Whiplash

Terence Fletcher:
Were you rushing or were you dragging? If you deliberately sabotage my band, I will f*** you like a pig. Oh my dear God - are you one of those single tear people? You are a worthless pansy-ass who is now weeping and slobbering all over my drumset like a nine year old girl!

Terence Fletcher:
There are no two words in the English language more harmful than "good job".

Terence Fletcher:
[Repeated line] Not my tempo.

Uncle Frank:
You got any friends, Andy?

Andrew:
No.

Uncle Frank:
Oh, why's that?

Andrew:
I don't know, I just never really saw the use.

Uncle Frank:
Well, who are you going to play with otherwise? Lennon and McCartney, they were school buddies, am I right?

Andrew:
Charlie Parker didn't know anybody 'til Jo Jones threw a cymbal at his head.

Uncle Frank:
So that's your idea of success, huh?

Andrew:
I think being the greatest musician of the 20th century is anybody's idea of success.

Jim:
Dying broke and drunk and full of heroin at the age of 34 is not exactly my idea of success.

Andrew:
I'd rather die drunk, broke at 34 and have people at a dinner table talk about me than live to be rich and sober at 90 and nobody remembered who I was.

Uncle Frank:
Ah, but your friends will remember you, that's the point.

Andrew:
None of us were friends with Charlie Parker. *That's* the point.

Uncle Frank:
Travis and Dustin? They have plenty of friends and plenty of purpose.

Andrew:
I'm sure they'll make great school board presidents someday.

Dustin:
Oh, that's what this is all about? You think you're better than us?

Andrew:
You catch on quick. Are you in Model UN?

Travis:
I got a reply for you, Andrew. You think Carleton football's a joke? Come play with us.

Andrew:
Four words you will never hear from the NFL.

Aunt Emma:
Who wants dessert?

Terence Fletcher:
We have a squeaker today, class. His name is Andrew Nieman, he's 19 years old. Isn't he cute?

Terence Fletcher:
Either you're deliberately out of tune and sabotaging my band, or you don't know you're out of tune, and that's even worse.

Terence Fletcher:
For the record, Metz wasn't out of tune. You were, Erickson, but he didn't know and that's bad enough.

Terence Fletcher:
Nieman, you earned the part. Alternates, will you clean the blood off my drum set?

Terence Fletcher:
I was there to push people beyond what's expected of them. I believe that's an absolute necessity.

Terence Fletcher:
Do you think you're out of tune? What are you... there's no f***ing Mars Bar down there, what are you looking at? Look up here, look at me. Do you think you were out of tune?

Metz:
Yes.

Terence Fletcher:
THEN WHY THE F*** DIDN'T YOU SAY SO? Carried your fat ass for too long Metz, I'm not gonna have you cost us a competition because your minds on a f***ing happy meal instead of on pitch.

Terence Fletcher:
You are upset.

[Andrew nods yes]

Terence Fletcher:
Say it.

Andrew:
I'm upset.

Terence Fletcher:
Say it so the whole band can hear you.

Andrew:
[a little louder] I'm upset!

Terence Fletcher:
Louder!

Andrew:
[loud] I'm upset!

Terence Fletcher:
LOUDER!

Andrew:
[louder] I'M UPSET!

Terence Fletcher:
You are a worthless, friendless, f*ggot-lipped little piece of sh*t whose mommy left daddy when she figured out he wasn't Eugene O'Neill, and who is now weeping and slobbering all over my drum set like a f***ing nine-year old girl! So for the final, FATHER-F***ING time, SAY IT LOUDER!

Andrew:
[at the top of his lungs] I'M UPSET!

Terence Fletcher:
[going back to compose the band] Start practicing harder, Nieman.

Terence Fletcher:
I can still f***ing see you, Mini Me!

Terence Fletcher:
Get the f*** off my sight before I'll demolish you!

Terence Fletcher:
Motherf***er! Connelly, get your ass back on the kit.

Terence Fletcher:
If you want the f***ing part, earn it!

Terence Fletcher:
Nieman, you're done.

Terence Fletcher:
You think I'm f***ing stupid? I know it was you.

Andrew:
[after being replaced by another drummer] Are you serious? That sh*t?

Terence Fletcher:
I never really had a Charlie Parker. But I tried. I actually f***ing tried. And that's more than most people ever do.

Terence Fletcher:
Were you rushing or were you dragging?

Andrew:
I-I don't know.

Terence Fletcher:
Start counting!

Andrew:
Five, six...

Terence Fletcher:
In four, dammit! Look at me!

