Your browser window currently does not have enough height, or is zoomed in too far to view our website content correctly. Once the window reaches the minimum required height or zoom percentage, the content will display automatically.
Alternatively, you can learn more via the links below.
Even before going to prison, I was drawn to prison movies. Now, after my time inside, I’m even more captivated. Not only do I now enjoy criticising the inaccuracies, but I’m interested in analysing their underlying messages. There’s a flicker of freedom and hope beneath the surface of prison stories. From gritty dramas to tense escapes, these films have become a staple of cinema. But what is it about them that captivates so many? And what do they really reveal, not just about prisons, but about how we see the people locked inside?
I read ‘Are Prisons Obsolete?’ by Angela Davis a while ago, and one part that stuck with me was a quote from Gina Dent. She points out that by seeing prisons so often in films and television, we come to see them as a normal part of life. Even one of the earliest films, a 1901 silent film by the inventor Thomas Edison called Execution of Czolgosz with Panorama of Auburn Prison, was set in a prison. Since then, prisons have remained a constant on our screens, becoming so familiar that it is hard to imagine a world without them. But just because we see them often does not mean we understand them.
One comforting trope of prison cinema is the ‘redemption arc’, the idea that someone enters prison broken, angry or violent, but slowly finds peace and personal growth. There’s something satisfying about watching a person turn their life around. Characters like Edward Norton’s reformed skinhead in American History X, Tom Hanks’ compassionate executioner in The Green Mile, or Tim Robbins’ hopeful banker in The Shawshank Redemption all show how prison can become a place of transformation. While these films can offer hope by showcasing the potential for personal growth and change, they sometimes miss the bigger picture.
A focus on the ‘redemption arc’ often fails to understand the complexity of human life. These films tend to focus on individual change, suggesting that redemption comes down to willpower, morality, or self-improvement, rather than looking at deeper issues like poverty, inequality, or why the person ended up in prison to begin with. In reality, transformation is far more complex, shaped by trauma, mental health issues, addiction, and a system that prioritises punishment over rehabilitation. Yet, films rarely explore these complexities, instead offering neat endings and moral resolutions. Redemption becomes more of a performance for the audience rather than a true reflection of life behind bars.
There are some movies however that try to do more. The Hurricane (1999), for example. tells the true story of Rubin ‘Hurricane’ Carter and his fight for justice, highlighting both his personal struggle and the racism deeply rooted in the criminal justice system. Dead Man Walking (1995) also avoids a simple redemption story, instead exploring the moral struggles and complexities of human transformation within the prison system. It raises tough questions about change and whether true redemption is achievable, suggesting these issues are more complicated than the system often allows.
Next, what about light-hearted films, such as Get Hard (2015)? Get Hard is a comedy where a rich man, played by Will Ferrell, is sent to prison. He hires a man, played by Kevin Hart, to teach him how to survive behind bars. The film uses over-the-top stereotypes, like outlandish violence, trivial gang representation and sexual threats, to get laughs.
These kinds of films make prison seem less serious than it is. They turn real problems into jokes, making people think prison is just a rough but funny experience. This softens the harsh realities of incarceration, depicting prison as a tough but laughable backdrop, rather than something that deserves deeper questioning.
This ties back to the point from the book ‘Are Prisons Obsolete.’ When films make prisons feel familiar, they in turn make prison seem normal or acceptable. Get Hard might seem like harmless fun, but by turning prison into a joke, it hides how harsh and unfair the system can be, preventing us from questioning its purpose. Prison stories also shifts the focus from the system itself to personal change. They suggest freedom must be earned, and that those who don’t ‘reform’ deserve to stay locked up. But for people inside, prison isn’t a joke or a lesson, it’s often violent and unjust.
Nevertheless, prison films aren’t without value. They can offer connection, catharsis, and hope. However, they also carry responsibility. Filmmakers shape our perception of those inside, deciding whether they’re monsters or men, lost causes or survivors. With this responsibility comes the opportunity to do more.
The recent film Inside (2024) captures the reality of Australian prison life with more accuracy. It follows Mel, a young man in a maximum-security facility for rehabilitation, who, instead of writing a letter to his victim, wrestles with guilt and darker instincts. Exploring trauma, misguided trust, and the struggle to change, the film offers a raw, honest portrayal of life inside, with a moving yet confronting ending. It feels like a step in the right direction.
Perhaps it’s not just what prison films say about prisoners, but also what they say about the viewer. And importantly, it’s about what stories are being left untold, and why. What could we learn if these untold stories were brought to light?
Even before going to prison, I was drawn to prison movies. Now, after my time inside, I’m even more captivated. Not only do I now enjoy criticising the inaccuracies, but I’m interested in analysing their underlying messages. There’s a flicker of freedom and hope beneath the surface of prison stories. From gritty dramas to tense escapes, these films have become a staple of cinema. But what is it about them that captivates so many? And what do they really reveal, not just about prisons, but about how we see the people locked inside?
I read ‘Are Prisons Obsolete?’ by Angela Davis a while ago, and one part that stuck with me was a quote from Gina Dent. She points out that by seeing prisons so often in films and television, we come to see them as a normal part of life. Even one of the earliest films, a 1901 silent film by the inventor Thomas Edison called Execution of Czolgosz with Panorama of Auburn Prison, was set in a prison. Since then, prisons have remained a constant on our screens, becoming so familiar that it is hard to imagine a world without them. But just because we see them often does not mean we understand them.
