In Defense of Whiplash’s Fletcher
This was the moment when Fletcher is telling Andrew “There are no words in the English language more harmful than ‘good job,’”I knew that Whiplash had made my top ten, that it was going to be one of those movies that I’d drop with wanton abandon into every conversation that even flirted with the topic of modern cinema and continually shove onto friends, family, and strangers in grocery lines. This was the moment that Whiplash transcended mere entertainment.
Whiplash, written and directed by Damien Chazelle, tells the story of Andrew Neiman, a student at Shaffer Conservatory, his collision with the brutal, eccentric conductor, Terrance Fletcher, and their tumultuous path to realizing a single ambition.
One of the things that fascinates me about this movie is the paradoxical nature of its reception. While it’s almost universally praised as a work of art, there has been a second movement which seems devoted to trying to tear it down for being “problematic.” While movies getting critiqued for falling on the wrong side of contemporary politics is nothing new, it’s strange to see a movie produce such strong reactions in opposite directions.
The general consensus, as represented by people like Nerdstalgic and Vile Eye here on Youtube, and countless think-pieces from across the internet is that Terrence Fletcher is simply a sociopathic, sadistic, monster, and Andrew is his victim.
Writing in 2014 for the Atlantic David Sims said this about the movie’s astonishing finale:
It’s a powerful moment, despite the wringer the audience (and Andrew) has endured the whole movie. But there’s also no question, as the audience watches its hero furiously bang out Fletcher’s perfect tempo, that Andrew’s spirit is broken. Great art, or at least a great rendition, has been achieved, but at the total cost of the teen’s humanity.
There’s “no question” that Andrew has “totally” lost his “humanity?”
Pardon me, but this is an obscene thing to say. But Sims doesn’t stop there. He goes on to describe Fletcher (either in his own words or quoting other critics) as
- a repulsive, psychotic caricature
- sociopathic void of a man
- But Fletcher’s tactics have nothing to do with talent, or greatness, or even just the complicated dynamics of playing music. He’s just a cartoon bad guy masquerading as a complex one
The last comment especially is just baffling. The only way that you could arrive at the conclusion that Fletcher is a cartoonish character is if you refuse to let him be anything else. And as it turns out, this has been the case with most of the commentary on this film. This level of spittle-flecked fury and overtly dehumanizing language devoted to a character is…puzzling, to say the least. At one point Sims even compares the film to Full Metal Jacket which he calls “a similarly horrifying, brutal film.” If comparing a movie about an abusive band director to a film about the horrors of Vietnam seems a little insane to you, that’s because it is. Or maybe the version Sims saw ended with Fletcher calling in a napalm strike, in which case, I apologize; I didn’t see that cut.
For better or worse, this has become the “acceptable” position to have on the film. Even Damien Chazelle, himself, has been interrogated for the possibility of having any sympathy for Fletcher or his methods and has stated that while he does believe in the pursuit of self-improvement, Fletcher takes that idea to an extreme.
But why all this hatred? Why has so much ink been spent to assure thoughtful people the world over that what they are witnessing in this movie is a bad thing? Most importantly, why does Andrew Neiman have to be denied his humanity for the price of triumphing over his hardships?
As it turns out, the reason for all this bad press over what is ostensibly a piece of entertainment is that Whiplash isn’t just a piece of entertainment. One often hears people talk about “art for art’s sake.” This idea that you can have a world of art that is distinct from these other worlds of society or morality or politics is actually a little naive. To the extent that we experience the world in this way, we have compartmentalized different parts of what really ought to be a unified existence. The truth is that you can’t have art without humanity, and you can’t have humanity without morality, and you can’t have morality without having politics. The only way that it would seem otherwise is by misunderstanding these concepts in one way or another.
