Barton Fink

It filled every inch of the screen.

First time I saw this Coen brothers film about life in Hollywood, I was one of five people camped out in a glorious old theater with a screen which stretched on forever.

By the time John Goodman, lathered up in sweat and righteous indignation, was sprinting down a motel hallway as it burst into flame, I was in nirvana.

The two other people in my group, not so much.

I had convinced them to pass on blockbusters in favor of this arty lil’ gem, and neither of them fully appreciated it.

Their loss.


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