Whiplash: On how to become a true master

[Warning: Spoilers Ahead] 

Whiplash is the rare refreshing film where form follows function in a way that seems both necessary and unexpected. It is a story that goes beyond the standard three act structure of drama by adding a fourth act wherein it reaches the sublime. The film narrativizes a fundamental thesis in patriarchal culture regarding the father/son (master/apprentice) relationship: the mandate for the son (apprentice) to replace the father (master); thereby, allowing for the reproduction of the paradigm (Star Wars representing one of the most famous examples in Western Pop Culture). The only way the apprentice (son) can transform himself into the master is to break the explicit rules of the master (father) operating to maintain the status quo, in order to paradoxically follow the implicit mandate of all masters--total domination. In other words, the apprentice must apply the lessons of the master (become master of others) in all relationships, not just those outside the proverbial classroom. To follow the logic of mastery to the end, he must usurp the master's role and position. The master hopes his apprentice will somehow exceed him, even if (or perhaps especially if) it means betrayal, in order to fulfill a transcendental purpose that is beyond the immediate understanding of both master and apprentice--this is how they reach the sublime. The key meta-lesson here is that the most important role of any particular iteration or instance of a master is to be an object/obstacle for the apprentice to overcome--this is the only way true masters are made. In the context of the film, this is what it means to be the best, "one of the greats." The meta narrative of the master/apprentice relationship is a variation of the Freudian narrative of the Oedipus complex wherein the son kills the father to take his place. The dynamism of the patriarchal paradigm allows for either outcome to maintain narrative consistency (truth). If Oedipus fails, then the rule of the father is maintained. If Oedipus succeeds, then the rule of the father is still maintained, but in a transcendental way--a way that illustrates the meaning of the rule of the father beyond that of any particular father (figure). It is only by looking back after the fact that we can judge whether or not the rebellious act (usurpation) was justified. That is why such an act, even in fiction, is so powerful when set up correctly. It is an act of pure faith--with no guarantee of outcome or meaning. In Whiplash, the moment that Andrew goes against Fletcher's explicit orders is a moment without any predetermined outcome or meaning and paradoxically it is the moment when he tries to fulfill Fletcher's implicit mandate--to become greater than him by any means necessary. It is a rare narrative moment when multiple outcomes can still hold true to the story and characters. 

Those male figures that either never reach for the top or fail to properly overthrow the figure of the father are perpetually stuck in the role of the subordinate (amateur)--they become ersatz father figures never command real authority. Like Andrew's father, Mr. Neimann, these failed pseudo father figures cannot teach their sons how to become true masters because they do not know how to challenge and wield authority. In this film, Andrew's battle to overcome his master, to beat him at his own game, is not without its own perils potentially leading to a fate worse than his father's. As with Icarus, flying too close to the sun can result in (symbolic) death--in this case, the end of Andrew's narrative as a musician. This is not just the dramatization of a master/apprentice (father/son) relationship, it is the narrativization of all master/apprentice (father/son) relationships showing us what every son needs to do in order to escape the shadow of the father while simultaneously reaffirming a transcendental mandate that binds all father figures. There are both celebratory and troubling social implications resulting from this narrative structure--this patriarchal paradigm--but from from an aesthetic viewpoint, Whiplash displays a mastery of poetics that is truly rare.