When someone advocates for “art for art’s sake,” what they mean to say is that they want art that stays contained within a certain area of wide consensus. Usually they mean that they want art to grapple with larger concerns about the human condition that transcend what we normally consider to be politics: identity, mortality, individuality, love. But what they fail to realize is that questions like “what is the relationship between the individual and society?” ARE political questions. The reason that people usually think otherwise is because they are used to thinking that politics only refers to what is politically controversial.
In The Republic, when Socrates is given the task of defining justice, he ends up having to describe an entire society to fulfill the task. What this shows is that even virtues cannot be understood outside of some overarching teleology, some moral endpoint. And Whiplash is a movie with important things to say about our purpose as humans. This is, I would argue, a good thing, but in order to defend it, I’m going to do what few have been willing to do: write a defense of Terrance Fletcher.
Part I: Fletcher: the Narcissist
On the surface there are many reasons to dislike Fletcher: he’s brutal; he’s violent; he uses a many, many of the bad words; he fully embodies the idea of “toxic masculinity.” Though I haven’t seen any commentary calling him a racist, there are more than a few that have called him homophobic and misogynistic. But the worst thing about Fletcher, the thing that launched a hundred articles to bring him down, is that he is unapologetically the product of a different world, a priest to a different god. And the god that Fletcher serves is dangerous.
All well-written antagonists participate in their own moral order. The conflict with the protagonist is the product of an incompatibility between their morality and the hero’s. Cartoon villains participate in the hero’s own moral paradigm, but negatively, they are motivated by a hatred for those things that the hero loves, but not by any love of their own. This makes them derivative and shallow. But the sophisticated villain is more likely to invoke respect than contempt, even if his enemy status demands that he be conquered. He can do this in two ways.
The first way is by challenging the normalized morality that forms the audience’s ethical frame. Christopher Nolan’s Joker doesn’t just want to watch the world burn, he wants to see society punished for what he sees as its hypocrisy and moral bankruptcy. {These civilized people, they’ll eat each other} In Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, Kurtz abandons the morality of liberal European society, believing it to be based sentimentality and falsehood, and embraces a dark, nihilistic brutality. But Conrad produces a small nod to realism of Kurtz’s disillusionment when, after his mission, Marlow returns and lies to Kurtz’s fiance, telling her that her husband’s last words her name because he feels that it would be too dark to tell her the truth, that Kurtz’s final words were “the horror, the horror.”
The other way that a villain can inspire respect is by the legitimacy and passion of his own commitments. What made Infinity War Thanos such a compelling character was his commitment to his own mission, which he truly believed was morally correct. The good antagonist possesses his own values, his own commitments, his own vision of the Good. Through the irreconcilability of their values and our own, they can force us to question whether our own commitments are any more legitimate.
In many ways, Fletcher is a priest to a dying religion, a religion devoted to the worship of excellence. He is a genuine elitist who believes that the good can only be achieved by sacrifice.
All of this is made explicit in the scene at the jazz club where Fletcher explains his role as he understood it. To illustrate his point he draws from a story about a young Charlie Parker, who harnessed the power of a humiliating failure, and used it to forge himself into one of the greatest jazz musicians of all time.
This concept is echoed in the name Fletcher. This surname, like Carpenter, Skinner, Smith, and many others, originally came from a profession. A fletcher was a person who crafted arrows. This little poetic wink never fails to make me smile, as the purpose of Fletcher’s methods are meant to sharpen Nieman into an arrow that can pierce through the world of mediocrity and consolation prizes, and aim for something absolute: greatness, the pinnacle of achievement.
Rather than addressing this, the real argument at stake in the film, most of the criticisms of Fletcher rely on essentially denying that Fletcher’s motivations are what he says they are. Other motivations are, instead, attributed to him, the most common of which is “narcissism.” For example, in his video, Nerdstalgic, simply handwaves Fletcher’s ideas away by calling the story about [Charlie Parker] “overblown” and the only serious alternative offered is that Fletcher is just a sadistic narcissist. No explanation is given for why this story is “overblown” or what that would even mean in this context. The story is meant to show that true excellence is costly and that its gatekeepers can be harsh. But whatever Nerdstalgic may personally think about what this story does or doesn’t prove, within the context of the movie, his opinion doesn’t really matter.
