“A real witch doesn’t have hands,
she’s got claws.” From the earliest days
of film and television, disability has been used as a
metaphor for villainy or moral failing. Characters with disabilities have been
portrayed as either innately wicked, turning diabolical in their
moment of disfigurement, or generally despising their condition
and seeking to harm the able-bodied. "You can't even manipulate
your own body. What's left? The manipulation
of everybody around you?" The disabled villain trope denies
disabled characters any real personhood, and instead turns them into
devices to visually contrast with “heroic” characters who are
framed as both morally sound and physically quote-unquote “perfect.” This attitude toward disability
actually goes way back to medieval times, when outer appearance
was believed to equate with or symbolize inner truth or virtue— and disability was either
seen as punishment for sin, or indicative that the disabled person
was experiencing purgatory on earth, and so therefore existed on a
different, almost spiritual plane. Today, while the idea of something
being medieval is used as a pejorative, our visual storytelling
still plays into tropes based on the same fundamental thinking. The voyeuristic attitude
toward disability is also in keeping with the touring freak shows that
spanned the Victorian era to the mid-twentieth century in which
disabled and disfigured people were put on display for the general public. “Just as they are represented on
the banners, you will see them on the inside, living,
breathing, monstrosities.” Yet while strides are being
made around representation, still, surprisingly often,
disabled characters are reduced to monsters, bridges to
the supernatural, or bad guys. Here’s our take on
the disabled villain, and why by seeing
disabled people this way, we fail to see them as people at all. If you’re new here, be sure to
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The disabled villain has roots
in the disabled monster. “No you’re hurting me! No!” These characters have long been used
as either symbols of monstrosity or beings not of this earth. Disabled monsters’ disability
or disfigurement is framed as turning them into something inhuman,
a threat to be feared. Unsurprisingly, the horror genre has
long been rife with these characters, but these portrayals continue to be
strikingly common in the present day. Ari Aster’s Hereditary
and Midsommar — two well-regarded films
from the late 2010s — both use the disabled monster trope
as a kind of bridge between this world and a fearsome other side. In Hereditary, Charlie —
played by Milly Shapiro, who has cleidocranial dysplasia — is brutally killed midway through
the film, but the loud clicking sounds she makes become the ghost that
haunts the family after her death. *Clicking noise* “Charlie?” As the mystery of the film unfolds,
the choice to make Charlie disabled feels even more deliberate, as —
spoiler alert — it’s revealed that, since birth, she’s been possessed and
used an instrument to bring about the return of Paimon, a mythical monster
who serves as one of the kings of hell. So her disability is used almost
as a subliminal clue that something isn’t right spiritually. And this becomes clearer
in the chilling climax, where there seems to be a reference
to how Charlie’s disability made her an ineffective host for Paimon. “We’ve corrected your first
female body and give you now this healthy male host.” In Midsommar, Aster explicitly
uses disability as a metaphor, saying in an interview with Forbes
that the disabled oracle Ruben is, “important, more as
a symbol, as an idea, than he even is as a character.” Aster went on that the film invites
us to, “consider Swedish history. It is a very closed society and
what does that really mean,” implying that Ruben’s disability is a
commentary on “racial purity” movements. “Disabled?” “Since birth. All of our Oracles are
deliberate products of inbreeding.” But in order to approach this topic,
Midsommar casts Ruben’s disability in a deeply othering, negative light. The Harga believe Ruben’s disability
grants him prophetic powers. “He draws, and we,
the elders, interpret. You see, Josh, Ruben is
unclouded by normal cognition.” And the disabled, often blind,
“seer” trope has a long history, going as far back as the blind prophet
Tiresias in The Odyssey — who’s transformed into a
blind railroad man in the Coen Brothers’ adaptation
O Brother, Where Art Thou? “How’d he know about the treasure?” “I don’t know, Delmar. The blind
