FILM ME IN

My world did move to the beat of just one drum.

When it became apparent that Birdman was the big Oscar contender for 2015 I was somewhat relieved. I could finally desert those British geniuses and American heroes and direct my hopes and mental-movie-energy towards this unique gem resting easily in knowing that this year the Academy had got it right. Birdman hype gave me a winning shot of confidence as the previous year I had won a friendly bet predicting winners for each category and now I had a film I could comfortably back. My head was in the game, Birdman for the sure fire win! Oscar night comes complete with a game plan in our household. Finishing work early, my wife Laura usually crams in as much pre-recorded red carpet action before I arrive home to start the three hour main event. We once considered renting a tux and gown but unbeknownst to us my housemate had also invited his entire soccer team for the evening leaving us reluctant to dress up in front of an actual live audience, in any case Oscar Fever is a real condition in our home. When the Oscars arrived it was practically a clean sweep for Birdman and the world did indeed make sense.

Not to dampen the movie but I’ll begin with the exchange between Laura and myself upon seeing Birdman, I asked her if she liked it, she said ‘not really’ and I disagreed, the end. Not to sound like complete snobs but in private I figure we can be as glowing, bitchy or nonchalant as we see fit and there were no passionate speeches to try to otherwise convince ourselves that what we had just seen was any better or worse than our initial impressions. Reviews behind closed doors for other nominees The Theory Of Everything, Selma and American Sniper ranged anywhere between ‘that was pretty good’ and ‘I liked it’ to ‘it was Okay’.  We weren’t bowled over by the Imitation Game but never discussed why; perhaps it was a bit of Theory dejavu. We both had fond memories of seeing The Grand Budapest Hotel but throughout the Oscar race where most contenders had only just been released in Australian cinemas reflections of The Grand Budapest Hotel were scarce in comparison as we had seen it much earlier in the year. We were spellbound by Boyhood although we agreed we’d probably never watch it again as it seemed like a onetime deal, even if that one time was well worth our while. It stirred a bit banter on the drive home, I remember being impressed with how social media received a mention in the latter half when the advent of Facebook and the iPhone were yet to be realised when production began. I tried to remember a few lyrics from one of the songs that I could immediately Google afterwards to see who the artist was (Family of the Year – Hero) as the tune seemed to jump out at us as much as any one particular scene.

In my heart of hearts I felt that the film of the year, hands down, was Whiplash. Seeing Whiplash nominated for Best Picture brought a little ray of sunshine particularly after it had been overlooked at the Globes in the Drama category but of course I didn’t expect it to win and wasn’t setting myself up to dwell in its loss, even though it did manage to pick up Best Supporting Actor for J. K. Simmons, Best Sound Mixing and Best Editing. I couldn’t pinpoint why it shouldn’t win other than the fact that it was perhaps a little too dark although the same could be said for other nominees and besides, by awards time I’d already succumbed to the general assumption of who the winner would be and figured if Whiplash didn’t stand a chance at the big nod then ride with the consensus. The bird’s my man!

As generally underwhelming as our responses were to the seasons major releases Whiplash was earth shattering by comparison. Our love for Whiplash partly derives from the enthralling cinematic experience and in hindsight I’m still glad we didn’t hold out for DVD. Forgetting to even turn the radio on we sang its praises in the car all the way home, re-iterating the chilling scenes between Miles Teller and J.K. Simmons and collectively shuddering. Most of all we were floored by the ending! Convinced it would end on a down note the films triumphant turn at the last moment left us both shocked and equally delighted! Miles Teller brings the house down with a monumental drum performance that held hearts collectively lodged in throats. When the scene and subsequently the film came to a halt I heard a packed cinema exhale in unison and in the next breath erupt in applause. For a film brimming with cruelty and violence both mental and physical the ending left us and I guess the entire audience strangely uplifted. It also left me with one silly looking ear-to-ear grin reserved exclusively for the spectacular work alone and I stayed in this wide-eyed trance all the way home.

To borrow IMDB.com’s synopsis: A promising young drummer enrolls at a cut-throat music conservatory where his dreams of greatness are mentored by an instructor who will stop at nothing to realize a student’s potential. Sounds boring as hell right? On paper it doesn’t really lend itself to the intense thriller that it is, which is what I found myself up against when retelling the plot to others.  From the time I saw it I raved to anyone that would listen that this was not simply a film worth checking out but one of the greatest of all time. After rushing through the basic premise adding and emphasising words like ‘psycho’ and ‘crazy’ I found myself practically begging. Each bullish recount of the synopsis around the water cooler came complete with an animated explanation of how it left people breathless and applauding and how this wasn’t even a film festival screening where one might expect applause, but ultimately all of this was met with nods of indifference.

