The opening moments of the hot-blooded musical thriller Whiplash summon distant sounds of jazz drums as we’re drawn to a practice room in a prestigious Manhattan music school and lock our gaze onto Andrew Neiman (played by The Spectacular Now’s naturally charismatic Miles Teller, undoubtedly one of the best young American actors working today). Amid shadows and beams of light that slash across a dark room resembling a dust-covered stage, Andrew whips and lashes the drums so devotedly and convincingly that it’s easy to imagine him against an arduous audience, feeling the intoxicating high running through his entire body. But Andrew is practicing in privacy until he gets interrupted by the school’s star teacher in a possible future-defining moment. In his monstrous, destructive world of creative ambition –as artistically articulated by writer/director Damien Chazelle in his pulsating sophomore feature (following Guy and Madeline on a Park Bench) – he doesn’t strive to excel for the paying, pleasure-seeking audience. For Andrew (and his peers), there is always the gaze of a different kind of audience–a very harsh one he struggles to please and compete against: himself. He demands nothing less of himself than absolute precision and excellence.

But every story of personal triumph -from Rocky Balboa to Australian musical prodigy David Helfgott – needs a superior, motivating coach to provide a sufficient kick in the butt to endure those laborious, physically painful training montages that are bound to conveniently land on a happy note. The coach we get with J. K. Simmons’ Fletcher, the very star teacher who interrupts Andrew’s opening practice. But jazz by nature is too unruly for a happily conventional formula, and so is Chazelle, thankfully. Thus, Fletcher is the polar opposite of an inspiring teacher. His bitter venom often pierces the screen when he doesn’t get what he wants, or what the music demands. “Not quite my tempo,” he often says in interrupting the musicians, in an increasingly frightening aggression. So don’t expect him to prep Andrew for a competition in an applause-filled grand finale and pat him on the back with pride for a job well done. Instead, expect a lot of cursing, insulting, backstabbing, emotional blackmailing…and blood dripping from the sticks, smeared on the drums. There’s a reason why the intensity of Whiplash is drawing comparisons to Full Metal Jacket.

There’s certainly a method to Fletcher’s unorthodox madness. As soon as he discovers Andrew (or any up-and-coming student musician) might possess some worthwhile talent, he attacks with what is the most poisonous, below-the-belt move against a burgeoning talent — greasing up an ego. Aiming to weaken his prey’s sharp senses so they’re easily breakable after committing the slightest wrong move, Fletcher first sweetly praises Andrew, making sure he cozily settles in his newfound self-confidence. Being an inexperienced, hungry musician, Andrew gets caught off guard once and hits the floor, but gets up on his feet quickly, only to fall down again. As he limps, and wipes off his blood, sweat, and tears, he discovers the world could be his oyster, with many wonderful prospects for a fulfilling future, like a caring girlfriend he can enjoy life with and being the best musician he possibly could be. But those prospects, he quickly learns, are unfortunately bound to remain mutually exclusive.

Originally conceived by Chazelle as a short, Whiplash screened at the 52nd New York Film Festival just over a week ago, bringing the audience up on its feet, assertively following the success it found in January at Sundance by winning the Audience Award as well as the Grand Jury Prize. Being a trained musician himself, Chazelle apparently chose “Whiplash” (composed by Hank Levy) and “Caravan” (composed by Juan Tizol) as the two most prominent tunes to be featured in the film, as they also helped defined his musical education. And it’s impossible to not see his musical sensibilities at work, especially through his work with Tom Cross, who’s done a razor-sharp, exciting editing job that intensifies the on-screen psychosis feeding the artistic drive to excel and rise to the top.

Risking a minor spoiler, the defining moment in Whiplash is saved until the very end and delivered in the form of a brutal musical battle between Andrew and Fletcher. Everything up to this rapturous sequence is foreplay, between two now equally despicable double-crossers and perfectionists who fight a final round in front of an audience that might as well not exist. In the end, don’t be surprised if you find the live audience around you to be the ones applauding enthusiastically.

Grade: A-