“I guess you’ve just gotta find something you love to do and then… do it for the rest of your life. For me, it’s going to Rushmore.”

We first see Max Fischer in a dream; he’s sitting in a classroom with other young men, all of whom wear neatly ironed, light blue button-up shirts. Max’s attire stands out among them — on top of the mandatory blue shirt, he wears an elegant tie and a navy blue blazer decorated with pins commending him for “perfect attendance” and “punctuality.” He dreams of impressing his peers with his intelligence by solving the “hardest geometry equation” ever drafted.

When he abruptly wakes up from this dream, we notice two things — in a similar sea of aesthetic sameness, Max’s attire stands out as the most buttoned-up, and he is the only student at Rushmore Academy to fully give his attention to — and suck up to — the adults in the room.

At the end of this introductory sequence, two adult men describe him in conversation with one another:

“Sharp little guy.” “He’s one of the worst students we’ve got.”

An amusing montage follows these contradictory comments that introduces all of Max’s extracurricular responsibilities — from French Club President to Debate Team Captain to President of the Rushmore Beekeepers.

This opening sequence of scenes is an efficient, effective character introduction — we learn in just a few minutes that Max desperately wants to be praised and loved for his accomplishments, and that he isn’t afraid to put himself out there and try new things in order to achieve that goal. The twist that he’s not actually a good student instantly sets up character-based conflict that propels him to make many of the choices that he makes throughout the rest of the story.

Max isn’t driven by academic achievement, but by external validation from whomever gives him positive reinforcement — which is why his perspective on foreign language classes goes from “I tried to get Latin canceled for five years!” to “I saved Latin!” in the span of the film.

Learning these things about him at the start of the film makes us feel like we ‘get’ him and what he’s about instantly. Then, the story deepens our understanding of him.

Max puts on an arrogant front throughout Rushmore that, at times, makes him unlikable. He’s mean to his peers and at times crosses a creepy line with his crush, a teacher named Rosemary Cross. His dogged persistence, creativity, and sense of humor help balance our perception of him — but they do not justify his pettiest actions.

Two important pieces of context, elegantly woven into the storyline, explain them, however. Without this context, we’d find it increasingly difficult to root for him in the moments when his persistence turns into pettiness, and his character arc would not be nearly as emotionally satisfying.

The first important piece of context is revealed to us through interactions between Max and his father and conversations with others about his family. Max tries (unsuccessfully) to impress others by telling them that his father is a wealthy neurosurgeon. But, when we meet the man, Bert turns out to be a soft spoken, gentle barber with a kind smile and not much money at all. One of the first things that we see Bert do — after he cuts his son’s hair — is react to his son getting a 37 on an exam by chuckling and turning the 3 into an 8, saying that it could’ve been worse. Only for a brief moment does Bert’s kind expression give way to a look of concern, but this interaction makes it clear that he would never actively do anything to make his son feel bad about himself.

This scene tells us that Max has been spoiled by an overly permissive father, and that he is ashamed of his low-income upbringing while attending Rushmore, where the average student comes from a wealthy family. This context makes us feel bad for him, as it indicates that Max isn’t just pompous because he’s arrogant, but because he desperately wants to fit in with the type of people who might improve his lot in life, and because he wants to find something that actually makes him feel appreciated and happy.

Then, when we find out through casual conversations that Max’s mother passed away when he was seven years old, it all clicks — Bert’s permissive parenting, Max’s rambunctious behavior, and the overwhelming desire for love, approval, and a stable environment.

The second piece of context that matters is the content of the ‘original’ plays that Max stages for his classmates. He’s only 15 years old, and many of his classmates are younger than that, but instead of writing and performing age-appropriate theatre, he writes violent, rough adaptations of Serpico and Apocalypse Now. It’s funny, especially given that the adults in the audience react to them with nothing but accolades and applause. But it’s also kind of sad, in context — it’s an indication that, while Max wants nothing more than to stay a young and vibrant student of Rushmore forever, life forced him to grow up too fast.

If you want a movie to be emotionally meaningful, it’s not enough to make a story about a quirky character without providing context for his quirks. The context provided in Rushmore give us much-needed windows into Max’s world and allow us to empathize with him.

Without this context, we might laugh — if we still even liked him by the end — at how he decides to start the Kite Flying Society after classmates turn against him, his crush rejects him, and his new friend tells him that he’s been a bit of a jerk. But we wouldn’t feel much else.

With the context and character development provided, however, his tears mean more in this climactic moment than they would otherwise. We find ourselves rooting for him, not because he’s done good things, but because even after he has been beaten down, he’s willing to get back up and start something new.

Context and character development enrich our understanding of the supporting characters, too, in ways that make Rushmore unexpectedly poignant.

Herman Blume’s boredom at work, malaise at home, hatred of his sons, and estrangement from his cheating wife all make us understand why he not only supports, but tries to live vicariously through Max Fischer — even to the point of chasing after the same woman whom Max falls in love with.

The knowledge that Rosemary lost her beloved husband only a year prior to the events of the film rationalize how, in her fragile emotional state, she lets Max get too close and go too far.

Through context and well-executed, meaningful character development, their decisions make sense, their quirks become personality traits, and their emotional turmoil rings poignant and true.