To answer this question today, we’re looking at a film perfectly suited for September’s dark academia theme, which also happens to be the movie of the month in our book club, alongside Cal Newport’s So Good They Can’t Ignore You. If you’d like to join us and be a part of the club, just reach out to me on Instagram. (@tsrbookclub)

In the very first scene, we see Andrew Neiman, a music conservatory student, practicing drums at school. Just then, the school’s band conductor, Fletcher, walks in. Andrew panics and stops playing. Fletcher asks him, “Do you know who I am?” and gets a yes. Fletcher continues, “You know I’m looking for players, so why did you stop?”

After this, Andrew starts playing again. But right when he enters a total flow state, Fletcher just walks out.

In the next scene, Andrew goes to the cinema. The girl at the concession stand, asking if he wants Raisinets today, lets us know he comes here often. As Andrew walks into the theater, he pauses and looks back at her a few times. You can tell he’s interested, but hasn’t gathered the courage to talk to her yet. Inside, we see his father waiting for him. Andrew tells his dad that Fletcher listened to him play. When his father asks how it went, Andrew makes a gesture showing, well, not great. Then his dad says, “You still have plenty of options.”

To which Andrew replies, “What other options?” Because Andrew is someone who doesn’t even consider another path. His biggest dream is to become one of the greatest jazz drummers. But what he wants is even bigger: he wants to be remembered. Living an ordinary life and dying an ordinary death is his absolute ultimate fear.

The next day at school, we learn the core drummer had an accident, and Andrew covers for him. After class, walking down the hallway, Andrew catches the main ensemble practicing. Making eye contact with Fletcher, he panics and hurries away.

During the next rehearsal, Fletcher steps in to audition the musicians one by one. He listens to the main drummer, then Andrew, and walks toward the door. “Core drum with me,” we hear him say. As the main drummer smiles and stands up, Fletcher sits him right back down. “Not you, the other one.” We see Andrew smile genuinely for the first time. But Fletcher’s intention is something entirely different. He tells Andrew to be in room B16 tomorrow morning at 6:00 AM sharp, and not to be late.

After class, Andrew goes back to the cinema. This time, he seems more confident. When the girl asks, “The usual?” Andrew says no, and asks her out. This moment is actually the turning point of the film. Because from here on, nothing will ever be “the usual” again. Nicole, the theater girl, accepts, and they set a date. Andrew feels like he’s finally accomplishing something.

The next morning when he wakes up, it’s already past 6:00 AM. He rushes, scrambles together, and runs to class. But when he reaches the door, nobody is there. The schedule on the board says the studio class doesn’t start until 9:00 AM. Fletcher had called Andrew in three hours early. Time passes, 9:00 AM approaches, and people slowly arrive. When Fletcher enters, total silence falls over the room. With a single gesture, the band begins to play. Andrew waits nervously as the alternate.

Suddenly, Fletcher stops and says someone is out of tune. He demands to know who it is. Silence. He directly asks one musician if he’s out of tune, and the student stammers yes. Fletcher screams at him, humbles him, and kicks him out. But in reality, it was someone else who was out of tune. This shows us Fletcher isn’t a normal teacher. He’s a brutally strict mentor with an uncompromising view of discipline.

During the break, Fletcher tells Andrew about the legendary Charlie Parker. How as a young kid, Charlie played off-beat, and his teacher threw a cymbal at his head. That single moment forced Charlie Parker to grow, giving birth to “Bird.” The very first thing Charlie Parker did after having a cymbal thrown at his head was go back and practice.

When they return, Fletcher puts Andrew on the kit. At first, everything seems normal, but soon, Fletcher tells him he’s not on his tempo. Andrew tries again and again, getting the same cold response: “Not my tempo.” After dragging, then rushing, on his third attempt, Fletcher turns his back and walks away. Just as we think Andrew has finally locked into the rhythm, Fletcher picks up a chair and throws it straight at Andrew’s head. A direct parallel to the Charlie Parker story. Fletcher asks him, “Were you rushing, or were you dragging?” Andrew, terrified, says he doesn’t know. Fletcher snaps and orders Andrew to count the tempo. On every fourth beat, Fletcher slaps him across the face. Andrew realizes he was rushing. Then, Andrew breaks down in tears. Fletcher doesn’t stop. He continues the psychological abuse, forces Andrew to apologize in front of the entire orchestra, and then tells him to work harder before putting the main drummer back on the kit.

This scene reveals what Fletcher is really trying to do – push Andrew to his absolute limits. In Fletcher’s eyes, in a world where people expect soft, comforting education, a new “Bird” can never be born. His goal, through what he considers “true” education, is to forge a real artist out of these kids. To push them beyond what they expect of themselves, and what the world expects of them. And he does this by tearing down the limits people set for themselves until they discover where their true boundaries lie. Because for him, making a mistake isn’t the problem – quitting is.

