A HIGH-TEMPO TRIUMPH
A poundingly intense drum teacher, his brilliant pupil and even flying cymbals — Whiplash doesn’t miss a beat
Whiplash (15) Verdict: Stirring teacher-pupil drama
Wild (15) Verdict: Moving true story
HE HAS already won a Golden Globe and J.K. Simmons is a sizzling hot favourite to add an Oscar next month for his thunder-and-lightning work in Whiplash as a tyrannical jazz teacher.
Not even an Academy Award would make him the world’s most famous J.K. — a certain author of children’s fantasy novels has seen to that — but it is good to see him bathing in the spotlight, after decades of operating, brilliantly but without much recognition, in less obtrusive roles.
The plaudits are richly deserved, too. It is a heck of a performance. And, truly, Whiplash is a heck of a film.
That it was made in less than three weeks by a writer- director not yet 30 — the richly talented Damien Chazelle — has certainly made the industry sit up and take notice. But little of that matters to us, the audience.
All we care about is what we see, and hear, in a story that begins and ends with a drum solo, with plenty of exhilarating drumming in between, yet at its heart it is not really about music, rather in the same way that Foxcatcher, last week’s big UK release and another major awards contender, is not really about wrestling.
No, at the core of Whiplash is a familiar, philosophical question: do the ends justify the means?
In this case, the means are relentless i ntimidation i n the f orm of verbal and sometimes physical abuse.
Simmons plays Terence Fletcher, a teacher at the fictional Shaffer Conservatory of Music in New York, whose students regard him with a mixture of awestruck respect and quivering fear.
His teaching technique is dubious, to say the least, but his instincts are noble enough; he wants his charges to stretch themselves, and be as fine as they can possibly be.
Fletcher despises mediocrity. ‘There are no two words in the English language more harmful than “good job”,’ he sneers.
To reinforce this message he is fond of repeating a story about the great saxophonist Charlie Parker, early in his career. As Fletcher tells it, drummer Jo Jones, contemptuous of Parker’s playing one night, threw a cymbal at his head.
Parker resolved never again to expose himself to such humiliation, and practised obsessively until he became a jazz legend. The aspiring legend in Whiplash is 19-year-old Andrew Neyman, a drumming prodigy engagingly played by Miles Teller, an actor with the looks of the young John Cusack and similar on-screen charisma.
When Fletcher recognises in
Neyman the ability to join his elite student band, he makes a project of him, which means the youngster soon feels the f ull f orce of his terrifying demands for perfection.
Like a heat- seeking missile, Fletcher finds the areas of vulnerability in his students, and if he can’t locate them, resorts to crude homophobic insults. When he learns that Neyman’s likeable father (Paul Reiser) is a single parent and a failed writer, he has his target.
Yet, in common with his classmates, Neyman is utterly in thrall to Fletcher. If ‘good job’ are the two most harmful words in the English language, the four scariest at Shaffer are ‘not quite my tempo’, which, however benignly uttered, are invariably the prelude to an eruption of fury.
But Fletcher’s praise is as elevating as his condemnation is undermining. There’s a nice scene in which Neyman asks out a girl he fancies, but has felt too inhibited to approach before.
This comes immediately after Fletcher has endorsed his ability; suddenly, confidence flows through him, from his drumsticks inwards.
By now we think we know where this is heading: more encourage- ment, more abuse, more practice, and finally, artistic consummation.
However, j ust as t he essence of plenty of great jazz is never being quite sure what’s coming next, so it is here. Chazelle blows our expectations one way, then sucks them another.
Will Neyman bloom or wither? He keeps us guessing right to the end. If Whiplash is to be categorised, it belongs with films about inspiring teachers rather than films about music.
THERE are so many it is practically a genre: Goodbye Mr Chips, Blackboard Jungle, To Sir With Love, Dead Poets Society, to name a handful.
Unequivocally, Whiplash is up there with the best, f ully deserving of its Oscar nomination yesterday, but is it a great film, or just very, very good?
The latter, I think. It’s gripping, thought-provoking and beautifully acted, and Chazelle, in perfect syncopation with his editor and cinematographer, knows that there’s not much that’s more filmic than an orchestra in full swing. But I found it half a beat too calculating. Not quite my tempo. Don’t miss it, though.
WILD tells another fascinating story, also about a quest for fulfilment. And while Whiplash is fiction, albeit woven from an episode in Chazelle’s childhood, this is the true tale of Cheryl Strayed (Reese Witherspoon), who exorcised her personal demons by undertaking an epic 1,100-mile walk, up America’s West coast.
Witherspoon liked Strayed’s bestselling memoir so much that she bought the film rights, which is one way of bagging a great role. And it is a great role.
At the start of the film, Strayed is hurting emotionally, following the death of her much-loved mother (Laura Dern, whom we meet in repeated flashbacks), her experiences at the hands of an abusive father, and the breakup of her marriage largely as a consequence of her own drug-addiction and promiscuity.
Soon, she is also hurting physically. Even before the opening credits we see her ripping off her own toenail, which will put you right off your popcorn.
On which subject, Wild might sound a trifle corny, the inner journey in tandem with the literal one, a classic exercise in catharsis. But Nick Hornby’s screenplay, and director Jean- Marc Vallee, who made such a fine job of Dallas Buyers Club, keep it real.
Moreover, Witherspoon’s gutsy performance, and her girl-next-door quality, make it absorbingly and sometimes thrillingly watchable as Strayed is forced to rely on the kindness of strangers, while also encountering the menace of strangers.
She meets backpackers who, like her, are finding themselves, others who are trying to lose themselves. And some who just fancy a long walk.
Who knew that the Pacific Crest Trail, as it’s called, could of f er s o many di f f er ent experiences to so many people?
And for us, it’s also an excuse f or a Simon & Garfunkel soundtrack, which is never a bad thing.