"WHIPLASH" (2014)

WHIPLASH

by

Damien Chazelle

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--

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--

(It’s pronounced “Nayman”.)

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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.

Andrew looks at him.

Andrew nods. Plays one rudiment after another: double-stroke roll, paradiddle, ratamacue, flam, flamadiddle.

Fletcher begins clapping his hand in time. Fast. Andrew plays.

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 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.

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--

A beat.

Andrew shrugs. It’s clear what that means.

Jim shrugs, keeps his eyes down. He has a tendency to look down when talking. The lights dim. The previews begin.

Andrew takes it in. Especially the last part.

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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.

The Moviegoer doesn’t say a word. Andrew watches. Takes it in.

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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 DRUMMINGand old stills of a boy at a drum set --

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.

Ryan taps him to stop. Andrew is within earshot -- and has heard. Beat. Ryan moves over to Andrew, sits down at the set.

Andrew nods. Admires Ryan. Seems more diminutive now than ever.

Then -- the Nassau Band conductor appears: RON KRAMER.

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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...

TRUMPETER #2 ** Yeah, yeah - sorry about that one. **

MR. KRAMER ** Just brass again. **

To Ryan’s left, a whisper-- **

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.

Rehearsal has ended. The MUSICIANS have just filed out -- except for Andrew, who’s hanging back...

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Andrew nods. Waiting.

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Andrew takes this in. Nods.

A beat.

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.

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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--

Beat. Nicole just looks at him. Andrew can’t believe he said what he just said. Feels like a creep. Instantly regrets it.

She smiles. Beat. Andrew manages a nervous laugh.

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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.

Andrew’s thoughts are elsewhere. Distracted -- not sure what this is about but doesn’t really care -- he dutifully follows...

BLACK. We hear knocking.

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.

Andrew is taken aback. Fletcher remembers his first name?

Fletcher rises to greet Andrew, as Andrew closes the door.

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Andrew looks surprised by the warmth in Fletcher’s voice.

Beat. Fletcher looks at him. Is he upset? Dismayed?

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Andrew nods. But that phrase seems to echo.Ulterior motives...

Fletcher hops down from the desk and makes his way to the couch.

He lets this simmer for a beat. Then--

He rises back up. A moment of silence.

He notices Andrew looking at a photo on the wall.

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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...

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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).

MUSICIANS trade places. As Ryan trades with Andrew, he turns--

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--

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Instruments SNAP upward with military precision. No one wants to miss a beat.

The TRUMPETER on the right starts playing. Five notes before Fletcher cuts him off with the slightest flick of his hand.

Nothing. Fletcher looks up. There are no more trumpeters. He looks over at Kramer: “Are you serious?”

Before he even counts off, he notices the TENOR SAX’s fingering -- all he needs to know.

We get a split-second glimpse of the TENOR SAXOPHONIST, wondering what just happened -- before we CUT to the drums, Ryan at the ready.

Ryan takes a breath. Fletcher CLAPS him off. Ryan plays.

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--

We STAY ON Andrew as the BASSIST plays; Andrew slides off the drums and back to his regular seat.

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We CUT back to Fletcher. He looks over the band once more. We see the MUSICIANS’ faces -- scared, but hopeful. Then--

Ryan’s heart starts speeding. His excitement visible, he--

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.

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.

He claps off. The band playsSECOND 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...

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.

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Beat. Then -- clicking back to reality --this is not a nice place, did I fuck up? --

Nicole smiles. A moment. Andrew fidgets. Nervous.

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Andrew laughs. Nicole looks prettier to him than ever.

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Beat. Nicole shrugs.

A moment.

A beat. Andrew thinks about this, then--

A moment of silence. She looks at Andrew. He looks at her.

Nicole nods. Smiles back. Andrew said it playfully, but she can tell he also meant it to reach out to her.

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She scoots her legs. Her knee happens to touch Andrew’s. He notices. So does she. They look at each other.

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 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--

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--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.

