Barton Fink (1991)

Without exception, Joel & Ethan Coen have made a string of humorous, sometimes gritty but always quirky, movies. Barton Fink is all of these things. You might say that Barton Fink is more style than content, but that does not matter much. I liked it. If you manage to create a strangely intimate film about an aspirational left-wing playwright who tries to make it big in Hollywood, you really should not complain (he is assigned to make a movie about, ahem, wrestlers). Crass is the word that springs to mind when trying to encapsulate the film's take on Hollywood business. The fact that the story takes place in the 30's make little difference. This is the kind of film that builds atmosphere by means of lengthy takes in which the only thing we see is a dingy/stylish hotel corridor. I like that kind of thing, and I cannot resist the quiet and sometimes gross humor that transforms Barton Fink from a stylistic show-off to an affectionate film about loneliness and ... you know, good old writer's block. There are hundreds of films about writer's block. Writer's block is the stuff of horror movies (think: The Shining) and sweet comedies such as Wonder Boys. There seems to be few better ways of satirizing the life of the Genius than focusing on the pathetic self-engrossed version of writer's block. The heart of the film belongs to John Goodman, who acts the role of a insurance man who, under the facade of likeable and down-to-earth companion, is not what he appears to be. John Torturo as the neurotic and world-weary playwright is good as well. In short, Barton Fink is a funny film and lovely-looking film about selling one's soul to the devil.