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That move reintroduces the factor of “daylight,” and promptly ups the ante on his gut-that presumptuous sensuality so dubious in light of Barton’s pronounced ascetic propensities. His agent may be ideologically neutral and unenthusiastic toward reveries about gutsiness but that very night he fulsomely sells the youngster on the idea of using his hot reviews to make a bundle-for the sake of a war chest to finance the promulgation of his lofty ideas, and for the sake of his agent’s coming into serious cash-as a screenwriter in Hollywood.

Real success! The creation of a new theatre about and for the common man!” Shifting into high gear (while posing a savvy modesty), he intones, “A writer writes from his gut. “I’m not sure I know why I write… I guess I try to make a difference… I’m on the brink of success.

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But my eyes are wide open now!” As he fleshes out for us, at a post-performance celebration, the wide-eyed idealism he would insist to be bedrock reality, he’s the toast of Broadway for wearing his heart on his sleeve apropos of attending to the gratifications of “working stiffs.” He has a well-rehearsed gambit for his agent (who’s in fact way ahead of him on the matter of how to progress on the basis of his suddenly being acclaimed by a niche market). “Daylight is a dream if you live with your eyes closed. Right from the outset, Barton comes into our taking-on this live-ammo movie, in presiding, from the wings, over the opening of his medieval-titled play, “Bare Ruined Choirs.” At the curtain, the New York audience hails it as being worthy of approval from a boss-metropolis-“Author! Author!” We’ve had a few lines come our way, and they seem well-suited to the sombre, inquisitorial determination of their source. Moreover, and most importantly for our special task of fathoming this starkly upsetting saga, he encounters someone decidedly transcending the peculiar lostness, and in such a way as to endow the film with a topspin of reflective struggle as against sensational outrage. His journey through the narrative confirms the bleakest of dead ends. The titular protagonist leads off with a strain of self-confident perversity which, in itself, could be equivocal. Their hastily assembled classic of malaise, namely, Barton Fink (1991) (having, therefore, an inception in the same vein as Wong Kar Wai’s breakaway from out of a former, unforthcoming project, namely, Chungking Express ), offers a particularly transparent sightline into that overdrive. The jammed acceleration that plunges into various horrors of simplistic insistence broaches a dynamic with far more flexibility, if we can only locate the steering impulse. Far less manageable is the specific point of contention, as presumably providing nuance to the mayhem and devastation that ensue.

That the works emit a jaundiced sense of predominant rationality would seem to be a given.

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The Coen brothers have produced an extensive series of extremely provocative films.

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