GQ Magazine - December 1997

Of all his characters, says Cusack, Lloyd Dobler remains the one most like him, the one he most likes. "I tried to express what was in the heart of a young person," he explains. "Some of these films treated teenagers like these glib, 45-year-old versions of teenagers. I was in films like that. But there was so much more to be expressed, deeper places to go."

When asked if he's going to be made into a doll for his role in 20th Century Fox's animated Anastasia, he barely pauses before answering, "No, but I will for The This Red Line. It's a Congressional Medal of Honor doll, and when you pull my Purple Heart, it says, 'Kill! Kill!' Perfect for Children." Like most funny men, he rarely laughs at himself.

Back at his condo, he pulls food out of the kitchen. A roast chicken, salsa, a basket of chips. "You hungry? I've got stuff," he says, his head deep in the fridge.

"If I'm having a conversation with an intelligent person, that's one thing," he says, shoveling chips into his mouth, his lips smacking loudly. "So long as I don't have to tell you what I had for breakfast."

"I was never popular in school," he says. "Then I started making movies, and I became this Gatsby figure. It was weird. I was a bullsh** white suburban punk. All I wanted to do was skip school, and then I'm getting paid to skip school and be on the set with Jacqueline Bisset. I was living the dream." He notices my scribbling. "What are you writing down now? Jesus, you're not going to tell people what I'm wearing are you?...You're not going to make me look like a jerk, are you?" It's not the first time he's asked.

"What's your angle?" he continues. "You must have an angle. Don't lie. All reporters come with an angle, and then they fish until they find the thing that reinforces their theories."

"I've done maybe a few good performances when the film was actually good and I was OK in it, and it has to do with letting stuff out that's personal," he says, when asked to explain his appeal. "People see it and relate to it and feel like they know you. And in a way, they do."

"I've had epiphanies about the nature of friendship, about who you love, the way you interact with the world," he explains. "You can't take people for granted. A good friendship requires work; you have to stay present."

"I used to think there were certain things that you do that were technique, but as I get older, they seem more like superstition, like a ball player crossing himself when he gets to the plate," he says. "Now I let things happen. It's scary, but you need to experiment, you need to have the guts to let go of old habits, to keep growing."

"I like smoking; I don't love smoking. I'm NOT addicted."

"Would you rather be a master of your craft or an inventor of a new craft?" I ask.

"What do you mean?" Cusack says.

"You know, would you rather invent or be seen as a virtuoso?"

"Define your terms."

"OK, say Freud was an inventor and Mozart was a master."

"Can't you be both?"

"Well, maybe, but just for the sake of-"

"Aren't inventors always masters?"

"Not exactly."

"What difines a master, really? I mean who gets to say?"

"Come on. OK, history says. Peers say."

"History changes."

"Forget it. It's a dumb question."

"What would YOU rather be?"

"This isn't about me."

"Ask me something else."

He is like this with everyone-waitresses, buddies, barkeeps. He likes the cerebral volley of conversation, issuing opinions about... love ("People equate emotion with being alive, and the most convenient emotion is pain. Some people need drama in their relationships. I don't want it for ten minutes."), about family ("[My sister] Joanie is a wild, magical abstraction")... about food ("My mother made this pineapple-ham-tuna-mayo thing I called 'Catholic goulash.' I'm astounded that my love for her remains strong")... about fear ("I'm afraid of most everything. Wasting my life, not realizing my potential, existential stuff. Big ledges").

About Bill Clinton: "I sort of feel for the guy, because I think to maintain your position of power, to do any good, you have to compromise and make deals, but if you look at it, he's wildly compromising the Democratic platform. He's more like an Eisenhower Republican, which is a lot better that Reagan or Bush, don't get me wrong."

Diet Coke in hand, Cusack settles in a nearby booth and watches. He likes to watch. He is a keen observer, picking out details, guessing at motives. He is not afraid to stare. Now he is staring at the band, a terrible trio called Funk It! that makes Madonna seem soulful. "The Bradys," he says smiling as they slaughter an Aretha Franklin song. The interview is over. "See, this wasn't so bad," I say. "It never was," he answers, snuffing out his smoke. Soon his head starts lurching in a mocking, hilarious, spasmodic dance... Then he laughs. Loud and proud and a far cry from the censored, sputtering evictions he usually offers.