I’m not officially sharing this on the blog because I don’t know if that would be productive. I first saw Whiplash in the spring of 2015, and honestly, I’m not sure what my thoughts initially were once the credits started rolling. Eventually, I put some words together and cleaned them up when I launched my site in 2020, before overhauling it all about five years later.

I told myself I would just move on, but despite my best attempts to forget this movie exists, I came a little too close to writing invective, so I decided to tone it down. I don’t hate this movie, although it’s certainly not the cultural moment the drum set deserves.

None of this probably matters at the end of the day; a 15-minute read criticizing Whiplash, however many years after the fact, is unlikely to change anyone’s mind, but in case you’re wondering what my thoughts on the film are… here you go.

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I remember being younger and looking up Rotten Tomato scores for beloved films like Up, The Dark Knight, and Spirited Away, thinking to myself, What’s up with the five or so people who don’t like these movies? What’s their problem?

Eventually, you have to accept that, no matter how much you enjoy something, there are people out there who simply won’t get it. Well, I now have a much better time understanding life on the other side after watching Whiplash.

It was the big splash at Sundance in 2014: a musical drama written and directed by Damien Chazelle, starring Miles Teller as a jazz drummer and J.K. Simmons as the leader of a prestigious college jazz band. Whiplash got its wide release in the United States about nine months afterward, and the crowd went wild. Every bit of praise imaginable has been dolled out to Whiplash: powerfully acted, incredibly intense, and true to its subject matter. Being a drummer myself, there was no escaping the recommendations to see this movie. Life-changing. A phenomenon. It’s just, like, so good dude, c’mon.

The premise of Whiplash is a familiar one that’s more reminiscent of a sports film than a musical, as the crux of the story is the relationship between an ambitious student and his demanding teacher. Chazelle certainly had high hopes to tell a mature, thrilling, and authentic story, but I’m sorry to say that Whiplash is very misinformed and quite puerile. Don’t expect a movie like Rocky, because what we get instead is something closer to Air Bud. To that end, the (in)famous quip “Ain’t no rule says the dog can’t play basketball” hits about as hard as anything in Whiplash.

Teller plays the role of Andrew Neiman, a first-year jazz student at the fictional Shaffer Music Conservatory in New York City. Andrew has high hopes of becoming “one of the greats,” with singular influence coming (rather mundanely) from Buddy Rich, and it doesn’t take long before he gets recruited into the school’s top jazz ensemble led by Terrance Fletcher (Simmons).

Once Andrew joins, Fletcher’s teaching style quickly becomes clear as we watch him relentlessly abuse, torment, and attack his students to bring them to their top level. Andrew is no exception, and Fletcher becomes particularly obsessed with the 19-year-old drummer in his rampage for excellence.

Chazelle claims that he used to be a drummer before he set his mind to movie-making. If that’s the case, he has some explaining to do, since Whiplash makes me wonder to what extent Chazelle has ever seen a musical ensemble in action. Let’s be clear: it’s totally forgivable to have some leeway with reality in favor of drama. But Chazelle seems to have trouble with correctly setting up a drum kit, so it’s no surprise the movie struggles to portray functioning, college-level musicians (or the musical process) with any degree of believability, insight, or appreciation.

What’s especially frustrating is that Whiplash desperately wants to impress you with how much it thinks it understands music, with the script peppering in bogus words and phrases with no rhyme or reason. At best, it’s stagy technobabble. At worst, it feels like subterfuge; we’re talking about “liberties” on the same level as Michael Bay’s 2001 catastrophe Pearl Harbor.

To further flex its alleged musical knowledge, Whiplash has Fletcher frequently repeat and revel in a fable about beloved jazz saxophonist Charlie Parker. The tale in question purports that Parker’s true fire came only after bombing a solo at a jam session, during which a cymbal was thrown at his head by drummer Papa Jo Jones in response to the lackluster performance.

(In truth, Jones probably lobbed the cymbal at Parker’s feet, reacting more to the poor taste of Parker’s playing than the saxophonist choking under pressure. But I digress…)

Meanwhile, Andrew goes on a date with one of the few normal characters in the film and gives recognition to the restaurant’s choice of music: “When I Wake” by Jackie Hill, with Bob Ellis on the drums. All three are completely made up. The movie is pretty averse to being involved with reality, but if you expect your audience to be clueless, what difference does it make?

