Claire Oppert’s The Schubert Treatment is an evocative exploration of music’s transformative power, particularly in the realms of end-of-life care, dementia, and autism. Drawing from her years as a professional cellist working with vulnerable patients, Oppert shares intimate, poetic anecdotes about how music has acted as a bridge to connection and emotion. While the book succeeds in showcasing the humanizing force of art, it stumbles in its portrayal of autism, presenting a perspective that is at times inspiring but often reductive and problematic.
Oppert’s prose is undoubtedly moving. Her descriptions of playing music for patients with autism are filled with striking imagery, such as the stillness that descends upon Paul, a non-verbal autistic boy, as she begins to play Bach:
“From the first notes of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1, Paul stopped rocking and looked at me, as though the music had finally reached him.”
These moments capture the profound impact music can have, but they are often framed as breakthroughs that "unlock" autistic individuals. This framing, while dramatic and emotionally appealing, risks oversimplifying autism as a condition that can be "penetrated" or "solved" through the intervention of an external force like music.
Autism is a spectrum, encompassing a vast diversity of experiences, strengths, and challenges. Oppert’s focus on exceptional cases, like Paul or David, who are seemingly transformed by music, perpetuates the stereotype of autistic people as "trapped" in their own world until someone reaches in to rescue them. This narrative can be harmful, as it fails to acknowledge the agency and individuality of autistic people who may not respond to music or who communicate and connect in different ways.
The Problem of Stereotypes
Throughout the book, Oppert frequently describes autistic individuals as disconnected or isolated, reinforcing a one-dimensional view of autism. For example, David, a non-verbal patient, is introduced as completely withdrawn:
“He sat hunched in a corner, his fingers pressed deep into his ears, entirely shut off from the world.”
While David’s eventual engagement with music, including his improvisations on the piano, is presented as a triumph, it reinforces the idea that autism is inherently a state of absence or deficiency that must be corrected. This perspective disregards the fact that many autistic people already live rich, fulfilling lives on their own terms, without needing to conform to neurotypical norms or expectations of connection.
One of the book’s most glaring weaknesses is its reliance on anecdotal evidence without accompanying scientific rigor. Oppert openly admits to avoiding research on autism at the insistence of her mentor, Howard Buten:
“He forbade me from reading anything about autism. ‘What you’re doing is already good enough,’ he said.”
While this intuitive approach may resonate with readers who appreciate the emotive and personal nature of her stories, it undermines the credibility of her claims. For instance, the oft-repeated assertion that: “Ten minutes of Schubert is equivalent to five milligrams of oxy,” is evocative but unsubstantiated, leaving readers to wonder how much of the book’s impact is rooted in artistic license rather than measurable therapeutic outcomes.
A stronger integration of research on autism and music therapy would have elevated the book, offering a more balanced and evidence-based perspective. Without this, Oppert risks presenting music as a magical cure-all, rather than a nuanced therapeutic tool that may benefit some individuals but not all.
Perhaps the most troubling aspect of The Schubert Treatment is its reliance on a "healing narrative," where music is portrayed as a force that brings autistic individuals closer to a state of "normalcy." This perspective is problematic in light of the neurodiversity movement, which emphasizes that autism is not a condition to be fixed but a natural variation in human experience.
By focusing on breakthroughs where patients become more "reachable" or "expressive" through music, the book implicitly suggests that these changes are necessary for their humanity to be fully recognized. This framing risks diminishing the value of autistic people as they are, reinforcing the idea that their worth lies in how well they conform to neurotypical standards.
Despite these criticisms, The Schubert Treatment is undeniably a heartfelt and beautifully written book. Oppert’s passion for her work shines through, and her dedication to her patients is deeply moving. However, the book is most effective when viewed as a personal memoir rather than a definitive statement on autism or music therapy.
Readers should approach the book with an awareness of its limitations. While it offers inspiring stories about the potential of music to foster connection, it fails to grapple with the complexities of autism as a spectrum condition. The absence of scientific grounding and the reliance on reductive narratives ultimately weaken its impact, particularly for readers seeking a nuanced or comprehensive understanding of autism.
The Schubert Treatment is a poetic and inspiring exploration of music’s power, but it falls short in its portrayal of autism. By leaning on stereotypes and prioritizing emotional resonance over nuanced representation, the book risks reinforcing outdated and narrow views of autistic individuals.
While it is worth reading for its evocative storytelling and insights into music therapy, it should be approached critically. For those interested in autism, it is best paired with works that center autistic voices and provide a more diverse and informed perspective.