|Bryan to himself: I kind of miss drumming.|
This review is about Damien Chazelle’s Whiplash, but before that, two sentences from the novel Percival Everett by Virgil Russell by Percival Everett:
That I then, you then, I now, could imagine such hell was hell enough. (213)
I could be writing you could be writing me could be writing you. (216).
I mention these lines from Everett’s very postmodernist text because this blurring of the lines between subject and object, between creator and created, between teacher and student, is at the heart of Chazelle’s film. And yet, Whiplash arrives at this hyphen without the appearance of either gimmick or contrivance, which is what separates it from both Inarritu’s Birdman and Linklater’s Boyhood.
Not only have Oscar ballots been cast but they have been announced. This conversation is old. Birdman won. And fans of every other film, but mostly Boyhood, have tweeted and blogged the ending of the world in accordance with such awful tragedy.