Rain Man, 1988, USA, directed by Barry Levinson. A young man discovers he must share a substantial inheritance with an autistic brother he never knew existed. Reconnecting with a family member he has never met becomes a revelation—one marked by genuine hardship but also by the exceptional abilities his brother displays in unexpected moments. The experience upends his carefully ordered, emotionally barren life and forces him to reckon with what matters.
Rain Man introduced autism to mainstream audiences, though perhaps in its most sympathetic and extraordinary manifestations. Dustin Hoffman's performance as the autistic protagonist is extraordinary.
Have you found similarities between your brother and the main character?
I found the facial expressions very similar—the repetitive gestures, the repeated phrases that have lost their real meaning. Federico, like Ray, is deeply habitual. He needs fixed anchors throughout the day: the security of going to school every morning, for instance. His routines cannot be changed, or he falls apart.
Federico also has that same highly developed memory. He doesn't memorize numbers or do mathematical calculations, but he can learn hundreds of songs by heart, and he remembers names and surnames for years afterward.
As for television, when Federico was small he didn't care about it. But for the past few years he's fixed on certain presenters he insists on watching. Now and then he wants to watch a soccer match, even though none of us follow the sport. He doesn't watch much TV overall, though he loves to listen to music at very high volume for hours on end.
Another similarity is how he responds—or doesn't respond—precisely to questions. Ray answers "Maybe." Federico says whatever the person asking wants to hear. If you offer him two or more options, he repeats the last one. If you ask him yes or no, he answers to please you. If you ask, "What did you do today?" he'll say, "Everything."
Federico used to refuse physical contact, just as Ray does. I say "used to" because now he greets everyone with a kiss on the cheek and will give a hug if asked—but you can see it costs him effort. Only at bedtime does he welcome back rubs that calm him down.
Unlike Ray, Federico has a constant need to move. He can't sit still for more than a minute. He needs to touch objects, whether in the house or outside. I think it's for reassurance.
What similarities have you found between the two brothers in the film and between you and Federico?
Like Charlie in the film, my relationship with Federico has changed over time—though my starting point was actually the opposite of Charlie's problem. My parents, while having me live with Federico, inadvertently made me bear the weight of his illness. They left me alone to care for him far too often, and too young. They magnified the gap between my life and my peers'. So I went through a period where I actually hated my brother. People held that selfishness against me.
Then came a phase of indifference. I didn't care about him or anything to do with him. This was when he stopped coming to school with me—he'd started attending a school for children like him, where he still goes.
I went from seeing him constantly, both at school and at home, to barely seeing him at all.
After two years like that, Fede e Luce entered my life. At first I was skeptical. Here were friends having fun with someone who had caused me only pain. But I was drawn in by their warmth toward him, and I began to learn from how they treated Federico. Over time, I developed my own relationship with him—one that only I can have. I'm the only sister of a boy so full of things he can give, especially to me, living in the same house. Just like Charlie in the film, not long ago I was able to say to my brother with a light heart: "I'm glad I have a big brother like you."
Is there anything about Federico that exasperates you?
Federico exasperates me when he insists on doing things his way and won't listen to advice. He always does the opposite of what you tell him. It exasperates me when he wants to do certain things that aren't appropriate in the moment, and no one can convince him otherwise. In the film, Ray is more obedient, though demanding. Not all autistic boys are that calm.
Does your brother teach you something, as happens in the film?
Federico has given me—truly given me—a deeper sensitivity than I might otherwise have, and sometimes that's been difficult. He also keeps me grounded. He helps me look at what's real, what truly matters, rather than at all the things life offers that have no value at all.
I've witnessed in him suffering in its purest form—the kind that wears you down, destroys you from the inside out. A struggle against something unknown and perhaps unknowable.
How did you feel when the film ends with Ray returning to the institution?
Like a failure. The failure of genuine feeling, killed by reason. In my view, it's essential to integrate these young people into society. I've heard people call them a burden because they're unproductive. We live in a market-driven world.
I don't know what the truth is. Perhaps it hasn't been found yet, or perhaps there is no single truth. I only know that my life would have been profoundly different if I hadn't lived in close contact with my brother, if he'd been in an institution. If Ray had stayed at home, perhaps he would have allowed his family to bond through genuine feeling—the kind too often abandoned for the rush and anxiety of daily life.
It hurt deeply to hear someone say that you can't get satisfaction from people like them. For me, the fact that Federico lives, that he has the chance to smile, to be happy, to receive and give love—that's profound satisfaction.
Do you think the director was sincere and genuinely engaged in depicting the world of autism, or did he simply use it to make a commercial film?
I'm not sure. Certainly, before making this film, there was substantial research into the condition. I think that whether he intended it or not, the director contributed significantly to raising awareness of a disease still largely misunderstood.