Andrew:
One, two, three, four. [Fletcher slaps him the face] One, two, three, four. [Fletcher slaps him again] One, two, three...

Terence Fletcher:
Now, was I rushing or I was dragging?

Andrew:
I don't know.

Terence Fletcher:
Count again.

Andrew:
One, two, three, four. [slap in the face] One, two, three, four. [another slap in the face] One, two, three, four...

Terence Fletcher:
Rushing or dragging?

Andrew:
Rushing.

Terence Fletcher:
[yelling] So, you do know the difference!

Terence Fletcher:
Now are you a rusher, or are you a dragger or are you gonna be on my f***ing time?

Andrew:
I'll be on your time.

Terence Fletcher:
[after Andrew stops drumming] Is that all you have you worthless Hymie f***? No wonder mommy ran out on you.

Terence Fletcher:
You're here for a reason. You believe that, right?

Andrew:
Yes.

Terence Fletcher:
Say it.

Andrew:
*I'm here for a reason*

Terence Fletcher:
[Smiling] Cool.

[last lines]

Terence Fletcher:
[Andrew keeps playing after the music ends] Andrew, what are you doing?

Andrew:
I cue you!

Poster of Buddy Rich on Andrew's wall:
IF YOU DON'T HAVE ABILITY, YOU WIND UP PLAYING IN A ROCK BAND

Terence Fletcher:
I don't think people understood what it was I was doing at Shaffer. I wasn't there to conduct. Any f***ing moron can wave his arms and keep people in tempo. I was there to push people beyond what's expected of them. I believe that is... an absolute necessity. Otherwise, we're depriving the world of the next Louis Armstrong. The next Charlie Parker. I told you about how Charlie Parker became Charlie Parker, right?

Andrew:
Jo Jones threw a cymbal at his head.

Terence Fletcher:
Exactly. Parker's a young kid, pretty good on the sax. Gets up to play at a cutting session, and he f***s it up. And Jones nearly decapitates him for it. And he's laughed off-stage. Cries himself to sleep that night, but the next morning, what does he do? He practices. And he practices and he practices with one goal in mind, never to be laughed at again. And a year later, he goes back to the Reno and he steps up on that stage, and plays the best motherf***ing solo the world has ever heard. So imagine if Jones had just said: "Well, that's okay, Charlie. That was all right. Good job. "And then Charlie thinks to himself, "Well, sh*t, I did do a pretty good job." End of story. No Bird. That, to me, is an absolute tragedy. But that's just what the world wants now. People wonder why jazz is dying.

Terence Fletcher:
Everybody remember, Lincoln Center and its ilk use these competitions to decide who they are interested in and who they are not. And I am not gonna have my reputation in that department tarnished by a bunch of f***ing limp-dick, sour-note, flatter-than-their-girlfriends, flexible-tempo dipshits. Got it?

Terence Fletcher:
And here comes mister gay pride of the Upper West Side himself. Unfortunately, this is not a Bette Midler concert, we will not be serving Cosmopolitans and Baked Alaska, so just play faster than you give f***ing hand jobs, will you please?

Terence Fletcher:
That is not your boyfriend's dick, so don't come too early.

Terence Fletcher:
So, imagine if Jones had just said, "Well, that's okay, Charlie. That was all right. Good job." So Charlie thinks to himself, "Well, sh*t, I did do a pretty good job." End of story. No Bird. That to me is an absolute tragedy. But that's just what the world wants now. And they wonder why jazz is dying.

Andrew:
[to Connelly] HEY, F*** OFF JOHNY UTAH! TURN MY PAGES, B*TCH!

Andrew:
But is there a line? You know, maybe you go too far, and you discourage the next Charlie Parker from ever becoming Charlie Parker?

Terence Fletcher:
No, man, no. Because the next Charlie Parker would never be discouraged.

Terence Fletcher:
Try me you f***ing weasel! At 5:30 that's in exactly 11 minutes my band is on stage. If your ass is not on that stool with your own f***ing sticks in hand or you make ONE F***ING MISTAKE, ONE! I will drum your ass back to Nassau where you can turn pages until you graduate or f***ing dropout! By the time your done at Schaeffer your gonna make daddy look like a f***ing success story, got it, OR, we can let Johnny Utah play the part, you choose.

Andrew:
It's my part, I'll be on your stage. F*** [Rushes to pick up his rudiments]

Terence Fletcher:
The folder is your f***ing responsibility, Tanner. Why would you give it to Neiman? Right? You give a calculator to a f***ing retard he's gonna try to turn on a TV with it. Now get your sticks and get your ass on stage.