After this, the confidence Andrew had been building completely shatters. He begins practicing relentlessly. His hands bleed. As they tear open, he just wraps them in tape.

The day of the band competition arrives. Fletcher gets furious seeing people carrying sheet music folders around. The core drummer hands his folder to Andrew for safekeeping. Andrew sets it on a chair and goes to get a drink from a vending machine. When he returns, the folder is gone. Fletcher doesn’t care; he tells the core drummer to play from memory. But the guy can’t, saying he doesn’t know it by heart. That’s when Andrew steps up and says he knows every single note. Fletcher lets him take the stool. Andrew’s endless practice pays off, and the band wins the competition.

In the following rehearsals, everyone treats Andrew with cold detachment. They believe he lost the sheet music on purpose, because that event made Andrew the new core drummer.

Around this time, Andrew also begins neglecting his relationship with Nicole.

In a family dinner scene, we see everyone downplaying Andrew’s path. To them, being a musician isn’t a real profession. This dinner reveals Andrew’s core worldview. He thinks differently from the people around him. Music isn’t just a passion – he’s trying to assign worth to his own existence. He has a simple equation in his head: If I succeed, I am special. If I’m not special, I am ordinary, and my life means nothing.

That’s why a tiny mistake is catastrophic to him. A small slip-up while playing, which would be a minor error to anyone else, becomes a full existential crisis for Andrew. Because he can’t separate what he does from who he is, failure isn’t just an outcome – it’s a direct attack on his identity. Success isn’t just a goal; it’s his only way to prove he exists.

One day, Fletcher calls Andrew in, announcing he brought in another drummer from class as a second alternate. He wants to test both of them on a new piece. Fletcher constantly creates rivalry, forcing social comparison. Andrew stays hyper-vigilant, measuring his worth not by his own growth, but against others. This breeds a fresh nightmare: What if I lose my place? Success stops being a reward and becomes something he has to defend at all costs. When Andrew struggles with the new piece, he loses the core spot and is demoted back to alternate.

Furious, Andrew leaves the room, meets up with Nicole, and breaks up with her. He tells her he wants to be the greatest – one of the absolute best in history – and that he’s willing to sacrifice everything for it. Slowly, he begins filtering every aspect of his life through a single lens: Does this bring me closer to my goal? If yes, it stays. If no, it gets cut out. He builds his whole existence around one single target, deeming everything else useless, even his own health. The scenes where his hands bleed profusely are so striking because they mark the exact line where hard work morphs into self-destruction. For Andrew, enduring pain is the ultimate proof of his dedication.

Andrew buries himself completely in practice. As his hands bleed, he plunges them into buckets of ice water. An ordinary life is unacceptable to him. He doesn’t want happiness; he wants greatness. Beneath it all lies a psychological drive: the terror of being forgotten. He builds his entire life on this fear. He believes that if he succeeds, he becomes immortal. Fletcher recognized this fear in the very first scene, and he leverages it. But being great isn’t enough for Fletcher. You have to be better every single second. So Andrew stops judging his own performance. Instead, he watches Fletcher’s face, trying to read approval. Did I play it right? Am I fast enough? Am I good enough? When you attach your self-worth entirely to external validation, you surrender all control over your life.

During one rehearsal, Fletcher claims none of the three drummers are hitting his tempo. He announces class won’t end until one of them plays it right. Hours pass. Still, no one meets his standard. Eventually, Andrew loses himself in the drumming, sweat and blood flying, as Fletcher screams at him to go faster. Andrew’s hands are shredded. Finally, he earns the right to play the piece.

On competition day, the bus Andrew is taking gets a flat tire. In a panic, he rents a car and drives recklessly to make it on time, but he arrives late. Fletcher has already given the drum stool to the alternate. Andrew loses his mind. He insists he earned this spot. It’s the first time anyone has ever stood up to Fletcher like this. But Andrew realizes he left his drumsticks at the rental counter. Fletcher gives him ten minutes. Andrew sprints back, grabs the sticks, and on his way back, a truck broadsides his car. Covered in blood and injuries, Andrew crawls out, runs to the stage, and sits at the kit. But because of the accident, he can barely hold the sticks. The moment comes, and Fletcher tells him he’s done. Overwhelmed and broken, Andrew snaps, tackling Fletcher right on stage.

Sometime later, Andrew retains a lawyer. He learns that a former student of Fletcher’s committed suicide after breaking under his pressure. Andrew testifies against Fletcher, leading to Fletcher getting fired.