In the first three acts, Whiplash follows the conventional structure found in most male coming-of-age stories, featuring a master/apprentice relationship, and this alone would have made it a good film. In fact, at the end of Act 3 I found myself waiting for the credits to roll only to realize that the story was not over. The movie kept going as if breaking its mold, and I asked myself--why? What else did the film have to say? Was this just an overly extended Act 3 or was it an entirely new act? In most cases it would have been the former, but thankfully it was the latter. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's talk about Acts 1 through 3. In Act 1 we meet the players, band master/father/mentor Fletcher (JK Simmons) and his musical apprentice/son/mentee Andrew (Miles Teller) and immediately get that Andrew specifically wants to learn from Fletcher so that he can be "one of the greats" (of Jazz drumming, ex. Buddy Rich). The implication is that not all "masters" have what it takes to help their apprentices become the best. That is why Andrew attends Schafer, "the best music school in the country." In Act 2 we get a climax, a conflict, wherein Andrew realizes that his master is working against him--trying to thwart, maybe even destroy him (his music career). In Act 3, we get a resolution when Andrew, with the help of his sympathetic (literal) father, uses the law (the explicit rules of the father) to depose the antagonistic (defacto) father (Fletcher) from his position of authority. That alone would have made for a good movie based on the performances of the two leads and the narrative consistency of the thesis. However, that would have been a very different story about the role of father figures--one without a meta or transcendental aspect. The thesis of a film ending here would've been, beware of "false" father figures that end up doing the opposite of what "true" fathers should do--instead of nurturing their apprentices/sons they end up hurting/destroying them. This is a popular thesis of father/son narratives in a post 9/11 America; wherein, father figures that push too hard and threaten harm are merely predators, like wolves that end up devouring their own cubs. The fear of post 9/11 American pop culture seems to be don't push your kids/subordinates too hard or you'll end up destroying them. The other side of that deterministic coin is that if you work/fight hard enough you will inevitably succeed. The lesson exemplified by movies from the 80s-90s like Rocky I-IV and Die Hard 1-3, is push as hard as you can to succeed. What makes Whiplash unconventional in this regard is that it doesn't settle for either side of that coin--it avoids the trap of a deterministic outcome. In Whiplash, the story doesn't settle for the "don't push too hard" thesis of Act 3, but it doesn't end up in the "push as hard as you can" thesis in Act 4 either. What we get in Act 4 is a radical contingency of outcomes whereby the thesis can only be determined retroactively. What allows Act 4 to reach the sublime is this radical contingency--where the outcome, the end of the story, can go either way (failure or success) and still hold true (narratively and thematically consistent).

In Act 4 of Whiplash, the apprentice has a chance encounter with the "evil" dictator that he helped to depose using the the law. What Andrew learns in this meeting is that he may have removed Fletcher from a position of power in a particular institution (the music school), but that his old master retains true authority in regards to the music world. In other words, Andrew learns the difference between de jure and de facto authority which reflects the difference between explicit and implicit rules of ideology (including patriarchy). Herein lies the crux of the matter, the difference between Fletcher, the implicit father that pushes the pupil to go beyond himself, v. Mr. Neimann, the explicit (biological) father that is overprotective because he never became great himself. Mr. Neimann is overprotective precisely because he doesn't know the benefits that overcoming great hardship can produce. In order for the proverbial son/apprentice to become a new father/master he must accept and overcome harm--even if it comes from the father/master himself. This reveals the paradoxical nature of the father's role in patriarchal society. On the one hand, the father's duty is to protect the son, but only until he is ready for the challenges of manhood. Then he must introduce the son to a world of harm/difficulty/adversity/struggle so that the son can become a new father. Sons that are always sheltered will not become new father figures. [To be clear, I'm not saying I believe in this as a truth about society or human nature. Rather my claim is that this is the ideology the film presents and reproduces in the narrative.]

Getting back to Act 4, Andrew and Fletcher have a conversation that has multiple purposes that are not mutually exclusive. On the one hand, Fletcher tells his story about Charlie Parker's passage into manhood via the threat of harm represented by the chair that was thrown at him. The flying chair is the catalyst for the Charlie Parker character in Fletcher's anecdote--the trigger that makes him work hard to overcome his limitations. This is the truth of Fletcher and his ideology as a master and father figure--he must introduce his apprentice to harm/pain in order for Andrew to grow beyond his perceived limitations. Pain becomes transformative, but not for everyone--only for those with the potential to become the Charlie Parkers of the world. Therein lies the risk. What if you are not one of these butterflies in the making? That is the ethical dilemma that this narrative doesn't address. Is it ethical to crush the majority of people psychologically, emotionally, physically in order to find a a handful of geniuses? Even this question presupposes that pain and hardship are the only ways to unlocking potential. On the other hand, we learn retroactively, that this conversation is also part of Fletcher's plan to get revenge on Andrew and ruin his career forever. The genius of this narrative move, this conversation, is that the Charlie Parker story relies on both purposes to work in order to achieve its full transformative effect whereby it takes on a third purpose. Rather than canceling each other out, these dual purposes of pushing Andrew to become greater than he is and getting revenge on Andrew dovetail into the same purpose--one that is beyond his realization and intention.