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--

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Andrew, nervous, sits back down at the drums and--

The Pianist plays a B-flat. Andrew tunes. By now the room is filled: TRUMPETS, TROMBONES, SAXES.

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.

Laughs throughout the room. We can overhear a few snickers:

Andrew looks. Fletcher keeps his smile up... And then--

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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.

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..

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.

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.

The band comes to a halt.

He cues the BAND with his hand, then cuts them off.

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Nothing. The players avert his gaze. All terrified...

Silence. He eyes the TROMBONISTS. Lands on one, METZ. Overweight. Been picked on his whole life.

Metz sits there, trembling. On the brink of tears.

Metz, terrified, looks down at the floor.

Silence. It’s the first time we’ve heard Fletcher really SHOUT. His voice is booming, louder than one would have thought. Then--

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Still trembling, tears bubbling out, Metz picks up his trombone and walks to the door. Andrew watches -- shocked.

Once the door closes--

And then -- he looks straight at Andrew.

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...

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.

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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 --

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A beat. And, finally--

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...

Andrew looks up. Fletcher has just entered.

Fletcher eyes Andrew.

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--

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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.

Andrew grins. Fills again. Accenting, playing a counter-rhythm. When he trips up. Comes in a hair late.

Fletcher claps. Andrew playsWHIPLASH STUDIO BAND REHEARSAL ANDREW #2. Fletcher waves him to stop again.

Fletcher claps again. Then another wave for Andrew to stop.

He’s still soft, calm, warm. He claps again. Then, stopping--

He claps off. Stops Andrew again, only seconds later.

Andrew nods. Getting nervous now... Fletcher claps again. Stops again.

He’s about to clap off when, out of nerves, Andrew hits his bass drum early.

Fletcher claps. Stops Andrew yet again.

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Andrew nods. Get it together...Fletcher claps. Stops.

Claps again. Stops again.

Claps again. Andrew playsWHIPLASH 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???...

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Fletcher BOUNDS up to him, almost RUNNING -- suddenly beast- like, terrifying, veins set to BURST--

Fletcher SLAPS Andrew on his left cheek. Then--

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This is a new Fletcher we’re seeing. An animal. But no one but Andrew seems surprised--

Andrew plays the measure on the drums. Shaking, terrified...

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Andrew tries to hide his tear, mortified, wipes it, cowers--

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Then -- silence. Andrew hunches over the drum set, shaking, face awash in tears. The other PLAYERS just stare...

Carl silently switches places with Andrew at the set.

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--

He sees Ryan, a few yards away. Andrew hides his face, hides the TEARS that are starting to spill out uncontrollably...

...and RUNS like hell.

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Andrew is curled in the corner, crying. We linger here.

Then, his PHONE rings. He looks at it. Hesitates...

And, finally, breaking down, can’t hold it in any longer--

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 is silent. When I started writing...

Those words seem to have the opposite effect Jim intended.

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He hangs up. Rises. Wipes his reddened eyes. And exits his dorm.

PRE-LAP KNOCKING --

Andrew steps into Fletcher’s office. Before Fletcher can say a word--

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...

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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...

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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

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The RIVAL PLAYERS quickly shuffle into the green room, past Andrew, who watches, awed. A VOICE--

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 --

The Technician smiles again, looks at the girl. She hides her face in his chest, embarrassed. He and Fletcher laugh.

He leans in. They hug.

He steps in, closes the door and addresses his PLAYERS, who are busy sanding their hands, buzzing their lips, preparing:

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A STAGEHAND approaches Fletcher, about to speak to him--

The STAGE HAND nods, slinks away. Fletcher addresses his band--

Studio Band goes on-stage. Carl hurries to the DRUMS, tunes them.

Andrew hands Carl the stick bag. Raises the music stand, props the MUSIC FOLDER onto it--

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--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.

Still conducting, Fletcher approaches, whispers--

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.

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.

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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?

Andrew leans in to hear more, but before he can get a read--

Carl is inches from his face. Andrew turns to the chair -- but the folder is gone. His eyes go wide.No...

