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turning to page one
turning to page one
written by
2014
BLACK...
We hear a HIT. A drumstick against a drum head. Crisp, sharp.
Then a second hit. Then a third and a fourth. The hits growing so fast they start to blur together. Like gunfire...
A cavernous space. Sound-proofed walls. And in the center, a DRUM SET. Seated at it, in a sweat-marked white T, eyes zeroed on his single-stroke roll, is ANDREW NEIMAN.
He’s 19, slight, honors-student-skinny -- except for his arms, which have been built from years and years of drumming.
Suddenly -- a MAN enters the practice room. Stopping, rising--
ANDREW
Sorry... I’m -- I’m sorry--
MAN
It’s ok. Stay there.
The MAN steps forward, removes his coat. He’s tall. Late fifties. Black T-shirt, black slacks, black shoes. We’ll know him as FLETCHER.
The room is silent now. And then, softly, as he’s one of those people whose whisper can scare the crap out of you--
FLETCHER
What’s your name?
ANDREW
Andrew Neiman, sir.
(It’s pronounced “Nayman”.)
FLETCHER
What year are you?
ANDREW
I’m a first-year, sir.
FLETCHER
You know who I am?
ANDREW
Yes...
FLETCHER
You know what I do?
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ANDREW
Yes...
FLETCHER
So you know I’m looking for players.
ANDREW
Yes...
FLETCHER
Then why did you stop playing?
Beat. Andrew nods, smiles. He gets it. Summons up all his remaining energy and resumes playing, trying to really show off this time. Rolls, fills, speedy stick-work. He finishes.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Did I say to start playing again?
Andrew looks at him.
ANDREW
I thought--
(then, blanching,)
I’m sorry, I misun--
FLETCHER
I asked you why you stopped playing. Your
version of an answer was to turn into a
wind-up drummer monkey.
ANDREW
I’m sorry -- I--I stopped playing becau--
FLETCHER
Show me your rudiments.
Andrew nods. Plays one rudiment after another: double-stroke roll, paradiddle, ratamacue, flam, flamadiddle.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Uh-huh. Double-time swing.
Fletcher begins clapping his hand in time. Fast. Andrew plays.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
No. Double-time. Double it. Bop-bop-bop-
bop-bop-bop-bop-bop-bop-bop.
Andrew tries doubling the tempo. But he can’t. Fletcher STOPS CLAPPING. The sign of death.
Andrew keeps playing, eyes shut... Then -- he hears the door CLOSE. He stops, and looks up. Fletcher has left the room.
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A moment later -- the door OPENS. It’s Fletcher. Andrew’s eyes widen. Maybe it’s not over...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Woopsy-daisy. Forgot my coat.
Fletcher grabs it, steps back out, CLOSES the door. Andrew stares ahead, alone again at the drums -- and totally deflated.
It’s over.
WIDE SHOT of the band room as Andrew slowly rises. A title card:
Shaffer Conservatory of Music
Fall Semester
Andrew exits, hurries off. Pasted onto his overloaded back- pack are patches, buttons, names: Krupa. Roach. Buddy Rich...
The buildings of midtown New York loom over him like giants -- immense, forbidding...
A quiet two-screen theater. Andrew buys concessions. The GIRL at the counter is about his age. She’s pretty, but doesn’t really know it. More to the point, she doesn’t seem to care. Her name is NICOLE.
NICOLE
Swedish fish?
ANDREW
Nah, not this time, thanks...
Andrew and Nicole exchange smiles. He takes his items -- popcorn, Raisinets, two sodas -- and heads off. Peers back at Nicole. She’s staring into space. She looks suddenly lonely.
Andrew takes in the sight. You can tell he’s attracted to her -- but he’s too nervous to do anything. A beat later, he enters the theater.
Andrew spots a 53-year-old man seated near the front. This is his dad -- JIM. Mild-mannered, soft-spoken, average in every respect. Has the eyes of a former dreamer.
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A smile between the two of them. Andrew hands his dad the Raisinets, hands him the drink. Routine. The movie hasn’t started yet. As they exchange items--
JIM
You ok?
ANDREW
Sure...
A beat.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
He had me play today.
JIM
And?
Andrew shrugs. It’s clear what that means.
JIM (CONT’D)
You still have other options.
ANDREW
What do you mean?
JIM
It’s good to be open-minded. When I was
your age I thought I’d have a book deal
at 23. Then that changed to 30. Then 40.
ANDREW
Right... And that didn’t upset you?
Jim shrugs, keeps his eyes down. He has a tendency to look down when talking. The lights dim. The previews begin.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
I mean, it has to do something to you.
JIM
(another shrug)
I don’t know. Why? It’s just life.
(pause)
There’s other things to care about.
Friends. Romance...
Andrew takes it in. Especially the last part.
JIM (CONT’D)
At my age you get perspective.
ANDREW
I don’t want perspective.
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Jim smiles. A moment.
Just then a MOVIEGOER squeezes into the row to head to a seat further down -- and bumps against Jim and his bucket of popcorn.
JIM NEYMAN
Sorry.
The Moviegoer doesn’t say a word. Andrew watches. Takes it in.
OMITTED
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Rusty elevator doors squeak open. Andrew steps out -- into a grimy, green-walled hallway.
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Dim lights, loud MUSIC blaring from behind a door. A thudding party beat...
At the end of the hall -- where the music is coming from -- a few PARTYGOERS mingle by a door. The door opens. A YOUNG MAN hands a SECOND YOUNG MAN a wad of cash in exchange for a Zip- lock bag of PILLS. The SECOND YOUNG MAN eyes Andrew.
Andrew turns away, heads left -- to his own door. Hurriedly opens it and slips inside.
A single. Drumsticks and drum pads scattered, biographies of Bach and Coltrane on the shelf, posters of Louis Armstrong and Charlie Parker on the walls. A TV is on, some sort of music documentary. Andrew watches from his bed -- as, over OLD AUDIO OF DRUMMING and old stills of a boy at a drum set --
NARRATOR (V.O.)
By the age of ten, Traps the Boy Wonder
was wowing crowds all over America. By
his teens, Buddy Rich was well on his way
to becoming the stuff of legend.
TALKING HEAD #1
Like any truly great player, Buddy seemed
to have been born with music in his
blood. He grasped it intuitively, in a
way you and I just can’t.
TALKING HEAD #2
You check out the old stuff, man. You look
at those movies when he was a kid, his
arms...
Beat. Andrew takes it all in -- especially these words:
TALKING HEAD #2 (O.S.) (CONT’D)
You just can’t teach that. That kind of
genius.
(pause)
You either got it or you don’t.
Andrew turns off the TV. We hear the party beat continuing outside, muffled. He leans back and switches off his light.
WE FADE OUT.
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The same room we saw Andrew practicing in at night -- only now it’s full of musicians. Mostly male, mostly first- and second- years. This is NASSAU BAND, one of Shaffer’s lower-level jazz ensembles. Because it’s Shaffer, the players are still first- rate. A few third-years are here, too -- including a red-head drummer with the body of a linebacker. RYAN CONNOLLY.
Andrew looks up -- in time to see Ryan with a GIRL by the doorway. Ryan’s girlfriend is gorgeous -- tall, all curves. Ryan lets his hand slide down her shoulder. Andrew watches...
The GIRL waves bye to Ryan as he heads in. He’s all macho confidence.
TRUMPETER
My man Ry! Shit, how you feeling?
RYAN
Stitched up at last, dude.
TRUMPETER
Things were hurting with Neiman on the kit--
Ryan taps him to stop. Andrew is within earshot -- and has heard. Beat. Ryan moves over to Andrew, sits down at the set.
RYAN
You have a good weekend, bro?
ANDREW
Yeah. Definitely. Really good.
RYAN
Don’t worry about Greg. He’s a dick.
Andrew nods. Admires Ryan. Seems more diminutive now than ever.
RYAN (CONT’D)
You been practicing?
ANDREW
Yeah. All the time.
RYAN
My man.
Then -- the Nassau Band conductor appears: RON KRAMER.
MR. KRAMER
Morning, fellas. “Billie’s In”, bar 8.
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Mr. Kramer CLAPS OFF in time -- and the band begins playing FIRST NASSAU BAND REHEARSAL CHART. Mid-tempo. Ryan’s confident, in control. Andrew turns his pages, watches...
MR. KRAMER (CONT’D)
Nice, Ryan... Woah, trumpets.
TRUMPETER #2 **
Yeah, yeah - sorry about that one. **
MR. KRAMER **
Just brass again. **
To Ryan’s left, a whisper-- **
TRUMPETER
Ry...
Ryan turns. Visible as a silhouette through the frosted glass of the main door...is FLETCHER. Andrew turns and looks as well. Tenses up.
Fletcher lingers outside. Then he walks on. Ryan turns back to the Trumpeter.
RYAN
Not today.
Rehearsal has ended. The MUSICIANS have just filed out -- except for Andrew, who’s hanging back...
MR. KRAMER
Are you learning from Ryan?
ANDREW
Yeah... He’s been great to me.
MR. KRAMER
Last week was a little overwhelming for you?
ANDREW
(is that a question?)
Yeah...
(then, hesitant,)
I wonder...what you think about my progress?
MR. KRAMER
Your progress?
ANDREW
I just... I’m...practicing hard and...
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MR. KRAMER
Andrew -- you’ve got a good attitude. You
always arrive on time.
Andrew nods. Waiting.
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MR. KRAMER (CONT’D)
Yeah. Ok?
ANDREW
(beat)
Ok... Do you think... I know Fletcher’s
looking for players...for Studio Band...
MR. KRAMER
Yeah, Andrew... Lincoln Center looks out
for Fletcher’s top players. If it weren’t
for Ryan’s injury he’d have been in Studio
Band last year. He’s a natural player.
Andrew takes this in. Nods.
ANDREW
Ok.
MR. KRAMER
(this is awkward)
Look... I’m going to be candid. 90% of
our players will never make it into the
Lincoln Centers or the Collectives. The
question is -- who’s in that 10%?
A beat.
MR. KRAMER (CONT’D)
So I’d practice. You could start a rock
band.
Andrew takes it in. The implication is clear.
He turns -- and glimpses a poster on the wall: a DRUMMER throwing a stick in the air mid-solo. Buff. Confident. The opposite of him.
ANDREW
I...I have one more question...
(Kramer looks at him)
...Do you know what the process for
transferring is?
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OMITTED
Andrew walks down a hallway. A piece of paper in his hand. It’s a TRANSFER APPLICATION...
He notices as two attractive female students pass him. **
STUDENT #1 **
At least you didn’t embarrass yourself **
like what’s-his-face. **
STUDENT #2 **
That was truly pathetic. **
As he continues walking, he hears music. Stops. Approaches. ** Looks.
Through the pane of glass, Andrew can see a FULL ORCHESTRA. Everyone looks older than in Nassau. More focused. All eyes glued on Fletcher as he assumes his position...
Fletcher’s right arm moves, just a hair, and the band starts: fast, dazzling. Andrew watches -- in awe. The band’s playing STUDIO BAND EAVESDROP CHART, and the sound is so full, so precise, so commanding. Nothing like Nassau.
And suddenly -- Fletcher TURNS AROUND. His eyes meet Andrew’s. Andrew ducks out of view -- shit --
-- and hurries away.
Andrew practices like mad, trying to nail a double-time swing. To his left a digital METRONOME blinks. The time set: 380. Andrew stops. Resets the metronome. 390. Resumes playing. Tries to keep up. Resets the metronome to 400. Can’t keep up at all now. Struggling, sweating, hands blistering, when --
CRAAACK. Andrew’s right drumstick SNAPS IN HALF.
He stops. Spent. Looks at his hand, sweating and throbbing from the blisters.
Looks back at the metronome. Still beeping away. He turns it off.
Glances up ahead at a poster -- of BUDDY RICH hunched over a drum
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kit, mid-solo -- tacked to the wall.
Stares at the image. Then looks down -- at the PAPERWORK we saw earlier. The heading: “APPLICATION TO TRANSFER”...
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A CD slides into a player. The title: “BUDDY RICH: BIRDLAND”. Andrew skips ahead to the third track. Immediately, drums start. Another double-time swing. Only this one is insanely fast. Even faster than Andrew was going.
Andrew listens. Looks at his drum kit. Thinks. Makes a decision. Turns the CD off.
The same movie theater as before. Andrew marches in. Has one goal and one goal only now.
Walks up to Nicole at the counter. Takes a deep breath, and--
ANDREW
Hey -- look -- I -- I don’t know how to
say this -- I see you in here all the
time and -- I was just wondering --
(stops, collects himself,)
-- if you’d want to get a bite to eat
with me.
Beat. Nicole just looks at him. Andrew can’t believe he said what he just said. Feels like a creep. Instantly regrets it.
NICOLE
Please get away from me.
ANDREW
I’m so sorry, I -- I didn’t mea--
NICOLE
I’m kidding.
She smiles. Beat. Andrew manages a nervous laugh.
NICOLE (CONT’D)
That your dad you always come in with?
ANDREW
(discombobulated, trying to keep up--)
Kind of bobs up and down when he walks?
That’s him.
NICOLE
(laughs; then,)
Andrew, right? I’m Nicole.
ANDREW
Nice to meet you, Nicole...
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NICOLE
Monday I get off at seven.
ANDREW
Monday. Ok. Great. I’ll be here Monday.
A moment -- an awkward silence -- then Andrew turns -- and, in a daze, realizing what’s just happened, his spirits suddenly starting to soar -- he glides off.
The next morning. Andrew, still riding high, is seated in a lobby outside the DEAN’s OFFICE. In his hand -- a FILLED-OUT TRANSFER APPLICATION.
ASSISTANT
Andrew Neiman?
(Andrew turns)
Dr. Fletcher would like to see you.
ANDREW
Oh. Ok...
Andrew’s thoughts are elsewhere. Distracted -- not sure what this is about but doesn’t really care -- he dutifully follows...
BLACK. We hear knocking.
FLETCHER (O.S.)
Come in.
A door opens -- the black gives way -- and we see, seated at a polished mahogany desk, Fletcher. He looks as imposing -- and as well-dressed -- as ever.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Hey, Andrew! I guess Sophie found you?
Andrew is taken aback. Fletcher remembers his first name?
ANDREW
Yes... I’m... I--
FLETCHER
Come in, come in, close the door...
Fletcher rises to greet Andrew, as Andrew closes the door.
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FLETCHER (CONT’D)
I like to chat with students coming in
and going out. I hear you’re going out?
