When we look back at John Cusack’s expressive and bruised-heart romantic Rob Gordon in “High Fidelity” a quarter-century after the film’s release, there’s little doubt Rob was often a petulant and immature narcissist who filtered nearly every life experience only through what it meant to him. At times, it seemed like it would shock Rob to learn his actions and words have consequences—that he’s responsible for the state of his own life.

There are moments when we’re stunned, even nauseated, by Rob’s self-absorbed reaction to revelations from former girlfriends, e.g., Joelle Carter’s Penny setting him straight about the trauma she experienced after their breakup—and Rob making her pain all about him. What makes “High Fidelity” an enduring Chicago classic despite—what makes it still poignant, funny, and insightful—is that the Stephen Frears-directed adaptation of Nick Hornby’s 1995 novel frequently acknowledges Rob’s flaws. Cusack imbues him with a raw vulnerability, a spark of humanity, and just enough growth to make him move the needle toward Rob being likable. Somewhere just north of the age of 30, surrounding himself in protective layers of vinyl- and cassette-based hipsterism, he’s at least trying to embark on a journey of self-discovery. By the time Rob bids farewell to us as Stevie Wonder’s “I Believe (When I Fall in Love It Will Be Forever)” swells into the closing credits, we hope for the best for Rob.

Even if we doubt his on-and-off relationship with Iben Hjelje’s Laura will last.

Like Hornby’s memoir Fever Pitch, “High Fidelity” was thoroughly British in its sensibilities, but Frears and the screenwriting team (which included Cusack) did a spectacular job of retaining the spirit of the book while shifting the locale to Chicago. (The 2005 Americanized version of “Fever Pitch,” switching the sport from soccer to baseball and starring current talk show hosts Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore, almost sounds like parody—but it actually kinda works.) Hornby’s novel was adapted into a short-lived Broadway musical in 2006, with not-quite-immortal songs such as “The Last Real Record Store” and “Number Five with a Bullet,” and updated for a Brooklyn-set, gender-switching Hulu series in 2020—but the 2000 feature film remains the definitive adaptation.

Rewatching “High Fidelity,” one is struck by how well it serves as a time capsule of turn-of-the-millennium Chicago, primarily the Wicker Park neighborhood in all its bohemian, alt-rock, thrift-store, shabby-cool glory. Even when the locations expand to Lakeview, Lincoln Park and River North, every frame of “High Fidelity” feels true to the time. We believe these characters live in these spaces. We marvel at Chicago touchstones (some still here, some gone), including the Double Door, the Green Mill Lounge, the Music Box Theatre, Hi Ricky Asia Noodle Shop & Satay Bar, and Lounge Ax. The Irish cinematographer Seamus McGarvey would go on to deliver gorgeous and sometimes breathtaking visuals in the Joe Wright films “Atonement” and “Anna Karenina,” not to mention “The Avengers,” but his work here is equally impressive, in a lower key. The Chicago we see here is gritty, lived-in, real. “High Fidelity” occupies the same universe as the likes of “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” but the images are worlds away.

Walking out of the Biograph Theater,  Cusack as Rob tells us, “John Dillinger was shot dead behind that theater in a hail of gunfire. Do you know who tipped them off? His f***** girlfriend.” That’s dark. And funny. Cusack is effortlessly natural in breaking the fourth wall;  he has nearly as many lines with “us” as he does with any in-movie character. Rob wears his psyche on his sleeve, whether he’s musing about why he is the way he is—“Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable, or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?”—or admitting he was in over his head with the beautiful and worldly Charlie (Catherine Zeta-Jones): “I never got comfortable. Why would a woman like Charlie go out with me?” It’s well-calibrated work encased within shambling physicality.

In an underrated performance, Iben Hjelje shines as Laura, a corporate attorney who has outgrown her pink-hair days and has seemingly outgrown Rob, but has her own undercurrent of instability. After Laura leaves Rob, Rob launches into his “desert island, all-time, top five, most memorable breakups, in chronological order,” and sets out to revisit each of those women from his past. Throughout that trip, “High Fidelity” reminds us of the last generation before smartphones and social media, a time of landlines and answering machines, phone books and indoor smoking, mix tapes, and desperate calls from rain-soaked telephone kiosks. (Rob is forever getting caught in deluges. You’d think Chicago was in Colombia or Papua New Guinea.)

