‘Whiplash’ Review By Enrique Pedraza. “Whiplash” means the lashing action of a whip. This is exactly how Andrew (Miles Teller) feels in Damien Chazelle’s film about a severely ambitious young drummer who confuses passion with obsession in the path to be remembered as one of the greats. This is the story of a guy who modernly represents the illusion of success and the toughness and somewhat insalubrious competition that exists in the world of the arts. J.K Simmons penetratingly embodies the role of Mr. Fletcher, the abusive conservatory instructor that forces Andrew into the darkness emitted by humiliation, failure and most crucially, the feeling of normality, of being part of the mediocre group, the ones that will never “make it.” The film opens and closes with Andrew at the drums. It is interesting to see the change in his technique, but also the identical force of passion and dedication, from beginning to end. He lacks effort on his personal accomplishments outside drumming because he’s guided only towards mirroring legendary musicians from the past. He desperately wants to be in the conservatory’s Jazz band to be able to play at competitions, and that’s about all he cares about. His relationships with girls are awkward and when he finally meets someone he likes, it quickly falls apart as he openly expresses his reasons not to be a good boyfriend: he will have no time to fight, talk or love. Andrew’s only obstacle is Fletcher, a man who finds repetition and sarcasm as well as swearing, screaming and spitting, as the instrumental tools for his successful teaching methods. His performance is absorbing but also expected. Throughout the film I questioned his brutality, a fantastic source of laughter and entertainment that is constructed on intense build-ups; the more he swears, the funnier the situation is, and the angrier he gets, the more phrases he invents. Yeah, the aggression is fun to watch in a couple of scenes, but it is draining after a while, not in a claustrophobic, interesting way, but more in a repetitive, mind-numbing way. The work of cinematographer Sharone Meir is exciting. He’s the man responsible for shooting the beautiful “Mean Creek” back in 2004, as well as a number of horror films. The film’s visual world revolves around the brown, black, and red colors. There is some strong contrast in the images that is usually highlighted by white light on top of the characters, either at the conservatory classrooms or on the performance stage. This inevitably creates isolation as well as a rousing tension emphasized by the round and fulfilling sound of the drums. The problem is that there are too many similar moments in the film, all of them communicating equal emotions of despondency, anxiousness and stress. Fletcher looks down at Andrew, therefore he practices, cries, bleeds and gets better. Then he’s replaced and diminished. Then he tries harder and harder and harder. Eventually we arrive at the final sequence of the film, which is pulsed with adrenaline and sweat. I enjoyed watching this psychological trauma. I think that such an excessive behavior like Andrew’s is relatable and definitively present in our minds. It was refreshing to see a plot focused on the technical, precise world of individual practicing. A world hidden by the spectacle and glamour that accompanies any artistic endeavor.
