Dinner with a Sociopath: Watching My Friend Devour Finding Nemo
There’s a certain art to watching a sociopath at play. One must step back, almost like an anthropologist, and observe without getting involved, lest you become their next mark. This, I realized, as I invited my old friend—let’s call him X—to watch Finding Nemo (2003) for the very first time. You see, X doesn’t watch movies. He dissects them. Films, for him, are not escapes into fantasy but battlegrounds of psychological warfare, where characters are pawns, plots are strategies, and relationships are merely power dynamics to exploit.
The lights dimmed. The innocuous Pixar logo faded into that deceptively vibrant blue ocean, a world most would consider teeming with life and beauty. But not X. He was already shifting in his seat, eyes narrowing, his brain re-calibrating for the hunt.
“Typical,” he muttered, five minutes into Marlon’s overprotective parenting, his mouth curling into a smirk that never reached his eyes. “Control freak.” For X, Marlon wasn’t a loving father trying to keep his only son safe. No, he was a petty tyrant, micromanaging his child’s existence to satiate his own insecurity. That neurotic hovering, that obsessive need to wrap Nemo in a bubble of paternal overreach—it wasn’t love. It was ownership. “He’ll suffocate the kid. Or worse,” X remarked, his voice dripping with the disdain of someone who’s seen a thousand versions of this power game before. “People like him always do.”
The sociopath, if anything, sees through sentiment. Where you or I might see vulnerability or charm, X smells opportunity. Enter Dory, the well-meaning, forgetful fish whose memory lapses define her as the comic relief. “You think she’s cute, right?” X asked, not really asking. “But you’re wrong. That’s not innocence. That’s a liability wrapped in distraction.”
For X, Dory wasn’t the lovable sidekick. She was a burden, a magnet for chaos, her flakiness a ruse. “She’s the kind of person who makes everyone around her work harder just to clean up her messes. And they do it, because she seems... harmless.” He paused, relishing the thought. “People like her always get by on charm. They force you into the caretaker role and then they milk it. Classic parasitic behavior.”
He said this with the same casualness as someone pointing out the weather, yet the precision of a predator who’s seen this manipulation play out too many times. I didn’t argue. X wasn’t one to make mistakes in judgment—especially about people.
As the narrative flowed, the sharks appeared—a trio of reformed predators who’d sworn off fish. “Isn’t this sweet?” I asked, knowing the answer before it left my lips.
“Sweet?” X laughed under his breath, a sound devoid of warmth. “That’s rehab for the dangerous. You don’t buy it, do you?” He glanced at me sideways, daring me to argue. “Sharks can’t change. They’re just predators biding their time.” In X’s world, redemption is a myth, and any display of it is a cheap mask that cracks under pressure. “They’ll be back to their old ways the moment they catch a whiff of weakness,” he added with the certainty of someone who’s witnessed how little people—and creatures—change.
Nemo’s escape from the tank was met with a mild nod of approval. “Clever kid,” X remarked. But it wasn’t admiration. It was recognition. Nemo had, in X’s mind, done what all survivors do: manipulate the weak links in the chain to secure his own freedom. His fishy compatriots were tools—pawns used to break out of captivity. “They think it’s teamwork,” he said, swirling his drink absently. “But that’s just survival instincts kicking in. He used them.”
It was during the final act—the emotional reunion of father and son—when I noticed something almost imperceptible. X, usually so composed, leaned in ever so slightly, not toward the screen but toward me. I could feel the quiet hum of satisfaction emanating from him, though I knew better than to ask what he found so... entertaining.
“This?” he said, gesturing toward Marlon’s teary apology. “This is the part that gets people. Makes them cry. But the joke is, nothing’s changed. Marlon’s still going to control him. Nemo’s still going to resent him. It’s a temporary ceasefire in a war of wills.” He sat back, the flicker of amusement passing like a cloud across his face. “People think love is the answer to everything, but what they don’t realize is that love—real love—is just another power play. And in this case, Marlon’s still winning.”
I turned to him, wondering if I was being sized up as well, another participant in his endless analysis of human behavior. His eyes, still on the screen, betrayed no emotion beyond vague amusement. For X, Finding Nemo wasn’t a heartwarming tale of family, but an exercise in control, in survival, in the delicate dance of manipulation that we call relationships.
The credits rolled, the ocean faded back into darkness, and he stood, brushing the crumbs from his sleeve. “Not bad,” he said finally. “But then again, the real predator here isn’t the shark.”
I blinked, momentarily confused, until I saw the faintest smirk on his lips.
“It's the ocean,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Always has been. Vast, cold, and waiting to swallow you whole.” He paused at the door. “Goodnight.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving me alone with the uncomfortable knowledge that I hadn’t just watched Finding Nemo—I’d witnessed the anatomy of a sociopath’s worldview.