By now the scene should evoke nothing more than harmless nostalgia. Consider the sartorial details that date it: the trench coat (sleeves rolled up), the loosely tied high-top leather sneakers, the rock T-shirt. Or The Scene's seminal object: the boom box -- an anachronism among today's palm-sized MP3 players -- held overhead like a prize fighter's belt. And, of course, the song. Though Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" remains listenable, it now recalls distant proms, not promise or possibility. Yet The Scene, more than a decade old, casts a long shadow in which many of my generational brothers and I gad about, not knowing whether to curse or praise the secular messiah of romantic love responsible for it, the man whose parables we've reluctantly heeded: John Cusack.

Say Anything caught us with our pants down, or at least committed to the work that would make possible such a state of undress. That 1989 marked the thick of our college years did not prevent us from following the more ironic than Byronic lead of Lloyd Dobler, the film's high-school-senior-cum-Everyman who flouts the too practical advice of friends to court Diane Court, a lovely described by one fellow student as a "brain trapped inside the body of a game-show hostess."

Undaunted by Diane's full lips and fuller head, Lloyd uses charm, candor, and wit to win more than her hand. His efforts fail to flag in the face of Diane's reluctance. Her post-first-date remark -- "I've never gone out with someone as basic as you" -- means nothing to Lloyd because she has agreed to see him again. Given character, all one needs is time.

And therein lies the problem. Time. Despite having appeared in more than 40 films that span close to two decades, Cusack still exists in the shadows of our lives as a slightly older, but utterly recognizable version of Lloyd Dobler -- a Doblergänger, if you will. Sure, we should respect the line between role and actor, past and present, and acknowledge the range displayed by Cusack in Eight Men Out, Thin Red Line, or Being John Malkovich. Such roles, however, seem anomalous compared to the countless incarnations of that quintessentially Cusack character: the temporary victim of unrequited love whose decency and persistence, gentleness and self-deprecation, go unnoticed before prevailing in the end. Has Cusack been reprising his role in The Sure Thing for almost 20 years? His latest, Serendipity, does not suggest otherwise. And what to make of those of us who've found something recognizable and resonant in such characters as we've moved, at least nominally, from our late teens to -- the horror, the horror -- our mid 30s?

The ease with which these archetypal Cusack characters conflate more than a decade of experiences through their consistency -- or is it stasis? -- both comforts and confounds us. Who is Rob Gordon, the quixotic, feckless, Brit-pop-addled protagonist of High Fidelity, if not Lloyd Dobler, some 15 years older and none the wiser? Is there really no progress to report?

Perhaps not. Doubtless some would like to implicate Cusack in a recurring criticism leveled at American movies in general: their unending bid to prolong male adolescence. Cusack's characters, however, stand apart from those of countless facile films that keep maturity at a safe distance with scenes of cartoonish virility, whether literal or symbolic. (Okay, Con Air is one salient exception.) Instead, we witness Lloyd and company sifting through what remains when a young man's ideals collide with the compromises maturity demands. (Granted, this process should take fewer than 15 years.) That attempt to preserve something from the teenage years -- a time of asking big questions -- continues to matter for many, and as something more than nostalgia.

One friend, who's usually chary of excessive sentiment, turns reflective when presented with the suggestion of Cusack's ongoing relevance. "His characters tend to find a way to follow their heart," says Don. "Day in and day out we're asked to make concessions, to be reasonable and rational. The typical Cusack character often finds a way out of a dilemma with his principles intact. It's a nice reminder for eight bucks."

Another guy, Mike, whose character owes more to Saturn than Mercury, sees the Cusack issue in starker terms. "Balls. It's all about balls," he says. We've seen Cusack use them to ask out the supermodel, genius, untouchable chick, and then we've seen him remove them and store them neatly among his alphabetized CDs when things get tricky. It's pretty much a snapshot of the way we are."

So, how does one step out of the Cusack shadow? Death or marriage. Call a preacher or call Kevorkian. Since more of my friends have chosen the former, let us consider commitment as the undoing of the Doblergänger. "Since being married, I sympathize rather than empathize with Cusack's characters," says Skip. Many recently hitched cronies echo the pleasure of seeing Cusack as Other. They want to tell him that the door he's been banging on for years opens inwardly. Theirs in the condescension of recent achievement.

But we can't believe it's that easy, for only in struggle have we found meaning. What do you mean we don't have to stand in the dark playing songs below her bedroom window? What do you mean a decision is not a compromise, that commitment presents its own opportunities? What do you mean it's more fun to stare at someone else's navel?

Speak to us, John: we're listening.

Ron Fletcher can be reached at ronfletcher@bchigh.edu..

Issue Date: November 30 - December 6, 2001