There’s
a scene in Whiplash, a film about a young man learning just how
dedicated to success he actually is, that spoke to me. In the scene,
the protagonist (a young drummer at a prestigious music conservatory) breaks up
with his girlfriend. He tells her something along the lines of, “I’m
more dedicated to music than to you. This will, inevitably, hurt
your feelings. Let’s break up before things get ugly.”
It
reminded me of my time at Cal State, grinding out the work so I could get into
the Naval Academy. I was sitting in the Student Union, studying for
an exam, when my (then) girlfriend joined me at the table.
“Hi,” she
said.
“Hi. I’m
studying for an exam. It’s in an hour, so I need to
focus. Let’s talk later.”
“Ok.” pause. pause.
pause. “What’s the exam on? Do you like the
professor? What do you want to do this weekend?”
“Now’s
not a good time. I really need to focus. Let’s talk
later.”
“Ok.” pause. pause. pause. “I
was talking to X this morning. She said Y,
so I said …”
I put
up a hand. “Stop. Go away.” I dug my
headphones out of my bag and huddled over my books. Shocked, she
complied.
The
relationship didn’t last much longer, but that’s ok. That’s the
point. When you’re young and ambitious, monomania is practically
required. Whiplash gets this, telling the story of its
protagonist’s monomaniacal devotion to his drumming, even in the face of a
monstrously abusive teacher. He practices until his hands bleed,
ices them, wraps them, and practices some more. He withstands
torrents of abuse, breaks, then practices some more. He gets that
success only comes through grinding labor, not a montage.
I
respected the heck out of this kid. Because I respected him, I
invested in him even though I don’t care about drumming and don’t care about
jazz. And that’s the magic of this movie. It draws us
into a world about which we may be ignorant or uninterested, and it brings it
to life and a compelling way. You should see it.
That
is, unless you have work to do.
