Prisoners on Prison Films [1st ed.] 9783030609481, 9783030609498

Table of contents :
Front Matter ....Pages i-xiii
Introduction (Jamie Bennett, Victoria Knight)....Pages 1-21
Bronson: Power and Resistance (Jamie Bennett, Victoria Knight)....Pages 23-38
Starred Up: Prison Cultures and Personal Change (Jamie Bennett, Victoria Knight)....Pages 39-56
We Are Monster: Race in Prison (Jamie Bennett, Victoria Knight)....Pages 57-77
Screwed: Prison Work and Prison Officer Cultures (Jamie Bennett, Victoria Knight)....Pages 79-96
Everyday: Families of Prisoners and the Collateral Harms of Imprisonment (Jamie Bennett, Victoria Knight)....Pages 97-115
Conclusion (Jamie Bennett, Victoria Knight)....Pages 117-131
Back Matter ....Pages 133-134

Citation preview

PALGRAVE STUDIES IN CRIME, MEDIA AND CULTURE

Prisoners on Prison Films Jamie Bennett · Victoria Knight

Palgrave Studies in Crime, Media and Culture

Series Editors Michelle Brown Department of Sociology University of Tennessee Knoxville, TN, USA Eamonn Carrabine Department of Sociology University of Essex Colchester, UK

This series aims to publish high quality interdisciplinary scholarship for research into crime, media and culture. As images of crime, harm and punishment proliferate across new and old media there is a growing recognition that criminology needs to rethink its relations with the ascendant power of spectacle. This international book series aims to break down the often rigid and increasingly hardened boundaries of mainstream criminology, media and communication studies, and cultural studies. In a late modern world where reality TV takes viewers into cop cars and carceral spaces, game shows routinely feature shame and suffering, teenagers post ‘happy slapping’ videos on YouTube, both cyber bullying and ‘justice for’ campaigns are mainstays of social media, and insurrectionist groups compile footage of suicide bomb attacks for circulation on the Internet, it is clear that images of crime and control play a powerful role in shaping social practices. It is vital then that we become versed in the diverse ways that crime and punishment are represented in an era of global interconnectedness, not least since the very reach of global media networks is now unparalleled. Palgrave Studies in Crime, Media and Culture emerges from a call to rethink the manner in which images are reshaping the world and criminology as a project. The mobility, malleability, banality, speed, and scale of images and their distribution demand that we engage both old and new theories and methods and pursue a refinement of concepts and tools, as well as innovative new ones, to tackle questions of crime, harm, culture, and control. Keywords like image, iconography, information flows, the counter-visual, and ‘social’ media, as well as the continuing relevance of the markers, signs, and inscriptions of gender, race, sexuality, and class in cultural contests mark the contours of the crime, media and culture nexus.

More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/15057

Jamie Bennett · Victoria Knight

Prisoners on Prison Films

Jamie Bennett Security, Order and Counter Terrorism Her Majesty’s Prison and Probation Ser London, UK

Victoria Knight Applied Social Sciences De Montfort University Leicester, UK

Palgrave Studies in Crime, Media and Culture ISBN 978-3-030-60948-1 ISBN 978-3-030-60949-8 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-60949-8 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover credit: Rubberball/Mike Kemp This Palgrave Pivot imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Foreword

It is hardly surprising that for most of the last century, the commercial success of prison film has grown in line with incarceration rates. The popularity of movies set in prisons is indisputable, and no one would be surprised to find the “classics” of the genre in any “Best Prisons Film” list of the kind so beloved of television production companies and men’s lifestyle/culture magazines—perhaps featuring stalwarts from the past such as The Birdman of Alcatraz, Midnight Express, Scum, The Green Mile and, inevitably, The Shawshank Redemption which, nearly three decades after its original release in 1994, still tops many viewers’ polls of their favourite films of all time. Most prison films deal with universal human themes that we all can identify with, including life, death, love, loss and survival, which partially explains their popularity. But their longevity is likely due to the fact that they deal with a hidden element of society that fascinates and intrigues, a world that is unknown and unknowable to most ordinary viewers. What is exciting about Prisoners on Prison Films is that the researchers, Jamie Bennett and Victoria Knight, focus on five films from the fairly recent past (2008–2014) chosen largely because they speak to many of the themes that underpin the experience of imprisonment, as faithfully uncovered and recorded in some of the best examples of academic prisons scholarship, which Bennett has skilfully drawn on to illuminate the arguments and analyses in each chapter. The movies selected for the study are very much about the contemporary prison, and three of them are loosely based on real people living or working in the system. But more v

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importantly, and refreshingly, the book explores the issues raised by the five films in question through the voices of long-term prisoners viewing them from within the walls of a prison. The researchers are really interested in finding out whether people in prison decode the meanings and messages of prison movies differently to the rest of us. Of course, to some extent they are bound to, because they are consuming these texts in relation to their personal identities, experience and sense of place—both in life generally and within the context of the vertical and horizontal power relations that animate a prison. Thus, we hear what the men make of common cinematic tropes including cardboard cut-out and clichéd portrayals of prisoners as cartoonish, brutal, violent thugs, prison officers as lazy, stupid or corrupt, and prison institutions as woefully ineffective at reforming convicted offenders. But we also learn how the participants relate what they see in the films to their particular circumstances—their experience of the claustrophobia and fear of incarceration, their understandings of drug dependency and mental illness, their familiarity with conscious and unconscious racism, and their roles as men who struggle with their own complex family backgrounds while often having to acknowledge the pressure that their conviction has put on their loved ones. The research study that underpins the book is in many senses a classic audience ethnography of the kind that first inspired me to study and write about media consumption in prisons as a young academic moving from media studies into criminology (Jewkes 2002). The audiencefocused “reception analysis” approach adopted by Bennett and Knight allows them to uncover the complex ways in which viewers in prison engage with cinematic texts through a sophisticated and first-hand understanding of the interplay between broad social structures such as class, race, gender, economic disadvantage, political marginalisation and power. But more revealingly still, it brings to light the fine-grained detail of life in a prison institution—the competing tensions of compliance and resistance, the salience of domesticity in prison relationships, prisoners’ ambivalence about attempts to rehabilitate and reform them, the moral complexity of giving people in custody “hope”, the shifting sands of sexuality and masculinity, the requirement that fatherhood and family must be performed through the instrument of the prison, and the sheer fatigue and loneliness that come with being the partner of someone who is inside. It perhaps goes without saying that prison films are made by and are principally about men. All the directors whose work is represented here are male and the films are largely portrayals of what it means to be a man— or at least the kind of man who can survive in prison. The participants in

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the research study were all men serving long prison sentences, who will be well versed in acceptable and unacceptable readings of masculinity at the deep end of custody. Because prison masculinities have long been a research interest of mine, I was especially fascinated by the men’s readings of the cinematic portrayals that show the tricky navigations of legitimate and illegitimate ways of “doing” masculinity and the competing and frequently conflicting demands that imprisonment places on their gendered identities. I would love to see a follow-up study that explores broader dimensions of gender, both in terms of the media portrayals and the research participants. The study described in this book incontrovertibly achieves its primary aim of showing people in prison to be sophisticated, insightful and discerning consumers of media. They are, after all, the experts, and they have much to tell us about their experience as interpreted through the lens of prison cinema. This alone makes it an intriguing and rewarding read. Jamie Bennett’s commentaries inflected with insights from the academic prisons’ literature add further depth and interest to this ground-breaking study. It is also a very personal book. Those of us who have been fortunate to know Jamie for many years understand him to be a wise scholar, principled researcher, shrewd film critic and, above all, a passionate prison reformist. Here he brings all these facets of his life together and the book says as much about his commitment to humanising the people who get sent to prison as it does his enthusiasm for innovation in mediacriminology scholarship. Prisoners on Prison Films is testimony to the fact that prison film is still thriving, and that it is a significant source of information about imprisonment, its practices, and its effects, as judged by the people whose opinions matter most. Yvonne Jewkes Professor of Criminology University of Bath Bath, UK

Reference Jewkes, Y. (2002). Captive audience: Media, masculinity and power in prisons. Cullompton: Willan.

Acknowledgements

This book has been something of a labour of love. I was first seduced by cinema almost 30 years ago. As a teenager, scouring magazines from the local video store, one of the films advertised that caught my eye was Taxi Driver. The movie poster showed Robert De Niro, as Travis Bickle, walking alone past the sleazy cinemas and peepshows of Manhattan’s 42nd Street, hands in pockets and head bowed. It was an intriguing image, with a dark sense of alienation seeping through. It as an image that haunted me for many years. Getting access to films was more difficult in those days and it was only in the early 1990s that I finally got hold of a copy, taped from a satellite TV broadcast. I watched it in the early hours of the morning, transfixed by such a daring and disturbing film, so different from anything I had seen before. The ending left me in shock but also revealed the potential of cinema to present alternative perspectives and challenge my worldview. This started a long and ongoing education in film through countless hours of watching. When I started work in prisons in 1996, I combined my new career and my interest in cinema, and began writing about prison films. Over two decades my interest has grown and matured. This has not been solely because of my love of cinema, but also because I have witnessed and felt the power of the media to influence public attitudes, to reframe and distort experiences that I have been directly involved in, and because of the ways in which media permeates into all parts of society, including prison life. This book is the product not of my own readings of films,

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but draws upon audience research. It is an attempt to understand the relationship between media representation and lived experience. The text was written in late 2019 through to the middle of 2020, a period in which the world faced a pandemic and daily life significantly changed across the UK, including in prisons. I continued to work in prisons during this time often spending protracted periods away from my family. Drafting the text gave a welcome sense of normality and continuity in the limited time I had away from my duties. There are many people to thank for enabling this research to be conducted and helping this book to come to fruition. Firstly, I would like to thank Victoria Knight for her contribution to this project. Although Victoria has not been actively involved in the data analysis and drafting of this book, she was an equal partner in the design of the study and the fieldwork. It is for these significant contributions that she warrants an author credit. The men who participated in this study were insightful, imaginative, challenging and good-humoured. It was a privilege to work with them during the screenings, discussion groups and interviews. Their contributions have made this book what it is. I will forever be grateful to them and I wish them all the very best for their futures. The study was supported by the prison governors, Ali Barker and Michael Wood, who gave generously of their resources to facilitate the project. The research was also kindly supported by De Montfort University, Leicester who provided funding for the transcription of focus groups and interviews. The text benefited from thoughtful and encouraging feedback from some of the best minds in the business, including Yvonne Jewkes, Michael Fiddler, David Wilson and Ben Crewe. The production and editorial team at Palgrave MacMillan, particularly Josie Taylor, were amazingly calm and supportive. Nothing was a crisis for them and their confidence in the project gave stability in some challenging times. As ever, I thank the three people who make life the joy it is—Susan, Ben and Elizah. I was fortunate that Susan saw some potential all those years ago and set to work trying to make me into a half-decent human being. Your creativity, values and constant hard work are awe-inspiring. Our children, Ben and Elizah are a joy (mostly) and it is one of the wonders of life to watch them grow and flourish. The final acknowledgement is for the person who gave me that old VHS copy of Taxi Driver, taped from the television—Lesley Bruce, my

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Mum. Lesley has had to face injustice in her life. Her talents and ambitions should have taken her to university, but class and gender barriers meant that she was refused such opportunities. In early adulthood, she was a single mother with two sons, and later a daughter, and faced life with few material resources. Despite the challenges, she offered a stable and supportive home and successfully guided all three children to adulthood, including the first in the family to go on to higher education. She has also had her own career success, while always being at the centre of an extended family. It is only after becoming a parent myself that I can fully appreciate how demanding it must have been for her in those early years and what an incredible achievement it was to get through. In my teenage years, my Step-Father, Colin Bruce, gave up single life for the woman he loved, despite the three children that came with the package. This choice was typical of such a kind and gentle man. More than thirty years later they are still together and I love and admire them more than ever. This book is dedicated to them. Jamie Bennett

