Revisiting Whiplash Has Become Painfully Unsettling

On September 20th, Whiplash thundered back into theaters with a stunning 4K remastered version, celebrating its monumental 10th anniversary. As I sat in awe, realizing that a decade had passed since its original release, I eagerly immersed myself in this cinematic masterpiece once again. But to my surprise, watching Whiplash now hit me in a far deeper, more visceral way than I ever expected.

Thinking back to the first time I saw it, I can't help but reflect on the impact it had on me then and the journey I've been on since. At that time, being fresh out of college, I was working for a media company, spending my days writing film news. Yet, my real passion lies in film criticism—something I'm now fully pursuing. Back then, that disconnection between my work and my true ambitions left me feeling disengaged, often resulting in tardiness or even malingering altogether. Then Whiplash came into my life, igniting a fire within me. The film's raw intensity pushed me to regard my career more seriously, as it showed me how crucial dedication and effort are in realizing one's dreams. Despite working in a relaxed environment with great colleagues and a supportive boss, I realized my dissatisfaction with the job wasn't something I could ignore. It was a problem that I needed to address and communicate about, not escape from.

Inspired by the protagonist's relentless drive, I was motivated to work harder to get closer to realizing my aspiration. I threw myself into writing and understanding cinema with renewed determination. I devoted more time to improving my craft and dove deeper into film studies. Eventually, my efforts were recognized. My boss took notice of my transformation, and soon I wasn't only writing reviews for the media outlet but was also given my own column. It felt like my hard work was paying off, much like the central message of Whiplash—that with enough effort and sacrifice, success can be within reach.

Whiplash tells the story of Andrew Neiman (Miles Teller), a 19-year-old drummer with the ambition to join the ranks of jazz legends. He's enrolled at the top music conservatory in the United States. His dream of joining the elite jazz band led by the fearsome Terence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons) bears great meaning as it'll be representing the school in a jazz competition. When Terence invites Andrew to join the band after chancing upon him while he's at a practice session, Andrew feels like his big break has come.

But Andrew's excitement soon turns to horror as he discovers Terence's tyrannical nature and his unnecessarily harsh treatment towards the band members. Terence employs psychological warfare and physical abuse, even slapping Andrew for a perceived rhythm mistake. He pits Andrew against two other drummers, fueling a brutal competition that drives Andrew to practice obsessively out of fear and pressure to gain his approval and remain in the band. Andrew's pursuit of greatness becomes all-consuming and he sacrifices his health and well-being for it, and willingly tolerates Terence's abuse. At one point, Andrew even insists on performing in a critical competition right after surviving a car accident, pushing himself to the edge. When Terence removes him from the stage, Andrew snaps, leading to a violent confrontation. The fallout results in Andrew's expulsion, while Terence faces serious allegations of driving a former student towards suicide, with Andrew testifying against him.

If the film had ended here, it'd have been a cautionary tale about the dangers of unchecked ambition and abusive mentorship instead of a motivational film that spurred me to pull my socks up. However, Whiplash takes an unexpected turn in its final act, delivering a stunning yet baffling conclusion. After the whole episode between them comes to a close, Andrew gives up on being a drummer. However, he crosses paths with Terence again. In an apparent act to make amends, Terence invites Andrew to perform with his band. But when the performance begins, Andrew realizes he's been set up—Terence's trying to publicly humiliate him by making him play an unfamiliar piece. Initially, Andrew plans to walk off the stage but eventually decides to fight back. He launches into a powerful rendition of "Caravan," delivering an improvised solo that captivates both the audience and Terence. Terence's anger turns to admiration, and the film closes with a triumphant and tuneful finale as the band joins Andrew's electrifying performance under Terence's lead. At this climactic moment, the beauty of music seems to have bettered the ugly and dark side of humanity, touching the hearts of every listener. In that instant, Andrew reaches for the greatness he's always been chasing. The film compels viewers to believe that this grand and delightful moment can transcend time and transform into eternity. The abuse and suffering that Andrew had been through pales into insignificance at this moment. Of all things, only this moment merits being etched in memory.

