Whiplash Page #5

20B

20C

Pink (9/10/2013)

23

INT. GEHRING HALL - STUDIO BAND ROOM - CONTINUOUS 20B

--only to find the room EMPTY. No one is there. Andrew checks

the time on his phone: 5:33. Did he miss them...?

INT. GEHRING HALL - BASEMENT HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS 20C

Andrew steps back into the hallway. Spots a SIGN-UP SHEET at

the door. Looks at it. Sees the words “STUDIO BAND” scrolled

down for each day. The listed start-time: “9AM”.

INT. GEHRING HALL - STUDIO BAND ROOM - MORNING 21

Andrew sits on the drum throne. A clock on the wall reads:

8:
57. He’s dozed off, is out cold. His hand, cut from his fall

down the stairs, rests against the snare drum.

Suddenly -- the DOOR opens -

SAXOPHONIST #2

She told me to pull out, then wet the

whole f***ing bed.

SAXOPHONIST:

No, serious??

Andrew shoots up. Surges to his feet. The SAXOPHONISTS don’t pay

him any attention. They’re big guys, macho. Another DOOR opens.

MORE PLAYERS...

These are the CORE MEMBERS of Studio Band -- Shaffer’s cream

of the crop. Mostly third- and fourth-years. All male. A few

ALTERNATES follow, first- and second-years.

Andrew watches as the PLAYERS buzz their mouthpieces, whip

open their folders, pull out their instruments. A flurry of

chatter and activity...

One of the CORE MEMBERS heads to the drums: CARL TANNER, 22.

Andrew sees him, and-

CARL:

You the new alternate?

ANDREW:

Yeah -- I’m -- Andrew Neiman...

CARL:

(couldn’t care less about his name)

Tune the set to a B-flat. Then you’ll

turn my pages during rehearsal.

Pink (9/10/2013)

24

Andrew, nervous, sits back down at the drums and-

ANDREW:

(to the PIANIST)

Excuse me?

(no answer)

Um -- sorry -- excuse me?

(the Pianist looks at him)

Could I have a B-flat please?

The Pianist plays a B-flat. Andrew tunes. By now the room is

filled:
TRUMPETS, TROMBONES, SAXES.

ANDREW (CONT’D)

(to the Pianist)

Excuse me -- could I maybe have ano--

But Carl has already risen. Ushers Andrew back up. Sits down at

the drums, as Andrew sits down by the music stand.

SAXOPHONIST #2

Milk the c*nt!!

The PIANIST plays a middle C, and the players start tuning to

it.

Andrew watches, listens -- the sea of sounds building, the clock

on the wall ticking, until -- it hits 9:00.

THE DOOR BURSTS OPEN. Fletcher marches in, carrying a stack

of sheet music. Sudden tension -- and utter silence.

Fletcher sets his music down. Stares at the band. Dead-serious,

silently judging. A moment passes...

Then -- he SMILES. He’s switched all of a sudden to warm and

cuddly.

FLETCHER:

We’ve got a squeaker today, people.

Neiman.

(he pronounces it “Neeman”)

Nineteen years old. Isn’t he cute?

Laughs throughout the room. We can overhear a few snickers:

PLAYERS (O.S.)

Neee-man...

Andrew looks. Fletcher keeps his smile up... And then-

FLETCHER:

Alright, gang. “Whiplash”.

Pink (9/10/2013)

25

The players get out the chart. Andrew catches a glimpse --

a messy clutter of notes and time signatures...

Fletcher raises his hand. Total silence. Then -- the

slightest move of Fletcher’s finger, and the band begins

WHIPLASH STUDIO BAND REHEARSAL CARL #1. The chart’s named

“Whiplash” for a reason. It’s fast, frenetic, 7/4 time. This

fast, with this many polyrhythms, it’s impossibly hard.

CARL:

Page... Page...

Andrew turns the page. Carl glares. Shouldn’t have had to tell

him to turn it. But Andrew can’t follow. The band’s too fast..

FLETCHER:

Stop. You. Barker.

(pointing to the THIRD

TRUMPETER’S horn)

That is not your boyfriend’s dick. Do not

come early. Moving ahead. Bar 93.

The players flip their sheet music. Andrew catches a glimpse

of a TROMBONIST ejecting the spit from his horn. A puddle has

formed by his feet.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Five-six-seven-

The band plays WHIPLASH STUDIO BAND REHEARSAL CARL #2.

Intense, visceral. Fletcher paces back and forth, eyeing

players as they play. He’s got fox’s ears, hawk’s eyes. Every

sinew of his body is focused. Andrew watches, awed, scared,

completely overwhelmed.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Stop!

The band comes to a halt.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Now this one upsets me. We have an out-oftune

player. Before I go any further, does

that player want to do the right thing and

reveal himself?

(silence)

Ok. Maybe a bug flew in my ear. Bar 115.

Five-six-and--

He cues the BAND with his hand, then cuts them off.

Pink (9/10/2013)

26

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

No, I guess my ears are clean because we

most definitely have an out-of-tune

player. Whoever it is, this is your last

chance.

(paces back and forth, slowly)

Either you know you are out of tune, and

are therefore deliberately sabotaging my

band; or you do not know you’re out of

tune -- which I’m afraid is even worse.

Nothing. The players avert his gaze. All terrified...

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Reeds. Five-six-and-(

they play, he cuts them off)

Bones. Five-six-and-(

they play, he cuts them off)

Ahhhh, he’s here.

Silence. He eyes the TROMBONISTS. Lands on one, METZ. Overweight.

Been picked on his whole life.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Tell me it’s not you, Elmer Fudd.

Metz sits there, trembling. On the brink of tears.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

It’s ok. Play.

(Metz does so, Fletcher stops

him, leans in, whispers--)

Do you think you’re out of tune?

Metz, terrified, looks down at the floor.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

There’s no f***ing Mars Bar down there.

Look at me. Do you think you’re out of

tune?

METZ:

...Y--yes...

FLETCHER:

Then why the F*** didn’t you say so?!?

Silence. It’s the first time we’ve heard Fletcher really SHOUT.

His voice is booming, louder than one would have thought. Then-

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

I’ve been carrying your fat ass for too

long, Metz.

(MORE)

Pink (9/10/2013)

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

I will not let you cost us a competition

because your mind’s on a f***ing Happy

Meal and not on pitch. Stein,

congratulations, you are now fourth-chair

trombone. Metz -- get the f*** out.

Still trembling, tears bubbling out, Metz picks up his

trombone and walks to the door. Andrew watches --shocked.

Once the door closes-

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

For the record, Metz was not out of tune.

You were, Wallach. But Metz didn’t know

it. And that’s bad enough.

And then --he looks straight at Andrew.

FLETCHER (CONT’D)

Alright, take ten. When we get back --

the squeaker’s on.

Andrew’s face goes ghost-white.

INT. GEHRING HALL - BASEMENT HALLWAY - MOMENTS LATER 22

Andrew sits in the corner of the hall, the “WHIPLASH” sheet

music in his hand. Tries desperately to count the beats...

ANDREW:

Five-six-seven... Six-two-two-five...

He scribbles on the page, trying to compute the patterns: “7/9

+ 7/4 = 7/18”. “1/64 X 7/9”... We see feet pass by, and hear-STUDIO

CORE MEMBER #1 **

Stein won’t last a week. He doesn’t have

the lips. **

STUDIO CORE MEMBER #2 **

Fudd lasted longer than he should have...

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