mark.waltz
Ever since the day those brave pioneers came out west from the east coast with dreams of sunshine and perfect weather conditions for making movies, that ideal known as Hollywood (not the place, but the state of mind) has dashed many hopes and dreams. Whether it be for the phoniness of the people, lack of artistic respect of how movies are made and the absence of creative aspects has turned off many artists. Writers have exposed the shady world of filmmaking, both in California and abroad, and when Hollywood does it and gets away with it, it is practically a work of genius.Praised playwright John Turturro finds that Broadway success make him wanted buy the biggest movie studio in Hollywood and when he arrives, he's fine he has been given a story he has no passion about. Struggling to find ideas in a dilapidated Beach Hotel, he meets wacky neighbor John Goodman (who turns out to be quite off the beam), finds a hopeful mentor in alcoholic author John Mahoney and falls in love with Mahoney's younger mistress/secretary, Judy Davis. Slowly but surely, Turturo finds out how Hollywood works behind the scenes, hiding scandal, building and breaking careers (and hearts), and ultimately how profit is more important than artistic integrity. Oh, and don't forget about the mysterious box that Goodman leaves behind.An excellent cast walks around a very avant garde set (which got a well deserved Oscar nomination) as if they were in an ongoing dream state. The hallway set alone in the hotel is worthy of that honor. Oscar nominated Michael Lerner plays the flamboyant but crude studio head, with Tony Shalhoub outrageous as well as the talent scout who becomes his adviser. Steve Buscemi also steals scenes as the hotel clerk dressed in bellboy attire. While Lerner is excellent, I would have preferred the Oscar nomination go to Goodman, then very successful on T.V.'s "Roseanne". For those who have gone to Hollywood hoping for some sort of success in film, whether it be in front of the camera or behind the scenes, it is a revelation especially if you have decided want you got there that it's not worth the destruction of your ethics. I am one of those who thought of a career as a film editor but unwilling to compromise my personal standards decided to remain a fan of the movies from afar. Like "Sunset Boulevard", "The Bad and the Beautiful", "The Big Knife" and others, this doesn't ask for apologies for biting the hand that feeds it, and in the end, got applause for taking a chunk out. It might not be for all tastes (as are most Cohen films), but artists should totally check it out.
sharky_55
Barton Fink is a writer who claims to represent the common man. Turturro, at first, presents a rather meek and uninspiring portrait. When his latest play opens to critical success and a round of applause, he slinks away backstage, blinking nervously. And when he gets the big call from Hollywood, he pretends, just for a second, that he has better and more important things to write and do. How often that much can be gleamed from an initial outburst of indignation. Then he accepts anyway, but compromises by staying, not in a pristine Californian mansion, but in a modest, mostly empty hotel. He has convinced himself that it is here where he will find and embrace the common man, and write for them. In Hollywood, no less. His lack of awareness contains a hint of irony, and more dangerously, a solid dose of self importance. This hotel is magnificent in all its grimy splendour. Some have commented that it is a metaphor for the writer's mind, constantly in chaos. There are only ever two other characters that appear in its rooms. So Barton is constantly haunted by these rogue noises, but they do not appear to have a source except from his own room - the noisy wrestling with Charlie, the sex with Audrey, the buzzing of the mosquito. Deakins has created such a vivid image with his lighting - the ray of sunlight ala Edward Hopper that simultaneously brings the room alive, but in a dull sort of way as if the frame is a postcard portrait of a faded painting. The yellow-greens that stick to the walls suggest a heavy, putrid atmosphere where creativity and inspiration come to die. The little postcard painting on the wall is the only exterior outlet in the room, but although the camera slowly zooms until the frame is fully enveloped, it offers no solace from isolation and confinement. The wallpaper is sticky with humidity and dripping like Charlie's ear, and as it peels itself off with a speed that seems accelerated by Barton's paranoia, he hastily pats it back down. He doesn't look for meaning or understanding, but convinces himself that these are the conditions to pen his common man masterpiece.The common man is of course Goodman's Charlie, whom he plays with a rotund, jovial manner that is instantly approachable, even for a recluse such as Barton. In a Coen twist, he is serial killer, but this does not seem to dilute his message. In fact, it heightens all his intricacies and experiences on the road. He comes hands full into his room with the miracles and stories of the common man, and Barton listens, without particularly much thought, and rattles on pretentiously about his own magnum opus. Earlier on, he calls to complain, but shrinks instantly when confronted with an accusation. Meanwhile his whole career is seemingly falling away beside him in disarray; the studio executive talks at a hundred miles an hour about a love interest and raising a young orphan, his idol has been consumed by Hollywood and outed as a semi-fraud, and he is suffering from writer's block. The Coens characterise this with these hauntingly slow zooms which bore into the object they are targeting; a terrified glance at the ringing telephone, taking us into and through the typewriter and wall-plaster, as a mosquito's spiralling descent finds blood to feast on, and as Audrey and he has sex, burrowing down the sinkhole. And twice, we get extreme closeups of keys clacking, before the reveal is of a secretary typing away, not our famed writer. There is another interpretation that bears merit. Fink's Jewishness, and in turn the Coens' own roots, are repeatedly stamped upon and dismissed. At an impasse in his all important career, he sells out but continues to stuff his ears and convince himself that he is the champion of the common man, all whilst Hollywood is booming and quite ironically, becoming what the common man flocks to see. Clearly, he should have stayed a playwright. In 1941, even as the boss dresses up in military uniform and berates his lack of social awareness and the predicament of the war-front, he continues writing what is to be a never seen piece of work. Do we ever see more than the opening lines of his typewriter? Do we hear more than the closing lines of his critically acclaimed stage-play? When he finally hits that epiphany, he goes and celebrates with the common man, and is assaulted with a cacophony of jeers and insults and seems shocked that he is not revered for his work. He ends up wandering on the beach front. This is not a faded painting, this is the picturesque ocean and sand in all its beauty. And a girl, too. "Are you in pictures?" he ventures. He is so out of touch with the common man that when he is confronted with a common woman, he is completely entranced by her beauty. It has to be something that Hollywood has snapped up, does it not? Barton is not as pathetically despicable as Jerry in Fargo, nor is he as pitiful as the self- loathing, mentally-blocked Charlie Kaufman. But he is eternally perplexed. He has penned a masterpiece. Where is the standing ovation?
