets-like playwright sells out to Hollywood, meets Louis B. Mayer, William Faulkner and the devil. Oh, wow … let’s make the wallpaper a character! And we’ll do some stuff about identity — you become what you hate — and have a hallway straight from Kubrick!
Sometimes, at least for me, the atmosphere — along with all the gags — is enough.
Rick - I used to be a big Coen Brothers fan. I liked their comedies especially–Raising Arizona, The Hudsucker Proxy. I loved the music in O Brother, Where Art Thou (and who didn’t!), but it was about that time that they started going south in my esteem. Maybe it was me getting older, but I really started to resent their lack of substance. I wanted a meal, and they gave me popcorn. I didn’t see The Man Who Wasn’t There, but I swear that’s how I see them now. No there there, too facile. I don’t have patience for that anymore.
You know, I thought The Man Who Wasn’t There was their last good film before No Country. It has a classic noir plot, twisted by typical Coen strangeness.
The next two–Intolerable Cruelty and the wholly unnecessary remake of The Ladykillers were just filler for me, before they came roaring back with No Country for Old Men. Have you seen it?
Anyway, though they sometimes lean toward too much style, not enough substance, I probably wouldn’t call them facile, especially with No Country.
Do you remember Toby Gynwyth? She started most of my dissertations, theses, and arguments. I had to finish every one on my own,
To begin with, I had never paid much attention to the Cohn Bros. until you mentioned “The Big Lebowski”, and followed that up with a long list of their films. Carolyn and I rented what might be the entire list through Netflix this last year. Well?
I learned that three months of Cohn films taxes the intellect;
that the mainstay of my viewing involvement became the fact that I had to draw many conclusions on my own. That meant that, for days afterward, words and pictures became part of my conversation or my reflections. “No Country…” is good because the reality of what those of os who survive life and responsibility until forty, or older, begin to view as ironic entertainment; the fact that there is no wand, no magic pill, no perfect cinematic “Pretty Woman” ending. For me, it’s “Damn! That coulda been, mighta been, or shoulda been me.”
Sometimes it’s laughable. Sometimes it is so disgusting. However, if it’s perplexing? So, that’s now an entertainment in itself at my age.
Thanxxxxxxxxx!
Earl Wiz
Afinal
Rick-
I think he believes it is the best film ever about the process of creative writing.
I don’t think he really knows what is actually going on in the movie, but I DO SEE HIS POINT!
Joe: Yeah, I guess so … although that whole devil-breaking-his-writers-block-by-giving-him-a package-with-a-severed-head thing may be a little stretch . . .
I notice a significant trend throughout your piece as well as the comments, Rick. It seems as if those who love this movie not only love it in spite of its obtuse and confusing elements, but because of them as well. “I don’t know what’s going on here but I LOVE it!” seems to be a common sentiment.
Well, you know my thoughts on the matter from a few months ago, so I won’t air all of that dirty laundry out here.
I do find it fascinating that each of us tends to embrace certain flavors of ambiguity, while others reject them. I relish the ambiguity of Herzog’s Aguirre, the Wrath of God, Haneke’s Cache, and Donnie Darko, but I can’t stand the ambiguity of Mullholland Dr. or of Barton Fink. In many ways, all of those pictures are no different from one another (even though they share few superficial similarities), but some I love and some I hate.
I wonder what it is that allows us to give ourselves over to certain mindgames, where in other instances we’re prevented - and even loathe - those same manipulations.
Interesting point, Evan. I’m not a huge Lynch fan, perhaps because his surrealism always seems so forced, so dancing-dwarfs, in-your-face, “look at me, I’m surreal and weird.” In “Barton Fink,” I somehow don’t feel that way. The surreal touches are somewhat subtle, at least at first . . . the peeling wallpaper, the rows of shoes, the whooshing halls. It doesn’t get to be over-the-top until the last act, with Goodman roaring down the hall.
I’m not the right one to talk to about “Donnie Darko,” ’cause I’m not a fan, and I’ve never seen “Aguirre” (I know, I know …).
A surrealist that I really appreciate is Bunuel, who can make you disquieted with a single shot, and whose surrealism is never in your face.
I think a willingness to be happy not knowing is at heart, but what do I know?
You know, thinking about it a bit, I think a lot of it may have to do with one’s perception of the director’s intention and/or attitude towards the viewer. If you feel like the director is looking down his nose at you (Lynch in most of his films, Haneke in Funny Games), then you’ll be more inclined to hate it, regardless of how obtuse things are. If you feel like the director is inviting you into his world of ambiguity, welcoming your interpretation of events (Herzog, Haneke in Cache), then you’ll be inclined to appreciate, even love it, in spite of it’s obtuseness.
However, determining the director’s intention, especially with works like these, is a thoroughly subjective affair.
Barton Fink felt totally in your face most of the time for me, but not for you. Both interpretations are probably equally valid.
I haven’t seen any Bunuel (I know, I know…). Any suggestions on which of his films to start with?
As far as surrealism and ambiguity go, your mileage may vary.
As far as Bunuel goes, you can’t go wrong with either Viridiana or Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie. The former starts off disquieting, kind of foreboding, and then ends with a beggar’s banquet that Altman cribbed from (you’ll see the scene) in M*A*S*H. It was roundly condemned by the Catholic Church, banned in Spain, etc., for being sacreligious.
The latter is more outright hilarious and is the tale of several bourgeois couples who keep trying to eat together, but can’t. That’s about the entire plot. Being Bunuel, it is among other things a swipe at the Church, and particularly on the efficacy of Holy Communion, among other things.
Bunuel was an avowed atheist, by the way, who despised the Church and all its stuff. This is reflected in his films. I always find it interesting when folks who loudly protest that they are non-believers spend a lot of time agonizing over it. Bergman was another one.
Both Viridiana and Discreet Charm are available in nice Criterion versions.