Days after returning to a normal life, Andrew runs into Fletcher at a jazz club. Fletcher tells him that nobody understood what he was trying to do. He brings up Charlie Parker once again. He tells Andrew that if Charlie had been comforted and told he did a good job, the world would have never known “Bird.” That’s why he never comforted his students when they failed. He believed praise was the ultimate barrier to reaching potential. Andrew asks him, “What if the next Charlie Parker gets discouraged and never becomes Bird?” Fletcher responds without hesitation, “The next Charlie Parker would never give up.”

Fletcher was never just a teacher. He was a mentor searching for his own Charlie Parker. He believed that without extreme pressure, greatness couldn’t break through. Leaving the audience with an unsettling question: If the end result is a monumental genius, does the outcome justify the means?

As their conversation ends, Fletcher invites Andrew to drum for his new band at a festival, telling him to think it over. Andrew calls Nicole, wanting to invite her, only to discover she has a new boyfriend. Realizing he can’t go back to his old life, Andrew accepts Fletcher’s offer.

Show day arrives. Andrew takes his place on stage. Fletcher approaches him, whispering that he knows it was Andrew who got him fired. The tension on stage skyrockets. Fletcher plays his final card, announcing a piece Andrew was never given the music for. Andrew stumbles, completely lost, sabotaging the performance in front of the entire industry. His career is over before it starts. Fletcher walks up to him, coldly saying, “I guess you didn’t have it in you.” Andrew walks off, finds his father in the hallway, and hugs him. As his father tries to comfort him, Andrew makes a sudden decision. He turns around, walks right back onto the stage, and while Fletcher is speaking to the audience, Andrew interrupts him, slamming into the drums. Everyone is shocked. Andrew plays with absolute fury, pushing far beyond any limit he ever had. Fletcher’s anger turns into realization. He sees Andrew’s true potential unlocked and steps in, conducting him with intense precision. As the piece reaches its breathtaking climax, Fletcher smiles for the very first time.

Everything – every ounce of agony – was for that single smile. That smile is the reason our protagonist keeps walking this path. After all the war and all the destruction, that smile is all that remains.

At the beginning of the film, we see Andrew wearing a pure white t-shirt. By the final scene, he’s dressed entirely in black. Even his wardrobe reflects his psychological transformation. What terrifies us isn’t the pursuit of success, but what we become once we reach it. Every time Fletcher pushed him, Andrew didn’t pull back – he owned the struggle. He worked harder until he reached perfection. No matter how much he hated Fletcher, he couldn’t stop worshipping his genius and discipline. That perfectionist mindset bled into Andrew’s soul. In the end, winning Fletcher’s validation is the only thing that brings him peace. The finale shows Andrew defying Fletcher, taking control of the stage, and playing on his own terms. It feels like Andrew won. But because Andrew transformed into the exact monster Fletcher wanted to create, Fletcher won, too. They fed each other: Fletcher feeding Andrew’s obsession, Andrew fulfilling Fletcher’s desire to forge a true legend.

Think back to the scene where Fletcher slaps him while he counts the tempo. Andrew’s counting was actually flawless. But Fletcher wasn’t looking for someone who could just play without mistakes. He wanted to break someone completely and rebuild them from scratch. And in that final scene, Andrew proves he became that person.

So, is this a happy ending? I don’t think so. Because we have to ask what happens after the victory. Look at the real Charlie Parker, the man referenced throughout the entire story. He spent years battling severe addiction and died at just 35 years old. The film’s director even suggested that in his mind, Andrew dies of an overdose in his thirties, faded into obscurity.

Success isn’t an identity. Being successful right now doesn’t guarantee you’ll be successful forever, just like failing today doesn’t mean you’re trapped there. And above all, achieving greatness doesn’t guarantee you won’t be forgotten. That’s why the real question isn’t what we sacrifice to get to the top, but who we are when we finally arrive.

How far can a human being push themselves, just to reach perfection in what they do? was originally published in Renaissance People on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

September brings a natural reset – a quiet shift toward focus, reflection, and better reading habits.

Here is how our month flows around Cal Newport’s So Good They Can’t Ignore You:

Sept 7: Book Club Launch & Reading Guide

Sept 14: Companion Media Guide (podcasts, talks & articles)

Sept 21: Deep-Dive Review & Discussion Prompts

Sept 28: Global Live Member Discussion

We don’t rush through pages just to cross them off a list. We live with an idea, challenge comfortable excuses, and build the habit of actual thinking together.

