A promising young drummer enrolls at a cut-throat music conservatory where his dreams of greatness are mentored by an instructor who will stop at nothing to realize a student's potential.

Terence Fletcher: There are no two words in the English language more harmful than "good job".
Uncle Frank: You got any friends, Andy?
Andrew: No.
Uncle Frank: Oh, why's that?
Andrew: I don't know, I just never really saw the use.
Uncle Frank: Well, who are you going to play with otherwise? Lennon and McCartney, they were school buddies, am I right?
Andrew: Charlie Parker didn't know anybody 'til Jo Jones threw a cymbal at his head.
Uncle Frank: So that's your idea of success, huh?
Andrew: I think being the greatest musician of the 20th century is anybody's idea of success.
Jim: Dying broke and drunk and full of heroin at the age of 34 is not exactly my idea of success.
Andrew: I'd rather die drunk, broke at 34 and have people at a dinner table talk about me than live to be rich and sober at 90 and nobody remembered who I was.
Uncle Frank: Ah, but your friends will remember you, that's the point.
Andrew: None of us were friends with Charlie Parker. *That's* the point.
Uncle Frank: Travis and Dustin? They have plenty of friends and plenty of purpose.
Andrew: I'm sure they'll make great school board presidents someday.
Dustin: Oh, that's what this is all about? You think you're better than us?
Andrew: You catch on quick. Are you in Model UN?
Travis: I got a reply for you, Andrew. You think Carleton football's a joke? Come play with us.
Andrew: Four words you will never hear from the NFL.
Aunt Emma: Who wants dessert?
Terence Fletcher: I was there to push people beyond what's expected of them. I believe that's an absolute necessity.
Terence Fletcher: You think I'm fucking stupid? I know it was you.
Terence Fletcher: Nieman, you earned the part. Alternates, will you clean the blood off my drum set?
Terence Fletcher: [Repeated line] Not my tempo.
Terence Fletcher: You are upset.
[Andrew nods yes]
Terence Fletcher: Say it.
Andrew: I'm upset.
Terence Fletcher: Say it so the whole band can hear you.
Andrew: [a little louder] I'm upset!
Terence Fletcher: Louder!
Andrew: [loud] I'm upset!
Terence Fletcher: LOUDER!
Andrew: [louder] I'M UPSET!
Terence Fletcher: You are a worthless, friendless, faggot-lipped little piece of shit whose mommy left daddy when she figured out he wasn't Eugene O'Neill, and who is now weeping and slobbering all over my drum set like a fucking nine-year old girl! So for the final, FATHER-FUCKING time, SAY IT LOUDER!
Andrew: [at the top of his lungs] I'M UPSET!
Terence Fletcher: [going back to compose the band] Start practicing harder, Nieman.
Terence Fletcher: I can still fucking see you, Mini Me!
Terence Fletcher: I don't think people understood what it was I was doing at Shaffer. I wasn't there to conduct. Any fucking moron can wave his arms and keep people in tempo. I was there to push people beyond what's expected of them. I believe that is... an absolute necessity. Otherwise, we're depriving the world of the next Louis Armstrong. The next Charlie Parker. I told you about how Charlie Parker became Charlie Parker, right?
Andrew: Jo Jones threw a cymbal at his head.
Terence Fletcher: Exactly. Parker's a young kid, pretty good on the sax. Gets up to play at a cutting session, and he 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 plays the best motherfucking solo the world has ever heard. So imagine if Jones had just said: "Well, that's okay, Charlie. That was all right. Good job. "And then Charlie thinks to himself, "Well, 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.
Terence Fletcher: For the record, Metz wasn't out of tune. You were, Erickson, but he didn't know and that's bad enough.
Terence Fletcher: Do you think you're out of tune? What are you... there's no fucking Mars Bar down there, what are you looking at? Look up here, look at me. Do you think you were out of tune?
Metz: Yes.
Terence Fletcher: THEN WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU SAY SO? Carried your fat ass for too long Metz, I'm not gonna have you cost us a competition because your minds on a fucking happy meal instead of on pitch.
Terence Fletcher: That is not your boyfriend's dick, so don't come too early.
Terence Fletcher: Were you rushing or were you dragging?
Andrew: I-I don't know.
Terence Fletcher: Start counting!
Andrew: Five, six...
Terence Fletcher: In four, dammit! Look at me!
Andrew: One, two, three, four.
[Fletcher slaps him the face]
Andrew: One, two, three, four.
[Fletcher slaps him again]
Andrew: One, two, three...
Terence Fletcher: Now, was I rushing or I was dragging?
Andrew: I don't know.
Terence Fletcher: Count again.
Andrew: One, two, three, four.
[slap in the face]
Andrew: One, two, three, four.
[another slap in the face]
Andrew: One, two, three, four...
Terence Fletcher: Rushing or dragging?
Andrew: Rushing.
Terence Fletcher: [yelling] So, you do know the difference!
