How ‘Whiplash’ Exposes the Cost of Perfection
It has been ten years since Damien Chazelle’s jazz band smash first hit cinema screens, leaving audiences in a state of, well, whiplash…
Whiplash stars Miles Teller as Andrew Neiman, an aspiring jazz drummer at the elite Shaffer Conservatory. When Neiman is called up to Shaffer’s most prestigious jazz ensemble, he’s thrust into a battle of psychological warfare with tempestuous conductor Terence Fletcher (an explosive J.K Simmons) as Fletcher’s extreme teaching methods push his drumming obsession to dangerous new heights. Set to a soundtrack of frenetic jazz and surprisingly violent drum solos, Whiplash has the trappings of a feel-good underdog story – but don’t be fooled, this is no Rocky.
Whiplash is the cynical, musical answer to the sports flick; a portrait of a tortured artist, with emphasis on the torture. Although it follows a thin plot with familiar story beats – a young upstart chasing big dreams and desperate to prove his mettle under the tutelage of an experienced mentor – Whiplash is more cautionary tale than it is uplifting cinema. The film is less interested in charting Neiman’s rise to greatness (if you can even term it as such), but in showing the grotesque, beastly cost of ambition. It’s not unfair to claim that Neiman ends the film a better drummer than the one we meet practising his double time swing in the opening scene, but ultimately Whiplash isn’t about showcasing his improvement or even celebrating his achievement… it’s about spotlighting his personal journey and asking the question: “what did it all cost?” Perhaps even more explicitly, it forces us to reckon with the notion that greatness, be it artistic or otherwise, is worth any cost.
“There are no two words more harmful in the dictionary than ‘good job’.”
From his first appearance in uniform black garb, all sinews and veins, jazz conductor Terrence Fletcher commands such a dominant, virile presence that even those of us that can’t tell our toms from our snares feel compelled to pick up sticks just to please him. Even before the worst of his behaviour is revealed to us – the homophobic slurs, the swears, the throwing of chairs – signals in the script and in Simmons’ magnetic performance suggest that it would be wise to stay in his good graces. This is certainly Neiman’s reaction, betrayed by the fact that his eyes positively light up any time Fletcher makes so much as a vague reference to his existence. Unfortunately, Fletcher isn’t exactly doling out any prizes for participation, and his intense teaching style is inappropriate at best and psychologically abusive at worst.
Fletcher doesn’t believe in a job well done. He’s a resolute subscriber to the idea that you don’t achieve greatness without sacrifice, and staunch to the end in his belief that his duty as a teacher is to push students beyond their limits to new levels of attainment using any means necessary. He is arguably the film’s greatest proponent of the idea that great art does indeed require great sacrifice. In Fletcher’s eyes, he is nearly totally vindicated due to his firm belief that pain and suffering is the price we pay for brilliance.
It’s difficult to get onboard with his teaching methods as he hurls expletives and physically harms his students, but the film isn’t a total indictment of his philosophy either. Chazelle takes the time, for instance, to humanise Fletcher during quieter moments that would have been out-of-place in a through-and-through villain narrative. And, as previously noted, Neiman ends the film a better drummer, so the desired end was achieved. All of this suggests that his teaching isn’t down to pure masochistic villainy, but method, and an intense love for music. In a 2014 interview with rogerebert.com, Chazelle said of Fletcher: “I think his love for music is so real that it gets in the way of this love for people […] His cruelty comes from a genuine love for the music, but he’s also an utter monster.” Fletcher wants to push the boundaries and create great music, and his extremist teaching methods are in service of that. The film certainly doesn’t make an effort to gloss over the torment of his philosophy, but it does acknowledge a method to the madness that lends itself to the ambiguity of the film’s ending that some critics argue glamorises sacrificing yourself for your craft. Because even if the audience isn’t totally onboard with him, crucially Neiman is.
“Because I want to be great.”
“And you’re not?”