are reputed to possess sensitivities compensating for their lack of sight.” And it’s still present
in new stories today. Cordelia in American Horror Story: Coven
develops psychic powers after losing her sight to an acid attack. While the blind seer trope is maybe less
monstrous than some other examples, it still has the effect of
characterizing a very normal disability as something fantastical. It’s also telling that these seers
rarely predict good things and are instead predictors of danger or evil. [Whispers, terrified] “You shouldn’t
have taken the book. You made her angry.” Fantastical depiction
of a real disability can also be found in Us, where the double family is
characterized as inhuman, occupying a kind of uncanny valley
where though they look identical, their movements, and
in particular Red’s voice, set them apart as the other. [Raspy] “Maybe I should
cut something off of you.” Lupita Nyong’o admitted she based
the voice on the disorder spasmodic dysphonia, something
which she later apologized for. “It’s a very marginal group of people
who suffer from this, and so, uh, you know, the thought that I would
in a way offend them or— was not my intention.” Similarly in The Witches, Anne Hathaway
apologized after backlash for her role in the film because the design of
the witches bore similarities to those with limb differences. This design is part of the story’s
origin, with author Roald Dahl describing them as having square feet,
claw-like fingers, and bald heads. The fact that they hide these
features is portrayed as a duplicity, again making a link between
being disfigured and being a devious or evil individual. [Shouting] “Quick! Put on your wigs!” While many of these storytellers may
think they’re just dealing in symbolism, the widespread use of disability
as a shorthand for monstrousness implicitly villainizes those
who have disabilities in real life. Where disabled bad guys
differ from disabled monsters is that their disability —
or origin story of becoming disabled — is often framed as a catalyst
for turning evil or ruthless. This might play out as an
inferiority complex, with the disabled bad guy lashing out
because they’ve had something taken away from them. One of the reasons this trope is so
embedded in film culture is because of how ubiquitous it is
in children’s stories, meaning that for a lot of people
their first interaction with disability representation
may come in the form of a bad guy. “But will she talk, Cap’n?” “Oh, a little persuasion
might be in order!” This is true of older examples, like Peter Pan’s Captain Hook,
or The Lion King’s Scar, but still comes up today,
with Harry Potter’s facially deformed nemesis, Voldemort, or even the limping
Lotso Huggin’ Bear in Toy Story 3. The James Bond franchise has a
long history of antagonists who are disfigured or disabled, with producer Michael Wilson saying
it goes all the way back to Ian Fleming’s original novels: “The idea that physical deformity
and personality deformity goes hand in hand in some of these villains. Sometimes it’s a
motivating factor in their life, and what makes them the way they are.” This framework assumes
that people with disabilities must abhor their condition and, thus,
harbor the central aim of mounting revenge against the able-bodied. And this archetype isn’t
consigned to the past. In the Pierce Brosnan era,
Sean Bean’s Alec Trevelyan has visible scars across his face; and in the Daniel Craig era,
Le Chiffre in Casino Royale; as well as Blofeld and Safin
in No Time To Die all have a facial disfigurement
of some description. In Skyfall, Raoul Silva’s
disfigurement is specifically linked to his villain origin story. Formerly an MI6 agent,
he experienced feelings of abandonment and betrayal from M after he was taken
hostage and tortured by the Chinese, and in trying to commit suicide
by eating a cyanide capsule, his face became permanently deformed. “Look upon your work… mother.” So his moment of disfigurement
literally redefines him from the agent he once was
to the villain he becomes. The superhero genre, too, is teeming
with scarred or disabled villains, with The Joker,
Black Widow’s Taskmaster, and Wonder Woman’s Doctor Poison all
having some kind of facial deformity. “And if it’s what I think,
it’s going to be… terrible.” In The Dark Knight, the idea that
the moment of disfigurement inevitably redefines a person for the worse is
encapsulated in Harvey Dent’s story. Initially, Dent is a principled,
charismatic district attorney working for the good of Gotham City,
thinking of himself as a hero.
