I was as ready as l could be on the first day of set. I practiced all of the drumming lessons—6 hours a day, 4 days a week—and tried to be as receptive to J.K Simmons acting
The first day of Whiplash began before sunrise. At 5:47 a.m, downtown Los Angeles was still dark l stepped out of the front of the Palace Theatre
Three white production trucks were parked along Broadway. Two crew members pushed a cart stacked with black equipment cases through the side entrance while another stood beside a table drinking coffee from a paper cup.
I saw J.K talking to one of them and l stood there to introduce myself.
"Hello, J.K"
He nodded his head and l continued, "This or Spider-Man?"
J.K smirked and the morning sun shone on his bald head.
I went to the wardrobe.
My clothes were hanging from a rack with ANDREW written on tape above them. There were several versions of the same kind of outfit: plain shirts, jackets, jeans, sneakers. I changed and went to apply makeup for about fifteen minutes.
When I came back out, more of the crew had arrived.
Someone rolled a cart of equipment down the hallway. Another person taped a cable to the floor. Two people carried a light through a doorway while a production assistant stood against the wall reading from a call sheet.
I walked onto the stage.
Damien was standing beside Sharone Meir, the DP, and was looking at the monitor.
"Morning."
Damien turned.
"Hey."
"Happy belated birthday," he said.
I smiled
"Yeah."
Sharone said, "Happy birthday" His New York accent was clear.
Damien held up several pages.
"We're doing scene fifteen first."
"Fletcher's office?"
"Yeah."
He started walking and I followed him backstage.
The office set had been built inside one of the rooms.
There was a wooden desk with a chair behind it. A couch sat along the other side. There was a coffee table, two lamps, framed photographs, plaques and several books. A filing cabinet was against the wall.
The camera was positioned outside the doorway And Damien looked at monitor, "Action"
J.K. started back toward his desk.
"Good," Fletcher said. "Too many students latch onto their little pursuits like they're life rafts. Something they found as teenagers and decided makes them interesting. For what?"
He sat on the edge of his desk.
"Take a seat."
I walked toward the couch.
"Uh… yeah. I mean, I started younger than that."
Fletcher looked at me.
"How young?"
"Six."
"Oh."
He nodded once.
"Kids start swimming at six. Doesn't mean they become Michael Phelps."
I sat down.
"So drums were a hobby," he said. "Nothing you ever thought you'd build your whole life around. Right?"
"For a while," I said. "I thought maybe I'd go all the way with it."
J.K. held my eyes for a moment. He barely changed his expression, but I could feel the pressure behind it.
"Kids think they want all kinds of things," Fletcher said. "When I was younger, I had ideas too. Thank God the people I trusted talked me out of a few of them."
"Yeah."
"It's good to listen to advice. People who know you. People who see things you can't."
I nodded.
"As long as they don't have ulterior motives."
The line landed differently than the others.
I looked at him.
Fletcher stepped down from the desk and crossed to the couch. He sat beside me.
"So," he said, "what exactly are you planning to pursue at Columbia?"
"I don't know yet."
"Nothing?"
"Not really."
He nodded, like he had expected that answer.
"That's fine. You're young. Most people don't know what they want at your age." He paused. "My father didn't. He tried a little bit of everything. Took him years before he figured out what he was really meant to do."
"What was that?" I asked.
"Insurance."
All l could see was his large black pupil's.
"That was his dream," Fletcher said. "The office. The cubicle. The coffee breaks. The fluorescent lights."
He let the silence sit there.
"A regular job," he said. "A safe one."
Then he stood.
"I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually, Andrew."
I stood too.
"Any questions?"
My eyes drifted to a photograph on the wall.
Fletcher noticed.
He walked over to it.
"That's Sean Casey," he said. "Graduated a few years ago. He's already playing at Lincoln Center."
"Oh."
Fletcher started toward the door. I followed him, but I looked at another photograph on the wall before we left.
"So are you still looking for Studio Band players?"
Fletcher turned around.
"A few."
He studied me.
"But Studio Band isn't easy. Most students here don't last."
He stepped away from the door.
"Laszlo Polgar. Hungarian psychologist. He had this theory that talent could be developed through conditioning. He believed you could take an ordinary child and make them extraordinary if you trained them the right way."
I stayed still.
"He decided to prove it with his own children. He chose chess. Not because he loved chess. Not because he was good at it. He chose it because it was measurable."
J.K. moved slowly around the room as he spoke.