In the last scene of the film, we come upon the 2nd and greater climax of the story, wherein Andrew realizes that he has been setup by Fletcher to ruin his career and exact revenge. Andrew exits the stage in apparent defeat and ultimate humiliation back into the arms of his supportive father. That moment could have easily and faithfully resulted in a story about the dangers of bad teachers and unscrupulous father figures that push too hard--reinforcing the conclusion of Act 3 and driving that thesis into deeper ideological depths. In such a hypothetical but real ending, Andrew goes on to do something else with his life--finds a new dream, or he finds another way to fulfill his dream. The possibilities are there but all the paths that stem from this direction do not involve a transformation of his being and subjectivity, especially in regards to authority and power. But fortunately the story doesn't end there. Suddenly Andrew turns around, almost like Orpheus looking back at the path out of Hell and dives right back in. He returns to the stage in direct opposition to and refutation of the explicit instructions of the master father figure, Fletcher. For the first time he goes against the the master's explicit rules (contrary to what you might think, the scene where Andrew attacks Fletcher is not a contradiction to the master's logic) and in doing so he opens the possibility of becoming a new master. To everyone's surprise, Andrew completes his transformation from apprentice to master by usurping the role of authority--band leader--and giving his own commands to the other band members; even to the master/conductor himself. It's not just that he reaches a new level of skill and artistry in his own playing--he becomes the master when his music, his inner subjectivity becomes the glue/logic that binds the band together--that leads them. Thus the 4th Act not only gives Andrew the opportunity to transform into a new master, beyond his former self, but it also functions structurally to break the convention of the standard three act coming-of-age drama. The true climax of the story is at the very end, where everything is at stake, thus reminding us yet again that it isn't over until it's over. It is a beautiful and transcendental moment when one sees a character break his mold and the narrative structure at the same time. This moment is only possible because the narrative up to this point sets up a real possibility of failure. This kind of moment of possibilities is so rare in film (and narrative in general)--moments when the story can truthfully go in multiple directions with radical consequences. That is why the ending retroactively changes the significance of the Charlie Parker story. At first, the Charlie Parker story is one of encouragement. Later, it becomes a tool designed to lure Andrew into a trap. And then a third possibility emerges through Andrew's actions as he changes the meaning of the story to something meta, wherein the new truth of the story incorporates the previous two meanings without contradiction or irony. The third meaning is that the story is the implicit mandate of all masters for their students to go beyond them--to break the (explicit) rules of the master. This event (see Badiou) transforms the Charlie Parker story from being a lure for revenge into an instrument for success (pun intended). Thus it becomes like the first reading, a story of encouragement, but a radically different kind of encouragement. It's the master's command to the pupil not just to become better than him but to overcome him--to take his power and authority (like Obi Wan and Vader--even if it means the master's actual destruction).

Gone Girl: The feminine mystique returns with a vengeance

[Warning: Spoilers Ahead]

