Imagine being unable to read or write, unable to communicate effectively or even find your way home. Picture not being able to use a smartphone or computer to order items, research topics, or enjoy entertainment. Imagine not being able to count reliably, to handle money, or to picture the future—to imagine, envision, or anticipate. For millions of people with severe learning disabilities, these limitations shape daily life to varying degrees. Around them are millions more—family members, carers, friends—who shoulder the practical and emotional work of supporting them. These supporters manage details as small as portioning meals and as large as navigating medical care. The weight of knowing a loved one will need hands-on support for life is profound; caregivers live with the constant question of who will care for that person when they can no longer do so themselves. They worry about mobility, communication, friendships, schooling, puberty, employment, and financial security. Yet despite these fears, when asked whether they would change the person they love to remove those differences, most answer without hesitation: no.
Learning disabled people do not need “fixing.”
In Alien: Romulus (2024), the latest entry in the long-running Alien franchise, David Jonsson plays Andy, a homemade and repurposed android whose cognitive differences function as a clear analogue for people with learning disabilities. Andy is “upgraded” when a new chip is inserted into his neck, and a character who initially seems innocent and childlike is transformed into a more conventionally masculine, rational, and detached adult. That change is explicitly marked when Andy states, “I don’t have to be a child anymore.” The film places us, the audience, in the uncomfortable position of both wanting him to thrive and recoiling at what that “thriving” costs. Director and co-writer Fede Álvarez frames this shift as a loss: the “fix” robs Andy and those who love him of what made him unique, underscoring the idea that changing someone to meet a social norm fundamentally alters who they are.
Because Alien is a horror franchise, audiences come primed for tension, fear, and adrenaline. Horror activates our survival instincts and heightens empathy at the same time—our instinct to protect members of our group is amplified. This emotional environment makes the film’s early depictions of Andy especially powerful. We see him struggle with speech; David Jonsson uses posture and nervous physicality to convey vulnerability. He’s bullied for being different, and his sister Rain, played by Cailee Spaeny, becomes his protector. The way Rain guides and defends him primes our sympathy and strengthens our investment in his well‑being before the transformation ever occurs. The film intentionally engages our humanity so we root for Andy as an individual, not merely as a plot device.
With that empathy established, the audience adopts a protective stance toward Andy. He is presented as easy to manipulate and sometimes the target of exploitation, yet his initial state is not framed as a failure. In the film’s dystopian context—where corporate power and aggressive individualism shape survival—most characters act out of self-interest. By contrast, Andy is embedded within a relationship defined by mutual care. Rain looks after him, and he provides emotional warmth in return. Their shared routines—eating, traveling, living together—create an intimate bond that is ruptured when Rain conceals her plan to leave without him. Though not spoken aloud, the suggestion that she has used him for her own escape explains why Andy embraces the promise of the chip: a hope of becoming more than the vulnerable figure he perceives himself to be. Because he struggles to communicate, his hurt is not fully expressed, which only deepens the emotional stakes.
The relationship between these two characters forms the narrative core. As Andy begins to understand Rain’s betrayal, his growth turns him into a perceived threat; simultaneously Rain must reconsider her choices. Their togetherness represents emotional light; their separation symbolizes loss. At key points, Andy experiences android-specific seizures that remind Rain—and the audience—of the human being beneath the upgrade. These moments are deliberately placed to draw us back to the original person Andy was, and to justify Rain’s decision to sacrifice her own escape to stay and protect him. Her choice restores their bond and ultimately returns Andy to the brother she loves.
Alien: Romulus layers many metaphors and contemporary themes—its commentary on bodily autonomy and sexual violence being particularly potent—yet at its heart lies a straightforward story of care, identity, and acceptance. The film asks us to confront what it means to “fix” someone and whether erasing difference actually improves a life. By centering empathy for Andy and showing the pain of his transformation, the film effectively puts viewers in the shoes of those who love and care for people with learning disabilities. It makes the case that even when differences create real challenges, those who love someone do not want them changed into someone unrecognizable.
That a mainstream studio film tells this story without exploiting or dehumanizing its disabled characters is notable. Historically, cinema has used physical and behavioral otherness as shorthand for villainy or ridicule, from stereotyped visual cues to reductive characterizations. Conversely, portrayals of learning-disabled people have often swung between mockery and the “savant” myth. Alien: Romulus resists those tropes and offers a sensitive, emotionally honest representation. It allows audiences—many of whom may never have seen their caregiving experience reflected on screen—to feel seen and respected.
Subtle, emotionally grounded, and surprisingly compassionate, the film demonstrates that caretakers and loved ones would rather preserve the person they know than exchange them for a socially normalized version. They do not see someone who needs fixing; they see someone to be loved, protected, and accepted exactly as they are. For millions of viewers and caregivers, that recognition is profound—and for that reason, Alien: Romulus resonates beyond its thrills and chills.