Andrew looks surprised by the warmth in Fletcher’s voice.
ANDREW
Yes. Transferring. To Columbia.
FLETCHER
Terrific. Columbia’s a terrific school.
Did something precipitate this?
ANDREW
I just decided to...
(not sure how to say it)
...to try out some other things. Not focus
only on drums. You know?
Beat. Fletcher looks at him. Is he upset? Dismayed?
FLETCHER
Bravo.
(as he starts to head back toward his desk--)
Too many students clamp down on their
“pursuits” like leeches.
(sits atop his desk)
Hobbies they picked up in their teens,
and for what? Take a seat.
ANDREW
(starts heading to a couch)
Uh... Yeah.. I mean, I --
(passes by a “1st Place Prize” plaque on a coffee-table)
-- I was a little younger than my teens
when I started drums, but--
FLETCHER
What were you then? Twelve?
ANDREW
Six.
FLETCHER
Oh. Well, kids start swimming when they’re
six, doesn’t mean they’re Michael Phelps.
It’s a hobby, never anything you consider
going all the way with. Am I right?
ANDREW
Definitely. I mean -- well -- for a time,
I thought I’d go all the way -- but, yeah--
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FLETCHER
Well, kids want anything. I wanted to be
a nanny. Thank God those I trusted talked
me out of it. Good to listen to advice.
ANDREW
Yes, I’ve done that, you’re right, it’s--
FLETCHER
--good to get outside perspectives. So
long as they don’t have ulterior motives,
I’d listen to what the people you trust
tell you.
Andrew nods. But that phrase seems to echo. Ulterior motives...
Fletcher hops down from the desk and makes his way to the couch.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
So what’s the passion you’ve chosen to
pursue at Columbia, then?
ANDREW
(as Fletcher takes a seat next to him)
Oh... Well... I’m not...not really sure.
It’s not a specific thing I have in mind.
FLETCHER
Ah. Well that’s ok. You’re young. Most
people, it takes years for them to find
their calling. My father, for instance --
he had no idea what he wanted at your age.
He tried a lot of things, a little bit of
this, a little bit of that. Took him years
before he realized his dream was
insurance. That was his passion. The
cubicle, the coffee breaks, the dry wall.
He lets this simmer for a beat. Then--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
I’m sure you’ll find your calling as well.
He rises back up. A moment of silence.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
I guess that’s it, then. Any questions?
He notices Andrew looking at a photo on the wall.
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FLETCHER (CONT’D)
That’s Sean Casey. Graduated three years
ago. Now he’s first trumpet at Lincoln
Center.
(heading toward the door--)
He came a long way.
ANDREW
(trying to collect his thoughts as he rises)
...So -- are you -- still looking for
Studio Band players then...?
FLETCHER
(turning around to face Andrew)
Some, yes. But it’s no cakewalk. Most kids
here can’t last. Laszlo Polgar, Hungarian
psychologist, declares in 1967 that talent
is all about conditioning. Says he can make
his kids, whoever they are, the best in the
world at something. What that something is
he’ll decide. He’s a lousy chess player but
he picks chess because it’s objective. Goes
around looking for a wife, finds one who
agrees to his experiment. Starts having
kids: Susan, Sofia and Judit. Gets them
practicing before they can even talk. These
weren’t kids who were sitting and smelling
the roses. These were kids who were going
to leave an actual mark on the world. Who
was the top female player by 1984? Susan.
Who played the eight-straight-wins “Miracle
of Rome” in 1989? Sofia. And who is
universally considered the greatest female
chess player of all time? Judit.
He takes a breath. Smiles. We linger for a second on Andrew, standing in place, taking it all in. Andrew’s eyes quickly drift to the photos behind Fletcher -- the images on the walls... The Studio Band with Wynton Marsalis. Fletcher at the JVC Jazz Festival. One jazz luminary after another...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Which is why I’m sure you’ll be great at
whatever you set your mind to at Columbia.
(puts his arm around Andrew, starts escorting him toward the door--)
It was a pleasure chatting, Andrew, now--
ANDREW
I just -- one thing first -- I mean -- I’m
not entirely sure I’m transferring yet...
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FLETCHER
Well that’s worrisome. I’m sure you had
good reason to make your decision.
ANDREW
I -- just might give it some more time--
FLETCHER
No need to do that. First instincts are best.
ANDREW
My first instinct...is not to transfer...
FLETCHER
I’m not sure your first instinct is
right, then. Why don’t you give it some
more thought, and in the meantime...
(reaches the door; about to close--)
...make sure your double-time swing is
ready by Monday’s Nassau Band.
He closes the door. WE LINGER on Andrew. A spark has been lit.
Andrew plays the drums with Nassau Band. Keeps missing hits. The song’s SECOND NASSAU BAND REHEARSAL CHART (ANDREW).
MR. KRAMER
Alright, that’s... That’s enough of that.
Back to just the core, please.
MUSICIANS trade places. As Ryan trades with Andrew, he turns--
RYAN
Dude -- what’ve you been practicing?
Just then, the DOOR SWINGS OPEN -- and in steps FLETCHER. All eyes go to him. All talking ceases. Absolute silence, save for Fletcher’s footsteps. Andrew waits. Heart pounding...
Fletcher arrives at the head of the band -- as Kramer silently and meekly retreats. Fletcher props up the music stand to his height, looks down at the sheet music, runs his finger down it to find the spot he wants... Andrew, like all the other players, is dead-still, eyes glued on Fletcher’s every move...
Fletcher looks up, surveys the band with his eyes. Then, raising his hand--
FLETCHER
Down the line.
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Instruments SNAP upward with military precision. No one wants to miss a beat.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Trumpets. Bars 36 to 38. One-two--
The TRUMPETER on the right starts playing. Five notes before Fletcher cuts him off with the slightest flick of his hand.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Next. One-two--
(the SECOND TRUMPETER misses his cue)
Next. One-two--
Nothing. Fletcher looks up. There are no more trumpeters. He looks over at Kramer: “Are you serious?”
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Trombone. Bars 21 to 23. Four-and--
(TROMBONIST is scrambling to find the right page)
Saxes. 48 to 50. “And” of one. And-one--
(ALTO SAX gets through one bar)
Next--
Before he even counts off, he notices the TENOR SAX’s fingering -- all he needs to know.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Drums.
We get a split-second glimpse of the TENOR SAXOPHONIST, wondering what just happened -- before we CUT to the drums, Ryan at the ready.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Double-time swing.
Ryan takes a breath. Fletcher CLAPS him off. Ryan plays.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Thank you. You. Behind.
Palms sweaty, Andrew takes Ryan’s place. Trains his eyes on Fletcher’s hands. Deep breath. Fletcher CLAPS, and Andrew begins -- trying to get the motion right, trying to stay in time--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Thank you. Bass. Five bars of “Donna
Lee”.
We STAY ON Andrew as the BASSIST plays; Andrew slides off the drums and back to his regular seat.
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FLETCHER (O.S.) (CONT’D)
(to Bassist)
Thank you.
We CUT back to Fletcher. He looks over the band once more. We see the MUSICIANS’ faces -- scared, but hopeful. Then--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Drums. Come with me.
Ryan’s heart starts speeding. His excitement visible, he--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Other drums.
Ryan freezes. Andrew is stuck in place for a moment. Then, eyes wide -- is this really happening? -- he rises and approaches the doorway... There, Fletcher hands him an ORANGE PAPER SLIP.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Give this to Admin for rescheduling. We
meet 6am to 1pm every day. Room B16.
And with that, he EXITS.
In a daze, Andrew drifts back toward the band. Kramer looks at him. Andrew answers the look with a defiant smile. Vindicated.
MR. KRAMER
Ok fellas, let’s...let’s take it back from
the top..
He claps off. The band plays SECOND NASSAU BAND REHEARSAL CHART (RYAN). Andrew pretends not to notice Ryan’s eyeing him in shock. Just sits down, lets it all settle.
And -- ever so slowly -- Andrew’s face dissolves into a GRIN...
NICOLE
This is a nice place.
We’re at a cheap pizzeria now. Nicole is seated, two half- eaten slices of pepperoni in front of her. An old jazz track is playing -- PIZZERIA CHART.
Seated across from Nicole is Andrew -- echoes of the earlier grin still on his face, a brightness in his eyes.
ANDREW
Yeah, I come here a lot.
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Beat. Then -- clicking back to reality -- this is not a nice place, did I fuck up? --
ANDREW (CONT’D)
They have good music, so I -- it’s not
just the food...
(points, re: the tune)
This is Jackie Hill, “When I Wake”, July
17th, 1938, Bob Ellis on drums.
NICOLE
Are you trying to impress me?
ANDREW
No -- sorry -- I didn’t mean -- they have
like -- ten songs they loop through.
They’re always playing the same thing.
NICOLE
And you know the dates to all ten?
ANDREW
...Yeah.
Nicole smiles. A moment. Andrew fidgets. Nervous.
NICOLE
You know every time I saw you in the
theater you always had your eyes pointed
to the floor.
ANDREW
Really?
NICOLE
Like you were fascinated by the soda
stains on the carpet.
ANDREW
My dad tells me I have a problem making
eye contact.
NICOLE
My parents like to criticize me too. When
I was growing up my mom told me my chin
was too big and that that’s why guys
wouldn’t like me. ‘Cause my dad had
cursed me with a big chin.
ANDREW
What?
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NICOLE
Yeah, it’s -- look --
(she turns, points her chin up)
It’s Jay Leno.
Andrew laughs. Nicole looks prettier to him than ever.
NICOLE (CONT’D)
She keeps asking me if I have a boyfriend
yet, and then blames it on the chin.
ANDREW
She sounds insane.
NICOLE
She wanted to be an actress when she was
my age.
ANDREW
And you? What do you do?
NICOLE
Other than serving you popcorn?
ANDREW
What do you want to do with your life?
NICOLE
(thinks; wasn’t prepared for a question that direct)
I go to Fordham... I’m not sure...
ANDREW
What’s your major?
NICOLE
I don’t have one yet.
ANDREW
Well what did you come here to study?
NICOLE
I just came here for a general education.
ANDREW
Right, but you picked Fordham for a
reason. Why Fordham?
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NICOLE
I applied to a bunch of schools, Fordham
let me in. Why’d you pick Shaffer?
ANDREW
It’s the best music school in the country.
Beat. Nicole shrugs.
NICOLE
Well Fordham was Fordham.
A moment.
NICOLE (CONT’D)
I don’t love it there to be honest...
ANDREW
No?
NICOLE
I mean -- the people there... I don’t
think they like me. I’m from Arizona and --
I don’t know, I think they see it in me.
A beat. Andrew thinks about this, then--
ANDREW
I don’t like the people at Shaffer
either. But I think it just takes time...
Things change, you know.
NICOLE
I know.
(then, opening up more than she expected, more fragility in her voice now)
I feel homesick sometimes. You know? I
hate how people in college pretend they
never feel homesick. Or maybe I’m
literally the only one, but... I don’t
think so.
A moment of silence. She looks at Andrew. He looks at her.
ANDREW
I know exactly how you feel.
(then, he smiles)
I still go to the movies with my dad.
Nicole nods. Smiles back. Andrew said it playfully, but she can tell he also meant it to reach out to her.
Pink (9/10/2013)
She scoots her legs. Her knee happens to touch Andrew’s. He notices. So does she. They look at each other.
NICOLE
...I like this song.
ANDREW
Yeah -- this part is great -- here --
Nicole smiles. Looks at Andrew. He looks back. Their knees stay still, just barely touching.
And, on this moment, just as the song ends --
Andrew’s in bed -- fast asleep. Seems stress-free for once -- his body totally relaxed, his mind deep in a dream. His arm hits his night stand -- WAKING him up. His eyes open. He looks at his alarm clock. It reads: 5:17.
ANDREW
Shi--
Andrew bursts out of his room and RACES down the hall.
Andrew DASHES across the green. It’s still pitch black outside, the city cold and menacing.
Andrew busts inside, runs down the STAIRWELL -- and SLIPS. Falls full-throttle down a whole flight, hands smacking against the tile. Rises, sore, and keeps running.
Andrew reaches ROOM B16 -- pushes open the doors--
Pink (9/10/2013)
--only to find the room EMPTY. No one is there. Andrew checks the time on his phone: 5:33. Did he miss them...?
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”.
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 fucking 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)
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 cunt!!
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)
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-of-
tune 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)
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 fucking Mars Bar down there.
Look at me. Do you think you’re out of
tune?
METZ
...Y--yes...
FLETCHER
Then why the FUCK 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.
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
I will not let you cost us a competition
because your mind’s on a fucking Happy
Meal and not on pitch. Stein,
congratulations, you are now fourth-chair
trombone. Metz -- get the fuck 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.
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...
STUDIO CORE MEMBER #3 **
Maybe if he spent half the time **
practicing that he does to polishing off **
cheeseburgers... **
STUDIO CORE MEMBER #4 **
(laughs) **
You got that right. **
Andrew’s eyes follow the PLAYERS. They’re tall, built. Next to them Andrew feels like a scrawny teen.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Just then -- a PAIR OF DRESS SHOES reach Andrew’s side. Startled, Andrew looks up. It’s Fletcher. Andrew scrambles to his feet, as Fletcher puts his arm over him and -- earnestly, back to the warm tone he displayed days ago --
FLETCHER
(walking Andrew down the hall)
Listen, Andrew. I know what you saw in
there is worrying you, but there’s a big
difference. This is your first day.
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT'D)
Metz had been dragging mud for two years.
(comes to a stop, looks straight at Andrew--)
Besides, you’re no Elmer Fudd. This is a
huge opportunity for you. You know that,
right?
ANDREW
Yeah...
FLETCHER
Your parents musicians?
ANDREW
No, not really...
FLETCHER
What do they do?
ANDREW
Well, my dad’s a writer.
FLETCHER
What’s he written?
ANDREW
Well he’s...I guess he’s mainly a
teacher.
FLETCHER
College?
ANDREW
Pennington High.
FLETCHER
And your mom?
ANDREW
I don’t know... She left when I was a
baby.
FLETCHER
So no musicians in the family.
ANDREW
...No, I guess not...
FLETCHER
Well, you’ve just got to listen to the
greats then. Jo Jones, Buddy Rich. You
know, Charlie Parker became “Bird”
because Jones threw a cymbal at his head.
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT'D)
You see what I’m saying?
(Andrew nods)
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT'D)
The key is -- relax. Don’t worry about
the numbers or what the other players
think. You’re here for a reason. You
believe that, don’t you?