Contents

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1

Introduction

2

Bronson: Power and Resistance

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3

Starred Up: Prison Cultures and Personal Change

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4

We Are Monster: Race in Prison

57

5

Screwed: Prison Work and Prison Officer Cultures

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6

Everyday: Families of Prisoners and the Collateral Harms of Imprisonment

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7

Conclusion

Index

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CHAPTER 1

Introduction

Abstract Media representation plays a significant role in shaping how the public understand the penal system. It is less understood how people serving sentences in prison respond to media representations. This book draws upon an exploratory study in which five contemporary British prison films were screened to an audience of men serving long sentences deep inside the English prison system. Audience studies of prisons and the media have largely focussed at a macro-level, considering how this shapes public attitudes and values, and situating this within the broader political economy. By focussing on people in prison, this study also seeks to explore the role of the media at a micro-level, intersecting with individual identity and sense of self. Further, the study is concerned with the role of media consumption at a meso-level, including the interplay with institutional cultures, such as the inmate culture. The research adopted an audience ethnography approach, qualitative in nature and recognising audiencehood as an active process in which viewers engage in struggles over meaning rather than passively consuming media texts. The essential concern is the relationship between prison film and the lived experience of the participants. Keywords Prisons · Prisons and media · Media effects · Prison films · Audience research

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Bennett and V. Knight, Prisoners on Prison Films, Palgrave Studies in Crime, Media and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-60949-8_1

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Prisons have long been a deep source of fascination for the public and the media. Whether in news, literature, social media, film or television, crime and punishment are a persistent and vivid presence, generating competing visions of what prisons are for, how they operate and who inhabits them. In reality, most people have no direct experience of imprisonment. Although England and Wales are high users of imprisonment by Western European standards, the rate of imprisonment is around 174 people per 100,000 of the population (Sturge 2019), so less than 0.2% of the population are imprisoned at any time. Exposure to imprisonment for most people is not through personal experience but instead through representation in the media. What is less well understood is the significance of media representation of prisons to people in prisons. This book explores the significance of media representation, specifically through dramatic films, not for the public, but for prisoners themselves. It is the first substantial empirical examination of the contemporary relationship between cinema representation and the lived reality of prison. The research project reported in this book involved screening recent British prison films (i.e. films wholly or mainly set in a prison or take imprisonment and its consequences as a primary theme) to an audience of men serving long sentences deep inside the English prison system. The study is concerned with how the context of imprisonment shapes media consumption. The audience discussion, interpretation and insights into the films, their lives and the relationship between representation and reality were profound and revealing. Films have been chosen as the medium partly because of our personal interest, but also because films retain a particular significance in the media landscape. Dawn Cecil (2015) has argued that the importance of prison films has declined to the extent that: “For the most part, these films have become relics of the past” (p. 47), but this book will illustrate that such an assessment is too gloomy. Although none of the films in this study were major commercial successes, largely being independent productions, they have generally attracted critical attention and been broadcast on television, made available on streaming services, as well as having been screened in cinemas. The persistence of prison film production suggests that there remains a viable market and consumer interest. Films also remain an important source of information about imprisonment, its practice and values. Although much media production and consumption today is instantaneous, prison films are often viewed in a more considered way with greater attention and for a more substantial

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running time; they have a prestige that means they carry weight and credibility with viewers; they also have a wide geographical reach, and; they remain in circulation for a longer period than other media forms. Films do not, therefore, entirely conform to the model of disposable consumption and retain a significance with viewers and in relation to wider society. The audience in this study—men serving long sentences in an English prison—are people who are deserving of a voice, and whose experiences merit public attention, particularly as sentence lengths are increasing and more people are receiving indefinite or life sentences (Crewe et al. 2019). This study also specifically addresses a significant gap in the current burgeoning academic scrutiny being directed to the relationship between media representation and criminal justice realities. To date, academic study has largely been directed to the relationship between the media, political culture and public attitudes. This has often highlighted that media representation is inaccurate and distorts public perceptions, and that the voices of people in prison are excluded from the media (Foss 2018). This study seeks to close these gaps by exploring the relationship between media representation and people in prison, in other words the very subjects of that representation. They are the people who can bring particular expertise to decoding and making meaning of media representation; they are the people who are least heard directly and in an unmediated way, and; they are the people most affected by the consequences of representation. This study is therefore concerned with understanding and confronting media, power and inequality. The study, however, gives attention not only to the wider political economy, but also to the penal realities to which those people in prison are subjected. In this way, the study offers a bridge between detailed ethnographic research that reveals the everyday processes and experiences of prison life, and media studies with its focus on media products, their significance and effects. This opening chapter will set out some of the ways in which prison films have been analysed previously and explain how this study expands and builds upon these foundations. The methodology will also be described, setting out how the research was conducted. The aim throughout this book is to encourage curiosity, questioning and critical examination of the practice of imprisonment and the significance of the media in contemporary society.

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Historical Readings of Prison Films There have been attempts to connect film representation to shifting penal ideologies. Such analysis is based upon an assumption of a symbiotic relationship between film and society. In America, Cheatwood (1998) has argued that prison films: “display a responsiveness to the realities of theory, practice and public perceptions and interests, a responsiveness clearly visible in the characteristics of the central figures and structural conditions within the films” (p. 215). He continued to say that: “…prison films tell us a great deal about the nature of our society, our prisons, and our theorization about prisons at any point in time” (p. 227). He, further, asserted that: “Movies represent the broad feeling of the era and put into layman’s language those ideas that scholars are attempting to formulate and practitioners are attempting to carry out” (p. 227). On this basis, Cheatwood set out a historical and cultural journey of the prison film genre. This started with the morality plays of the 1930s Depression era, through rehabilitation orientation in the 1940s and 1950s, to emphasis on the dynamics of power and confinement during the Sixties and Seventies, to a modern depiction that was more diverse and ambiguous about the role, function and operation of prisons. Similarly in the UK, Wilson and O’Sullivan (2004) have suggested that films are coded with the values of the period in which they are produced and: “…act as a kind of social barometer, registering the concerns of their era and may have played a role in disseminating ideas and understandings about the state of penal institutions and where they might be heading” (p. 55). Such taxonomies have been criticised by Paul Mason (2006) as oversimplified, and instead he argued that genre conventions (the commonly represented aspects of imprisonment, storylines, characters and scenarios) offer a discursive practice that produces knowledge and meaning at a particular time, but this itself is contested and the meaning changes in different contexts and at different times. We see merits in both arguments. Films and other media texts clearly have coded within them values that reflect the broader social context in which they are produced. It is, however, also right to recognise that those values are contested so that different films may conflict in the way they envision imprisonment, that different viewers read those texts in different ways, and that such readings are open to reassessment over time. Films are a broad but imperfect indication of dominant penal values, but their meaning is dynamic

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and deeply contested, as is the meaning of punishment, prisons and justice in society. In setting the context for this study, it worth considering a brief history of British prison films and their context. Staring in the 1930s, popular comedian Will Hay enjoyed success with Convict 99 (dir. Marcel Varnel 1938), in which Hay is mistakenly appointed as a prison governor and in his own benignly incompetent way ameliorates the most punitive aspects of the prison and creates a more humane and collegiate institution. This was produced at a time when prison populations had been consistently falling for over two decades and there was support for more therapeutic approaches to prison management (Shuker 2010), but concern was rising regarding prison conditions and the influence of serious organised crime, particularly following the mutiny at Dartmoor prison in 1932 (Brown 2013). The film at least in part, through the different management regimes depicted, echoes some of the debates about the role and function of prisons. In the post-war years, there was a progressive reconstruction of society through the creation of the welfare state. The Criminal Justice Act of 1948 abolished hard labour and most corporal punishment, while also promoting more rehabilitative approaches in youth custody and adult prisons. The ambitions of such reforms were reflected in films including Boys in Brown (dir. Montgomery Tully 1949) in which borstal detention leads to the moral redemption of a young prisoner. In the 60s a more realistic and critical edge emerged, with films such as The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner (dir. Tony Richardson 1962) in which Colin Smith played by Tom Courtney resists the paternal authority of the welfarist borstal and the wider class structure it reinforces, and in The Hill (dir. Sidney Lumet 1965), Sean Connery battles the morally corrupt, brutal military prison. In addition, attention was turned towards the impact of imprisonment on the partners and children left behind in Poor Cow (dir. Ken Loach 1967), exposing the social stigma, as well as the emotional and economic strain they experience. These films not only reflect criticisms of prisons but also wider society in which a new generation led calls for liberalisation and the redrawing of social hierarchies, posing a set of challenges that spilled into bitterly contested street protests and culture conflicts. The 1960s was also a period in which the English and Welsh prison population was growing and high profile crimes including the notorious Great Train Robbery of 1963, and the subsequent escape of one of the robbers, Ronnie Biggs, in 1965 gave rise to concerns about the capacity of the criminal justice system to deal with

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the development of organised crime. A review of the prison system by Lord Mountbatten (1966) led to the creation of a security classification system and specialist prisons for those who presented the highest risk. The emergence of a new breed of organised gangs can be seen in The Criminal (dir. Joseph Losey 1960) in which Johnny Bannion (Stanley Baker), a well-connected member of the mob underworld is imprisoned, but breaks out, helped by others who hope to follow him to the hidden haul from his last heist. The film shows the prison as being in the control of criminal gangs, able to send messages, move contraband around, run their organisations from behind bars, and pull off a sophisticated escape. The 1970s were a turbulent time characterised by industrial unrest, economic and political instability in the UK and across the Western world. The prison films of the era, in particular A Clockwork Orange (dir. Stanley Kubrick 1971) and Scum (dir. Alan Clarke 1979) with their violent anti-heroes subjected to excessive state responses, reflect an ambivalent position between both concerns about perceived social disorder and distrust of corrupt, illegitimate authority. The production of Scum is itself an illustration of the tensions of the decade. It was originally made as a television play for the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) in 1977, but they decided not to broadcast it due to the controversial nature of the material, depicting the violence of the borstal system for young offenders (Kelly 1998). Most of the production team and actors later remade Scum as a feature film, releasing it to acclaim and it has become one of the best known British prison films. The production is therefore itself, a turbulent tale of power, authoritarianism and resistance. In the 1980s, there was a struggle for the emergence of the neoliberal state as Margaret Thatcher’s economic and social reforms curtailed the welfare state, deregulated the market and nurtured mass consumerism. The romantic individualism of armed robber and prison escapee McVicar (dir. Tom Clegg 1980) can be seen as embodying the spirit of a buccaneering, free-market age. In the midst of this, a brace of films, Sense of Freedom (dir. John Mackenzie 1981) and Silent Scream (dir. David Hayman 1990) examined the brutal lives and experiences of long-term prisoners in Scotland and the hope offered by the therapeutic unit at Barlinnie. The two films can be seen as presenting an alternative critique advocating more progressive approaches in an era of increasingly punitive political rhetoric and deteriorating prison conditions. The poor state of prisons and their lack of legitimacy were

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spectacularly exposed by the widespread riots of 1990 and the subsequent official report, which called for extensive reform (Woolf and Tumim 1991). By the turn of the century the prison population had grown dramatically in England and Wales, ultimately more than doubling over the two decades from 1993. Despite this, many of the films made in the early part of the twenty-first century offered some reassurance to viewers. A small glut of films suggested that prisons could be places of redemption, through activities such as gardening, in Greenfingers (dir. Joel Hershman 2000), musical theatre, in Lucky Break (dir. Peter Cattaneo 2001) and opera, in Tomorrow La Scala! (dir. Francesca Joseph 2002). By representing prisons as productive, these films acted to legitimise carceral expansion. There were a few films that contested this view, focussing on brutality, corruption and hopelessness, such as Boy A (dir. John Crowley 2007) and The Escapist (dir. Rupert Wyatt 2007), both about people who simply cannot find redemption in prison or after release. Such films highlighted the potential harms of prison and punitiveness. This brief overview of British prison films has suggested that there is some loose connection between the penal climate of a particular era and the films produced at that time. This relationship is, however variable, inconsistent and it does not offer comprehensive commentary. The relevance to this study is that by focussing on prison films released between 2008 and 2015 we will consider how films reflect and encode contemporary penal values. In particular during an age that has seen prison populations sustained at historically high levels, increasing sentence lengths, greater use of indeterminate sentencing, and latterly a deterioration in conditions and safety during a period of austerity where the financial resources available to public services have been reduced. This study also differs from previous historical analyses which have largely attempted to situate film texts within the macro-level of political economy and dominant penal values. By considering the readings of serving prisoners, we will also attempt to elicit how those films relate to the realities of contemporary prison life at the meso-level of organisational and community practices, and the micro-level of individual experience.

