Review of Rushmore (1998) by Nick O — 16 Jul 2011

Sing it kid: hakuna matata. No more worries for the rest of your days. Max Fischer (Jason Schwartzman) is a weird case in that his post-grad crisis comes not in college, but at the glitzy high school pampering his nerve in public immediacy while all the while plotting Max's expulsion behind closed doors. Sleazy pulp. Not all of Rushmore Academy is bad, though, as Wes Anderson's dynamite portrayal goes to show. Plenty of quirk to be found, especially in Max's grapple of exceeding the school's rec club participation limits.

But where "Rushmore" gets high is in the pursuit of a platter talent show that never really comes. Sucks when Max has more hot ambition than brains, certainly surpassing lectern Herman Blume (the scorching depressive Bill Murray) in the wits department. Still the latter's pouncing on his chick -- teacher Rosemary Cross (Olivia Williams) -- only 'cause there's his warning she bites, wrecking what seems to Max hopeful meaning to his endless soiree of hanging out to erase the boards.

As is life. Anderson's been here before, and he's wrought pain. A stellar Schwartzman leads Max to heights one-sided, betraying his inner unilateral hippie, there if not for years of preceding muck. Outside impression is the evil in Anderson's gem, building new chance to dig deeper because it can't trust what was already there before. "Rushmore" is as much a scathe at public education as a warped love letter to the twisted experience realized at the other side.

Take Herman, Max in thirty years, waste-stained fingertips too empty to lick clean. The both of them pit Rosemary as the centerpiece in either of their masterpieces. The epitome haunts. Anderson's made an encore of spilled lax left on the burner to blacken. Through cheers and groans, there's the clamor of ecstasy that melts two fools with the lively essence that at least everything has the chance of turning out okay.