Watching a DVD of the French film Amélie alone in her room, Lillian Crawford saw for the first time a character who moved through the world like she does. The film allowed her to embrace her neurodivergence.
A character at the centre of the story
Amélie likes the sound of cracking creme brulee with a teaspoon, plunging her hand into a sack of grain, and turning around in the cinema to watch people’s faces in the dark. Crawford likes the smell of books and loves cinema, but hates the sound of people eating popcorn.
Amélie was not the first neurodivergent-coded woman Crawford had seen depicted in film. There had been Margot Tenenbaum in The Royal Tenenbaums and Suzy Bishop in Moonrise Kingdom – two Wes Anderson characters in whom she recognised herself. But Amélie was the first who was at the centre of the story; she is the titular character and we see things through her eyes. It was the first time Crawford had seen a woman on screen move through the world as she did: overstimulated, a bit lonely and afraid of the unknown, comfortable in her own company, with firm likes and dislikes and a powerful sense of social justice.
Recognising stimming and sensory overload
Crawford’s parents suspected she was autistic as a child: she didn’t have any friends, preferring her own company or that of her parents, and she couldn’t understand why other children behaved the way they did. She had hyperfixations and obsessive special interests. Doctors were trained to look out for the stereotypical signs of autism in boys, and autism can show up differently in girls, who tend to mask a lot more. Her sense of humour, empathy and interest in history and culture rather than maths or science meant she wasn’t formally diagnosed until her early 20s. But a diagnosis has never felt important to her. That is what she loves about Amélie: she is never labelled as autistic in the film, yet it was clear to Crawford, as a neurodivergent person, that she was, too.
In the opening credits, young Amélie flaps her hands over her ears, spins a coin and runs a finger round the rim of a glass – behaviours Crawford now recognises as “stimming” (repetitive movements, sounds or words that help process sensory input or manage emotions). Adult Amélie’s overwhelm is communicated not only through Audrey Tautou’s performance, but through the cinematography. When she takes the Paris Métro, the wide lens and intensified sound evoke the experience of sensory overload. When Amélie is happy, everything glows. When she is sad, she literally becomes a puddle on the floor.
Evolving understanding and a community found
Ten years ago, Crawford was in her second year at the University of Cambridge when she first watched Amélie, on a DVD player alone in her room. She fell in love with it. After watching it twice that night, she became scared to return to it in case she didn’t connect with it in the same way. But in the past year, she has watched Amélie five times in an effort to make up for lost time, and on every watch she sees something different.
As her understanding of herself has evolved over the years, so has her understanding of Amélie. Now she has the urge to help her, as if by helping her she would also be helping the younger version of herself. To have a conversation with her and say: don’t be so afraid of things that feel alien and new.
Crawford had a book launch in August and it made her parents emotional how many people were there from different parts of her life. They never thought having friendships like she does would be possible for her. She wishes she could tell her 14-year-old self, locked away in a library, or the 19-year-old who watched Amélie on repeat alone in her room, that she had all of this ahead of her. That she would programme and organise neurodivergent film screenings and have a community of autistic people around her. That her bones aren’t made of glass, and she can take life’s knocks, as the Glass Man tells Amélie in the film. That she would overcome her fears and learn to take up space in her own life, as Amélie had shown her was possible all those years ago.
The Mind of the Doctor by Lillian Crawford is published by Darton, Longman & Todd (£14.99).
