Barton Fink (1991)

directed by Joel & Ethan Coen

Seth Troyer

It is easy enough for me to type this. It's safe. Sitting here in my room with my laptop on my lap (where else?). The Life Of The Mind. A safe place? Sure...maybe. Real life though...well...

"I'd tell ya stories that could curl your hair but it looks like ya already heard ‘em!" 

A STORY: I have been living on my own in a new apartment for about six months now. This is my first time living completely on my own. I had been looking forward to this change, this new experiment, for the last couple years. The confusion began, more or less, the second I arrived to start moving things in. A person who we will call Charlie was waiting for me. Standing on the front lawn of the divided brick house I was moving into in Akron, Ohio. I didn't know Charlie. Charlie told me that they (Charlie and their boyfriend) lived just down the hallway from me with his boyfriend. My mind was moving fast, thoughts blurred. I asked to exchange numbers minutes into meeting Charlie. Being a musician, it felt important (among other things) to keep open communication about when one of us was: 

"making too much noise..." 

It was perhaps a reckless move on my part. Charlie accepted and then proceeded to kindly aid me with carrying my things up to my second floor apartment which was just down the hall from Charlie's door, upon which hung a grinning skull ornament hovering above a single message: "May all strangers who enter here, leave as friends." It only took a trip or two up and down those stairs for me to realize I had made a mistake. Only a few minutes had gone by since my arrival, yet I was already now privy to the knowledge that Charlie was a "very high functioning autistic person" who was gay, non-binary, Wiccan, an insomniac, a schizophrenic, and an empath. Charlie was estranged from their family who “didn't understand them,” and was a part of a "coven" with their roommate boyfriend, who was also schizophrenic, poly, and "easily made jealous." None of these things Individually were exactly red flags to me—many of them were things to celebrate. I hung out in "bohemian crowds” and had heard plenty of folks at art openings and rock shows describe themselves as being many of these things, just never all of them at once. I do not believe that any of these things are wrong at all; I am certainly a part of the current world of accepting and embracing those who have been deemed "others" by the world in the past. I myself am a queer bisexual, poly-leaning, leftist. What was troubling to me was the rate at which these intense personal facts were being thrust at me. What was perhaps even more troubling was how few words I had given and how many words this person was graciously yet intensely offering my way.

"Sorry I'm spouting off again...I'm probably boring you..."

*

I have always traveled in "weirdo circles." I have been referred to in the past as a "weirdo whisperer." I was always the quiet, mild-mannered kid, yet I always gravitated toward the unpopular, "odd" kids, the "somethings not right with that one" kids, the kids who acted out in class, the kids who had emotional problems. etc. Many adults felt it didn't really make much sense, that oftentimes these kids were "dragging me down" or worse. Sometimes the adults around me would even reward me: "Oh, how nice of you to hang out with weird lil so-and-so," which...sure went to my head sometimes, but most of the time my instincts were pure,  or at least as pure as instincts can be. I think I was simply unfazed by many of them, maybe curious at my most dubious.

At family reunions I gravitated toward the loud cousins who seemed to like my quiet follower attitude. I also gravitated toward my uncle, who was absolutely the quintessential weird uncle. He had drug issues in the past/was currently abusing cocaine and cough syrup, played guitar, lived with my grandparents, and, of course, had the best taste in movies and music. Unlike some of my other "wayward" companions, I did not get into much trouble, did not develop bad habits, and did not have emotional issues that made things difficult for me socially.I navigated social life easily, kept a steady job and never got into any real trouble. I championed the "common weirdo,” while simultaneously proclaiming myself to be one of them...looking back now, despite my insistence that I was one of them,  a "common" weirdo, I, like Barton Fink in the 1991 Coen Brothers film, was a bit of a tourist. Despite being "an alternative lil artist boy" I could only have so much of a window into, when it came to the world of the true weirdo, these real deal outcasts and addicts. The folks who were dealt rough hands. The ones who, no matter how much pop culture said otherwise, would never truly fit in. 