I was relieved when a work colleague didn’t just take my word for it and actually saw the film. He then confirmed that Whiplash was indeed “alright” and not just for my benefit! I just wished he’d said it a little louder so that I could justify stomping around like a lunatic whenever film talk would arise because regardless of the topic whether it be rom-com or Pixar or whatever someone saw on the weekend I could steer all conversations back to Whiplash. Unlike me and my peer pressures, desperate cries for accolades, film-guru status or whatever it was I was seeking to achieve my wife spread the good word around her office and was vindicated when people confirmed that she was onto a good thing, she had infinitely more luck than I.

Work aside I also centred my focus on two close mates that play drums.  At present only one friend, Burke, has seen it but I’m glad to announce he is on board with my plight. I found it interesting that he believed the film to be directed by a musician if not a drummer which may or may not be the case for director Damien Chazelle. As my friend tapped his seat along to the several drum spearheaded performances he noticed that the camera was always trained on the right instrument and it always knew exactly what to show. As a video editor by trade he loved how a lot of the intensity derived from being able to competently capture drumming in all its meticulous forms (helped along and heightened by the fact that the drummer was being carefully judged under the watchful eye of one vicious music instructor). He has also attributed years of drumming key to help with the rhythm of what he’s editing. So in some round-about way I’m guessing the filming and editing of a drummer stressed out of his mind, for my mate, would have been a sensory feast! Needless to say I was happy to share or rather gloat over my endorsement.

After all my badgering I stopped to question whether it would interest or resonate with everyone I had told since the irate music teacher is something that I related to on personal level even if on a much smaller scale. Or perhaps I needn’t have worried as this is a common tale that has cleverly been brought to light, surely everyone butted heads with their music teacher right? If we’ve seen this subject on film before then surely it has never been presented with such power and veracity. Memories of my own high school music teacher lashed back to the forefront of my mind all the while making me squirm in my seat. All this was made worse by the central characters name too; did they have to go with Andrew? Of all the names a music teacher can scream at a student they went with my given name. It was a sensation I knew all too well.

My final year in high school was in 1996 and Music was a class I was determined to see until the end since I’d taken an interest in guitar six years prior. I never really liked popular music so I was never going to be the perfect scholar that absorbed all that a music class had to offer, but the bands and styles that caught my interest kept me keen enough to persevere. To my knowledge the school’s priorities have changed since but at the time the music department suffered a major lack of everything. Funds flowed heavily towards football and lengths were taken to ensure the school continued as a prime breeding ground for future athletes. Meanwhile musical equipment had dwindled down to the bare bones. Any accessories like hard cases, drum sticks, guitar leads and pedals had long since been broken, stolen or mistreated beyond use. The saxophone, trumpet and the piano stayed permanently out of tune, the body of the acoustic guitars gave you splinters and the lone microphone got so much use that you were guaranteed to catch something the moment it met your lips. If you wanted to play an instrument you were encouraged to bring your own and the unspoken rule was to watch it like a hawk from potential thieves (like the one that took my mountain bike hence making the guitar I usually strapped to my back when I did ride even more tedious to lug around as I now had to carry it home).

My friend and fellow student Bell who had no affiliation with the music department but nonetheless was a budding rock enthusiast and bassist was also being accused of stealing the schools only remaining electric bass. In fact he was to have taken it while we actual music students were rehearsing for a school performance so I give him credit for doing whatever he did to get it unscrewed, stuffed and hidden into his school bag right under our noses. Word eventually travelled back to my music teacher and with all fingers pointed at my friend Bell, I was called into her office which was located at the end of the rehearsal rooms to “discuss” the theft since I was taking music class and had some rapport with the teacher. Basically I was to cop the brunt of the alleged crime.

Knowing full well that he did steal it and furthermore he was in the middle of repainting it I arrogantly explained that I had been to his house on several occasions and had not laid eyes upon it.  Pleased with my convictions I assumed the meeting was over and that I could enjoy the rest of my lunch break outdoors. I stood in front of her desk awaiting a response and after a pensive little pause my teacher screeched at the top of her lungs ‘Why are you defending him?’ I stopped dead in my tracks. Her voice was deafening. My face went bright red, I fell silent and started to shake. The tirade continued relentlessly at maximum volume to the point where she reduced me to one whimpering, blubbering mess. On the verge of tears I have no idea what feeble excuse I gave, I was far too rattled.