Unfortunately, we’re just getting started, as the other big bomb is the trouble Chazelle seems to have with understanding how to tell a good story.

For starters, Andrew is kind of a brat; for example, he’s deeply embarrassed that his single father had to give up on becoming an author in favor of finding steady work as a schoolteacher. Andrew even lies to Fletcher about his dad’s job before fessing up that his pops is a lowly high school educator.

Combined with character motivations that are either completely inscrutable or built upon profoundly out-of-whack priorities, it’s very difficult to care about this kid. To paraphrase Todd Bishop, Chazelle must have figured that if you shower an actor with abuse, people will empathize with him even if you’ve done nothing to develop his character or make him likable in any way.

And then there’s Fletcher, an absolute birdbrain who commands no respect as a bandleader. The direction Fletcher brings to his ensemble is glib and superficial — when he’s not barking out random orders or taking breaks after five minutes of rehearsal, he has nothing interesting or insightful to offer his band other than shallow lessons in timekeeping, playing in tune, reading a chart, and drumming faster. If that’s what his college students are constantly struggling with, maybe Fletcher has a right to be incomprehensibly angry all the time…

Too bad Fletcher is ill-equipped to improve anything, and I’ve only scratched the surface of the song-and-dance behavior Whiplash tries to pass off as teaching. Fletcher takes every opportunity to turn a student’s mistake into a cockamamie, time-wasting sideshow, exploding into bloated and witless tirades that are more nonplussing than harrowing. His insults are too convoluted and synthetic to feel like they come from a place of legitimate anger or ardor. Instead, Fletcher’s goal in life must be to simply hear himself talk. His MO won’t get him anywhere else.

Nevertheless, Whiplash has us believe that not only is he a convincing villain, but master players are churned out of his tutelage. One can only imagine how this guy climbed up the education ladder instead of winding up in jail or an asylum.

In terms of plot, the only truly arresting moment comes in the form of a car crash. Other than that, it’s pretty much what you’d expect: Andrew gets yelled at and mindlessly practices by beating his ride cymbal senseless while screaming. With his technique, I would be too. In fact, it would be a miracle if he improved.

Except, after spiraling into his obsession and giving up (complete with posters ripped down from the wall), he jumps back into drumming cold turkey to deliver a triumphant performance at the film’s finale. It’s quite the departure from Drumline’s philosophy of “One band, one sound.” Whiplash is more, “Yes, I’m a jackass, but so is everyone else, but I’m also the shit. Bitch.” I forget, is practicing supposed to be important?

Really, all this muck dilutes whatever insight could be pried from the picture. There are at least whispers of topics like artistry, education, sacrifice, inspiration, and accomplishment, but even my most generous conclusion is that Fletcher and Andrew are little more than two brainless microorganisms in a Petri dish that captures a dreary and completely preventable descent into madness.

The wheels really come off the bus with a conversation late in the movie, where Fletcher justifies his cruelty by telling Andrew that “the next Charlie Parker would never be discouraged.” So now what? Perhaps being a great artist means having some sort of innate spark that’s less about musical acumen and more about being able to put up with any amount of outrageous, abusive nonsense that might come your way, such as: being thrown out of an ensemble for doing nothing wrong; getting smacked for imperceptible differences in timing; or having your director lie to you about when rehearsal starts (and yes, all three of those happen in this fiasco of a film).

Are there any redeeming parts to find? Well, Simmons seems to be in the zone as he belts out his character’s baloney, although in any normal universe, I feel like there would be wider agreement that the performance is a textbook example of so-called “Oscar bait.” There’s also a cosmetic luster to much of the film that helps give it some allure.

But as I said earlier, it ultimately comes off as a ruse, and the movie feels cheap. Even the music scenes fail to be captivating. And why would they be? Is watching actors badly mime to a recording made by unknown studio players meant to be enchanting?¹

All in all, there’s barely any music even in the damn movie. Save for the final performance, Whiplash feels like it wants to move on from every tune as quickly as it can. It could be that the film is worried it’ll bore us with actual songs. Well, it should be — let’s just get back to the screaming and bloody drumsticks, thank you very much!

