REVIEW | Whiplash

2014 | 1hr 46mins | Drama | Rated 15 | Dir. Damien Chazelle

Despite the attempts of countless artistic hopefuls, the pursuit of ‘greatness’ is a task accomplished by a mere few. Are those who find success to be thankful only for their talent, or is credit due to those who persistently push them towards stardom? Focusing upon the competitive nature of jazz musicianship, Whiplash (2014) brings to light the perils of competing in a concentrated ring of talented musicians and the consequences of obsession.

As an aspiring jazz musician prior himself, writer-director Damien Chazelle provides an autobiographical approach to his rendering of 19-year old freshman Andrew Neiman (Miles Teller), a dedicated jazz drummer with a desire to rise above the rest. Resenting the mediocrity emulated by his father (Paul Reiser) - a failed author-come-teacher with a lack of ambition - Neiman enrols at the esteemed Shaffer Conservatory, a school fit to rival Julliard. The intensity of the competition between his peers affirms Neiman’s desire to push the limits of his talent and prove his worth; articulating the struggle to surface in a murky sea of wannabe successes.

As the film begins, we are engrossed by darkness. Our other senses are dulled as the harsh sound of a mounting snare roll grows in volume and pace. Chazelle himself noted for the New York Times that the drum strikes mimic the spine-tingling “ricochet of a machine gun”; and the intensity is suitably matched. Dim light floods the frame as a final strike silences the building roll. A lone soldier resides behind his drum-kit artillery, and resumes his display of warfare. That is, until a silhouette emerges from the shadows; this is Terence Fletcher (JK Simmons), the overbearing conductor of Shaffer’s famed Studio Band and the man that Neiman must succeed to impress. What follows is a painstaking display of the relationship between sadistic teacher and over-determined student, which is not too far removed from that of a grunt and his Drill Sergeant; a relationship that swiftly deteriorates from one of chivalry and respect to one of abuse and resentment.

Mirroring that of a warzone, a knuckle-biting intensity remains throughout the film. As we can never be sure of a soldier’s wellbeing, neither can we be of Neiman’s. In jazz legend, Jo Jones historically threw a cymbal at Charlie Parker, an act of violence rumoured to have been the catalyst for Parker’s success. To filter out the weak, Fletcher treats his students with similar vigour; in Neiman’s case, a chair replaces the cymbal weapon. Barking orders to his students as if he taught dogs, Simmons successfully emulates terror in his distinctive portrayal of a man eschewed by his desire to find the Parker to his Jones. The almost grotesque nature of his expressions, twisted by anger and passion, are enough to send dread through any spectator - the caricature of the fearsome tutor inevitably aligning with one’s own school-day memories. Hurling torrents of homophobic slurs and aggressive remarks towards anybody who dare step a toe out of line – or out of rhythm – Fletcher asserts himself as a force not to be reckoned with. He is an object of fascination for our eager-to-succeed protagonist, and for Chazelle’s attentive audience.

Starring in his role of Andrew, Miles Teller’s engaging performance effectively conveys the determination of a dedicated artist, without sacrificing any naïvety and arrogance. Surprisingly, Neiman’s traits are ultimately unlikeable, a daring decision made by Chazelle that aligns our empathy not with his personality, but instead with his burning desire to succeed - a trait that is buried deep within each and every one of us. With this desire, however, comes its drawbacks. Neiman sacrifices familial relationships in favour of his obsession, building a wall between himself and those around him. Indeed, as there is no room for family in his life, there seems to be no room for anybody – Andrew puts an abrupt end to a blooming relationship with cinema usher Nicole (Melissa Benoist), insisting that his devotion to drumming would drive her to resentment (although it is clear that in his eyes, it’s another rejection of mediocrity). Inevitably, he is left alone. The lack of distraction from rehearsal causes his sanity to plummet as his devotion grows crazed – he drums until blood-soaked plasters fall from blistered fingers, and ice water is pigmented red as a fist plunges deep within. Late for a competition, in a moment of intensity, a hire car is T-boned by an oncoming truck. Andrew crawls helplessly from the wreckage - his determination to continue despite his bruised face and limping step is exemplary of the perils associated with absolute obsession, a theme effectively explored.

Although tension reigns fiercely within the film’s sequences of action, it is the moments of tenderness which ultimately provide heart and sincerity. From sharing popcorn with his father in a dark cinema to laying alone in his dorm, headphones feeding him the music of his idols, we come to know Neiman inside and out by the film’s final chapter. Editor Tom Cross’ impeccable pacing of action and recovery never lets a moment of near-unbearable tension escape – a feat which leaves hearts racing even as the curtains draw. The structure of Whiplash (named after Hank Levy’s jazz standard repeatedly rehearsed) is supported by Justin Hurwitz’s sublime soundtrack and score which blends moments of furious jazz with more tranquil melodies. Hurwitz injects aspects of his own musical language into the film’s score, which are recognisable within Chazelle’s earlier feature Guy and Madeline on a Park Bench (2009) – which, unsurprisingly, also revolves around the world of jazz and those within it. The director’s passion for his filmmaking craft is unmistakably obvious, just as Neiman with drumming – and thus, each aspect of Whiplash ties seamlessly together to forge nothing less than an outstanding cinematic experience.

- Cat Lawler