"By and for the common man!" 

When Charlie began oversharing and showing signs of being (lets say) uniquely odd, I got a flash of my history. I was about to meet another "eccentric friend.” One that I would follow where others may not be ready to tread. That part of me sort of rejoiced, but a part of me that had become increasingly nervous and a little jaded over the years stayed relatively reserved and ultimately at arms length with Charlie on that first day.

Charlie was there on the lawn waiting for me every time I brought a new load back to the apartment that day. Each time I would be greeted by a fast-paced diatribe download about Charlie's life and philosophies. I appreciated the help, but I couldn't shake a worrisome feeling that was growing in me, making me stammer when I spoke, making me drive erratically.

That night and in the days following, Charlie began to text me. It became incessant. Often times, sewn sprinkled throughout the text, which would come in a barrage of at least five at a time, were remarks that started to make me worry, remarks that alluded to the fact that Charlie could hear me through the walls, hear me when I came home from work, hear that I had got back late last night. Charlie would ask me to come over, to come help clean their apartment, saying that their boyfriend (who I had still not seen at this point) would "greatly appreciate it if I did." Two days later they found me at work downtown. That's fine, yes, everyone is welcome at the public library and I had told Charlie that I work there, that's all fine, but dread was growing in me. The texts were piling up. That was fine too. Charlie didn't seem to mind that I wasn't “prompt in my responses,” ignoring the fact that when I did respond I was using fewer and fewer words, and was starting to take longer and longer to send them.

The truth is, part of me wanted—and still wants—to dive in, to get lost in this new strange person. It's also crossed my mind before that I may have been a little attracted to Charlie, in more ways than one. Like Barton Fink, maybe what I was really feeling was the tension before the release of embrace. Maybe I was craving a "wrestling match" with Charlie, despite my defense mechanism-type reservations.

"You guys got some weird sex thing?"

I was, however, trying to be cautious, to remember the lessons I had learned over the years about the things people called "red flags” (what a phrase). Eccentrics are often great artists, great people, great friends to those who can get a window into their uniqueness. This has been true in my life. What has often been true is that some correspondence with these “eccentrics” does not always escape complication. My "black sheep" uncle could be opaque, sometimes overly argumentative, and erratic, and unfortunately wound up in prison (another long story). I hit various learning curves with certain friends and acquaintances, some of which were incredibly painful (some remain strained and difficult to this day). The revelation of course was that no one is "normal.” There is no "common man." You can't get close to anyone without getting at least a little burned at some point, whether they are “unique” or “common.”

"Breach my levee at thy own risk!"

This is of course the lesson of Barton Fink. While the instinct to relate and to try together to make “it” work is essential, problems can arise when we make assumptions. Even with the best intentions, we can easily make relating to others into something purely self-indulgent.

Yes, from a place of safe theory, everything is beautiful, fascinating, story fodder, an experiment. It's easy for someone who traverses the world when the agreed-upon variables are smiling upon them, to champion and wax poetic about the alternative worlds of others.  From the safety of your little keyboard you can type all you want about the strange man who speaks strangely and looked strangely at you today in the street. It doesn't mean you understand him, it doesn't mean you get what struggle is.

"You think you know what pain is, Barton?" 

"The Life Of The Mind" is all well and good but the life of the body, the slave beast that must feel and put into practice what the mind dictates, the life of gravity, hard surfaces, and real fire that destroys, these are different things entirely. They turn around when we tap them on the shoulder. They scream:

"LOOK UPON ME! I WILL SHOW YOU THE LIFE OF THE MIND!!"

*

During my third night at my new apartment, I heard a knock on my door sometime after midnight. I did not answer it. I decided to push this memory to the back of my head, fighting to ignore horror movie tropes about Rosemary's Baby/Funny Games/The Cable Guy type neighbors. Yes! The Cable Guy! I was perhaps finding that I was too much like Matthew Broderick from The Cable Guy, with enough friends and enough going on. I was not ready for Jim Carrey.

