Whiplash

Whiplash is the kind of film that grabs you by the collar and doesn’t really let up until the last frame. It follows Andrew, a fiercely ambitious young jazz drummer, as he tries to impress the infamously terrifying band leader Fletcher, played by J.K. Simmons. The setup is simple but it rockets into some of the most intense scenes I’ve ever seen in a “music” movie. You spend the whole time both hating Fletcher’s tactics and weirdly admiring his commitment to greatness.

What I love about Whiplash is that it’s a movie obsessed with obsession. There’s not really any soft, dreamy love for music or art here. Instead, it’s about sweat, blood, and the toll that perfectionism takes. Miles Teller nails the Andrew character — awkward, prickly, and just unhinged enough that you buy why he keeps coming back for more punishment. Meanwhile, J.K. Simmons is all ferocious energy and icy, unpredictable charisma.

The pacing is really tight, which is crucial for a movie where so much tension comes from practice rooms and jazz performances. There’s almost no downtime, but when the film does slow down, it’s to let you feel the exhaustion these characters live with. I appreciated that the director, Damien Chazelle, kept the story laser-focused instead of drifting into unnecessary subplots. Not a single scene feels wasted.

Cinematography is slick but not flashy. The way the drum sequences are shot is genuinely thrilling; you can see the blisters on Andrew’s hands and the sweat dripping down faces. The color palette leans into this almost sickly yellow that makes everything feel claustrophobic and sweaty. The editing, especially during performance scenes, gives you that heart-in-your-throat anxiety. It’s stressful, sure, but weirdly exhilarating.

If there’s a downside, it’s that the movie gets so wrapped up in the drive for greatness that it barely lets you breathe. There’s not much complexity to the secondary characters, and sometimes it feels like the world here is just Andrew, Fletcher, and a set of drums. I get why some folks find the film’s message troubling, too — does the end justify the means when the “means” look like psychological warfare? Whiplash isn’t interested in giving an easy answer.

But honestly, whatever faults it has, Whiplash is the rare music movie that feels as exhausting and rewarding as practicing an instrument until your hands bleed. It’s tense, pulpy, and often uncomfortable, but if you’re up for it, the final ten minutes will leave you breathless.