For the 2014 Film:
Terence Fletcher: I told you that story about how Charlie Parker became Charlie Parker, right?
Andrew Neiman: Yup, Jo Jones threw a cymbal at his head.
Fletcher: Exactly. Parker's a young kid, pretty good on the sax. Gets up to play at a cutting session… and he fucks 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 he plays the best motherfucking solo the world has ever heard. (beat) So imagine if Jones had just said: "Well, that's okay Charlie. Eh... that was alright. Good job." Then Charlie thinks to himself, "Well, shit. 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. (beat) I'll tell you man. And every Starbucks "jazz" album just proves my point, really. There are no two words in the English language more harmful... than "good job."
Andrew Neiman: Yup, Jo Jones threw a cymbal at his head.
Fletcher: Exactly. Parker's a young kid, pretty good on the sax. Gets up to play at a cutting session… and he fucks 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 he plays the best motherfucking solo the world has ever heard. (beat) So imagine if Jones had just said: "Well, that's okay Charlie. Eh... that was alright. Good job." Then Charlie thinks to himself, "Well, shit. 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. (beat) I'll tell you man. And every Starbucks "jazz" album just proves my point, really. There are no two words in the English language more harmful... than "good job."
"You have a medical condition? What are you, fucking Sanjay Gupta?! Play the goddamn music!!!"
Terence Fletcher
Terence Fletcher: (throws a chair at Andrew Neiman's head) Why do you suppose I just hurled a chair at your head, Neiman?
Andrew Neiman: I... I don't know.
Fletcher: Sure you do.
Neiman: The tempo?
Fletcher: Were you rushing or were you dragging?
Neiman: I don't know...
Fletcher: (Fletcher quickly walks to Neiman) Start counting.
Neiman: Five, six, seven.
Fletcher: In FOUR, damn it! Look at me!
Neiman: One, two, three, four (Fletcher slaps Neiman). One, two, three, four (slap). One, two, three, f-
Fletcher: Now, was I rushing or was I dragging?
Neiman: (Neiman looks petrified) I don't know.
Fletcher: Count again.
Neiman: One, two, three, f-(slap)-our. One, two, three, f-(slap)-our. One, two, three, four.
Fletcher: Rushing or dragging?
Neiman: Rushing...
Fletcher: So you DO know the difference! If you deliberately sabotage my band, I will fuck you like a pig. Now are you a "rusher", or are you a "dragger", or are you going to be ON MY FUCKING TIME?!?
Neiman: I'm going to be on your time...
Andrew Neiman: I... I don't know.
Fletcher: Sure you do.
Neiman: The tempo?
Fletcher: Were you rushing or were you dragging?
Neiman: I don't know...
Fletcher: (Fletcher quickly walks to Neiman) Start counting.
Neiman: Five, six, seven.
Fletcher: In FOUR, damn it! Look at me!
Neiman: One, two, three, four (Fletcher slaps Neiman). One, two, three, four (slap). One, two, three, f-
Fletcher: Now, was I rushing or was I dragging?
Neiman: (Neiman looks petrified) I don't know.
Fletcher: Count again.
Neiman: One, two, three, f-(slap)-our. One, two, three, f-(slap)-our. One, two, three, four.
Fletcher: Rushing or dragging?
Neiman: Rushing...
Fletcher: So you DO know the difference! If you deliberately sabotage my band, I will fuck you like a pig. Now are you a "rusher", or are you a "dragger", or are you going to be ON MY FUCKING TIME?!?
Neiman: I'm going to be on your time...
Terence Fletcher: Now... Now answer my question. Were you rushing? Or were you dragging? ANSWER!!!
Andrew Neiman: Rushing... (sheds a Single Tear; Fletcher quickly notices)
Fletcher: Oh my dear God... Are you one of those single-teared people? Do I look like a double fucking rainbow to you? You must be upset, are you upset?
Neiman: No... (Neiman tries to wipe his tear)
Fletcher: No, so you don't give a shit about any of this?
Neiman: I do give a shit.
Fletcher: So, are you upset? Yes or fucking no.
Neiman: Yes...
Fletcher: You are upset...
Neiman: Yes...
Fletcher: Say it.
Neiman: (mumbling) I'm upset.
Fletcher: Say it so the whole band can hear you.
Neiman: I'm upset...
Fletcher: Louder!
Neiman: I'm upset!
Fletcher: LOUDER!!!
Neiman: I'm upset!
Fletcher: You are a worthless, friendless, faggot-lipped little piece of shit whose mommy left daddy when she figured out he wasn't Eugene O'Neill and who's now weeping and slobbering all over my drum set like a fucking nine-year-old girl! Now, for the final FATHER FUCKING time... SAY IT LOUDER!!!
Neiman: (now red-faced and bawling uncontrollably) I’M UPSET!!!
Fletcher: Carl. (Carl replaces a crying Neiman on the drums) Start practicing harder, Neiman. "Whiplash..." bar 1-25, big boy tempo. 5, 6, and...
Andrew Neiman: Rushing... (sheds a Single Tear; Fletcher quickly notices)
Fletcher: Oh my dear God... Are you one of those single-teared people? Do I look like a double fucking rainbow to you? You must be upset, are you upset?