Since there was no way of proving that he had stolen anything (unless I owned up and admitted it as she had planned and believe me I came close to waving the white flag) then I was damn well going to hear about it. I walked out of there in a complete daze. Here’s the interesting thing, I also had two friends waiting for me just outside of her office which looked onto a quadrangle. I probably urged them to stand-by insisting that this would only take a moment. When I saw them my first words were ‘I guess you heard all that?’ to which they both replied ‘nope’. I couldn’t believe it, one thing the school had done for the music department was sound proof those walls! They didn’t hear a peep from a room with windows that was less than two metres away which is something she surely knew.

That night Bell and I went to see AC/DC on their Ballbreaker tour. Rather than storming the venue energised with reckless rock n’ roll abandon we were filled with dread as there was every possibility that Bell could be expelled the very next day if the bass was not returned as per the outcome of my discussion with my music teacher. Not one of the band’s anthems of debauchery and womanising made any impact on my attitude as desired that evening. I didn’t care for Dirty Deeds, Highways to Hell, Jailbreaks or Heat Seeking I just wanted Bell and I to be let off the hook and live a sensible life henceforth with a certificate that acknowledged we had completed high-school so as to not disappoint family and peers. I made it clear to Bell that he had better return the damn thing or else we were screwed! Bell didn’t even have time to restore it to its original form, the bass was still in pieces and he had since sanded it down, removed all the wiring and pick-ups and spray painted it a new colour.

The following day music class happened to be held in the same rehearsal room where the bass was taken as opposed to the usual classroom. The rehearsal room door had a narrow window which allowed me to see all the way out through to the main entrance of the building. With her back to the door our music teacher led the class and soon enough Bell appeared through the window with a shopping bag filled with bass parts. Sinking into my chair, I could see the neck and the body sticking out and strings hanging over the side, fearing the showdown had finally arrived. As luck would have it I was seated in a position that allowed Bell and I to see each other while none of the other students could. I discreetly gestured for him to come in (and come clean) but he shook his head as if to say no fucking way, left the bag by the door and ran. I watched in horror wondering whether I should confess all and beg on my knees for Bell’s forgiveness or pretend I hadn’t even seen him.  With a stroke of good fortune the resident guitar tutor happened to walk by, he picked up the bag, curiously examined its contents and took it into a smaller room to the side where he assembled the bass back to the way it used to be and strangely I never heard about it again. There was no follow up attacks, nothing! And as far as anyone knew Bell wasn’t even the one that returned it since no one saw him but me. To this day I still have my suspicions as to how we got away without the stolen bass ever being mentioned. Perhaps after so much theft and emphasis on sport she just wanted a win.

This wasn’t even the first time I had had such an encounter with the same teacher or rather, her wrath. The year before the bass incident I had skipped school to meet then up-and-coming heavy metal band Machine Head. They were conducting a meet and greet at a record store in the city which also happened to be the same day as my end-of-year-music-performance-exam. My rationale: I was still underage and would not be able to attend the concert that night but I would most certainly show up to get my CD signed! It was a stupid move, I let the school band down, they were minus one average guitarist that day and we’d only been rehearsing for this exam all year. So once again I was screamed at, this time she cut deep with anti-rock rants and put scathing emphasis on how selfish I was and seethed as she mentioned having never even heard of Machine Head, which I kind of took as a good thing, but regardless it was ugly and her voice was once again brutally loud which scared me stiff. My mum was brought in to discuss my actions and a decision was to be made as to whether I could proceed to my final high-school year level. I was looking at having to say goodbye to my friends, stay down a year – basically be that guy all to meet a rock band with one album to their name.

However, time has allowed me to look back on this event favourably. My mum met to discuss my future with not only the music teacher but with the high-school co-ordinator and final decision maker Mr. Rooney. The rock n’ roll gods or maybe devils were looking favourably upon me that day for as I regretfully explained what I had done and assured him that I knew it was wrong there was a beautiful moment of empathy as  Mr. Rooney understood that his own rock n’ roll loving son would have done the exact same thing and I was free to go.  Mr. Rooney’s son by the way is one of my best friends – he’s the drummer who currently hasn’t got around to watching Whiplash.