A decade ago, I embraced this narrative, believing that relentless effort would always lead to success. Back then, the film's ending inspired me. But now, watching it again, it stirs feelings of pain and anger. This shift in perspective comes from my own professional experiences, which, in many ways, mirror Andrew's. Early in my career, my hard work was rewarded, reinforcing the idea that effort and success go hand in hand. But a major career shift three years ago forced me to rethink everything. When I entered the film marketing industry, I learned the hard truth that effort alone isn't enough, and it can become a tool for exploitation and manipulation.

Entering this new field, I was fully cognizant of the rigors of a career switch but was determined to succeed. I put in long hours and actively sought guidance from more experienced colleagues. At first, this approach worked—I quickly integrated into the team and was given important projects. But as time went on, the work consumed all my energy, and I found myself losing even my basic resting time. Worse, the leadership, once mentors, began offering nothing but harsh criticism, with little to no constructive feedback. Their constant refrain of "It's not good enough, do it again" often felt more like a personal opinion than an objective measure of quality as they were often unable to justify their dissatisfaction. They'd blame my shortcomings on a supposed lack of dedication or ability, fostering a toxic environment.

For a long time, I accepted my predicament as I was just a greenhorn, until one dramatic incident opened my eyes. I was given a seemingly urgent assignment and worked through the night to complete it. When I finally finished, I received a furious phone call from my boss, who screamed at me, dismissing my work as useless without offering any guidance on what to fix. I was sleep-deprived, having been awake for over 24 hours. I couldn't recall how I replied to her over the phone. I only remembered handing over my work to other colleagues before heading home to catch up on sleep. The next day, however, I learned that my work had been delivered exactly as I'd completed it—showing me just how arbitrary my boss's criticism had been.

Andrew's journey in Whiplash felt eerily familiar. Both of us faced authority figures who were unpredictable, controlling, and skilled at manipulation. We both were mired in the "superstition" that we must yield to authority and placed blind trust in the experienced. Be it subconsciously or consciously, we accepted their opinions as a decree and lacked the mental capacity to question the accuracy of their remarks and the fairness of their judgments. This happened because we were each trapped in isolated environments devoid of interpersonal relations—Andrew resolutely cut ties with his crush who also had feelings for him to focus on drumming, while my life outside of work practically disappeared. Most significantly, we both bought into the idea that effort alone guarantees success after we briefly enjoyed the fruits of our labor, not recognizing that hard work is just a process and that many other factors come into play in the success playbook.

Now, when I rewatch the film's visually stunning final scene, which is a carnival of the arts and music, I can't enjoy it like I once did. Instead of seeing it as a moment of triumph for a musical prodigy who had been maltreated, I only feel pain and wrath. After that harsh phone call, I stayed at the company long enough to complete another successful project. But by then, any sense of accomplishment had been replaced by numbness and exhaustion. Watching Whiplash now, I see that same pain and impassivity in Andrew's face—something I surprisingly missed before. I can no longer regard Andrew's success as an inspiring example. All I see is his battered soul.

Eventually, I, who had sunk into an abyss of stress and self-doubt, left the company, and for over a year, I couldn't bring myself to accept another full-time job as I needed time to recover. In the film, Andrew's story ends on stage, leaving us uncertain about his future. Will he succumb to Terence's belief that greatness requires dehumanizing levels of sacrifice and an intolerable extent of suffering, or can he confront the trauma and find a more balanced way forward to emerge as a drummer who constantly outdoes himself? This ambiguity is part of the film's artistry, but it also makes me question its deeper meaning.

Director Damien Chazelle stated that he sees the film's ending in a pessimistic light. He believes Terence will always maintain he won the psychological battle, while "[Andrew] will be a sad, empty shell of a person and will die in his 30s of a drug overdose." I find this interpretation deeply honest. While Whiplash never explicitly shows the long-term damage Terence inflicts on Andrew, it emphasizes Andrew's progress as a drummer and the mesmerizing beauty of jazz. Chazelle clearly holds the conviction that moments can turn into eternity and believes in the transcendence of art, a theme echoed in his later films like La La Land, First Man, and Babylon.

But as someone who had survived a toxic work environment, the ambiguity in Whiplash still bothers me. If art truly requires such abuse and suffering, then how can it be beautiful? And if we continue to tolerate this kind of abusive behavior in real life, believing it somehow leads to success, we allow unchecked power to destroy people in its wake. True success should not come at the expense of humanity. Else, we become nothing more than tools, manipulated by those who hold authority.

This, more than anything, is the uncomfortable truth I've come to realize after revisiting Whiplash.