The obsessed artist trope is one of my all-time favorites, especially in film. Seeing a character delve into the darkest parts of their psyche is shockingly cathartic for an anxious perfectionist like myself. However, tragedy stamps most of these films with a familiarity that often dulls the ending into a predictable lesson that unwavering devotion to one’s craft is futile.
Alternatively, “Whiplash” is a morally ambiguous commentary on the stress and suffering required for success. It asks the viewer to come to their own conclusions about Andrew Neiman, a first-year at a prestigious music conservatory in New York. He loves drumming and his participation in the program reflects his talent.
The movie opens with Andrew playing on his own. The revered jazz musician, Terence Fletcher, suddenly appears in the room to watch Andrew play. Andrew feels the pressure to impress the legendary figure. Immediately, the tension rises. Fletcher is introduced as a role-model figure, whose personality is limited to his artistic abilities and awards. The scene ends in confusion — Fletcher leaves Andrew to wonder if his musical talent is good enough.
Allow me a moment to say, the visual reflection of self-consciousness in the dark, green-ish room is reminiscent