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Prison Films and Their Effects An important strand of the existing research focusses on the debate about the effects of media representation, in particular how this can shape perceptions, attitudes and responses. This “social construction” approach asserts that in the absence of direct experience and with high levels of exposure to media representation, public perceptions can be shaped by these images (Surette 1997). What is presented in the media contains embedded perceptions and judgements about social life, it is, as Hall (2013) has described, encoded with values and assumptions. These codes include beliefs about the role and practice of imprisonment (Rafter 2000). These values are the product not only of individual choice by those who produce media content, but are the outcome of a commercial process that is located within a particular set of regulatory, economic, institutional and creative contexts (Lam 2014). Media representation can offer a façade, which projects an idealised vision of the prison (Fiddler 2007). These depictions play an ideological function in explaining crime, framing the problems and guiding emotional responses (Rafter 2000). It is not being suggested that any single film in itself shapes or transforms an individual’s perceptions of prison, but instead, the dominant values repeated across different media and over time, can serve to have a cumulative effect that legitimises and normalises particular values and perspectives (Carrabine 2008). From this vantage point, media representations can be understood as a “power resource” (Ericson et al. 1991, p. 11), which can: “provide people with preferred versions and visions of social order, on the basis of which they will take action” (p. 4). As has already been described, penal values are contested; different people hold different ideas about what prison is or should be. It is widely acknowledged that the dominant media discourse is one that emphasises prisoners as dangerous and violent, and prisons often ineffective in meaningfully reforming people. Such depictions encourage regressive and punitive responses (Lee 2007; Nellis 2005), suggesting that people in prison are too dangerous to be on the street and there is little that can be done other than contain them away from society. Such representations, it has been argued, are remote from the everyday realities of pain and suffering in prisons (Brown 2009). These depictions are concerned with order and the maintenance of existing social systems including populist punitiveness, which supports greater use of imprisonment and harsher

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conditions (Ericson et al. 1991; Surette 1997; Brown 2009). In contrast, it has been suggested that there is an “alternative tradition” in prison films (Rafter 2000) and that the media may play a reform function (Wilson and O’Sullivan 2004). It has been described that depictions of criminal justice can shape views more progressively by: providing an insight into a world that the general public know little about and have little direct experience of; providing a benchmark for acceptable treatment; translating academic and political concerns into digestible narratives; exposing perspectives that are often at odds with media and official descriptions and; creating empathy with offenders, victims and staff (Wilson and O’Sullivan 2004). From this perspective, popular culture is an important resource for challenging received wisdom, encouraging reflection and engagement with debate. It has even been argued that some representations promote a radical critique drawing upon critical criminology, which reveals the harms caused by the criminal justice system and the underpinning power interests that are served (Bennett 2014). In the different visions of the prison represented in films, the contested nature of criminal justice is played out as a form of “popular criminology” (Rafter and Brown 2011), offering a medium for public discourse about crime and punishment. None of the proceeding discussion is intended to suggest that there is a definitive way of understanding or reading particular films or that viewers are passive recipients of media messages. Viewers bring with them pre-existing attitudes or values and are situated within a particular social context including gender, class and ethnicity (Morley 1980; Moores 1993; Jewkes 2006; Carrabine 2008). They use these resources both to choose from the wide variety of media products on offer to them, but also draw upon this in the ways that they interpret, understand and respond to what they consume. Moreover, the context of consumption, such as where and with whom it is consumed, shapes how audiences interact with the text (Morley 1980; Moores 1993). Consumption goes beyond taste but is part of the ways in which people construct and sustain their self-identity and individual subjectivity (King and Maruna 2006). As Hall (2013) has described, texts are encoded with particular meanings and ideology, but viewers decode these in particular ways, so that there are “cultural struggles over meaning” (Moores 1993, p. 7), which deploy the relative power of text and reader. Together, these analyses suggest that media production, representation and consumption are not mere entertainment, but are deeply implicated in the power dynamics of social life. Production and representation

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are fields in which the battle of ideas and values about penal policy are enacted. Individual viewers also explore, construct and express their identity through consumption. Rather than being concerned with the general public, constructing a mediated vision of reality, this book is instead concerned with the response of prisoners themselves to representation of prisons. They are a group who have significant expertise and investment. They are immersed in the experience of imprisonment, and are the subject of the media representation. This book therefore seeks to explore how they decode and respond to the embedded values in prisons films. This study in part addresses the prisoner audience’s readings of the films within the macrolevel of social and penal values. What do these films say about the purpose and function of prisons and how does that compare to their experiences? The study also, however seeks to go further by considering the relationship between these representations and the social world of imprisonment. How do these films represent the realities of everyday prison experiences and how does that relate to the reality? This question is aimed at the meso-level of institutional and cultural practice, in other words the daily operation of the prison and the group cultures that exist with its walls. Further, how do these films relate to how individuals understand themselves and their own personal experiences? In other words, considering the micro-level dynamics of consumption. Together, these questions expand the current range of inquiry, which has focussed on the impact of media consumption on general public who have no direct experience or personal investment in prison. Instead, attention will be directed towards the effects of the media upon those with the greatest expertise in the realities of prison life; prisoners themselves.

Prisons, Prisoners and Media Consumption In-cell televisions were introduced widely in English and Welsh prisons in the late 1990s as an earned incentive for the most compliant prisoners, but in the present day they are available to the vast majority of prisoners, unless it is removed due to poor behaviour. Media consumption has therefore become normalised and is now a more significant part of the everyday prison experience. There have been two important studies of media and television in English prisons (Jewkes 2002; Knight 2016), which have sought to illuminate the ways in which media is consumed and how this is related to identity formation, institutional culture and broader

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social structures. Although these studies focussed on general television consumption rather than the readings of specific prison-related texts, their analysis is salient to the present study. In her work, Yvonne Jewkes (2002) described how viewing could be used in varied ways to navigate emotions, construct or maintain prosocial identities, revisit memories, connect with family and wider community, and to a limited extent transcend the confines of the prison. Jewkes described that although television consumption was also sometimes a means of inactivity, or killing time, it could also be engaged within complex ways that offered a “primary site of meaning and identity construction in the reflexive project of the self” (Jewkes 2002, p. 128). Knight (2016) also described that television offered a “quasi therapeutic tool” (p. 198) through which prisoners can manage their emotions and nurture more prosocial identities. Prisons have particular cultures, which will vary from place to place and over time, but men’s prisons have often been characterised as having a distinctive inmate culture. Features of this include hypermasculinity, contained emotional self-management, entrepreneurial individualism, a willingness to resort to violence, as well as an “us and them” separation between staff and prisoners. Jewkes (2002) described how media choices could be used to reinforce criminal and prison identities. For example, some men watched and discussed crime programmes, violent films or competitive sports, developing a “cultural repertoire [that] is dominated by the imperatives of an enforced and somewhat extreme masculine code” (Jewkes 2002, p. 144). Others, however, used the opportunity of in-cell media to physically and socially retreat from the prison world, and as was mentioned previously, consumed media that reinforced more prosocial identities. Individuals were not fixed in their identities, nor their patterns of consumption, but as they journeyed through the life course of a prison sentence, they shifted in their perception of self and this could be reflected in media choices. Media consumption in prisons has also been viewed through a macrolevel lens. Jewkes (2002) has described how concern about the unhealthy influence of media on prisoners has led to a reticence about access. Access, albeit restricted, to televisions has nevertheless been officially allowed in part because it has become a normalised aspect of everyday life, no longer seen as an indulgent luxury that should be denied to people in prison. It has also been recognised that media can be a means to secure prisoner compliance by making access conditional upon good behaviour or

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removing it as a consequence of bad behaviour (Jewkes 2002; Knight 2016). Further, the potential for television to offer a means of occupation, emotional regulation and pacification, give it the qualities of a “package of care” (Knight 2016, p. 195) that is a vehicle for selfregulation and personal development. From these perspectives, access to media in prisons, and media representation more generally, is conditioned and shaped by prevailing penal philosophies and practices. In the present study, we are not focussing on general media consumption, but are instead concentrating on specific contemporary films about prisons. It is these detailed readings by prisoners that raises some distinct questions. We argue that they are an informed audience whose lived experience and the context of their lives will shape their responses. As Girling et al. (2000) described, this is a search for media consumption and its relation to a sense of place: …that is, of both the place they inhabit (its histories, divisions, trajectories and so forth), and of their place within a wider world of hierarchies, troubles, opportunities and insecurities. (p. 17, emphasis in original)

In other words, what role do these representations play in reflecting and enabling the audience understanding of the prison as a socially structured institution, and their place as prisoners within that context? Methodology The study is intended to be multilayered, giving attention to the macro-, meso- and micro-levels of analysis. At the macro-level, what are the penal values that are encoded in the films and how are these decoded by the audience? How does this relate to the lived experience of the participants and the contested values at play in crime and punishment? At the mesolevel, how are the readings of the films shaped by the context in which they are consumed? In other words, what is the relationship between the readings of the films and prison cultures? Finally, at the micro-level, what role do individuals’ own personal experiences and identities play in their readings, and how do they use the films as resources in the process of identity construction? Our research approach took inspiration from Moores’ (1993) “audience ethnography” (p. 1), which he contrasted with industry quantitative audience research that seeks to commodify consumption. Instead, Moores

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proposed an approach that “conceptualises media audiencehood as a lived experience…attending to the media’s multiple significances in varied contexts of reception” (p. 3). Due to the domestic nature of much media consumption, ethnographic approaches in audience research do not generally involve the long-term observation of classical ethnography, but are often conducted using relatively short interviews and conversations. Yet, they share ethnography’s intentions of understanding practice as embedded within a broader social context: “attending to the meanings produced by social subjects and to the daily activities they perform [in order to] explain those significances and practices by locating them in relation to broader frameworks of interpretation and to the structures of power and inequality” (Moores 1993, p. 4–5). So here our intention is to understand the meaning of media consumption in relation to the particular structures of contemporary prisons and penal practice. While contemporary audience ethnography attempts to observe within the normal site of consumption, usually the home, this was not possible with our research. People in prison watch films and television in their cells. This was not a space that we could reasonably access in order to watch the films. We had also selected the films we intended to screen as part of this project and therefore there was a need to organise and stage the screenings. Our research process was therefore more closely informed by Morley’s seminal Nationwide audience research (Morley 1980). In this work, Morley screened the then popular news and current affairs programme Nationwide to a series of viewer groups. This study revealed the complex audience engagement with texts, decoding their meanings and reading them in ways that could not be crudely categorised through social structures such as class and gender, but instead involving an interplay between individual agency and social structures. In common with the Nationwide study, our approach is to screen predetermined texts to a selected audience in an environment that is different from their normal viewing experience. Rather than individual cells watching alone, the films were collectively viewed in an off-wing group room. There are of course obvious limitations with adopting such an approach, so different from everyday consumption. We nevertheless concluded that it was practical necessity and despite the limitations, this approach could still yield valuable data, just as the Nationwide study had done. Where we deviate from the approach of the Nationwide study is in the interpretive lens we bring to bear. That study typified what has been described as the “incorporation/reistance” paradigm