"He found a wife who agreed with him. They had three daughters: Susan, Sofia, and Judit. Those girls grew up around chess. They practiced before they could understand what other children were doing with their time."
He looked toward the photographs again.
"Susan became one of the best female players in the world. Sofia had her famous tournament in Rome. Eight straight wins. And Judit?"
He paused.
"Judit became the greatest of them all." The room felt smaller.
"Those girls weren't raised to sit around and wait for inspiration," Fletcher said. "They were raised to leave a mark."
Then he put an arm around my shoulder and started guiding me toward the door.
"Which is why I'm sure you'll do just fine at Columbia. Whatever you decide to set your mind to."
"It was nice talking to you, Andrew. Now—"
"I just have one thing," I said. J.K. stopped.
"I mean… I'm not entirely sure I'm transferring yet."
Fletcher turned to look at me.
"That's concerning."
"I just think maybe I should give it more time."
"No need." His voice stayed calm. "First instincts are usually the honest ones. You made the decision for a reason."
"My first instinct is not to transfer."
J.K. tilted his head slightly.
"Then maybe your first instinct is wrong."
I did not know what to say.
"Think about it," Fletcher said. "And while you're thinking…"
He opened the door.
"make sure your double-time swing is ready for Nassau Band on Monday."
He closed the door. I stood there, still facing it. Damien did not call cut right away.
I stayed in place, letting Andrew feel the confusion, the embarrassment, and the strange feeling that Fletcher had just challenged him instead of rejected him. Then Damien finally said it.
"Cut."
The room relaxed.
J.K. stepped away from the door and looked at me.
"That was good," he said.
Damien walked over from the monitor.
"Yeah," he said. "That's the feeling. Andrew doesn't realize Fletcher is tearing him down."
I nodded.
"So he wants to prove him wrong," I said.
"Exactly," Damien said. "That's what makes it dangerous."
Later that night, we moved to the Nassau Band room.
The set was crowded with music stands, chairs, cables, lights, instruments, and crew members making last-minute adjustments. I sat behind the drum kit as Andrew, trying to stay focused on the chart in front of me.
The scene began with me missing a hit which repeated itself.
Mr. Kramer stopped the band.
"Alright," he said. "That's enough. Back to the core players."
The musicians began switching positions.
As another drummer traded places with me, he looked down and whispered, "Dude, what have you been practicing?"
Before I could answer, the door swung open.
Everyone went quiet.
J.K. entered as Fletcher. Damien had asked the entire room for complete silence. No one was supposed to move. No one was supposed to whisper. The only sound was Fletcher's footsteps as he crossed the room. Mr. Kramer stepped away from the front of the band.
Fletcher adjusted the music stand and looked down at the chart. He ran his finger along the page, finding the place he wanted. Then he looked up.
"Down the line."
Every musician raised their instrument. "Trumpets," Fletcher said. "Bars thirty-six through thirty-eight. One, two—"
The first player began. J.K. cut him off after only a few notes.
"Next." The second trumpet player missed his cue.
"Next." The third came in late. Fletcher stared at the section.
"Trombones. Bars twenty-one through twenty-three. Four and—"
The trombonist fumbled through his sheet music.
"Saxes. Forty-eight through fifty. And of one. And—one—"
The alto saxophonist began playing. Fletcher stopped him after a bar.
"Next—"
He looked at the tenor saxophonist's hands and stopped before the player even made a sound.
Then Fletcher turned toward the drums.
"Drums." My stomach tightened.
The other drummer was at the kit.
"Double-time swing." He took a breath. Fletcher clapped once.
The drummer began playing. A few seconds later, Fletcher raised his hand.
"Thank you."
Then he pointed at me.
"You. Behind him." I walked toward the kit
My palms were sweaty by the time I sat down. I picked up the sticks and tried to ignore the cameras, the musicians, Damien at the monitor, and J.K. standing only a few feet away.
For Andrew, there was only Fletcher.
I watched his hands. Fletcher clapped. I started playing,tried to keep the rhythm steady. I tried to make the movement look natural. At all costs, l did not stop.
But Fletcher stopped me too.
"Thank you." I lowered the sticks. "Bass," he said. "Five bars of 'Donna Lee.'"
I stepped away from the kit and returned to my seat. The bassist began playing.
Damien kept the camera on me. I sat there as Andrew, watching Fletcher control the room. Everybody was afraid of him. Everybody wanted something from him. And for the first time, Andrew understood that he wanted it too.