Whiplash: Breakneck Speed Equals Excellence!

Goodness gracious, I really wanted to love this film.  A story about jazz, playing drums and teaching music -- all of my favourite things and everything I do. Although the trailer was cringeworthy, I had high hopes. But for me, Whiplash turned out to be more like a made-for-TV-after-school special (with added foul-mouthed absurdities). I've seen better episodes of Fame.

I understand how fiction operates. I know this is just a film and meant to be entertainment. I'm hip to the concept of suspension of disbelief – where a semblance of truth may turn into a fantastic tale; therefore the audience should suspend judgement or disbelief.

And it would be easy to pick holes in the technical flaws. I will try to resist this, but suffice it to say, anyone with an ounce of technique will not bleed while playing (certainly not bucket loads that require submersion in ice and copious plasters). And it is impossible to punch your hand through Mylar.

Writer/director Damien Chazelle recalls his own experiences (fear of his music teacher), and deliberately uses sports and overtraining as a comparison to pursuing musical excellence -- fair enough. Someone’s truth doesn’t have to be mine. But the no pain, no gain approach is hackneyed nonsense. So melodrama (and Rocky) here we come!

If Whiplash was made about a trombonist, we'd have the corners of the player’s mouth cracking and bleeding -- having to be constantly defibbed back to life from passing out due respiratory failure and lack of air.

It really wasn't a film about jazz or drumming at all, but rather one of abuse, abuse of power and achieving musical 'greatness' by playing as fast as possible (where speed is paramount and playing drums is viewed as extreme sport) -- whilst becoming not a very nice person in the process. 

Speed is only one aspect of playing, not the aspect. Many may find this type of storytelling exhilarating, much in the same way many find the world’s fastest drumming competitions meaningful. But this is not music making, nor does it have anything to do with the skills required to build a great musician; making it for me, joyless and uninspiring.

Macho buffoonery aside, Neiman better prove Fletcher wrong and become a supersonic drummer rather than a 'pansy ass faggot'. Racist, homophobic and misogynistic language is used to build this musician’s character.

Ultimately, it is a film about the twisted 'bromance' of Neiman and Fletcher.  And one that is po-faced, overblown and full of male bloat: the last scene being cringeiest of all. Ah yes, the tiresome trope of the student becoming the teacher – but in this case perhaps not the most desirous of goals.  Neiman: I have the upper hand because I'm calling the musical cues.  Fletcher: no I have the upper hand because I'm still conducting you. I’m on top, no I’m on top! Get a room.

I left hugely disappointed and didn't feel entertained at all by these wholly unlikeable characters, as did many of my non-drummer, non-music-teacher friends, who disliked it even more than me. Most of all, the film irks because it perpetuates the fallacy that speed alone equates to eminence in playing the drums.

Fletcher's 'good job' monologue rang most true (not the incorrect version of the Jo Jones/Bird story he tells), but that commending students with high praise when they've only been adequate is detrimental. However, jazz is not dying because of undeserved congratulations; it is simply no longer the popular music of the day.

And while Teller is a decent actor with a compelling face, he actually only does a 'good job' of mimicking a drummer.  His technique was appalling, he had awkward hands (that traditional grip in the left hand was a stinker), making this a Starbucks film for the Starbucks masses. Drink up.