(Andrew nods)
Say it.
ANDREW
I’m here for a reason.
FLETCHER
Good.
A beat. And, finally--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Now have fun.
He pats Andrew on the back -- then promptly walks off.
The players are taking their seats. Slowly, Andrew walks in. Eyes the DRUMS. Takes a deep breath. He can do this...
Carl is seated in the alternate’s seat. The drum throne is empty. Just waiting for Andrew...
Andrew sits down. WE MOVE IN CLOSER ON HIM -- as he adjusts his seat, lays his music out, gets his sticks ready...
FLETCHER (O.S.)
Alright, gang.
Andrew looks up. Fletcher has just entered.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
“Whiplash”.
Fletcher eyes Andrew.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Neiman -- just do your best.
Andrew nods. Looks at the music. Counts in his head. He’s ready...
Fletcher CLAPS the band off. WHIPLASH STUDIO BAND REHEARSAL ANDREW #1, mid-tempo, far easier than before. Andrew’s doing well. Fletcher nods, smiles--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Let’s see some fills.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Andrew fills, rolling down the toms. Fletcher grins.
Andrew, seeing Fletcher’s grin, can’t help but smile. Getting into it now. The whole BAND building, his drumming growing more intense. He fills again.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Snap! We’ve got Buddy Rich here.
Andrew grins. Fills again. Accenting, playing a counter-rhythm. When he trips up. Comes in a hair late.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
(waving the band to stop)
Ok, little trouble there. No problem.
Let’s pick it up from 17.
Fletcher claps. Andrew plays WHIPLASH STUDIO BAND REHEARSAL ANDREW #2. Fletcher waves him to stop again.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Not my tempo. Ok?
Fletcher claps again. Then another wave for Andrew to stop.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Downbeat on 18. Ok?
He’s still soft, calm, warm. He claps again. Then, stopping--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
The “and” of 4. Bar 17, the “and” of 4.
He claps off. Stops Andrew again, only seconds later.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
17, the “and” of 4. Ok? And you’re
rushing a little...
Andrew nods. Getting nervous now... Fletcher claps again. Stops again.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Not quite my tempo. All good, here we go.
He’s about to clap off when, out of nerves, Andrew hits his bass drum early.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
No -- ready?
Fletcher claps. Stops Andrew yet again.
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Sorry, you’re -- you’re dragging a little
now.
(Andrew tries to pull his seat up, getting anxious, flustered)
All set?
Andrew nods. Get it together... Fletcher claps. Stops.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
You’re rushing.
Claps again. Stops again.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Dragging.
Claps again. Andrew plays WHIPLASH STUDIO BAND REHEARSAL ANDREW #3, expecting another stop -- but it doesn’t come. Fletcher nods, as though now satisfied, then slowly turns around. Puts his hand on a spare chair. Looks like he’s about to sit down, when...
...like a flash of lightning he WHIPS up the chair and HURLS it straight at Andrew’s head.
Andrew DUCKS, as the chair CATCHES the top of the bass drum, almost toppling it over. An EAR-PIERCING CLANG OF CYMBALS, as Andrew’s sticks go flying and the chair hits the floor.
Then -- total silence in the room. Andrew is shell-shocked, beyond shaken, what in the fuck just happened???...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
(as though discussing the weather)
Why do you suppose I just hurled a chair
at your head, Neiman?
ANDREW
I... I... I d--don’t kn--
FLETCHER
Yes, you do.
ANDREW
I... The...the tempo...
FLETCHER
Were you rushing or were you dragging?
ANDREW
I... I don’t... I don’t--
Pink (9/10/2013)
Fletcher BOUNDS up to him, almost RUNNING -- suddenly beast- like, terrifying, veins set to BURST--
FLETCHER
Start counting.
ANDREW
(like a deer in the headlights)
...Five-six-seven--
FLETCHER
In four, damnit!
ANDREW
One-two-three-four...
Fletcher SLAPS Andrew on his left cheek. Then--
FLETCHER
Keep counting!!
ANDREW
One-two--
(another slap)
--three--
(a third slap)
--four--
FLETCHER
Was I rushing or I was dragging?
ANDREW
I -- I don’t -- I don’t know--
FLETCHER
Start counting again.
ANDREW
One-two--
(a slap on his left cheek)
--three-four-o--
(another slap)
--ne-two-three--
FLETCHER
Was I rushing or was I dragging?
ANDREW
R--rushing...
FLETCHER
So you do know the difference! If you
dare to sabotage my band I will fuck you
like a pig.
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT'D)
Now are you a rusher, are you a dragger,
or are you going to be ON MY FUCKING
TIME?!?
This is a new Fletcher we’re seeing. An animal. But no one but Andrew seems surprised--
ANDREW
I--I’m gonna be on your time...
FLETCHER
(flips over a new sheet of music, points to the top)
What does this say?
ANDREW
260... Quarter note 260...
FLETCHER
Count a 260.
ANDREW
O-one-two-three-four...
FLETCHER
Jesus fucking Christ -- I didn’t know
they allowed retards into Shaffer! Do you
expect me to believe you can’t read
tempo? Can you even read music???
(points back to the music)
What the fuck is this?
ANDREW
A half-note...
FLETCHER
And this?
ANDREW
A--a dotted sixteenth...
FLETCHER
Sight-read this measure.
ANDREW
Bop-bop-ba-bop-ba--
FLETCHER
What are you, in a fucking a capella
group?? Play the goddamn set!!
Andrew plays the measure on the drums. Shaking, terrified...
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Now answer my question -- were you
rushing or were you dragging?
(because Andrew hesitates--)
ANSWER!!!!!
ANDREW
R--r--r--rushing...
FLETCHER
Dear God, is that a tear in your eye? Are
you one of those single-tear people? Do I
look like a double fucking rainbow to
you??
Andrew tries to hide his tear, mortified, wipes it, cowers--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
You must be upset. Are you upset??
ANDREW
N--no...
FLETCHER
Oh so you don’t give a shit about any of
this?
ANDREW
No, I -- I do give a sh--
FLETCHER
So are you upset? Yes or fucking no.
ANDREW
Yes...
FLETCHER
You are upset...
ANDREW
I am upset...
FLETCHER
Say it so the rest of the band can hear you.
ANDREW
I am upset...
FLETCHER
Louder.
ANDREW
I am upset!
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER
LOUDER!!!!!!
ANDREW
I am upset!!!
FLETCHER
You are a worthless friendless faggot-
lipped little piece of shit, whose Mommy
ran out on Daddy once she realized he
wasn’t Eugene O’Neill, and who’s now
weeping and slobbering over my drum kit
like a fifteen-year-old girl -- so for the
last father-fucking time, SAY IT LOUDER!!!
ANDREW
(tears pouring out now)
I AM UPSET!!!!!!
Then -- silence. Andrew hunches over the drum set, shaking, face awash in tears. The other PLAYERS just stare...
FLETCHER
Carl...
Carl silently switches places with Andrew at the set.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Start practicing harder, Neiman.
(then, turning to the band,)
“Whiplash”. Once more from the top.
He claps the band off. As for Andrew, he just sits behind Carl -- dazed, red-faced, and utterly gutted.
His first day of Studio Band is over.
Andrew exits. Trying to hold it all in. Then--
RYAN
Hey, bro.
He sees Ryan, a few yards away. Andrew hides his face, hides the TEARS that are starting to spill out uncontrollably...
RYAN (CONT’D)
I never said congrats, man. Congra--
...and RUNS like hell.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Andrew is curled in the corner, crying. We linger here.
Then, his PHONE rings. He looks at it. Hesitates...
ANDREW
...Hello...?
JIM (O.S.)
You didn’t show.
And, finally, breaking down, can’t hold it in any longer--
ANDREW
He ripped me apart...
JIM (O.S.)
...Who?
(then,)
That asshole? You told me you were
transferring...
Andrew looks at his desk. There, atop a pile of papers, is his TRANSFER APPLICATION. All filled out. Ready to go. Next to it, a BUDDY RICH CD...
ANDREW
(almost to himself)
...I thought he liked my playing.
JIM (O.S.)
Who cares what he likes? Who is he to you?
When I started writing plenty of people
tried to put me down. You ignore them.
Andrew is silent. When I started writing...
Those words seem to have the opposite effect Jim intended.
ANDREW
When you started writing...
JIM (O.S.)
Why don’t you come home tonight?
ANDREW
No, I -- I have to practice...
JIM (O.S.)
No, you have to take it easy.
ANDREW
I need to go now...
Pink (9/10/2013)
JIM (O.S.)
Andrew--
ANDREW
I have to go... Sorry. I’ll call you
later.
He hangs up. Rises. Wipes his reddened eyes. And exits his dorm.
PRE-LAP KNOCKING --
FLETCHER (PRE-LAP)
Yes?
Andrew steps into Fletcher’s office. Before Fletcher can say a word--
ANDREW
I’m sorry to interrupt you. I just want to
tell you -- I’m so thankful to have been
accepted into Studio Band. And I’m going to
make sure I don’t disappoint you.
Fletcher, seated at his desk, just looks at Andrew. Andrew nods, turns around. Marches back down the hall -- as PERCUSSION begins... WE FOLLOW HIM, sticking close to his face, the resolve now in his eyes. Something has changed.
PERCUSSION grows louder and, as we move, hurdles us back...
...to FLETCHER’S OFFICE. And to Fletcher, peeking out through his doorway now. Fletcher smiles...
Andrew sits at his drum set, furiously practicing...
And just like that, moving fast, DRUM PATTERN FOR MONTAGE carrying us, we’re--
CLOSE ON Andrew’s hand, Xerox-ing pages of music. The titles: “WHIPLASH”, “ALEPH NULL”, “EASY SIX”... Pages dense with notes...
Pink (9/10/2013)
Fletcher steps outside. It’s drizzling a bit. He slowly unfolds an umbrella. Passes by a few other FACULTY MEMBERS on his way to the sidewalk. Keeps walking. The DRUMMING continues...
Andrew pulls the MATTRESS off his bed, drags it to the door with his ALARM CLOCK. Heaves both out to the hallway...
Fletcher is seated, squished in between commuters, towered over by other travelers. Looks diminutive in this setting...
Andrew marches down a side-street, wolfing down a McDonald’s burger for dinner, earphones plugged into a METRONOME...
Andrew lifts a 50-lb weight with his right arm. Then a 75-lb. Then picks his stick up and plays his double-time swing...
Fletcher reaches a nondescript high-rise. With his folded-up umbrella, his head hanging low, and the careful delicacy with which he opens the door, he looks here like nothing so much as a quiet, everyday man...
Andrew sleeps, earphones still in and metronome still on. He’s on the MATTRESS he brought down from his dorm, the ALARM CLOCK by his side. Next to it, a suitcase of clothes. Above, the poster of Buddy Rich. It’s as though he’s moved in.
Fletcher sets the table for dinner. He has nice porcelain plates, and a glass of red wine. But the meal? A frozen ready- made steak and vegetables. On the wall, a photo. In it, a younger Fletcher, and a WOMAN, and a NINE-YEAR-OLD GIRL. All smiles...
Pink (9/10/2013)
Andrew rises from the same mattress and slides onto his drum seat. Starts playing, hands dotted with blisters, eyes crusty with sand. The METRONOME still on...
...because it was never turned off.
CUT TO: Rides furiously, trying to beat his double-time swing... The METRONOME reading 380... His muscles exhausted...
CUT TO: The METRONOME adjusted up to 390... Blisters tearing...
CUT TO: 400.. Hands bleeding now, blood smearing the sticks...
CUT TO: 405... The METRONOME going crazy now... The DRUMMING so fast it’s a wash, a wall of sound, blood on the cymbal--
Silence. Fletcher finishes his meal. Puts the dishes away. Sits down on a couch. Still alone.
The apartment, like his office, is small but elegant. Pictures of icons on the walls. Monk. Holiday. Coltrane...
Fletcher reaches into a stack of LP’s: Chopin, Ravel... Pulls one out with the most delicate touch, as though he were handling a newborn. Sets it on a record player by his side.
A scratch, a hiss, and then --
-- FLETCHER’S SONG. Melancholy, lovelorn...
Fletcher just sits and listens, barely moves -- but you can tell the music now playing means everything to him...
A moment, and then...
Wild, feverish, absurdly fast BIG BAND JAZZ. We’re on-stage. An orchestra about the size of Studio Band is in full swing, reaching the end of RIVAL OVERBROOK BAND CHART.
The band FINISHES. No applause. A card:
First Competition of the Winter Season
Pink (9/10/2013)
The RIVAL PLAYERS quickly shuffle into the green room, past Andrew, who watches, awed. A VOICE--
TECHNICIAN (O.S.)
Terry!
Andrew turns, glimpses a CORRIDOR through the doorway. Out in the corridor, he sees a TECHNICIAN welcome Fletcher. In the Technician’s arms, a FOUR-YEAR-OLD GIRL -- the Technician’s daughter --
FLETCHER
Mike!
(and, to the girl,)
I’m so sorry, can I have your autograph?
(she blushes, shakes her head)
Are you playing an instrument yet?
TECHNICIAN
She started piano this week.
FLETCHER
Ooo, I need pianists!
(to the girl)
What do you say, you ready for Carnegie
Hall?
The Technician smiles again, looks at the girl. She hides her face in his chest, embarrassed. He and Fletcher laugh.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Alright, alright.
(looking up at her dad)
Great to see you, Mike.
He leans in. They hug.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
See you after the show! Cheers!
He steps in, closes the door and addresses his PLAYERS, who are busy sanding their hands, buzzing their lips, preparing:
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Ok, you fucking cocksuckers. E Dorian.
(the non-percussion players lift their instruments)
Hurry the fuck up!! E Dorian.
(they play the Dorian scale)
Double it.
(they play it double-time)
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
G Lydian.
(they play the Lydian scale)
D Lydian Augmented.
(they play it)
Double it.
(they play it double-time)
Get your music. “Irene” only for Set 1.
Rhythm section out first. Tanner, the kit
is a tonal catastrophe. Get it in tune.
Rhythm and soloists, we’re augmenting the
dominant in measure 45. Everyone else
sharp the nine at bar 106. Got it?
(beat)
Now remember. Lincoln Center and its ilk
use these competitions to decide who they
want. And I am not about to have my
record in that department stained by a
bunch of sour-note flexible-tempo flatter-
than-their-girlfriends dipshits. And
another thing...
