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turning to page one
turning to page one
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--
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.