Whip Whitaker is a brilliant ace pilot, who, when his plane falls apart due to mechanical failure at thirty thousand feet, masterfully, against all odds, manages to set the aircraft down in an empty field, single-handedly saving 96 out of the 102 souls onboard. He is also a raging, full-on, beyond-the-invisible-line alcoholic, one whose addiction, in the film Flight, raises the stakes considerably: Unlike Don or Joe or Ben, Whip’s self-destructiveness risks not only his own life but also the lives of hundreds of other people every time he walks out the door and goes to work.46 The film is terrifying, and not just because of the harrowing crash sequence; it is terrifying to realize how easily Whip has gotten away with everything until now, thanks to his Arthur-like charm, Denzel Washington’s handsomeness and charisma, and the dedicated, hard-working alcoholic’s gift at deception, subterfuge, and lies.
Everyone — Whip’s union representative and attorney, his flight crew, the besotted media, even the NTSB investigators — agrees the way Whip handled that plane “was nothing short of a miracle,” that he is a true hero, that his talents as a pilot are beyond question. No one realizes his other talents: Showing up for work with a blood alcohol level of 0.24 after a sleepless night of drinking and sex with one of his flight attendants (throw in some pot and cocaine, too, although booze is his true love) and passing himself off as stone-cold sober; genially reassuring passengers during the turbulent flight while one-handedly (and unobservedly) unscrewing mini bottles of vodka and pouring them into a carton of OJ to guzzle in the cockpit; his manipulative powers of persuasion that he has no problem, that he can stop anytime he wants:
WHIP
I’m not drinking anymore. Take the fucking vodka with you,
he tells his dealer (who offers him a drug-and-liquor care package in the hospital), and even when he is alone, getting rid of every single bottle and can in the house — a swimming pool’s worth of booze poured down the drain, trash bags stuffed with empties — he is able to manipulate us, get us feeling so hopeful about his so-believable resolve. This guy has learned his lesson, we think.
But that damn toxicology report. If Whip’s drunkenness is revealed, he could face four counts of manslaughter and life in prison. The attorney is confident he can obfuscate, get the report thrown out on some legal technicality, but cocky Whip isn’t even worried about that. His drinking had nothing to do with the crash, someone put him in a broken plane, he is adamant:
WHIP
Without me, there would’ve been 102 dead bodies, not 6. .! No one could have landed that plane like I did. No one.
Perhaps his 0.24 blood alcohol level even helped, we are invited to think, fueled his bravado to stay steady while the rest of the crew and passengers were hysterical with fear. I think of all the times I sucked down a glass of wine before a scary, intimidating thing, that few bracing ounces of liquid courage. Go where you want to go, be what you want to be! His attorney counsels that until the upcoming NTSB hearing is over, Whip has to stay sober:
ATTORNEY
You can’t drink. We can get you help.
WHIP
I won’t drink. I can stop on my own,
but we recognize those words as the ultimate tempting-fate trigger they are, the cue for a jump cut to Whip on a full-on binge, bender, spree. His ex-junkie girlfriend, herself trying desperately to stay clean, invites him to an AA meeting, where the Speaker begins:
BARRY THE AA SPEAKER
Hi, my name is Barry and I’m an alcoholic. Are there any other alcoholics present?
Everyone raises their hand except Whip, who crosses his arms defiantly.
BARRY THE AA SPEAKER
I always love a meeting where we all need to identify at the top, because it forces me to be honest about who I really am. I never told the truth out there, I lied about everything. I was taught in these rooms that I would never get sober if I kept lying. But that’s what I was best at. If I knew anything in this world, it was how to lie. Especially about my drinking. . My whole life became a series of lies. .
And at that Whip has to get the hell out of there and get himself to a bar. “You need help,” his girlfriend pleads, “you need rehab!” But “I choose to drink,” he says; he is his own, decision-making Higher Power; he is not a weakling, not the victim of addiction. He is special, distinctive. Whip’s denial and self-delusion are the opposite of Ben’s naked honesty about himself; he even tries to extend his web of lies to the surviving crew members, asking them to lie on his behalf. . and they agree. Lies and manipulation, that’s what Whip is best at, his true gift.
Whip spends the night before the hearing in a hotel room cleared of all alcohol, a babysitting guard in the hallway. He paces, eats a room-service steak dinner, drinks a lot of water. He discovers the door to the adjoining room is unlocked; he discovers the mini fridge, he opens it like a treasure chest to reveal the gleaming diamonds, sapphires, and rubies of vodka, gin, and whiskey bottles. He opens a bottle. He smells it. He sets the bottle down. The tension of the moment is excruciating, more stomach-clenched and nail-biting than the crash sequence — I can almost hear the theremin wail — because it is our last precious moment of hope in what we want to believe is true: Yes, he is strong, he is distinctive, it is a choice, and Whip will make the right one. We want to believe this, because it means we can be that strong and resolved as well — the idea of powerlessness over a bottle of liquid is so frightening.
But his hand grabs for that bottle; we and his attorney find him the next morning in a trashed room, littered with bottles and cans, vomit, blood, clothing. Whip is lying on the bathroom floor, bleeding, incoherent, rock-bottom. They call the dealer, he arrives with a restorative concoction of cocaine and nicotine, and they head off to the hearing, his attorney counseling Whip how to evade the most potentially dangerous questions.
WHIP
Don’t tell me how to lie about my drinking. I’ve been lying about my drinking my whole life!
At least that is a confession, of sorts. Whip pulls himself together for a final tour de force, manipulative, deceptive performance (and a magnificent performance by Denzel, charming, and his face full of pouches and seams, all at once); the investigation has proven mechanical failure, and, led by the head NTSB investigator, everyone applauds Whip’s heroism.
But we’re not done. The questioning turns to those potentially dangerous questions:
NTSB INVESTIGATOR
Do you now, or have you ever had, a problem with alcohol dependency, alcoholism, or drug addiction?
WHIP
No.
What about those empty mini bottles of vodka found in the wreckage? Whip has a final choice to make: Attribute them to the reckless alcoholic behavior of the flight attendant he had a relationship with or claim them as his own. It is Whip’s moment of moral truth, his last chance to either exonerate himself or accept responsibility. It is his story’s climactic moment, what we paid our $14 to watch this movie for. “God help me. . I drank the vodka,” he says.