If you are ready to stop reading on autopilot and join our global community, drop TSR BOOK CLUB in the comments below to get access to our first meetup. 📚

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#TSRBookClub #DeepReading #SlowLiving #CalNewport #SoGoodTheyCantIgnoreYou #BookTok #Bookstagram #LiteraryCommunity

September Schedule | TSR Book Club was originally published in The Second Renaissance on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I am starting an online book club designed to feel a little different. A good book should not end on its last page. Instead of just finishing a text and asking if you liked it at the end of the month we will live a complete reading experience together. Here is how our month flows:

Week 1: I share the book selection along with why it matters now what questions we are chasing and what key themes to look out for as you read.

Week 2: We step beyond the pages and expand the world of the book with a carefully curated companion guide filled with movies podcasts articles and talks.

Week 3: I release my deep-dive review exploring my personal thoughts the questions that surfaced and the moments that made me pause.

Week 4: We gather for our live session. To ensure fair access for readers across the globe we rotate the local time zone of our live meetings each month. Didn’t finish the book? No worries, there are no book club police here. Plus if you cannot make it live the meeting recording will be available to watch anytime.

For our very first pick we are diving into Cal Newport’s So Good They Can’t Ignore You to explore why “following your passion” might actually be terrible advice and what truly builds a fulfilling career.

If you are ready to stop rushing settle into the rhythm of a good read and share this journey with people around the world drop TSR BOOK CLUB in the comments below to join our first meetup.

Have you ever finished a brilliant book put it back on the shelf and wished you had someone to… was originally published in The Second Renaissance on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

As another season slips away many of us are left holding the exact same set of questions. What comes next? Where am I directing my focus now? Am I actually moving toward something meaningful or am I just following momentum because it feels like I should?

Maybe that’s why there was no better moment than right now to start this book club.

Because sometimes simply reading a book isn’t enough. We need to chase an idea struggle with it ask ourselves hard questions and watch how someone else pulls a completely different realization from the exact same page.

Our very first selection is So Good They Can’t Ignore You by Cal Newport.

We didn’t pick this text just to talk about career success or the generic advice to follow your passion. Quite the opposite.

In a time where everything moves at breakneck speed and absolute certainty feels impossible does following your passion actually make sense? Or is it far more meaningful to build mastery in something over time rather than endlessly searching for a magical calling?

What if we set aside the cliche of “do what you love” and dare to think about it from the reverse?

That is precisely what we want this space to be. Not a place where we just consume books but a place where we follow the questions they force us to ask. Every month we will choose a single text live with it highlight it disagree with it and finally gather to dissect it together.

As summer fades we’re opening our very first chapter.

By the time we close this book our perspective on passion might completely shift. Or maybe it won’t. But at the very least we will have done the thinking together.

See you on the first page.

Summer is drawing to a close. was originally published in The Second Renaissance on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Bojack was the son of two alcoholic parents who hated each other. Every time his mother looked at him, she saw her own unfulfilled dreams. Growing up with this weight, Bojack carried a deep-seated belief that he was inherently unworthy of love — even when he became a world-famous celebrity adored by millions. His mind kept telling him that he was nothing more than a mistake.

The worst part of self-sabotage is that you aren’t facing an enemy outside; the enemy lives within you. When you believe you are worthless, experiencing something good feels like a jarring contradiction. You can’t accept it. So you feel a compulsion to ruin everything, just to prove that internal voice right. Paradoxically, being proven right brings a bizarre sense of comfort and safety.

When someone who self-sabotages forms a close bond, vulnerability feels dangerous. They assume that if anyone truly gets to know them, they will inevitably hate them. Fearing abandonment, they actively push people away and act out. That way, if the other person leaves, it wasn’t a choice made by them — it was a scenario orchestrated by the self-sabotager. Ultimately, it’s a desperate attempt to stay in control.

Breaking free from this cycle of self-sabotage isn’t about making one dramatic, perfect change. It’s about building quiet consistency. Self-sabotage tells you that one mistake ruins everything, but the truth is that anyone can choose to start over every single day.

This is where reading together becomes transformative. Our book club is a space where we explore these complex psychological layers, reflect on characters like Bojack, and build a consistent habit of thinking and sharing — without the pressure of perfection. It’s a community where you can slow down, process, and restart whenever you need to.

If you’d like to join us in exploring these stories and building this habit together, you can share your thoughts through the form in my bio.

Why do you ruin everything when things are going right? was originally published in The Second Renaissance on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

This dilemma is exactly why we often get stuck in a fast surface-level culture scrolling through endless options without ever really diving into any of them. I am starting a book club to create a space where we can actually slow down, move beyond that surface, and unpack these exact questions together. If you want to help shape this space before launch you can leave your thoughts and expectations in the form in my bio.

Lives stuck under the fig tree was originally published in The Second Renaissance on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.