Whiplash

When J.K. Simmons enters a scene in Whiplash, you can hear each percussive clop of his footsteps. He’s the type of dude who would wear loud soles just so his students could shush themselves into submission when they know he’s in the hallway.

As Terence Fletcher, the studio band conductor at the elite and fictional Schaefer Conservatory in New York, he insprires fear and demands creative discipline from his musicians. Bald, triceps bulging and dressed in black, he instructs in a totalitarian style as effective as it is ruthless.

“There are no two words in the English language more harmful than ‘good job,’” says Fletcher, explaining his pedagogy. Simmons and writer/director Damien Chazelle are on a hunt for verbal and physical assaults. To sharpen his new drummer Andrew Neyman (Miles Teller) into a big band weapon, Simmons employs trash talk, hate speech and bloodletting drum exercises.

Though jazz and conservatory life sketch out the plot, it’s the distorted power dynamic between player and coach that Whiplash examines in detail. Simmons is a music school god, malevolent and manipulative in the pursuit of making his good players great.

In the first moments between Simmons and Teller, the teacher offers the student a glimpse of compassion to bait the relationship. But when Simmons loses patience, he Bobby Knight-hurls a chair at Teller and slaps the boy’s face until he knows the tempo.

Whiplash asks a poignant question for anyone who’s been involved in serious athletics or performance – how far is too far for a coach to motivate young minds? As Teller focuses on his quest to be “one of the greats,” we see relationships falter and a teenager whittle at himself in monomaniacal grind. After an hour’s screen time of abuse, it’s no surprise when Teller inevitably attacks his mentor.

IT’S A PRETTY PASTY FLICK FOR A MOVIE TAKING PLACE IN THE JAZZ WORLD.

“Charlie Parker became Bird because Jo Jones threw a cymbal at his head,” Fletcher (and then Neyman) repeats. It’s an often-repeated image in the jazz world, but it’s also false. Drummer Jo Jones dropped his cymbal to rattle altoist Charlie Parker back into time, according to Stanley Crouch’s meticulous biography Kansas City Lightning. This historical white-washing is similar to the fabricated image of jazz in Whiplash. The artform is represented by an odd choice, idealizing the verbose (and white) drummer Buddy Rich over more artistic (and black) players like Max Roach or Elvin Jones. It’s a pretty pasty flick for a movie taking place in the jazz world. Not one critical role is occupied by a black actor.

But as director, Chazelle makes the musical details of Whiplash stand out in vivid detail. When an upright bassist gives a solo demonstration, you can hear the snare rattle in anticipation. In the practice room, players wet reeds, dot ink on fake books and leak spit out their saxes’ valves. Over a pizza date with his brief girlfriend Nicole (Melissa Benoist), Teller calls out the tune played in the parlor, a giveaway of music nerds everywhere.

Miles Teller’s best work is ultimately behind the kit. He looks comfortable in traditional grip, laying down some impressive rhythms while impressively faking the more technical moments. But it’s Simmons that makes Whiplash’s good moments great. Simmons’ character of Terence Fletcher is arguably more intimidating than his neo-Nazi role in HBO’s Oz. But offstage, Simmons is more complex – emotional, good with kids and almost able to justify his teaching style. If his performance is not Oscar-worthy, then that buzz-phrase has no meaning.

Whiplash (3) Directed by Damien Chazelle • Starring J.K. Simmons, Miles Teller, Melissa Benoist, Paul Reiser • Rated R • 107 mins. • At Osio Cinemas.