Barton Fink is adored for many reasons. It’s one of the best movies ever made about the struggles of writing. It features memorable performances from two Coen regulars, John Turturro and John Goodman, as well as comic relief from Steve Buscemi. Perhaps the boldest aspect of the movie is its disinterest in clarifying whether its story is dabbling in metaphor, subjective transfiguration of Barton’s state of mind, or meant to be taken as though it’s all actually occurring and John Goodman really is the devil. This blurred reality tactic is becoming common in TV shows like Louie and Girls today, but for a film from 1991, it’s rather daring.
Plenty of films have tried to center their story on a writer, and plenty of these have failed; when the mantra is “write what you know,” the number of screenwriters who have taken this advice exceptionally literally has resulted in a surplus of movies about writers. Where Barton Fink makes a departure from many of these sadsack-focused narratives is in its attention to the subjective emotional experience of blockage and inspiration, social ineptitude and intellectual frustration, all while providing a humorous sendup of Hollywood culture and the Los Angeles environment as a special kind of hell on earth.
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