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(Abercrombie and Longhurst 1998), in which the audience are understood to be socially structured (by class, gender, race etc.) and their readings of texts are framed in relation to contested ideology, so that audience members are incorporated into or resist dominant ideas. This approach is certainly relevant to our readings. Prisons, after all are seeped in power dynamics and are deeply reflective of social inequality. We nevertheless also drew upon the “spectacle/performance” paradigm (Abercrombie and Longhurst 1998), in which the media is seen as one part of the aestheticisation of everyday life. In this context, individuals and their identity became entangled in a mediascape where people are enticed to perform. Such performance can be seen in body image, clothing, interactional style and other everyday experiences. From this perspective, we were interested to understand how the audience for these films used media resources in order to understand their own social world and how it influenced their identity and lived experience. Our approach attempts to encompass both approaches and is therefore multilayered, concerned with social power at a macro-level, prison culture at the meso-level and individual identity at the micro-level. The films used for the screenings were contemporary British films about imprisonment and its consequences. These were Bronson (dir. Nicolas Winding Refn 2008), Screwed (dir. Reg Traviss 2011), Everyday (dir. Michael Winterbottom 2012), Starred up (dir. David Mackenzie 2013) and We are Monster (dir. Antony Petrou 2014). None of these films were major commercial successes and largely had limited theatrical releases, although some attracted critical appreciation and all have been broadcast on television channels and been available on streaming services. The films address a range of different themes, including power and resistance; the experience of prison staff; the experience of the families of prisoners; the illicit economy in prisons; rehabilitation programmes; corruption and abuse of power; mental health, and; race and racism. The selection of these films offered an opportunity to explore a wide spectrum of issues relating to contemporary imprisonment. All of the films also assert some “truth claims”, for example Bronson and We are monster are based upon real people and events; Starred up and Screwed were both written by people who had worked in prisons, and; Everyday had a novel production process, shot sporadically over a five year period so that the characters aged and the children visibly grew up during the film. These “truth claims” are contestable, for example in reviewing Bronson, David Wilson a criminologist and former prison governor who worked on a

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special unit where Charles Bronson was held, described the depiction of people, places, events and practices in the film as “nearly always imagined and partial” (Wilson 2009). The production of Bronson itself was characterised by creative tensions between the director, Nicolas Winding Refn, who was disinterested in a conventional character study and made no effort to meet the real Charles Bronson, and lead actor, Tom Hardy, who met Bronson on several occasions and studiously attempted to craft a realistic characterisation (Lim 2009). Authenticity is therefore contested in production and through viewership. The films screened in this project, nevertheless, in one way or another assert a degree of authenticity, and such claims are part of the attraction of prison films to general audiences (Rafter 2000). The screenings took place in a prison that exclusively holds men serving indeterminate and life sentences. The number of people serving life and indeterminate sentences has grown rapidly over recent decades, so that by 2019, there were over 9000 people serving indeterminate sentences in England and Wales, more than 10% of the prison population (Ministry of Justice 2019). These people must serve a minimum amount of time in prison, which is set by the court (the tariff), and thereafter will continue to be held in custody until such time as the independent Parole Board assess that it is safe for them to be released. Even after they are released, they will continue to be on “licence” and may be subject to supervision or have conditions set by the Probation Service. Should they breach those conditions or it is judged that they present an immediate or unacceptable risk to the public they may be recalled to prison, without necessarily having committed a further offence. This population was selected for a number of reasons. Some of those reasons were pragmatic, specifically that this was a site that was accessible to us as researchers. It was also, however, because this is the deep end of the prison system. The men we encountered had usually spent significant parts of their life in prison and were well versed in the cultures. They were insightful and knowledgeable, expert participants. We also considered that the voice and experience of these men were particularly important, as we were aware of the growing length of sentences and the increasing use of indeterminate sentencing (see also Crewe et al. 2019). We sought to engage with and illuminate aspects of the experiences of people serving long sentences in prison. The participants in the study were volunteers who had responded to a notice published around the prison advertising the study. They were

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then allocated places by the prison based on whether they could be made available from their normal commitments such as employment or education. They described different motivations, including that it was a novel activity, some had an interest in arts and others saw it as a learning opportunity, while for some it was simply a means to alleviate boredom and get additional time in a constructive out-of-cell activity. During the week of screenings, we had a shifting cast of participants, with some people pulling out at the last minute, others deciding not to continue participation and others attending intermittently. In the end, we did have ten regular and consistent participants who formed the core of the study. These men ranged in ages from late twenties to late sixties, although most were in their thirties or forties. Four were Black, Asian or a member of a minority ethnic community, while the other six were white. They had all served substantial periods in prison and were all serving indeterminate sentences. Some had seen the more popular films, particularly Starred up and Bronson, usually having watched them on Film4 channel through their in-cell television, but the other films were new to the audience members. The data was collected over a two week period in April 2018. The first week included screenings of the films and group discussion, with individual interviews taking place in the second week. The process we followed during the first week was to screen the film in the morning, immediately followed by a short group discussion. There would then be a lunch break, after which there would be an extended group discussion in the afternoon session. Notes were taken during the screenings and the discussions were facilitated and recorded. The screenings often started in a disorganised way, with administrative and operational problems meaning that participants arrived late. The screenings themselves were relaxed, with participants apparently watching attentively, albeit occasionally scenes provoked comments, laughter, and other observable or audible responses. The immediate group discussions following the films were helpful in eliciting initial responses and generating themes to be followed up in more detail. The longer group discussions drew upon semi-structured questions, but they often evolved organically, occasionally in an unruly way with people talking over one another and the discussion veering from topic to topic before being fully developed. There was a careful balance needed between structuring the conversation and systematically exploring issues, without stifling the authentic concerns and views of the audience members and enabling them to have some control over the flow of the

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group. During the second week, we conducted individual interviews with the ten core participants, generally lasting between an hour and an hour and a half. We drew upon a semi-structured interview schedule but as with the groups, we enabled the discussion to evolve organically and participants to express their own concerns and perspectives. The interviews also enabled further exploration of individual perspectives, allowing areas of consensus with and divergence from other group members to emerge. There were film scenes and subsequent discussions that explored painful experiences and elicited strong emotional reactions from audience members. Scenes in the films included violence and other traumatic events, which were also part of the life histories and lived experience of the participants. In general, the audience were able to engage with these issues positively and in an environment where there was a degree of trust and mutual respect among group members. There were, however, times when the emotional strain became overwhelming. In particular, during the screening of We are monster, two men left the room during a scene that depicted violent domestic abuse by a parent towards a child. Following the screening, we went to see both men in order to be assured that they were safe. Both men returned to the group in the afternoon and discussed the reasons they had left. One man had left because the images reminded him of his own childhood experiences, while the second left largely following the first, although he did find the racist language used in the film uncomfortable. We discussed with the whole group how we could ensure that the screenings were safe for them and that the emotional impact of the material was psychologically manageable. The men were well aware of support available to them in the prison generally and simply asked that there was a summary of the films given before the screening with notice of any material that may be distressing. This process was incorporated into the remaining screenings. The same man who had left the screening of We are monster due to the images of childhood abuse, also left the screening of Everyday during the first scene of a family visit taking place in a prison. Again, we went to see this man after the screening and he again returned to the discussion group and shared the reasons why he left. In these cases, the material was upsetting and emotionally challenging for the viewers. It was also difficult for us as researchers, feeling that we had unintentionally provoked an overwhelming emotional reaction. We discussed our own feelings with the group. Our experience, however, was that the individuals and the audience group as a whole, were able to openly and safely explore the issues

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and were also able to support one another. The impact of the scenes and the ways in which the audience discussed this revealed important, and sometimes inaccessible aspects of the emotional terrain of prison life. It is a reflection of the maturity and mutuality of the participants that they navigated and explored such difficult and complex reactions. During the groups and interviews, it was apparent that our own position as researchers was the subject of scrutiny by the participants. They would comment upon and ask questions regarding issues, including our views on criminal justice matters. This was done in part to gauge our responses, enable a judgement upon our character and motivations, and occasionally to provoke us as a source of amusement. Sometimes these comments and questions addressed important parts of our identity including gender and professional roles. These interactions were part of the process of establishing relationships of reciprocity and trust between researcher and subject, but were also telling about some of the dynamics of prison life. The data that was generated in this study, including notes, group and individual interview recordings and transcripts were analysed and thematically coded in order to develop a systematic understanding of the responses. Interconnected and overarching themes were also identified in order to draw out the broader relationship between these prison film and the lived experience of the participants.

Outline of the Book This introduction has sought to set out to briefly set out the context for understanding the relationship between film, the wider social context, the institutional setting and individual identity. This study provides a distinctive empirical exploration of the role of the prison genre at the macro-, meso- and micro-levels through consumption. As has been described, consumption is not seen by us as a passive form of inactivity, but instead a lived experience in which viewers draw upon their own resources and social context in order to make meaning. There follow five substantive chapters setting out the audience responses to each of the films screened in this study. In each chapter, there is a summary of the narrative of the film. It is suggested that this book is best read after having watched the films and the summary provided is used simply as a refresher. If however, readers have not been able to see the films, the summary provides enough information to enable

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an understanding of the audience responses. The chapters on the films each generated three primary themes in relation to the individual text. This has given the chapters some coherence in their structure. The book closes with a concluding chapter in which an attempt is mounted to draw out some of the wider significance of prison films in society, in the prison context, and for individuals in prison. There is also discussion of the ways in which this study might be developed in future and the further questions that may be explored through research. Finally, there is an exploration of the ways in which this study may inform practice, in particular thinking about how media might be used productively in prisons and by the people who live and work there, not simply as a means of control and compliance, but with more constructive and educational ambitions. It was earlier described that Dawn Cecil (2015) had rather gloomily suggested that given the emergence of other media formats, that prison films “have become relics of the past” (p. 47). This research suggests a rather more optimistic assessment. Given the richness of the discussion and engagement generated in this study, there is the potential for prison films to take on a more prominent and constructive role for people in prison in the future.

References Abercrombie, N., & Longhurst, B. (1998). Audiences: A sociological theory of performance and imagination. London: Sage. Bennett, J. (2014). Repression and revolution: Representations of criminal justice and prisons in recent documentaries. Prison Service Journal, 214, 33–38. Brown, A. (2013). Inter-war penal policy and crime in England: The Dartmoor convict prison riot, 1932. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Brown, M. (2009). The culture of punishment: Prison, society, and spectacle. New York: New York University Press. Carrabine, E. (2008). Crime, culture and the media. Cambridge: Polity Press. Cecil, D. (2015). Prison life in popular culture: From the Big House to Orange is the New Black. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers. Cheatwood, D. (1998). Films about adult, male, civilian prisons: 1929–1995. In F. Bailey & D. Hale (Eds.), Popular culture, crime, and justice (pp. 209–231). Belmont: West/Wadsworth. Crewe, B., Hulley, S., & Wright, S. (2019). Life imprisonment from young adulthood: Adaptation, identity and time. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Ericson, R., Baranek, P., & Chan, J. (1991). Representing order: Crime, law and justice in the news media. Milton Keynes: Open University Press.

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Fiddler, M. (2007). Projecting the prison: The depiction of the uncanny in The Shawshank Redemption. Crime Media Culture, 3(2), 192–206. Foss, K. (2018). Introduction: Uniting media, prison and experience. In K. Foss (Ed.), Demystifying the big house: Exploring prison experience and media representations (pp. 1–22). Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Girling, E., Loader, I., & Sparks, R. (2000). Crime and social change in middle England: Questions of order in an English town. London: Routledge. Hall, S. (2013). The work of representation. In S. Hall, J. Evans, & S. Nixon (Eds.), Representation (2nd ed., pp. 1–59). London: Sage. Jewkes, Y. (2002). Captive audience: Media, masculinity and power in prisons. Cullompton: Willan. Jewkes, Y. (2006). Creating a stir? Prisons, popular media and the power to reform. In P. Mason (Ed.), Captured by the media: Prison discourse in popular culture (pp. 137–153). Cullompton: Willan. Kelly, R. (1998). Alan Clarke. London: Faber and Faber. King, A., & Maruna, S. (2006). The function of fiction for a punitive public. In P. Mason (Ed.), Captured by the media: Prison discourse in popular culture (pp. 16–30). Cullompton: Willan. Knight, V. (2016). Remote control: Television in prison. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Lam, A. (2014). Making crime television: Producing entertaining representations of crime for television broadcast. Abingdon: Routledge. Lee, M. (2007). Inventing fear of crime: Criminology and the politics of anxiety. Cullompton: Willan. Lim, D. (2009, October 1). Looking at an inmate, seeing an Artist. New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/04/movies/04lim.html. Accessed 1 Dec 2018. Mason, P. (2006). Relocating hollywood’s prison film discourse. In P. Mason (Ed.), Captured by the media: Prison discourse in popular culture (pp. 191– 209). Cullompton: Willan. Ministry of Justice. (2019). Offender management statistics quarterly: July to September 2019. https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/offendermanagement-statistics-quarterly-july-to-september-2019/offender-manage ment-statistics-quarterly-july-to-september-2019. Accessed 19 Apr 2020. Moores, S. (1993). Interpreting audiences: The ethnography of media consumption. London: Sage. Morley, D. (1980). The ‘Nationwide’ audience: Structure and decoding. London: BFI. Mountbatten, Lord of Burma. (1966). Report of the inquiry into prison escapes and security. London: HMSO.