Neiman: No... (Neiman tries to wipe his tear)
Fletcher: No, so you don't give a shit about any of this?
Neiman: I do give a shit.
Fletcher: So, are you upset? Yes or fucking no.
Neiman: Yes...
Fletcher: You are upset...
Neiman: Yes...
Fletcher: Say it.
Neiman: (mumbling) I'm upset.
Fletcher: Say it so the whole band can hear you.
Neiman: I'm upset...
Fletcher: Louder!
Neiman: I'm upset!
Fletcher: LOUDER!!!
Neiman: I'm upset!
Fletcher: You are a worthless, friendless, faggot-lipped little piece of shit whose mommy left daddy when she figured out he wasn't Eugene O'Neill and who's now weeping and slobbering all over my drum set like a fucking nine-year-old girl! Now, for the final FATHER FUCKING time... SAY IT LOUDER!!!
Neiman: (now red-faced and bawling uncontrollably) I’M UPSET!!!
Fletcher: Carl. (Carl replaces a crying Neiman on the drums) Start practicing harder, Neiman. "Whiplash..." bar 1-25, big boy tempo. 5, 6, and...
Uncle Frank: You got any friends, Andy?
Andrew Neiman: No.
Uncle Frank: Oh, why's that?
Neiman: 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?
Neiman: 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?
Neiman: 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.
Neiman: 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.
Neiman: 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.
Neiman: 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?
Neiman: You catch on quick. Are you in Model UN?
Travis: I got a reply for you, Andrew. You think Carlton football's a joke? Come play with us.
Neiman: Four words you will never hear from the NFL...
Andrew Neiman: No.
Uncle Frank: Oh, why's that?
Neiman: 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?
Neiman: 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?
Neiman: 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.
Neiman: 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.
Neiman: 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.
Neiman: 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?
Neiman: You catch on quick. Are you in Model UN?
Travis: I got a reply for you, Andrew. You think Carlton football's a joke? Come play with us.
Neiman: Four words you will never hear from the NFL...
Nicole: And when I do see you, you'll treat me like shit because I'm just some girl who doesn't know what she wants and you have a path and you're going to be great and I'm going to be forgotten. And therefore you won't give me the time of day because you have bigger things to pursue...
Andrew: That's exactly my point.
Nicole: What the fuck is wrong with you? (Beat) You're right. We shouldn't be dating. (She leaves.)
Andrew: That's exactly my point.
Nicole: What the fuck is wrong with you? (Beat) You're right. We shouldn't be dating. (She leaves.)
"Everyone remember, Lincoln Center and its ilk use these competitions to decide who they're interested and who they're not. And I am not going to have my reputation in the department tarnished... By a bunch of fucking limp-dick, sour-note, flatter-than-their-girlfriends flexible tempo dipshits. Got it? One more thing, Eugene give me that. (Eugene gives out a music book) If I ever find another one of these lying around again, I swear to FUCKING God... I will stop being so polite."
Terence Fletcher
"Is that really the fastest you can play, you worthless Hymie fuck? No wonder mommy ran out on you. Get off the fucking kit. (Tanner replaces Andrew on the drums) And here comes... Mr. Gay Pride of the Upper West Side himself. Unfortunately this is not a Bette Midler concert. We will not be serving Cosmopolitans or Baked Alaskas, so just play faster than you give fucking handjobs, will you please? One, two, one two... (Tanner drums briefly before Fletcher stops him) Not even fucking close. (Connolly replaces Tanner) Let's go with the Irish mick fucking Paddy-cracker now. You know, you actually do look quite a bit like a leprechaun. I think I'm gonna start calling you Flannery."
"Neiman... You earned the part. Alternates, you wanna clean the blood off my drum set?"
Terence Fletcher
"Now either you are deliberately playing out of tune and sabotaging my band... Or you don't know you're out of tune, which I'm afraid is even worse."
Terence Fletcher
Fletcher: Tell me it's not you, Elmer Fudd. (walks to Metz) It's okay... Play. (Metz plays briefly) Do you think you're out of tune? (beat; Metz looks terrified) What, there's no fucking Mars bar down there, what are you looking at? Look up there, look at me. Do you think you’re outta tune?
Metz: (stammers) Yes...
Fletcher: THEN WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU SAY SO?!? I've carried your fat ass for too long, Metz. I'm not gonna have you cost us the competition because your mind's on a fucking Happy Meal instead of on pitch. Jackson, congratulations, you're fourth chair. Metz, why are you still sitting there?! Get the fuck out! (Metz hurriedly rushes out of the room) For the record, Metz wasn't outta tune... You were Erickson. But he didn't know and that's bad enough.
Metz: (stammers) Yes...
Fletcher: THEN WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU SAY SO?!? I've carried your fat ass for too long, Metz. I'm not gonna have you cost us the competition because your mind's on a fucking Happy Meal instead of on pitch. Jackson, congratulations, you're fourth chair. Metz, why are you still sitting there?! Get the fuck out! (Metz hurriedly rushes out of the room) For the record, Metz wasn't outta tune... You were Erickson. But he didn't know and that's bad enough.
Andrew: Fuck off Johnny Utah! Turn my pages, bitch!
