This is something I’m likely going to get into more detail with a review I can already see approaching early next year, but just to get it out in the open: I don’t have an inherent problem with non-autistic people playing those on the spectrum. Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Asa Butterfield, and Ben Affleck aren’t on the spectrum (far as I know, at least), and yet their respective depictions in Mary & Max, X+Y, and The Accountant still resonated with me.
Being able to depict something that close to my heart in a truly empathetic way means the world to me, regardless of the status of the actor doing it, and while I get the problem with the lack of IRL autistic representation in these movies (it’s been happening for so long, it’s become the norm to the detriment of working autistic actors), that on its own isn’t the issue. It just adds salt to the wound when the film’s understanding of the condition is already as fucked as it is in films like The Night Clerk.
The depiction of autism (Asperger’s Syndrome specifically) presented through Michael Cristofer’s writing and direction here is that of socially-detached sociopathy. Tye Sheridan plays the title character, a hotel clerk whose frequent video recording of hotel patrons uncovers a murder in one of the rooms, with the same brand of imitation-to-cover-lack-of-individual-expression as American Psycho or the recently-reviewed I’m Thinking Of Ending Things, like when he reads off the description of a hotel suite verbatim from their website, complete with the ‘Read More’ and ‘Read Less’ tabs. As much as I can kinda relate to this (learning how to socialise by what you watch is basically me growing up with movies), it also plays into a void-of-self stereotype that, to be brutally honest, needs to be taken out behind the woodshed when it comes to popular understanding of autism.
And it goes beyond just his character in a bubble, as the entire script is full of lip-service to all manner of things that make modern conversations about autism so fucking exhausting to sit through. When Ty’s Bart meets up with Ana de Armas’ Andrea (Jesus tap-dancing Christ, these two deserve better material than this), she talks about how her brother was also autistic, but far worse than Bart because at least he can function day-by-day and can hold down a job, unlike her institutionalised brother. Because that’s all that autism is: You’re either a socially-awkward genius, or fodder for padded cells; I’m at a loss for words at how not-okay this shit is. Just because the script itself doesn’t resort to functional labels doesn’t mean this isn’t still the same ‘all-or-nothing’ pigeon-holing that dominates the conversation about people like us. We’re either too smart to be really autistic, or too stupid to be allowed our own sentience.
It seems like Cristofer is at least marginally aware of such things, as he basically sets up John Leguizamo’s detective as the embodiment of all the stigma attached to the condition. Talking about how Bart’s condition gives him a “free pass” from suspicion about the murder, or explaining to his superior officer that “These kids on the spectrum… they can also be very violent”. How very, very cute: Making a strawman out of the negative perceptions made towards those on the spectrum, when the characterisation for your main character actively contributes to those same stereotypes. What irony that a film about creepy voyeurism would use that exact method to depict its own main character.
And yet, as infuriating as all this is, it still isn’t the main thing that annoys me about this production. That comes with the realisation that, despite this barely scraping in at 90 minutes, this is a phenomenally dull attempt at a murder mystery. The pacing is painfully slow, the tone doesn’t know whether it wants to be a drama or a character study or a romance or a thriller or a mangled combination of each, and with how tepid this Sliver-ass plot is, there’s nothing here that generates a whole lot to care about within the margins.
Much like with Atypical (as well as The Fanatic when you get right down to it) it’s a bland-as-fuck story that needs the autistic guy to make it even remotely interesting. This isn’t autism being depicted to show some level of empathy and understanding; it’s a dramatic means to an end. An excuse for niche armchair psychology to give this generic mess a smidgeon of personality, while failing to give any to its own main character beyond the label ‘autistic’. If we’re good enough to be brought in to rescue your shit, then we’re good enough to be treated with more respect than this.
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