Terence Fletcher:
Five-P.M. call tomorrow in Dunellen. Give yourself at least two hours to get there this time, alright? Save your travel receipts. Or don't. I don't give a sh*t.

Terence Fletcher:
Now we got ourselves our mick f***ing paddy-cracker. Do you know you look like a f***ing leprechaun? I think I'll call you Flannery.

Terence Fletcher:
This is not Saint f***in' Patricks Day, Flannery. There is not a pot of gold under your f***in' seat. [Ryan starts adjusting the throne] Oh, so that is it? You didn't have your f***ing throne adjusted properly and that is why you played like sh*t? So that is going to cause you to suddenly play right? PLAY! [Ryan starts playing] BULLSHIT! F*** YOU! GET OFF!

[repeated line]

Andrew:
I'm upset!

Terence Fletcher:
Now this one really upsets me. We have an out-of-tone player here. Before I continue, would that player care to identify himself? No? Ok, maybe a bug flew in my ear.

Fletcher:
Tell me it's not you, Elmer Fudd. [walks over to Metz] It's okay. Play.

[Metz plays a couple of notes; Fletcher stops him]

Fletcher:
Do you think you're out of tune?

[Metz only stares at the floor]

Fletcher:
What are you ... there's no f***ing Mars bar down there. What are you looking at? Look up here, look at me. Do you think you're out of tune?

Metz:
[after a long, hesitant pause] Yes.

Fletcher:
[yelling] THEN WHY THE F*** DIDN'T YOU SAY SO?! [calmer tone] I've carried your fat ass for too long, Metz. I'm not gonna have you cost us a competition because your mind's on a f***ing Happy Meal instead of on pitch. Jackson, congratulations. You're fourth chair. Metz, why are you still sitting there? Get the f*** out!

Fletcher:
Nieman, you lost the f***ing part.

Andrew:
No, I didn't! You can't f***ing do this to me!

Fletcher:
CAN'T?

Andrew:
Yeah!

Fletcher:
When did you become a f***ing expert on what I can or cannot do, you f***ing weepy willow shitsack?

Andrew:
I earned that part.

Fletcher:
You never earned anything. God, you are a self-righteous prick. The only reason you are a core is because you misplaced a folder. The only reason you're in studio band to begin with is because I told you EXACTLY what I'd be asking for in Nassau! Am I wrong?

Andrew:
Yeah, yeah. I'm in studio band because I'm the best player...

Ryan:
[interrupts] Hey, why don't you just back off, bro?

Andrew:
Hey, you know, f*** off, Johnny Utah! Turn my pages, b*tch!

Fletcher:
Hey, I can cut you any f***ing time I want.

Andrew:
You would've cut me by now.

Fletcher:
Try me, you f***ing weasel. At 5:30, that's in exactly 11 minutes, my band is on stage. If your ass is not on that stool with your own f***ing sticks in hand or you make ONE F***ING MISTAKE, ONE! I will drum your ass back to Nassau where you can turn pages until you graduate or f***ing drop out! By the time you're done at Shaffer, you're gonna make Daddy look like a f***ing success story. Got it? Or, we can let Johnny Utah play the part. You choose.

Andrew:
It's my part, I'll be on your stage. [to Connelly] F*** you. [Runs to get his sticks]

Fletcher:
You got 10 minutes f***ing pathetic pansy ass fruitfuck!

Andrew:
I'm just gonna lay it out there. This is why I don't think we should be together. And I've thought about it a lot and this is what's gonna happen. I'm gonna keep pursuing what I'm pursuing. And because I'm doing that, it's gonna take up more and more of my time. And I'm not gonna be able to spend as much time with you. And when I do spend time with you, I'm gonna be thinking about drumming. And I'm gonna be thinking about jazz music, my charts, all that. And because of that, you're gonna start to resent me. And you're gonna tell me to ease up on the drumming, spend more time with you because you're not feeling important. And I'm not gonna be able to do that. And really, I'm gonna start to resent you for even asking me to stop drumming. And we're just gonna start to hate each other. And it's gonna get very... It's gonna be ugly. And so for those reasons, I'd rather just, you know, break it off clean... because I wanna be great.

Nicole:
And you're not?

Andrew:
I wanna be one of the greats.

Nicole:
And I would stop you from doing that?

Andrew:
Yeah.

Nicole:
You know I would stop you from doing that. You know, for a fact?

Andrew:
Yes.