Tracing back even further, it was Mr. Rooney that got me into the school in the first place and this was years before I would bond with his son and form a rock-brotherhood. It was an all-boys Catholic school where if you’re father or older brother attended previously you automatically got accepted and not having fulfilled either prerequisite I had to undergo an interview. As a ten year old I was understandably nervous but fortunately my interviewer was again Mr. Rooney. As I recited mum’s speech about continuing my Catholic education in this fine establishment Mr. Rooney cut me off and asked, ‘What are you into, sports?’ I recoiled and said no. He then asked ‘well, what about music, do you like music?’ I lit up and told him I did. I guess being Irish he asked if I liked U2 and I slouched back down again and said no. Then he asked ‘well what about AC/DC?’ to which I lit back up and told him I loved AC/DC and probably said more on the matter than on the prospects of enrolment. A one-time roadie for The Rolling Stones, Mr Rooney granted me the entrance I sought!

Outside of seeing Whiplash there was one more time where I thought of the music teacher fiasco. Jump ahead to September 1^st 2001 I had just watched Machine Head play live at Melbourne’s Festival Hall with Bell. We left immediately afterwards as we had to play a show at midnight at a small club in the city with a band we had since formed together. The bar faced the stage and the backstage area was siturated behind the bar. I had a bit of trouble getting back there afterwards. I pointed out to the security guard that I had just played, in case holding a guitar and being saturated with sweat wasn’t proof enough.  As I made my way back there I was delighted to uncover what was going on, Machine Head and their headliners Slayer were having their own after party in the clubs backstage area. Bell and I couldn’t believe our luck, it’s not every day you see your favourite bands and in turn they also see you. Lost for small talk I told Machine Heads front man Robb Flynn all about my teacher and how I nearly failed high-school as a result of meeting his band. He loved the tale, shook my hand and said ‘fuck your music teacher!’ which were my sentiments exactly, well put sir… although that’s much easier to say now.

To further illustrate my inhibitions, many years later I landed a job working for a music teacher. Her business was recruiting other music teachers and assigning them to the local schools for tuition. I had completely forgotten about my high-school encounter but it didn’t take me long to start making angsty generalisations towards  the profession or what the profession perhaps does to people. I knew we had a problem when I overheard her mention how much she hated her own teenage daughter who by her account was behaving like a regular teenage daughter and she wasn’t kidding either! She also made me feel guilty for accepting a piece of cake that she had just offered to me. To cut a short story even shorter I was fired after three days, in fact I hadn’t even had time to learn what I was required to do and furthermore I hadn’t pushed any of her buttons, I hadn’t mentioned rock music and I certainly had no intention of stealing anything. She just said ‘this isn’t going to work’ which has left me rather stumped to this day. I found solace when learning that a musician (from high school of all things) also had a brief stint working for this same music teacher and had lasted less than three days (winner!). I guess I’m just not supposed to fight against or even mix with music teachers at any cost be it employment or education. That’s not to suggest that I wouldn’t mix with all music teachers period but at this late stage I’m still not willing to test it.

If I’m to attempt at making any parallels, the difference between Whiplash Andrew and yours truly is that he’s aiming for greatness with aspirations to rival the greatest Big Band drummers of their era where as I was just a badly behaved idiot. My initial intention was to go on some tirade about how Whiplash was the best film of the year in my humble opinion and how the academy got it wrong which they have proven to do so many times before. I was going to point out how time has been much kinder to Raging Bull over Ordinary People and continue in Scorsese’s favour explaining how his win for The Departed was too little too late. I was to express outrage at how Citizen Kane was booed when it won Best Original Screenplay thanks to a media tycoon’s handiwork let alone how it lost the coveted prize to How Green Was my Valley. I was going to play a game about which character is more synonymous with pop-culture for instance Tyler Durden or Lester Burnham, then I was going to cap it off with some quote that I remember seeing in a recent Oscars documentary, something to the effect of how we remember the films by what they meant to us not by what awards they won, but perhaps some other time.

If I had a crystal ball I’d be keen to know how accurate I am and whether time will prove that Whiplash was the greater or more greatly remembered film. In its infant stages there are already signs to suggest that it is. Long after its Blu-ray and DVD release I noticed it was still screening three times a day at the very cinema in which I saw it. Since IMDB.com were so gracious to assist with the synopsis without their knowledge, it’s also worth pointing out that their poll of the top 250 films which is based on votes and viewer ratings, Whiplash has already entered the top 40 and yet the only bird in sight is the Mocking one. Boyhood, The Imitation Game and The Grand Budapest Hotel also make an appearance but they’re well into the hundreds. This may be small fry and early days yet and I might be preaching to no one other than the Academy who by now are festering with rage and their miscalculation as they no doubt read this, but Whiplash will have the last laugh despite the fact that a conflict between a boy named Andrew and his music teacher is no laughing matter. You heard it here first kids!