Whiplash: Where the hell did Miles Teller come from? I mean, yes, I’ve seen him do exemplary work in “The Spectacular Now,” across from the equally talented Shailene Woodley, but nothing comes close to the gutsy, master-class performance he brings to “Whiplash” as Andrew Neiman, an aspiring jazz drummer attending the most highly regarded music school in the country (at least in his words), Shaffer Conservatory. He comes across as extremely attentive to musicality, able to do more than hear the music; he feels it, and he lets the notes loose through his skillful drumming. At 19, he’s an introvert, choosing to limit personal contact to a bare minimum, outside of say routine movie theater trips with his father, and dedicates himself to his ultimate goal: to be the next great something. Enter in J. K. Simmons as Terence Fletcher, the feared conductor of the school’s studio band. He emulates the vocality of a drill sergeant circa “Full Metal Jacket,” cursing and all, and stops at nothing to get the very best out of his students, expecting nothing less than perfection. Upon letting Andrew into his class, Fletcher relentlessly throws verbal abuse (and a chair, in one instance) to get a rise out of him, begging him to unearth himself from his self-imposed shell and realize his potential. His teaching goes beyond questionable and enters the realm of true torture, but Andrew pushes through anyway, allowing no personal distractions to disrupt his growth. With Band-Aid patched palms and sweat pouring out of him like a malfunctioning sprinkler head, Andrew stops at nothing. “There are no two words in the English language more harmful than ‘good job,’” Fletcher tells Andrew at one point, and that underscores the real heart of “Whiplash.” Serving as the incredibly majestic debut of writer/director Damien Chazelle, “Whiplash” concerns itself with a young man that aspires to legendary status over anything simply “good,” and the mentor that thrusts him into that rare field, over any and all forms of mediocrity. Through a series of unfortunate events, Andrew and Fletcher develop an animosity towards one another, and the last sequence serves as a battling ground for these two stubbornly momentous forces; only one can come out alive, but no one comes out unscathed. Even the cymbals on the drum kit have blood droplets sprayed all over it, and the drum face comes away smudged with dried blood. This last sequence, a several minute drum solo unparalleled by anything I’ve ever seen, is invigorating and an utter rush as if the film were on speed. In fact, this scene might be the best cinematic scene I’ve seen all year. Speaking of the best, Miles Teller’s performance is a once-in-a-lifetime showpiece, a nuanced masterpiece in every sense of the word. It’s all bite, and it’s cringe-worthy to watch him drum on through literal blood and tears like a madman. Simmons plays a maddening character himself, and I came to despise him, but he’s still human, if only for moments at a time. In any other film, he’d be the stand out, but, no, the breath-taking “Whiplash” is Teller’s movie. Teller reaches down into depths most actors twice his age can’t accomplish, and he leaves his bleeding heart on the stage floor. Kudos also to Chazelle, who somehow gets so much out of these actors and his impeccable script—although there was a noticeably copious amount of homophobic slurs throughout. “Whiplash” is such a triumph, the slurs aside, a tale of “Rocky” meets “Drumline” that transcends the flaws of those films and becomes a straight-forward take on urban America’s quest for brilliance amidst a culture that seems to just want to get by. In what is assumedly New York, Andrew exemplifies the truth behind the old adage “practice makes perfect.” But, hot damn, does he makes it effortless; play on, man, play on. 4/4.
Posted on: Mon, 24 Nov 2014 06:11:08 +0000
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