2014’s Whiplash,
written and directed by Damien Chazelle.
Starring Miles Teller, J.K. Simmons, Paul Reiser, Melissa
Benoist, Austin Stowell, Nate Lang, and Chris Mulkey.
What is it about?
Andrew (Miles Teller) is an aspiring drummer just starting
out at music school. With a supportive dad (Paul Reiser), and a meet cute
(Melissa Benoist) to get to know, things are looking up. Andrew is recruited by
a music teacher named Fletcher (J.K. Simmons) to play in his elite band. Andrew
is elated to have the chance, but quickly has to deal with intensely cut throat
“encouragement” from Fletcher. Pushed beyond limits few would consider normal,
will Andrew be able to stay in school, or break under pressure?
Why is it worth seeing?
Few films are as interestingly named as Whiplash. Is it a reference to the turn its protagonist makes in
obsessing to become a drummer beyond his instructor’s reproach, or a loving
reference to the sounds from the music school’s apprentices in this musical
tale of obsession? Perhaps it’s both, as writer/director Damien Chazelle’s
feature length debut is a singularly (some would say homicidally) focused tale
about the drive that it would take to become not just good at one’s field- but
all time great. Through the loving lens of a musical aficionado, Chazelle (and
composer Justin Hurwitz) show that behind the inspiration, of smoky and cool
improvisational jazz, and blustery bright but precise band music, lies
perspiration. But it’s not just the sweat (and bloody knuckles of marathon
drumming sessions) that can prove elite. It’s the sacrifice, or rather the
things that you don’t get to enjoy, because you’re too busy for pursuits like
romantic partners and being able to relate to people when greatness awaits.
It’s a depiction the film usually gets right.
There is no artistic success without a muse. And in Teller’s, um, focused, drummer character of Andrew, he starts out inspired by music, merely wanting to be proficient at it, and spend his off time with family members and a girlfriend. But that’s before he meets J.K. Simmons’ smoothly deceptive character of Fletcher, who’s talents extend far beyond merely reading, conducting, and playing music. His professor/pseudo terrorist character, who exudes almost as much charm as vitriol, puts out all the stops in the outright psychological warfare he employs over his students. No player in his group is safe, as Fletcher’s reign of terror encompasses using false compliments, ruthlessly pitting his students against each other, overt put downs, and assault. It has a galvanizing, if somewhat grim effect, on Andrew, who practices intensely and throws his ethics out the window like a pair of discarded drum sticks. It would all be so unpleasant, if it weren’t so diabolically riveting to watch Simmons revise a third reich deprived Hank Schillinger, cutting loose with abandon for just under a few hours. Like all great villains, he believes that he is the hero of his story, and that all of the student’s lives that he destroys is simply part of the process of separating the chafe from the wheat.
In a movie with few but potent characters, Fletcher’s villainy, and its effects on Andrew, are somewhat reminiscent of The Master, the Paul Thomas Anderson master study in two individuals’ chemical biology seeping into one another. But while Andrew’s character bends, constantly at risk of breaking from Guantanamo Bay-like punishment, Fletcher’s character never really evolves. He’s mere treachery, and as a result can’t compare to The Master’s charms, where Joaquin Phoenix and Philip Seymour Hoffman play a game of compromised chess in each other’s heads. Continuously leaching each other’s DNA while simultaneously never coalescing completely together, each encounter begins anew and goes in consistently unpredictable directions. Fletcher by comparison, is only an amp that can go up to 11. He has (clever) nuance, but not growth, or unpredictability. Whiplash’s greatest strength is also its weakness- there’s not much to speak of for characters beyond the two combatants, with all due respect to (enjoyable for the first time since Aliens?) Paul Reiser.
Possessing an at times a bizarre colour palate that neither looks good nor lends itself to the story, Whiplash is otherwise a laser focused delight about the nature of obsession, features a cracker jack filmed finale of competition, and its small but intense cast of characters play a musically inclined tune that is worthy of plenty a rewatch.
There is no artistic success without a muse. And in Teller’s, um, focused, drummer character of Andrew, he starts out inspired by music, merely wanting to be proficient at it, and spend his off time with family members and a girlfriend. But that’s before he meets J.K. Simmons’ smoothly deceptive character of Fletcher, who’s talents extend far beyond merely reading, conducting, and playing music. His professor/pseudo terrorist character, who exudes almost as much charm as vitriol, puts out all the stops in the outright psychological warfare he employs over his students. No player in his group is safe, as Fletcher’s reign of terror encompasses using false compliments, ruthlessly pitting his students against each other, overt put downs, and assault. It has a galvanizing, if somewhat grim effect, on Andrew, who practices intensely and throws his ethics out the window like a pair of discarded drum sticks. It would all be so unpleasant, if it weren’t so diabolically riveting to watch Simmons revise a third reich deprived Hank Schillinger, cutting loose with abandon for just under a few hours. Like all great villains, he believes that he is the hero of his story, and that all of the student’s lives that he destroys is simply part of the process of separating the chafe from the wheat.
In a movie with few but potent characters, Fletcher’s villainy, and its effects on Andrew, are somewhat reminiscent of The Master, the Paul Thomas Anderson master study in two individuals’ chemical biology seeping into one another. But while Andrew’s character bends, constantly at risk of breaking from Guantanamo Bay-like punishment, Fletcher’s character never really evolves. He’s mere treachery, and as a result can’t compare to The Master’s charms, where Joaquin Phoenix and Philip Seymour Hoffman play a game of compromised chess in each other’s heads. Continuously leaching each other’s DNA while simultaneously never coalescing completely together, each encounter begins anew and goes in consistently unpredictable directions. Fletcher by comparison, is only an amp that can go up to 11. He has (clever) nuance, but not growth, or unpredictability. Whiplash’s greatest strength is also its weakness- there’s not much to speak of for characters beyond the two combatants, with all due respect to (enjoyable for the first time since Aliens?) Paul Reiser.
Possessing an at times a bizarre colour palate that neither looks good nor lends itself to the story, Whiplash is otherwise a laser focused delight about the nature of obsession, features a cracker jack filmed finale of competition, and its small but intense cast of characters play a musically inclined tune that is worthy of plenty a rewatch.
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