The next evening I was hurrying into the hallway to go downstairs to let a date inside when I quite literally ran into (it's dark in my hallway at night) Charlie and, for the first time, their boyfriend, who, I had just learned through another storm of texts, had become Charlie's fiance earlier that day. I would later find out that this fiance was the person who was actually on the lease there in apartment #3. Charlie was never on the lease. The interaction was brief but it involved Charlie introducing me by using the phrase "I think he's a good person." Charlie had thrown around this phrase a lot. It seemed to mean something very particular to Charlie, perhaps the "good people,'' people being the ones who would accept Charlie and their fiance. I couldn't help but think to myself, "I more than accept you both! I’m queer too! I'm poly too!" But I didn't say any of that out loud.

"Hmmm…” Charlie's fiance looked at me with a strange, eerie smile and asked, “Are you a good person?” A pause. “I hope so."

"I-uh...yeah…” I stammered. “I think I’m a good person..." and then the two disappeared into their room. When I got my guest upstairs into my apartment she asked me if I liked my neighbors. I said yes, but she noticed my hesitation and said, "You don't sound convinced at all."

"We'll hear from that boy, and I don't mean a postcard..."

By day four, I sent a text in response to another flurry of Charlie’s texts. It was strategically sent late and with few words: "Sorry for the late response! I am not much of a texter." It was a lie and I don't feel great about it, and I struggled with sending it, part of me wanting to let this person in, to diagnose the bad “vibes” as just nerves from being new to living on my own. Charlie responded to my text positively and with few words, and the text chain ultimately ended with an "alright i'm going to go take a nap now" and for the next couple hours I received no more messages.

"Sorry! I'm spouting off again, I'm probably boring you. This probably doesn't mean much to you!"

That evening I got home from work, stripped to my boxers, and started cooking dinner full of an excited energy to at last stop concentrating on my neighbor and start concentrating on the moment, maybe even get some time to sit down and write! Ah, yes! Important, how dare all these people distract me!

It was at this moment that I heard a knock at the door. I didn't open it because I didn't have pants on. "Yes?" was my chosen response. I tried to hide my confused frustration with the breaking of my precious little moment "alone." Charlie said that they wanted me to quiet down, that they had heard me make a loud crash. Honestly confused, I told Charlie that I was not sure what the crash may have been. Charlie then simply told me that a light nap was being had, that they just wanted me to be quiet. It ended with an uncomfortable and probably not very satisfying "uh okay" from my side of the door.

"Somebody complained..."

After that, the texts and the knockings fell silent. I saw Charlie here and there pacing around the streets at all hours of the day, almost always on the phone talking to someone. Part of me admittedly scoffed. Who could put up with being on the phone for hours being talked at by this labyrinth of a person? That other part of me of course felt left out, shut out after my text ultimatum and my inability to say "Yes, I will cease cooking dinner in honor of your 6 pm nap because I will be allowed into the world of your strangeness! Let me go on some journey with you where we talk about our mutual obsession with Star Wars until my car breaks down, and we get arrested." Both of these aren't great responses. I wanted boundaries. I wanted to embrace. It was all a contradiction. Most things are.

“And me being patronizing! Is the egg showing or what?”

After a while, I didn't see Charlie around at all. I entered my second proper week of living at my new apartment. I felt relieved. I had (perhaps) communicated boundaries properly. I hoped I had not been too harsh. I started to look for Charlie. I thought about texting them, to at last take Charlie up on a simple walk around the block. “Maybe I should get to know my neighbors now that I am settled and feeling good in my place, what could it hurt? Come on Charlie, come on Freddy Quill, come on Cable Guy!” I never reached out.

The whole thing almost disappeared from my mind. I went on a date with a girl. We bonded over the movies of the Coen brothers and she brought up Barton Fink, a film we both loved. When I went home that evening I watched half of Barton Fink, right up to the part where Barton and his writer hero's lover begin to make love and the camera slowly begins to track out of the room, into the bathroom, and down the drain.