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Nellis, M. (2005). Future punishment in American science fiction films. In P. Mason (Ed.), Captured by the media: Prison discourse in popular culture (pp. 210–228). Cullompton: Willan. Rafter, N. (2000). Shots in the mirror: Crime films and society. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rafter, N., & Brown, M. (2011). Criminology goes to the movies: Crime theory and popular culture. New York: New York University Press. Shuker, R. (2010). Forensic therapeutic communities: A critique of treatment model and evidence base. Howard Journal of Crime and Justice, 49(5), 463– 477. Sturge, G. (2019). UK prison population statistics. London: House of Commons Library. https://researchbriefings.files.parliament.uk/documents/SN04334/ SN04334.pdf. Accessed 25 Jan 2020. Surette, R. (1997). Media, crime, and criminal justice (2nd ed.). Belmont: West/Wadsworth. Wilson, D. (2009, March 16). Bronson and me. The Guardian. https://www. theguardian.com/commentisfree/2009/mar/16/prisons-and-probation-jus tice. Accessed 3 May 2020. Wilson, D., & O’Sullivan, S. (2004). Images of incarceration: Representations of prison in film and television drama. Winchester: Waterside Press. Woolf, H., & Tumim, S. (1991). Prison disturbances April 1990: Report of an inquiry. London: HMSO.

CHAPTER 2

Bronson: Power and Resistance

Abstract Bronson is a stylised biography of notorious British prisoner, Charles Bronson, a figure of tabloid fascination in the UK. The prisoner audience read the film particularly focussing on three themes: power in prison; strategies of resistance and; the illusion of hope. In relation to power, the audience read in the film as a depiction of the transformation from authoritarian power, characterised by few material comforts, and a rigid hierarchy backed by staff brutality and violence, to neo-paternalism, characterised by soft power, nurturing self-interest through the use of conditional incentives, fostering closer social relations, and introducing discretionary decision-making in relation to access to material rewards, custodial progress and release. With regard to resistance, the Bronson character was read as offering direct and politicised opposition, whereas the audience saw such approaches as unproductive in their own lives, where they had to navigate a line between conformity and retaining their own self-identity. Hope, particularly for conditional release, as offered to Bronson in the film and a prominent feature of the lived experience of the audience, was viewed as illusory and that such incentives acted as a form of veiled power. The audience readings offered a sophisticated illumination of their lived experience and critique the wider power structures that shaped their world. Keywords Power · Resistance · Solitary confinement · Hope · Media · Violence

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Bennett and V. Knight, Prisoners on Prison Films, Palgrave Studies in Crime, Media and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-60949-8_2

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Bronson, directed by Nicolas Winding Refn, is a stylised biography of notorious British prisoner, Charles Bronson. Bronson has long been a figure of tabloid fascination in the UK, with his larger than life character, penchant for self-promotion, and his violent displays contained within prisons. He has, for many years, been held in either solitary confinement or in small specialist units designed to hold men who present a heightened risk in prison. The film has been well-received critically and has enjoyed small scale commercial success. It certainly cemented the reputations of Refn, as he sought to expand from his domestic success in his native Denmark, and actor Tom Hardy, whose lead performance was a career breakout. The film explores Bronson’s ongoing battles with prison authorities, his media profile and his “performance” of a particular persona. The film offers a character study rather than a neat chronology. Although based upon the life of a real person, and featuring a carefully researched and crafted lead performance, the film is highly stylised. As was highlighted by David Wilson, a criminologist and former prison governor who worked on a special unit where Charles Bronson was held, the depiction of people, places, events and practices in the film is not factually accurate but is “imagined and partial” (Wilson 2009). The prisoner audience in this study responded to the themes in the film, reflecting not only upon Bronson as an individual but also upon the wider structures of penal power at different epochs represented in the film, as well as those that existed in the contemporary prison system. Their readings therefore engaged with the text, how it represented Bronson and his world, but also how this related to their own lived experiences. The responses of the audience particularly focus on issues of power in prison, strategies of resistance and, the nature of hope, or its illusion, as it existed in prison.

Bronson: A Summary Danish auteur Nicolas Winding Refn fashioned a distinctive film biography of notorious British prisoner, Charles Bronson, mixing scenes from his life in and out of prison, with scenes in which Bronson playfully comments and reflects on events from the stage of a vaudeville theatre. This highly stylised structure and heightened visualisation, is grounded by a compelling central performance by Tom Hardy, in which he not only impersonates but embodies the real-life character of Bronson.

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At the opening of the film, Bronson announces himself on stage: My name is Charles Bronson and all my life I’ve wanted to be famous. I know I was made for better things. I knew I had a calling. I just didn’t know what as. Can’t sing, can’t fucking act. Running out of choices really.

Images play of him in prison, shadow boxing and training in a solitary cage, scored by the dreamy opening of The Walker Brothers’ The Electrician. As the music changes gear into the chorus, prison officers storm the cage, only for Bronson to fight back, battling heroically. This first sequence closes with a title asserting: “This film is based on a true story”. Yet, this is not a film intended as a slice of natural realism. Winding Refn intended to focus on Bronson’s creation of “his own mythology”, and romantically represent him as a savage performance artist to whom “violence is the brush and life is the canvas” (Lim 2009). The film reflects the subjective perspective of Bronson, representing his inner life: “This is not a movie about a man escaping outward, which is usually the objective of prison movies, but about a man escaping inward” (Lim 2009). Born as Michael Peterson, Bronson’s early life is briefly depicted, including various fights and acts of violence, although he claims: “I wasn’t bad. I wasn’t bad, bad. I still had my principles”. He marries and has a child, but is quickly disillusioned: “They don’t give you a star in the walk of fame for that, do they”? He finds himself in prison after a robbery, sentenced to seven years. His first night in prison he is shown from behind, wracked with tears. The scene then match cuts to him heavily made up in the theatre, laughing, suggesting that the tears were a performance. This is deliberately ambiguous as to which scene is real and which is the performance. Bronson sees the prison as a new chapter in his life. He is shown circling his cell as his voiceover describes: Prison was finally a place where I could sharpen my tools, hone my skills. It’s like a battleground innit? It’s an opportunity and a place where pretty soon every native was going to know my name.

He provokes a confrontation in a sewing workshop where he is being asked to undertake menial work. A group of officers arrive in order to intimidate him, but he refuses to back down and has to be restrained

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by them, fighting all the way. As he is dragged through the prison, he imagines the applause from the theatre rapturously greeting his performance. Later, while working as a trustee serving tea from a trolley, Bronson meets Paul Daniels, a fellow prisoner and night club owner. Daniels appears as a camp, mannered theatre impresario, admiring Bronson’s physique. Continuing to build his reputation, Bronson claims “I am Britain’s most violent prisoner”, and starts to attract media interest. His power base, however, is undermined by him being constantly, “ghosted”, or moved from prison to prison. His continued violence leads to him being transferred to Rampton secure hospital, where he is forcibly medicated and reduced to physical powerlessness, although he continues to psychologically resist and refuses to surrender. After strangling a fellow detainee, a child sex offender, Bronson is taken to Broadmoor special hospital. Documentary news footage of a rooftop protest is shown with Bronson announcing, “This is what I call Charlie vs Broadmoor”, a scene scored by David Cassidy’s When I’m A Rock ‘n Roll Star. The cost of the damage leads Bronson to be popularly designated “Britain’s most expensive prisoner - not the moniker I was looking for”. He is declared sane and released from prison. Outside, he meets up with Daniels and joins in the illegal fight scene. Taking on the “fighting name” Charles Bronson, he fights anyone and anything, including dogs. He also meets Alison, who he falls in love with, and although she has a sexual relationship with him, there is no romance as she has a fiancée. He steals an expensive ring for her and is returned to prison, a mere 69 days after his release. On his return, Bronson is met by prison officers ominously holding batons, who take him to the Governor’s office. The Governor dismissively describes him as “ridiculous” and “pitiful”. Bronson’s response is to take a placid officer-librarian hostage, although not physically harming him. The stand-off ends with Bronson smeared in butter and fighting off the officers who storm in. After being returned to solitary confinement, the Governor warns Bronson that he faces the prospect of dying in prison. Later, Bronson joins an art class where he displays some talent and is encouraged by the flamboyant teacher, Phil Danielson, who implores him: “find a piece of you Charlie. That piece that doesn’t belong here”. Bronson’s behaviour improves and Danielson attempts to get him to show his artwork to the governor. The Governor is again dismissive,

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asking for it to be handed to an officer rather than looking himself, seeing the art as nothing more than a means to control and subdue Bronson. Bronson bristles with barely contained anger at the humiliation. When Danielson encourages Bronson that release may be possible and says “we can do this”, Bronson baulks, “what do you mean ‘we’”? He takes Danielson hostage and demands that music is played. He paints himself in black paint and dresses the scene, with Danielson made up with Bronson’s hat and glasses, and an apple placed in his mouth. When this human still-life has been completed, Bronson calls for the officers to come in and he is returned to solitary after another violent hand-to-hand battle, played out in slow motion accompanied by the Viens, Mallika (aka Flower Duet) from Leo Delibes’ opera Lakme. In the final scene, Bronson is shown bloodied, barely human, in a cage with only enough room to stand, and an opening where his face is. Titles state: Charles Bronson is Britain’s most famous prisoner…He has spent 34 years in jail, 30 of them in solitary confinement…He has not yet been granted a release date.

The pulsing electronic soundtrack, Digital Versicolor by Glass Candy, suggests that Bronson is not yet broken or beaten.