“Batman is looking for someone
to take up his mantle.” “Someone like you, Mr Dent?” “Maybe.” But after the Joker causes an explosion
that kills Dent's love interest and destroys half his face,
Dent’s new appearance visually solidifies his transformation
into a villain, Two-Face — he abandons all of his righteous
characteristics and becomes a rampaging psychopath (just as
the Joker expects will happen). “Dent, I swear to God I didn’t know
what they were gonna do to you.” “That’s funny… because I don’t know
what’s gonna happen to you either.” As well as disability being a
signifier or catalyst of evil, the disabled bad guy is also
often motivated by a desire to become able-bodied again. Thus, disability is cast as something
that anyone would desperately seek to escape or “fix” — even by
attacking able-bodied people. In Get Out, gallery owner
Jim’s blindness at first seems all the more tragic because
he’s in the art world and used to enjoy taking pictures,
a backstory which helps him bond with photographer Chris more than the others
at Chris’ girlfriends’ parents’ party. “One day, you're developing prints
in the darkroom. The next day, you wake up in the dark.
Genetic disease.” But Jim turns out to be among
the worst of the guests, as his motivation is to steal Chris’ body
along with his power of vision. “I want… your eye, man.” In Detective Pikachu, we are once again
given a wheelchair-bound villain whose whole motivation is
to escape from his disability. In this case, it’s not another
person he wants to embody, but the all-powerful Pokemon Mewtwo. “The transfer worked. My body is in
the chair but my mind is in Mewtwo.”
These villains’ disabilities are also
played as grotesque and undesirable — the antithesis to the traits of the
charming, handsome hero, whom the disabled bad guy
bitterly resents. Disability rights group
Changing Faces launched the I Am Not Your Villain campaign
as a way to raise awareness of the damage these tropes can have
on disabled people in real life, and how it’s important
that we move past them. “I had convinced myself that in
this industry I would never ever be attractive enough or good enough
to play James Bond.” When disabled characters
are treated as people, rather than metaphors, their perceived
monstrousness begins to dissolve. Notably, some older films
came closer to getting this right than a number of the modern
examples we’ve discussed so far. Tod Browning’s 1932 film Freaks
cast real life circus performers and sideshow acts found
at touring freakshows, but they are all treated with empathy, depicted not as the freakish
others the title suggests, but instead as ordinary people
who live ordinary lives. In 1980’s The Elephant Man, based on
the true story of Joseph Merrick, the film’s central concern is
the question “Who is the monster?” and its answer is
explicitly not John Merrick, but the baying Victorian mob
who exploit him so terribly — and perhaps also,
the audience, who may be complicit in that same voyeurism. “I am not an animal!
I am a human being!” In the early 2000s,
in FUR, Lionel — portrayed as suffering
with hypertrichosis — isn’t treated as a monster, but with empathy and interest
by photographer Diane Arbus, as a relationship between them develops. To debunk the assumed association
between disability and monstrosity, disabled characters have to be
actual fleshed-out characters. Today, more nuanced representation
is coming in the form of three-dimensional characters
with disabilities, and an increasing number of
disabled actors playing them — especially in roles that
aren’t simply villains, and ideally aren’t defined
by their disability. RJ Mitte’s character in Breaking Bad,
Walter White Jr., has cerebral palsy, but it’s incidental to his storyline
of grappling with his dad’s descent into becoming a violent
meth manufacturer. Gaten Matarazzo’s
cleidocranial dysplasia was specifically written into
Stranger Things and is occasionally mentioned by
Dustin and the other characters. “Yeah, he’s got some disease,
chry—it’s chrydo, um… something. Yeah, I don’t know, he’s missing bones and stuff,
he can bend like Gumbo.” And long running British crime drama
Silent Witness cast actor and disability activist Liz Carr
as the forensic examiner Clarissa for eight seasons. Not only are these portrayals
quietly revolutionary in the way they normalize disabilities as
one facet of rich characters, but they also challenge the practice
of “cripface” in which able-bodied actors take on disabled roles as a
means of displaying their range. “You know what we cripples want,
besides getting laid? To be seen.” The move towards more
disability representation also provides greater opportunity
for disabled creators to tell their own stories, and center
disability in broader narratives. Ryan O’Connell’s Special naturally
touches on the experience of living with cerebral palsy, and the assumptions people
