Autism in Horror films

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When describing the feeling of being considered “the other”, it has occurred to me how often this feeling is used to accurately process the horror genre. Horror has never truly felt like a “niche” aspect of cinema in terms of general appeal to mainstream audiences. Even people who claim to not stand horror movies are at least familiar with some of the genre’s most iconic titles like The Exorcist, Halloween, Scream, and more.

But horror has always felt like “the other” in terms of its place in the hierarchy of cinema. Despite its immense profitability, horror will always be closely tied to the label of B-movie status; the genre is the red-headed stepchild of cinema of which only a select few “elevated” ones are allowed a seat at the table. The rest are left to flounder in their own clique, separate from the nuances that audiences see in non-horror movies.

Maybe that’s why somebody on the autism spectrum like me has always found horror to be fascinating. I speak purely from my own experiences, but despite the lengths I went to in order to not scare myself from a horror movie when I was a kid, I still came back to the genre. I never understood why it just started clicking for me the older I got. Was it puberty? A large part of it, for sure. But there was something bigger in play.

When I watched them, I felt as though they were my companions, even the sh***y ones that our family would sometimes rent from our local video store. They felt like creations that were forced away when in the presence of company or strangers. No matter how much we loved them, there was always a hint of shame when other people and family came by and realized that we were much more partial to films that depicted things like disembowelment, murder, demons, an undead Snoop Dogg, etc.

It’s the kind of feeling that has long been associated with the stigma surrounding people on the autism spectrum. Despite existing on the same plane as the rest of humanity, there is something about their disorder that inspires curiosity from people not familiar with them.

Horror movies serving as the middle-man between loneliness and companionship for autistic people may seem odd on the surface. Autistic people are often raised with this perspective early on while movies have the opportunities to change themselves up long before release. But a genre that has thrived as a part of “the other” almost feels like a match made in heaven for autistic people to not only enjoy, but potentially even see themselves in.

The excuse of it being “movie magic” only works for so long before the traits being forced onto autistic people that were once quirky and unique become their defining features in future films.

A common trope for autistic characters is the savant, meaning that they are written as highly intelligent people whose skills seem borderline superhuman despite their social limitations.

Even when an autistic character in a horror film isn’t considered a savant, their disorder is still singled out as something potentially “extraordinary” in the film’s universe. Examples of these include films like Rose Red, The Predator, Cube, Dark Floors, and Bless the Child. Their stories may differ, but the idea behind them is strikingly similar: a person (normally a child or in the case of Kazan in Cube, an adult man with a childlike attitude) possesses either immaculate talent in a certain field, such as vocabulary or mathematics, or their disorder makes them “special” and a target of interest, often existing as the key towards overcoming the main conflict of the stories.

It may sound complimentary to regard these characters as special in a positive manner to imply that their disorder is some sort of blessing in disguise, but at best, it’s a well-intentioned, yet misinformed portrayal of a real disorder. At worst, it’s a tired stereotype of both autistic people and savants, the latter in which only crosses over with roughly 10% of the amount of people officially diagnosed as being on the spectrum.

The portrayal of Rory in The Predator comes to mind as one of the most prominent examples of this “special” phenomenon. The boy is shown to be autistic and while that itself seems like a nice chance for genuine representation, the true purpose of his character written to be autistic becomes clear when the Predator believes that his disorder is actually the next step of human evolution, prompting Rory to be kidnapped to be saved by the actual main characters of the film.

Representing autism as a necessary next step towards human evolution speaks volumes towards the filmmakers having next to no clue how to portray this type of disorder for the screen. Fetishizing autism as some sort of brilliant biological coincidence ignores the general factors of autism, such as repetitive behavior, lack of social communication, restrictive ways to maintain organization, etc.

Worse yet is filmmakers using the “special” or “savant” card to supplement writing a genuine character with flaws, goals, and some semblance of realism. Even in a great horror film like Cube, Kazan exists less as his own character and more of a prop used by the others to solve the mystery of the cube when he is revealed to be able to decipher the numbers of each room. By no means is he a horrible character nor am I implying that filmmakers are maliciously writing their autistic characters this way.

This trend bleeds over into writing horror movie protagonists as awkward social outcasts, which can only go so far when the characters have enough of a blank slate to never truly pinpoint a specific feeling of loneliness and otherness. That in and of itself may be a sign of some progress in the horror genre to try and include everyone, but the fears of otherness and loneliness exist in a different context for people on the spectrum.

Therefore, when our exposure to autism includes limited and stereotypical portrayals such as these, this misunderstanding is liable to cause greater harm in establishing a true connection with someone on the spectrum.

With that being said, the complicated history of autistic portrayals in film is why I was cautiously excited for the new monster horror-thriller, Come Play.

Come Play still stands as a step forward for autistic representation not just in horror, but film itself. A character’s autism is not used as vehicle to drive the plot forward nor is it implied to be this mysterious otherworldly presence. Rather, it is a part of Ollie’s life and the film navigates this tightrope by properly exploring Ollie and his interactions with others. Despite being a supernatural film, his autism isn’t on the dissection table to be torn and exploited; the effects of his disorder are kept grounded in reality.

Progress is being made, but it would be foolish to stop here.

This is not to say that I am advocating for all horror films to suddenly pivot to autism-heavy stories to make us feel included out of pity. It is not the responsibility of the filmmakers to force representation of autism into their films if the core of their stories does not call for it. A filmmaker and/or screenwriter putting it in solely as a ploy to get our hard-earned money is much more disrespectful than a film that simply doesn’t have any autistic character in it.

Autism representation may generate some eye-rolls on first glance, but it is imperative in helping us all understand, empathize, and even contribute support in our own manner. Film is a storytelling medium and it feels like it should be about time that the roughly 25 million people diagnosed to be on the spectrum worldwide can have their stories told in the crazy world of horror.