I'd been wanting to save Whiplash for just such an occasion; it definitely sounded like something I wanted to see, but only on a brave day. It sounded to me like it would probably be another Alien or Dangerous Liaisons, a genuinely thrilling experience, yes, but one that would leave me feeling like a wet dishrag afterwards. I scheduled my day accordingly: exhausting film at 3pm, painting a polymer clay seahorse with glitter at 5.
I get the impression this may be one that more people have heard about than actually seen, so I'll summarise: Andrew Neimann (Miles Teller) is a young drummer on a punishing jazz course at Shaeffer, a highly prestigious and entirely fictional New York conservatoire. Misunderstood by his well-meaning father and extended family, he wants nothing less than to be one of the greats, and is prepared to pay the price in not only sweat, but blood.
During a particularly vigorous practice session one day, he finds himself visited by one Terence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons), conductor of the establishment's most highly-regarded jazz band, and a man for whom mere perfection is never enough. Fletcher's teaching methods are less unusual and more flat-out barbaric, and soon the lines of battle are drawn. One question remains, though - are they really on opposite sides?
The good
I was expecting this one to be one I appreciated rather than actually enjoyed. While I'm as fond of creative verbal abuse as anybody, the power dynamic makes a difference - watching the likes of Malcolm Tucker berate well-paid and powerful MPs, for example, is very different to overhearing a parent tear their child down on the bus. I was worried Whiplash would fall too close to the latter category, which is why I approached it with trepidation. The last thing I was expecting was for it to be fun.And yet fun's exactly what it was - a tremendously good time, in fact, just campy enough to recall Black Swan but without Natalie Portman playing yet another wide-eyed ingenue ten years her junior. Make no mistake, this is a manly movie about manly men, soaked in sweat and drenched in testosterone.
Much has been made of Simmons' performance as Fletcher - it seems to have won him every supporting actor award going this year, and justifiably so. Fletcher is threatening, yes, but also occasionally amiable and ultimately understandable, the antithesis of a cardboard cut-out villain, and he occupies a perplexing moral grey area that makes him utterly compelling. Miles Teller, meanwhile, apparently went method as Andrew - the blood we see on the drumkits is his own - and is utterly convincing throughout.
There's plenty more to praise, too - the minimalistic staging, the ebb and flow of the dialogue and the glorious lighting of the Schaeffer scenes. Best of all, however, is the way that the soundtrack is allowed to exist in and of itself as an organic part of the film, dazzlingly performed and there to be appreciated rather than to manipulate audience emotion.
Oh, and the final, climactic scene? Sexy. There, I've said it. Incredibly well written and shot and directed and edited and acted, yes, but also something of a turn-on.
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