Barton Fink

Barton:
Who cares about the fifth Earl of Bathsdrop and Lady Higgenbottom and... and... who killed Nigel Grinchgibbons?

Charlie:
I can feel my butt gettin' sore already!

Jack Lipnick:
We're only interested in one thing, Bart. Can you tell a story? Can you make us laugh? Can you make us cry? Can you make us want to break out in joyous song? Is that more than one thing? Okay!

Barton:
Have you read the Bible, Pete?

Pete:
Holy Bible?

Barton:
Yeah.

Pete:
Yeah, I think so. Anyway, I've heard about it.

Charlie:
Look upon me! I'll show you the life of the mind!

Mastrionotti:
What do you do, Fink?

Barton:
I write.

Deutsch:
Oh yeah? What kind of write?

Barton:
Well, as a matter of fact I write for the pictures.

Mastrionotti:
Big f***in' deal.

Deutsch:
You want my partner to kiss your ass?

Mastrionotti:
Would that be good enough for you?

Barton:
No, I - I didn't mean to sound...

Deutsch:
What did you mean?

Barton:
I - I've got respect for - for working guys, like you...

Mastrionotti:
Jesus! Ain't that a load off!

Mastrionotti:
Started in Kansas City. Couple of housewives.

Deutsch:
Couple days ago we see the same M.O. out in Los Feliz.

Mastrionotti:
Doctor. Ear, nose and throat man.

Deutsch:
All of which he's now missin'.

Mastrionotti:
Well, some of his throat was there.

Deutsch:
Physician, heal thyself.

Mastrionotti:
Good luck with no f***in' head.

Deutsch:
Anyway.

Mastrionotti:
Fink. That's a Jewish name, isn't it?

Barton:
Yeah.

Mastrionotti:
Yeah, I didn't think this dump was restricted.

Geisler:
Look, you confused? You need guidance? Talk to another writer.

Barton:
Who?

Geisler:
Jesus, throw a rock in here, you'll hit one. And do me a favor, Fink: throw it hard.

Barton:
Sex? He's a man! We wrestled!

Barton:
Are you in pictures?

Beauty:
Don't be silly.

Detective Deutsch:
What else?

Barton:
Trying to think. Nothing, really. He... he said he liked Jack Oakie pictures.

Detective Mastrionotti:
You know, ordinarily we say anything you might remember could be helpful. But I'll be frank with you, Fink. That is not helpful.

Detective Deutsch:
Notice how he's not writing it down?

Barton:
I'm a writer, you monsters! I create! I create for a living! I'm a creator! I am a creator! This is my uniform.

W.P. Mayhew:
Honey! Where's my honey?

Garland:
The common man will still be here when you get back. Who knows, there may even be one or two of them in Hollywood.

Barton:
That's a rationalization, Garland.

Garland:
Barton, it was a joke.

Geisler:
Wallace Beery. Wrestling picture. What do you need, a roadmap?

Ben Geisler:
Think about it, Fink! Writers come and go; we always need Indians!

Charlie:
You think I made your life hell? Take a look around this dump. You're just a tourist with a typewriter, Barton, I live here.

Lipnick:
We don't put Wallace Beery in some fruity movie about suffering - I thought we were together on that.

W.P. Mayhew:
Mister Fink, they have not invented a genre of picture that Bill Mayhew has not, at one time or other, been invited to essay. Yes, I have taken my stab at the rasslin' form, as I have stabbed at so many others, and with as little success. I gather that you are a freshman here, eager for an upperclassman's counsel. However, just at the moment, I have drinking to do. Why don't you stop by my bungalow, which is number fifteen, later on this afternoon, and we will discuss rasslin' scenarios and other things lit'rary.

Geisler:
I've got a writer here - Fink - all screwy! Says I'm producing that Wallace Beery wrestling picture; what am I, the god-damn janitor around here?

Charlie:
I pulled off early today. Took your advice, went to a doctor about this ear. He says 'You have an ear infection, ten dollars please'. So I says 'I told you I had an ear infection, you give me ten dollars!' Well that started an argument.

Chet:
Welcome to Los Angle eees, Mr. Fink.

Ben Geisler:
Tell Lipnick he can kiss my dimpled ass.

Detective Mastrionotti:
You're a sick f***, Fink.

Wrestler:
I will destroy him!

Geisler:
Ever act?

Barton:
...Huh? No, I'm—

Geisler:
We need Indians for a Norman Steele western.

Barton:
I'm a writer. Ted O—

Geisler:
Think about it, Fink. Writers come and go; we always need Indians.

Charlie:
I could tell you some stories...

Barton:
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...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 theatre becomes as phony as a three-dollar bill!

Charlie:
Well I guess that's a tragedy right there!

Barton:
I'm sorry if I let you down.

Jack:
You didn't let me down Fink, or even Lou. We don't live or die by what you scribble. You let Ben Geisler down. He liked you, trusted you... and that's why he's gone, he's fired. That man had a heart as big as the all outdoors and you f***ed him.

Jack Lipnik:
I run this dump, and I don't know the technical mumbo-jumbo. Why do I run it? Cause I got horse sense, goddamit. SHOWMANSHIP! And also, and I hope Lou told you this, I am bigger and meaner and louder than any other kike in this town. Did you tell him that, Lou? And I don't mean my dick is bigger than yours, it's not a sexual thing, although you're the writer, you'd know more about that. Coffee?

Jack Lipnik:
Look, Bart, barring a preference we're going to put you to work on a wrestling picture, Wallace Beery. I say this because they tell me you know the poetry of the streets, so that would rule out westerns, pirate pictures, screwball, Bible, Roman... look, I'm not one of those guys who thinks poetic has got to be fruity. We're together on that, aren't we? I mean I'm from New York myself, well, Minsk if you want to go all the way back. Which we won't, if you don't mind and I ain't asking. Now people are going to say to you, Wallace Beery, wrestling, it's a B picture. You tell them: BULLSHIT! We do NOT make B pictures here at Capitol. Let's put a stop to that rumor RIGHT now!

Charlie Meadows:
C'mon, Barton, you think you know about pain? You think I made your life hell? Take a look around this dump. You're just a tourist with a typewriter, Barton, I live here, don't you understand that? And you come into MY home... and you complain that I'M making too... much... noise.