Schaffer Conservatory isn’t a real place, but it’s pretty clearly intended to represent Julliard. Which means that, in the film, Terrence Fletcher is one of the most highly esteemed teachers at the most highly esteemed music conservatory in the world. His expertise is unassailable. If you want to disagree with his methods, that’s fine; the problem is when you want to assert that, in a conversation about excellence in jazz, this man has no standing. The opposite is true. Within the context of the film, Fletcher speaks with absolute authority, and all that matters is whether or not he believes what he’s saying. I would argue that the film gives plenty of reasons to believe that Fletcher is sincere in his convictions, and all the evidence used to argue the opposite begs the question by assuming that which it is supposed to prove.
Fletcher: The Manipulator
Another accusation against Fletcher is that he manipulates his students and the emotional abuse is simply a part of this. However, this accusation is an example of begging the question because of the way in which these terms are loaded. Both “manipulation” and “abuse” involve deep questions about the legitimate aims of influence and coercion.
What is manipulation? Like concepts such as “indoctrination,” the meaning of manipulation does not have any objective moral content, though nearly everyone attaches a negative connotation to the word. According to Merriam Webster, to manipulate means to change by artful or unfair means so as to serve one’s purpose. Unfairness may sound like a clear indicator of immorality, until one thinks of the unfairness between a parent and a child or a student and a teacher. Is a teacher “manipulating” students when they write them up to discourage disruptive behavior? Is it manipulation when students are punished with bad grades for failing to meet class requirements? The obvious but uncomfortable answer is “yes.” Because once you strip away the moral prejudices that people nearly always smuggle into these types of conversations, all that “manipulation” really means is to exert influence over someone in order to serve some purpose. If the purpose is considered legitimate by whoever is judging, then it’s not called “manipulation,” in the same way that when someone agrees with the content being presented, “indoctrination” is called “education.”
Does Fletcher manipulate his students? Of course; all teachers do. The better question is whether or not his methods are justified, and the answer to that question will depend on whether one considers the goal to be worthy of the methods. But presenting that question is the entire point of the movie, so this accusation itself ends up being an elaborate way of missing or (more accurately) avoiding that point.
Fletcher: The Killer
The death of Sean Casey is often cited as evidence of the evil of Fletcher’s methods. The argument goes something like this: Casey developed severe anxiety as a result of Fletcher’s abuse and this anxiety and mental distress ultimately culminated in his suicide, the responsibility for which can be laid directly at Fletcher’s feet. This assertion has a number of problems.
First of all, it removes Sean Casey’s agency. I’m not one of those who will claim that suicide is always “the coward’s way out,” but I do insist on the principle that those who choose this option must own it entirely. Stories like 13 Reasons which glorify suicide as a means of getting revenge are the products of morally deformed mind. Suicide is and must always be the responsibility of the person who commits the act.
But the more damning problem is that this critique just doesn’t pass the sniff test.
Piecing together Sean’s history with Fletcher requires us to put a certain amount of trust in Fletcher, as he’s the source for most of it. And according to Fletcher, their relationship was a productive one. Sean was a student who had just barely gotten into Shaffer and was on the verge of washing out, but Fletcher identified a drive in him and took him under his wing, mostly likely subjecting him to the same kind of treatment that Fletcher gives to everyone else.
But we do know one thing for certain: after his time working with Fletcher, Sean Casey landed an extremely coveted position in the band of Wynton Marsalis. Careerwise, he is a phenomenal success story. Furthermore, he’s well beyond Fletcher’s reach at this point. To me, Sean’s suicide made sense only when viewed through a very particular lens.
