no more smokeing or chewing tobacco
no more spending time at (a name, indecipherable)
Barton Fink: How come nobody reminded me this movie was so weird. And I don’t mean weird in the traditional, colloquial sense but more in the “difficulty as barometer of literary worth” school of the narrative arts. Also, the Coen brothers seem to have some kind of infatuation with fat guys screaming “AAH AHH AHH” when in proximity to, or enacting, terrible violence. “I’ll show you the life of the mind” will always bel the #1 thing to yell if you are going to shoot someone with a shotgun, at least to this young man. I saw this movie a long time ago and I forgot a variety of things about it in that long time: One, 90% of this movie is medium shots of a terrified john turturro. The remaining 10%, in some order, is John Goodman sweating, Judy Davis looking at the floor and John Maloney doing a terrible southern accent and then getting murdered off-camera. File under “another movie/book/poem/suicide attempt/painting about how hard it is to produce (previous form of art), especially as relates to commodification and the desires of the audience.” I remember at the time I first saw this that it feels like an unfinished script, the way the entire movie just falls apart over about 15 minutes, then abrupt ends with a few more polished scenes tucked on the back of it. Unclassifiable?