(Spoiler Alert. If you haven't seen the movie, stop reading now.)
Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy gets girl back again. It’s the formula for a happy ending. Even Romeo and Juliet are united again in death. It’s what audiences look for, one of the time-worn traditions of classic storytelling - something we find ourselves hoping for even when we know better. There’s something in us that believes in love. That love will find a way. That somehow or another, things will work out. Never mind that Thomas Moore called romantic love an illusion. Or that Nietzsche considered it an unsatisfactory basis for lasting relationship. We know better. Take away love—and life sucks.
Which is why Whiplash—wonderful as it is—winds up being a bit of a downer. The abusive character played by Oscar-winning J. K. Simmons calls to mind a similarly abusive figure played by Lou Gossett, Jr., in An Officer and a Gentleman years earlier. The young drummer of Whiplash reminds us of the young Richard Gere trying to make something of himself, to move past the father’s failures and to become if not his own father (in the words of Ralph Ellison) at least his own best self. But first the metaphorical apprentice knight of these twin stories must deal with two obstacles—the abusive mentor and a girl from the lower stratum. In the military film, Debra Winger is one of the local townsfolk. In the jazz movie, Melissa Benoist attends “lowly” Fordham University instead of the most prestigious musical conservatory in the country and has no idea what she wants to major in.
It is one thing to find an abusive drill sergeant in a military film, and quite another to see such an unlovable character in a film about art. Except the brief appearance of an African-American female attorney and two non-speaking female characters in Whiplash, Melissa Benoist must carry the feminine for that film. And even she is banished as the main character decides to go it alone against the so-called mentor whose abuse may have contributed to the eventual suicide of a former student.
The triumphant ending of Whiplash leaves one feeling a bit odd, however. The final wordless exchange between teacher and student is unsettling. Even though he has proved himself beyond "measure" in that final solo, his eyes say all. Despite the teachers’ harrowing cruelty, those eyes still seek his approval. Succor of any kind—be it from loving father or willing girlfriend—is denied in favor of this ugly man’s affirmation.
In An Officer and a Gentleman, the hero manages to make the grade and get the girl. By the end of Whiplash, Melissa Benoist is gone. Art is lonely. But it must not be loveless. There is, arguably, a moment of transcendence at the end of Whiplash. It seems fleeting, though, and devoid of the self-assurance that ought to come from such an episode. Also, the film’s ending seems to justify the relentless abuse—and the teacher’s argument that he did it to push his students toward the greatness that came out of “Bird” after Jo Jones once threw a cymbal at the teenaged Charlie Parker.
The film tells us that there is no room for the girl when a man seeks to find his way to greatness. And that message is malarkey. This film knows nothing of Ariadne’s thread and has never heard the testimony of Portia in The Merchant of Venice. It tells us that some men can do without the feminine on the road to greatness. And it leaves us with a boy who does some really great drumming. But looking at that last wordless exchange at the end of the film, we see that he is a long, long way from becoming a great artist.
Here are three clips worth noting. Let's begin with break-up scene from Whiplash, followed by two versions of Duke Ellington's "Caravan," which figures prominently in the film. The first is the final solo from the movie. The second is the classic solo from the cymbal-throwing Jo Jones. If you were a drum, which drummer would you prefer?
I like big books, and I cannot lie. My background includes talk radio, newspapers and TV news. I've hosted a morning-drive classical music program on the California coast and published nationally in Reader's Digest, the Christian Science Monitor, and Playboy. I've won awards for my journalism and my fiction. One of my essays even made it into an anthology for college English courses. For real? Yes, for real.
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