Frenetic, frantic, full-on: Whiplash is a film which will leave any spectator in a disorientated daze, ecstatically searching for the nearest makeshift drum kit to pound out a jazz-infused rhythm on as soon as they walk out of the cinema. For a film which tells the story of a young wannabe jazz drummer, whose main passion in life is to be as good as his idol Buddy Rich, Whiplash surprisingly feels more like a thriller, able to engage even those who have no interest or knowledge of the musical genre.

Andrew Neiman (Miles Teller) attends the prestigious Shaffer Conservatory in New York where he desperately desires to be noticed by the school’s legendary conductor Terrence Fletcher (a phenomenal J. K. Simmons). Neiman’s life is clearly dominated by his pursuit to be ‘one of the greats’: Schaffer being the next step on that pathway with Fletcher’s instruction a necessary subsequent step. Neiman simply lives and breathes Jazz. His room is covered with posters of jazz legends and drum beat ‘charts’. He can walk into a restaurant and name the musician and the recording date of the track which plays over the speakers. Such determination, outlined so clearly during the film’s initial scenes, is clearly a central concern; what does it take to be the best? But Whiplash isn’t just interested in a superficial ‘blood, sweat and tears’ representation of that kind of sentiment, but asks the question: when striving for perfection, what is sacrificed? What is risked?

Enter Terrence Fletcher. Soon enough Neiman makes enough of an impression to stand out to Fletcher for inclusion in the school’s flagship band. After an initial, disarming conversation with Fletcher, who tells the young drummer to just ‘have some fun’, Neiman’s first rehearsal quickly turns into a tense affair during which the conductor acts out aggressively and even violently towards other members of the band as well as Neiman himself. The version of this scene witnessed in the film’s trailer pales in comparison to the aggression and hostility Fletcher exhibits towards his students in the film itself. Spraying spit-flecked, profanity-ridden insults across the ranks like R. Lee Ermey in Full Metal Jacket, Fletcher demands absolute perfection and if anyone isn’t in tune or finds themselves not exactly on ‘his time’ whilst playing, all hell is certain to break loose. What begins here is an ingeniously executed back and forth between Neiman and Fletcher – student and teacher. As Neiman’s determination to live up to Fletcher’s ludicrous expectations progresses even further, his life begins to come crashing down around him; something he knowingly allows in the pursuit of his primary aspiration. As each dramatic turning point gives way to another, Whiplash forces the spectator through an assault course of theatrical ups and downs as Neiman fights to be the band’s core drummer, practices the blistering pieces he must perform in front of crowds and judges who will decide his future, and attempts to gain the respect of the clearly sociopathic conductor who he himself regards so highly.

With the film’s rhythm continually increasing in pace and strength – realised in no small part by it’s inspired use of rapid quick fire editing – Whiplash whisks the audience towards its masterful final act: a head to head showdown between Neiman and Fletcher which has to be one of the most captivating, if audaciously overwrought finales of recent memory. It’s at once triumphant, but also subtly disheartening when the realisation hits that both characters are as bad as each other: a perfect match with their shared manipulative tendencies and their kill or be killed attitude towards pursuing perfection. For just under two hours, Whiplash pumps some much needed adrenaline into the multiplex, and all it took was a bass drum, snare, toms, cymbals and two of the most uncomfortably compelling, near-psychotic jazz-lovers imaginable.