Nicole:
And I'd barely see you anyway?

Andrew:
Yeah.

Nicole:
And when I do see you, you'd treat me like sh*t because I'm just some girl who doesn't know what she wants. And you have a path, and you're gonna 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 exactly my point.

Nicole:
What the f*** is wrong with you? You're right, we should not be dating.

Fletcher:
Your parents musicians?

Andrew:
No.

Fletcher:
What do they do?

Andrew:
My, uh, dad's a writer.

Fletcher:
Oh, what's he written?

Andrew:
Uh, I guess he's more of a teacher, really.

Fletcher:
Oh. College?

Andrew:
Pennington High School.

Fletcher:
What about your mother, what does she do?

Andrew:
I don't know, she left when I was a baby.

Fletcher:
So no musicians in the family. [Andrew shakes his head] Well, you've just got to listen to the greats then. Buddy Rich, Jo Jones. You know, Charlie Parker became Bird because Jones threw a cymbal at his head. See what I'm saying?

Andrew:
Mm-hm.

Fletcher:
Listen, the key is to just relax. Don't worry about the numbers, don't worry about what the other guys are thinking. You're here for a reason. You believe that, right?

Andrew:
Yeah.

Fletcher:
Say it.

Andrew:
I'm here for a reason.

Fletcher:
Cool. All right, man. Have fun.

Fletcher:
Why do you suppose I just hurled a chair at your head, Neiman?

Andrew:
I... I don't know.

Fletcher:
Sure you do.

Andrew:
The tempo.

Fletcher:
Were you rushing or were you dragging?

Andrew:
I don't know.

[Fletcher rushes to the kit and stares Andrew in the face]

Fletcher:
Start counting.

Andrew:
Five, six--

Fletcher:
In four, damn it! Look at me.

Andrew:
One, two, three, four-- [Fletcher slaps him] ...One, two, three, four-- [slap] ...One, two, three...

Fletcher:
Now, was I rushing or was I dragging?

Andrew:
I don't know.

Fletcher:
Count again.

Andrew:
One, two, three, four-- [slap] ...One, two, three, four-- [slap] ...One, two, three...

Fletcher:
Rushing or dragging?

Andrew:
Rushing.

Fletcher:
So you do know the difference! If you deliberately sabotage my band, I will f*** you like a pig. Now are you a rusher, or are you a dragger, or are you gonna be ON MY F***ING TIME?!

Andrew:
I'm gonna be on your time.

Fletcher:
[points to sheet music] What does that say?

Andrew:
Quarter note equals 215.

Fletcher:
Count me a 215.

Andrew:
One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four...

Fletcher:
Jesus f***ing Christ! I didn't know they allowed retards into Shaffer! Am I to understand that you cannot read tempo? Can you even f***ing read music?! What is that?

Andrew:
Eighth note.

Fletcher:
Yes, what is that?

Andrew:
Dotted sixteenth note.

Fletcher:
Sight-read measure 101.

Andrew:
Bop-bop-ba-bop-ba--

Fletcher:
What, are you in a f***ing a cappella group? Play the goddamn kit! [Andrew drums the measure] Stop. Now answer my question: were you rushing, or were you dragging? [Andrew doesn't respond] ANSWER!!!

Andrew:
Rushing.

Fletcher:
[sees Andrew shed a tear] Oh, my dear God. Are you one of those single tear people? Do I look like a double f***ing rainbow to you? You must be upset. Are you upset?

Andrew:
No.

Fletcher:
No? So you just don't give a sh*t about any of this?

Andrew:
I do give a sh*t about this.

Fletcher:
So, are you upset? Yes or f***ing no? [Andrew nods yes] Yes, you are upset.

Andrew:
Yeah.

Fletcher:
Say it.

Andrew:
I'm upset.

Fletcher:
Say it so the whole band can hear you.

Andrew:
I'm upset!

Fletcher:
Louder!

Andrew:
[loud] I'm upset!

Fletcher:
LOUDER!

Andrew:
[louder] I'M UPSET!

Fletcher:
You are a worthless, friendless, f*ggot-lipped little piece of sh*t whose mommy left daddy when she figured out he wasn't Eugene O'Neill, and who is now weeping and slobbering all over my drum set like a f***ing nine-year old girl! So for the final, FATHER-F***ING TIME, SAY IT LOUDER!!!

Andrew:
[at the top of his lungs] I'M UPSET!!!

Fletcher:
Carl. [Carl takes Andrew's place at the drums as Fletcher goes back to compose the band] Start practicing harder, Neiman.