One comforting trope of prison cinema is the ‘redemption arc’, the idea that someone enters prison broken, angry or violent, but slowly finds peace and personal growth. There’s something satisfying about watching a person turn their life around. Characters like Edward Norton’s reformed skinhead in American History X, Tom Hanks’ compassionate executioner in The Green Mile, or Tim Robbins’ hopeful banker in The Shawshank Redemption all show how prison can become a place of transformation. While these films can offer hope by showcasing the potential for personal growth and change, they sometimes miss the bigger picture.
A focus on the ‘redemption arc’ often fails to understand the complexity of human life. These films tend to focus on individual change, suggesting that redemption comes down to willpower, morality, or self-improvement, rather than looking at deeper issues like poverty, inequality, or why the person ended up in prison to begin with. In reality, transformation is far more complex, shaped by trauma, mental health issues, addiction, and a system that prioritises punishment over rehabilitation. Yet, films rarely explore these complexities, instead offering neat endings and moral resolutions. Redemption becomes more of a performance for the audience rather than a true reflection of life behind bars.
There are some movies however that try to do more. The Hurricane (1999), for example. tells the true story of Rubin ‘Hurricane’ Carter and his fight for justice, highlighting both his personal struggle and the racism deeply rooted in the criminal justice system. Dead Man Walking (1995) also avoids a simple redemption story, instead exploring the moral struggles and complexities of human transformation within the prison system. It raises tough questions about change and whether true redemption is achievable, suggesting these issues are more complicated than the system often allows.
Next, what about light-hearted films, such as Get Hard (2015)? Get Hard is a comedy where a rich man, played by Will Ferrell, is sent to prison. He hires a man, played by Kevin Hart, to teach him how to survive behind bars. The film uses over-the-top stereotypes, like outlandish violence, trivial gang representation and sexual threats, to get laughs.
These kinds of films make prison seem less serious than it is. They turn real problems into jokes, making people think prison is just a rough but funny experience. This softens the harsh realities of incarceration, depicting prison as a tough but laughable backdrop, rather than something that deserves deeper questioning.
This ties back to the point from the book ‘Are Prisons Obsolete.’ When films make prisons feel familiar, they in turn make prison seem normal or acceptable. Get Hard might seem like harmless fun, but by turning prison into a joke, it hides how harsh and unfair the system can be, preventing us from questioning its purpose. Prison stories also shifts the focus from the system itself to personal change. They suggest freedom must be earned, and that those who don’t ‘reform’ deserve to stay locked up. But for people inside, prison isn’t a joke or a lesson, it’s often violent and unjust.
Nevertheless, prison films aren’t without value. They can offer connection, catharsis, and hope. However, they also carry responsibility. Filmmakers shape our perception of those inside, deciding whether they’re monsters or men, lost causes or survivors. With this responsibility comes the opportunity to do more.
The recent film Inside (2024) captures the reality of Australian prison life with more accuracy. It follows Mel, a young man in a maximum-security facility for rehabilitation, who, instead of writing a letter to his victim, wrestles with guilt and darker instincts. Exploring trauma, misguided trust, and the struggle to change, the film offers a raw, honest portrayal of life inside, with a moving yet confronting ending. It feels like a step in the right direction.
Perhaps it’s not just what prison films say about prisoners, but also what they say about the viewer. And importantly, it’s about what stories are being left untold, and why. What could we learn if these untold stories were brought to light?
Prison is a noisy place, yet at Risdon Prison, in Tasmania – nestled near bushland and close to the Risdon Brook Dam – the sounds of nature still break through. Despite the din, the calls of native birds are unmistakable.
Knowing what an incredibly powerful story he had – not to mention unique artworks – after the interview I asked Mohannad if he would be interested in having art exhibited in Australia.
A new children’s book addresses the incarceration of parents. It’s titled My Dad’s Gone Away and was written by Andrew Krakouer and Jacqueline Dinan.
Welcome to the planet where the apes are rulers and the humans – as far as we know – are reduced to a subspecies.
An overview of recent sporting events, including horse racing, motor racing, AFLW and cricket.
Knowing what an incredibly powerful story he had – not to mention unique artworks – after the interview I asked Mohannad if he would be interested in having art exhibited in Australia.
A collection of sports news from the past month, including Brisbane possibly being our new sporting capital, Aussie women finding lots of wins in Cricket and loutish crowd behaviour marring the Ryder Cup.
We’re Bull Press. We make games – conversational tabletop games – for a prison environment. Most of us have spent time in prison, and we’re based in the USA.
Help keep the momentum going. All donations will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
All donations of $2 or more are tax deductible. If you would like to pay directly into our bank account to avoid the processing fee, please contact donate@abouttime.org.au. ABN 67 667 331 106.
Help us get About Time off the ground. All donations are tax deductible and will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
Leave a Comment
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Suspendisse varius enim in eros elementum tristique. Duis cursus, mi quis viverra ornare, eros dolor interdum nulla, ut commodo diam libero vitae erat. Aenean faucibus nibh et justo cursus id rutrum lorem imperdiet. Nunc ut sem vitae risus tristique posuere. uis cursus, mi quis viverra ornare, eros dolor interdum nulla, ut commodo diam libero vitae erat. Aenean faucibus nibh et justo cursus id rutrum lorem imperdiet. Nunc ut sem vitae risus tristique posuere.