*

Now comes the moment in my own personal Barton Fink episode where the revelation comes. The scene where the two detectives are suddenly there and rather anticlimactically toss Barton a picture, which is complete with a stark explanation of who the mysterious Charlie really is. As far as revelations go this scene always struck me in such a weird way. There is no great reveal, no drama. In a movie full of so much surreal ambiguity, the mystery of Charlie is simply tossed aside as we are given a sudden explanation of his more dubious exploits between uncaring, rude quips from the two hard nosed detectives. This moment, for me, came after being interviewed by a friend for his YouTube channel. It was one of the few times I have ever been interviewed about my art and music projects.

When the sad-faced man approached me, it was post-interview, my friend was packed up and gone and I was sitting in the grass in front of my building, still lost in thought about my art and how I may have come off in the interview, and what people might think of my thoughts on The Life Of The Mind in said interview. When the sad-faced man approached me I mentally flinched, admittedly with a flashback to the last time a stranger approached me at this very spot. My first day here. The day I met Charlie on the front stoop. I thought to myself, How should I approach this new stranger? Should I be more welcoming? Maybe more hard nosed? Maybe set boundaries earlier?

The sad-faced man managed a smile and began to speak to me. He asked me if I lived here, and I said yes. He asked me if I knew someone named Charlie. I said yes, and I think there was a glimmer of something in my eyes, something that he also very clearly saw and recognized instantly. The man explained that he was Charlie's stepfather, that Charlie had been asked to leave the apartment building, that Charlie was not allowed to live there. He then told me that Charlie was "in the hospital recovering." This blasted all the thoughts of my little art projects, my interview, all my little psychodramas, out of my head.

Honestly looking back on that moment still shakes me awake, and makes this whole exercise feel silly in the cold light of reality. The reality of a stepfather with one of the saddest faces I have ever seen and a young person (I am still not sure how old Charlie is) struggling with the aftermath of what may or may not have been some kind of suicide attempt, or some kind of mental break. The truth is, Charlie's mother and stepfather have a restraining order against him. The stepfather explained further that, despite the restraining order, he wanted to come here, to get some of the things Charlie needed from the apartment. He had tried to get a hold of Charlie's fiance but had failed to do so. I agreed to go up to knock and see if the mysterious fiance would come out. I went up, I knocked. No answer.

"Hey, it's Seth, your neighbor. Sorry to bother you." I knocked again. No answer. I listened through the door. Muffled music, but no answer came. I went out to the sad-faced man and explained, and he said not to worry about it, that he would figure it out, that he appreciated me trying. I wished him and Charlie's mother peace. I watched him drive away. I sat down on the stoop. I didn't know what to do with myself. The sad stepfather's face stuck in my head all night. I felt frightened, even though I had nothing to be frightened about, not really. I felt in danger but there was no real reason to feel that way.

Who was I in all this? Just a silly guy down the hall who was worried about being texted at too much, someone who wanted to rid himself of disturbances so that he could sit down with his precious writing.

I went inside and unpaused Barton Fink, watched the camera go down the drain and come out the other side to reveal the dark third act of this odd little profound epic about the uselessness of trying to make profound little epics. It ended. I closed my eyes. At around 2 in the morning I woke up to the sound of muffled what-not coming from the other side of my bedroom wall, coming from Charlie's fiance’s apartment. Music, the radio on bassy speakers coming in rather loud, or at least loud for 2 am on a Tuesday night. I tossed and turned, and tried to drown it out with a fan, but I couldn't sleep. After an hour of lying there, I finally got up and walked to my door. I halted there, and saw a vision of myself walking into the hall, knocking at my neighbor’s door, telling him he was "making too much noise." And I saw Charlie, the Charlie from the movie, fire glistening all around him. I imagined myself saying something useless like, "Sorry about your fiance almost dying and being evicted, but could you please keep it down a little, I have work to do in the morning, you understand!"

