Twenty years removed from its release, School of Rock seems more and more to be an objective good in the universe. Here is a motion picture that works, not only as a tribute to the power of a particular era in rock ‘n’ roll music as a unifying force, but also as a celebration of oneself in one’s own skin. The key scene has, as of this writing, been the subject of appreciation as the film approaches the 20th anniversary of its October 2003 release: Sometime just before the audition that may change some lives, a student approaches her teacher with a concern—that those in the audience will judge her performance in a rock song on account of her weight. The teacher assures her, using powerful examples and an old-fashioned method of getting right at the center of her concern, that no one will care in the long run. It’s always all about the power of the stage.
The great joke of Mike White’s screenplay for the film, of course, is that Dewey Finn, the “teacher” in this scene, is far from a teacher of any sort. Behind on his rent and recently expelled from the band he created, Dewey has taken on the name and occupation of his roommate/former bandmate Ned Schneebly (played as nebbish by the screenwriter) to teach a group of kids at a prestigious preparatory school to get some quick cash. He believes his roommate’s position as a substitute teacher is no more complicated than that of a well-paid babysitter, and even when the reality of the job hits him, Jack Black’s endlessly inventive comic live-wire of a performance as the faux-educator informs us that this is a guy who simply rolls with the punches, absorbing whatever surprise comes his way and harnessing that energy into something he can control.
In a way, then, the film makes a pretty brilliant case for this central deception by framing Dewey’s teaching persona as something of a rock performance in its own right. As with the music he worships, there is nothing deceitful or fake about Dewey—with the obvious exception of how he wheedles past Horace Green Prep’s principal, Rosalie Mullins (Joan Cusack, brilliant as an administrator whose years in charge of this school have hollowed out a woman who once valued spirited fun), and into a classroom populated by a motley crew of upper-class students, such as overachiever Summer Hathaway (Miranda Cosgrove, in the first role of a career now also completing its second decade). He may not reveal his real name to them right away, but he hides little else about his slacker personality and his disdain for the way the school operates, from the previous teacher’s oppressive reading schedule to the method of judging student performance with gold stars and demerits. Like the attitude of a punk-rocker, for Dewey, it’s about keeping it all loosey-goosey.
The film was directed by that great chameleonic filmmaker Richard Linklater, who allows his camera (guided by cinematographer Rogier Stoffiers, often gliding with the deliberation of Steadicam) more time to track through a scene than almost any other filmmaker might have, and he proves himself great with the child stars in the movie. When Dewey’s “Mr. S” suggests a new class project called “Rock Band,” Summer negotiates herself into the role of band manager, and some of the other students also get managerial duties—most prominently, Billy (Brian Falduto) as band stylist, Gordon (Z Infante) and Marco (James Hosey) as production assistants, Frankie (Angelo Massagli) and Leonard (Cole Hawkins) as security and Michelle (Jordan-Claire Green) and Eleni (Veronica Afflerbach) as “groupies” (though not as alarming as that sounds).
As for the central band, obviously Dewey is on lead vocals and rhythm guitar, but much of the plot is devoted to him getting the most out of his eventual student bandmates: Zack (Joey Gaydos Jr.), the lead guitarist, is limited by an overbearing father. Tomika (Maryam Hassan), the one with image issues, turns out to be an explosively talented backup vocalist who gets her own solo. Lawrence (Robert Tsai), a classical pianist, believes himself too uncool to be part of a band. The others here (including Rivkah Reyes as bassist Katie, Aleisha Allen and Caitlin Hale as backup vocalists Alicia and Marta and the late Kevin Clark as drummer Freddy) perhaps have less-defined “issues” within this plot, but certainly complement the idiosyncratic personality of the group.
Inevitably, it all leads to the revelation of Dewey as “Mr. S” (played perfectly by all involved and including the best bad joke about the intimate relationship between students and teachers of all time) and a genuinely rousing performance at the Battle of the Bands, where every bit of major conflict present —Dewey’s insecurity about his old band, Zack’s feelings about his father, Tomika’s stage fright, Patty’s control over Ned—is all communicated through and settled within the power and protest of the rock ballad. Even the simplicity of the idea here, which borrows liberally from 1988’s Stand and Deliver and many other teacher-student dramas on the face of it, is made more appealing by how it has been made both very funny and ultimately truthful.
At the center of School of Rock is Black’s tremendous screen presence. That would mean only so much if the rest of the film failed to live up to his example, though, and the whole thing is just as rowdily entertaining, utterly uplifting and often uproarious as its generous, reciprocating star.
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