Even before I wandered towards cinephilia, I always had a place in my heart for musicals. I grew up with Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and The Sound of Music, and will tolerate any level of cheesiness if a dance number is involved (I’ll happily watch the entire High School Musical trilogy with anyone who asks). So, though I don’t remember how I found Whiplash the first time, it wouldn’t have taken much convincing for me to see a movie about musicians.
However, it’s clear from the opening drumroll that Whiplash has more in common with a psychological thriller than with a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. An uneasy atmosphere infects every scene and growing tension undercuts the beauty of the central ensemble’s music. We quickly realize that Fletcher, the ensemble’s director, expects perfection from the players lucky enough to sit in front of him–and that he will employ any method to produce the excellence he demands. Every piece of music that is played, then, becomes an opportunity for a mistake. As soon as the band members start to tune their instruments, we hold our breath and wait for the inevitable error, the explosion of anger, the chair being thrown across the room.
Andrew doesn’t know what he’s walking into when he joins Fletcher’s ensemble, simply thrilled to have the chance to prove his skill after countless hours of practice. When he falls down the stairs in an effort to reach his first rehearsal on time, though, we get a glimpse of the toll his new position will exact. Fletcher begins to push Andrew almost immediately, constantly dissatisfied with his efforts. He manages to overcome one challenge, so Fletcher devises a new one, forcing Andrew and two other drummers to compete for the right to play an incredibly demanding piece. Fletcher wants to test their technical skill, but he’s more interested in their commitment, wanting to see if they’re willing to match his demand for perfection with a drive of their own. Bleeding, sweaty, and exhausted, Andrew puts everything he has into this test and claims a momentary victory.
Then Fletcher seems to go too far. The frantic need to meet his demands leads Andrew to a dangerous car accident and then to attempt a competition performance while his hands are still too slick with blood to control his drumsticks. Andrew leaves the ensemble and we are certain that Fletcher’s abusive methods are at fault. But just as we’re sure whose side we’re on, Andrew runs into Fletcher in a jazz club–and he seems different. Playing piano, he seems more free, genuinely enjoying the beauty of the music that’s filling the room. A question begins to form in the back of our minds: have we misunderstood Fletcher this whole time? Even if his methods are wrong, are they motivated by something beautiful?
Fletcher is unwavering in his defense of the way he led the ensemble, sure that the way he pushed and shouted was the key to helping his students find greatness. He tells Andrew, “I was there to push people beyond what is expected of them,” he says. “Otherwise we’re depriving the world of the next Louis Armstrong.” If he accepted their mediocre performances, they’d never work to become better. While his methods may be extreme, a great musician would be fueled by them, would take even the harshest criticism and grow because of it. But Andrew gave up–does this mean Fletcher is wrong about his tactics, or that Andrew was never truly great?
As the tension continues to build, I can’t help pausing to admire the film Damien Chazelle has created. As it must be in a movie centered on jazz musicians, the soundtrack is phenomenal, moving and full of life. More importantly, he punctuates the noise with silence, forcing us to sink into the quiet between the moments of crashing cymbals and chairs. In this most recent viewing, the editing also captured my attention. It’s alive, moving with the phrases of the music we’re hearing, cutting on the beats and arcing through longer phrases. When Andrew is utterly focused on a single drumbeat, the camera holds us there, our attention completely riveted. Damien Chazelle is in control of every aspect of the film, while managing to imbue a sense of jazz’s freedom inside the tight structure.
Chazelle’s control extends even beyond the screen to influence our understanding of the characters he’s created. After Andrew’s encounter with Fletcher, we’re considering giving the director a second chance. And then Chazelle pulls the rug out from under our feet as it becomes clear that Fletcher is only letting Andrew play in his ensemble so he can destroy him. He’s been putting on an act this whole time, pulling Andrew–and the audience–into his trap. Forgetting every other time when his kindness gave way to abuse, we had started to believe that Fletcher had really learned his lesson, really changed, so his cold betrayal is utterly shocking.
But Andrew refuses to be cowed. He takes control, forcing the rest of the ensemble to follow his lead and earning Fletcher’s grudging support (even if it’s only in an effort to avoid looking foolish on stage). After being sworn at, abused, and manipulated, Andrew has found the strength to fight back. And then, again, we suddenly wonder–was Fletcher right all along? Andrew has ruined relationships, dropped out of school, and crashed a car as a result of Fletcher’s relentless pressure, but he’s also pushed himself harder than he ever would have on his own, developing new grit and new skill as a result. Should we credit Fletcher with helping Andrew discover his true genius, or condemn him for his abusive methods? Chazelle doesn’t answer this question for us, forcing us to continue pondering it long after the screen fades to black.