Whiplash (2014)

For years, this had been the highest entry on IMDb's top 250 that I hadn't seen (a distinction presently held by Dangal at #80). Sources had suggested that it was not exactly pleasant to watch, and my dad got the same impression. But I could ignore its many awards and consistent high scores across all major rating sites for only so long.

Andrew (Miles Teller) is a conservatory freshman with a thing for drumming. The jazz band's conductor, Fletcher (J.K. Simmons), is pretty much Drill Sergeant Nasty, only he waits until you mess up to get angry at you. I'm not sure whether he's especially hard on Andrew or our perspective is limited by the spotlight, but Andrew is certainly under a lot of stress -- which drives him to become the drummer Fletcher wants.

My pity for Andrew is tempered by his will. Fletcher does a lot of things that would get a real school conductor fired, including throwing a folding chair at Andrew's head just for not getting the desired rhythm (and honestly, despite my ear for music, I usually couldn't tell when something was off) and using insults that express homophobia, sexism, anti-Semitism, and ableism. By the time he alluded to Andrew's parents' divorce in a putdown for the whole class to hear, I would have tried to jam a drumstick into Fletcher's windpipe. But Andrew is afraid of nothing more than dying without fame and sees no other way to achieve it, so for all his anger, he keeps coming back for more and even breaks up with a new girlfriend (Melissa Benoist) to make time for more practice.

If I were a budding jazz musician when I saw this movie, I'd dread my future, probably giving up on the dream. It might be even worse if I decided to go Andrew's route instead. Experts tell me that writer-director Damien Chazelle vastly dramatizes what happens in reality, and Fletcher's inspiration for using abuse to find the next Bird Parker turns out to be an urban legend. His methods would not fly, and neither would Andrew's in playing: No proper handling of the drumsticks leads to so much bleeding.

If Chazelle means to express a love for jazz, he has a strange way of doing it. He certainly dwells on it a lot and brings up some features that might increase my own interest, but the jazzists he depicts seem to be ruining themselves. Perhaps he just likes to use it as a vehicle for exploring ambition.

More seasoned listeners tell me that the jazz in Whiplash is pretty run-of-the-mill. Andrew does eventually impress me, especially at the grand finale, but that scene goes on longer than I'd like.

Technically and artistically, the film is decent in my book, engaging the heart if not the mind and perhaps meriting its Oscars. Philosophically, it presents too big a hurdle. Are we to conclude that Fletcher's obviously despicable behavior should get a pass for paving the way for a new star while discouraging less determined and thus presumably less talented musicians (all the way to suicide in one case)? I can't abide that.

The day may come that I like a Chazelle flick. After all, Denis Villeneuve took a few tries to get me on board. But he'll have to try another approach.