ANDREW CARL

Yeah, of course. I’m... Why isn’t it on you?

ANDREW CARL

It is, I-- I don’t see it.

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And just like that -- a VOICE booms down the hall--

Carl, terrified, Andrew behind him, addresses Fletcher--

Fletcher looks at Andrew.This is a joke, right?

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Fletcher and Carl both look at him. Neither was expecting him to chime in. Andrew seems almost as surprised...

Quickly realizing this is now his only option--

Then, to the rest of the band--

The PLAYERS in their places. And there, on the set, overwhelmed, trying to make this one shot count -- is Andrew.

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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...

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 beginsWHIPLASH 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--

Applause. Fletcher summons his PLAYERS to the stage. The JUDGE hands him the microphone. Fletcher takes it, hesitantly. His band behind him -- including Andrew...

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Something about how Fletcher says this suggests he means it...

He wavers. Then steps aside and exits with his band.

The STAGE HAND appears, carrying a red folder. Going up to Carl and Andrew--

Carl looks. It’s his MUSIC FOLDER. He looks behind at Andrew.

A new day of rehearsal. Andrew enters the room, passes the piano--

Andrew looks at him. Wary, he makes his way to the drums...and to Carl. Reaches in to help Carl adjust the cymbals when--

Andrew stops. Just then -- the DOOR OPENS, and Fletcher enters.

No answer. Carl, seated at the set, is visibly confused.

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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--

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.

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.

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Jim looks at Andrew. Almost accusatory. A moment...

Seven people seated at the table: Jim and Andrew, Andrew’s uncle FRANK, aunt EMMA, and 18-year-old cousin DUSTIN. To Jim--

Jim laughs along. Andrew watches. There’s an undercurrent to the joking. The power dynamic between the brothers is clear.

Jim keeps laughing.

Andrew, put on the spot, hesitates. But then, excited--

The door OPENS. In steps TRAVIS, another cousin, 21, football player, real looker. All eyes swerve in an instant from Andrew to him.

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Beat. Then--

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Andrew glances at his dad. Wondering if maybe he’ll chime in in defense... But no. His dad stays meek and quiet.

Everyone at the table looks at Andrew -- including his dad.

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Andrew turns and looks at his dad. Can’t believe he joined in.

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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--

Silence once again. Andrew glances at his dad, and delivers back that same accusatory look he saw in the kitchen...

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Andrew says nothing. Rises, plate in hand. Walks to the door--

--and swings it shut behind him.

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.

A beat. Nicole is silent. Finally, Andrew adds--

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Beat.

She gets up.

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.

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PLAYERS head out. Andrew grabs his copy of the chart -- it’s called “CARAVAN” -- when--

Andrew nods. Carl, at the door, glares at him. Then slinks off.

Fletcher grins. Then -- the smile fades.

Before Andrew can register, let alone ask “Who?”--

Fletcher and Andrew turn to the door. RYAN CONNOLLY is here.

Ryan is all smiles. But Andrew is mortified. Can barely conceal his anxiety -- and his anger.

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Ryan nods, reaches into his backpack. And, to Andrew’s shock, pulls out the “new chart”.CARAVAN.

Andrew’s wide-eyed. When did he get the chart?

Andrew tries to keep calm. Goes to the drums, lays out the chart.

Andrew nods. Takes a deep breath. Looks at the tempo notation. “330”. Another breath.Ok... I’ve got this... Fletcher CLAPS. Andrew BEGINS.

Beat. Andrew looks at Ryan. Heart pounding, he switches with him. Fletcher CLAPS. Ryan BEGINS. And he plays perfectly.

Andrew’s eyes widen again.

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Fletcher looks at Andrew -- as though shocked Andrew talked back. A moment of silence. Then --BZZZZZ. Fletcher’s cell.

He heads to his OFFICE. Andrew is still.What just happened...?

Andrew just stares. Ryan seems earnest -- but Andrew is incensed.

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--

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.

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A moment passes.

