The cost of being the “exceptional” disabled person

A disabled figure it took years for me to embrace is the title character of Tim Burton’s dark, modern fairy tale, “Edward Scissorhands.”

“Edward Scissorhands” is not a horror movie per se, but the tragic tale of the man with scissors for hands creeped me out because of how it juxtaposed Edward’s disability with his outward appearance: the dark circles under his eyes and pale white skin, which are now the highlights of numerous Tim Burton–created characters. The extremely exaggerated appearance is a lot, particularly for someone who isn’t seeing nearly enough good disabled representation. Edward, in his all-black leather outfit with his wild hair, is a visual culture shock, especially in comparison to the pastel world of the burbs he moves into. Johnny Depp, making another appearance in this book, plays the title character, “born” with scissors for hands, who comes down from his castle to live with the kindhearted Boggs family. Once there, he learns about the world and its prejudices and also falls in love with the Boggses’ daughter, Kim (Winona Ryder).

“Edward Scissorhands” does an interesting job of enhancing its disabled coding by examining the little nuances of disability. Edward identifies as disabled, the camera capturing clippings he’s saved from newspapers about other people like him. The headlines shout out things like “Boy without eyes reads with his hands.” Edward starts the narrative with a sense of incompleteness typical of internalized ableism. He thinks he lacks something that will make him whole, that will make him abled. Edward tells Pam Boggs (Dianne Wiest) upon meeting her that he’s “not finished,” that his creator/father (Vincent Price) meant to complete him by crafting him a pair of conventional hands, but died before they were completed. Edward tries to come to terms with this throughout the movie. Others offer him unsolicited solutions, including one person saying they know “a doctor who could help you,” which excites Edward.

Edward shakes up the staid neighborhood because he’s a newcomer, an invader of sorts, into their calm, organized suburban bubble. But like any good disabled character, he’s of use to the abled residents, taking on various odd jobs like dog groomer, hair stylist and gardener. There is a desire to put disabled people into categories, marking them as “good” disabled people—those who have something to offer—and those who are “bad” or are just average. I’ve been told I’m “unlike” other disabled people, that I’m somehow different because I’m articulate or because my appearance or intelligence doesn’t make them uncomfortable. I’m the exception to other disabled people for them because they deign to know me.

The Boggses’ neighbors don’t want him to acknowledge or change his disability; they are fascinated with him because of it. They don’t have any excitement in their own lives, so they put him on the same pedestal as the circus performers in “Freaks” or Gwynplaine in “The Man Who Laughs.” To them, he is something to gawk at while patting themselves on the back for “accepting” him. Joyce (Kathy Baker), one of the neighborhood busybodies, tells Edward that he’s not “handicapped” but rather that he’s “exceptional.” To her, one denotes limitation and the other shows that he’s one of a kind (and worthy of her attention). Overly religious neighbor Esmeralda (O-Lan Jones) calls Edward a “perversion of nature,” which the neighbors chuckle at and don’t take seriously.

Edward’s fame because of his disability makes his life appear fun. Standing out from the crowd, to the average person, presumably gives him benefits. When Edward goes on a TV talk show, someone in the crowd says, “But if you had regular hands, you’d be just like everyone else. You wouldn’t be special.” Never mind that he is dependent on others and struggles to find his place in society. When the world is designed to see you as the exception and not the rule, it leads to exclusion. Being special doesn’t create access to businesses or integrate disability into society. More often than not, it’s a way to keep the disabled out. Edward’s exceptionalism opens the door for the neighborhood women, especially Joyce, the film’s stand-in for the wicked witch, to fetishize and sexualize him.

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Consent is questionably obtained in disabled narratives, if it’s brought up at all. Joyce tries to seduce Edward when they’re alone together. The scene concludes on a humorous note with the chair the two of them are sitting on tipping over, but it’s clear Edward has rejected Joyce and is unclear on what has occurred. She calls out to him as he leaves the shop, “Edward, you can’t do that.” Because sexual relationships with disabled characters are a rarity in modern films and were nearly nonexistent in 1991 on-screen, Joyce telling Edward “[he] can’t do that” hints at the idea that he should be grateful for her sexual interest in him. He should be happy she’s willing to look beyond his disability and engage in a relationship with him. What disabled man, or disabled person in general, dares to reject an abled person who shows interest?

(Twentieth Century Fox Film Corpo/Sunset Boulevard/Corbis via Getty Images) Johnny Depp on the set of “Edward Scissorhands”

For as warm and welcoming as the Boggses are, bringing Edward into their home, even they are not immune to using Edward. They just couch it as being in his best interest. In the hopes of fixing Edward’s scarred face — the result of his accidentally cutting himself throughout his life — Pam calls the head of the Avon company where she works to get tips on how to fix his skin. Pam tells Edward she never had a reason to call the head of Avon before she met him. Later, Kim coerces Edward into breaking into her boyfriend’s house to steal some money. The Boggses see Edward as a child, and even though Kim and Pam aren’t malicious in their use of Edward, their unconscious exploitation of him shows that even in the closest of families, the power dynamics between the abled and disabled are ever-present.

The neighborhood starts to think Edward is a threat. Joyce goes so far as to feign “worry” about Kim’s safety in the house, as if Edward is a sexual predator. She calls back to their previous interaction in the beauty shop, couching it as Edward having attacked her. Pam tells Kim that “it might be best if he goes back up there [to his castle] because at least up there he’s safe.” Edward, once perceived as exceptional, is now a dangerous monster. Everyone starts looking for Edward, like any good angry mob. An old man on his porch asks if they’ve found “that cripple.” Where Edward was once accepted enough for the neighbors to use polite terms like “handicapped” or “exceptional,” by the end, they show how they really feel about him: They see him as a reviled cripple. Edward returns to live in his castle alone, a bittersweet conclusion that continues to situate two worlds: one for the abled and one for the disabled.

“Popcorn Disabilities,” by Kristen Lopez, hits shelves on November 27 via Bloomsbury Academic.

“Edward Scissorhands” turns 35 on December 14.