(he holds up a music folder)
...if I ever see one of these lying about
unattended to again, I swear to God I
will stop being so polite. That alright
with you, ladies?
PLAYERS
Yes.
A STAGEHAND approaches Fletcher, about to speak to him--
FLETCHER
(almost matter-of-fact)
Get the fuck out of my sight before I
demolish you.
The STAGE HAND nods, slinks away. Fletcher addresses his band--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Stage right. In order. Now.
(turns to the STAGE HAND -- who’s short and plump)
That means you too, Mini-Me.
Studio Band goes on-stage. Carl hurries to the DRUMS, tunes them.
CARL
Stick bag.
Andrew hands Carl the stick bag. Raises the music stand, props the MUSIC FOLDER onto it--
Pink (9/10/2013)
CARL (CONT’D)
Hurry up.
ANNOUNCEMENT (V.O.)
The Shaffer Conservatory Studio Band...
CARL
Hurry up.
--and opens it to OVERBROOK COMPETITION CHART.
Fletcher appears. Raises his hand.
Everyone raises their instruments. Sits still. Waiting...
A cough is heard. Fletcher looks to his right. The players stay still. No sign of whom it came from...
And then -- the slightest move of Fletcher’s index finger. So subtle you need absolute focus to even notice it. That’s the count-off. Miss it and you’ve blown it for everyone.
The BAND LAUNCHES. Quiet at first, then a big brassy sound. Andrew watches Carl’s playing. Taps along on his knees.
CARL (CONT’D)
Page.
(Andrew snaps to it, turns the page)
Damnit...
Still conducting, Fletcher approaches, whispers--
FLETCHER
Get it together, Tanner, I swear to God.
Heads back to his position, glaring at Carl. Pissed at Andrew, Carl plays. The music BUILDS and we’re--
The performance over, the PLAYERS trickle BACKSTAGE.
CARL
(handing Andrew the folder, still pissed)
Hold onto this for the second set.
Andrew plugs in for a can of Coke at a vending machine. Sets his MUSIC FOLDER down on a chair. Keeps his eyes on it.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Then -- he overhears TALKING...
TRUMPETER #1
That’s what I heard...
Andrew turns. Creeps around the corner. Sees a trio of fellow Studio Band PLAYERS, all core, chatting. They don’t see him...
TRUMPETER #2
Do you think he’ll make a complaint?
SAXOPHONIST
He wants a career. Long as Fletcher
stays, Fudd could get placed back in. Why
would he jeopardize that?
Andrew leans in to hear more, but before he can get a read--
CARL
I need to look at the music.
Carl is inches from his face. Andrew turns to the chair -- but the folder is gone. His eyes go wide. No...
CARL (CONT’D)
Can I have it?
ANDREW CARL Yeah, of course. I’m... Why isn’t it on you?
ANDREW CARL
It is, I-- I don’t see it.
ANDREW
(realizing he can’t hide this)
Fuck... I -- I think I fucked up...
CARL
No. You’re joking.
ANDREW
I swear to God, I had it on that chair--
CARL
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. How
could you be so fucking stupid?!?
ANDREW
(shaking, doesn’t know what to do)
A... A janitor... Maybe a janitor took--
Pink (9/10/2013)
CARL
Find the fucking chart!!
(turns, grabs a passing player--)
Neiman lost my folder.
SAXOPHONIST
Serious? Fletcher’s going to flip.
And just like that -- a VOICE booms down the hall--
FLETCHER (O.S.)
Drums!! Where the hell is Tanner??
Carl, terrified, Andrew behind him, addresses Fletcher--
CARL
We have an issue.
FLETCHER
Now is not the time.
CARL
I gave Neiman the folder. Neiman lost it.
Fletcher looks at Andrew. This is a joke, right?
FLETCHER
Neiman lost it.
CARL
Yes.
FLETCHER
The folder is YOUR fucking responsibility,
Tanner! You should have known not to give
Neiman your folder. You give a retard a
calculator and he’ll try to turn his TV on
with it. Now get your ass on-stage before I--
CARL
I can’t...
FLETCHER
Can’t what?
CARL
(doesn’t want to have to say this--)
I -- I can’t go on-stage... I don’t know
the charts by heart...
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER
Come again, darling?
CARL
You know this... I have -- I need the music,
my memory -- it’s, it needs visual cues--
FLETCHER
Visual cues??
CARL
--it’s a medical conditio--
FLETCHER
A medical condition? What are you,
Sanjay Gupta?? Play the fucking music!!
CARL
I can’t.
ANDREW
I can.
Fletcher and Carl both look at him. Neither was expecting him to chime in. Andrew seems almost as surprised...
FLETCHER
You know “Whiplash” by heart?
ANDREW
Yes. Every measure. Every note.
Quickly realizing this is now his only option--
FLETCHER
You’d better pray your memory doesn’t
fail you, Neiman. And I hope you’ve
improved since last month’s rehearsal. I
am not about to start losing now.
Then, to the rest of the band--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
ON-FUCKING-STAGE!!
The PLAYERS in their places. And there, on the set, overwhelmed, trying to make this one shot count -- is Andrew.
ANNOUNCEMENT
With their second selection, the Shaffer
Conservatory Studio Band.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Fletcher faces the band. Zeroes in on Andrew. The wild-card. Andrew rubs the sweat from his palms. This is it, this is it... Adjusts the drums, tightens the snares. Carl sitting behind him, burning holes with his eyes...
ANDREW
Five-two-two-six-two-two... Six-two-two...
Fletcher raises his arm. Hand suspended in air, finger waiting to move... Andrew locks eyes on it. Heart pounding now...
And -- the finger moves. The band begins WHIPLASH OVERBROOK. A surging 7/4. Andrew seems caught off-guard at first. Struggles to keep up. Then reaches the right speed -- and stays there. Fletcher keeps his eye on him, waiting for him to fuck up...
But Andrew doesn’t. He gets the first hit. Awkward, but in time. Then the second hit -- also graceless, but on target.
And here comes the key moment. Fletcher turns his attention to the trumpets -- and away from Andrew.
Barely believing his luck, Andrew plays another bar. Still Fletcher doesn’t look at him. He’s focused on other players.
The number builds some more. And--
HEAD JUDGE (PRE-LAP)
First place. Shaffer Conservatory.
Applause. Fletcher summons his PLAYERS to the stage. The JUDGE hands him the microphone. Fletcher takes it, hesitantly. His band behind him -- including Andrew...
FLETCHER
I’m...supposed to say a few words but...
it’s these kids who should be speaking...
(turning to his band, earnestly)
You earned this, gang.
(beat, turns to the audience)
You know... When I was a kid, I saw God. Or
as some people know him, Charlie Parker. My
dad snuck me out of school so we could make
the drive into Chicago. It was a bar so he
had to sneak me in, hidden under his coat.
I didn’t know where in the hell I was. I
was all of seven. But then, by the time I
was on my third Shirley Temple, this nice-
looking man went up on-stage and started
playing. And I’ve never been the same
since.
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT'D)
(turning again to his band)
You guys mean the world to me, you know...
(back to the audience)
I think of them like they were my own kids.
Treat them that way, too. Treat ‘em like my
dad treated me. Meaning I terrorize them.
(laughter, and to the band,)
But it’s true, gang. You’re my family...
Something about how Fletcher says this suggests he means it...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Thank you. Thank you so much.
He wavers. Then steps aside and exits with his band.
The STAGE HAND appears, carrying a red folder. Going up to Carl and Andrew--
STAGE HAND
This yours? I think a janitor threw it in
the trash by accident.
Carl looks. It’s his MUSIC FOLDER. He looks behind at Andrew.
A new day of rehearsal. Andrew enters the room, passes the piano--
PIANIST
Don’t you go taking my folder...
Andrew looks at him. Wary, he makes his way to the drums...and to Carl. Reaches in to help Carl adjust the cymbals when--
CARL
Do not touch the set.
Andrew stops. Just then -- the DOOR OPENS, and Fletcher enters.
FLETCHER
“Cherokee”.
(looks at Carl)
What are you doing?
No answer. Carl, seated at the set, is visibly confused.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Core only today, I can’t waste time
with alternates.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Carl stays still. What...? Andrew looks just as shocked.
But Fletcher keeps on staring. He’s dead-serious. Finally, Carl slides off, stunned, as Andrew takes his place... And, calmly tossing this off even though he knows how much it hurts--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Tanner, make sure to turn Neiman’s pages.
Then he raises his hand. Andrew holds his sticks, still shocked. This is as clear a verdict of his playing at Overbrook as he’ll ever get.
He’s the new core drummer.
Fletcher CLAPS the band off, and before we hear any music we’re--
Andrew watches a VIDEO on his iPhone... It’s 70’s footage and audio of a grey-haired DRUMMER, a face we’ve seen before... BUDDY RICH. Andrew smiles. Relaxed. Proud.
A bubble pops up: “1 NEW VOICEMAIL, 1 NEW TEXT MESSAGE”.
Andrew opens the text. The name on it: “NICOLE”. It reads:
“You free Thursday?”
Andrew is about to answer. Hesitates. Plays the voicemail.
CARL (O.S.)
Neiman... You lost that folder on purpose.
You knew I didn’t know the chart by
heart... Answer me... I’ve been core for
two years. I’ve been drumming since I was
three. I earned my spot you asshol--
Andrew hangs up. Looks back at the text message. Considering again...
Then he just resumes watching the video.
Jim grabs a platter from the stove, Andrew by his side.
JIM
How’s it going in Studio Band?
Pink (9/10/2013)
ANDREW
Good. I think he likes me more now.
JIM
His opinion means a lot to you, doesn’t it?
Jim looks at Andrew. Almost accusatory. A moment...
ANDREW
Yeah...
JIM
Grab the shakers please.
Seven people seated at the table: Jim and Andrew, Andrew’s uncle FRANK, aunt EMMA, and 18-year-old cousin DUSTIN. To Jim--
UNCLE FRANK
Jimbo -- overcooked!
(to Emma, laughing re: the meat)
I can barely chew this thing.
Jim laughs along. Andrew watches. There’s an undercurrent to the joking. The power dynamic between the brothers is clear.
UNCLE FRANK (CONT’D)
He just laughs.
Jim keeps laughing.
AUNT EMMA
And how’s your drumming going, Andy?
Andrew, put on the spot, hesitates. But then, excited--
ANDREW
Well... Actually, it’s...it’s going
really well. I’m now the core drum--
The door OPENS. In steps TRAVIS, another cousin, 21, football player, real looker. All eyes swerve in an instant from Andrew to him.
UNCLE FRANK
Well, well, well -- Tom Brady!
TRAVIS
Sorry I’m late.
Pink (9/10/2013)
AUNT EMMA
Did you hear, Jimmy?
UNCLE FRANK
They named Trav the season’s MVP.
JIM
That’s incredible, Tra--
AUNT EMMA
(interrupting)
And Dustin heading up Model UN, soon-to-
be-Rhodes-Scholar or who knows what, Jim
“Teacher of the Year”... I mean, the
talent at this table -- it’s stunning.
Beat. Then--
AUNT EMMA (CONT’D)
And Andrew. With his drumming.
UNCLE FRANK
Yeah, you said that was going ok, Andy?
ANDREW
(a little peeved,)
It’s going spectacularly well, actually.
I’m...I’m in Shaffer’s top jazz
orchestra, it’s the best in the country --
and I was just made a core member.
(there’s no reaction)
...Which means I play in competitions.
I’m one of the youngest they have.
TRAVIS
How do they know who wins in a music
competition? Isn’t it subjective?
ANDREW
...No, not really.
UNCLE FRANK
Does the studio help get you a job?
ANDREW
It’s...it’s not a studio, that’s just the
name of the ensemble... And yes, it’s a
big step forward in my career.
UNCLE FRANK
I’m just curious how you make your money
as a drummer. After graduating.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Andrew glances at his dad. Wondering if maybe he’ll chime in in defense... But no. His dad stays meek and quiet.
AUNT EMMA
I saw a TV commercial for credit reports
where a young man was playing the drums.
You could do that.
ANDREW
Yes, or the Lincoln Center Jazz
Orchestra. But the credit reports gig is
a wonderful backup.
UNCLE FRANK
(missing Andrew’s sarcasm)
Well I’m glad you have it figured out. It’s
a nasty business, I’m sure.
(to Travis)
Oh, you gotta tell them about your game last
week. I’d say you lived up to your title.
TRAVIS
43-yard touchdown to win it.
UNCLE FRANK
That’s what I’m talking about! On your
way to the pros.
ANDREW
It’s Division III.
Everyone at the table looks at Andrew -- including his dad.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
He plays for Carleton. It’s Division III.
It’s not even Division II.
(silence, shock around the table)
The tilapia is delicious, by the way.
UNCLE FRANK
(I’ll get you back for that)
You got a lot of friends, Andy?
ANDREW
Not really.
UNCLE FRANK
And why’s that?
ANDREW
I don’t see the use.
Pink (9/10/2013)
UNCLE FRANK
Well who will you play with otherwise?
Who’ll give you your break? Lennon and
McCartney were school buddies, am I right?
ANDREW
Charlie Parker didn’t know anyone ‘til Jo
Jones threw a cymbal at his head.
UNCLE FRANK
And that’s your idea of success, then?
ANDREW
Becoming the greatest musician of the
twentieth century would be anyone’s idea
of success.
JIM
Dying broke, drunk, and full of heroin at
34 would not be my idea of success.
Andrew turns and looks at his dad. Can’t believe he joined in.
ANDREW
(to his dad)
I’d rather die broke and drunk at 34 and
have people at a dinner table somewhere
talk about it than die rich and sober at
90 and have no one remember me.
UNCLE FRANK
Ah, but friends remember you. That’s the
whole point.
ANDREW
No, none of us were Charlie Parker’s
friends. That’s the whole point.
UNCLE FRANK
Well there’s such a thing as feeling
loved and included.
ANDREW
I prefer to feel hated and cast out. It
gives me purpose.
JIM
That’s ridiculous. You don’t mean that.
UNCLE FRANK
Travis and Dustin have plenty of friends,
and I’d say they have plenty of purpose.
Pink (9/10/2013)
ANDREW
You’re right, they’ll make great School
Board presidents.
DUSTIN
Oh -- so, that’s what this is all about --
you think you’re better than us?
ANDREW
You catch on quick. You must be in Model UN.
TRAVIS
Well I’ve got a reply for you, Andrew.
You think Carleton football’s a joke?
(Andrew only nods)
Come play with us.
ANDREW
Four words you will never hear from the NFL.
