Barton Fink is a playwright, the new darling of Broadway, who gets a tempting offer to write for a Hollywood studio. Reluctantly, he agrees, but when he is assigned a wrestling picture, he finds he is completely blocked up. With a deadline looming, can he come up with a good story ?
This movie, which won the Palme D'Or at the 1991 Cannes Film Festival, seems to be saying that fruity movies designed for critics, are worthless. Isn't that a delicious irony ? An arty movie reflecting on the self-indulgent, egotistical, uninvolving qualities of arty movies. Barton is so self-obsessed with the importance of his work he completely misses the point of everything that's happening around him. Only at the very end, when Lipnick finally chews him out, does he begin to understand the point of writing (and cinema), and it's not to win acclaim for yourself. What makes this especially weird is that for the Coen Brothers, this critical darling of a movie was sandwiched between two even better films, Miller's Crossing and The Hudsucker Proxy, two fantastic entertainment extravaganzas, both of which were mauled and bombed. It's a beautiful film though, filled to the brim with subtext which invites interpretation - the Hotel Earle is really Hell and Charlie is the Devil, is it Audrey's head in the box, wrestling as a metaphor for Barton's block, beauty as a distraction from work/reality, Mayhew as King Nebuchadnezzar unable to interpret his own dreams, Barton's surreal experiences of Hollywood. There as so many engaging little nods to these ideas, like the hotel stationery logo ("A day or a lifetime !") or the odd whooshing noises whenever a door is opened (Skip Lievsay's sound design is terrific). Of course some characters can be interpreted as disguised parodies, with Barton as Clifford Odets, Mayhew as William Faulkner and Lerner as Louis B. Mayer, but this is hardly a biopic or exposé story. The cast are all terrific, with Turturro giving a career-best turn, Goodman doing an incredible job with a character who seems to transform constantly throughout the film, Davis as a southern belle straight out of Tennessee Williams, Lerner and Shaloub injecting wry doses of humour, and Mahoney in a showstopping drunk role. The ace photography (the Coens first with cameraman Roger Deakins) is simply stunning throughout; long elegant takes, amazing ultra-closeups as we literally crawl into Barton's Underwood typewriter, a bravura down-the-plughole tracking shot. Combine this with Carter Burwell's typically spare, haunting score, and terrific production design by Dennis Gassner - the Earle is a much a character as any of the actual people - and the result is an unforgettable piece of fantasy drama and one of the Coen's best movies.
This movie, which won the Palme D'Or at the 1991 Cannes Film Festival, seems to be saying that fruity movies designed for critics, are worthless. Isn't that a delicious irony ? An arty movie reflecting on the self-indulgent, egotistical, uninvolving qualities of arty movies. Barton is so self-obsessed with the importance of his work he completely misses the point of everything that's happening around him. Only at the very end, when Lipnick finally chews him out, does he begin to understand the point of writing (and cinema), and it's not to win acclaim for yourself. What makes this especially weird is that for the Coen Brothers, this critical darling of a movie was sandwiched between two even better films, Miller's Crossing and The Hudsucker Proxy, two fantastic entertainment extravaganzas, both of which were mauled and bombed. It's a beautiful film though, filled to the brim with subtext which invites interpretation - the Hotel Earle is really Hell and Charlie is the Devil, is it Audrey's head in the box, wrestling as a metaphor for Barton's block, beauty as a distraction from work/reality, Mayhew as King Nebuchadnezzar unable to interpret his own dreams, Barton's surreal experiences of Hollywood. There as so many engaging little nods to these ideas, like the hotel stationery logo ("A day or a lifetime !") or the odd whooshing noises whenever a door is opened (Skip Lievsay's sound design is terrific). Of course some characters can be interpreted as disguised parodies, with Barton as Clifford Odets, Mayhew as William Faulkner and Lerner as Louis B. Mayer, but this is hardly a biopic or exposé story. The cast are all terrific, with Turturro giving a career-best turn, Goodman doing an incredible job with a character who seems to transform constantly throughout the film, Davis as a southern belle straight out of Tennessee Williams, Lerner and Shaloub injecting wry doses of humour, and Mahoney in a showstopping drunk role. The ace photography (the Coens first with cameraman Roger Deakins) is simply stunning throughout; long elegant takes, amazing ultra-closeups as we literally crawl into Barton's Underwood typewriter, a bravura down-the-plughole tracking shot. Combine this with Carter Burwell's typically spare, haunting score, and terrific production design by Dennis Gassner - the Earle is a much a character as any of the actual people - and the result is an unforgettable piece of fantasy drama and one of the Coen's best movies.