A freshman at one of the top music schools in the country is pushed further and further towards perfection, but at what costs?

Rating: 10/10 (28 December 2015)

Everyone has had them at some point in their academic life; that cutthroat, soul smothering, devastatingly proactive teacher that spat sweat and obscenities in a do or die mission to create perfection. They are that one teacher who if embraced, became singularly admired for their dedication and drive to back you into a corner until you pushed back. Possibly not as impetuous as Fletcher (JK Simmons), our rash but headstrong professor at Shaffer Conservatory, yet an influence that takes the path less traveled. It is this demonstrative ideology that our film takes, hurling verbal cymbals at our head in what surmounts to a throat clenching wake-up call to our senses. From the opening act, we place our motivational fortitude and drive to succeed on the table, in the end coming back to something beautifully and honestly changed.
Andrew (Miles Teller) is a first year student at Shaffer Conservatory in New York City, one of the most prestigious schools for music in the country. We're introduced to him visually afar yet audibly intimate, his actions unfocused with a sound that's precise. After being heard and invited by Fletcher, Shaffer's top jazz professor, to sit in as alternative for core drummer in studio band, Andrew soon realizes the methods to Fletcher's teachings. He is belittled, slapped, and deconstructed in front of everyone on his first day, reducing him to tears. He then clears his room, moving his drum set into his studio space in order to better himself, playing as fast as he can until a defensive wall is constructed around him. Eventually earning his position as core drummer, battling it out for hours against his peers, Andrew begins bleeding Fletcher's fervor in a pursuit of perfection.
Infusing his character with a determination and naïve sense of guidance, Miles Teller ignites the screen with the crack of a snare drum. When we first hear Andrew speak, it's through his music, as he rolls and flams until he is recognized; a recognition that's responded to with uncertainty. Andrew doesn't so much voice his thoughts when he isn't playing, but emotes them through his gaze. Miles manages to capture the brittle mannerisms and the anxious looks of a young talent with total conviction, often saying more with a downward glance than anything verbal can capture. When he meets Fletcher and begins to adopt characteristics that come off foreign for him, Miles assumes a mirror image of his impressively tyrannical teachings, his blood spewing both literally and symbolically.
Taking turns playing off each other is an undeniably fire-starting performance by JK Simmons as Fletcher, who tempos his vehemence and disparaging remarks like a whip, with Andrew his star whipping boy. Dressed in a tight black shirt, his arms acting more like weapons than batons, Simmons pushes our film forward with intensity and gas soaked propensity for evocation. As Andrew reacts to a cymbal hurtling towards him, we react in the same manner, our expressions of disbelief continually poked until a fire is raging within us. Fletcher and Andrew respond back and forth between each other, one using words while the other uses notes, all the while both are secretly being stripped of what they love.
Written and directed by Damien Chazelle (Guy and Madeline on a Park Bench), Whiplash plays out like a musical gladiatorial match, thunderous and composed, our freshman focus entering the arena in hopes of obtaining his freedom in the form of recognition. Having written The Last Exorcism Part II, Chazelle constructs his characters out of the character moldings of a horror film, filling Fletcher with an unpredictable rage and an obscure background that generates metronome like terror. Andrew never flees from his captor, instead battling his opponents with a tenacity and ferocity that eventually places him in the path of his deadliest adversary.
There's a scene in which Andrew must prove his capability and worth, drumming toe to toe against two other potential core drummers. It's a scene that champions Chazelle's abilities behind the camera, and one that creates a slow burn for Editor Tom Cross. We re fixated on Andrew as he splits wounds in an even display of speed and impeding success, our visual tempo increasing as the scene unfolds. It's a phenomenal display of jump cuts that only gives us a taste of what's to come, Andrew's drum guiding the camera with precise intensity. We erupt with a snare buzz across the screen in a climactic confrontation that leaves us on the edge of our seat with our eyes and ears synched in stupendous harmony.
In the end, Whiplash leaves a completely welcoming mark across our necks as visual craft merges with auditory storytelling in what surmounts to an undeniable achievement for Chazelle and Cross. Placing ourselves in front of the screen, we are pointedly told to observe the aspirations and barrages, both mental and physical, of our young talent, culminating in one of the most rewarding experiences this genre has ever seen. As the final act closes and we are left with just our ears as guidance, it becomes immediately evident that Damien Chazelle's sophomoric effort juxtaposes that of Andrew's virtuosity, placing itself as a cinematic rarity.