If you’ve ever made an attempt at taking up an artistic interest—be it through visual arts, creative writing, or especially music—odds are you’ve probably had the phrase “practice makes perfect” continuously jammed into your ears by your family, friends, and most certainly by your instructors. Odds also are that you probably haven’t had a chair hurled at your head to help drill that message in.
But unfortunately for the up-and-coming drummer Andrew Neyman (portrayed by Miles Teller) in Damien Chazelle’s energetic “Whiplash,” that’s exactly the case. Chazelle’s sophomoric effort, which was the critical darling at this year’s Sundance and took home both the festival’s Audience Award and Grand Jury Prize It’s a heart-pounding portrait of an artist against the odds that combines emotions with jazz into the most suspenseful drama of the year.
As the fall semester settles into full swing at the fictional Shaffer Institute, first-year student Andrew eagerly studies to become the next great jazz drummer. Whether it’s practicing into the early hours of the morning on his drum kit or zoning out to the music of Charlie Parker on the bus, jazz is always on his mind. During one of his late-night practice sessions, the famed instructor Terrence Fletcher (J. K. Simmons) walks in to give a listen and, spotting potential, asks Andrew to enroll in his upper-level jazz ensemble. Keen to show up his doubtful classmates, Andrew takes the invitation in stride.
However, upon the first day of rehearsal Andrew learns just how extreme Fletcher’s teaching methods are. For instance, he flunks a student over a slightly out-of-tune instrument; he shoots down others with demeaning rhetoric far from the realm of political correctness; and, when Andrew doesn’t match his tempo to the millisecond, he nearly decapitates him with a folding chair (occurring right after Fletcher told Andrew about how his beloved Charlie Parker had a cymbal thrown at his head by jazz drummer Jo Jones, which may or may not actually be true but works for the story).
And all of this happens within the first ten minutes of rehearsal.
As the semester progresses Fletcher continues to pick on Andrew in a seemingly disproportionate manner. Yet, regardless of the constant physical and emotional abuse, Andrew refuses to quit. Whether it’s to prove his worth to his doubtful father (Paul Reiser), a high-school English teacher-slash-failed writer, or to prove to his peers (as well as himself) his dedication to the field, Andrew continues to persevere, risking his budding relationship with fellow undergrad Nicole (Melissa Benoist), his sanity, and even his very livelihood. Neither Andrew nor Fletcher are willing to give in, thus committing themselves to a relentless test of endurance that leads to a nerve-wrenching, foot-tapping, electrifying conclusion.
A film of this ilk could have easily succumbed to either typical underdog tropes or the by-the-beat musician biopic archetype. Luckily, writer-director Chazelle chooses to frame it as a hyper-eclectic character piece that documents the artist’s struggle for relevance and acceptance in an otherwise uncaring society. Andrew’s always at odds with something–from his family history, to his solitude in school, as well as his unsecured career path, and Chazelle shows this internalized struggle in an effectively visceral way.
Fletcher and Andrew’s teacher-student relationship is one that is taken to warped extremes, provoking dialogue to where one must draw the line between multiple dichotomies: work versus leisure, personal versus private lives, and dedication versus obsession. It’s painful to watch Andrew’s story unfold as he trades one passion for another, slowly embodying Fletcher’s twisted image of an ideally committed musician. As a result the end product is surprisingly suspenseful for a drama, tonally toeing the line into thriller territory.
Where other filmmakers might have focused solely on the musical performances and montaged the practice sessions, Chazelle gives attention to them to showcase Andrew’s continuous plight against Fletcher’s demands. The sessions drag on, becoming increasingly intrinsic as the drum kit becomes tattered with punches and coated with viscera. (Regardless of its clichéd status, stating that Andrew put his “blood, sweat, and tears” into the music is grotesquely accurate.) By also choosing to focus on a drummer for this music-based drama instead of a more narratively-common instrument (piano, guitar, classical strings—take your pick), Chazelle chooses to focus on beat over tone, thus tapping into the audience’s innate sense of rhythm and making us empathize with Andrew’s journey on some musically subconscious level. All of which is further propelled by Sharone Meir’s immaculate cinematography and Tom Cross’ spot-on editing, resulting in a fine-tuned film that’s stylistically sharp.
Simmons steals the film’s spotlight as the sociopathic Fletcher in an enjoyably larger role. Simmons, who’s usually been reserved to exaggerated bit parts and minor supporting roles (think J. Jonah Jameson from Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man trilogy or Cave Johnson from the videogame Portal 2), commands the film with his character’s unhinged ferocity. Whether he actually believes in Andrew’s potential or simply needed a new student punching bag is unclear, but his rage is undeniably rampant. He screams at students—mere inches away from their faces—pushing them to the brink of tears. He smacks them square on the jaw until they’re in sync with the rest of the ensemble. Maybe he’s trying to dismantle the pop psychology practice of unhampered self-esteem boosting, or maybe he’s just evil. Regardless, he’s always one-upping his competition in order to prove his intellectual dominance. All of that, coupled with his aging, wrinkled physique and his dark, empty eyes, makes him one of the most terrifying cinematic characters ever concocted outside the genre of horror.
Teller more than adequately holds his ground in the lead role. Taking a more straight dramatic turn compared to his rom-com and teen-oriented blockbuster repertoire, Teller brings a surprising amount of depth and nuance to his troubled character, from dedication and frustration to sorrow and regret. And that’s not even considering the physical demands that he meets, laying down frenetic drum solos to meet Fletcher’s tempos. Whether he’s throwing his fist through his snare drum during practice, holding his ground in a career-oriented debate with family friends, or going toe-to-toe with Simmons during their characters’ rehearsal, he more than capably exhibits the intricacies necessary to make Andrew both well-rounded and realistic.
Whiplash is a harrowing document of how far one is willing to push themselves in order to pursue their dreams, and if enough really is never enough. Supported by two spectacular performances, astounding technical skills, and an engrossing jazz score, Chazelle’s film is arguably one of best portrayals of artistic passion ever displayed on-screen. If there are any flaws at play here they are essentially inaudible, and unlike Fletcher I am willing to dish out a much more forgiving critique.