AUNT EMMA
Who wants dessert?
JIM
And from Lincoln Center?
A moment of silence. Andrew looks at his dad, and his dad just looks right back... A simmering anger in his eyes, Andrew turns to the others, and, slowly--
ANDREW
In 1967 a scientist named Laszlo Polgar
decides to prove talent isn’t about what
you’re born with but about conditioning.
Has three kids, Susan, Sophia and Judit,
and gets them practicing chess for hours
and hours before they can even talk.
Fifteen years later Susan and Sophia are
the two top female players in the world,
and Judit’s on her way to entering the
history books as the greatest female
chess master of all time.
Silence once again. Andrew glances at his dad, and delivers back that same accusatory look he saw in the kitchen...
UNCLE FRANK
So not only do you want to die at 34,
broke, drunk, and addicted to heroin, but
you also wish you were a lab rat.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Andrew says nothing. Rises, plate in hand. Walks to the door--
DUSTIN
Enjoy band camp.
ANDREW
Enjoy pretending you’re an ambassador.
--and swings it shut behind him.
ANDREW
Ok, I’m going to just lay it out. This is
why I don’t think we should be together.
We’re back in the city, at a coffee shop. Andrew is seated across from Nicole, who just looks at him. Clearly she did not think this is how the conversation would begin.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
I’ve thought about this a lot. If we’re
together this is what’s going to happen.
I’m going to keep pursuing what I’m
pursuing, and it’s going to take up more
and more of my time. You’re going to see
me less and less. When you do, I’ll be
distracted, I’ll be upset, I’ll be
playing things in my mind. And you’re
going to just grow to resent me. At a
certain point, you’ll tell me to ease up
on the drumming, to spend more time with
you. And I won’t be able to. And I’ll
start to resent you for even asking me
that. I’ll feel like you’re dragging me
down, you’ll feel like you don’t matter --
and before long, we’ll hate each other.
So I think we should just cut it off now,
cleanly, for those reasons.
A beat. Nicole is silent. Finally, Andrew adds--
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Because I want to be great.
NICOLE
And you’re not.
ANDREW
I want to be one of the greats.
NICOLE
And I would stop you from doing that.
Pink (9/10/2013)
ANDREW
Yes.
NICOLE
You know I would stop you from doing
that. You know that for a fact.
ANDREW
Yes.
NICOLE
And I would barely see you anyway.
ANDREW
That’s right.
NICOLE
And when I did see you, you would treat
me like shit, because I’m some girl who
doesn’t know what she wants, and you have
a path, and you’re going to be great, and
I’m going to be forgotten, and therefore
you won’t be able to give me the time of
day because you have bigger things to
pursue.
ANDREW
That’s right. That’s exactly my point.
Beat.
NICOLE
You’re right. We should not be dating.
She gets up.
ANDREW
I’m glad we had this talk.
NICOLE
Me too.
With that, she turns and leaves. We linger on Andrew, the look on his face... Did I just fuck up...? No, I’m good.
A BLAST of music. Horns squealing, cymbals swelling.
It’s another Studio Band rehearsal. Andrew’s at the drums, playing well. Fletcher cues a fermata, and the band finishes STUDIO BAND REHEARSAL AFTER-BREAKUP CHART.
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER
Alright, gang. Pick up the new chart by
the door. Rehearsal tonight starts at 9.
You have ‘til then to learn it.
PLAYERS head out. Andrew grabs his copy of the chart -- it’s called “CARAVAN” -- when--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Neiman. Stay a bit, ok?
Andrew nods. Carl, at the door, glares at him. Then slinks off.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
(approaching, pointing to the chart)
Look at this. See the tempo?
ANDREW
Quarter note 330...
FLETCHER
That’s a double-time swing. That’s what
got you in here, isn’t it?
ANDREW
I guess so...
Fletcher grins. Then -- the smile fades.
FLETCHER
Now, just as was the case with you, I
stumbled on a kid practicing his double-
time swing the other night. I’d like to
give him a shot.
Before Andrew can register, let alone ask “Who?”--
RYAN (O.S.)
Am I late?
Fletcher and Andrew turn to the door. RYAN CONNOLLY is here.
FLETCHER
Perfect timing! Join us, Connolly.
(Ryan heads over, smiling)
You two know each other, don’t you?
RYAN
Yep, Nassau Band. ‘Sup, Andrew...
Ryan is all smiles. But Andrew is mortified. Can barely conceal his anxiety -- and his anger.
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER
Now, Connolly, I’ve made Andrew a
temporary core--
(Andrew’s eyes shoot up at the word “temporary”)
--but we’ve got the competition this
weekend and I want to make sure the new
chart’s in good shape.
Ryan nods, reaches into his backpack. And, to Andrew’s shock, pulls out the “new chart”. CARAVAN.
RYAN
This one, right?
Andrew’s wide-eyed. When did he get the chart?
FLETCHER
(as though he can read his mind)
I gave it to him this morning, Neiman.
Now, all I want to do is test out the
part. Neiman, if you wouldn’t mind, could
we take it from the top with just you?
Andrew tries to keep calm. Goes to the drums, lays out the chart.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Don’t worry, I don’t care about hits.
That’ll be tonight. For now, just tempo.
Andrew nods. Takes a deep breath. Looks at the tempo notation. “330”. Another breath. Ok... I’ve got this... Fletcher CLAPS. Andrew BEGINS.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
No... That’s not quite my tempo...
ANDREW
I’m -- I’m sorry -- I’ll--
FLETCHER
Let’s see if Connolly can do it, ok?
Beat. Andrew looks at Ryan. Heart pounding, he switches with him. Fletcher CLAPS. Ryan BEGINS. And he plays perfectly.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Connolly -- that was excellent. See,
this is the beauty of Studio Band. You
come in an alternate -- but a minute
later, you could be the new core.
Andrew’s eyes widen again.
Pink (9/10/2013)
ANDREW
You’re not serious.
Fletcher looks at Andrew -- as though shocked Andrew talked back. A moment of silence. Then -- BZZZZZ. Fletcher’s cell.
FLETCHER
Connolly, the chart’s yours. See you
both tonight at 9.
(answering the phone)
Hi, this is Terence...
He heads to his OFFICE. Andrew is still. What just happened...?
RYAN
How you been, bro?
(Andrew looks at Ryan)
I think it was the injury that kept me out
last time. But I’m fuckin’ stoked to be
joining you guys now.
Andrew just stares. Ryan seems earnest -- but Andrew is incensed.
RYAN (CONT’D)
(mistaking Andrew’s look for anxiety)
Don’t worry about Fletch, either. My
granddad knew his dad from the
Philharmonic when Fletcher was trying to
break in. He’s more bark than bite.
Andrew’s eyes really widen now: What the fuck is going on?
He gets up, marches to Fletcher’s door, and--
--BURSTS in. Fletcher’s just finished his call.
FLETCHER ANDREW
What are--? I need to talk to you.
FLETCHER ANDREW
Now is not the time, I I can play that part, you
swear to God-- know I can--
FLETCHER
I said NOT NOW!!!
There’s more desperation in Fletcher’s voice than anger. And Andrew notices something else: Fletcher’s eyes are watering... Andrew is silent. He’s never seen Fletcher like this.
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
(softly, as though close to crying)
You want the part? Then...earn it.
A moment passes.
Andrew busts back through the STUDIO BAND ROOM. Eyes burning. One thought and one thought only: Get that part back.
RYAN
Bro! Wanna grab lunch?
But Andrew doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking.
Andrew pours ice into a sink. Turns on the faucet. Dips a big glass jug in and collects ice water.
Andrew practices the part... He’s pushing, giving it his all... “CARAVAN” on his stand, scribbled over with pencil markings: “forte”, “triplets!”, “hemiola 1-3”, “don’t slow down!”
ANDREW
Come on... Come on...
He stops. His hand throbbing from blisters. He dips it by his side -- into the jug of ICE WATER. Clenches. Blood clouds the water.
He resumes playing -- frenzied, exhausted. Fucks up, screams out--
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Fuck!!!!
Starts pounding his stick against the drum-head. Then his hand. Pounding harder and harder, once, twice, three times, four times. Hand bleeding more, the drum-skin giving way, finally tearing and breaking.
He STARTS PLAYING again, fed up, enraged, SHOUTING at himself--
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Come on you fucking piece of shit... Come
on!!! COME ON!!!!
Pink (9/10/2013)
A crowded subway car. Andrew is seated, poring over his sheet music, running through the beats in his head...
The PLAYERS sit silently. Ryan on the drum throne, Carl and Andrew behind him -- Carl still humiliated, Andrew 100% focused. The clock reads: 9:00. Not a word in the room.
Fletcher emerges. A CD PLAYER in his hand. He plugs it in.
FLETCHER
Ok... Um...
For the first time ever, he seems uneasy, unsure what to say.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
We...we have a new player. Ryan Connolly.
Ryan nods, waves to the other PLAYERS. Chipper--
RYAN
Sup, dudes.
Andrew glares at him. Seething now. But, continuing, softly--
FLETCHER
But I...if you could just...put your
instruments down... Just for a second...
He turns to the CD player. Turns it on. A big-band ballad swells. A muted trumpet takes the lead. It’s CASEY’S SONG, and it’s a tender sound, full of melancholy...
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...
Pink (9/10/2013)
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--
Pink (9/10/2013)
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-FUCKER!!!
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 FUCKING 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.
Pink (9/10/2013)
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--
FLETCHER
--that the fastest you can go?? It is no
fucking wonder Mommy ran out on you, you
worthless acne-scarred fetal-position
Hymie fuck. 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 fucking
hand jobs?? One! One! One! One! OFF THE
FUCKING KIT!!!
Carl stops. Staggers back, dazed, as Ryan moves up and begins.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Now we got ourselves our mick fucking paddy-
cracker. Did you know you look like a
fucking leprechaun? I think I’ll call you
Flannery.
PLAYERS rinse their faces. One looks at his watch, dead-tired. It’s very late...
Some players have now returned to their seats.
Pink (9/10/2013)
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 fucking Patrick’s Day,
Flannery, there is not a pot of gold
under your fucking 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 fuck...
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-fucking-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--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Don’t stop!!
Pink (9/10/2013)
Andrew doesn’t stop. Manages to glare forward, with what almost seems like hatred in his tired, blood-shot eyes...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Faster!... Faster!!
(Andrew speeds up)
Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!
One! One! One! One! One! One! One! One!
Andrew slips, almost loses the beat. Fletcher GRABS the FLOOR TOM DRUM and HURLS it through the air, against the nearest wall. It RAMS into the concrete, handles buckling. But Andrew stays focused. Doesn’t cry.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
KEEP PLAYING!!
Andrew does. Fletcher raises the COWBELL now, about to STRIKE Andrew across the head, looks like a fucking madman -- but still Andrew does not cry -- as Fletcher BELLOWS--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
KEEP PLAYING!!!
Andrew keeps playing.
Fletcher stands still. Stares at him. Circles the drum set like a predatory beast, ready to strike at any instant.
Then -- he steps back. Drops the cowbell and stick. Andrew is still playing, going like an automaton. No tears. Finally, Fletcher silently raises his hand, and, with just a slight wave, gestures for Andrew to stop.
Andrew does. Nearly collapses over the set.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Congratulations, Neiman. You earned the part.
He turns to the rest of the band.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Ok. Now we can begin.
The clock: 2:00.
It’s 3:30am. The PLAYERS stagger out of the building. Zombies.
Andrew appears, red-eyed, past exhaustion. Fletcher emerges last.
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER
5pm call tomorrow. Leave at least two
hours from New York this time. Save your
travel receipts. Or don’t, I don’t give a
fuck.
He then walks off. Andrew watches him leave. And, as we zero in on Andrew’s eyes...
...we see that something fundamental has changed.
He looks like a completely different person now. 100% hollowed out.
BUS DRIVER (PRE-LAP)
Next stop Dunellen. Two hours.
OMITTED
We’re on a Greyhound, packed. Another VOICE in the back...
ANDREW
Bop-ba-d-d-da-bop... Bada-bop-bop-bop...
Pink (9/10/2013)
It’s Andrew. Hunched over sheet music, earphones on, counting aloud through “CARAVAN”. And, by his side -- a Zip-lock bag of PILLS. Just like the ones we saw exchanged at the party outside his dorm...
PASSENGERS look at him. Who is this lunatic...?
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Bop-bada-bop... Ba-da-bop-ba-d-d-d-da-bop...
And suddenly -- A JOLT. The bus ROCKS to the side, lights go out, the wheels SCREECH to an abrupt stop. Andrew removes his earphones.
The side of the road. Andrew and the other PASSENGERS stand outside, waiting, the BUS’s right tire blown, a rod lodged into its side. Andrew checks his phone for the time. Fuck...
A nondescript Jersey town. A NEW BUS comes to a stop, setting down passengers on Dunellen’s Main Street. Andrew bolts off, carrying his stick bag and music folder. Looks around. Perplexed. Grabs a PASSERBY--
ANDREW PASSERBY Do you know where all the No, you gotta call the cabs are? They said there cabs. Takes half an hour were cabs here, that’s what notice. I--
ANDREW PASSERBY
What? Well is there a -- They got a car rental down
another bus or-- on Pine.
ANDREW
Which way??
The Passerby points -- and Andrew starts RUNNING.
Five blocks later -- Andrew dashes across a patch of grass, reaches a door, grabs the handle. The door won’t open. He goes white. Sees the HOURS sign. Eyes scroll down. Starts POUNDING--
Pink (9/10/2013)
ANDREW
You’re still open! You’re still open!
A MAN appears. Gestures for Andrew to calm down. Opens up.
Andrew finishes signing paperwork. Grabs his MUSIC FOLDER and BACKPACK from the nearest chair, hurries off. WE DRIFT back...
...to the STICK BAG left on the chair.
Andrew RUNS like mad across a small LOT. Reaches a CAR, opens up and jumps in. Plugs an address into the GPS. The estimated time: 9 minutes. The clock: 3:02... He floors it.
Andrew drives fast. His cell rings--
ANDREW
Hello??
PIANIST (O.S.)
Neiman, where the fuck are you? Call-time
was 5.
ANDREW
I’m sorry -- I’m on my way. I’m almost--
PIANIST (O.S.) ANDREW We’re on stage in twenty-- I know, I’m almost ther--
PIANIST (O.S.)
--and Fletcher’s got Connolly warming up
in case you don’t show.
ANDREW
God-fucking-damnit, I SAID I was on my
way, you tell the redhead I’m ON MY
FUCKING WAY!!
