Whiplash

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...

1 INT. NASSAU BAND REHEARSAL STUDIO - GEHRING HALL - NIGHT 1

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?

Pink (9/10/2013)

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-bopbop-

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.

Pink (9/10/2013)

3

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

2 EXT. NEW YORK STREET - SHAFFER CONSERVATORY - NIGHT 2

Andrew exits, hurries off. Pasted onto his overloaded backpack

are patches, buttons, names: Krupa. Roach. Buddy Rich...

The buildings of midtown New York loom over him like giants --

immense, forbidding...

3 INT. MOVIE THEATER - LOBBY - NIGHT 3

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.

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