Rob’s record store employees and friends, the manic Barry (an electric Jack Black) and the painfully shy Dick (Todd Louiso, expertly playing kindest soul in Rob’s world) provide a kind of Geek Greek chorus to Rob’s emotional rollercoaster ride; Championship Vinyl is one of the few places in the world where these two misfits can be pop culture bullies, or at least feel like they belong. Meanwhile, Cusack creates one of his most memorable romantic and intense and often obsessive characters, alongside the boombox-toting Lloyd Dobler in 1989’s “Say Anything.” (Martin in “Grosse Point Blank,” Jonathan in “Serendipity” and Jake in “Must Love Dogs” could round out a “Top Five List of John Cusack Borderline Stalker Roles.”) It’s no small feat for Cusack to draw us into so many characters that might be more abrasive than endearing were it not for his inherent, regular-guy likability.

Of course, the songs are a huge component of the story; this is about as close as a movie can get to being a musical without actually being one, with needle drops ranging from “You’re Gonna Miss Me” by 13th Floor Elevators to “Robbin’s Nest” by Illinois Jacquet to Barry White’s “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More, Babe,” plus Bruce Springsteen’s cameo and Jack Black’s star-making rendition of “Let’s Get It On.”

On my recent revisit, I also got a kick out of the familial bonds prevalent in the casting—including one that wouldn’t manifest until two decades later. John’s sister, Joan Cusack, is a burst of comedic energy as Rob’s (rightfully) judgmental sister, Liz. Their father, Dick Cusack, is the minister at Laura’s father’s funeral. John and Joan’s sister Susie Cusack appears as a guest at Charlie’s dinner party. (Ugh, that whole bunch is INSUFFERABLE.) Margaret Travolta, sister of John, plays Rob’s mother. Natasha Gregson Wagner (daughter of producer Richard Gregson and Natalie Wood and stepdaughter of Robert Wagner) plays the beguiling music columnist Caroline Forts, who briefly captures Rob’s interests. Lisa Bonet is a casual scene-stealer as the sultry singer Marie De Salle, who has a brief tryst with Rob but sees right through him. (Twenty years later, Bonet’s daughter Zoë Kravitz would play Crown Heights record store owner Robyn “Rob” Brooks in the Hulu series.)

A 2010 article in Chicago magazine placed “High Fidelity” atop its list of the best Chicago movies of all time. I’m not quite there. With contenders such as “Mickey One,” “Cooley High,” “Thief,” “Risky Business,” “The Untouchables,” “The Blues Brothers,” “The Fugitive,” “Barbershop,” and “The Dark Knight.” I wouldn’t put it in my personal Top 5—but if we expand that list to 10 or 12, “High Fidelity” definitely charts.

Each episode of Noah Hawley’s brilliant “Alien: Earth” opens with what could be called an overture. As the title takes shape (much like the original, groundbreaking Ridley Scott film), images flash across the screen as a sort of twisted “Previously On.” But they also sometimes contain new data, much like a composer integrating previous themes while also previewing what’s to come. Set to an atonal, unsettling score, these overtures are designed to get your attention. Put the phone down. Settle in for something that’s not what you’re used to watching on TV or streaming services. Something that feels a bit alien.

Hawley, the creator of “Fargo” and “Legion,” has done what only a few creators before have been capable of doing: expanding on a well-known property in a way that makes it feel new again while also not betraying what fans already know and love. Tony Gilroy’s work on “Andor” feels like a logical comparison, and that’s the quality tier on which this show resides as well. Working with a razor-sharp team of writers and craftspeople, Hawley delivers an 8-episode first season that somehow marries the philosophical depth that fans of “Prometheus” admired with the intense action and bone-chilling imagery of James Cameron’s “Aliens.” He takes the essence of three art forms—the film world of one of the biggest sci-fi franchises of all time, the structure of episodic television, and even the literary foundation of, believe it or not, Peter Pan—and makes something that feels like nothing else on television. This is a show that takes such massive swings that the first few hours are almost disorienting. But once you get on its wavelength, you won’t want it to end.

