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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?