Andrew busts back through the STUDIO BAND ROOM. Eyes burning. One thought and one thought only:Get that part back.

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!”

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--

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--

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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.

For the first time ever, he seems uneasy, unsure what to say.

Ryan nods, waves to the other PLAYERS. Chipper--

Andrew glares at him. Seething now. But, continuing, softly--

He turns to the CD player. Turns it on. A big-band ballad swells. A muted trumpet takes the lead. It’sCASEY’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...

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The name catches Andrew’s attention. The trumpeter Fletcher mentioned to him... And the word “was”...

Beat. He leans back down and turns off the CD. Silence.

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 ofCARAVAN STUDIO BAND REHEARSAL. Fast, precise -- but Fletcher waves to Ryan to stop.

Andrew’s eyes instantly fill with hope.Is this his chance?

Ryan nods, slowly slides off -- as Andrew quickly gets on. Clutches his sticks tight.This is it... Fletcher’s still shaky--

Beat. He CLAPS off, Andrew starts, and, only ONE SECOND later--

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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--

Carl JUMPS. The band goes silent. Fletcher glares at his drummers, eyes so heated they could burn holes into you.

Ryan does. The other players are still. Real fear in the room...

His tone is vicious, his eyes still watery. He CLAPS, stops--

Andrew gets on. His hands are shaking. Fletcher CLAPS, stops--

Carl gets back on. Fletcher CLAPS, stops yet again--

He turns to the rest of the band. Rubs his eyes, breathes, and then, trying to keep calm but his face already beet-red...

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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:

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.

Carl stops. Staggers back, dazed, as Ryan moves up and begins.

PLAYERS rinse their faces. One looks at his watch, dead-tired. It’s very late...

Some players have now returned to their seats.

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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 CLAPS. Ryan plays, muscles cramping, can’t keep up--

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...

He CLAPS. Andrew begins.

Andrew tries, the tempo slips... So fast, so loud...

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--

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Andrew doesn’t stop. Manages to glare forward, with what almost seems like hatred in his tired, blood-shot eyes...

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.

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--

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.

He turns to the rest of the band.

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.

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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.

We’re on a Greyhound, packed. Another VOICE in the back...

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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...?

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.

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--

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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--

PIANIST (O.S.) ANDREW

We’re on stage in twenty-- I know, I’m almost ther--

He throws the phone against his seat.

Andrew pulls up.

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Andrew arrives, panting. Fletcher glares, the band behind him--

Andrew looks over to his left -- to Ryan.

Fletcher looks at him. Stunned. The PLAYERS also look shocked.

Andrew is about to counter -- when he looks down. Looks back. Thinks. Realizes... Skin paling, his heart racing...

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He marches toward Andrew. Looms over him, seems about to hit him.

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Beat. Andrew catches sight of Carl, standing in the back, watching -- and almost smiling. He turns back to Fletcher--

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...

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Andrew looks at the GPS.Fuck. Tries to switch it off.

The GPS BEEPS for the turn.

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...

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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--

He turns back to the car. Bends down to reach back in...

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.

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--

--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...

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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--

Doesn’t even wait for Fletcher’s answer, goes straight to the set where Ryan is seated. Nothing is going to stop him now--

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.

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 intoCARAVAN 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...”

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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.

Carl stays still. Andrew looks at him. But Carl won’t move.

Panicked, Andrew turns, eyes his old Nassau Band peer -- Ryan.

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.

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 -- anotherCRAAAAAACK 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--

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.

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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:

Then he turns around. Andrew start shaking, his eyes brimming -- and, suddenly, something takes over inside. Almost despite himself, he RISES -- andKICKS 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

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...

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A HOME VIDEO begins: a smiling EIGHT-YEAR-OLD BOY at a DRUM... It’s ANDREW... Innocent, bright-eyed, having a blast...

He plays a paradiddle on the drum: left-right-left-left. A CHEER off-camera, a voice we recognize -- his father, JIM--

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--

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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--

Andrew remains silent for a moment. Then--

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Andrew looks back at Rachel. A moment. Warily, he nods.

