I used to think Ferris was a righteous dude. But I couldn’t relate to him. After all, he wasn’t bound by the laws of reality. My friend recently joked that in the real world, Sloane would’ve gotten pregnant, and Cameron Frye (Alan Ruck), Ferris’s neurotic best friend, would’ve chopped his meds into powder and divided it up three ways. But, the argument goes, none of that matters. Ferris isn’t a real person, he’s a symbol. “Broderick knew, even then, that Ferris represented much more than a typical teen, particularly to Hughes,” Gora writes in her book. “‘To John,’ Broderick said while making the film, ‘Ferris Bueller is more than a person―he’s an attitude, and a way of life, and a leader of men.'”

There is, I think, some beauty in that theory. Cutting loose, exploring, challenging authority when necessary–those are things teenagers should do. There are several Ferris Bueller moments I still love. The Art Institute of Chicago scene is one. The Abe Froman bit is another. But beyond the occasionally funny antics, Ferris’s way of life leaves me feeling empty. There’s just not much substance to it. Ferris hides behind his shtick, and he lies. “It is hard to imagine a ranker example of a son trapped in a false, compliant self by his shyness of conflict,” Cain writes. “The viewer is distracted from this character flaw by the frequent confessions that Ferris shares across the fourth wall; he always seems to be telling the truth to us, even if he isn’t telling it to anyone else in the movie.” A leader of men would actually fess up to his friends and family. Ferris never does.

A leader of men also wouldn’t strong-arm his best friend.