He throws the phone against his seat.
Andrew pulls up.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Andrew arrives, panting. Fletcher glares, the band behind him--
FLETCHER
Glad you could work us into your
schedule, darling.
ANDREW
I’m here. I’m ready to play.
FLETCHER
Too late. Connolly’s playing.
Andrew looks over to his left -- to Ryan.
ANDREW
Like fucking hell he is.
Fletcher looks at him. Stunned. The PLAYERS also look shocked.
FLETCHER
Come again?
ANDREW
It’s my part.
FLETCHER
Actually it’s my part. I decide who I
lend it to.
ANDREW
I have the folder--
FLETCHER
I see the folder for a change, but I
don’t see the sticks.
Andrew is about to counter -- when he looks down. Looks back. Thinks. Realizes... Skin paling, his heart racing...
ANDREW
They’re -- they’re in the car, I just
have to grab them--
FLETCHER
Nope. I’m warming the band up now.
ANDREW
I’ll use Ryan’s sticks.
FLETCHER
You lost the part, Neiman.
Pink (9/10/2013)
ANDREW
No I didn’t!! You can’t do this!
FLETCHER
I CAN’T?!?
He marches toward Andrew. Looms over him, seems about to hit him.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
When did you become an authority on what I
can or cannot do you weepy-willow shitsack?
ANDREW
When I earned that part.
FLETCHER
Earned? You’ve never earned a thing. The
only reason you’re a fucking core is
because you misplaced a folder. The only
reason you’re in Studio Band is because I
told you what I’d be asking for in Nassau.
ANDREW
Bullshit. I’m in Studio Band because--
RYAN
Why don’t you back off, bro?
ANDREW
Fuck you, Johnny Utah. Turn my pages.
FLETCHER
You realize I can cut you anytime I feel.
ANDREW
You would’ve cut me by now.
FLETCHER
Try me you weasel. At 5:30, that’s in
eleven minutes, my band is on-stage. You’re
not there with your own sticks, or you show
up and make a single mistake -- a single
one -- and I’ll send you back to Nassau
Band to turn pages until you graduate or
drop out. For extra kicks, I’ll spread the
word on just how you became a Studio Band
core, and by the time my sewing circle is
done you’ll make your dad look like a
success story.
(lets that linger, then,)
Or I can give “Johnny Utah” the part and
we’ll leave it at that. Your choice.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Beat. Andrew catches sight of Carl, standing in the back, watching -- and almost smiling. He turns back to Fletcher--
ANDREW
It’s my part. I’ll be on the stage.
FLETCHER
That’s 10 minutes 50 seconds left, you
pathetic pansy-ass fruit-fuck.
Andrew turns. Bumps into Ryan, PUSHES him out of the way, RUNS.
Andrew drives away. The clock changes from 5:20 to 5:21.
Andrew pulls up at the rental agency. The clock changes from 5:27 to 5:28.
Andrew races into the rental agency. They’re still open... Grabs the STICK BAG...
Andrew runs to his car and peels off.
Andrew on the road, speeding like a demon, the GPS on. Looks at the clock. 5:30. Then 5:31. Whips out his cell. Dials...
ANDREW
It’s Neiman... Tell Fletcher I’m coming.
PIANIST (O.S.)
What the fuck is taking so long?? They’re
moving on-stage now.
ANDREW
There was -- there was a problem with the
lock on my car. It’s solved and I’m coming.
GPS VOICE
Left turn up ahead.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Andrew looks at the GPS. Fuck. Tries to switch it off.
PIANIST (O.S.)
Are you driving?
ANDREW
No..
The GPS BEEPS for the turn.
PIANIST (O.S.)
What was that?
ANDREW
Tell Fletcher I’m coming or I’ll rip out
your fucking eyes.
He hangs up. Enraged. Slams down on the gas, engine roaring...
PICKING UP SPEED... The GPS says “2 minutes” left... The clock turns 5:32...
The speedometer SHOOTING UP... UP... UP...
The car reaching a STOP SIGN...but Andrew keeps going, not looking...
His car SPEEDING UP and SPEEDING UP until it’s--
--SLAMMED INTO.
Glass flying everywhere, everything going so fast, as though the vehicle had just been whipped up by a tornado...
The car FLIPS, 180, the top crunching down like paper, Andrew spun around and shoved up against it -- bleeding, battered--
--until the car comes to a stop, upside down. Glass and blood.
Silence.
Andrew takes a moment to understand what has just happened. Gasping for breath, he yanks himself up -- but finds his LEFT HAND is caught under the steering wheel. He yanks, pulls at it. It won’t budge. Smoke and exhaust fumes billow up...
He tugs and tugs and pulls and -- finally -- CRAAAACK -- the bone of his index finger SNAPS. The most painful sound you can imagine. He SCREAMS in agony. YANKS back, staggering...
Pink (9/10/2013)
His hand is free. Bone broken, bleeding profusely.
Andrew crawls out of the car... Rises to his feet... Dizzy, the world spinning... The TRUCK DRIVER who rammed into him is running over--
TRUCK DRIVER
Are you ok???
ANDREW
I -- I need -- I -- my -- my sticks...
He turns back to the car. Bends down to reach back in...
TRUCK DRIVER
No -- stay away from the car, it’s not sa--
Andrew blocks him out. Reaches with his right hand -- the working one -- and goes for the STICK BAG, sandwiched between the caved-in top and the seat. Groaning in pain as he reaches... Gets it.
TRUCK DRIVER (CONT’D)
I’m calling 9-1-1, you’re going to be ok--
ANDREW
I -- I have to -- I have to go, it’s --
it’s three more blocks--
TRUCK DRIVER
(holding him back)
Sir, you don’t have to go anywhere--
ANDREW
Get your hands off me!!!
He yanks free from the Driver’s grasp and starts RUNNING...
Still running, has been running for three blocks... Out of breath, even dizzier than before... Reaches the front green, face coated in sweat, and hand drenched in blood... Almost collapses... A couple of PASSERSBY see him, shocked--
PASSERBY
Jesus Christ...
--but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He’s dead-set, tunnel vision, only cares about the goal: Get on-stage...
Andrew busts inside. Eyes scanning. Hears the sound of TUNING...
Pink (9/10/2013)
73A OMITTED
Dashes in from backstage. The PLAYERS have taken their places, finished tuning, are about to perform. Andrew sees Fletcher. Fletcher sees him. Hiding his arm behind his stick bag--
ANDREW
I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.
Doesn’t even wait for Fletcher’s answer, goes straight to the set where Ryan is seated. Nothing is going to stop him now--
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Get off. Get off the fucking set.
Ryan looks at Fletcher. Fletcher waits -- then nods, almost smiling. Seems he’s having fun with this. Ryan slides off, pissed, and takes a seat next to Carl. Andrew takes his place.
His left hand still hidden, Andrew props up his music and pulls out a pair of sticks. Tries to hold his left stick properly -- but it keeps giving way. With his index finger broken, it’s impossible to keep the stick steady...
He looks at the music: “Caravan”... Looks back at his hand... Tries to move his left fingers, mimicking the stick patterns... Just up ahead -- Fletcher. Animal intensity...
Andrew closes his eyes... Tries to block out the anxiety... The pain... The stress that just keeps mounting and mounting... Gropes inside his STICK BAG. Pulls out his bag of pills. Drops it. Pills scatter. Picks a pill up, pops it, out of sight.
ANNOUNCEMENT (V.O.)
The Shaffer Conservatory Studio Band...
Fletcher raises his hand, ready to cue... Andrew tries to get his breathing under control... Ryan and Carl lean forward... Ryan catches a glimpse of Andrew’s left hand, just as...
...Fletcher’s finger MOVES.
THE BAND IS OFF. It explodes into CARAVAN DUNELLEN at lightning- speed.
But Andrew is already in trouble... Blood getting on the snare... Ears starting to RING... Left hand barely keeping up... The whole thing slowly slipping away from him...
He closes his eyes. Mouths: “Come on come on come on...”
Pink (9/10/2013)
A big FILL coming up. He needs both his hands. Launches into it -- and his left stick CATCHES the edge of a stand...
...AND GOES FLYING. Falling and sliding under the hi-hat pedal.
ANDREW
(still riding with his right hand)
Stick...
Carl stays still. Andrew looks at him. But Carl won’t move.
Panicked, Andrew turns, eyes his old Nassau Band peer -- Ryan.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Ryan... Stick...
Ryan hesitates. Doesn’t want to think of himself as a saboteur. But he looks at Carl, Carl looks back at him...and right then and there he makes his choice.
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Please...
Neither Carl nor Ryan moves.
Andrew, thinking fast, eyes the fallen stick. Trying as hard as he can to keep that tempo going with his right hand, he slides down the left side of his body, stretching his arm as far as it can go... His broken finger grazing the stick... Grabbing hold...
Pulls up -- and -- another CRAAAAAACK as his finger is caught against the hi-hat pedal and the bone is bent 90 degrees. He GASPS, almost cries out in pain. Has to hold it in.
Pulls himself back up to the set -- and there, looming over him already, is Fletcher. Eyes fiery--
FLETCHER
The fuck are you doing...???
Andrew keeps playing. But the PAIN is harder and harder to ignore. His snare drum completely smeared in red now, his stick stained, his whole arm shaking. And that RINGING -- just growing and growing, drowning out everything else...
He looks at the SHEET MUSIC, suddenly lost... The horns blast out a hit -- but Andrew isn’t on it. Fuck. Launches into another fill -- and hits the crash at the wrong time.
Fletcher stares at him. The look says it all: it’s over. But Andrew keeps fighting. Another missed hit, then a missed time- signature change, the beat falling apart beneath his feet. Total chaos, and then, finally, the sign of death -- Andrew STOPS.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Almost immediately, the rest of the band grinds to a halt. It’s a horrible sound, like a car screeching, nails on a chalkboard.
Fletcher stands in place, eyes on Andrew. In fact, all eyes are on Andrew. The theater is dead-silent. Disbelief everywhere.
Calmly, Fletcher approaches Andrew and whispers one last thing:
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
You’re done.
Then he turns around. Andrew start shaking, his eyes brimming -- and, suddenly, something takes over inside. Almost despite himself, he RISES -- and KICKS OVER THE DRUMS.
Cymbals CRASH to the wooden stage-floor like bombs. Andrew CHARGES forward -- and, just as Fletcher turns to him, TACKLES the man to the ground...
Andrew goes absolutely batshit crazy on Fletcher, murder in his eyes... Raises his fists, about to POUND into Fletcher’s face, when SECURITY GUARDS yank him off, pulling him away in a flash...
Torn from his target, Andrew breaks down into TEARS. Every- thing inside him spilling out like water. Fletcher, stunned but uninjured, gets back on his feet. His shirt drips with blood -- not his own, but Andrew’s. A SECURITY GUARD rushes onto the scene, and Andrew, kicking and screaming, is DRAGGED OFF...
We linger inside the theater. A hush over the audience, the players and their instruments. And then, a card:
Final Competition of the Winter Season
OMITTED
OMITTED
Andrew stands alone in his dorm. Staring into space. A bandage on his hand. Time has passed...
Lets his eyes take in one item at a time: A drum pad on the floor. A metronome. A DISMISSAL LETTER... He’s been expelled from Shaffer.
A DVD. He slides that into his laptop, sits down slowly...
Pink (9/10/2013)
A HOME VIDEO begins: a smiling EIGHT-YEAR-OLD BOY at a DRUM... It’s ANDREW... Innocent, bright-eyed, having a blast...
EIGHT-YEAR-OLD ANDREW
...and this is my pa-ra-did-dle...
He plays a paradiddle on the drum: left-right-left-left. A CHEER off-camera, a voice we recognize -- his father, JIM--
JIM (O.S.)
Woooo-hoooo!!!
EIGHT-YEAR-OLD ANDREW glows. And our Andrew, hurting, tearing up, watches...
Pulls the DVD out. SNAPS it in half. Tosses the halves in the trash. Slides the drum pad and metronome into the trash as well. Ties the trash bag and pulls it out.
Andrew busts in, starts breaking his drums down. First the cymbals come off, then the pedals, then the toms...
A look of resolution on his face -- and, bubbling up, anger... He tears at the drums as though attacking them, pulls them apart almost viciously, one part after another... Then the Buddy Rich POSTER -- which he rips to shreds...
Andrew THROWS trash bags into a garbage can... Heads back and eyes his PRACTICE ROOM -- now empty. He takes a moment. Sits down on the hallway floor, the drum parts stacked to the side. Leans back, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath out...
It’s done.
He pulls out his cell. A beat. Then--
ANDREW
Ok... Where do you want me to meet you?
Pink (9/10/2013)
OMITTED
RACHEL BORNHOLDT -- lawyer, elegantly dressed -- sits across from Andrew, Jim to the side. There’s a glass of white wine for Jim, a club soda for Rachel, and an untouched water for Andrew.
A moment of silence. Finally--
RACHEL BORNHOLDT
Andrew...?
Andrew remains silent for a moment. Then--
ANDREW
When did you contact my dad?
Pink (9/10/2013)
JIM
They just called me this week, Andr--
RACHEL BORNHOLDT
(interrupting)
Does the name Sean Casey mean anything to you?
Andrew looks back at Rachel. A moment. Warily, he nods.
RACHEL BORNHOLDT (CONT’D)
So you know of his death? Last month he
hung himself in his apartment.
Andrew takes this in. Fletcher had said it was a car accident...
ANDREW
What does that have to do with me?
RACHEL BORNHOLDT
Sean suffered from anxiety and depression.
His mother claims this started during his
time as Fletcher’s student.
Andrew looks at her. Rachel can tell he’s surprised.
A moment passes.
RACHEL BORNHOLDT (CONT’D)
Now, the Caseys aren’t wealthy. They
don’t want to file suit.
ANDREW
Then what do they want?
RACHEL BORNHOLDT
To make sure Terence Fletcher is never
allowed to do this to another student.
ANDREW
He didn’t do anything.
RACHEL BORNHOLDT
So President Kohn and Dean Pence will tell
you. To them, Fletcher is Shaffer.
Pink (9/10/2013)
RACHEL BORNHOLDT (CONT'D)
But if they think we have a case like this
and can win in court, they’ll have no
choice but to let him go before we do.
Beat. Andrew looks at her. Then at his dad.
ANDREW
Well, I have nothing to say.
Jim leans forward now, taking the initiative--
JIM
Andrew... It’s over, ok...? He’s out of
your life. Why let him get away with what
he did to you?