Part 1

Gone Girl is a film that begins by presenting the audience with the image of an ideal married couple (one that is both heteronormative and not a cliche) only to reveal later on that it is anything but idyllic. But it doesn't stop there. This is a film that posits the theoretical impossibility of the heteronormative couple that isn’t a cliche. Put another way, the only way to avoid being a cliched couple is to avoid the presupposition of normative gender roles. On a meta level, Gone Girl is a story about the impossibility of finding the proverbial “girl” in the narrative of the happy couple. She is always already “gone”. If this resonates with you and doesn't sound (only) like esoteric theoretical b.s., then you have to wonder how Gone Girl is not fundamentally sexist and potentially misogynistic (this depends largely on your definition of the term). This is not just a film about a fictional married couple--this is a film about the fictional narrative that is the heteronormative married couple. I am amazed at how many critics have come out as apologists for the gender politics of this film, including feminist critics from Slate and NPR. Don't get me wrong--it's great entertainment and it resonates broadly precisely because it is insightful on multiple levels. Nevertheless, that does not excuse it from a critical eye towards gender roles that define and limit people arbitrarily. What makes Gone Girl an exception in contrast to a film like Basic Instinct, which most critics and viewers alike wouldn't think twice about calling misogynistic? Gone Girl and Basic Instinct have so much in common that I can't help but wonder if Flynn based her book on it or was speaking to that film in some way. Both films are thrillers about a man named Nick trying to find the "truth" of the women that they are in love with. Both women are seen as cold, calculating, intelligent, ruthless, and unknowable (to the very end). Both women are authors both literally and figuratively--they manipulate male authority with ease by scripting narratives that take advantage of our expectations and prejudices regarding the woman's role in a heterosexual relationship. Both depict in great detail a bloody and sadistic sex scene that is key to the entire narrative--with both scenes featuring bondage and death at the moment of climax. Both are career breakout roles for their female leads playing opposite well known and established male leads playing relatively sympathetic and relatable characters. In the end, both male characters are redeemed socially, in the eyes of the law and the public, even if their morality and ethics are questionable. That is a key part of the double standard that Amy’s character highlights in her “cool girl” monologue. Both directors, Fincher and Verhoeven, are known for their “interest” in the theme of perversion. The similarities go on and on, and yet somehow one is obviously misogynistic while the other one finds some loophole (artistic merit?) making it an exception to the scrutiny of gender politics. What's the saying about exceptions? Oh right, they prove the rule. Here's a little experiment, ask yourself which of the following quotes from major film critics (and one from the screenwriter) belongs to Gone Girl or Basic Instinct:

"As for [the lead actress], [the director] gets a multilayered performance from her that holds us at emotional arm's length. Her body stands fully revealed, but her psyche is left to the imagination.”

“[Gone Girl/Basic Instinct] transfers Mr. [Fincher’s/Verhoeven’s] flair for action-oriented material to the realm of Hitchcockian intrigue, and the results are viscerally effective even when they don't make sense. Drawing powerfully on the seductiveness of his actors and the intensity of their situation, Mr. [Fincher/Verhoeven] easily suspends all disbelief.”

"It is in [Amy’s/Catherine's] specific, defined character that she will do anything. She is that smart, that angry and that unfettered by conscience.”

"I particularly mourn the lack of female villains — good, potent female villains. Not ill-tempered women who scheme about landing good men and better shoes … not chilly WASP mothers … not soapy vixens (merely bitchy doesn’t qualify either). I’m talking violent, wicked women. Scary women. Don’t tell me you don’t know some.”

"It is the conceit of [Flynn’s/Eszterhas’] enterprising screenplay, which does what it can to insert an obscene thought into every situation, that the recently reformed Nick and the reckless [Amy/Catherine] are two of a kind, and are thus inexorably drawn together.

Part 2

The degree to which we see how screwed up Amy is psychologically and emotionally at the end of Gone Girl is much worse than than what we see of Nick and this is key to why the film feels sexist (although not the only reason). While Nick is as bad, or worse, than Amy deep down inside as far as their subjectivity goes (referring to each character’s inner state of mine, intentions, motivations, etc.), objectively his actions are relatively normal. The result of a comparison of their actions has the unfortunate effect of making his otherwise despicable acts seem mundane. How do you compare Nick's cheating on his wife and physically assaulting and intimidating her to Amy’s faking her own kidnapping to frame her husband and the cold-blooded murder of Desi (Neal Patrick Harris) while having sex? They’re not even in the same ballpark, and that’s a big problem with this "he said she said" story. When we compare the depths to which each goes to maintain the illusion of their happy marriage and the consequences of not being true to themselves the results are so disparate and one-sided that we can’t help but sympathize with Nick and see Amy as a monster.