“I want to be one of the greats.”
Fletcher finds a kindred spirit in the school for tortured artists in Neiman, who shares in his glorification of sacrifice. “Charlie Parker didn’t know anybody ’til Jo Jones threw a cymbal at his head,” he gloats in rebuttal to his Uncle Frank as he makes his case for dying unhappy but remembered at 34 rather than content and forgotten at 90. From the beginning, Neiman displays an intense fixation on obtaining legendary status. He devours Buddy Rich CDs, pours over drumming charts at every opportunity, and models himself in the image of jazz giant Charlie Parker. Charlie Parker was socially isolated, so Neiman must break it off with cinema host sweetheart Nicole (Melissa Benoist). Charlie Parker got a cymbal thrown at him and became great, so Neiman must endure Fletcher’s abuse to become great. Like Fletcher, he consistently uses this account of Charlie Parker’s life to justify his concerning and unsavoury behaviour. But it’s safe to assume that the majority of audience members aren’t familiar with Charlie Parker’s biography (or, indeed, the liberties both Fletcher and Neiman take in their retellings). The only point of reference they have for this philosophy comes from Neiman, who is more often than not in physical or emotional pain, conveyed in visceral shots of him sweating, screaming and bleeding. The ugly cost to the pursuit of perfection is on full display, with lingering, grotesque images of Neiman’s callused hands, pained expressions, and literal near-death experiences.
Not only do we see the physical cost, but the psychological toll on Neiman. Neiman begins a mild-mannered kid, if a little obnoxious, and somewhere along the way becomes the kind of person that snaps at his second-chair counterpart to “turn my pages, bitch!” He rebukes the perspective of his father, cuts ties with his girlfriend, and devotes himself wholly to worship at the church of Terence Fletcher. It’s unsettling to watch, and made only more disconcerting by Neiman’s inability to recognize it. In his eyes, the ends justify the means.
Which takes us, finally, to the ending. The film’s climax is a twenty minute emotional rollercoaster that culminates in Neiman overcoming Fletcher’s last power-play in their game of psychological chess and demonstrating his talents in a sensational drum solo. If this was a sports movie, this would be the winning goal, the final play of the game, the match point. It’s jubilant and victorious in one sense; Neiman is borderline delirious as he nails the “Caravan” charts that evaded him throughout much of the film. There’s also a mutual recognition of respect exchanged between Neiman and Fletcher. Neiman takes control, and Fletcher follows in his stead, conducting him through the number with an expression that almost looks like pride. For both, it’s clear that this is a victory.
And then there’s a sharp cut to Neiman’s father, spying in through a narrow window, awe-struck and horrified. There is no victory for him to celebrate here. His expression conveys a sentiment closer to the disappointment one might experience seeing a loved one fall into relapse. Neiman’s father, himself a victim to his son’s pursuit of perfection, has little reason to celebrate the art that has brought his son so much suffering. His rapturous drum solo truly feels like a definitive point of no return.
The key to unravelling the tragedy of Whiplash’s ending lies not only in his father’s expression, however, but an earlier admission made by Fletcher. In a seemingly authentic moment of candour at the jazz club, Fletcher reveals that, despite his best efforts, he “never had a Charlie Parker.” Audiences are left to ponder if Neiman truly is Fletcher’s Charlie Parker at the film’s end, though the achievement of mutual respect between our two leads, coupled with Neiman’s father’s horror, suggests a less optimistic take. By the film’s end, both Fletcher and Neiman are more vindicated than ever in their beliefs that great art requires great suffering. They’re blind to the cost of perfection, but Neiman’s father, and therefore each of us, are not. Terence Fletcher never made a Charlie Parker, and it’s left ambiguous here if Neiman would go on to see that level of success. What is clear is that he made a Terrence Fletcher – another disciple to the tortured artist cliché. We are the ones left to decide if it was all worth it.
Written by Sadbh Boylan
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