Terence Fletcher: And here comes mister gay pride of the Upper West Side himself. Unfortunately, this is not a Bette Midler concert, we will not be serving Cosmopolitans and Baked Alaska, so just play faster than you give fucking hand jobs, will you please?
Terence Fletcher: Were you rushing or were you dragging? If you deliberately sabotage my band, I will fuck you like a pig. Oh my dear God - are you one of those single tear people? You are a worthless pansy-ass who is now weeping and slobbering all over my drumset like a nine year old girl!
Terence Fletcher: I never really had a Charlie Parker. But I tried. I actually fucking tried. And that's more than most people ever do.
Andrew: [to Connelly] HEY, FUCK OFF JOHNY UTAH! TURN MY PAGES, BITCH!
Poster of Buddy Rich on Andrew's wall: IF YOU DON'T HAVE ABILITY, YOU WIND UP PLAYING IN A ROCK BAND
Terence Fletcher: Either you're deliberately out of tune and sabotaging my band, or you don't know you're out of tune, and that's even worse.
Terence Fletcher: Get the fuck off my sight before I'll demolish you!
Andrew: [after being replaced by another drummer] Are you serious? That shit?
[last lines]
Terence Fletcher: [Andrew keeps playing after the music ends] Andrew, what are you doing?
Andrew: I cue you!
Andrew: But is there a line? You know, maybe you go too far, and you discourage the next Charlie Parker from ever becoming Charlie Parker?
Terence Fletcher: No, man, no. Because the next Charlie Parker would never be discouraged.
Terence Fletcher: Now are you a rusher, or are you a dragger or are you gonna be on my fucking time?
Andrew: I'll be on your time.
[First Lines]
Andrew: [Andrew stop playing because Fletcher enters the room] I'm sorry, I...
Terence Fletcher: What's your name?
Andrew: Andrew Neiman sir.
Terence Fletcher: What year are you?
Andrew: I'm a... first year.
Terence Fletcher: You know who I am?
Andrew: Yes sir.
Terence Fletcher: So, you know that I'm looking for players?
Andrew: Yes sir.
Terence Fletcher: Then why did you stop playing?
Terence Fletcher: [Andrew resumes playing] Did I ask you to star playing again?
Andrew: Uh... sorry , I...
Terence Fletcher: I ask why you stop playing and your version of an answer was to turn into a wind-up monkey.
Andrew: Sorry, I...
Terence Fletcher: Show me your rudiments.
Andrew: Yes sir.
[Andrew plays while Fletcher removes his jacket and puts it on a rack]
Terence Fletcher: Double-time swing.
[Andrew resumes playing]
Terence Fletcher: No, double time. Double it!
[Andrew resumes playing]
Terence Fletcher: Faster. Faster!
[Andrew continues playing until he hears Fletcher slam the door out]
Terence Fletcher: [Fletcher goes back to the room] Upsy-daisy. Forget my jacket!
Terence Fletcher: If you want the fucking part, earn it!
Terence Fletcher: So, imagine if Jones had just said, "Well, that's okay, Charlie. That was all right. Good job." So Charlie thinks to himself, "Well, 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. And they wonder why jazz is dying.
Terence Fletcher: We have a squeaker today, class. His name is Andrew Nieman, he's 19 years old. Isn't he cute?
Terence Fletcher: Nieman, you're done.
Terence Fletcher: [after Andrew stops drumming] Is that all you have you worthless Hymie fuck? No wonder mommy ran out on you.
Terence Fletcher: You're here for a reason. You believe that, right?
Andrew: Yes.
Terence Fletcher: Say it.
Andrew: *I'm here for a reason*
Terence Fletcher: [Smiling] Cool.
Terence Fletcher: Everybody remember, Lincoln Center and its ilk use these competitions to decide who they are interested in and who they are not. And I am not gonna have my reputation in that department tarnished by a bunch of fucking limp-dick, sour-note, flatter-than-their-girlfriends, flexible-tempo dipshits. Got it?
Terence Fletcher: Motherfucker! Connelly, get your ass back on the kit.
Terence Fletcher: Try me you fucking weasel! At 5:30 that's in exactly 11 minutes my band is on stage. If your ass is not on that stool with your own fucking sticks in hand or you make ONE FUCKING MISTAKE, ONE! I will drum your ass back to Nassau where you can turn pages until you graduate or fucking dropout! By the time your done at Schaeffer your gonna make daddy look like a fucking success story, got it, OR, we can let Johnny Utah play the part, you choose.
Andrew: It's my part, I'll be on your stage. Fuck
[Rushes to pick up his rudiments]
Terence Fletcher: The folder is your fucking responsibility, Tanner. Why would you give it to Neiman? Right? You give a calculator to a fucking retard he's gonna try to turn on a TV with it. Now get your sticks and get your ass on stage.
Terence Fletcher: Five-P.M. call tomorrow in Dunellen. Give yourself at least two hours to get there this time, alright? Save your travel receipts. Or don't. I don't give a shit.

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