I know it was you

I know it was you

YOU BROKE MY HEART

Reminder that this movie is just a sports movie about drums.

Anyone who really likes this would like the movie "Varsity Blues" even more and when they deny that they are just lying psuedointellectuals

delet

>oohhh I want to be great but only if I suffer from it

pretty sure the main kid was beaten by his dad

They left out the part where the meme man made Neman play his rusty trombone.

>Reminder that this movie is just a sports movie about drums.
Who ever denied it? Sounds like you're the pseud here in the first place autist.

>tfw jazz is shit

Top flick tho

it's not even that it's shit, but there is very little innovation now

like everyone who listens to jazz and starts to learn it always sdoes the same shit

But I got you pictures of spiderman after you were diagnosed

lmao absolute fucking state of you

WELL HERE'S A NEWS FLASH FOR YOU MR. INCREDIBLE, THEY'RE NOT MY TEMPO

Good, I wanted you to know you lairy fuck

ARE YOU RUSSIAN OR ARE YOU DRAGON???

>the fuck you gonna do noa? cry like a fucking babe?

Go 2 bed dickhead

WE'RE DANCER

YOU CREEP
INTO MY HEART
AND MAKE MY HEART
BURN

>Whenever someone laments the lack of leadership in government these days, the crisis seems to stem from deeper problems — the selfish examples, misdirection, and moral lapses that start at home. The confusion keeps coming up at the movies; this week in Whiplash, St. Vincent and The Judge, three different kinds of melodrama that all deal with the same issue: fatherhood from behind.

>Whiplash is the worst because it’s full of the Sundance sanctimony that makes no sense beyond the main street of Park City, Utah (where the film won Grand Prize), but it indicates the ideological schmaltz upon which political correctness thrives. Young Andrew (Miles Teller) wants to be a jazz drummer, but at his exclusive Manhattan music conservatory he encounters the school’s most intimidating teacher, skinhead, gym-bodied Terence Fletcher (J. K. Simmons). Fletcher doesn’t nurture or encourage, he curses and browbeats students, who cower in awe of his belligerence. He’s more forceful than Andrew’s passive-aggressive divorced father (Paul Reiser), but his unproven erudition, when accosting school band members and torturing Andrew, exposes Whiplash as a petulant conceit.

>Director-writer Damien Chazelle can’t decide if he’s examining art, authority, or masculinity. The pupil-teacher clash between weepy Andrew and foul-mouthed Fletcher covers the same territory as Black Swan, where student anxiety became overscaled hysteria. But Whiplash isn’t exactly a psychosexual fantasy; Chazelle traces the rigors of musicianship, fascinated with paternal (masculine) power: Slo-mo shots of Andrew dunking his blistered hands in ice water or close-ups of blood-stained cymbals denote WTF Raging Bull influence. (Has Chazelle never heard Ringo’s famous cry at the end of “Helter Skelter”?) Art pretenses get entangled with daddy issues — that’s where Chazelle’s reliance on political correctness proves his undoing.

I want him to play villains more

>As soon as a black female lawyer appears, initiating a suit against Fletcher (after Andrew injures himself in a car crash, then disrupts a competition concert), Whiplash reveals its deliberate, self-pitying co-opting of real artistic and social struggle. Apparently Fletcher’s black students are all jazz geniuses and never incur his racist, homophobic abuse. It’s all a show for Chazelle’s multi-culti Sundance piety, yet it displays no insight into either jazz or pedagogy. In Drumline, the 2002 college-marching-band movie, musicianship. mentorship, and a fatherless prodigy’s egotism were real subjects. But that All-American entertainment, set at a historically black college, wasn’t inflated with either psychobabble or cultural babble (Fletcher’s apocryphal tales about Charlie Parker and Joe Jones).

>Simmons already played an ultimate Bad Dad as the leader of an Aryan Nation prison gang on HBO’s ferocious and brilliant series Oz. This typecasting is comparatively timid. Chazelle reworks the fatherly “It’s not your fault” defense from Good Will Hunting into Andrew’s “It’s not my fault” excuse. It critiques Fletcher’s lack of social grace, his art/race-fetishism. Andrew’s pure ambition (leading to a phony Carnegie Hall finale performing Hank Levy’s “Whiplash“) is all about a spoiled brat’s Oedipal fear. Conservatives would enjoy Drumline for its lively, disciplined bootstrapping while Whiplash caters to liberals’ tendency to reproach. “Whipping Post” might have been a better title for this sadistic film that shirks responsibility for selfish political attitudes.