Terence Fletcher: How 'Whiplash' Portrayed the Perfect Villain

Voldemort, Thanos, Joker. The holy trinity of Hollywood-blitz villainy – and perhaps some of the most iconic of all time, at that. An antagonist, put simply, is the driving force behind every great movie narrative – conflict is integral to sustained audience engagement. It’s difficult to root for a protagonist who has nothing to struggle for, and hence no reason to change. After all, as the old adage goes: ‘No pain, no gain.’

So what makes a ‘good’ villain and how did Damien Chazelle’s Whiplash incidentally craft the so-called perfect one?

Voldemort sought immortality in the face of an unprecedented prophecy. Thanos set out to arbitrarily kill half a planet’s population.  Joker wreaked mayhem over Gotham City, testing the limits of his rival. A narrative framework rests on the relationship between a character’s innermost desires and what they will do - at any cost - to attain it. Whilst the audience typically experiences this journey through a singular, hero-driven lens, this notion is not exclusive to protagonists. Almost all notorious antagonists on the big screen have an agenda rooted in a similar, all-consuming desire – except that they seek it through inflicting harm on others for personal gain. Slits for nostrils, ghostly-white skin and an unnerving grin aside, one can attribute the label ‘villain’ to a character whose desires are at complete odds with those of the protagonist, and whose methods of fulfilment are blindingly sadistic. In Double Indemnity, for example, Phyllis Dietrichson -  our vested femme fatale and the ever-sultry embodiment of a wealthy businessman’s younger second-wife - embarked on a murderous ploy to claim her husband’s life insurance.  There is no doubt about it – as far as villains go, immorality, corruption and - frankly - pure evil, trail closely behind. 

In Whiplash, bright-eyed Andrew Neiman sets out to become one of the greatest jazz drummers of all time. Terence Fletcher - abusive and unrelenting - heads the Shaffer Conservatory Studio Band. Fletcher’s methods consist of verbal denigration, psychological manipulation and - in more instances than audiences are likely led to believe - physical abuse. Fletcher is plain cruel — aren’t all villains? So why is it that he seemingly possesses some of the very same qualities, however exaggerated to depict his villainy,  as Andrew? How is it that he personifies our protagonist’s ultimate goal, if he is meant to be a force of disruption? 

The film fundamentally seeks to reinforce one idea: Andrew Neiman wants to be one of the greats. However, in spite of Fletcher’s twisted manipulation and ironclad brutality, he gladly obliges. Fletcher ultimately desires the same from Andrew as Andrew does of himself. And, if Fletcher is the all-knowing maestro of jazz-musician excellence, understanding what kind of sacrifice (moral or other) it requires to make the name ‘Andrew Neiman’ ring the same bell of familiarity as the great Charlie Parker, then at which point does Fletcher start to be a villain, instead of a propellant, to Andrew’s success?

It remains a widely contested topic amongst the Whiplash audience, with some claiming that Fletcher pushed Andrew too far, whilst others arguing that his methods were more or less necessary. Fletcher’s character oscillates between the antagonist who lacks remorse and sympathy for the plague of ruthless ambition he fortifies in a naively passionate musician and the selfless master that will stop at nothing to see his protégé surpass the level of history-defining talent even he could not personally identify with. This is what renders Fletcher so innately terrifying – his coercion of Andrew is blatant, but his intentions are somehow not. He implores the audience to reevaluate their stance, reflecting on how his abuse just might be the critical piece of Andrew’s future as one of the greats.   

Not only does the ambiguity of Fletcher’s role in Andrew’s success pose a strange dichotomy in our critical perception of him, it also magnifies the moments where glimpses of his vulnerability are brought to exposition. Namely, Fletcher offering Andrew words of reassurance before his first practice with Studio Band, talking playfully to the stage technician’s daughter in a manner resembling endearment and his ‘emotional’ reaction to Sean Casey’s death. Though we know that these are but hollow pockets of compassion, these are precisely the moments in which the audience face a dilemma. We want to believe that the abusive Fletcher is the one a well-intentioned, innately sensitive version of him switches on when necessary — not the other way around. 

Fletcher is able to manipulate Andrew by making him believe that somewhere deep down is an ordinary - albeit intense - man who discovered the secret to jazz-musician greatness, a one-in-a-million coach that will push his subordinate to success in a world of ‘just enough is good enough’ music teachers. Since the narrative is told from Andrew’s point-of-view, the audience is tempted into believing this too. It’s like a game of whack-a-mole, if the mole were glimpses of a ‘human’ Fletcher, and the mallet were his tendencies that lie on the far end of sociopathy. 

Recall the most iconic villains in cinema and compare them with the true distressing villainy of Terence Fletcher – no audience of sound mind wants the villain to win. We want Andrew to be great, largely because Andrew himself wants to be great. But Fletcher also wants Andrew to be great, which means we want what Fletcher wants, which is absurd, because Fletcher is a bad man, so there’s no way we can want what he wants. But maybe, just maybe, he has to be a bad man - a ‘necessary evil’ of sorts - so that Andrew can be great, which is what Andrew wants, and hence what we want, but also what Fletcher wants…this is how Damien Chazelle crafted the perfect villain.

Fletcher’s tyranny is undisputed, but his intentions are not – the audience understands that he is the villain because his actions prove it.  Aside from the final scene in which Fletcher attempts to humiliate Andrew in front of noted music representatives in response to testifying against him, Fletcher had no justifiable reason to show contempt for Andrew. His antagonism was motivated neither by dislike nor conflicting interests. His actions are certainly cruel, but his intentions are polarising, which is exactly why his character is so perplexing –  he represents something too real, almost inevitable, and complex. His personality traits and methods aside, Fletcher facilitates an outcome that society would otherwise see as a cause for celebration; no one becomes extraordinary by doing ordinary things.

Hence, if we as an audience can even partially justify his degrading and merciless actions without attributing them to compassion for a deeply wounded man in spite of it all, then perhaps it is because Fletcher may have gotten into our heads, too. 

And that, in and of itself, is sinister.

Jaena Velten

Edited by Hannah Sugars