Channeling both Lee Marvin and Nurse Ratched, J. K. Simmons plays Terence Fletcher, absolutely nailing one of those rare movie performances that manages to go over the top without a trace of insincerity. He’s, of all things, the music instructor from hell–his veins popping out when he’s going off. His idea of teaching includes relentless, acerbic insults; tirades of political incorrectness of every stripe imaginable, and, occasional physical abuse. He’s a real fun guy.
His students are constantly on guard, virtually holding their breath for his next salvo. When conducting, Fletcher waves off an unacceptable musical passage with a routine clenched fist rather than the customary wave of most conductors. Enter Andrew Neiman (Miles Teller) into this maelstrom. Andrew will become Fletcher’s prize pupil, which is to say his prime target. Teller, who’s been very good before (The Spectacular Now) plausibly portrays a low-key, determined-to-succeed good soldier, who’s pushed so far his drumming hands eventually bleed. This lends dramatic heft to later happenings in the film when, predictably, Andrew finally reacts.
Whiplash’s story arc, never on solid ground to begin with, will climb higher and higher up the ladder of the hamfisted and the implausible before it’s done pounding home the virtue of persistence. Even more blood will flow. Still more hard-to-swallow scenarios will come into play to test Andrew’s mettle. Throughout, there’s plenty of music, some of it quite good (Teller played many of the drum passages himself) and, as if to proclaim its authenticity, multiple references to Charlie Parker and Buddy Rich. To get an idea where 29-year-old director Damien Chazelle got inspiration for Fletcher, check out one of the many rants Rich barked at his band members (readily available online).
Yet the film keeps coming back to Simmons. It’s his movie to win or lose, and it’s such a commanding performance that Whiplash’s many blemishes are to a decent extent made over with the cosmetics of an Oscar worthy performance. Any messages in Whiplash, however, remain blurred by plot facilitating devices that annoyed this observer’s sensibilities far more than they anoint Chazelle as the next big thing.