‘Coming of Age alongside Autism – a reflection on representation in visual media’.

This piece was written in response to a prompt, chosen by the Cambridge University Film Association: 'Coming of Age'.

Growing up in an unconventional family dynamic, movies have always played an important role in my life. At the age of two, the year I was born, my brother was diagnosed with severe autism,and I have never known life differently. It wasn’t apparent to me that not every household hadspeech therapists wandering in and out every day, with a brother making weird and wonderful noises because he didn’t want to speak our language and parents who didn’t know what to do with him. Despite being early Noughties kids, my sister and I would watch films like Mary Poppins (1964), The Sound of Music (1965), and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (1968) practically on repeat. We didn’t care that we could recite them—in fact, we loved it. There was a stability, a reliability, in Dick Van Dyke’s mannerisms and Julie Andrew’s voice that could balance us when our real world was feeling shaky amongst my brother’s daily tantrums and challenges. When we didn’t want to talk anymore movies would fill the silence. When we wanted an escape, movies could take us somewhere else, somewhere better. We could be dancing among the chimney sweeps, or hiding from the child-catcher, or be mermaids, or witches, or one of Sophie’s three possible fathers… maybe that was just me. 

However, it wasn’t only us that benefited from moving pictures. My brother was--and still is--obsessed with Barney The Purple Dinosaur. There would always be a constant stream of episodes playing out on the TV in his room. A lot of the time he wouldn’t be explicitly watching the screen: he would be bouncing around on his yoga ball, or looking out the window, or humouring me as I attempted to get him to practice reading. He would give me a cheeky smile while I tried to sound out the words for him, as if to say, “Oh Jas, I’m not going to say the words, but you look very funny”. Throughout his daily routine, the reliable sounds of Barney would challenge the background noise, and settle his senses when they might be on the edge of overload. The songs would become tools in my arsenal to calm him down from a tantrum, as even my poor singing was enough to remind him of Barney’s voice and bring him back to a place of comfort. The numerous lyrics and melodies are still in my brain, settled there from the many hours spent with my best friend. 

This voracious appetite for movie-watching followed me from childhood into adolescence and now adulthood. And throughout this time there have been only two instances when I feel I have truly seen myself on screen as a sibling of an autistic brother. Sam from Netflix’s Atypical (2017-2021) is extremely different to my brother—he has cognitive and social functioning, meaning that he is verbal, able to go to school, hold a job, and be given the basic right to exist in society. But Sam’s sister, Casey, is just like me. She’s sporty, queer, and above all she is her brother’s protector. As wonderful as the show was in displaying a glimpse into a family with autism, the film that I believe is the most accurate portrayal of someone like my brother is a little-known Australian film called The Black Balloon (2008). Charlie is severely autistic and seemingly presents daily challenges to his family. The narrative is predominantly portrayed from the point of view of Charlie’s younger brother, Thomas, who despite expressing a deep brotherly bond, also finds himself embarrassed by Charlie, resenting him to the point of physically abusing him in a bout of rage. The film is ultimately praised for its authentic depiction of this far end of the autistic spectrum. However, there is an underlying sentiment of distress in how these kinds of narratives can be potentially harmful to autistic people, by underlining their outsider status and directing the audience’s empathy towards the perpetrators of mistreatment, rather than the voiceless victims. One must question to what extent we can laud inclusive representation, at the expense of such detrimental repercussions. 

On my year abroad last year, my flatmate and I started watching Love on the Spectrum, an incredible reality TV show that follows adults with autism on their quest to find love. I am not an avid viewer of dating shows, but I was won over by the care and respect expressed by creator Cian O’Clery behind the camera, supporting these wonderful individuals as they put themselves out of their comfort zones in the hopes of finding a partner. I was struck by a particular participant, Tanner, who in one episode opens the door to his apartment to greet his mother. His mannerisms in this moment brought me straight back home to my brother and the smiles he would give our mother, and suddenly my flatmate was concernedly pausing Netflix as tears streamed down my face. Since I’ve gone away for university, I have no longer been a constant presence in my brother’s routine, and in a way, I do feel I have lost our connection. No longer can I go to his room and sit on the couch to watch TV with the ease and comfort of my childhood, as my inclusion in this space has the potential to throw things off course and cause a tantrum that affects everyone in the house. As my life trajectory appears to take me further away, I fear that our bond will become unattainable. But I hope, if I can so easily conjure the melody of Barney’s ‘Mister Sun’ song while alone in my college room, that perhaps he can recall the memories of me singing it to him; at least while I am so far away.  

Autism is extraordinarily complex, with no known cause nor cure, and it manifests itself differently in every individual. For the non-verbal, it is near impossible to truly understand how they see the world, and a portrayal on screen could merely be conjecture of their lived experience. But I believe we have much to learn from these beautiful people, and it is up to us to find a way to connect. Despite its downfalls, The Black Balloon demonstrates how filmic mediums can tap into a collective memory and evoke awareness, to present people on screen who are normally hidden from societies, and to express their right to exist in spaces and to be respected by others to share them. It is my wish to contribute to the well of stories that can not only provide escapes for people, but also open their eyes to different experiences and people that are not found in their own lives. It is essential to give voice to those dwelling in the hinterland ofaccepted humanity, like Sam, Charlie, Tanner, and like my brother.

By Jasmine Eden Gray for CRoB Digital, in collaboration with Cambridge University Film Association, edited by Lulu Rehman

Artwork by Lucia Billing