The Peter Pan connection comes in the form of a young girl named Marci, who agrees to be a part of a breakthrough program in which a human’s consciousness can be put in a synthetic lifeform. Before she dies of cancer, she is “transferred” into the form of Wendy (Sydney Chandler), joined by a group of other kids given the same treatment, each named after members of the Lost Boys from the J.M. Barrie classic. After all, these kids will truly never grow up.

The hybrids include Slightly (Adarsh Gourav), Tootles (Kit Young), Smee (Jonathan Ajayi), Curly (Erana James), and Nibs (Lily Newmark), most of them given great arcs in the first season (especially Nibs). However, the CEO of the corporation in charge of the program has a favorite, a smirking tech bro named Boy Kavalier (Samuel Blenkin). His right-hand man is a synthetic named Kirsh (Timothy Olyphant), while the kind Dame Silvia (Essie Davis) and her husband Arthur (David Rysdahl) help manage the technical and emotional difficulties of the project.

Into this technological breakthrough drops aliens. Literally. The season opens with scenes that feel very much of a piece with Scott’s original, depicting what feel like working-class space travelers on a ship in deep space as they emerge from hyper-sleep. Hawley disposes of them mostly off-screen (until mid-season, when he circles back and delivers what is basically a standalone short “Alien” movie that stands among the best single episodes of TV in years). Still, we learn that the ship is on a trajectory to crash into Earth when a cyborg named Morrow (Babou Ceesay) locks himself in a safe compartment just before impact. He survives the collision, as does his cargo, including aliens familiar and new. Before you know it, soldiers are investigating the crash scene, including Hermit (Alex Lawther), the brother of, you guessed it, Marci/Wendy. Sensing a way for his company to one-up the competition in Weyland-Yutani, Boy Kavalier sends his Lost Boys in to retrieve the cargo themselves. And that’s just the first two hours. You’ll have no way to predict where the next six go. Trust me.

“Alien: Earth” alternates the deeply philosophical undercurrents one would expect from Hawley with intense action and gore that may not be seen coming. Let’s just say that you’ll get more actual Xenomorph action in these eight hours than the last several movies combined, alleviating any concern that a TV version of a massive franchise would feel small by comparison. Hawley uses limited sets—don’t expect the “Earth” to mean a lot of aliens wandering through a crowded mall—to significant effect, delivering a show that somehow feels both claustrophobic and sprawling at the same time. He introduces new alien lifeforms, including an unforgettable little monster that treats the eye like John Hurt’s stomach. Still, he never loses sight of the human and human variations at the center of his story. He’s constantly taking risks in terms of visual language, whether it’s double exposure, split diopter, canted angles, pacing shifts, or other tricks to amplify tension. It’s a show that’s consistently off-center in a manner that increases atmosphere, blending Hawley’s weird sense of humor with some of the most gnarly sci-fi imagery TV has ever seen.

Importantly, Hawley doesn’t let the creatures steal the show. There are standout performances all over “Alien: Earth,” but standouts include Chandler’s ascension from naïve girl to Ripley-esque heroine, Ceesay’s drive to complete his mission at any cost, and, most of all, Blenkin’s ability to make his pajama-wearing tech jerk into someone who’s somehow both captivating and chilling at the same time. Most of all, it’s an ensemble that all seems to be invigorated by the production around them, diving into the deep ends and trusting Hawley won’t let them drown.

“Alien: Earth” is “about” too many things to recap in a review, but the heart of the show to this viewer is something that the series has been exploring for a half-century: What happens when human beings are no longer the top of the predatory food chain? And, in subsequent films as well as here, what does it mean to be something in between human and alien? Wendy is not flesh and blood nor a robot; not a child or an adult. She’s nothing and everything at the same time.

The “Alien” films have also long explored the logical extremes of evolution and how technology can distort it, prioritizing corporate interests over human ones. Making the heroes of this tale children in grown-up bodies amplifies many of the franchise’s themes, making the adults around them feel even more predatory, as soldiers of the business world who are willing to sell out the next generation to further their own interests. Hawley twists and turns his captivating tale in a manner designed to make you question who the real enemy is in this story, and who it’s been all along. Maybe the monsters are already here.

Whole series screened for review. Starts on FX on August 12^th.