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Whiplash (2014) Poster

(2014)

Quotes

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?

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Showing all 59 items

Terence Fletcher: There are no two words in the English language more harmful than "good job".

Terence Fletcher: Nieman, you earned the part. Alternates, will you clean the blood off my drum set?

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Terence Fletcher: [Repeated line] Not quite my tempo.

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Andrew: [to Connelly] HEY, FUCK OFF, JOHNNY UTAH! TURN MY PAGES, BITCH!

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Terence Fletcher: I was there to push people beyond what's expected of them. I believe that's an absolute necessity.

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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!

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Terence Fletcher: For the record, Metz wasn't out of tune. You were, Erickson, but he didn't know and that's bad enough.

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Terence Fletcher: I can still fucking see you, Mini Me!

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[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!

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Terence Fletcher: If you want the fucking part, earn it!

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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 that story 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.

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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?

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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.

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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 mind's on a fucking happy meal instead of on pitch.

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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.

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Terence Fletcher: You think I'm fucking stupid? I know it was you.

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Terence Fletcher: That is not your boyfriend's dick. Do not come early.

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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.

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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.

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Andrew: [after being replaced by another drummer] Are you serious? That shit?

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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.

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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.

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Terence Fletcher: Get the fuck off my sight before I'll demolish you!

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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?

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Terence Fletcher: You're here for a reason. You believe that, right?

Andrew: Yeah.

Terence Fletcher: Say it.

Andrew: *I'm here for a reason*

Terence Fletcher: [Smiling] Cool. All right, man. Have fun

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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. People wonder why jazz is dying.

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Terence Fletcher: We have a squeaker today, class. His name is Andrew Nieman, he's 19 years old. Isn't he cute?

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Terence Fletcher: [after Andrew stops drumming] Is that all you have you worthless Hymie fuck? No wonder mommy ran out on you.

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Terence Fletcher: If you deliberately sabotage my band, I will fuck you like a pig.

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Terence Fletcher: Motherfucker! Connelly, get your ass back on the kit.

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Terence Fletcher: Nieman, you're done.

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Terence Fletcher: What the fuck are you looking for? There's no pot of gold down there.

[Ryan starts adjusting the seat]

Terence Fletcher: Really? Adjusting the seat, really? That's been your problem the whole fucking time, the seat height? So now you have it, right? Go!

[Ryan starts playing]

Terence Fletcher: BULLSHIT! FUCK YOU!

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Poster of Buddy Rich on Andrew's wall: IF YOU DON'T HAVE ABILITY, YOU WIND UP PLAYING IN A ROCK BAND

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[last lines]

Terence Fletcher: [Andrew keeps playing after the music ends] Andrew, what are you doing, man?

Andrew: I'll cue you in!

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Andrew: I'm just gonna lay it out there. This is why I don't think we should be together. And I've thought about it a lot and this is what's gonna happen. I'm gonna keep pursuing what I'm pursuing. And because I'm doing that, it's gonna take up more and more of my time. And I'm not gonna be able to spend as much time with you. And when I do spend time with you, I'm gonna be thinking about drumming. And I'm gonna be thinking about jazz music, my charts, all that. And because of that, you're gonna start to resent me. And you're gonna tell me to ease up on the drumming, spend more time with you because you're not feeling important. And I'm not gonna be able to do that. And really, I'm gonna start to resent you for even asking me to stop drumming. And we're just gonna start to hate each other. And it's gonna get very... It's gonna be ugly. And so for those reasons, I'd rather just, you know, break it off clean... because I wanna be great.

Nicole: And you're not?

Andrew: I wanna be one of the greats.

Nicole: And I would stop you from doing that?

Andrew: Yeah.

Nicole: You know I would stop you from doing that. You know, for a fact?

Andrew: Yes.

Nicole: And I'd barely see you anyway?

Andrew: Yeah.

Nicole: And when I do see you, you'd 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 gonna be great, and I'm going to be forgotten, and therefore you won't be able to 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? You're right, we should not be dating.

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Terence Fletcher: Oh my dear God. Are you one of those single tear people? Do I look like a double fucking rainbow to you?

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Terence Fletcher: Now this one really upsets me. We have an out-of-tune player here. Before I continue, would that player care to identify himself? No? Ok, maybe a bug flew in my ear.

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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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Terence Fletcher: Truth is, 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 are depriving the world of the next Louis Armstrong, the next Charlie Parker. I told you that story 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. But the next morning, what does he do? He practices. And he practices, and he practices with one goal in mind: Never too 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. So imagine if Jones just said "Well, that's okay Charlie. 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. 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: 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.

Andrew: Yeah.

Terence Fletcher: The truth is, Andrew, I never really had a Charlie Parker. But I tried. I actually fucking tried, and that's more than most people ever do. And I will never apologize for how I tried.

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Andrew: Hey. Sorry, I'm late.

Terence Fletcher: Well, glad you could fit us into your busy schedule, darling.

Andrew: I know. Look, sorry I'm late, but uh... I'm here, I'm ready to go.

