Can you love a film while disagreeing with its very premise? That’s the question I found myself asking after I watched Whiplash. I was enthralled by the film, riveted by the visceral direction of Damien Chazelle and the charismatic acting of its two leads, Miles Teller and J.K. Simmons. Although it’s a modestly-budgeted film set at a music conservatory, I found it as gripping and exciting as any big-budget action thriller.
And yet…
Whiplash claims to be about art: jazz music in this case. But it never really talks about the feelings behind art, the power of expression. It treats drum playing like a contact sport. Indeed, Whiplash has more in common with a sports film or one of those basic training films where a cruel drill sergeant turns a boy into a man, than it does with, say, Inside Llewyn Davis or Once.
Here’s the premise: Andrew (Teller), a freshman drum player attending music conservatory in Manhattan, catches the attention of the sadistic, but charismatic head of the jazz department, Terence Fletcher (Simmons). Fletcher sees something in Andrew, but he puts the boy through hell in an attempt to tease out his greatness—insulting him, manipulating him, at one point, literally hurling a chair at him and smacking him across the face.
Whiplash comes at you with a rush of adrenaline and a muscular, undeniably male energy. (I counted exactly two female jazz players in the entire film, one of whom is mocked for achieving her status because she’s pretty). It has one basic premise: That you must suffer to be great, work harder than anyone else, endure humiliation, practice ’til you bleed (literally), become so singularly focused on greatness that you shut out your friends and family. (Andrew woos a cute young co-ed, played by Melissa Benoist, then dumps her because she’ll just prove to be a distraction.) Then and only then will you have a chance to be immortal.
Yes, the film shows Fletcher to be abusive and cruel. And yes, it plays lip service to the potentially destructive effects of his methods. But make no mistake: the film roots for him. Whiplash is about manning up, having what it takes.
To drive that point home, Fletcher is contrasted with Andrew’s father (Paul Reiser), a man so menschy and kind-hearted that he apologizes when someone accidentally hits him with their popcorn in a movie theater. Andrew’s dad doesn’t care much about greatness. He just wants his son to be happy. In the film’s eyes, he may be a great dad, but he’s anathema to great art.
“The worst words in the English language are, ‘Good job,’” Fletcher says to Andrew at one point. In some ways, the film is an indictment of liberalism—or at least a certain caricature of liberalism: the notion that everyone should be acknowledged for their effort, that niceness is as important as greatness. Okay, fine. But I reject the idea that to be a great artist you need to be a little cruel, a little cut-off, obsessive to the point of sociopathy. And, again, I’m not sure Chazelle really understands what art is. He turns the whole thing into a physical endeavor (he’s positively obsessed with blood and sweat on the drum kit). But while there are many passing references to Buddy Rich and Charlie “Bird” Parker, there’s not a single discussion of, you know, music.
That being said, Whiplash is a blast. I’m thrilled to see J.K. Simmons get the kind of showy, leading man role he has long deserved. From the first moment he walks in on Andrew’s drum practice, you can’t take your eyes off him. With his bald head and coiled arm muscles jutting out from under a tight black tee-shirt, he looks a man who’s ready to pick—and win—a fight. His all-seeing eyes regard his students with a mixture of hope, amusement, and contempt. And he knows when to lay on the charm, too. Part of his methods involve softening Andrew up, getting him to confess deeply private things, and then using that moment of vulnerability against him.
Fletcher’s unwillingness to ever settle for “good job” makes him nearly impossible to please. “Not my tempo,” he’ll say to Andrew, cutting him off with a clenched fist. Andrew will nod, then start again. “Not my tempo,” Fletcher says, stopping him again. This goes on, again and again and again. It’s frustrating for Andrew and frustrating for us in the audience. And that’s the point. Chazelle wants us to be annoyed. He wants us to feel what Andrew feels; be inside his head.
Anyone who saw Teller’s work in The Spectacular Now will hardly be surprised at how great he is here. Andrew is a good kid—although the film suggests that he gets less nice over time thanks to Fletcher’s bad influence—who buys in thoroughly to Fletcher’s theory of greatness. He doesn’t just want to be great, as he tells the girl he’s about to dump, he wants to be one of “the greats.” Teller is easily relatable, with sheepish charm and off-kilter handsomeness. He wears Andrew’s frustration—and determination—on his face. He tries not to cry and fails (Fletcher’s mocks him for being one of those “single tear” guys), but lets out his anger in practice by bludgeoning the drums to the point where he needs to dunk his bloodied hands in a bowl of ice water to continue. Andrew is desperate for Fletcher’s approval and, because we root for Andrew, we’re put in the uncomfortable position of wanting that for him, too.
Watching Whiplash was a bit like having an argument with a dazzling, wickedly entertaining, and brilliant orator whom I fundamentally disagreed with. We may part on different sides of the issue, but I’m sure as hell glad we had the debate.
Whiplash opens in Baltimore on November 7.