Leo Tolstoy is widely recognized as one of the greatest writers of all time, and, unlike other authors like F. Scott Fitzgerald who only achieved their literary status after their deaths, he held this reputation in his lifetime. Despite this, he suffered an existential crisis in the middle of life and during this period became incredibly suicidal. Even with all of his success, he didn’t believe he had achieved anything sufficient to give meaning to his life. To me, this always made a certain kind of sense. Pursuing greatness or some kind of absolute achievement is something like swimming out into open waters. The further out you go, the more devoted you become to that goal, the harder it is to come back.
Everyone has heard that cringe-worthy expression, “Shoot for the moon, and even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.” The idea is that if you set your standards high, even if you don’t meet them, you’ll be happy with where you end up.
Andrew’s father embodies this sentiment. From Andrew’s conversation with Fletcher we learn that his father was once an aspiring writer, but he never made it, instead settling to be a teacher, and a good one. He is the man who was willing to accept the consolation prizes of abandoning a certain dream: family, friends, health. Certainly, these are all good things, maybe even good enough to justify giving up on a dream. However, his wife left him, and is evidently no longer part of his or his son’s lives. And I’ve often wondered whether that fact didn’t contribute to Andrew’s sense of drive, to his obvious self-contempt, and his feelings of inadequacy far more than Fletcher’s treatment ever could.
Sure, Fletcher is a harsh teacher, but more has to be said for what it is about his students which makes them willing to endure his methods. In the meeting in which the possibility of taking action against Fletcher is discussed, Andrew initially states that Fletcher didn’t do anything to him.
The lawyer responds by asking if Andrew would describe Fletcher’s methods as “extreme” and whether or not he ever intentionally inflicted “emotional harm.” The answers to these questions are obvious, but Andrew’s goal was as extreme as the methods of Fletcher. To him, Fletcher was a means to that end, and this is why he doesn’t initially blame him, and why he is willing to sit down with him after discovering him playing in a local club. Maybe there is a class of people for whom the saying is not true, and sometimes when you truly devote yourself to reaching the moon, nothing less than the moon will satisfy.
I’ve always felt that this was the case with Sean Casey. I can’t prove it, but I’ve always believed that the man (a former student) that Fletcher greets in the hall with his daughter was Sean. And it seemed to say something that Fletcher’s attitude is so different with his former students. He’s no longer pushing them. There is no need. They have gone as far as they were ever going to go. In my own head canon, this is what drives Sean to despair, realizing through Fletcher’s friendliness that he will never achieve the kind of greatness that they were striving for.
Fletcher himself seems to be aware of these risks, and he shows genuine remorse in the scene where he talks to his class about Sean Casey. It’s sometimes claimed that Fletcher is crying out of self-pity because now Sean won’t be in his stable of “greats” and I just have to say that I find this claim morally grotesque. It is so petty and small-minded that it would never even occurred to me. Of course claims about character’s internal mental states are frequently unfalsifiable (that’s why they’re such a reliable refuge for bad analysis), I will say that if Fletcher had felt this way, there would be no reason for him to tell his class about it. The only reason that makes human sense is that Fletcher is mourning the loss of a man whom he loved and wishing to share that man’s memory inside of what is, for Fletcher, the closest thing to a church.
The Gauntlet
gauntlet: a severe trial : ordeal
ran the gauntlet of criticism and censure
People often remark on the “toxicity” of organized sports, but if recent years have proven anything, it is that this type of toxicity can just as likely be found in editorial rooms, faculty boards, and movie studios. There’s a reason why this kind of attitude is so frequently found at the highest levels of an enterprise or field. Any place where status can be gained or lost based on performance will inevitably produce this kind of brutal atmosphere. If it does not, then it is no longer based on performance. High standards require gatekeepers, and gatekeepers tend to be harsh.
Without a doubt, this type of extreme devotion to any standard of excellence produces victims. The question is whether or not they are justified in doing so, should there be a place for those who are willing to accept extreme demands on themselves in pursuit of some goal?
