WHIPLASH (B) - "Whiplash" is a trite, corny, formulaic, melodramatic depiction of the macho-bullshit holy trinity of performance, competition and perfection, commonly found in sports movies. It's also a pretty entertaining two hours.
Miles Teller ("The Spectacular Now") stars as Andrew, a mild-mannered but determined drummer who enrolls at a prestigious music academy in New York (portrayed here by L.A.). There he falls into the trap of the intimidating Terence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons), the maniacal, terrorizing director of the school's elite jazz band. Fletcher is part football coach, part drill sergeant, part Bond villain. He is psychologically abusive, and he drives young Andrew near the breaking point.
Andrew wants to be the next great jazz legend. Fletcher is obsessed with discovering and molding the next transcendent jazz god, a white-hot genius like Charlie Parker. He mercilessly harangues his musicians, relying on homophobic putdowns and ethnic stereotypes. He is as punctual as Mussolini. He is as demanding as Vince Lombardi. He's a tyrant utilizing psychological warfare. And Simmons sinks his teeth into that role. He is super-buff, with a shaved head, and he nails every verbal riff like a drum machine. (He's Buddy Rich when he flies off the handle.) Meantime, Teller brings nuance to a poorly fleshed out character. (Paul Reiser is wasted as Andrew's stage father; he's often used mainly for contrast as the alpha male's punchline.)
Young director Damian Chazelle has quite a visual flair, an obvious love of the music (and the jazz scene), and he sure knows how to sell the music, which is often worth staying in your seat for. The performance pieces look legit. He also stages a car crash that is genuinely startling. But as a writer, he traffics in tropes throughout. We see Andrew practice until his hands bleed (numerous times). There's the understanding girlfriend who must be sacrificed for the cause of the team. We get a "There's no crying in
Chazelle hits us with a couple of twists at the end, in the mold of a psychological thriller. They are just clever enough to rescue his story from crescendoing into one big sloppy cliche.
"Whiplash" (the title is taken from a classic tune riffed on repeatedly in the movie) suffers from that generic skeletal structure we find in just about every competition film driven by an over-the-top coach or instructor. But it's got enough of a psychological edge -- mostly the distorted father/mentor performance by Simmons, veins bulging -- that it carries you along to its decent conclusion.
BONUS TRACK
The title song from the film:
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