At 60, John Cusack Finally Reveals Why He Escaped from Hollywood. D
There is a version of John Cusack that the world decided on a long time ago, and he has spent the better part of thirty years quietly refusing to be it. You know the image. A young man in a parking lot before dawn, holding a boombox above his head, playing Peter Gabriel into the window of the girl he loves. No plan. No backup.
Just the belief that sincerity, held long enough, was enough. That image — from 1989 — stuck to him the way few things stick to actors. And then there is the other image, the one fewer people mention but the ones who know his work remember just as clearly: a hitman in a dark suit at his ten-year high school reunion, ordering a drink at the bar, realizing with quiet horror that he has become someone he cannot entirely place. That one is from 1997. Same face.
A completely different man. And the distance between those two characters — between Lloyd Dobler and Martin Blank — contains a question that John Cusack has been answering, slowly and without apology, ever since. He is sixty now. He left Hollywood. Sold the house. Moved back to Chicago. And what he said on his way out is the kind of thing you only say when you have stopped calculating the cost.
John Paul Cusack was born on June 28, 1966, in Evanston, Illinois, the youngest son in a family that was, in the most complete sense, built around making things. His father, Dick Cusack, had spent seventeen years winning Clio Awards in advertising before walking away from all of it in 1970 to become a filmmaker and playwright. The family’s explanation for why was simple and total.
He said, Who cares if you brush your teeth with Colgate or Palmolive? There are bigger issues out there. That was Dick Cusack’s philosophy: life was too short to spend it making things that didn’t matter. He won awards for a documentary about abortion rights in 1971. He wrote plays. He acted in films.
He built, in Evanston, a household where the conversation at the dinner table was never about safety or stability or doing the sensible thing. It was about art, politics, and the obligation to mean something. All five of the Cusack children became actors. Not because their parents pushed them toward it — because they grew up inside a family where making things was simply what you did.
By the time John was twelve, he was already appearing in commercials, doing voice-overs, acting in radio spots. By the time he was seventeen, he had made his film debut in Class alongside Rob Lowe and Andrew McCarthy. He attended New York University briefly and dropped out inside of a year, because the thing he was going to do did not require a degree.
It required a willingness to walk into rooms and be honest. That, his father had already taught him. What Dick Cusack also taught him — and what would become the most important lesson of John’s entire career — was this: you own your work, or your work owns you. Dick had walked away from advertising at forty-five years old because he realized he had spent seventeen years making things for other people’s purposes.
He was not going to spend another seventeen doing the same thing. John Cusack absorbed that lesson at a molecular level. He became an actor, but he was always, underneath the acting, a filmmaker. Someone who wanted to control the whole thing — the script, the character, the tone, the world the story lived in.
That instinct would eventually make him one of the most interesting creative forces of the 1990s. It would also, eventually, make him impossible for Hollywood to package and sell. His early roles leaned into something genuine. Characters who didn’t fit — the slightly nerdy romantic underdog who cared too much and had too little and kept trying anyway. Better Off Dead in 1985. One Crazy Summer in 1986. The Sure Thing.
A small but significant role in Stand by Me. These were not polished performances. They were specific ones. And that specificity — the sense that you were watching a real person rather than a constructed type — was what made audiences trust him in a way they did not always trust more conventionally glamorous actors. Then came 1989, and Lloyd Dobler, and the boombox.
The thing about that scene that people get wrong, watching it now, is that they remember it as romantic. It is not, exactly. It is desperate. It is a young man with no other moves standing in a parking lot in the dark, doing the only thing he can think of, because he has run out of alternatives and he is not willing to stop. Lloyd Dobler was not aspirational.
He was recognizable. You did not watch him and think: I want to be that. You watched him and thought: I am that. He was dating anxiety in human form — the fear of saying the wrong thing, the hope that sincerity would be enough, the complete absence of a backup plan.
For an entire generation navigating their own uncertainties, Lloyd Dobler was not a character. He was a mirror. High Fidelity the following year was his peak. He had loved Nick Hornby’s novel and convinced Stephen Frears to direct. He moved the story from London to Chicago — his Chicago, the record stores he had grown up around, the guys he had known, the specific texture of male insecurity and music obsession that needed no translation because he had lived it.
Rob Gordon, the record store owner who makes top five lists to avoid dealing with his emotional immaturity, was Cusack playing a slightly older, slightly more damaged version of Lloyd Dobler. He broke the fourth wall. He talked directly to the camera. He narrated his own dysfunction with the kind of self-awareness that is funny and sad in equal measure because it knows exactly what it is.
Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable, Rob asks, or was Cusack could have stayed there. Hollywood wanted him to stay there. The nice-guy romantic lead, the slightly awkward hero, the man who holds the boombox. It was a lane and it was a commercially viable one and he could have worked it for another decade without anyone complaining. He was not interested. He wanted to go somewhere harder.
In 1990, he appeared in The Grifters, directed by Stephen Frears — a morally complex crime drama in which he played a small-time con man trapped between his manipulative mother and his dangerous girlfriend. It was as far from Lloyd Dobler as you could get. He later said of the experience that he felt like he was with the big boys now, and he was scared, because he was working with Anjelica Huston and Annette Bening and a director who did not make things comfortable on purpose. He liked being scared. He thought discomfort was where the real work was. He followed it with Eight Men Out, playing Buck Weaver — a Chicago White Sox player caught between loyalty to his teammates and his own moral compass in the 1919 Black Sox scandal. Cusack had grown up going to the old Comiskey Park where the Black Sox had actually
played. He knew the history. He read everything — the letters Weaver had written, the archives, the footage — and tried to capture not a character but a spirit. It was more restrained than anything he had done before and more dramatically honest. The mid-1990s brought Bullets Over Broadway, a Woody Allen film, and then 1997 brought the film that proved John Cusack was not just an actor but a filmmaker in the full sense of the word.
Grosse Pointe Blank was the first film he produced himself. He co-wrote the screenplay. He assembled the cast — Alan Arkin, Dan Aykroyd, Minnie Driver, his sister Joan — and he directed the whole process with the philosophy he would carry into every subsequent project: get the script 70 or 80 percent done, then let the actors finish it. You want to get the script pregnant, he would say, but not fully done.
Alan Arkin came in and said he wanted to rewrite the scene before they shot it. The other producers worried. Cusack told them not to. That’s Alan Arkin. Anything he’s going to do is going to make this thing even better. The film worked. Critically, commercially, creatively. Cusack playing a hitman at his ten-year high school reunion — violent, darkly funny, deeply cynical about what growing up actually costs you — was one of the decade’s more surprising pleasures.
He had done it his way and it had paid off and the lesson was clear: he could make the movies he wanted to make if he was willing to own them completely. Then came 1999 and the strangest project of his career, the one that almost didn’t exist. He had gone to his agency in Los Angeles and told them he wanted to know what their most unproducible, weirdest, most commercially toxic script was.
The one at the bottom of the vault that nobody would ever touch. They looked at each other and said: well, there’s Being John Malkovich. He asked to see it. He read it. He called it insane. He said he felt like Indiana Jones finding the rare treasure in the jungle. He told them he wanted to be first in the door whenever — if ever — this got made.
Being John Malkovich, directed by Spike Jonze from a screenplay by Charlie Kaufman, was exactly as strange as its reputation suggests: a puppeteer discovers a portal into the mind of actor John Malkovich and sells the experience to strangers. Cusack played the puppeteer. The film was surreal, existential, genuinely original, and utterly unlike anything mainstream Hollywood was producing in 1999. It was also, despite everything, a hit.
And it proved something important about John Cusack: he had not just good taste in projects but the specific kind of nerve required to chase the projects that everyone else had decided were impossible. miserable because I listened to pop music? It is the question of an entire generation. Then the industry changed and did not change back.
But before it did, there was one more film worth pausing on. In 2001, Cusack made Serendipity — a lighter, more conventional romantic comedy that was a box office success and a creative step sideways. It was the kind of film the industry was comfortable putting him in. He was good in it. It meant almost nothing to him creatively.
That contrast — between Serendipity and Being John Malkovich, between what the industry wanted and what he was capable of — is the clearest possible picture of the problem John Cusack was about to face. He had proven, in three consecutive films at the end of the 1990s, that he could make the strangest and most personal work of his career and have it succeed.
The industry’s response was to offer him more conventional leading man roles in films that had no interest in what made him interesting. The mid-budget adult drama — the kind of film that had sustained Cusack’s career through the 1990s — began its slow death. Studios were chasing franchises, international box office, properties with sequels built in. Actors who were intelligent, idiosyncratic, and uninterested in playing a game they didn’t believe in were being quietly moved to the margins. Cusack could see it happening.
He could see himself being offered bigger and dumber versions of the same role, or being pushed toward the kinds of action spectacles that used him as a reliable presence without demanding anything he actually had. He appeared in Con Air. In 2012. In films that found ways to use the face and the history without requiring the specific thing the face and the history were attached to.
