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If you were putting together a time capsule of the late twentieth century, and along with some Raymond Carver short stories and a map of the human genome and a Simon game and 5ive's "Invincible," you wanted to include, say, an American Character Actor, well, you could do a lot worse than Stephen Tobolowsky. In some ways, Stephen Tobolowsky is the quintessential HITG!, in that you definitely know his face but more than likely don't know his name; in that you'd probably recognize him on the subway faster than you would a couple of your own uncles; in that he's built a distinguished career by playing undistinguished men in largely undistinguished films.

The genius of Stephen Tobolowsky is in his face: That soft, doughy visage that, for some reason, lends itself perfectly to the portrayal of hapless apparatchiks -- much in the way that the gaunt, stern visage of James Rebhorn lends itself perfectly to the portrayal of vaguely menacing bureaucrats. (Perhaps some keen, up-and-coming network executive will team the two together in an hour-long buddy series called Red Tape, in which the duo star as underlings in Joe McCarthy's office, circa 1952, and solve crimes by filling out paperwork and generally giving people the runaround.) In fact, as better-known stars become increasingly interchangeable -- Dennis Quaid or Jeff Bridges? Brad Pitt or Matt Damon? Jamie Foxx or Chris Tucker? -- ask yourself this: who could have played the irritating salesman Ned Ryerson in Groundhog Day better than Stephen Tobolowsky? Or the jittery pillar of the community/village racist Townley in Mississippi Burning? Or the spineless, sputtering CBS toadie Eric Kluster in The Insider?

Yet does Stephen Tobolowsky get his proper respects? Hell, no! In not one but two of the fifty-six film credits to his "name," he's miscredited as "Stephen Tobolowski"! Do you ever see a credit for "Matt Dramon"? Or "Dennis Quid"?

If you happen to find yourself in a movie theatre later this year watching Par 6 or Sleep Easy, Hutch Rimes or Stanley's Gig or Alien Fury: Countdown to Invasion (okay, that last one may be a renter), clap a little louder when you see Stephen Tobolowsky take the screen. You may not endear yourself to your fellow, visionless, Jeff Bridges-worshipping patrons, but you will have done yourself, and your country, a service. For without Stephen Tobolowsky, there is no Hollywood. Without Stephen Tobolowsky, there is no us.