Why can't I just enjoy my new home? I asked this to no one in the dark. My first time being truly alone. I asked the door and Charlie a question, "Why me?" Charlie answered with a shout, "BECAUSE YOU DON'T LISTEN!"

My hand hovered over the knob that would lead me out into the hall. A breath, and then I watched the hand withdraw. I went back to my room and did my best to get a few hours of sleep.

And now, here I am, writing. It's quiet tonight. I seem to have all the time in the world for it tonight, but I can't seem to knock myself out. Been quiet for a while, no music, no strange noises, no word from the stepfather. Here I am attempting to turn my thoughts and experiences into a piece of art. Attempting to turn reality into art that will hopefully come back around and give a feeling of closure, or even in the darker corners of my mind, impress the reader, show them that I am a thoughtful traveler in the Life Of The Mind, that I am not only in the right with my experiences but profound. I scoff at this now as I type. I get a flash of Charlie (the movie Charlie), fire all around him, smiling at me. I just moved in here... "you come into my home….and you complain...that I’m making too much noise..." and Charlie closes his eyes and smiles as he perspires in the hell that has become his building.

YOU 
DON'T LISTEN!

*

I always prided myself on being a good listener. In the movie, so does Barton. His intentions seem just. He is a writer who has been "given a gift," to rise up and speak for those who have no voices, for the "common man." Common weirdo, common man, what's the difference, in this little essay? The first time I saw the movie, I was in high school and I identified with Barton for all the wrong reasons. I saw him as a hero. It all went over my head. Only in recent viewings have I understood the lesson which I try to take into my art, and the rest of my life. The lesson is that you don't get it. That the very act of trying to make a grand statement is in many ways pompous and self-important, even if it's in the name of "making a difference," as Barton puts it. Being an artist doesn't make you special, having this compulsion to float above it all and comment from the safety of your cloud does not make you profound or above others. You're not even special amongst writers.

"Who the fuck are you? I can find a dozen writers with that Barton Fink style."

We want to reach out to one another, to relate, but we can't pretend like we really fully do—we can only trust and hope that we do. If our hearts and ears aren't open, we miss it, and even if they are, some things are unknowable, some people can't be known, some fires will burn you and the building you stay in, no matter how mindful you think you are.

“What’s in the box?”
“I don’t know…”
“Well isn’t it yours?”
“I don’t know…”

What am I really saying here though? Too many things. They don't add up, I can see that and me identifying that is no excuse. Yes, there are interesting similarities between my personal little story here and the movie I was watching and thinking about as the events transpired. I would be a liar if I said I wasn't thinking at various points during these events that "golly gee what a story this would make." A flurry of paragraphs, more than anyone asked for. A flurry of text messages that no one asked for. Life isn't a story. Not everything is a lesson. Life is not a movie. Life is not a personal essay. Life is not a personal essay that doubles as a movie review.

“Are you in pictures?”
“…don’t be silly…”

The person at the heart of this is flesh and blood and probably hurting right now. The Life Of The Mind is one thing, and what we call real life is another thing entirely. Regardless, I wanted to share a story with you, share Charlie's story, what little I have of it. It could be the end or the beginning of the story. I'm not sure.

"It's late."
"Not anymore! It's early..."

A war breaks out at the end of Barton Fink. I want peace for all involved in this episode of life. This may just be the opening credits. Shut up. This is not a movie. We're talking about a real person. I didn't know what to do with the idea of this person being in my life, but I know now my involvement in their story is at least over for now, and unimportant. I was the tiniest blip in their life. No fire at the end of this Barton. No cryptic heil Hitler. No war. All I know is I wish this person, their mother, and their sad-faced stepfather peace. Peace, peace, peace.

"I will show you The Life Of The Mind!"

Seth Troyer is an Akron, Ohio-based writer and filmmaker. His film writing has been featured on Dread Central, The Geekiary, and the Madd Wolf film site. He earned his BA from the University Of Akron and is on an endless quest to get his first novel published. He is part of a film podcast called Unwatchables. He wishes you well, and for your days to be without fear.