Stigma and Mental Illness in Smile and The Babadook
Mark 5:1-20 tells the story of a man who lived among the tombs of the dead. This strange figure wandered through the hills and burial caves of Gerasa day and night, screaming ceaselessly and cutting himself with stones. The man, we are told, “had an evil spirit in him.” The townsfolk, no doubt terrified by the demoniac’s strange behaviour, had tried to restrain him. But it was no use—each time he was bound in chains the man broke free. “He was too strong for anyone to control him.”
In a modern secular context, we might be more likely to attribute the Gerasene demoniac’s unusual behaviour to mental illness, rather than possession by unclean spirits. Indeed, throughout much of our history conditions now associated with mental illness were understood within the sphere of the supernatural. The idea that such conditions are literally caused by evil spirits has mostly fallen out of favour nowadays. However, the use of demonic possession as a metaphor for mental illness is alive and well. This connection seems so deeply ingrained in our collective psyche that it persists in some of our most popular horror media even today, some two thousand years after Jesus allegedly exorcised the Gerasene demoniac. Sadly, the stigma and fear felt by the townsfolk, who chained the poor man amongst the tombs rather than helping him, also seems to have persisted in some of our most popular horror media.
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In Jennifer Kent’s 2014 film The Babadook, the titular entity is a ghostly apparition that haunts protagonist Amelia in the wake of her husband’s untimely death. Space constraints preclude a detailed analysis of the film’s symbolism; it suffices to say that the monster is usually understood to represent the unmanaged trauma, depression, and anxiety that plague our heroine. As the film progresses, a connection is made between the Babadook’s growing control over Amelia, and her tendency to lean into avoidance, rather than confront the realities of her situation. Amelia’s arc completes when she finds the strength to face the Babadook head-on, banish it into the basement, and embrace her son (thereby metaphorically embracing her responsibilities as a single mother). In the wake of that climactic confrontation, Amelia displays a newfound willingness to talk about her husband’s death.
The film ends with a scene that establishes the new normal: the Babadook lives in the basement permanently, where Amelia nurtures and feeds it. Notably, the Babadook briefly threatens Amelia in this closing scene, but she now has the skills necessary to calm the beast and subdue the threat.
Many have characterized this resolution as a “happy ending.” I disagree. A true happy ending would have seen the monster disappear, never to return. Speaking as someone who has struggled with an anxiety disorder, I find The Babadook’s conclusion refreshingly pragmatic and honest. The ending is hopeful, yes, because Amelia might still pursue a rich and fulfilling life. But we understand that she will have to live with the monster until the day she dies. Unlike the Gerasene demoniac, Amelia will never see her evil spirits exorcised. The threat never goes away, but with effort and vigilance, Amelia might learn to keep the Babadook at bay.
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The 2022 film Smile presents a strikingly similar example of demonic possession as a metaphor for a mental illness. In this case PTSD is probably a better metaphorical fit than depression, but the details of the clinical diagnosis aren’t the point of this essay. As in our previous example, space constraints preclude a detailed analysis. The key thing worth unpacking are the rules that govern demonic possession in the Smile universe. Unlike the Babadook, Smile’s demon operates like a communicable disease. Essentially, if you find yourself afflicted by a Smile demon, the evil spirit will taunt you and wear you down until, ultimately, it forces you to commit suicide. If this happens in front of a witness, the demon is transferred to that new host, and the cycle repeats.
Smile’s protagonist, Rose, acquires her demon in hospital when she witnesses a mentally unwell patient slit her own throat. As the plot unfolds, Rose learns about a loophole: she can save herself, but only by brutally murdering someone in front of a witness. This would not end the cycle of violence, mind you, but it would allow the demon to pass on to whoever is unfortunate enough to bear witness to the killing. Rose contemplates this approach, but ultimately chooses a more noble path, opting to return to her childhood home—the site of her own unresolved trauma—and confront the demon head-on. Although this tactic initially seems to work, the film’s final twist reveals that the demon has deceived Rose. In the end, the demon enters Rose and kills her in front of her ex-boyfriend, allowing the curse to pass on and leaving plenty of room for a sequel.
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Smile and The Babadook deal with very similar topics using very similar metaphors. But the details of how each possession unfolds reveal a profoundly different understanding of mental illness. Whereas I argued that The Babadook’s resolution is pragmatic and honest, I found Smile’s underlying ideology to be more than a little mean-spirited. To be clear: my concern isn’t that Smile’s ending is substantially more grim. Rather, my issue is what the film implies about how we should think about people who suffer from mental illness.
To see what I mean, consider an (admittedly silly) thought experiment. Suppose your neighbour is afflicted by a Babadook. How do you respond? I think it’s sensible to offer support, help out with the kid when you can, perhaps stop by with a home-cooked meal from time-to-time. Although you know full well that there’s a monster living in your neighbour’s basement, you also know that she needs all the mental reserve she can muster to keep it contained. It’s probably in everyone’s best interests if she has the resources necessary to succeed.
Now, let’s consider the same thought experiment, but this time your neighbour is host to a Smile demon. What now? The strategy changes considerably, doesn’t it? Should you choose to offer support, you would be doing so against your own best interests. Your neighbour is either going to die, or else she will murder some innocent bystander. The pragmatic response is quarantine: lock your neighbour away in a room somewhere and hope that nobody is around when she succumbs to her demons. Like the townsfolk confronted by the Gerasene demoniac, the best solution we can muster is to shackle the afflicted in chains and leave them to die alone.
The distinction I’m trying to illustrate is this: The Babadook understands people with mental illness as victims who deserve compassion; Smile views them primarily as a threat to the rest of “normal” society.
To be clear: I don’t think Smile sets out to reinforce stigma. The movie plainly has sympathy for its trauma victims. Instead, I think this is a well-intentioned piece of art which stumbles accidentally into an unhelpful way of contextualizing mental illness. I suspect many of us have done the same—I certainly have—which is precisely why it seems worth drawing attention to the film’s implications.
Behind the scenes, here, there is a tension between two fundamentally different viewpoints about the role of mental health systems. On the one extreme, we can imagine a kind of carceral model which views people suffering from mental illness as a threat, and whose primary goal is to keep them contained. On the other hand, one might adopt a disability justice lens, advocating that it is society itself which ought to be reshaped in order to better accommodate people who deviate in one way or another from the narrow parameters of what is considered “normal” by those who hold power.
The underlying philosophy of these two films is, perhaps, best contrasted by looking at their choices regarding creature design. In The Babadook, the demon always takes a form that is meant to evoke Amelia’s dead husband—the monster is visually associated with the root cause of Amelia’s trauma. Smile does the same thing, giving its monster the appearance of Rose’s mother (who she watched die as a child). But, notably, Smile’s demon only takes that form briefly, during parts of the climax. For most of the movie, the Smile demon just looks like regular people. The implication is clear. In Smile’s universe, we understand that most of the threat comes from regular people—ordinary human beings whose phony smiles mask a potentially deadly contagion.
Treated as a narrative about mental illness, the story of the Gerasene demoniac leaves much to be desired. But for all its flaws, the text at least seems to prioritize instilling compassion over fear. We are certainly meant to value the actions of Jesus, who tried to help the demoniac through exorcism, over those of the townsfolk, who simply wanted to imprison the man. There is, perhaps, something to be learned here: there is a clear distinction to be made between the Gerasene man—a human being who was suffering and in need of help—and the demons which afflicted him.
