A Visceral Explosion of Rhythm and Fury

Rating: 10/10 (2 May 2015)

There is such a myriad of blood, sweat, tears, anxiety, screaming, and terror in Whiplash that an outsider might mistake it for a horror show instead of a cursory, superiorly breathtaking thriller of sorts. I'm not the kind of critic that uses tired phrases like "kept me at the edge of my seat" or "made me sweat bullets" as devices to trickily describe my heart-rate, but during Whiplash, I experienced both sensations; not in the same way I did when Ghostface was chasing around Drew Barrymore with psychotic fascination in Scream and not in the same way I did when Marion Crane was getting shower-knifed in Psycho. Whiplash invents an entirely new kind of thrill, one where an aggressive insult is as excruciating as a punch to the face and a drum solo quivers with the same acrimony of a fist fight where no one wins.
Miles Teller (who is already becoming one of Hollywood's many underrated young talents) portrays Andrew Neyman, an aspiring drummer who has found a place within the halls of a respected music conservatory on the East Coast. Though slightly cocky, his talent is undeniable; he aspires to be the next Buddy Rich, and it doesn't seem like all too much of an exaggeration. Little does he know that he is about to become the punching bag of Terence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons), a sadistic conductor who isn't afraid to hurl verbal and physical assaults on his students in order to achieve a sickened sort of perfection.
Famously, the American Film Institute compiled a series of Top 100 lists, its subjects being stars, laughs, passions, quotes, and more. If they were to start again from scratch in the next decade or so, Terence Fletcher would, in no doubt, find his place as one of the Top 50 Villains. Simmons has made himself a kind presence before (Juno, all those insurance commercials), but never again will I be able to look at him without a cautious, passing fear. As terrifying as Darth Vader or Nurse Ratched, Fletcher seems to enjoy inflicting pain onto his students; even scarier is the fact that the film never offers any explanation as to why he feels the need to traumatize the impressionable youths around him. Most movies would use a dying wife or an abusive childhood as excuses, but not with Fletcher. He is evil, probably not even realizing it. Simmons snarls his way through screaming matches with unbridled ferocity, but more disconcerting is his ability to radiate cruelty even when his manners are at their very best.
In Whiplash, we're never quite sure if Fletcher's alarming teaching methods will ultimately guide Andrew in the direction of the greatest drummer alive, or if they will send him over the edge. Teller, a brilliant and intuitive actor, is aware that Andrew isn't always likable but makes up for it with fierce determination. As he practices unbelievable amounts of time to polish a certain section of a particular piece of music, blood rips through his hands like a geyser, sweat pours down his face like a waterfall. But will he give up? The lethal rapport between Teller and Simmons is morbid enough to keep us guessing.
Mention must also be made for Tom Cross' magnificent editing. The way he pieces together Fletcher's attacks on Andrew are inflamed in peril, flickering with rough movement that matches Fletcher's unpredictable mood changes; most impressive is the climax (which is basically a long, extremely intense drum solo), which captures every single detail imaginable, ensnaring any drip of sweat or instrumental spasm of the performance.
When the closing credits finally popped up, I noticed that, in all my leg-shaking and shortages of breath, I was drenched in sweat. Whiplash doesn't allow for a smoke break or a second to get your bearings straight — the continuance of high tension makes it the most thrilling film of 2014.
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