Four stars. Rated R, for profanity and dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.14.14
Hard-charging instructors, so the
theory goes, have a greater impact on one’s determination to succeed. As this
story’s band coach insists, during one of his rare quiet moments, no two words
in the English language can do more damage than a polite, “Good job.”
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| Fletcher (J.K. Simmons, right) is gentle with trainee drummer Andrew (Miles Teller) for about 15 seconds ... after which the young student quickly begins to fear his new instructor's dismissive gestures and increasingly impatient growl of "Not my tempo!" |
Ah, but at what point do aggressive
boot camp tactics become damaging emotional abuse? And, given the potential
goal, does that distinction even matter?
Such questions are at the heart
of writer/director Damien Chazelle’s riveting Whiplash, a fierce contest of
wills between a promising drum student and a vicious, perfectionist instructor.
Although Chazelle opens the setting up as much as possible, it’s often hard to
escape the impression that we’re watching a brutal, two-handed stage play; the
acting is that intense.
As the take-no-prisoners Terence Fletcher,
veteran character actor J.K. Simmons finally gets a well-deserved starring
spotlight: an opportunity he seizes with the ferocity of a shark going in for
the kill. Although Fletcher isn’t above physical violence, he’s much more
comfortable with mocking psychological warfare, with a shrewd eye for the
exploiting a victim’s soft underbelly.
Forever dressed in dark black,
Fletcher initially seems a well-meaning if needlessly profane purist ... but
Simmons quickly disabuses us of that mistaken impression. The inventive
complexity of his profane outbursts might make us chuckle, but it’s nervous
laughter at best. It’s all too easy to believe this guy capable of leaping
through the screen and ripping our throats out.
Put simply, Fletcher is a bully:
a deliberately cruel sociopath who excuses his bestial behavior on the basis of
artistic clarity. Simmons is so viciously effective in this role — so memorably
nightmarish — that it’s impossible to take our eyes off him. We cringe each
time he twists a hand into the clutched fist that signals his musicians to
stop, knowing that yet another verbal brow-beating is seconds away.
However impressive the result,
from the standpoint of galvanic acting chops, this isn’t a film to be
“enjoyed,” in the vicarious sense of the term. This is a nasty, debilitating
contest between director and viewer, much like the battle of wills raging
between the story’s teacher and pupil.