For her part of the bargain, Amy does everything she can to maintain the illusion of the Cool Girl—including maintaining her physical attractiveness to conform to mainstream ideals, her femininity, and her potential as a mother while being compliant with all of Nick’s demands including moving to Missouri and having sex whenever he wants. This is a gender issue that many women experience and lies at the core of Amy’s discontent—the double standard. Why does Amy have to live up to all the expectations of her husband and society while Nick only has to live up to his own, just because he’s a man and she’s a woman? At first, Amy’s’ response to this lopsided bargain is to even the score (frame him for kidnapping/murder) and escape (suicide). The rationale for her seeking revenge is that she’s done all the compromising in the relationship while Nick goes out and has an affair with one of his young students—a total cliche. From a moral standpoint, the problem is not that Amy wants revenge, the problem is that she takes it too far. Among other things, Amy tries to frame Nick for her murder. But then Amy comes to a realization that Nick is capable of holding up his end of the marriage bargain and fulfilling the role of the dutiful husband. This epiphany occurs when she sees how capable Nick is at manipulating the public and the media during his televised interview. The public spectacle that was supposed to crush his credibility and mark him as an adulterer for life gets turned around in a masterful reversal into a moment of confession and staged vulnerability that results in the near total exoneration of his publicized sins. This is the moment when Amy realizes that Nick too is willing to go to great lengths to preserve and maintain appearances. It turns out that for Amy, marriage is all about appearances with substance being nearly irrelevant—that is the cruel lesson of the Cool Girl story. Thus, she pivots and decides that she will do anything and everything to save their marriage. 
 
To preserve the illusional consistency of their happy marriage, Amy must add a new branch to the narrative that introduces the bad guy—an external party that comes in and threatens the status quo. Amy uses her creative talents to turn her ex, Desi, into the Big Bad Wolf of her fairy tale so that all her and Nick’s bad intentions can be projected onto him. Through no act of his own, Desi unwittingly becomes her pawn and assumes the critical role of the Other—monster, rapist, criminal, psychopath, etc. in her revised narrative. Through Desi, Amy can absolve herself and Nick of any wrongdoing—at least in the eyes of the media and the law. To accomplish this, Amy commits premeditated murder in a scene that feels like the climax of the film in more ways than one. The graphic scene of murder during sex where blood is splattered orgasmically stigmatizes Amy in a way that makes Nick seems like a saint in comparison. Nothing Nick does comes anywhere close to that kind of disregard for human life. It's a naked act of calculated manipulation and raw destructiveness that shows Amy's complete lack of concern for human life (at least for people that she do not fit into the pleasant parts of her narrative). Nothing Nick does in the film comes close to that degree of misandry.  

The other key to why we see Nick differently than Amy is in the way the story is told. In the first part of the film, Nick appears to be the innocent victim of circumstances and he is clearly the main character with who we learn everything. He is the detective in this noir-ish story. Like all detectives in noir, Nick is a flawed person but he’s still likable enough to identify with. We root for him throughout the story even if it’s just to find out how it ends. Even though Amy takes over as narrator in the second part, Nick is still the protagonist. We still root for Nick—in fact, we root for him more and more as we discover the depths of Amy’s psychopathy and the extent of how much he has been played (manipulated) by her. The more monstrous we discover Amy to be the more sympathetic we become for Nick.

Again, a comparison to Basic Instinct is helpful here. In Basic Instinct, we never know in absolute terms whether Catherine (Sharon Stone's character) is the killer (or one of the killers if we consider the possibility of multiple killers). It's crucial to the sustained tension (and disbelief) that neither Nick (Michael Douglas’ character) nor the audience know for certain that Catherine is the bad guy. The only thing we know for sure about her is that she doesn't have much regard for people's feelings. On the other hand, Verhoeven's Nick has a much more questionable moral character than Fincher's. In Basic Instinct, we know that Nick sleeps with the psychologist that evaluates his mental "fitness," we know that he has killed innocent people (hence the nickname "shooter"), we know that he sleeps with a suspected murderer that he is personally "investigating," we know he has used cocaine, and the list goes on. Compared to Michael Douglas' Nick, Ben Affleck comes off as a saint. Even so, Douglas' Nick is still somehow relatable--the audience still identifies with him as a flawed cop that may have been the victim of circumstances. As a detective he is like us--someone trying to find the "truth" of Catherine. We want to know what he wants to know, we learn as he learns. He is an open book compared to Catherine. We feel bad when his partner, Gus, is killed and to some degree understand how a reasonable person might have shot Beth under the circumstances towards the end of the film. If anything Basic Instinct doesn't give us enough satisfaction regarding the "investigation" into Catherine Trammell to make any meaningful conclusions, hence the Rosebud-like ending (ice pick under the bed as they have sex). At the end of the film, she retains her agency (she is on top) and power without being stigmatized as a criminal/murderer (at least not in the eyes of the law or Nick). I don't think the audience feels bad about the outcome because Nick and Catherine have chosen each other with neither one having any leverage over the other. The feminine mystique remains impenetrable. At the end of Gone Girl, the feminine mystique also remains impenetrable (hence Nick's desire to crack open her skull and see what she's really thinking), but we know for certain that she is a cold-blooded murderer and psychopath which results in an outcome that doesn't feel like they've chosen each other equally. Amy has to twist Nick's arm to keep him in the relationship, using the unborn child as leverage. Without the pregnancy, Nick clearly would have walked away from this, and this is the reason why I felt sympathy for him, even if they're both compromised people. It's the reason why I would argue that despite surface impressions, Gone Girl is much more sexist than Basic Instinct according to the narrative logic each presents. Gone Girl is a much slicker film than Basic Instinct but I think its gender politics are actually less progressive (less egalitarian).