Power Power is central to the prison experience. The institution has been used as an exemplar of total social control (Sykes 1958), while Foucault drew upon prisons as a means to illustrate the evolving nature of social power (Foucault 1977). Perspectives from inside prisons have also described the assertion of power and authority, and the response of prisoners, form “the centre of gravity of prison life” (McVicar 1981, p. 226). Power is a central concern of Bronson, in which the eponymous character is the subject of attempts to control and contain him, including through physical force. In his analysis of the social life of English prisons, Ben Crewe (2009) described that order in prisons is constructed primarily through four means: coercion, including physical constraint, force, threat and deprivation; manipulation or inducement, meaning the appeal to self-interest and the orchestration of needs and desires; habit, ritual or fatalistic resignation, born from a sense that there are no alternatives and that

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subordination is inevitable, and; normative justification or commitment, in other words that power relationships are based upon shared values. Crewe argued that an era of authoritarian power held sway broadly between 1970 and 1990, characterised by few material comforts, and a rigid hierarchy backed by staff brutality and violence. The subsequent late modern era has seen this superseded by the emergence of neopaternalism. This form of authority is characterised by greater bureaucratisation, cultural softening and dispersal of power. In particular, this approach deploys soft power by nurturing self-interest through the use of conditional incentives, fostering closer social relations, and introducing discretionary decision-making in relation to access to material rewards, custodial progress and release. Through these means, the contemporary prison is less brutal but nevertheless exerts power in ways that are equally pervasive, albeit indirect (through reports, records and documents rather than violence) and deferred (no immediate consequences but later form part of parole and other decision-making). Many of the events depicted in Bronson are based in the authoritarian era and can be seen to epitomise the raw coercive power and violence of the time. The group who viewed the film, saw this as a historical representation, claiming: “this film was old in age because it was like old because certain things that were happening there we have never seen”; “it was of the time wasn’t it”? and; “it’s slightly different now and [prison officers] are different”. That was not to say that the group suggested that violence between staff and prisoners was non-existent. Indeed, some described having witnessed or experienced prison staff behaving provocatively or using force in ways they perceived as heavy-handed or illegitimate. Predominantly, though, the group described that the nature of power and authority they experienced was different, reflecting the neopaternalism described by Crewe. This was particularly drawn out in the responses to two key scenes in the film. The first was Bronson’s initial violent encounter with staff. This took place in a sewing workshop after he refuses to work and is confronted by a large group of staff. In the focus group, this scene was discussed, with the participants reflecting upon their own experiences of power: And that thing that happened to him there still happens now because they will tell you, you have to go to the workshops. I don’t want to work in the workshops. If you don’t go, you get IEP’d [the incentives and earned privileges scheme, under which access to material comforts is dependent

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upon behaviour]. If you are ‘enhanced’ [the highest level of privileges under the IEP scheme], you end up on ‘basic’ [the lowest level] and if you are ‘basic’ just like he is still in prison, you will stay on ‘basic’ because you don’t want to go and work. That’s the clerical way of demotion instead of the physical one. They have changed it around. They have made it more subtle now. They’ve made it soft, so you don’t know. But it’s still the same thing.

The men saw the role of material comforts as exerting a powerful hold upon them—a manipulation or inducement. For example, one participant described: “The system introduce Xbox, introduce more gym sessions, I don’t want to lose my DVD player…the strategy is very clever”. More significantly, the conditional nature of custodial progress and release also entangled the men in the web of power. They described that hope was an instrument of control: When you take hope away from a man that’s when you lose control totally. So you know prison it was very clever so it’s not that harsh but they give you hope still. Once you take away a man’s hope fully, that’s when that man will never have control again.

The responses to this scene illustrated how the participants interpreted and interacted with the content from their own position. They did not view this as a direct representation of their experiences, but it nevertheless chimed with their emotional lives, offering both a visual metaphor and a meaningful critique of their lived experience. The second scene the group particularly responded to involved Bronson attending the art classes. The governor is only interested in this as a means of control rather than in the nurturing Bronson’s talent. The group saw this scene as stripping away the veneer and exposing the exercise of neo-paternal power. They described the incentives and interactions as being based upon “a false pretence”, serving “an ulterior motive” and being a form of “mind games”. They described this in ways that revealed how they experienced this exercise of power as demeaning and infantilising. In one particularly resonant phrase, Bronson’s offering his painting to the Governor was described as being: “like a child giving a bouquet to The Queen”. There was also some empathy

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for Bronson’s subsequent violent reaction to this. In particular, one group member described how people in prison could ruminate on such sleights and indignities. Others also concurred that they themselves felt driven to aggression and confrontation through their feelings of powerlessness and being: “[pushed] to the fucking limit”. This scene depicts the movement from authoritarian to neo-paternal power strategies. This more directly resonated with the participants contemporary experiences of power in prisons. Together, these two scenes reveal the ways in which members of the group drew upon their lived experience to respond to particular aspects of the film, but also to reinterpret, reimagine and make meaning from other scenes so as to contextualise them within their own experiences. The participants looked beyond the prison in order to reflect upon how media representation was itself deeply entangled in social structures, being a power resource (Ericson et al. 1991). Although the film, to some extent deconstructed media representation and exposed official brutality, the group were sceptical of how conventional audiences would read the film. In particular, they described that the general public had a deeply ingrained hostility to prisoners, reinforced by media and politics, so that: “They only see one side of the story”. They described that the extreme violence and the choice of Bronson as the subject of the film, when he is atypical and unrepresentative, made him: “the poster boy for the reason why they do the things they do”. In this way, they argued that the representation of Bronson, would reinforce conventional penal policy and popular punitiveness: “It’s the government isn’t it? The government always wins”. As such, this was a form of symbolic violence (Bourdieu 1990), which legitimates the social subordination and marginalisation of prisoners. This was a position that the group were conscious of but resigned to as inevitable. In engaging with the film as viewers, the group members were sophisticated and active consumers. They drew upon their own lived experience in order to decode the film, make meaning from it, and create sense of both the text and their social position. They present a unique and privileged position, and in contrast considered that non-prisoner audiences could not fully understand and read prison texts.

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Resistance With some inevitability, the preceding discussion of power leads into a consideration of adaptation to that power. This includes compliance and, more obviously depicted in Bronson, through resistance. In sociology, resistance has been the subject of considerable analysis, exploring both macropolitical forms on the one hand, such as political revolution, and the micropolitics of everyday resistance on the other. Similarly, the sociology of prisons has drawn attention to collective acts of resistance including rioting and protesting (Scraton et al. 1991; Carrabine 2004) and more individualised forms of mundane resistance (Cohen and Taylor 1981; Crewe 2009). The events of the film take place during the authoritarian era and in their study of long-term imprisonment in the 1970s, Cohen and Taylor (1981) described some prisoners having an oppositional and confrontational relationship with authority, and holding an ideology of romantic anarchism. They could display a “distinctive blend of recklessness, antiauthoritarianism and egoism which has characterised many of the political bandits celebrated in films and novels” (p. 177) and engaged in “[a]bsurd acts of bravery in the face of hopeless odds” (p. 178). Cohen and Taylor argued that such men were not necessarily driven by an overtly political agenda, but by: “…the idea that life cannot be lived fully within present society, and that one can only make out by taking on orthodox society in a direct manner” (p. 178). In the film, although Bronson does engage in collective acts of indiscipline, in particular the riot and rooftop protest at Broadmoor, he describes these as individual battles: “This is what I call Charlie vs Broadmoor”. Most of his fights pit him, outnumbered, against several prison officers. As one of the prisoner viewers described: “it’s like a hundred of them versus one man and he’s trying his best”. The film reflects the spirit of romantic anarchism. The group read Bronson’s resistance to authority within this frame of romantic anarchism, but also saw a political dimension to his opposition to the prison system. They saw him as engaging in a fight against what they perceived as “oppression”: Bronson was fighting against the supposedly right policies and his way of fighting against it was by violence because no other ways work…So the only way he could do it, and the only way he knew how, was to physically confront it.

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Comparisons were drawn by group members between Bronson and the political resistance of Mahatma Gandhi and Nelson Mandela, as well as the prison protestors from the Manchester (UK) riots of 1990. From this perspective, the group situated Bronson as a figure in the movement for progressive social reform: “If them guys hadn’t done certain things what they done, the prison wouldn’t be like it is now…so they fight oppression”. For other members of the group, Bronson is closer to what Crewe has described as a “retreatist” (Crewe 2009, p. 191). That is a prisoner who has limited social engagement inside or outside the prison, and who rejects the prison’s mode of domination, not being motivated by incentives or release. For some group members, he was a “loner” or “a one man band” who “didn’t want to tick any boxes for anyone”. However, for some of the group, this was not politically motivated, but was a spectacle created as an act of egotistical self-aggrandisement: Bronson wants to be Bronson doesn’t he? He wants the media on him and he wants the telly on him, he enjoys all that…He wants that limelight doesn’t he, really?

The rejection and subversion of the organising logic of the contemporary prison system, meant that Bronson was perceived as being “a one off”, “unique”. The viewers suggested that from this idiosyncratic perspective: “…in his mind he thinks he is winning”. The readings of the film generated by the group indicate that they were reflexive and questioning. They engaged with the figure of Bronson as an individual, examining his motivations and agency, but also questioned the social context in which he was situated, not just the prison but wider society. The prisoners in the group saw themselves as adopting a different perspective to that of Bronson. They accepted the reality of the domination of penal power, while not seeing it as entirely legitimate, or leaving it uncontested. As life sentence prisoners, for whom release would be discretionary and conditional, they had a fatalistic acceptance of penal power and the need to demonstrate compliance. They largely showed the characteristics of what has been described as “stoics”, who were: “acutely aware of the strategies by which their compliance was accomplished, and were far more cynical about the mechanisms of power in which they were enmeshed” (Crewe 2009, p. 179). They would perceive power: “…in

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negative, coercive terms: there was little to gain from compliance, but much to lose from defiance or dissent - not just added days or loss of privileges, but sometimes years of supplementary captivity” (Crewe 2009, p. 182). From this perspective, they described themselves involved in “a daily fight”, which they would have to engage in “physically maybe, mentally maybe, or spiritually maybe”. They would be selective as to what they challenged: “Sometimes you have to pick the right fight and fight the right fight”. As one of the men described: …you have to pick your fights wisely, you can’t just fight every bloody thing that they want to do to you. We are in prison at the end of the day. My fight is trying to go home trying to do what I need to do, trying to keep my head down. That’s my fight. I am not trying to fight for every little stupid, well I wouldn’t say stupid thing, everyone has got their own different principles but some fights to me are not worth fighting for.

Their methods would not necessarily be violent. Fighting the system could be through “the pen” by making complaints, or could be by verbally challenging inefficiency, disrespectful interactions or personal indignities. Although following different forms of adaptation and different methods, they found the character of Bronson relatable, admiring qualities including his “resilience”, “having a heart” and being “a principled man”. These were qualities that they felt they needed to display in order to navigate the neo-paternal penal power that entangled their everyday lives: “I think we are all resilient. All of us here are resilient anyway.” For the men viewing the film, the actions of Bronson in continually contesting penal power and reducing it to physical form, exposed the “hidden transcript” of resistance, that is the “discourse that takes place “off stage”, beyond direct observation by powerholders” (Scott 1992, p. 4) in contrast to the “public transcript” of ritualistic compliance and deference. The visual representation of power and resistance gave the men a vehicle for vicariously experiencing the thrill of rejecting the authority that they themselves, just like Bronson, were subjected to. It reflected their own feelings of discontent and desire to challenge domination. The appeal of romantic anarchism was not restricted to those in prison, the group also recognised that there was a wider appeal of: “[s]omebody who fights against the system”. They described Bronson as a “hero” to

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some: “He is loved isn’t he, he is loved by people on the out not just us in here because of the way he is. The media love all that don’t they, they build him up”. The appeal of such a character could create empathy with prisoners and was part of an alternative tradition challenging conventional public and political narratives (Rafter 2000). Those viewing the film described that: Making this film now is his way of saying what happened, what was behind those things so it’s only now we get to find out exactly what took place and why it took place.

More broadly, they saw such films as having the potential to communicate something of their own experience: “I want the public, I want the independent people to be aware of our concerns”. They also saw this as a way of generating public or political disquiet and pressure for reform. In particular, the visceral nature of the violence would lead to stark inside knowledge about penal power: “Hold on, is that the way they treat prisoners? They beat shit out of them”. Although the men saw Bronson as depicting an ideology and methods of resistance that were from a different age and different from their everyday reality, they nevertheless related to this in the context of their own lived experience. They felt that they held a privileged position from which they could engage with the text. In particular, they read the film in a way that appreciated it as exposing the exercise of penal power and they celebrated its depiction of heroic resistance. This offered the prison audience a vicarious outlet for their own hidden transcripts of discontent, and they also considered that it had potential to create a vehicle for public communication.

