Simmons, Teller excel in 'Whiplash'

AS BULLYING, hazing and corporal punishment are lawyered out of polite society, nagging doubts seep in.

We wonder if children need more than a safe, flexible space that nurtures creativity and self-esteem. We wonder if they need discipline in some rigid form - high expectations, met with hard work.

From this lagoon of cultural guilt crawl such creatures as the Tiger Mom, and now, in "Whiplash," one of the most vivid monsters in recent movie history - a jazz instructor, of all things.

His name is Terence Fletcher (J.K. Simmons, in the role of a lifetime), a music-school hard-ass who slaps, curses and humiliates the students in his advanced-level jazz band.

His money line: There are no two words in the English language more harmful than "good job."

His merciless eyes scan terrified students, looking for weakness, and also for that special prodigy who might be worthy of even more abuse - that which does not kill you, he believes, makes you a better musician.

What a jerk, right?

Except that Simmons makes him mesmerizingly jerky. Shaven, clad in black, muscles bursting through his T-shirts, Fletcher is a psychological and physical threat. The performance is knowing (Simmons was a musician) and physical (this is a far better action movie than "Transformers") - watch the way he taps out rhythm with fingers, then brings the music to a disgusted halt with a bulging bicep and clenched fist, as if ready to throw a punch.

"Not my tempo!" he shouts, and keeps shouting, until one ambitious drummer has literally bled on his snare.

The young man with the sticks is Andrew (Miles Teller, a drummer before he was an actor), and he endures this abuse with an intriguing mixture of shame, defiance and something surprising - tacit agreement. (Teller registers this without dialogue. He's always been a witty actor, but this is another level).

What happens between teacher and pupil in "Whiplash" - especially during the phenomenal closing scene - is open to interpretation. Most viewers assume the movie, on some level, must be ethical and sane, that it must share the perspective of Teller's protective father (Paul Reiser).

But look at how the movie treats him. Dad is an emasculated dweeb. He withdraws when he sees Teller excel on stage, conceding that as the Good Father he couldn't evoke this level of genius.

In this way, "Whiplash" smashes familiar instructor/pupil movie dynamics. In fact, it hints that Fletcher and Andrew may be the same person. Watch the way Andrew adopts his teacher's dismissive rage when dealing with clueless relatives. Or the way he treats his pretty girlfriend (an obstacle to his budding greatness), or the sneer of pleasure on his face when he climbs over another student to get one rung higher.

Student and teacher agree: No amount of sadism or masochism is unwarranted in the development of a potential jazz genius (Andrew staggers bloody from a car accident to make a performance).

Writer-director Damien Chazelle, a former jazz student himself, isn't the first artist to conclude that all great art demands great sacrifice, maybe even selfish and cruel sacrifice (see also: "Birdman," Next Page).

But he stacks the deck here, and is too dismissive of collateral damage. It's one thing for Andrew to opt in to Fletcher's regime of suffering, another to oblige everyone else to study music at Fletcher's Abu Ghraib academy, so his advancement can be built on their pain.

Still, the music is gorgeous, the way Chazelle photographs the musicians is improbably exciting, and every scene crackles with the intensity of fully engaged actors.

Longtime supporting talents like Simmons generally get one of two things: an insurance-commercial gig, or a career-defining role like this. Farmers pitchman Simmons gets both.

Take that, Dennis Haysbert.

Online: ph.ly/Movies