The Incredibles was one of my favourite films as a child. I think a lot of people can say the same; it’s bright, it’s funny, it’s exciting. My favourite character was Violet, the quiet sulky older sister, despite being a younger sibling myself. Something she said stuck with me. During an argument with her mother, she bursts out, “what do we know about normal? we act normal, I want to be normal”. Of course, Violet is talking about her superpowers and hiding them to appear normal, but it resonated with me for a different reason. It was a phrase that rotated through my head like ticker tape, even at that young age. I want to be normal. Hearing it from someone else, knowing someone else felt the same, was a revelation. I want to be normal. Existing as a preteen, a furious and hurting child, I wanted to be normal. I had few friends, and I was angry at them most of the time. I want to be normal. While everyone else found it easy to talk to new people, to try new things, to stay overnight somewhere without their parents, I didn’t. I played with dolls and action figures longer than others, and I made up elaborate scenarios in my head while sitting on the sidelines of other people’s interactions. I was starting to feel less and less like I belonged with girls my age and considering the implications of potentially, maybe, possibly, being attracted to them instead. I knew I wasn’t normal. I thought I was broken. So around and around in my head, there it was, I want to be normal, I want to be normal, I want to be normal.
The Incredibles, 2004
When I discovered what autism was and how it could possibly apply to me, I went on a hectic and single-minded mission to consume any and all media relating to autism; fiction, non-fiction, online tests. I waded through the slew of autism information; the good, the bad and, regrettably, The Big Bang Theory.
When I was fourteen I encountered an indie rom-com called Adam, starring Hugh Dancy and Rose Byrne, about a man with “Asperger’s” (the euphemised, more palatable way of saying autistic) learning to be in a relationship. I honestly don’t remember if the film was any good or not; I think I cried at some point, but this isn’t unusual for me. I only remember one scene with any clarity. The two main characters are arguing, probably about Adam being socially awkward and inconsiderate, and in a heated moment Rose Byrne’s previously mild-mannered character exclaims “you’re a child, Adam. Fuck Asperger’s, you’re a fucking child”. This comment floored me. I had watched this film and looked at Adam and thought, that’s me, but the last thing I wanted was to be seen as childish. At fourteen, of course, I was childish, but if anyone had pointed that out to me I would have been greatly upset. I felt hurt on Adam’s behalf, and still do, when I think about this moment. Inevitably Adam ends up with Rose Byrne’s character and they are happy and functional together, but I don’t remember that. I only remember the screaming, the hurtfulness, the dismissal of that one phrase. You’re a fucking child. Because the implications of that are multiple and damning; you’re a burden, you’re annoying, you can’t look after yourself, you whine and cry. You’re a child. It’s a fear that I carry around with me, that I have too many needs for people to put up with in the long run; that people will leave me because of my neurodivergence. I still haven’t been able to forgive Rose Byrne, on Adam’s behalf.
Adam, 2009
I’ve seen The Social Network quite a few times. I love it as a film and I adore the rest of David Fincher’s work too; his cold, calculating shots and commitment to atmosphere and tone make him one of my favourite directors. The Social Network is a dramatisation of the founding of Facebook, and Mark Zuckerberg is the main character, in all his blunt, scheming, inconsiderate glory. Mark Zuckerberg, as portrayed in this film (though I'm sure in real life too) is an undeniable asshole. He is also an undeniably autistic coded asshole. He doesn’t understand figures of speech and other verbal cues, he seems indifferent to the emotions of other people, and he frequently oversteps the boundaries of social convention with his rudeness. When I watched part of The Social Network with a friend, she commented, off-hand, “he’s mean, isn’t he?”. I had to agree, but the comment hurt me slightly because there are parts of myself I see in the fictionalised Zuckerberg; his reluctance to make eye contact, fast speech, anger and jealousy that may seem irrational to others, and his isolation from his peers were all things I resonated with at that time, and even now to a lesser degree. I find it hard to believe that anyone could watch The Social Network and not, on some level, reach the conclusion that Zuckerberg (just as a side note I want to stress that this is about the fictional version of Mark Zuckerberg played by Jesse Eisenberg. I have no interest in the real man and especially not in psychoanalysing him) is autistic. So for my friend to say that, being aware of my own diagnosis, felt pointed. She said “he’s mean”, but what I heard was “you’re not mean right now, but you could be if you don’t keep your neurodivergent traits in check”. I suddenly felt like I was part of a cautionary tale; look at what can become of man when they are not burdened with things such as an empathy system or the ability to withstand loud noises. Behold the next step in degeneration, the autistic. Beware or you could become one too. I’m sure I am overthinking this small interaction.
The Social Network, 2010
Very often in media, autism is one step away from, or even equatable to, insanity. The BBC adaptation of Sherlock, for example, makes Sherlock Holmes very obviously autistic, but instead of addressing it, he is referred to as a sociopath instead. The same happens in NBC’s Hannibal; at the beginning of the series, Will Graham is unsocial, avoids eye contact and small talk, and exhibits hyper-empathy, all traits of autism. At the end of the series, he kills people. It seems that the natural progression and logical conclusion of autism is psychopathy. This trope is something I noticed for the first time when watching Park Chan-Wook’s film Stoker.
The protagonist, India, is an isolated and unusual young woman. In a monologue at the opening of the film, she states “my ears hear what others cannot hear; small faraway things people cannot normally see are visible to me.” She struggles with her peers and has a strained relationship with her mother due to her dislike of being touched. All these aspects of her personality pointed to autism, and this excited me; much like The Social Network and Adam, this was a film where I saw myself reflected. I saw myself in India’s pedantic attention to detail, her seemingly expressionless face and her sensitivity to noise. I believe that everyone is always searching for themselves in other people, real or fictional, and when we find our feelings affirmed in someone else it is cathartic and reassuring. As a weird young woman, I felt comforted seeing another weird young woman as a protagonist treated with sympathy and nuance. At the end of the film, India kills someone. The trope of autism as a precursor to inhumanity and cruelty always appears when I least expect it.
Stoker, 2013
At the end of the day, I love films, even if they have a long way to go in terms of autistic representation. I love every film I’ve mentioned here, for different reasons. I also love being autistic. These two facts can be hard to reconcile occasionally, when films and the people who make them make it clear that they don’t want me to exist, let alone enjoy and thrive as who I am; but for the most part, films are a comfort and a home. Art is how we speak to each other, it is a hand extended in the darkness, and that hand should reach out to everyone, including neurodivergent people. One day, I know, I will brush those fingers with my own and hold on tight. I can’t wait.
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