Illusions of Hope There is a long history of more progressive ambitions in prison management and reform. Recently in England & Wales this has focussed on creating positive social climates, which have been variously described as “rehabilitative cultures” (National Offender Management Service 2015) or “enabling environments” (Royal College of Psychiatrists 2013). Such climates are described as being characterised by a sense of hope and the possibility of personal transformation (see Bennett and Shuker 2018;

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Liebling et al. 2019). Hope is an affective state that can both help people to sustain themselves through adverse situations, and propel them towards desirable goals, which can: “encourage inmates to find the[ir] life worth living and the motivation to make positive changes in their lives” (Martin and Stermac 2010, p. 703). The experience of hope may be a feature of particular prison environments, but prisons vary in their cultures, social climates and quality of life (Liebling assisted by Arnold 2004). As was described earlier, Crewe has analysed the transformations in penal power over recent decades. He has also attempted to explore the experiences of prisoners being subjected to this. Relevant to our study in a prison exclusively for men serving life sentences, Crewe (2011) suggests that modern pains of imprisonment include uncertainty and indeterminacy. He went on to describe the experience of prison life as being characterised by “depth” (“being buried far from liberty, deep below the surface of freedom” [p. 521]); “weight” (“the psychological onerousness of imprisonment – the degree to which it weighed them down or bore upon them” [p. 521]) and “tightness” (describing the way soft power constrains autonomy and acts “like an invisible harness on the self” [p. 522]). The men described that they lived with the uncertainty of indeterminacy. Their future release was dependent upon discretionary decisionmaking. They felt the uncertainty about how to navigate and respond to the soft power deployed within the prison. As was described earlier, the group particularly reacted to the scene in Bronson where the Governor feigns interest in Bronson’s art solely as a means of exercising control rather than any authentic interest in his talents and personal growth. For the group, this exposed the exercise of soft power and the pains of being subjected to this. One man described how soft power created a “charade” (Crewe 2011, p. 458), where staff behaviour was an inauthentic performance: ….with everything there is an agenda. So how can we control him, what can we use to our advantage and stuff like that. This is what it is, this is what I’m trying to say, this place is not really genuine. So when you’re talking about rehabilitation, that comes from the person surely. You understand? You have to want to change yourself and stuff like that. For me that’s calculated, you know, like you’re trying to find a person’s weak point. For me that’s vindictive, that’s malicious isn’t it…. there’s no genuineness there, so it’s not going to work, it’s not going to work.

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The men recognised the importance of hope, and indeed discussed their experiences of this. As described earlier, they desired material comforts in prison, including DVD players and games consoles, but more significantly had aspirations to be released in the future. They could see that these “hopes” were a powerful means of exercising control. The men described that they had some admiration of Bronson’s subversion of the organising logic of the prison, rejecting material comforts and the prospect of release. Nevertheless they acknowledged the cost of this and were not willing to give up hope of those outcomes for themselves. Bronson ends with a visual representation of the depth and weight of imprisonment: Bronson is physically contained within a cage so restrictive that he can only stand. The cage is in an empty room, isolated from others. It is a scene in which there is apparently little hope. The group viewing the film empathised with this stark depiction of penal power. They faced indeterminate sentences, uncertainty and they felt the tightness of the soft power that enmeshed them. For them, they did not see institutionally defined notions of “hope” as progressive, but instead often as inauthentic, illusory and a means of exercising control. That is not to say that the men were without hope. Certainly many aspired to be released in the future and return to their families, a dream that was profound, even if distant. But also, hope came in the small acts, spaces and activities in which they could behave authentically and exercise agency. Even in the suffocating physical conditions Bronson is confined within at the end of the film, the audience found hope in his refusal to compromise. Hope for these men was not typified by romantic notions of a melodramatic transformational moment, but instead was more modestly to be found in the meaning they felt in their everyday survival, sustaining their autonomy, and remaining psychologically intact.

Conclusion The prisoner audience related to the text in a way that not only decoded the content of the film, but also drew vividly and acutely upon their own lived experience of prison life. As has been described, they saw Bronson as depicting a historical epoch, but used this in order to reflect upon and contrast with their own experiences of power and domination. They traced the transformation from authoritarian power to the softer but pervasive neo-paternal power that characterised their own contemporary world. They also responded to the film’s theme of romantic anarchism

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and heroic individualism, without seeing this as offering a template for their own conduct. They drew solace from the spirit of resistance and personal qualities that were depicted by the character of Bronson rather than the methods reflected in the film. They did not seek unconstrained, violent resistance, seeing this as unproductive, but nevertheless engaged in an everyday struggle to navigate a course between conformity and maintaining their own self-identity. The viewers also drew hope despite the depth and weight of imprisonment. Their hope was not necessarily for attainment at all costs of organisationally proffered incentives including material rewards and conditional release, instead they had hope that they would psychologically survive imprisonment with their authentic identity at least to some degree intact. The prisoner audience engaged with the film actively, interpreting and responding to it in sophisticated ways. The text was a vehicle not only for entering into the world of Bronson, but also a way of making sense of their own present reality. The film was a medium to critique the institution of imprisonment to which they were subjected, but also a means to examine and reaffirm their own strategies for navigating their everyday lives. The readings offered an insight into these everyday strategies, in which the men largely complied with the exercise of penal power without fully accepting or legitimising it. In doing so they retained and asserted their own individuality and identity without engaging in open revolt. The everyday negotiation of power and order was revealed and reflected in the ways the film was consumed, interpreted and decoded. The group were also sensitive to the encoded symbolism contained within the film and how this could be digested by a general public audience. In particular they felt the violence and dangerousness of prison and prisoners in the film could legitimise punitiveness and exclusion.

References Bennett, J., & Shuker, R. (2018). Hope, harmony and humanity: Creating a positive social climate in democratic therapeutic community prison and the implications for penal practice. Journal of Criminal Psychology, 8(1), 44–57. Bourdieu, P. (1990). The logic of practice. Cambridge: Polity Press. Carrabine, E. (2004). Power, discourse and resistance: A genealogy of the Strangeways prison riot. Dartmouth: Ashgate. Cohen, S., & Taylor, L. (1981). Psychological survival: The experience of long term imprisonment (2nd ed.). Harmondsworth: Penguin.

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Crewe, B. (2009). The prisoner society: Power, adaptation and social life in an English prison. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Crewe, B. (2011). Soft power in prison: Implications for staff–prisoner relationships, liberty and legitimacy. European Journal of Criminology, 8(6), 455–468. Ericson, R., Baranek, P., & Chan, J. (1991). Representing order: Crime, law and justice in the news media. Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. London: Allen Lane. Liebling, A., assisted by Arnold, H. (2004). Prisons and their moral performance: A study of values, quality and prison life. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Liebling, A., Laws, B., Lieber, E., Auty, K., Schmidt, B., Crewe, B., et al. (2019). Are hope and possibility achievable in prison? The Howard Journal of Crime and Justice, 58(1), 104–126. Lim, D. (2009, October 1). Looking at an inmate, seeing an artist. New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/04/movies/04lim.html. Accessed 1 Dec 2018. Martin, K., & Stermac, L. (2010). Measuring hope: Is hope related to criminal behavior in offenders? International Journal of Offender Therapy and Comparative Criminology, 54(5), 693–705. McVicar, J. (1981). Postscript. In S. Cohen & L. Taylor (Eds.), Psychological survival: The experience of long term imprisonment (2nd ed., pp. 221–239). Harmondsworth: Penguin. National Offender Management Service. (2015). High security estate rehabilitative culture handbook. Unpublished internal report. Rafter, N. (2000). Shots in the mirror: Crime films and society. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Royal College of Psychiatrists. (2013). Enabling environment standards. London: Royal College of Psychiatrists. https://www.rcpsych.ac.uk/docs/default-sou rce/improving-care/ccqi/quality-networks/enabling-environments-ee/ee-sta ndards-document-2015.pdf?sfvrsn=abdcca36_2. Accessed 30 Mar 2019. Scott, J. (1992). Domination and the arts of resistance: Hidden transcripts. New Haven: Yale University Press. Scraton, P., Sim, J., & Skidmore, P. (1991). Prisons under protest. Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Sykes, G. (1958). The society of captives. Princeton NJ: University Press. Wilson, D. (2009, March 16). Bronson and me. The Guardian. https://www. theguardian.com/commentisfree/2009/mar/16/prisons-and-probation-jus tice. Accessed 3 May 2020.

CHAPTER 3

Starred Up: Prison Cultures and Personal Change

Abstract Starred up focusses on Eric Love, a young prisoner who has been moved from a young offenders’ institution into an adult prison as a result of his violent behaviour. The prisoner audience discussed three significant themes: the prison subculture and everyday prison life; rehabilitation, reform and redemption, and; prison staff violence and corruption. The audience described aspects of the film being authentic, including the chaotic life of a newly sentence long-term prisoner. Some saw this as echoing their own experiences. Most of the men were now, however, in their mid-sentence and had withdrawn from the prison subculture and were constructing a different life and identity. The men recognised the film’s critique of offending behaviour programmes as a means of rehabilitation, and the dissonance between what happened in the classroom and life on the prison wing. In relation to prison staff, although the men believed that staff corruption and violence took place, it was not part of their direct lived experience. The critical representation of prison staff nevertheless emotionally resonated with their own experiences of everyday injustices, indifference and misuse of power. The audience responded to much that was authentic and emotionally resonant, but it was largely a reality they recognised as being lived by other people in prison, rather than a representation of their own lives. Keywords Prison violence · Prison subculture · Parents in prison · Masculinity · Sexuality in prison · Psychotherapy · Offending behaviour programmes · Corruption © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Bennett and V. Knight, Prisoners on Prison Films, Palgrave Studies in Crime, Media and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-60949-8_3

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Starred up enjoyed critical success on the festival circuit and on its limited release in the UK and US. In particular, it received acclaim for its perceived realism and an impressive lead performance by rising star, Jack O’Connell. It was written by Jonathon Asser, who was formerly a psychodynamic counsellor who spent 12 years delivering the Shame/Violence Intervention (SVI) at Wandsworth prison, then the largest prison in the UK. The film focusses on Eric Love, a young prisoner who continues to display violent behaviour, and his relationship with his father, Neville, a life sentence prisoner on the same prison wing. The film also explores the attempts of a prison counsellor, Oliver Baumer, to engage Eric in a psychodynamic group to address the roots of his violence. Starred up in part offers a defence of Asser’s counselling group and represents it as having the potential to help violent, traumatised men control their anger, but the film is also marked by his sense of grievance at the course being abruptly halted by the prison in 2010. The narrative explores the roots of violence, the potential for redemption, but also the corrosive effects of prison on attempts at progressive reform. The prisoner audience largely responded positively to the film. One man described that the film had generated a reputation in the prison: “when it was first on telly, everyone was buzzing”. For many, it had moments of realism, including the acts of violence, depiction of the hidden subculture, as well as authentic interactions and relationships. They described that the film had been dramatised, that licence had been taken and this sometimes strained credibility, but overall, one man summed up the reaction in a comment that was very close to reality: “They’ve probably had an ex-convict and just took a bit of artistic licence on what he said”. The group engaged with the themes of the film, which will be explored below. In particular, they discussed the depiction of violence and social relations; the opportunities for rehabilitation, reform and redemption, and; the violence and corruption of prison staff.

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Starred Up: A Summary Nineteen-year-old Eric Love is transferred from a young offenders’ institute into an adult prison due to his violent behaviour (known as being “starred up”). After being searched and issued with prison clothing, he is assessed by the officers to be: “Single cell. High risk”. Alone in his cell, Eric immediately makes a weapon from a melted toothbrush handle and razor blade. He hides this inside the ceiling light. When Eric is unlocked, he quickly gets into a conflict with Jago, another prisoner who is serving the meals. The officers have to step in to prevent an escalation into violence. On the exercise yard, Eric is approached by a man, who it is revealed is his father, Neville Love, a longterm prisoner deeply embroiled in the prison subculture. Neville warns his son: “No more performing, no dramas”. Eric goes back to his cell, he looks at a childish, hand-drawn picture of two parents and a child. Behind him are pictures of semi-naked women. The images contrast an idealised family life and a world of hypermasculinity. Disturbed in his cell by a prisoner who intends to lend him a cigarette lighter, Eric mistakenly believes he is under attack and viciously fights back. He stops himself before stamping on the head of the man, realising the error. He carries the man onto the landing in order to get medical help, and tries to explain to the staff. When an alarm is sounded, he retreats to his cell, covers himself in baby oil, breaks a table to make weapons and fights when the staff enter. When the staff take control and start to move Eric to the segregation unit, violence again breaks out and the melee spills into a therapeutic group being run by counsellor, Oliver Baumer. The fighting stalls in a stand-off, with Eric biting an officer’s testicles. Baumer is able to diffuse the tension and encourage Eric to surrender, much to the annoyance of Deputy Governor Hayes. Baumer takes Eric to the segregation unit without force and then summons the Governor, Ms. Cardew. Cardew, Hayes and Baumer discuss the situation. Baumer suggests that Eric is taken into his therapeutic group, which Hayes resists, seeing it as “rewarding him” and seeing Eric as “a control problem”. Cardew is in favour of offering an opportunity to Eric. When this is presented to Eric, he is defiant, sarcastic and flippant, refusing to play the part of grateful, compliant prisoner. Cardew is at the point of rescinding the offer, but Hayes switches and says he supports Eric being given a chance to go onto the group, clearly believing it will come back to haunt Baumer.

