Whiplash, a big Sundance and Cannes winner, and Oscar-nominated for Best Picture, is described by the collective critic circle as "intense." With an impressive and "intense" 95% tomatometer rate, again, I find myself in the minority, agreeing with the 5% that was not impressed. I cringe at this movie.
Whiplash portrays two obsessive musicians bordering on the psychotic. One is an intensely ambitious drummer undergrad student (Miles Teller) of New York's famous Shaffer Conservatory of Music and his intensely exacting mentor (J.K. Simmons).
The actors are superb, particularly Simmons, who bagged the Golden Globe award for Best Supporting Actor and Oscar-nominated in the similar category, whose talent is sadly misused in a character that is written to be a terror but comes off as comical-- spewing forced, corny, cheesy dialogue that makes me either roll my eyes or look down at my nails with embarrassment, or raise my eyebrows whenever he spits out the word "faggot."
The blood, sweat, and tears splattering, dripping, flowing, dribbling, drizzling, splashing are either disturbing, uncomfortable or laughable, mainly because the intense visuals do not match the shallow characterization and screenplay.
Damien Chazelle's Whiplash feels utterly contrived, cliche-ish, and melodramatic, masked by technical competence and stunning performances. But with all the critical acclaim for this film, I still recommend you watch it — and decide for yourself.
2 out of 5 stars
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