Whiplash

 Whiplash (15)

 USA 2014  106 mins  Dir: Dave Chazelle  Starring: J.K. Simmons, Miles Teller, Melissa Benoist

If you crave a movie sadomasochism fix, why wait for the adaptation of Fifty Shades of Grey when you can have this peculiar, unconvincing, vastly over-praised jazzy riff on the inspirational pedagogue drama? Its chief attraction is a hugely entertaining, scenery-chewing performance by that great character actor J.K. Simmons (y’know – Juno’s dad), who really lets rip in a rare leading role as a monstrous, physically and verbally abusive, bullet-headed music school martinet. In the real world, he’d be swiftly fired, prosecuted and, probably, jailed – and quite rightly so. In the topsy-turvy world of the ‘Be the Best’ Oscar-bait drama, we’re invited to overlook qualms about his methods and admire his dedication to pushing pupils “beyond what’s expected of them”.

Miles Teller, who has something of the young John Cusack about him, stars as ambitious aspiring jazz drummer Andrew Neiman, who yearns to be the next Buddy Rich and wins a place at the prestigious Shaffer Conservatory. Enter, explosively, Terence Fletcher (Simmons) – an instructor who has the ability to silence an entire room when he bursts through the door. Fletcher spots Neiman’s talent and signs him up for his band, but his demanding nature soon turns abusive. Before long he’s chucking chairs at the lad (citing a Charlie Parker anecdote as a precedent) and dispensing Malcolm Tucker-esque potty-mouthed insults. Increasingly arrogant Neiman, in turn, demonstrates his commitment by dumping his nice girlfriend (Benoist, in a thankless role), rejecting his laidback failed novelist dad, and shedding more blood than you’ll see in many a slasher flick. The atmosphere of bullying, humiliation and fear is rather like one of those early training sequences in a ‘Nam movie reworked as a homoerotic BDSM drama. Indeed, we learn so little about Fletcher’s life outside the conservatory that he may well be a self-loathing closeted homosexual, especially as so many of his insults are homophobic (“That is not your boyfriend’s dick – do not come early,” etc). Interestingly, although an Irish pupil is called a ‘Mick’ and a ‘leprechaun’, none of the many black musicians are subjected to abuse, presumably because even audiences who buy this risible, over-cooked guff may balk at the ‘tough love’ tyrant chucking racist epithets around.

There’s also an unappealing whiff of musical snobbery at play here. ‘If you don’t have ability, you will wind up playing in a rock band’ reads a prominent motivational poster on Neiman’s wall. But if he had chosen to dedicate himself to becoming the world’s greatest rock drummer, he would no doubt have been dismissed as a ‘soulless technician’ by the genre’s inverted snob critics, whose suspicion of musical ability might have made for a more interesting movie. Imagine devoting your every waking hour to perfecting your instrumental skills only to be ridiculed by those who are more interested in haircuts, attitudinising and musical correctness. But I digress.

To be fair, in expanding his own short film first time writer/director Dave Chazelle certainly manages to invest those early, claustrophobic rehearsal room scenes with plenty of tension. But a melodramatic twist sees matters taking a turn for the ludicrous, setting up an ending that is completely lacking in psychological plausibility. By this time, you may find yourself wishing they’d just a get a room. Or a dungeon.