Too many fans seem to be blown away

Some things I liked some I did not.

While it is a pity that the story wasn't told with more visual finesse, this is trivial compared to our real-world problems. It takes a good movie to put that into perspective.

An old-fashioned movie made with new-fashioned finesse.

Again, this is a very good Coen films. Its a funny, well written comedy about a struggling screenwriter who moves to los angeles. The actors are all great, both convincing and laughable. John Goodmans character is by far the most interesting. The strange hotel staff (including Steve Buscemi) are also very funny. Its also a very original film. My only complaint would be that the jokes are a bit infrequent and dont make you burst out laughing, like in Fargo and Raising Arizona. A good film tough. 8/10

Some individual scenes in 'Barton Fink (1991)' are great, emphasising the Coen's philosophy that the scene takes precedent over the story, and there's a chunk just after the halfway point where things really pick up steam and a proper 'plot' seems to be getting underway - until the film just ends without any real satisfying resolution, that is. For most of the run-time, though, this off-kilter 'comedy'-drama lacks drive and instead meanders around through ponderously aloof satirical sequences in which the protagonist pretentiously proposes that his writing must come from a source of pain and how that's more important than critical acclaim or audience acceptance. It's frustrating that there seems to be some hints of a sub-layer to the narrative, indications that perhaps something supernatural is going on beneath the surface or that we're going to get a big 'reveal' in the third act that makes sense of some of the stranger moments (or at least cements the necessity of their inclusion), but though there is a 'twist' of sorts that slips a slice of sinister into the otherwise lukewarm narrative, these hints and this plot point peel away to surmount to nothing and, as such, seem like hollow inclusions only added to infuse a false sense of depth to a hopelessly shallow narrative. This seemingly indicates that the Coens themselves fell victim to the writer's block that consistently aisles their bespectacled creation. 6/10

I've only seen a handful of the 'Coen Brothers' movies so far, and each time, I'm left surprised by the range of their oeuvre. I haven't necessarily liked all they've had to offer ('Intolerable Cruelty' is the first that comes to mind), but they've transcended so many genres through their movies that they've come to define their own. And regardless of the purported genre, whether it be a Western or a Musical, a Comedy or a Slow-Burning Drama, they've never failed to leave that indelible impression on each of their outings, one that reassuringly proclaims from the moment you see their names in the opening credits that you're witness to something special. 'Barton Fink' is no exception - it's a beautifully-crafted, ably-acted and soundly-written drama, that is unlike any other 'Hollywood-Writer' drama you've ever seen before.Barton Fink is a New York playwright, and when we're introduced to him, he's right at the cusp of fame and success, having written a 'common-man' play that's received rave reviews from audience and critics alike. Although, fame, he doesn't seem to desire, and success, he wants on his own terms, believing that his best work is still ahead of him. Despite his strong beliefs and principles, he's reluctantly convinced by his agent to accept a studio contract in Hollywood, in order to cash in on his new-found fame. Although once he gets to Los Angeles, he finds himself completely out of his element, while rubbing shoulders with a motley of characters - the flamboyant studio-head whose praise and reverence for Barton seems conditional on his ability to make him money; the established Hollywood screenwriter that Barton looks to for inspiration, but quickly realizes has his own share of personal demons; the beautiful and charming secretary who could easily have been reduced to a prop in a lesser movie; and of course, the mild-mannered and ever-smiling neighbour that provides much-needed companionship to the ill- adjusted writer. And the cast did a commendable job in bringing these characters to life - Judy Davis was every bit as charming as the character she portrays; Michael Lerner as Lipnick stole every scene that he graced, and provided much-needed comic relief to an otherwise somber movie; it was great to see Mahoney & Shalhoub outside the TV roles that've made them so famous; and John Turturro, it seems, was born to essay this soft-spoken, ill-at-ease, anxiety- ridden writer. But the highlight of the movie was definitely John Goodman, whose affecting candor and lighthearted personality is the centerpiece of this fine drama. The movie is rich in symbolism, for one who is willing to pay attention. For one who isn't, it's still a beautiful tale of a man's struggle, with himself as much as the outside world, and of finding poetry in the routine and the mundane. That was one of the aspects I highly appreciated - the symbolism and subtle layers in this movie aren't stuffed down the viewer's throat; the movie can be watched within or without that context, and it would still be a rewarding experience. The movie touches upon a number of themes as well - the difficulty of the writing process, the classification of high versus low art, the subjective nature of artistic assessment, the commercialization of art in recent times, the struggle to find meaning in one's life, the beauty that lies in the life of the common man, and of course, the life of the mind. Some people might take issue with the inherent ambiguity of the film or certain unresolved strands that are left for the viewers to untangle. And I do concede that there are movies where I find such tactics annoying, seemingly employed by the makers in the name of post-modern artistry to hide the fact that they were at a loss to resolve their tale with a satisfying ending. But the Coens lay no claim that this is movie is a straightforward one, imploding as it is with abstract moments and hidden meanings from the first frame. It therefore is only consistent that the ending be such as well.As to the reasons I've shaved 2 ratings off this title, they are two-fold - one, I reserve a perfect score of 10 for a select few movies that shake me to the core, and this, despite being an excellent film in its own stead, wasn't one of them. And two, I wasn't entirely convinced behind the motivations of a certain key character in this film, or more likely, enough time wasn't devoted by the Coens to explaining the motives, which I feel was essential since it forms such a crucial aspect of the storyline. I also felt a couple of characters deserved better from the script than just a passing mention in the second half and never to be seen of or heard from again. But these are trivial complaints against a highly competent and enjoyable film, and if this movie were ever to serve as a subject matter in the debate of high versus low art, I've no doubts it'd be unanimously placed in the former.

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?