Whiplash (2014 film)

"We've got a squeaker today, people. Neiman. 19 years old. Isn't he cute?"

"Barker, that is not your boyfriend's dick. Do not come early."

"It's all good, no worries, here we go."

"[playing an audio clip of a trumpet solo for the band] Six years ago, I came across a kid in a practice room working on his scales. He was early second year and he'd started at Shaffer with a lot of hope. Like all you guys. But the truth was, he barely squeaked in to begin with, and, uh... he was really struggling. The faculty were all telling him, "Maybe this isn't for you." But they didn't see what I saw. This scared, skinny kid, cursing himself because he couldn't get his scales right. I saw a drive in him. And I put him in Studio Band. And when he graduated, Marsalis made him third trumpet at Lincoln Center. A year later, he was first. And that's who you're listening to now. His name was Sean Casey. I found out this morning that... Sean... died yesterday... in a car accident. And, uh, I just... I wanted you guys to know he was a beautiful player. I just thought you should know."

"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? One, two, one, two. [Carl starts drumming, Fletcher stops him] Not even fucking close. [to Ryan] 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."

"[after Andrew stops drumming] Is that really the fastest you can play, you worthless Hymie fuck? No wonder mommy ran out on you. Get off the fucking kit."

"Either you're deliberately out of tune and sabotaging my band, or you don't know you're out of tune, which, I'm afraid, is even worse."

"Neiman, you earned the part. Alternates, will you clean the blood off my drum set?"

"[Repeated line] Not quite my tempo."

"Listen up, cocksuckers! Hurry the fuck up. Get your music. "Irene" only. Set one. Rhythm section out first. Tanner, the kit is a fucking tonal catastrophe, get it in tune, all right? Rhythm and soloists, bar 45, we're gonna pick up the tempo there, all right? Bar 106, brass, do not forget we sharp that ninth. 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? One more thing. Eugene, give me that. [Eugene hands Fletcher his music folder] If I ever see another one of these lying around, I swear to fucking God, I will stop being so polite. [to a stagehand who just walked in] Get the fuck out of my sight before I demolish you. [to band] Stage right, in order, now. [to stagehand] I can still fucking see you, Mini-Me!"

"Sorry guys, hate to put you through this. If you need to fuckin' take a dump, or get a coffee, whatever - now might be a good time, because we're gonna stay here until I find a drummer who can fucking play in time. I apologize to the musicians. Seriously, take ten, twenty, a fucking hour. [to drummers] You hear me, cocksuckers? You better start shitting me perfect four-hundreds. Connolly, get your fucking ass back on the kit!"

"You think I'm fucking stupid? I know it was you."

"Miles Teller - Andrew Neiman"

"J. K. Simmons - Terence Fletcher"

"Paul Reiser - Jim Neiman"

"Melissa Benoist - Nicole"

"Austin Stowell - Ryan"

"Jayson Blair - Travis"

"Kavita Patil - Sophie"

"Michael Cohen - Stagehand Dunellen"

"Kofi Siriboe - Greg"

"Chris Mulkey - Uncle Frank"