Terence Fletcher: Connelly's playing the part.

Andrew: Yeah, like fuckin' hell he's playing my part.

Terence Fletcher: What the fuck did you just say to me?

Andrew: It's my part.

Terence Fletcher: It's my part and I decide who to lend it to. Usually it's someone who has fucking sticks.

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Terence Fletcher: [melancholic] Guys, just put your instruments down for a minute.

[plays a slow trumpet song through speakers]

Terence Fletcher: Just listen for a minute. 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 that 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. 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 I just... I wanted you guys to know he was a beautiful player. I just thought you should know.

[wipes tears from his eyes]

Terence Fletcher: I'm sorry.

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Terence Fletcher: 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 drop out! By the time you're done at Shaffer, you're 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.

[Rushes to pick up his rudiments, but turns to Connelly]

Andrew: Fuck you!

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Terence Fletcher: Why do you suppose I just hurled a chair at your head, Nieman?

Andrew: I-I don't know.

Terence Fletcher: Sure, you do.

Andrew: The tempo?

Terence Fletcher: Were you rushing or were you dragging?

Andrew: I-I don't know.

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Terence Fletcher: Nieman, you lost the fucking part.

Andrew: No, I didn't! You can't fucking do this to me!

Terence Fletcher: CAN'T?

Andrew: Yeah!

Terence Fletcher: When did you become a fucking expert on what I can or cannot do, you fucking weepy willow shitsack?

Andrew: I earned that part.

Terence Fletcher: You never earned anything. God, you are a self-righteous prick. The only reason you are a core is because you misplaced a folder. The only reason you're in studio band to begin with is because I told you EXACTLY what I'd be asking for in Nassau! Am I wrong?

Andrew: Yeah, yeah. I'm in studio band because I'm the best player...

Ryan: [interrupts] Hey, why don't you just back off, bro?

Andrew: Hey, you know, fuck off, Johnny Utah! Turn my pages, bitch!

Terence Fletcher: Hey, I can cut you any fucking time I want.

Andrew: You would've cut me by now.

Terence Fletcher: Try me, you fucking weasel!

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Terence Fletcher: [after several hours of drumming] Maybe it's time to *finally* bring this home. What do you say?

[Nieman starts drumming]

Terence Fletcher: Don't slow down. Pick it up! FASTER!

[bangs cowbell in front of Nieman]

Terence Fletcher: FASTER!

[throws drum]

Terence Fletcher: FASTER! FASTER! FASTER! KEEP PLAYING, KEEP PLAYING, KEEP PLAYING. DON'T STOP!

[calls for a halt]

Terence Fletcher: Nieman, you earned the part.

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Terence Fletcher: Let's go with the Irish Mick fucking Paddy cracker. You know, you actually do look quite a bit like a leprechaun. I think I'm gonna start calling you Flannery.

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Andrew: Hey, look, I can play these charts.

Terence Fletcher: [visibly distraught after phone call] Now is not the time, I swear to God.

Andrew: I can play it, okay?

Terence Fletcher: I SAID NOT NOW! If you want the fucking part, earn it.

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Terence Fletcher: [entering the room] Listen up, cocksuckers!

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Andrew: [kicks drumset out of the way and tackles Fletcher] Piece of shit! I'll fucking kill you! Fuck you!

Terence Fletcher: Get the fuck off me!

Andrew: [being restrained by band members] Get the fuck off me! Fuck off! Fuck you. Fuck you! Fuck you, Fletcher! Fuck you!

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Terence Fletcher: The truth is, Andrew, I... never really had a Charlie Parker. But I tried. I actually fucking tried. And that's more than most people ever do. And I will never apologise for how I tried.

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Terence Fletcher: [in calm,soothing manner to Andrew] Listen, the key is to just relax. Don't worry about the numbers. Don't worry about what the other guys are thinking. You're here for a reason. You believe that, right?

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Terence Fletcher: Tanner, are you a fucking statue? Let's go! Get off the stool.

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Ryan: Don't worry about Fletcher. He's more bark than bite.

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[last lines; during Andrew's drum solo]

Terence Fletcher: What the hell are you doing, man?

Andrew: I'll cue you.

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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.

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Terence Fletcher: You've got ten minutes, you fucking pathetic pansy-ass fruit-fuck!

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Carl Tanner: I need to look at the music.

Andrew: Oh yeah, it's right here.

Carl Tanner: Why isn't it on you?

Andrew: [notices the folder is missing] Where's the folder?

Carl Tanner: You're joking, right?

Andrew: I'm not. No, literally... no. I-I-I swear, I just had it here two seconds ago. It's gotta be around here.

Carl Tanner: How could you be so fucking stupid?

Andrew: I don't know, maybe a janitor came by or something...

Carl Tanner: A janitor? FIND THE FUCKING FOLDER! A FUCKING JANITOR? YOU'RE A DUMB FUCK! A DUMB FUCK!

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[repeated line]

Andrew: I'm upset!

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See also

Trivia | Goofs | Crazy Credits | Alternate Versions | Connections | Soundtracks

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