LFF film review: Whiplash Print
Written by Ivan Radford   
Saturday, 18 October 2014 18:52

Director: Damien Chazelle
Cast: Miles Teller, J.K. Simmons
Showtimes: Oct 18th

Jazz is all about timing. Many people think it's just made up on the spot, any-which-way-you-fancy improv, but a large chunk of it is also written down. There are chord progressions, standard songs, time signatures. If you want to make it over the top - to become really, truly great - you first have to follow the rules of engagement.


No one knows the law of the battlefield like Fletcher (J.K. Simmons). The hardened conductor lords it over the Shaffer Conservatory's best big band with a fist of brass. Brass ready to spill blood. So when young pupil Andrew (Miles Teller) manages to sit on the group's coveted drumming stool, he's determined to stay there - and Fletcher's determined to make him earn it.


How? Practice. You need to devote time so you can keep time - something that most films about music tend to forget. Usually biopics, they present us with famous musicians who go through personal trials and tribulations, only to emerge the other side a fully-formed artist. It's a treat, then, to see a film about the practical nature of music, one that plays out like the messy underside of that artificial drum; the side with the snare on it.


"Are you rushing or dragging?" Fletcher interrogates Andrew, as they rehearse the titular track by Hank Levy. He asks over and over, like a drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket: The Musical.


Simmons is terrifying, a wide-eyed brute whose foul-mouthed insults are as hilarious as they are intimidating. Anyone who has ever had a bullying music teacher - and they do exist, albeit not as extreme as this - will immediately recognise the fear of playing a wrong note and the ensuing disappointment of both letting your mentor down and, worse, yourself. But there is a universal intrigue to that process, the unseen way in which talent develops - which, in Whiplash's hands, is arranged as a thrilling piece of physical, human drama. (In the words of Alan Partridge, crash, bang, wallop. What a video.)


Teller, who can play the drums in real life, is sensational as the eager student, a boy so focused that he shuts out all other concerns: family tensions, romantic dates, even a car crash are all ignored by him and the blinkered script follows suit. The only thing that matters here is the music.


Grimacing, laughing and sweating profusely, the young star is astonishing to watch in action - not only acting while playing the drums, but appearing believably enough out of sync with the rest of the band to spark Fletcher's wrath. Together, the pair form a dazzling duet, riffing off each other, as Teller's drumming becomes tighter and their relationship changes key, from nasty humour to just plain nasty.


All the while, director Damien Chazelle keeps tempo - a breakneck metronome that, like Justin Hurwitz's score (including a selection of standards, such as Caravan), is a toe-tapping masterclass in precision. As Andrew gets better, pushed by this monster with a manuscript, Chazelle's camera rappels across the kit, bouncing off the hi-hat and toms with its own fascinating rhythm. The pair, Chazelle reveals, are labouring under the (misunderstood) legend of Charlie Parker, who was given the push he needed to become Bird by Jo Jones lobbing a cymbal at his head. Are they right to believe that this is the only way to greatness? After all, classic jazz needs soul as well as skill. And all your body parts intact.


The director skilfully modulates the tone from unnerving comedy to doubting horror, but the real crescendo occurs with the final movement of his dizzying 19-day shoot, a blistering dash to the final bar that throws all that rigid conducting out of the window - and goes for a freewheeling rim-shot to the gut. Mention jazz to most people and they'll switch off, dismissing it as made-up noise. Whiplash, though, brings the house down every time. It's all about timing. And it doesn't miss a beat.