I don’t blame you if you still want to watch Whiplash, since people are making it seem like you’ll miss out on a spiritual experience if you skip this film. And you know what, if you watched Whiplash and enjoyed it, fine. But I’m just not about it. I think I’m starting to understand what happens when a physicist watches Interstellar, or maybe when an airline pilot watches Flight.

And yet, both of those films try to give us an actual story with real emotions and characterizations, moving beyond their subject matter (not to mention how they provide some captivating filmmaking). Whiplash, however, is clearly about music and artistry, but its reach exceeds its grasp; once more, the plot is plain, the realism is nonexistent, and, crucially, the characters are all exhausting morons. Forget seeing a real band in action, has Chazelle ever heard how real people talk?

Hell, most of Andrew’s classmates are all tools that should be launched into outer space. I can’t even begin to imagine what music school Chazelle was thinking of when he wrote this. Fletcher and Andrew are the total opposite of why anyone would get into this sort of thing — moreover, the former is difficult because he always seems to be in the middle of getting a concussion, while the latter’s biggest obstacle is that he doesn’t know how to practice properly. Using a metronome might help, young pork chop!

Thanks to this movie, I can’t help but approach any “technical” film with deep skepticism now, since I realize how much praise can be heaped onto something that falls way short. Unfortunately, there are real moments out there worth admiring. 

For a specific musical example, let me introduce an anime called Kids on the Slope (a.k.a. Sakamichi no Aporon). Aside from having a lovely story about two teenagers who bond by playing music together, it’s a great demonstration of what happens when creators properly channel their efforts. Listen to the apprehension in one of the characters’ piano playing when he jams with other people for the first time. Or check out [spoiler alert] the final scene where the two main characters shed in a church:

That three-minute clip alone has more artistry in each frame than Whiplash probably realizes even exists. The passion and effort are undeniable; it’s a goddamn cartoon, and yet it feels like a living, breathing performance. There’s “white bread,” and then there’s Whiplash, which by comparison feels like bread that’s days away from turning into a cinderblock.

As far as Hollywood productions go, consider a movie like 2012’s Les Misérables in which the actors sang live on set (admittedly for demented reasons). During the production of Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World, Russell Crowe and Paul Bettany spent months with one of the film’s composers learning proper string instrument fingerings, all for a single sequence that barely lasts 90 seconds.

Meanwhile, Miles Teller claims he learned to play the drums by himself, although I certainly don’t need any interviews to be convinced of that. I wish Chazelle had tightened things up, but he must’ve been too preoccupied with instructing JK Simmons on how to call his costars “faggots” and “retards” with the proper panache. Truly some groundbreaking and visionary stuff!

Circling back to sports stories, here’s an analogy to ponder — and bear with me for a sec, because I’m worried you don’t understand how this movie is completely out of its mind.

Imagine a tale about some kid, pitching in the minor leagues, who dreams of being the closer for an MLB team. He gets called up one fateful day by a nutcase who blows a gasket during practice and demands the fastest pitch this kid can throw. To hell with the strike zone or anything else a pitcher might worry about, this loon only wants to see a 105 four-seamer on the radar gun (but naturally, the characters call it a slider or something ridiculous).

Picture the dramatic scene — bloody baseballs rapidly piling up at the backstop (with half of them flying through the dirt before they even get to home plate) as the coach screams and smashes bats against the mound in a steroid-fueled rage, until he finally blows his whistle and tells the kid he’s going in for the next game. And then he calls the other two wannabe closers “Jews” or something, to give the film a contrived sense of edginess.

Any human who grew up on planet Earth would watch such a sequence and think: Hmmm, that’s not how baseball works, or, really, anything. But choose something “niche” like the drums, and suddenly you have a spellbinding motion picture, I guess.

It’s early days for Chazelle’s career, but he honestly comes across as a bit of an off-kilter fellow with this movie. Fletcher’s garrulous, edgelord-style of dialogue doesn’t help, nor does the screenplay’s preoccupation with machismo and “power dynamics.” Even the most cogent parts of Whiplash are derivative of Black Swan, but lacking in the surreal and phantasmagorical moments that make Black Swan an engaging film.