He eyes Rachel. Ok...? Was that the right thing to say...?
Andrew stays silent.
RACHEL BORNHOLDT
Would you characterize his conduct as
extreme, Andrew? Did he ever intentionally
inflict emotional distress?
Still Andrew doesn’t respond. Feels his dad’s stare on him as well now.
RACHEL BORNHOLDT (CONT’D)
(trying to persuade--)
This would not be a public hearing, you
know... Fletcher would never know it was
you who spoke up.
Andrew looks at the glass of water in front of him. Untouched.
ANDREW
...What would happen to him?
RACHEL BORNHOLDT
Shaffer will do anything to prevent this
from going to court. Yours won’t be the
first complaint, but I think it’ll tip
the balance. You’re recent.
ANDREW
You tried other students?
RACHEL BORNHOLDT
Some -- but you guys are walls.
ANDREW
And you thought I’d talk.
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RACHEL BORNHOLDT
You have nothing to gain from Fletcher
anymore.
A beat. Andrew turns his eyes to his dad. Anger in his gaze--
ANDREW
Why did you do this...?
Jim seems taken aback. Flustered for a second. Then--
JIM
You think I was going to let him put my
son through hell and walk off scot-free?
Andrew turns away. Jim can see the hurt on his son’s face. The sense of betrayal. Worried, trying to reach out--
JIM (CONT’D)
Don’t you know I would never let that
happen, Andrew? That there’s nothing in
the world more important to me than you?
(beat; Andrew evades his gaze)
Don’t you know that?
A moment. Andrew looks at his dad again.
Then he stares ahead. WE PUSH in on him, slowly -- as he drifts deeper into thought, trying to sort through it all...
RACHEL BORNHOLDT (O.S.)
...Andrew?
Andrew can barely hear her...
Defeated, his soul split in two... Finally -- he gives up.
ANDREW
Just tell me what to say.
WE FADE OUT.
Pink (9/10/2013)
OMITTED
OMITTED
OMITTED
Pink (9/10/2013)
OMITTED
Summer in New York. Tube tops, street performers, sunshine.
Andrew, hand healed, carries laundry. Looks up and sees a huge sign: “BACK IN NYC! JVC JAZZ FESTIVAL June 21-29”. We’re in the Lower East Side -- far, far away from Shaffer...
A new apartment. Andrew’s dad is already inside, sliding groceries into the fridge when Andrew enters.
JIM
Hey, buddy. You ready?
Blinds closed, as Andrew and Jim sit and watch “North by Northwest” on TV. We PAN from a few college applications on a table, past the walls -- no decorations at all -- to Andrew and Jim seated.
We linger on Andrew’s face. There’s a sadness in his eyes. He looks tired, even after months, and resigned.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Jim laughs at a line in the movie. Glances over at his son, wants to see if he’s enjoying himself. Hands him some popcorn. A beat.
Father and son stand by the doorway, Jim about to exit--
JIM
“Dr. No” next week. Or whatever’s playing
on 86th...?
ANDREW
...I’d rather do it here.
JIM
Ok. I stacked your pantry with Gushers.
Andrew manages a smile. A moment passes between them.
ANDREW
Thanks, Dad...
Jim exits. Andrew hangs back. A moment...
Then, Andrew glances down at his phone. Scrolls to a specific number: “NICOLE”.
He looks at it. Thinking. Finger hovering over it...
Then, too scared, he pulls back. Pockets the phone.
Andrew makes a ham sandwich, employee’s apron on. Hands it silently to a CUSTOMER.
Uncle Frank, Jim, and Travis sit on the couch watching a hockey game on TV. They laugh and cheer, as Andrew sits off to the side, also watching -- his mind far away.
Andrew walks alone, eating a slice of pizza. Crosses by a STREET PERFORMER -- a man drumming away on a row of buckets. Doesn’t watch, just keeps walking.
Pink (9/10/2013)
We follow, as Andrew passes a JAZZ CLUB on the next block. Suddenly -- he stops.
There, on the club’s main sign, below the featured names, are these words: “Guest Performer: TERENCE FLETCHER”. Andrew stays put for a second. Completely taken aback. Then he starts walking away. Then stops. Nope. Turns around...
...and steps inside. It’s a genteel venue. On the stage, BASS, DRUMS, BONGOS -- and, at the piano, FLETCHER.
The mere sight gets Andrew’s pulse racing. But he stays put. Watches... The quartet is pacing its way through FLETCHER’S SONG IN CLUB, and Fletcher is playing the final head. He’s exceedingly delicate, gentle with each keystroke, his fingers moving like ballerinas. His playing is soft, subtle, and exquisite. He plays the melody as though moved by it.
Andrew is surprised by this... Stays in the back, behind the last table. The song comes to a close. Fletcher smiles, looks -- and then freezes. His eyes locked on Andrew. He has seen him.
Andrew blanches, takes a step back, hurries for the exit. But there’s a PERSON blocking the way. Tries to squeeze through--
DRUMMER (O.S.)
That was Terence Fletcher, on the keys...
More applause. Andrew, hemmed in, keeps trying to get out--
FLETCHER
Neiman.
Andrew stops. Turns. Fletcher is standing right there. A moment of silence. Andrew is pale. But Fletcher’s face is a blank.
ANDREW
...Hi...
SMASH CUT TO:
A table in the corner. Fletcher and Andrew seated. They seem to have been sitting here in silence for some time. Two drinks stand between them. Untouched. The other band members on-stage play JAZZ CLUB BLUES, a new PIANIST on the keys and a SAXOPHONIST added as well. Finally--
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER
So what are you up to these days, Andrew?
ANDREW
...Oh, just...you know...various...things...
Fletcher nods. Ok. Andrew eyes him. Then, nervous--
ANDREW (CONT’D)
...I--I’m sorry about what happened.
(then, should I clarify?--)
At Dunellen.
FLETCHER
You shouldn’t be. A player’s got to be
willing to fight.
Andrew looks at him.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
You played with a broken bone. After
crashing a car. That’s insane.
ANDREW
I was in a different place.
FLETCHER
Good thing you’re not in that place
anymore.
A beat. Then -- Fletcher seems distracted. By people CLAPPING ALONG to the band...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Have you ever noticed it’s never the
people with rhythm who clap along?
He starts CLAPPING loudly, in the proper tempo. Leans over to the table next to his, where a COUPLE is clapping off-beat, and starts CLAPPING in their faces. Then sits back down.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
I don’t know if you know... I don’t teach
anymore.
ANDREW
I... I heard about that... You quit?
FLETCHER
...No, not exactly.
He looks at Andrew. A moment of tension. Does he know...?
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
A couple parents got a kid from Sean
Casey’s year... I don’t know who, I think
maybe a bassist... They got him to say a
few things about me... That much I know...
(Andrew tries to hide his relief)
Though why anyone would have anything but
honey and sugar to say about me is a
mystery.
Andrew laughs. Seems the mood has lightened.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
That’s a good laugh, huh?
ANDREW
Oh, no... I...I just--
FLETCHER
No, it’s ok -- I know I’ve made some
enemies. Maybe I seem to think my style
is normal, but believe me, I don’t.
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?
Pink (9/10/2013)
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, shit, 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 fuck
kind of word is that? Jam session? It’s a
cutting session, Andrew, this isn’t
fucking 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...
Pink (9/10/2013)
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.
Pink (9/10/2013)
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.
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??
Pink (9/10/2013)
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.
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:
Andrew setting the DRUMS up... Newly energized, a speed in his movements we haven’t seen since Dunellen...
CUT TO:
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...
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.
Pink (9/10/2013)
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...
The PLAYERS pack up. Andrew, trying to work past his shyness--
ANDREW
Hope that was ok.
BASSIST
Yeah. You sounded good.
ANDREW
Thanks. You too.
(then,)
Is there...anything you worked out with
the previous guy that I should know?
BASSIST
Previous guy?
ANDREW
The previous drummer.
The BASSIST looks at him: What?
BASSIST
Last week we rehearsed without drums.
You’re the only drummer we’ve ever had.
Beat. He walks off. Andrew stands there. Confused...
OMITTED
Andrew enters. Eyes his drums. Then -- he has a thought.
Pink (9/10/2013)
He pulls out his phone. Hesitates. Nervous -- but excited now. He dials. We hear ringing, he feels his heart thumping, he nods to himself, starts walking forward, breathes in, and then, after a few seconds --
Pink (9/10/2013)
NICOLE (O.S.)
Hello?
ANDREW
(pacing, stomach clenching, it’s been so long--)
Hey... It’s...it’s Andrew.
Silence on the other end. Then--
NICOLE (O.S.)
Oh. Hey.
ANDREW
I -- I just figured I’d call -- it’s been
forever, and I... I’m really sorry about
how I... I’m just so sorry... How I
acted... You know...
(a beat; she doesn’t respond; he sits down, trying to get the words out--)
And I -- I didn’t know if you knew -- I’m
playing JVC this weekend... Maybe you’d
like to come? We could grab pizza afterward
and complain about our schools again...
He chuckles. Then waits. Beat.
NICOLE (O.S.)
JV?
ANDREW
Uh -- no, JVC. It’s a jazz festival.
NICOLE (O.S.)
Oh. Yeah.
Another beat. Then--
NICOLE (O.S.) (CONT’D)
When is it?
ANDREW
It’s next Friday.
NICOLE (O.S.)
Ok... I don’t know, I’ll check with my
boyfriend.
Beat. WE CUT to a CLOSE-UP of Andrew as he takes this in. You can tell -- the word hits him hard.
Pink (9/10/2013)
ANDREW
...Got it.
(silence; then--)
Well... Cool. Maybe I’ll see you there.
NICOLE (O.S.)
Yeah, I’ll check. I don’t think he likes
jazz though. I’ll check.
ANDREW
Cool... Thanks.
Nicole hangs up. You can see it in Andrew’s eyes -- real disappointment. Real hurt. And surprise at how hurt he feels.
He eyes his drums again. Sits down at them --
-- and STARTS PRACTICING LIKE MAD. Pouring his anger, his hurt, into his playing.
The SOUNDS of FURIOUS DRUMMING build, continuing through the following--
OMITTED
100 OMITTED
100A OMITTED
Andrew sliding into his slacks. Buttons his white button- down. Slides on his black jacket. Ties his tie...
Pink (9/10/2013)
Fletcher slipping into his own suit. Elegant, fastidious. Looks like an old-school bandleader. But there’s something melancholy about the sight of him -- going through his pre-concert rituals all alone...
He straightens his tie. De-lints the suit. He’s tidy, über- careful. He passes by his piano, pauses to play a melody on the keys. Grabs his music folder and heads to the door...
102 OMITTED
Andrew clips his nails, applies ointment to his hands, then wraps each finger in a Band-Aid.
EVENING
Fletcher ignoring several passing CABS, enters a SUBWAY STATION...
Andrew emerging from a SUBWAY STATION. Murmuring to himself, tapping on his knees. The clock’s ticking...
He checks his phone, picks up speed, almost breaks into a jog...
The DRUMMING BUILDS, he goes FASTER and FASTER, until, finally --
-- as the DRUMMING CUTS OUT --
-- he comes to a sudden stop.
He’s standing right in front of CARNEGIE HALL. A giant banner hangs above the main steps: “JVC IN NYC: JAZZ!” And, keeping out of sight --
-- Fletcher. Strolling up the side-steps around the corner, hidden from the crowd. Andrew sees him. Follows.
Pink (9/10/2013)
The scene is more or less what we saw before Studio Band competitions -- only taken to eleven. A rush of MUSICIANS, STAGE HANDS and TECHNICIANS backstage, a swell of TUNING as TRUMPETERS, TROMBONISTS and SAXOPHONISTS join in. Andrew stands back. Checks his phone. 7:28. It’s almost time. He gazes around.
Andrew peers out through a door, catching a glimpse of the MAIN HALL.
Andrew sees the AUDIENCE milling. Sees a face he recognizes in the crowd, small in the distance. JIM.
Andrew smiles at the sight. Feeling confident, ready to prove himself at last. He walks back down the stairs toward the green room.
Andrew and the Studio Band listen to Fletcher’s speech.
FLETCHER
Alright, gang, listen up! 15 seconds to
get into places. For those of you who are
new to this, it’s very simple: do well
tonight, and the world will open up for
you. The folks out there, they make a
phone call and you’re a Lincoln Center
core. Or a Blue Note signee. Or an EMC
client. Drop the ball, and I’d suggest
switching careers -- because the other
thing about those cats is they never
forget.
Andrew takes this in. Beat. A STAGE HAND appears, waves. Time.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
On that note -- break a leg.
The PLAYERS proceed on-stage. Andrew takes a deep breath, tries to keep his cool, and, counting in his head, walks forward --
Pink (9/10/2013)
The stage is decked in blue lights. The instruments gleam. Beyond it, a yawning expanse of black. The audience... And a hush, an undercurrent of murmurs and whispers gathering steam, as each PLAYER takes to the stage, one by one...
Then -- APPLAUSE. 1200 people’s worth of applause. Fletcher appears, taking his spot, smiling. The applause swells up.
And then -- Fletcher turns around to face Andrew. He stares at him for what seems like a full minute. Comes up to him, making as though helping him position a microphone over the drum kit, and, leaning in, quietly, discreetly, menacingly--
FLETCHER
It was you.
The lights shift. Blue to bright, harsh, near-blinding yellow. It’s showtime. Andrew is completely still.
ANDREW
...Was...was me what...?
FLETCHER
(then, leaning in even closer,)
Why do you think I invited you here? I’ve
known it was you all along.
Beat. He lets it sink in. Retreats to his spot, smiling at Andrew. Then, off Andrew’s paralyzed stare, he turns to the audience. They APPLAUD. A few seconds later...silence. Then--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We’re
going to start things off with an old
favorite of mine.
Andrew, his heart in his throat, looks at his sheet music. “WHIPLASH”. Holds his sticks tight, but his hands are now slippery with sweat... Fletcher waits. More silence...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
It’s called “Upswingin’”.
ON ANDREW. What?
Andrew turns to his left and catches a glimpse of the SAXOPHONISTS’ sheet music. Written on the top: “UPSWINGIN’”. He turns right, sees the BASSIST’s music. Ditto. He looks ahead. And there’s Fletcher -- staring right back at him. And smiling.
Pink (9/10/2013)
Andrew turns around. Has to stop this. Can’t ruin it for the other PLAYERS -- but Fletcher has already raised his hand for the cue. Andrew rises from his seat -- when the BASSIST glares at him: What are you doing? And just then -- within that same split-second --
-- Fletcher’s index finger bends down.