make about that, but that is just the jumping off point for a
wider exploration of disability. While the first season ends with Ryan
effectively “coming out” as disabled, after lying to his coworkers about it, “I have… cerebral palsy.” the second season is —
in O’Connell’s own words — “gayer and gimpier.” Not only does this story include real,
authentic characters who are disabled, but it also refocuses the lens
on how ableist society can be. “Strangers come up to me at the gym and
congratulate me simply for exercising.” “Ew, inspiration porn.” “Is that what that is?!” As O’Connell puts it, “I don’t think Hollywood
is like Mr. Burns cackling behind a desk, going,
‘Keep those disabled people out!’ It’s more that no one considers
disabled people in general, which is very dark and very sad. We’re usually only
there for ‘inspiration porn’ or to serve an able-bodied
character’s personal growth.” Other powerful stories featuring
characters with disabilities today are similarly challenging many
of our collective assumptions. In The Peanut Butter Falcon, Zak — played by Zack Gottsagen,
who has Down’s syndrome — is coddled by the other
characters in the film who believe he needs to be monitored, because his disability makes him
extremely vulnerable. But while these intentions are good,
they deny Zak any agency, and minimize his own wants and desires —
specifically to become a wrestler. In some respects, the
resulting plot may mirror the “inspiring disabled character” trope, but the fact that it’s being done
without an able-bodied actor “cripping up,” and with Zak portrayed
as a three-dimensional character, comes across as less patronizing [Cheering] “Peanut Falcon!
Peanut Falcon!” In Welsh language drama Craith, Justin Melluish —
an actor with Down’s syndrome — plays Glyn, whose able-bodied brother
Sion is protective over him. But that inverts by the
end of the third season, with Glyn having to be
the emotional support to Sion as his life begins to crumble. It’s a shift that counters the
persistent assumption of the able-bodied as self-reliant protectors
and the disabled as needy dependents. Other characters avoid the trap
of the “saintly” disabled person. Sex Education’s Isaac
exudes charm and self-confidence in his
romantic plot with Maeve, “When I get touched in
the places I can feel… it can get a little intense.” but he can also be
prickly and manipulative. “He said that he wanted to talk to you and that he left a
message on your phone. I listened to the message…
and I deleted it.” Actor George Robinson,
who uses a wheelchair in real life, told the BBC that people in the
disabled community ultimately want to be seen with all their flaws. Isaac’s neither a villain nor a saint, but a person who (like most of us) has
great qualities and less great ones. We’re also seeing stories that
reframe the origin of a disability not as horrific or solely tragic. In Sound of Metal, drummer Ruben
begins to lose his hearing, and at first he’s
desperate to regain it. “You said implants? Those work?” “People with severe hearing loss,
or complete deafness, yes they help.” “Well then let’s do that.” However, Ruben is embraced by a
deaf commune, who explicitly reject the idea that their life is lacking. “We’re looking for a solution
to… to this… not this.” As Ruben adjusts to
his new surroundings, he experiences satisfying
peace and community, like in scenes where
we watch how freely the conversation flows at dinner. Meanwhile, his efforts
to improve his hearing through the technology of cochlear implants
aren’t the answer he hoped for. Eventually Ruben comes
to understand that what happened to him is not simply a loss. While he has to grieve his former life,
he has also gained new potentially meaningful ways of connecting
with others and experiencing the world.
High-profile journalist
Wendy Lu writes that according to the social model
of disability, “people with disabilities are disabled not because of
their individual differences, but because of the
systemic barriers we face in society. That includes everything
from inaccessible buildings to hiring discrimination
to a general attitude of resistance against disability.” The point isn’t to minimize how difficult it can be
living with a disability, but to make us question
why it is quite so difficult, and whether it could be easier
if we looked at our own ableism. “I think we have a long way to go, and that’s not just the
actors' responsibility, that’s casting, that’s–that’s directors,
that’s producers.” To help make this
shift in people’s minds, we can begin with allowing
disabled characters on screen to experience and reflect
the full range of life we expect from able-bodied characters. “You can fight who you are, but
that’s a fight you’re never gonna win. So you might as well embrace it.” The Take is now available as a podcast. We’re just getting started
so take us with you.
