Whiplash Page #12

For a few seconds, Fletcher doesn’t say a word. His thoughts

seem to be drifting. Then, hesitant, as the music plays...

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Six years ago...I saw a kid practicing

scales in a band room here. He’d started at

Shaffer with a lot of hope, but the truth

was he’d barely squeaked in and he was

struggling. Everyone on the faculty told

him:
“This isn’t for you.” But they didn’t

see what I saw...

(his voice croaking again,

emotional,)

...this...this scared, skinny kid cursing

himself ‘cause he couldn’t get his scales

right... I saw a drive in him...

(MORE)

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FLETCHER (CONT’D)

And I put him in Studio Band, and we

worked together for three years, and when

he graduated, Marsalis made him third

trumpet at Lincoln Center. A year later,

he was first. That’s who you’re hearing

now.

(then,)

His name was Sean Casey.

The name catches Andrew’s attention. The trumpeter Fletcher

mentioned to him... And the word “was”...

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

I found out this morning...that Sean died.

He died in a car accident yesterday...

(takes a moment, is having

trouble speaking)

I just wanted you guys to know that...

He was... Sean was a...

(and, almost dissolving into

tears on these next words)

...beautiful player...

(breathes in, collects himself)

I just thought you all should know.

Beat. He leans back down and turns off the CD. Silence.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

(another moment; then, still shaky--)

“Caravan”. From bar 142, please.

The PLAYERS open their folders, pick up their instruments.

Fletcher waits. Hesitates again... Then -- CLAPS. Just drums,

bass and trombone play the trombone solo section of CARAVAN

STUDIO BAND REHEARSAL. Fast, precise -- but Fletcher waves to

Ryan to stop.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

No, that’s...that’s not quite right,

Connolly... Sorry...

Andrew’s eyes instantly fill with hope. Is this his chance?

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

I... I want to try Neiman on this... Ok?

Ryan nods, slowly slides off -- as Andrew quickly gets on.

Clutches his sticks tight. This is it... Fletcher’s still shaky--

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Maybe...maybe now’s the time for Neiman

to earn the part...

Beat. He CLAPS off, Andrew starts, and, only ONE SECOND later--

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FLETCHER (CONT’D)

No, I guess not. Tanner.

An anger is creeping into Fletcher’s voice now. The

stammering fading away, bit by bit. Dismayed, Andrew gets

off, Carl gets on, Fletcher CLAPS him off -- and then,

SLAMMING his fist down on his table, the barely suppressed

grief giving way now to terrifying, full-out rage-

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Mother-F***ER!!!

Carl JUMPS. The band goes silent. Fletcher glares at his

drummers, eyes so heated they could burn holes into you.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Get your ass back on the kit, Connolly.

Ryan does. The other players are still. Real fear in the room...

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

I will find my tempo out of one of you

faggots if it takes me all goddamned night.

His tone is vicious, his eyes still watery. He CLAPS, stops-

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Which it just might. Neiman.

Andrew gets on. His hands are shaking. Fletcher CLAPS, stops-

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Not my tempo. Switch.

Carl gets back on. Fletcher CLAPS, stops yet again--

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Not my F***ING tempo!!!!

He turns to the rest of the band. Rubs his eyes, breathes, and

then, trying to keep calm but his face already beet-red...

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Ok... Sorry about this, gang, hate to put

you through it. But rest your arms, put

aside your instruments, if you need to

take a dump do it now, ‘cause I am going

to go for as long as it takes until I

find a drummer who can play in time.

(to the drummers--)

You hear me talking, cocksuckers? You’d

better start shitting me perfect 400’s.

Connolly. You first. Get on the kit.

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58 INT. GEHRING HALL - BASEMENT HALLWAY - LATER 58

PLAYERS mull through the hall, stretching. A few yawns. You can

tell these guys have been here for hours already... And through

the wall, the kind of screaming that shakes you to your core:

FLETCHER (O.S.)

Motherfucking COCKSUCKER!!! Is-

59 INT. GEHRING HALL - STUDIO BAND ROOM - NIGHT 59

FLETCHER:

--that the fastest you can go?? It is no

f***ing wonder Mommy ran out on you, you

worthless acne-scarred fetal-position

Hymie f***. GET OFF!!!

Andrew -- whole body shaking, had been playing for half an

hour straight -- gets off the kit, struggling for breath,

hands coated with torn blisters and blood. Fletcher’s rage is

unlike anything we’ve seen from him: pained, vengeful...

Carl gets on the kit. Fletcher CLAPS. The clock: 11:06.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Well what do we have here? Gay Pride

himself. This is not a Sinead O’Connor

concert, Tanner. I am sorry to inform you

we will not be serving Baked Alaska and

Cosmopolitans tonight. Now why don’t you

try playing faster than you give f***ing

hand jobs?? One! One! One! One! OFF THE

F***ING KIT!!!

Carl stops. Staggers back, dazed, as Ryan moves up and begins.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Now we got ourselves our mick f***ing paddy-

cracker. Did you know you look like a

f***ing leprechaun? I think I’ll call you

Flannery.

60 INT. GEHRING HALL - BATHROOM - NIGHT 60

PLAYERS rinse their faces. One looks at his watch, dead-tired.

It’s very late...

61 INT. GEHRING HALL - STUDIO BAND ROOM - NIGHT 61

Some players have now returned to their seats.

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FLETCHER:

Switch!

Carl stops playing. Almost falls as he gets off the kit. Ryan

takes his place -- just as worn out. As soon as he sits down

at the set he has to bend down to catch his breath.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

It is not Saint f***ing Patrick’s Day,

Flannery, there is not a pot of gold

under your f***ing seat. Play.

Fletcher CLAPS. Ryan plays, muscles cramping, can’t keep up--

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Switch!

Ryan stops, gasping. Fletcher’s eyes land...

...ON ANDREW. Face awash in sweat, hair dripping, muscles

throbbing, wrists red, hands caked in blood, T-shirt clinging

to his chest. This is it...

ANDREW:

(muttering to himself as he

gets on the kit)

Come on... Come on you f***...

FLETCHER:

Let’s see if we can finally bring this

home.

He CLAPS. Andrew begins.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Don’t slow down.

Andrew tries, the tempo slips... So fast, so loud...

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Speed up! God-f***ing-damnit I said SPEED

UP!!!

Andrew’s arms are moving as fast as they possibly can, his

feet like triggers -- and his ears start RINGING now, the

RINGING cutting and almost drowning out the other sounds...

Fletcher, fire-eyed, turns around and goes into the nearest

CLOSET. Emerges with a COWBELL and a STICK. Comes closer and

BANGS ON IT in time. The SOUND slices through the RINGING,

startles Andrew, this stick whacking down inches from his head-

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