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Pounding:J.K. Simmons,left,as Terrence Fletcher in<i>Whiplash</i>. — Pounding:J.K. Simmons,left,as Terrence Fletcher inWhiplash.

Chazelle's 2009 debut,the black-and-white musicalGuy and Madeline on a Park Bench,also involved jazz and the city,butWhiplash feels like a reaction against the earlier film's wispy indie qualities – an attempt to do something much punchier and more commercial. Resembling the over-the-top work of Darren Aronofsky (Black Swan) in style as well as content,it's conceived not just as a movie about jazz but as a jazz movie,with askew angles,stark lighting,rapid dolly shots and staccato editing all intended (sometimes a bit too obviously) to match the impact and velocity of the music.

At the film's centre,Simmons'very physical performance turns him into a piece of modern art in his own right. Everything about him is streamlined,starting with his perfectly bald head and continuing down to his uniform of black T-shirt and charcoal blazer,which could belong to a Manhattan fashion designer or a European philosopher.

Fletcher talks a lot with his hands,but he doesn't flap about:his gestures are precise,illustrative,with palpable force behind them,as if he were molding the air into shape. Part of what's scary about him is the ability to fly off the handle without seeming to lose control – and since we know his mood could shift in an instant,the times when he's being a pussycat are scariest of all.

It's a testament to Simmons'skill that you can look at Fletcher and see what the character would want you to see – a guy who lives his life according to standards most people could never imagine – or you can see a deluded sadist whose need to torture the young and vulnerable has nothing to do with helping them reach their potential.

When the film asks us to ponder if it's better to be a great artist or a decent human being,the question has an air of slightly phony profundity,given that this is not a choice most of us will ever have to make. Other questions hang about unanswered:in the long run,do Fletcher's brutalising strategies actually work? And does Chazelle share Andrew's faith that musical"greatness"can be as unambiguous as a score in a football game?

But there's another way of looking atWhiplash,which finally becomes impossible to ignore. To put it bluntly,there's more gay subtext here than in just about any movie I can think of since the semi-legendaryA Nightmare On Elm St 2:Freddy's Revenge. This is not an arbitrary comparison:from the outset Terence is portrayed as a monster lurking in the shadows,bent on luring Andrew away from the daylight world of"normal"folk like his wishy-washy girlfriend Nicole (Melissa Benoist).

As evidence that Chazelle knows exactly what he's doing,consider Fletcher's exaggerated penchant for homophobic slurs,the pointed silence about his private life,and the fact that his band is virtually all-male – to say nothing of the endless close-ups of hands clutching drumsticks and pounding,pounding away. As for the strangely exhilarating ending,it makes clear that what we have been watching is less a statement about art than a love story:a twisted one,but romantic in every sense.

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