A Meditation on Greatness

Scanning the endless repetition of selections on cable television the other night, I came across the movie “Whiplash.” I’ve watched parts of the film several times from my couch and saw the film with my wife when it was in theaters, so I’m quite familiar with the plot. (To the point that I can quote lines before they are spoken.) Still, I really enjoy the music and have always loved Buddy Rich, who is a sort of demigod-phantom hanging over the plot. So I decided to once again give the movie my time.

The story line is pretty simple: Andew Neiman (Miles Teller) is an aspiring jazz band drummer at the nation’s most prestigious music school, the Shaffer Conservatory. Terence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons), leader and instructor of the top studio band at the school, takes an interest in Andrew and – despite his status as a neophyte – brings him into the upper echelon band. Andrew’s ambition is boundless and is further fueled by Fletcher’s interest and mythical stories of how Charlie Parker became “Bird.” In spite of – or perhaps even because of – Fletcher’s ludicrous cruelty, malevolence and racist comments toward his students while instructing, Andrew’s purpose in life is singular: to be the greatest drummer in the world. And he sees Fletcher as pushing him to achieve this goal. Not surprisingly, the quest for supremacy and Fletcher’s tyrannical methods lead Andrew down a path of destruction and misery. Ultimately, however, the story culminates in a moment that can perhaps be described as perfection.

The film is a morality play about the pitfalls of ambition and a meditation on the cost of the pursuit of greatness. Fletcher, interestingly, is a sort of dual personification, both of the “Godly” purpose of personal achievement and of the “evil” we do to others when we seek one aspiration at the expense of everyone and everything around us. Some may argue that Fletcher is simply a bastard and cannot personify anything worthy, but I think the denouement and end of the film support a contrary and more variegated conclusion. And I do my best to not argue against text.

For me, the film sticks like a thorn in my sock, rubbing, scraping and irritating a small but ever growing ankle wound with each step. For the functioning addict, by definition, gives up greatness, at least the kind pursued in this story, the minute he or she commits to “the life.” And it is impossible to watch this movie and not ask certain difficult questions.

I have long struggled with the “Great Man” concept - the idea that my life would be meaningless if I didn’t do something outstanding or leave something memorable behind after I’m gone. I have little doubt this desire to do something important stems from my awareness and innate fear of mortality. I also believe it is what initially made me want to be a writer when I was a teenager.

In watching this film the old questions flash through my mind. Did I give up on my big goals and trade them in for fleeting moments of escape? Have I lost out on any chance of doing something really great in this life? And if this is the case, when was the die irrevocably cast? When was the even horizon breached? It may well have been when I took that first drink, puff, snort or drop of acid and said to myself, “this is where I want to be.” Maybe it was on the playground at recess when I was eleven and playing blackjack for my lunch money. Or maybe I was born with this thing.

If I so desired, could I turn my life around today, this moment, and invent a completely new existence for myself? History would indicate almost certainly not. Would I even truly want to do so?

I remind myself that I believe in personal responsibility and the freedom to choose. I remember that I can do anything I want with my today and potential tomorrows. I accept that I have limitations, even though the knowledge of their existence and extent stings my ego. I know that it is more important to love in the present than to be remembered by strangers.