A book on this topic that I’m prone to citing is Jonathan Haidt and Greg Lukianoff’s The Coddling of the American Mind, in which the ascendent ethos of Safetyism is examined and criticized. Safetyism denies the benefit of painful experiences and asserts that all harmful experiences should be avoided because they strictly detract from the person who experiences them. This attitude was on prominent display in the controversies about “safe spaces” on college campuses in the 2010’s. The claim was that students needed places in which their psychological safety would be prioritized, and this included being protected from ideas and opinions that would distress them.
“Safe spaces” have more or less vanished from current cultural discussions, but these is not because the idea has been rejected. Rather, discussion of “safe spaces” has vanished because of its success. By and large, the belief has been accepted far beyond the confines of college campuses. It is now more common than ever for people to believe that all places should be “safe spaces” in which mental-wellness is prioritized. [McKinley Graphic]
The Last Men
Danger alone acquaints us with our own resources, our virtues, our armor and weapons, our spirit, and forces us to be strong.
In Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra, he presented his bleak prediction for the future of Western civilization in the description of “the last man.”
I tell you: one must still have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: you still have chaos in yourselves.
Alas! There comes a time when man will no longer give birth to a star. Alas! There comes a time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself.
Behold! I show you the last man.
“What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?” — so asks the last man and he blinks.
The earth has become small, and on it hops the last man who makes everything small. His species is ineradicable like that of the flea; the last man lives longest.
“We have invented happiness” — say the last men, and blink.
“Formerly all the world was insane,” — say the subtlest of them and blink.
The last men are the inhabitants of the decadent, nihilistic society which Nietzsche predicted would be the final outcome of Western civilization. Petty and small-minded, they are preoccupied with their comforts and with their “health.” They shun powerful passions and great aspirations because these things spoil their “digestion.” Their primary aim is the avoidance of discomfort.
They are, in short, the polar opposite of the doctrine of “self overcoming” which Nietzsche’s Zarathustra preaches. Zarathustra praises the heroic man who is willing to seek out dangerous challenges and risk everything, even his life, to achieve his ideals.
The superior kind of men should be compelled to distinguish themselves by the sacrifices which they have to make to be what they are…
~The Will to Power, 891
In the scene at the jazz club, Fletcher makes a speech that strongly echoes Nietzsche’s sentiments. A lot of commentators have focused on Fletcher’s use of the word “my Charlie Parker” [1:21:31] in this scene and used it to impugn his motives as purely narcissistic, while entirely ignoring that Fletcher believes that the purpose behind this fanatical excellence is the gifts that it gives to humanity.
“Otherwise we’re depriving the world of the next Louis Armstrong, the next Charlie Parker.” 1:19:22
Andrew and Fletcher live in a world in which Nietzsche’s last men reign, but they have not accepted their rule. They’re still both fighting, trying to harness whatever pain or ambition that drives them to give birth to a star. The final scene shows the two of them at the moment of their mutual triumph over this world of safe mediocrity.
Final Thoughts
I began this essay with a question: why is there so much criticism of this film? The answer is that, like Andrew, we too live in the world of the triumphant Last Men. And to the Last Men, a film which suggests that there are ideals which transcend the principles of safety and harm reduction is an affront.
While the critics of this movie present their positions as if they were merely matters of objective fact, they are in fact participants in the same ideological question about VALUES that Whiplash is itself posing.
At the heart of this film is a single question: can a culture which has lost all higher ideals and now recognizes no moral value other than the reduction of harm produce greatness? In this way, Whiplash provides a powerful critique of the current moral order. Andrew and Fletcher are two men who are pursuing a vision of the good that the world around them sees as dangerous, and Whiplash portrays this in a positive light.
Is it right to do so? The question has no answer in the traditional sense. It is not of the same variety as questions which ask the weight of some object, or the distance between two points. Rather, it is a question that thrusts us into deep waters about the purpose of humanity and the nature of virtue and it demands that we answer, “How far would you go for an ideal?”