Andrew takes this in. Fletcher had said it was a car accident...

Andrew looks at her. Rachel can tell he’s surprised.

A moment passes.

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Beat. Andrew looks at her. Then at his dad.

Jim leans forward now, taking the initiative--

He eyes Rachel. Ok...? Was that the right thing to say...?

Andrew stays silent.

Still Andrew doesn’t respond. Feels his dad’s stare on him as well now.

Andrew looks at the glass of water in front of him. Untouched.

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A beat. Andrew turns his eyes to his dad. Anger in his gaze--

Jim seems taken aback. Flustered for a second. Then--

Andrew turns away. Jim can see the hurt on his son’s face. The sense of betrayal. Worried, trying to reach out--

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...

Andrew can barely hear her...

Defeated, his soul split in two... Finally -- he gives up.

WE FADE OUT.

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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.

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.

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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--

Andrew manages a smile. A moment passes between them.

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.

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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 throughFLETCHER’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--

More applause. Andrew, hemmed in, keeps trying to get out--

Andrew stops. Turns. Fletcher is standing right there. A moment of silence. Andrew is pale. But Fletcher’s face is a blank.

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--

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Fletcher nods. Ok. Andrew eyes him. Then, nervous--

Andrew looks at him.

A beat. Then -- Fletcher seems distracted. By people CLAPPING ALONG to the band...

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.

He looks at Andrew. A moment of tension.Does he know...?

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Andrew laughs. Seems the mood has lightened.

A moment. Fletcher finally takes a sip of his drink.

Then, looking off for a moment--

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Beat. Andrew is surprised. He’s told this story himself.

Andrew smiles. Nods. Finally -- unlike his uncles, his cousins, even his father -- someone who gets it.

Beat. He leans back. Lets his words linger. Andrew thinks...

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Andrew takes this in. A moment...

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...

He pauses. Looks off. Looks at the musicians on-stage...

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He’s silent. A look of disappointment.

Then, he points to the PIANIST on-stage...

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.

Fletcher nods. Beat. Andrew turns, about to head off, when--

Andrew looks at him. You can’t be serious...

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Andrew is speechless now.Is this really happening?

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.

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...

Andrew setting the DRUMS up... Newly energized, a speed in his movements we haven’t seen since Dunellen...

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.

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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.

Andrew takes this in. The latest in a long line of surprises...

The PLAYERS pack up. Andrew, trying to work past his shyness--

The BASSIST looks at him:What?

Beat. He walks off. Andrew stands there. Confused...

Andrew enters. Eyes his drums. Then -- he has a thought.

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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 --

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Silence on the other end. Then--

He chuckles. Then waits. Beat.

Another beat. Then--

Beat. WE CUT to a CLOSE-UP of Andrew as he takes this in. You can tell -- the word hits him hard.

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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--

Andrew sliding into his slacks. Buttons his white button- down. Slides on his black jacket. Ties his tie...

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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...

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.

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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.

Andrew takes this in. Beat. A STAGE HAND appears, waves. Time.

The PLAYERS proceed on-stage. Andrew takes a deep breath, tries to keep his cool, and, counting in his head, walks forward --

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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--

The lights shift. Blue to bright, harsh, near-blinding yellow. It’s showtime. Andrew is completely still.

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--

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...

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.

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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 intoUPSWINGIN’. 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.

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--

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...

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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--

Andrew is still in his seat. Tears stinging his cheeks...

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...

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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.

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.

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 --

Jim goes wide-eyed. Utterly shocked. Andrew steps further back, as the STAGE HANDS move to pull Jim away--

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Andrew calmly turns his back to his father and coldly heads to the stage.

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...

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--

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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:

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 thoughhe 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--

--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.

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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--

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...

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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...

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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--

Andrew considers this. It’s a good idea. He moves back to the snare...

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...

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...

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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...

Andrew, goaded on, builds the volume. His single-stroke roll swelling, taking over the entire theater...

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.