We have become used to seeing autism on the cinema
screen in the 25 years since Dustin Hoffman donned an ill-fitting suit to play
Raymond Babbitt. Rain Man takes a lot of flak these days, some of it deserved,
but the problem was not so much the film itself as the fact that for many years
it was the only reference point available. People assumed that all autistics
were like Raymond - that is, limited verbal ability, highly rigid, fixed on
routine and given to intense fits of anxiety. If you didn't comply with that
formula, you weren't 'really autistic'.
Nowadays it seems no serious TV drama is complete
without a character who is either autistic or displays pronounced autistic
traits. Sherlock. Lisbeth Salander. The surgeon in Holby City. Tireless,
single-minded, highly focused individuals whose minds are so innately
fascinating that they can dispense with trivial things such as friendship. ‘Oh God, what is it like in your funny little brains?’ wails Sherlock at one point. ‘It must be so
boring!’ The latest such lead is Saga Noren in The Bridge, summed up by
one critic as “a woman endowed with all the logical brilliance of Mr Spock but
with even fewer people skills”. On reading this I realised why these characters
were starting to disturb me. It’s the consolation of genius writ large:
the myth of the ‘contented autistic’ who never feels sad or lonely and whose
behavioural quirks are endearing, or empowering, rather than isolating. Most autistic people I
know value the company of others, even if they find it hard work, and dislike
people assuming they prefer Garbo-like brooding solitude to a night in the pub.
It is crime drama, a genre traditionally brimming with
flawed geniuses, that seems to have jumped on the autism bandwagon with
greatest enthusiasm. Autism has taken over from heavy drinking and divorce as a
metaphor for unconventional, misunderstood brilliance, but without the failings
implied by broken marriages and withering livers. Which brings me on to a wider
problem about autism in fiction: a fully-fledged autistic character is a hugely
difficult thing to achieve. One of the perplexing things about autism in real
life is that the more you learn about it, the less you seem to know: as the
cliché goes, once you’ve met one autistic person, you know one autistic person.
Yet characters in fiction, even the best ones, are necessarily incomplete. We
see them for a couple of hours, in a context where their personality is in
service to things like the plot. Hans Rosenfeldt, head writer of The Bridge,
has said of Saga Noren: “We never diagnosed her, but we got a lot of positive
response from the Asperger community. They really, really liked her because we
showed her as functional and great at her job, even though she was a little
strange.” Which is nice, but in terms of exploring the complexities of autism
does it really take us any further than Rain Man?
Perhaps the most fertile territory, then, for an
autistic character to flourish is a soap opera. The closest we have is
Coronation Street’s Roy Cropper, whose development over the last decade says
much about how autism has evolved in television drama. Initially Roy was a
cardboard cutout 'lone psycho' character who was meant to last a few weeks
before departing in ignominy, probably after garrotting his neighbour's cat.
Having dodged that particular bullet he hung around in the background for a few
years, doing little other than making people feel uneasy, until one of the
screenwriters decided to reshuffle the pack. Roy's obsessive traits were made
endearingly quirky rather than frightening, fans warmed to him and in time he
was rewarded with that soap-opera badge of honour: a partner. Though Roy’s
evolution reflects well on the show, even today the words autism and Asperger’s
go unspoken in the Corrieverse. He hasn’t been diagnosed, and I can’t be alone
in having conflicting views about whether it would be a good thing if he was.
Seeing autistic characters on the screen, doing admirable
things in lead roles, has undoubtedly raised awareness of the condition, and
that has to be a good thing. I wonder, though, how far it has raised
understanding. When Louis Theroux broadcast his documentary ‘Tough Love’, about
families raising autistic teenagers and young adults, I was mildly shocked to
see how many people on Twitter expressed sympathy for the parents. I long ago
passed the point of feeling like someone who needs or deserves anyone’s pity:
my children are the way they are, sometimes brilliant, sometimes
tear-your-hair-out frustrating, sometimes terrifying, but always lovable. But
perhaps this reflects the gap that still needs to be closed between the
brilliant, self-contained autistics on screen and the autistic person living in
your street. I can’t speak for every one of them, but if I had to guess I’d say
they want to be understood far more than they want to be admired.