For all intents and purposes, “Whiplash” is a monster movie — it doesn’t exactly take place in reality. Concerning an ambitious young man at a renowned music college under the tutelage of a conductor whose technical excellence is outweighed only by his ruthlessness in weeding out imperfections in his students, this is a film that approaches musicianship much like “Gravity” approached space travel. The finer points, be they the laws of physics or the kind of behavior a teacher can reasonably get away with in 2014, are essentially meaningless in light of the film’s dramatic intentions. Which, in both films’ cases, are hair-raising.
That the absurdity of “Whiplash” (made literal by a mid-point dramatic twist of the hyperbolic sort) is purely cinematic, or artificial, doesn’t negate its very-real emotional impact, which ranges from the intoxicatingly visceral to the enraging. Whether you come out of the experience with euphoria or rancor depends largely on your ability to accept an entertainment that milks tension from a spectacle of cruelty. As conductor Terence Fletcher, J.K. Simmons (best known as Mr. Jameson, the newspaperman, from the 2002-2007 “Spider-Man” films) would give many drill sergeants a run for their money, the expletive-lined verbal abuse unspooling from his mouth like a poison silk.
In the opening scene, Fletcher comes upon young Andrew Neiman (Miles Teller), a freshman student with a knack for drumming. Their initial meeting – after an opening shot that suggests the haunted hallways from “The Shining” – suggests a wild cat playing with its next meal, and before long, it becomes obvious that there is little that this conductor won’t do to push his musicians out of their comfort zones. Fletcher selects Neiman to join his jazz band, and doesn’t give him much time to hit the ground running. Anything less than perfection opens the door for a blast of verbal punishment, if not outright physical violence. If a moral is to be taken from this, it would seem to be that bullying is a good and even useful thing in encouraging someone’s development – a notion that offends many, this writer included.
It’s not, however, a notion I believe the film endorses, particularly when taking into account a subplot regarding the fate of one of Fletcher’s former students. Fletcher’s example, however negative remains bewitching to behold, and through the lens of genre, he’s no more than a demented master looking for his next pupil. Ultimately, however, “Whiplash” is a film that exists apart from morals and messages, so exuberantly free of subtext that the only appropriate way to interpret it is as its own experience. Neiman’s practice sessions more than occasionally result in spilled blood, and the ferocity of his climactic performance is like bottled lightning.
The inherent silliness of “Whiplash” is actually a saving grace in the end. Any attempt to suffuse a film of this nature with depth or importance that would stand up under scrutiny would likely deflate the entire enterprise. It’s as close as any movie in a great while has come to being pure action, stripped of all fat and boiled down to its essence. Damien Chazelle’s direction is lean and almost deterministic, with every shot suggesting a pot about to boil over. J.K. Simmon’s performance will be remembered for its no-nonsense intensity, and the young Miles Teller also surprises with nuance in a role that is little more than a puffed-up cartoon character.
“Whiplash” is ridiculous if considered on a literal level, but as cinema, it’s nearly sublime.
“Whiplash” starts at the GoggleWorks Film Theatre on Friday, Dec. 26.
Robert Humanick is a contributing writer for slantmagazine.com Follow Rob on Twitter @rhumanick
