Whiplash Page #17

A moment. Fletcher finally takes a sip of his drink.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

I’m conducting some, though. They’re

bringing back the JVC Fest this year, got

me opening with a pro band in two weeks.

ANDREW:

(genuinely impressed)

That’s amazing.

FLETCHER:

(shrugs)

It’s ok...

Then, looking off for a moment-

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

The truth is I don’t think people

understand what it is I did at Shaffer. I

wasn’t there to conduct. Any idiot can

move his hands and keep people in tempo.

No, it’s about pushing people beyond

what’s expected of them. And I believe

that is a necessity. Because without it

you’re depriving the world of its next

Armstrong. Its next Parker.

(pause)

Why did Charlie Parker become Charlie

Parker, Andrew?

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87

Beat. Andrew is surprised. He’s told this story himself.

ANDREW:

Because Jo Jones threw a cymbal at him.

FLETCHER:

Exactly. Young kid, pretty good on the

sax, goes up to play his solo in a

cutting session, fucks up -- and Jones

comes this close to slicing his head off

for it. He’s laughed off-stage. Cries

himself to sleep that night. But the next

morning, what does he do? He practices.

And practices and practices. With one

goal in mind:
that he never ever be

laughed off-stage again. A year later he

goes back to the Reno, and he plays the

best motherfucking solo the world had

ever heard.

Andrew smiles. Nods. Finally -- unlike his uncles, his cousins,

even his father -- someone who gets it.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Now imagine if Jones had just patted

young Charlie on the head and said “Good

job.” Charlie would’ve said to himself,

“Well, sh*t, I did do a good job,” and

that’d be that. No Bird. Tragedy, right?

Except that’s just what people today

want. The Shaffer Conservatories of the

world, they want sugar. You don’t even

say “cutting session” anymore, do you?

No, you say “jam session”. What the f***

kind of word is that? Jam session? It’s a

cutting session, Andrew, this isn’t

f***ing Smucker’s. It’s about weeding out

the best from the worst so that the worst

become better than the best.

(beat)

I mean look around you. $25 drinks, mood

lighting, a little shrimp cocktail to go

with your Coltrane. And people wonder why

jazz is dying.

(then,)

Take it from me, and every Starbucks jazz

album only proves my point. There are no

two words more harmful in the entire

English language than “good job”.

Beat. He leans back. Lets his words linger. Andrew thinks...

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ANDREW:

But do you think there’s a line? You know

-- where you discourage the next Charlie

Parker from becoming Charlie Parker?

FLETCHER:

No. Because the next Charlie Parker would

never be discouraged.

Andrew takes this in. A moment...

ANDREW:

...And you? Are you back to playing now?

FLETCHER:

Not really. Here and there... The playing

never interested me. I never wanted to be

Charlie Parker. I wanted to be the man

who made Charlie Parker. The man who

discovered some scrawny kid, pushed him,

prodded him, shaped him into something

great -- and then said to the world,

“Check this out. The best motherfucking

solo you’ve ever heard.”

ANDREW:

Who’s your Charlie Parker, then?

(hesitant)

Sean Casey...?

The name hits Fletcher. Fletcher looks at Andrew -- who

immediately regrets bringing that name up. Why? Because, even

after everything, the sight of Fletcher hurting affects him...

FLETCHER:

Sean... Sean was a sweet kid... And with

all those idiots saying “This isn’t for

you”, Sean did something great. Very few

people ever get that chance...

He pauses. Looks off. Looks at the musicians on-stage...

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

But no... Not Sean Casey.

(then, as he thinks about this,)

The truth is I don’t know if I ever had a

Charlie Parker...

(and then,)

But I tried. And that’s more than most

people can say, Andrew. I tried. And even

if I never find one, I will never

apologize for trying.

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He’s silent. A look of disappointment.

Then, he points to the PIANIST on-stage...

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

He’s a beautiful player, isn’t he?

ANDREW:

Yeah...

Fletcher nods. His thoughts drifting again. A moment passes.

94 EXT. JAZZ CLUB - NIGHT 94

Andrew and Fletcher exit. They stand for a second. Look at

one another. An awkward silence.

ANDREW:

Nice seeing you...

Fletcher nods. Beat. Andrew turns, about to head off, when--

FLETCHER:

Look. I don’t know how you’ll take this.

That band I’m leading for JVC -- our

drummer isn’t cutting it.

(Andrew looks at him blankly...)

Do you understand...?

ANDREW:

No...

FLETCHER:

I’m using the Studio Band playlist.

“Whiplash”, “Caravan”. I need a

replacement who already knows those

charts inside out.

Andrew looks at him. You can’t be serious...

ANDREW:

(trying to gather his thoughts)

Wh-- what -- what about Ryan Connolly...?

FLETCHER:

What about him? All he was was your

incentive.

ANDREW:

...And...and Tanner??

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90

FLETCHER:

He switched to pre-med.

(and with a hint of a smile)

I think he got discouraged.

Andrew is speechless now. Is this really happening?

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

We’re rehearsing next Tuesday. Why don’t

you take the weekend to think about it?

Andrew takes it all in. WE PUSH in on him, processing... And,

slowly but surely, his shock and uncertainty harden before our

eyes -- into resolution... This is something to seize on.

ANDREW:

I don’t need to.

95 INT. ANDREW’S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - DAY 95

BLACK -- then light floods in. Andrew has just opened his

closet doors. In a stack, gathering dust, are his OLD DRUMS...

Andrew looks at them -- heart swelling, nerves racing...

CUT TO:

95A INT. ANDREW’S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER 95A

Andrew setting the DRUMS up... Newly energized, a speed

in his movements we haven’t seen since Dunellen...

CUT TO:

95B INT. ANDREW’S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - EVENING 95B

Andrew practicing. You can tell he’s been here for hours

already. Sweat runs in rivulets down his cheeks, wetting the

drum heads. His eyes are wide, glowing, focused...

He’s back to the life...

96 INT. JUDY AND ARTHUR ZANKEL HALL - NIGHT 96

An empty theater. It’s one of Carnegie Hall’s theaters --

bigger and far sleeker than any of the theaters Studio Band

played. Ceiling decked with lights, capacity 1200. On the

stage, rehearsing, is a JAZZ ORCHESTRA.

Similar set-up to Studio Band, the PLAYERS all young pros --

except, of course, Andrew, the youngest of all.

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The chart is WHIPLASH JVC REHEARSAL, and the band sounds tight.

The players reach the end -- and Fletcher looks at his watch.

Composed, even mild.

FLETCHER:

Rest up, gang. Call-time Sunday is 6.

(and, as he heads off,)

Andrew.

(Andrew turns)

Good job.

Andrew takes this in. The latest in a long line of

surprises...

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