He made good things too, in the years when the industry was busy pretending he didn’t exist. Love and Mercy in 2015 — in which he played an older Brian Wilson, the Beach Boys genius navigating mental illness and a controlling manager — was one of the finest performances of his career. Brian Wilson had given him access, had let him ask questions and spend time with him and his wife Melinda, had allowed Cusack to try to understand what it actually meant to go into a dark place at the height of your creative powers and disappear for fifteen years and then come back out of it. Cusack described what he found: the most vulnerable, sensitive person you could ever meet, almost like a heart with two legs. But then also very tough.
Really tough. Really committed. A strange combination, he said, like water and steel. When Wilson saw the finished film, he said he was happy with it. That made Cusack genuinely happy, he said. That mattered. What did not follow were the awards. The film received excellent reviews. Critics wrote the kind of things about Cusack’s performance that should have put him in the Oscar conversation. None of the nominations came.
The film earned twelve million dollars domestically against a wider commercial landscape that had no room for quiet, honest stories about aging genius and private suffering. Nobody gave him anything for it. He did it anyway. In June of 2003, his father died. Dick Cusack died of pancreatic cancer in Evanston, Illinois, at seventy-seven.
His sister Ann said, in the days after: He encouraged us to go for our passions, our dreams, what we wanted to do. John Cusack was thirty-six years old when his father died. He was at the height of his commercial success and in the middle of watching the industry that success depended on begin its pivot away from everything his father had taught him was worth making. The death did not destroy him.
But it clarified something that may have been clarifying for years already. He has never spoken much about his father in interviews — the grief is kept private, the way the most real griefs tend to be. But the trajectory of his career after 2003 is legible, if you know what you are looking at.
The increasing willingness to say what he thought, publicly, without managing how it landed. The decreasing interest in maintaining an image that would keep him commercially palatable. The move back to Chicago, away from the machinery, back to the streets and the record stores and the ballparks that had given him the raw material for everything he had ever made that was worth making.
John Cusack spent the rest of his career doing exactly that, regardless of whether anyone was rewarding him for it. He became more politically active in a way that, by his own admission, was not good for his career. He co-founded the Freedom of the Press Foundation in 2012, after payment processors shut down Wikileaks.
He traveled to Moscow with Arundhati Roy and Daniel Ellsberg to meet Edward Snowden. He wrote for the Huffington Post. He attended protests — the Iraq War demonstrations, the Black Lives Matter marches. During the George Floyd protests in Chicago in 2020, he was attacked by police while filming a rally. He posted a video of it. He did not apologize.
He said, publicly, that if you couldn’t see that what he was filming was fascism, then they had nothing more to say to each other. He meant it. He called Hollywood a whorehouse and people go mad. He said the culture just eats young actors up and spits them out and it’s a hard thing to survive without finding safe harbor. He left Malibu.
He went back to Chicago, to a high-rise in the city he had grown up around, where he could walk to the kinds of places that had always made sense to him and exist in something that felt, after decades inside the machinery, like ordinary life. In 2009, Elle magazine asked him a question: in five words or fewer, why have you never married? He answered in seven words. Society doesn’t tell me what to do. It was not a cute response.
It was not deflection. It was the man who had grown up in a household where Dick Cusack walked away from advertising at forty-five because bigger issues existed, telling a magazine exactly where his priorities had always been. Not in what society approved of. Not in what the industry wanted him to do or be. In the work. In the choice.
In the refusal to become someone whose life was organized around anyone else’s expectations. In 2025, John Cusack announced a graphic novel called Momo — a road trip of cosmic stakes, as he described it — made with Mad Cave Studios. He was sixty years old. He had appeared in more than eighty films. He had produced and co-written some of the most idiosyncratic and beloved comedies of the 1990s.
He had gotten himself beaten by police while filming a protest in his hometown. He had never married, never had children, never built the kind of curated public image that the industry uses to keep actors manageable and sellable. Lloyd Dobler, the character that made him famous, had no idea what he wanted to do with his life except that he didn’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career.
Thirty-five years later, John Cusack still appears to be operating on that same principle. He is making what he wants to make. He is saying what he wants to say. And he is doing it in Chicago, where his father is buried in Graceland Cemetery, and where the old Comiskey Park used to stand, and where a record store once existed that he knew every inch of because he was Rob Gordon before he ever played him. Books, records, films — these things matter.
Call me shallow. It’s the truth. He said it as a character, but he meant it as himself. He always has. If this story moved you — if Lloyd Dobler or Rob Gordon or Martin Blank was ever a mirror for something you recognized in yourself — leave a comment below. We read every one.
And here is the question worth sitting with today: Is there something you once loved that the world told you wasn’t practical enough to keep loving? And did you keep loving it anyway? Tell us. We will see you in the next one.
