NYFF: J.K. Simmons brings the fury in 'Whiplash'

Whiplash

Written and directed by Damien Chazelle

Starring Miles Teller and J.K. Simmons

J.K. Simmons loves yelling at people. (He said so during a post-screening Q&A.) But his intensity transcends mere volume; at his best, he gets at something deeper and darker, the brutality lurking in the darkest kind of humor. 

He first garnered serious attention for his role as a frighteningly serene neo-Nazi inmate in HBO's seminal hour-long drama series Oz (seriously underrated by pretty much everyone except Matt Zoller Seitz). Playing opposite a coterie of frankly less-than-stellar performers, as well as a few genuine talents (Ernie Hudson makes everything better, always), Simmons suffused each of his scenes with tangible if imperceivable menace. You could feel the tension, even as he cooed kindly to his next "girlfriend" (read: rape victim). With a wry grin and soft, caressing tone, Simmons inflicted terror never before seen on cable television. 

In Sam Raimi's Spider-Man trilogy, Simmons plays the volatile, violently neurotic newspaper editor J. Jonah Jameson, a man who loathes Spider-Man as much as he loathes objective reporting. With ravished glee, Simmons  makes Jameson, perhaps the most cartoonish character in the first two Raimi films, as fiery a nemesis for Spidey as any of the maniacal madmen. Simmons isn't always all spittle-spraying fury, of course. He plays it cool as the titular character's father in Jason Reitman's acclaimed (and subsequently derided) Juno, and he lent an air of sorrow to his brief scene with George Clooney in Reitman's Up in the Air (similarly heralded and then hated).

Whiplash presents something else entirely. Neither entirely unhinged nor completely calm, his furious turn in Damien Chazelle's hugely impressive musical melodrama is the finest work of Simmons' career. For the first time he really conjures a character of copious layers, whose motivations and affinities are nebulous in the best way.

Touted by PR gurus as "Full Metal Jacket goes to Julliard" (one of the very few times a PR team has actually been accurate), Whiplash stands out among this year's New York Film Festival Main Slate, which is rife with good and great films. But nothing has this much energy, this much fervor. Chazelle, as a formalist and a raconteur, announces his presence with a choral swell. Miles Teller plays Andrew Neyman, a young prodigious jazz drummer who aspires to be the next Buddy Rich (notice that Rich is equally known for his dexterity as well as his intemperate, sometimes violent perfectionism). Andrew is a freshmen at the top-ranked musical academy in the country (it's a stand-in for Julliard). While practicing one night, he's interrupted by Terrence Fletcher, the brilliant conductor of the school's studio band. Fletcher makes good musicians into great musicians, and he tolerates nothing less than perfection. To get in Fletcher's good graces is at once an opulent opportunity for one's career, as well as a serious threat to one's mental health.

Andrew initially disappoints Fletcher, so he hits the practice room, pounding away until his hands are raw and the drum kit mottled with blood. When Andrew is invited into the studio band (all that practice having paid off), Fletcher greets him with a pons asinorum, asking him to play a brazenly difficult song Andrew's never practiced. With authoritative control, Simmons gradually amps up the intensity as Andrew tries futilely to match the tempo. Fletcher begins with, "It's okay, just try your best," but as the drumming grows more torrid, Simmons sheds the affable veneer and reveals the monstrous maestro's true nature. He tells Andrew about a time when Joe Jones, the famous drummer, threw a cymbal at Charlie Parker's head because Parker messed up. Parker, according to Fletcher's rendition of the story, consequently became great because Jones almost decapitated him.

Then Fletcher throws a chair at Andrew's head.

Andrew and Fletcher quickly develop an internecine relationship, with Fletcher hurling insults and inanimate objects at Andrew, and Andrew calling into question Fletcher's authority. Simmons spews insults with relish and ravished precision, and Teller matches him note-for-note; the way he extrapolates Andrew's veiled anguish while beating the skins at the same time is incredible. It's the kind of performance that goes under-appreciated because a) it's not as loud as Simmons', and b) it's remarkably subtle in its complexity. We genuinely like Andrew, awkwardness and all, which adds freight to the difficult decisions he has to make. 

Lively shot in 2.35, Whiplash is at once pugnacious yet deceptively cognitive. While the precise editing and wildly oscillating camerawork are almost sudorific in their intensity, Chazelle poses some pretty demanding questions regarding artistry and ethics. Miles is a good kid at the beginning of the film. That's not even a question: he still sees movies with his dad, and he's shy, almost niddering, as he asks out the cute girl who works at the movie theater popcorn bar (she says yes, after a pump-fake rejection). When he thinks he bombed his would-be audition for Fletcher, he looks genuinely upset, not angry or resentful. Instead of brooding or giving up, he works hard, spilling blood on pretty much everything he touches by the end of the film. But Whiplash ends on a syncopated note--that moment when Andrew decides, unequivocally, that he wants to be a great drummer, luxating his friends, his girlfriend, possibly even his father in order to appeal to that brilliant bully Fletcher. Fletcher finds his Charlie Parker, and Andrew finds his Joe Jones.