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The inspirational-teacher film is upended, turned inside out, and otherwise exploded in Whiplash, a ferocious drama contemplating the single-minded pursuit of artistic achievement. Set at a prestigious NYC school of music (a thinly veiled Juilliard), the film stars Miles Teller as Andrew, a drummer as gifted as he is ambitious. Every student dreams of catching the eye of Terence Fletcher (J. K. Simmons), the imposing figure in charge of the school's competitive, prize-winning studio band. Andrew is overjoyed when he does, but he rapidly realizes the coveted experience will also be brutal. Fletcher screams at the musicians in his charge. He slaps their faces and flings chairs at them. He finds their soft spot (an absent parent, for example, or unease regarding their sexual orientation) and tears at it without reprieve. "Not my tempo!" Fletcher screams at Andrew when he is not threatening to cut him altogether, forcing the frightened hopeful to drum for his life, practicing for hours upon hours until blood gushes from his hands.
Both stars of Whiplash are perfectly cast. In his few prior film roles, including in The Spectacular Now, Teller has displayed an ability to blend vulnerability with an acerbic quality and a certain air of conceit, and the role of Andrew requires this. After all, he is a protagonist who tells a cute girl he cannot see her again because she will only distract him from his destined mastering of his craft. Teller lays bare the character's borderline dangerous capacity for obsession while also maintaining a core of sympathetic, wide-eyed longing. We root for him even as he warps. And Simmons is simply a force of nature as Fletcher. His eyes burn with red-hot intensity. He enters a room with the presence of a conquering army. His muscles tense as his veins bulge. His transitions from detached instruction to fierce criticism and volcanic bluster are abrupt, imperceptible, and frightening. In him, we see a charismatic monster of a man who just may forge (not inspire, but slice and sculpt) worthy musicians.
The well-utilized duo find themselves in a low-budget film which, as directed by relative newcomer Damien Chazelle, in no way plays as small. The photography is beautiful and brings the characters' insular universe to life: the practice rooms are shrouded in shadow, coldly atmospheric tombs which must be traversed to at long last reach the crisp and bright elegance of an actual stage. And the editing is precise and tight, as if the film were cut to a metronome with a laser beam. There is not an ounce of fat. Scenes build and build and build in dread, intrigue, and wonder, none more so than the soul-cleansing, perfectly calibrated, leave-everything-on-the-pitch climax.