The cue.
The BAND EXPLODES into UPSWINGIN’. Horns blasting, saxes wailing -- fast, furious, half-Latin and half-swing. Andrew doesn’t even play at first -- doesn’t want to destroy this. But glares quickly follow, and he has no choice...
He plays. Trains his ears to try to stay on target... But the time signature is impossible to get a firm grip on... He misses a fill... Then the time signature changes... He can’t keep up... Then the band gives way to rubato piano... He stops late... Then the band surges back in... He comes in late... He’s driving completely blind.
BASSIST
(clenched teeth to Andrew)
The fuck?! Come on...
Andrew, desperate, tries to fix things -- but he can’t. Sliding further and further behind. PLAYERS eying him. You can almost hear MURMURS in the audience, rising in volume... And, through it all, Fletcher seems serene.
Andrew misses yet another break, and--
BASSIST (CONT’D)
Are you fucking kidding me?
This hits Andrew like a knife. Tears well up in his eyes. This performance is already so far beyond saving...
Another missed hit. More MURMURS in the audience, louder and louder now, as the number veers, swerves, and sloppily staggers to its close... A swell of horns, a misplaced crash of cymbals, what seems like a fermata... Andrew stops -- just as the band RESUMES. And just as Andrew resumes -- the band STOPS.
Andrew’s playing alone. He quickly moves to silence his drums. The chart is done.
And now -- the deafening silence.
No applause. Just the sound softly rippling and settling from Andrew’s last cymbal hit...
Pink (9/10/2013)
Andrew sits at his set, in tears. Fletcher stays still. Looks at Andrew. On Fletcher’s face, the look of a victor... As he turns back to the audience we hear...
...a smattering of polite, muted applause trickling throughout the theater. Quiet, half-hearted, pitiful.
No one here has ever seen a disaster quite like that before.
IN THE AUDIENCE
We see Jim, standing in the very back, by the doors... Mortified, heading for the hall...
ON STAGE
Fletcher sashays back to the drum set. To Andrew, with a grin--
FLETCHER
I guess you don’t have it.
Andrew is still in his seat. Tears stinging his cheeks...
BASSIST
Didn’t you get the fucking chart?
Andrew looks at the Bassist. Realizes what Fletcher did... Sees the other MUSICIANS glaring at him, infuriated...
IN THE AUDIENCE
Andrew feels the AUDIENCE staring at him -- can almost make out their faces as the stage lights begin to DIM...
Seated in one of the front rows -- is NICOLE. We see that next to her, holding her hand, is a YOUNG MAN...
ON STAGE
Feeling CRUSHED, HUMILIATED, NAUSEATED, Andrew staggers up...
...and RETREATS to the back of the stage. Out of the audience’s view -- about to leave this all behind once and for all...
Jim running... Down the hall... Toward the entrance to backstage...
Pink (9/10/2013)
Back to Andrew... Retreating BACKSTAGE...
...when he sees -- around the corner of the backstage entrance --
-- his father.
IN THE WINGS
Jim has just arrived at the entryway. Looks at Andrew. Hurries toward him. Is going to put an end to this. Andrew looks at his dad for a moment, approaching. Jim reaches him --
-- and HUGS him.
JIM
I love you. I’m so sorry this is
happening to you.
Andrew looks at his dad. Something seems to click inside him at that instant.
He pulls back. The desperation in his eyes giving way to something else. Jim watches Andrew as Andrew steps backward, before...
...a pair of STAGE HANDS arrive.
STAGE HAND
Sir, you can’t be here--
JIM
Yes I can, I’m taking him with me--
STAGE HAND
(to Andrew)
You know each other?
Andrew is silent for a moment. Still. As though it has just dawned on him.
He takes in the sight -- his dad, dwarfed by the Stage Hands, reaching out to him. Jim has never looked quite so small to his son, quite so pathetic, as at this moment.
A beat. More silence. And then --
ANDREW
No.
Jim goes wide-eyed. Utterly shocked. Andrew steps further back, as the STAGE HANDS move to pull Jim away--
Pink (9/10/2013)
STAGE HAND
Alright, sir, that’s enough--
JIM
My -- my son -- I need to get my son--
STAGE HAND
Let’s calm down--
JIM
(frantic now--)
Andrew!!
Andrew calmly turns his back to his father and coldly heads to the stage.
JIM (CONT’D)
Andrew!!!
ON STAGE
Andrew grabs new sticks, makes as though he was just switching pairs and never leaving, and, ignoring his father’s calls from behind -- trains his eyes back on Fletcher.
Fletcher looks at Andrew. Seems pleased: This will be fun...
But Andrew doesn’t look scared anymore. Instead, his eyes are glassy, hollowed out -- and hungry... There’s a rage in them that we haven’t seen before... This will not be the end...
FLETCHER
(to the audience)
Thank you... For our final number we’re
bringing it back to Ellington. This is
“Caravan”.
But then, before Fletcher can even turn back around -- let alone cue the band -- Andrew launches into a double-time Latin.
Alone, his stick beating away at the ride cymbal, setting the tempo for the rest of the band. Everyone looks at him. What the fuck...? He has started on his own, before any cue, beating the drums as though vengefully.
Fletcher glares at him. Who the fuck do you think you are? But Andrew just keeps playing. Knows exactly what he’s doing and is not about to be stopped. Building in his eyes -- that same coiled rage... To the BASSIST--
ANDREW
Follow me on four.
Pink (9/10/2013)
The BASSIST has no choice. Andrew nods in time as a count-off, and the BASSIST joins in. Now we’ve got the bass and drums playing, laying out the beat. Andrew looks back at Fletcher. Drills into him with his eyes -- the kind of look Fletcher has so often given him. And, subtly, so that only Fletcher can see it, Andrew mouths out two words:
ANDREW (CONT’D)
Fuck. You.
It hits Fletcher. Realizing he too has no choice, Fletcher eyes the rest of the band. Raises his hands, re-assuming control -- or trying to make as though he has control -- and cues them in. The BAND begins CARAVAN PLUS DRUM SOLO CARNEGIE HALL, plays the opening patterns, Andrew matching them beat for beat.
Fletcher then edges toward Andrew. His back turned to the audience, only Andrew can see his face, he leans in and--
FLETCHER
I will gouge out your eyes you motherfucker.
--but Andrew promptly DROWNS HIM OUT with a crash cymbal hit. Another “fuck you”. Fletcher’s words only seem to strengthen him.
The band roars into overdrive, the brass blasting away, Andrew giving everything he’s got. Fletcher steps back. Andrew just keeps looking straight ahead at him. Unafraid now. A machine.
SOLOS begin... TROMBONE is up first... WE MOVE IN CLOSE to Andrew... He looks at his right arm... It’s still going... He himself seems surprised. He takes a chance -- plays a tricky fill. Nails it. Goes again -- the off-beat hi-hat accent that tripped him up in his first Studio Band rehearsal. Nails it.
The audience is silent... No murmurs this time... Back to Andrew... WE DRIFT DOWN TO HIS FEET... His right foot feathering the bass drum so fast all we can see is a blur...
WE DRIFT BACK UP... His left hand... Notes popping on the snare, the toms... Both his arms battered but utterly determined, as though with minds of their own... He breathes, breathes, beating against his fears, his doubts...
He’s in control, pouring himself into his drums -- and it’s a sight to behold. Like a master dancer, movements so fast yet precise, brash yet elegant... Violent, frenetic playing, but there’s something gorgeous about it...
WE DRIFT TO FLETCHER... Still glaring at Andrew -- but his face now says one thing and one thing only: This is playing he has never seen before.
Pink (9/10/2013)
The brass starts giving way to drum breaks... And Andrew makes of each break a stunner... His double-stroke rolls rip- roaring across the toms, his feet and legs switching rhythms, meters, tempos, then careening back into place... All limbs moving in a sustained frenzy, sweat splashing, mouth open, eyes blazing, the whole set vibrating, then shaking, looks like it’s about to explode...
Fletcher turns an inch toward the AUDIENCE... Sees them transfixed...
AT THE LOBBY DOORS
...Jim watches through the opened lobby doors...
ON STAGE
The number is at a peak... And Fletcher, like so many, is now just watching Andrew... The band nears the coda... The melody, the rat-a-tat-tat patterns, the squealing horns and growling saxes... The drums pushing it all forward...
Fletcher almost smiles. Was this his plan all along...?
He moves his arms, conducting again... The band reaches the final bar... The final note... He raises his hands... Sustains the note... Swings his arm down... A BLAST of horns. And the band is finished.
Except, that is, for the drums. Andrew’s still playing, launching into an extended solo...
Fletcher looks at him. Confused now. Goes up to the drums--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Andrew -- Andrew--
ANDREW
(over his playing)
I’ll cue the band... Wait for my cue...
There’s nothing more Fletcher can do. Andrew’s playing grows louder, more involved, all four limbs joining in, the sound growing bigger and bigger... He has effectively taken over the stage -- and all the other PLAYERS can do is watch... He is the bandleader.
Andrew looks ahead... Past Fletcher... To the darkness... To the audience... He leans forward, closes his eyes, dives in...
Sticks whirling, arms and legs belting and hammering, his head bobbing up and down, his back arched... Keeps the rudiments going on his left hand... Adds one ingredient, then another... Then a third, then a fourth...
Pink (9/10/2013)
Keeps adding and building and piling on, beyond anything he’s ever attempted... Going absolutely batshit-insane on the kit, sweat flying, hands blurring, drums trembling...
AT THE LOBBY DOORS
Jim watches Andrew -- crazed, exhausted, looks like he’s pushing himself past what is safe -- and knows there is no longer anything he can do about it.
He has lost.
And then -- one of the USHERS steps forward from the edge of the stage. He looks at Jim -- and closes the doors, blocking Jim’s view.
We linger on Jim for a moment -- behind the closed door, in silence.
ON STAGE
Back to Andrew -- at the height of intensity... Keeps his eyes closed... Feeling his way through this... Shooting back into the double-time... But trying to go even faster than before... Not 330... Not even 400... Trying, trying, trying to reach that mythical place, the place where only the greats live... 410... 420... Even 430...
Fletcher stands still... His eyes widening... He’s no longer calculating... Not even thinking... He’s just awed.
Murmurs throughout the AUDIENCE... Audible, even over the roar of the drum set... They can’t believe it...
435 now... 440... 443...
Which means those sticks are moving faster than a tennis ball shot across a court... Faster than Andrew has ever moved...
Faster...faster...and, finally...
...450.
Andrew OPENS HIS EYES... He’s in disbelief. The stage is his. He owns it. He breaks back into snare-based patterns, rolling around the toms, the cymbals...
Fletcher is floored. Turns, sees something extraordinary out there, just visible in the darkness of the theater...
IN THE AUDIENCE
AUDIENCE MEMBERS turning to each other... A line-up of suit- and-tie spectators whipping out phones or pads...
Pink (9/10/2013)
MANAGERS, JOURNALISTS, A&R EXECS, BANDLEADERS... A few hurrying out, as though in a mad rush, making frantic calls... More people peering INTO THE THEATER through glass doors...
ON STAGE
We TURN BACK to Andrew -- his ears start RINGING... The NOISE grows with each hit, drowning out all the other noises... Andrew clenches his jaw, closes his eyes again, keeps playing, tries to ignore it... Plays harder, louder, pounding away...
Andrew’s kick drum starts to slide from the power of his playing... His sheet music falls off its stand... His crash cymbal almost falls over -- but a HAND reaches in to steady it.
It’s Fletcher. Leaning over the drum set now -- and, for almost the first time on-stage, not cursing or snarling at Andrew, but instead--
FLETCHER
Take it back to the snare...
Andrew considers this. It’s a good idea. He moves back to the snare...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Slow...
(Andrew does as suggested)
Single-stroke...
Andrew nods again... Slowly simmers the beat down... Lets his hi-hat hang open for a moment... Everything goes quiet...
Silence for a second... You can feel the hush, the anticipation, that indescribable electricity in the air...
Fletcher looks at Andrew, looks at his sticks, face brimming with hope now... Andrew begins a series of slow, clean snare hits... Right stroke, left stroke, right, left...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Up... Up...
Andrew nods... Ever so gradually builds up the pace... Right, left, right, left... Builds up the pace some more... Right, left, right, left... Keeps going... Speeds up more, a hair at a time... Right, left... Speeds up more.. Right, left...
Fletcher stands there, nodding, focused, like a coach at the critical moment. Waves his hand, pushing Andrew on...
Pink (9/10/2013)
Andrew builds the tempo more, right, left, right, left, the strokes blurring into each other, the whole thing sounding like the fire of a machine gun, like what we heard in the beginning... Right-left-right-left-right-left...
And, before we know it, we can no longer make out the individual strokes. They’re so fast that all we can hear is a single SOUND, sustained and growing in volume...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Come on... Come on...
Andrew, goaded on, builds the volume. His single-stroke roll swelling, taking over the entire theater...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Come on...!! Come on!!!
Andrew builds it further... Going beyond what even he’d planned for himself -- his arms like machines, the single- stroke roll building steam and power and pinning the audience in their seats... Fletcher raising his hands, beckoning Andrew forward... He and the drummer working together, player and conductor, competitor and coach...
Andrew moves to the toms, then back to the snare, then back. The bass drum and hi-hat next, every part of the set joining in, every limb, every component, everything building up, up, up...
It’s unlike anything we’ve ever seen... Andrew tearing a hole through the stage, his heartbeat racing, the sweat pouring from him like a waterfall, blood gushing from his hands and staining the cymbals and drum-heads... Everything a BLUR...
Then -- a BLAST OF SEPARATED SNARE HITS -- and then -- Andrew CHOKES the crash cymbal. A second of pure silence.
Fletcher looks at Andrew. Andrew looks at Fletcher. And then -- Fletcher turns to the band, raises his hand...
...and CUES THE FINAL NOTE.
The whole band roars it out, horns hitting their highest C’s, and Andrew rolling around his drum set like a madman, cymbals and snare and toms and the entire apparatus about to burst, as WE DIVE IN CLOSE TO HIM, his instrument, his sticks, his face, all sweat and eyes about to pop, the next Buddy Rich, the next Charlie Parker -- Fletcher’s only Charlie Parker -- decking the stage with a climactic crash of cymbals right as, on that very last hit of hits, we--
SMASH CUT TO BLACK.
THE END
THE END