In a summer glutted with crap computer effects, witless writing and saggy-assed plots, Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson’s modest charm-fest Rushmore is in serious danger of looking even better than it undoubtedly is. Certainly, arriving as it does almost unheralded in the tail-wind of Star Wars and its intellectually ill-fed ilk, it’s a novelty act - a picture that values character, dialogue and storytelling over effect and affect.

Max Fisher (newcomer Jason Schwartman) is a geekoid scholarship student at the exclusive Rushmore public school. He was accepted on the back of his celebrated one-acter about Watergate, but, as a student, Max Fisher is a no-hoper. If it’s extra-curricular, however, he’s your man, from captaining the fencing team to the Beekeepers Society to his own theatrical group, The Max Fisher Players. He’s a strange lad.

And then he meets in quick succession jaded sad-sack steel tycoon Herman Blume (Bill Murray), whose philanthropy keeps the school on its feet, and the young, widowed English teacher Rosemary (Olivia Williams) with whom he falls hopelessly in love. And that despite their obvious age difference, her indifference, and the growing attraction between her and Blume. Slighted, Max declares war on his rival, their actions becoming progressively more adolescent and dangerous.

There are some deft turns in Anderson and Wilson’s screenplay, more than enough to keep the film from collapsing into increasing boisterous comedy - Max’s group performs his own specially written and deeply sincere version of 'Serpico', no less - or maudlin sentimentality. Even as you become acclimatised to the Max-Blume shenanigans, the film finds poignancy in absurdity. The end, bafflingly, allows Max to restage Vietnam on stage - complete with real explosives - and yet still move us. The tone is more Harold and Maude than Animal House.

Schwartzman is superb, Williams more than makes amends for signing on with Costner’s Postman, and Murray has simply never been better, bringing to the shit-heel Blume both a warm comedy and unexpected sadness. The supporting cast, especially Stephen McCole as a foul-mouthed Scots schoolboy and the veteran Seymour Cassel as Max’s father, are spot on. Anderson, who debuted three ago with the likeable US-indie Bottle Rocket (sadly unreleased to cinemas here), brings it all to the screen in stylish, understated and, crucially, irony-free strokes. Rushmore bears all the hallmarks of a considerable cult in the making.