Carl:
I need to look at the music.

Andrew:
Oh yeah, it's right here. [He turns around to realize the folder is not where he left it]

Carl:
Why isn't it on you?

Andrew:
[Confused] Where's the folder?

Carl:
You're joking, right?

Andrew:
I- no- no, I literal- no, I s- I swear I just had it here two seconds ago-

Carl:
I don't know-

Andrew:
It's gotta be around here somewhere. Did you see-

Carl:
[Angry] How could you be so f***ing stupid?

Andrew:
I don't know, maybe a janitor came by or something-

Carl:
A janitor? [Desperate] FIND THE F***ING FOLDER! A F***ING JANITOR?! YOU'RE A DUMB F***! A DUMB F***! FIND THE FOLDER!

Andrew:
I'm sorry-

Fletcher:
Jesus f***ing Christ, where have you been?

Carl:
We have an issue.

Fletcher:
Okay, now is not the time.

Carl:
I gave Neiman the folder and Neiman lost it.

Fletcher:
Neiman lost it?

Carl:
Yes.

Fletcher:
The folder is your f***ing responsibility, Tanner. Why would you give it to Neiman? Right? You give a calculator to a f***ing retard he's gonna try to turn on a TV with it. Now get your sticks and get your ass on stage.

Carl:
I-- I can't.

Fletcher:
You can't?

Carl:
I-- I can't go onstage. I don't know the charts by heart.

Fletcher:
Are you f***ing kidding me?

Carl:
I-- [stammers] You know this. I need the music. It's my memory, I need visual cues.

Fletcher:
Visual cues?

Carl:
Yes, it's a medical condition--

Fletcher:
A medical condition? What are you, f***ing Sanjay Gupta? Play the goddamn music.

Carl:
I can't.

Andrew:
I can.

Fletcher:
You know "Whiplash" by heart?

Andrew:
Yes, sir. Every measure.

Fletcher:
All right. Well, you better f***ing hope your memory doesn't fail you. And I hope you play it a whole lot better than you did last month in rehearsal, because I do not intend to start losing now. Get your sticks and get your sticks and get your f***ing ass onstage. [to band] Onstage!

Lawyer:
Does the name Sean Casey mean anything to you? You know of his death? Last month, he hanged himself in his apartment.

Andrew:
What does that have to do with me?

Lawyer:
Sean suffered from anxiety and depression. His mother claims this started during his time as Fletcher's student. Now, the Casey's aren't wealthy, they don't want to file suit.

Andrew:
So, what do they want?

Lawyer:
To make sure that Terence Fletcher is never allowed to do this to another student.

Andrew:
He didn't do anything.

Jim:
What is wrong with you? It's over, okay? He's out of your life. Why would you let him get away with what he did to you?

Lawyer:
Would you characterize his conduct as extreme, Andrew? Did he ever intentionally inflict emotional distress? This would not be a public hearing, you know. Fletcher would never know it was you who spoke up.

Andrew:
Why would you do this to me?

Jim:
Do you think that I would let him put my son through hell, and then just walk away scot-free? Don't you know I would never let that happen? That there is nothing in the world more important to me than you? Don't you know that?

Lawyer:
[long pause] Andrew?

Andrew:
Just tell me what to say.

Terence Fletcher:
[playing an audio clip of a trumpet solo for the band] Six years ago, I came across a kid in a practice room working on his scales. He was early second year and he'd started at Shaffer with a lot of hope. Like all you guys. But the truth was, he barely squeaked in to begin with, and, uh... he was really struggling. The faculty were all telling him, "Maybe this isn't for you." But they didn't see what I saw. This scared, skinny kid, cursing himself because he couldn't get his scales right. I saw a drive in him. And I put him in Studio Band. And when he graduated, Marsalis made him third trumpet at Lincoln Center. A year later, he was first. And that's who you're listening to now. His name was Sean Casey. I found out this morning that... Sean... died yesterday... in a car accident. And, uh, I just... I wanted you guys to know he was a beautiful player. I just thought you should know.

Terence Fletcher:
Were you rushing or were you dragging?

Terence Fletcher:
If you deliberately sabotage my band, I will f*** you like a pig.

Terence Fletcher:
Oh, my dear God. Are you one of those single tear people?

Terence Fletcher:
You are a worthless, friendless, f*ggot-lipped little piece of sh*t whose mommy left daddy when she figured out he wasn't Eugene O'Neill, who is now weeping and slobbering all over my drum set like a f***ing nine-year-old girl!