· · ·
turning to page one
turning to page one
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
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