The film's characterization of Amy as a calculated murderer retroactively negates most of the effect of her criticism of the Cool Girl double standard (gender bias). Through Nick we learn of Amy’s contempt for their neighbors and people in general. Amy is a person with no regard for other people unless they serve a purpose in her subjective narrative. Stories about her past reveal the costs of playing the Cool Girl to her psyche—she may have played the part but she hated it inside. As with most narratives, what is the point of the story if you’re not invested in it—if you don’t believe in it in some sense? These revelations seem to expose her as a fraud and a maybe even a hypocrite although we should be asking ourselves why does it matter what she thought and felt subjectively while playing the Cool Girl part? It matters precisely in cases like Amy's where a woman can play the part of the Cool Girl perfectly while internally harboring resentment. We should feel sympathy for women who feel the pressure to live up to this double standard that favors the normative man’s role. Unfortunately, Gone Girl gives us a story of a woman who rebels against this heteronormative role only to turn out to be a psychopath with little regard for other people.

The thing is, Amy's act of murder is not part of her revenge scheme—in fact it’s part of her attempt to save the marriage and restore heteronormative gender roles. In Amy’s reversal from trying to frame Nick to trying to save their marriage we see how disturbing it is when the logic of a false narrative (the ideal heterosexual marriage) is taken to the extreme. At the end of the film Amy shows that she’s willing to do anything—kill, get pregnant, lie to the police about kidnapping and rape, etc.—to make sure she and Nick maintain the appearance of a happily married couple even when they know it’s not true. That is the true horror of the illusion of the happily married couple—that it maintains appearances even when it subjectively harms the people involved. At the end we can’t help but feel sorry for Nick but shouldn’t we feel sorry for Amy as well? She was the one that went to the greatest lengths to maintain the illusion—one that every party/agency in the film also went to great lengths to support and protect, including law enforcement, media, neighbors, towns, family, etc. The problem is, there is an implicit understanding among the sane that a pragmatic illusion is still an illusion and therefore can only be taken so far. Explicit rules and appearances can only go so far before they contradict and betray the implicit rules that lie underneath. When things go too far, as in Amy’s case, the contradictory logic is exposed and in this case Amy becomes the scapegoat. The result is a narrative that seems to demonize strong women, especially feminists, particularly the archetype of the liberal white variety--Ivy League Grad, New Yorker, author, sophisticated, intelligent, confident, charming, attractive, etc. The extreme nature of Amy's actions and her disregard for human life negate most of the effect of her insights about the Cool Girl double standard and her brief rebellion against it. Mainstream media supplies us with so many depictions of women that maintain and support the illusion of heteronormative gender roles, including Cool Girls doing their best to live up to impossible expectations, that it’s unfortunate that this example of a women who rebels against them for a brief moment gets recouped into a story about how one woman took it to the extreme only to miss the point. But perhaps this can still be recouped for a feminist agenda if we recognize that the flawed logic of binary gender roles inherent in heteronormative marriage was exposed in this way only because Amy missed the point and took it to the extreme. Although this type of feminist read goes beyond the scope of the film as a part of popular media it still resides in the context of culture at large and is not exempt from such a read.