More Observations on Ableist Films
(Note: this includes my reaction to that very ableist Oscar winner, The Shape of Water. I wrote the part on this film in my journals on March 17, 2018.
Content warnings: ableism, sexual abuse, death)
Speaking of ableism in film, I watched The Shape of Water the other day. It was a visually captivating movie with excellent performances. I liked the fairy-tale atmosphere and the blue and green color scheme in virtually every scene — even the public restrooms and hand soap! However, its view of its “outsider” characters (Elisa, who’s non-speaking, Giles, who’s gay, and Zelda, who’s Black) is old-fashioned, stereotypical, and sentimental. The implication here is that marginalized people from different backgrounds necessarily gravitate to and understand each other, which is not always true.
Giles’ most fairy-tale and sentimental moment is when he describes Elisa as a “princess without voice.” Intentionally or not, the film implies that Elisa is lucky for anyone to fall in love with her, even a non-human sea monster. The scenes in which Elisa says, “He doesn’t care that I can’t speak,” and imagines being able to sing audibly to the monster, made me cringe. Paranormal romance can be as mainstream as Beauty and the Beast, The Little Mermaid, or Twilight. But in these examples, the non-human character either becomes human by the end or is indistinguishable from a human to begin with. There’s no bestiality.
Yet it’s still more complex than some people make it out to be. Michael Shannon’s character is a one-dimensional, clichéd villain: the only true “monster” in the movie. He’s racist, ableist, misogynistic, sadistic, and always prioritizes himself over his family. I was slightly triggered by the way that he sexually harasses Elisa, making comments specific to her disability. However, I related to this experience and felt validated to finally see it in a movie.
It definitely didn’t deserve Best Picture, though. And the trope that we disabled people need to “escape” our lives — by death, cure, or leaving life on Earth — is incredibly harmful.
Like many other disabled writers, I’ve highlighted Me Before You as another example of extremely ableist disability representation. I’d never pay to see the movie, but I read the book. Someone loaned me the book in 2016, assuming I’d like a romance novel with a disabled love interest. In the beginning of the novel, I did! We didn’t realize how the book would end or that I’d feel absolutely gutted by its ableism. In a detail that many fiction editors would find excessive, I waited for a paratransit service to pick me from up from an awkward movie theater date while the trailer for this movie played on a loop!
As Dominic Evans wrote, it’s a clear example of the “better dead than disabled” trope. Non-disabled characters are frequently ableist towards character Will Traynor, but the story depicts this as inevitable, not as a prejudice they can unlearn. As current policies like rationing medical care demonstrate, the unexamined assumption that life with a disability isn’t worth living has repercussions far beyond art and relationships. Novelist Jojo Moyes and the screenwriters were way out of their depth in raising issues that a contrived tearjerker couldn’t responsibly address.
Will, who became paralyzed in an accident as an adult, cannot accept how his life has changed since. As a result, he demonstrates both internalized and lateral ableism: that is, self-hatred towards his own disability and viewing people with other kinds of disabilities as inferior to himself. In that interminable trailer, he says, “Don’t speak across me, Mother. My mind isn’t paralyzed — yet.” When Lou first meets him, he makes an exaggerated face at her. Then he laughs, as if to say: “Haha, just kidding! I’m not THAT type of disabled person!”
These scenes might be baffling to some non-disabled viewers, so let me explain them. In the hierarchy of disability, many non-disabled and even some disabled people consider some types of disabilities superior and others inferior. When Will says, “My mind isn’t paralyzed — yet,” he’s implying: “At least I don’t have an intellectual/cognitive disability.” This is lateral violence and dehumanizing to people with intellectual/cognitive and learning disabilities.
The scene where he makes an exaggerated face might be even more mystifying or even amusing to some non-disabled viewers. Here, he’s implying once again, “At least I’m not THAT type of disabled person!” Using the hierarchy of disability, he’s falsely suggesting that he might have an intellectual disability, be non-speaking, have a facial difference, or that his disability affects his speech in some way. All of this is played for laughs. Louisa — and the audience — are supposed to be relieved that he’s actually the “good kind” of disabled person. He’s a young, rich, white, conventionally attractive, cisgender man with a physical disability. The disability community is so diverse. This film sets us up to be relieved that Will is attractive, funny, and not the “monstrous” kind of disabled person. I wrote that the r-word is often implied, and this is what Will is doing in this scene. He’s contrasting and distancing himself from the “Other, uncanny, scary” type of disabled person.
Many people have commented on the overt ableism of these two films, but I hope my examples are a little more subtle and easy to overlook.
Further reading:
An excellent piece from Charlie Garcia-Spiegel, a mostly non-speaking, Latinx writer