On the topic of derivation, it’s pretty clear that Fletcher is supposed to be channeling the energy of the drill instructor from Full Metal Jacket, right down to the slapping. But Gunny is truly equal parts quick, meticulous, and demented. I already established that Fletcher is completely out to lunch, but the fleeting moment of him performing piano also reveals that he’s a rather lame musician.

So instead of believably formidable standards, the result is a knock-off Gordon Ramsay à la Hell’s Kitchen… although, despite being a reality TV star, Gordon’s barbs somehow come off as more sincere and affecting. Perhaps it’s because he has things he actually wants to accomplish beyond serving up a short story’s worth of verbose horseshit every time someone adds one crank too much of ground pepper.

That being said, beratement about “rushing or dragging” could easily be swapped for beratement about food being overcooked or undercooked. Or pick any of the feeble feedback Fletcher gives his students — it’s all a trivial dilution to make the audience’s job easier. You can watch Das Boot and want to know more than you ever thought you would about life on a U–boat. But Whiplash doesn’t give you anything to latch on to.

Towards the middle of the film, Fletcher introduces his band to the now-famous, turbo-charged “Caravan” arrangement; in an apparent attempt to usurp Andrew, Fletcher brings in another victim budding drummer, admitting that “I gave him the [Caravan] chart this morning.” In the following impromptu audition, Fletcher immediately undermines his pathetic attempt at mind games by clarifying, “I don’t want you to worry about hits right now, just tempo.”

… weLL, take a wild guess at which one of those things a chart is good for. Don’t guess — it’s hits, not tempo. Exactly how much are we meant to be processing whatever is happening on-screen? It’s bad enough that the characters don’t!

By the way, early in the film, you can actually spot the “Caravan” chart in the other drummer’s folder. A sinister bit of foreshadowing, or just another example of this movie’s lousy attention to detail?

I could go on, and I will: at his first prime time rehearsal, Andrew gets yelled at by the incumbent drummer for not turning the pages of the titular Hank Levy chart, the clear implication being that Andrew got lost in the music. Quite intimidating, except… Andrew has to turn the page ten bars into the song.

I mean, we’re talking about a movie that emblazons rehearsal rooms with posters of “woodwind instruments” like it’s goddamn kindergarten. A movie that tells us people go to college to practice scales. A movie that uses “quarter note equals 215” and “dotted 16th” to describe that same piece of music. Did I accidentally watch something else?

That last example is perhaps the most horrifying part of the whole movie. Dotted 16th notes, at 215 beats per minute? It’s hard to imagine why someone would write that unless they are putting it all on the hope that the audience doesn’t know what’s going on, and would simply be impressed by the very existence of musical terms. Otherwise, the only answer is that the filmmaker doesn’t know what’s going on themselves.

I know I’m getting hung up on the details, but again, what is the point of anything that’s happening? Am I supposed to go in and out of grasping what the characters are saying? Well, at the end of the day, the movie’s drum chart descriptions are no more worth listening to than Fletcher’s whining about what makes a good musician.

This might not have been an inherently bad premise, but the results are a mountainous misfire. If it’s not Fletcher’s general cacophony, it’s a drum getting hurled across a rehearsal room, because… *jazz*…? As I said at the beginning, I just don’t get it.

Here’s one last point — Andrew’s “triumphant” final performance features a drum solo that seems to be heavily based on two Buddy Rich solos, the Concert for Americas and West Side Story performances.

Yet before he even meets Fletcher, the film lets us know that Andrew likes to steal licks from Buddy Rich to use in his own playing. Since that’s all he winds up doing by the end of the movie, what did Andrew even learn from Fletcher? How to take the second tune of the show(!!!) and shoehorn in a completely indulgent, unnecessary, unmusical drum solo? Does being “one of the greats” mean being a good copycat? Was it all pointless?

I think you might know my answer to that last one!

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1. ^ For anyone wondering why there’s so little info regarding who’s playing on the soundtrack, Peter Erskine reports it was a bunch of LA studio musicians who did a scab session, as a union contract could not be negotiated. It must be the case that the players involved really believed in this project… Most people online seem to think the drummer was Bernie Dresel.