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Neville Love is an enforcer in the prison, working for Dennis Spencer, who runs the drug dealing. Hayes and some of the officers, are corrupt, actively involved in smuggling drugs into the prison. Spencer warns Neville that Eric is causing disruption, which has an impact on the operation of his business. Neville speaks to Eric, warning him that: “They will dangle you, the kangas [officers], make it look like suicide”. Eric disregards the advice, instead messing up Jago’s cell and taking lighters to pay back the prisoner he had mistakenly assaulted. Jago angrily marches up the landing demanding to know who is responsible. Eric watches on, laughing at the chaos he is causing. Eric is taken to the therapy group by Neville, who chastises and patronises him in front of the other group members. Eric leaves the group. Baumer asks the other group members to look out for Eric on the wing. Later, Jago pays two men to attack Eric in his cell, but two members of the therapy group go to his aid, preventing a beating taking place. They explain that Baumer has asked them to look out for him and that he is someone to trust. Baumer goes to Eric’s cell, but Eric is sceptical. Provocatively, Eric describes how he went into the state care system and at ten years of age, attacked a paedophile. His comments reveal that he has been victimised, but is also an implied accusation towards Baumer. When Baumer responds by confessing: “right now, I want to fucking hurt you”. Eric appreciates the authenticity of the disclosure and goes to the group. Eric goes to see Neville and attempts to speak to him, saying: “you order me about and don’t give a fuck about how I feel”. Neville doesn’t really listen or engage in the question of their relationship. In contrast, Eric develops a close and trusting relationship with the group members, which Neville observes enviously. The group work effectively enables the group members, including Eric, to feel anger and teeter on the brink of violence, but to control their feelings. Away from the group, Eric is again attacked on the orders of Jago. Eric retaliates and he slashes Jago’s face with a homemade knife. After Jago claims Spencer authorised the attack, Eric makes a lunge for Spencer but is restrained by Neville. Spencer, tells Jago that he must transfer or face being killed, and attempts to enlist Eric into his criminal fraternity. Neville is intrigued by the therapy group and attempts to get information from other group members. He meets with Baumer, pleading for him to help Eric. Neville then attempts to join the group, but can’t

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control himself enough to even sit down. He storms out. The heightened emotion in the group spills over into conflict. Although it is calmed and resolved, Hayes enters and uses it as the pretext to remove Eric. Afterwards, in the toilets, Hayes provokes Baumer: …we did everything we could to accommodate him in your group. But with someone like that, well…however hard we try sometimes there’s just no hope is there? Warehouse him. Protect the public that way. Make sure he stays inside for the rest of his life.

Baumer attacks Hayes but then catches himself. Knowing that there is no way back, Baumer hands over his keys and walks out of the prison through a revolving door that continues to rotate and noisily clank after he has gone. Back in his cell, Eric confronts Neville, quickly escalating from insults into a fist fight. Neville walks away after letting Eric win. Eric, still angry, follows him, shouting insults. When Spencer tries to intervene, Eric grabs him and throws him over the railings onto the safety netting. Officers restrain Eric and Neville and the pair are taken to the segregation unit, trading profanities with each other all the way. That night, Neville gets one of the corrupt officers to unlock him. He knocks him out and then uses the keys to go to Spencer’s cell. Neville is concerned that Eric will be hurt or even killed. Spencer pretends to reassure Neville, but then draws a knife and attempts an attack, but Neville overpowers and kills him. Meanwhile, in the segregation unit, Hayes and other staff are attempting to hang Eric, making it look like suicide. Neville arrives in time to prevent this. Eric splutters back to life and bursts into tears. Neville holds and consoles him: “I’m here”. The next day, Eric is recovering from his injuries in the segregation unit. Members of the therapy group call to him from the exercise yard, expressing their care and solidarity. When Eric goes alone to the exercise yard, he sees Neville being transferred out. He calls to him: “Dad”. They are allowed to embrace and Neville tells Eric: “Proud to be your Dad”. Eric wells up with tears. He returns into the prison through a revolving door, which continues to rotate and clank loudly after he has gone.

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Prison Subculture and Everyday Prison Life An important focus of Starred up is the criminal subculture of the prison, including drug dealing and violence. The prison staff are corrupt and complicit in the drug dealing network organised by Spencer. Neville acts as an enforcer or lieutenant to Spencer. Into this mix comes Eric, whose violence is unfocussed, expressive of his rage and anger rather than being channelled instrumentally to gain material benefits or in the furtherance of serious organised crime within the prison. The prisoner audience discussed whether the violent subculture represented in this film reflected the reality of their everyday lives. The audience described that violence was a reality that they lived with. This could include conflicts and fist fights over minor slights, disagreements, personality clashes or tests of character, all part of the power dynamics that are woven into the everyday social fabric of prison life (Crewe 2009). The men also described more serious violence involving weapons perpetrated either in conflicts between gangs or groups involved in organised crime inside and outside of prison, or committed by particularly violent and unpredictable individuals. Audience members described having witnessed, experienced or perpetrated violence. They described how prisons could create a sense of insecurity as a result of the everpresent risk of violence or conflict. They would constantly have to be “on point” so as to avoid being victimised. Living in this environment could be “nerve racking” or “daunting” and some even feared for the worst: “It is vicious. Someone will die in here before long”. One group member described how the violent milieu represented in Starred up and many other films constructed an idea about what prisons were like, who was in them and reinforced a code of conduct, which combined masculinity and self-preservation: I think the impression that it’s giving to a non-violent guy who’s watching it is be prepared. Like clue yourself up if you’re going to come in prison, like it’s not going to be a normal life. Like you’re going to get done. Whether you’re a victim or whether you’re even a gangster, you’ll still get done so you’ve just got to be like prepared for whatever comes.

The group challenged the representation of a highly ordered prison subculture in which a single criminal boss, in this case Spencer, presided over a wing or prison. They argued that:

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In this day and age it doesn’t really happen…That was back in the days of the Krays and all that. Now, new technology, new things, new everything, it’s just different now. You can’t have one person running the whole prison, you have a lot of different people doing their own things and everyone kind of links up together.

A similar observation was made by Ben Crewe (2009), whose in-depth study of “The prisoner society” suggested that: There were no ‘king-pins’ directing affairs between prisoners or pulling strings across the establishment with tacit institutional approval. (p. 299)

Instead, power was dispersed with many cliques and trade circles, and the apex of the social hierarchy was flattened. Although violence and criminal subculture were described as being a pervasive feature of prison life, and a central pre-occupation of Starred up, the audience nevertheless asserted that it was not necessary for individuals to be actively involved. As one man described, in prisons generally, and in films particularly, there is a silent majority that are often ignored as the gaze falls upon the spectacle of violence and crime: Everyone’s got their own motives isn’t it, everyone’s got their own objectives of what they’re trying to do. [Eric] was clearly a troubled man isn’t it so he was all over the place, do you know what I mean. You see loads of other guys in shot just playing pool, just going about their daily business.

For most of the audience, they saw themselves as among those “just going about their daily business” and who had consciously opted out of the criminal subculture. This reflected some differences between the characters in Starred up and the audience. The first difference was that of age and length of time in prison. All of the audience were serving indeterminate or life sentences, just as the characters of Eric and Neville in the film. Eric was a young man at the early stages of a life sentence, whereas the audience were generally older and were in the mid-stages of their sentences. Eric was shown to be volatile, angry and violent. For young adults facing long sentences, these early years are a period of survival (Crewe et al. 2019), in which the enormity of both the crime they have committed and the length of sentence ahead leads to a profound rupture in their lives. For many these early years elicit crisis responses, including violent resistance, ongoing criminality and painful

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adaptation. In the case of Eric, he responds through a strategy of “jailing”, namely embodying the internal prison code and informal subcultural norms, in particular through violence. His particular form of violence is uncontrolled and affective, rather than being strictly instrumental; he is seeking self-preservation and is battling with emotional turmoil, rather than pursuing material gain. In contrast, the audience of the film, sometimes saw their younger selves reflected in Eric, but saw that they were now at a different stage of their life and sentence. They had undergone a period of “coping-adaptation” (Crewe et al. 2019, p. 202) in which they came to terms with their sentence and had reorientated their focus, and were undertaking a process of remaking their self-identity, with some, albeit constrained, hope about the future including the prospect of release. The world of Eric therefore seemed to them one that did not reflect the everyday lives of the audience. As one man commented: I don’t know, it’s all part of that being Jack the lad isn’t it and getting involved in all the prison politics. If you can avoid that why would you need a toothbrush with a razor blade in it.

This comment reflected both a disparaging judgement upon those who engaged in masculine posturing (“Jack the lad”) and were deeply entangled in the subculture (“prison politics”). For most of the audience, this violence and criminality was not a necessity in surviving prison life. Indeed, many saw this as counter-productive to their aim of working to achieve release on parole. In common with many long-sentenced people, they withdrew from the active criminal subculture (Crewe et al. 2019). In the typology proposed by Crewe (2009), the film largely focussed on “players” who perceived the prison social world as one of relative power, which they engaged with, navigated and exploited for individual gain, whereas the audience were largely “pragmatists” who sought to conserve their own individual safety and relative comfort without the desire or need for domination over or exploitation of others. More broadly, the audience members discussed the nature of social relations in prisons, and whether these were characterised by the violence and exploitation shown as typical in Starred up, or the more collegiate and supportive relationships developed by those participating in the anger management group. One man described how this related to his social world:

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[The film was] showing two sides of the prisoners on that. That there were ones trying to help him and ones trying to get him into shit. Whereas I think, from my experiences of four, maybe five different sets of prisons, you’ve got people that want to guide you along the right road, there’s ones that want you to get involved in stuff or use you, there’s ones that you just say hi to on a daily basis and be mates with, and then there’s ones that you just do not speak to at all.

Again, this characterisation closely reflects that of Crewe’s (2009) description of the social world of the prison. In this work, Crewe discusses primary relationships, which are of a close and trusting nature likely to last beyond imprisonment; secondary relationships, which are more limited and are part of the affiliations of prison life, unlikely to extend beyond, and; third-tier relations, more akin to associates or work colleagues, with whom there is cordial but largely superficial social relations (Crewe 2009, pp. 305–306). The film also includes a depiction of Neville in a domesticated, sexual relationship with a younger cellmate. The audience largely minimised, if not denied, sexual relations in prison, as would be anticipated in the “don’t ask, don’t tell” culture relating to sex in prisons (Stevens 2017). They nevertheless discussed the domesticity of shared cells. One participant described: A lot of prisoners have healthy relationships that doesn’t even include them being either gay or straight or anything like that. Just friends like… And it’s crazy because you do a lot of things together, you might wash the man’s plates, you might be hoovering and you say I’ll clean your cell… [With my cell mate, it’s like] we’re a married couple. I make the bed in the morning, he makes breakfast and a brew. I hoover up and cook every day, when it’s canteen break well we need this, and I have to think practical because he’s like a kid, ‘oh chocolate, chocolate, chocolate’, [but I say] ‘no actually we need this this week’. Or I’ll clean the budgie out or do whatever, you know what I mean?

The everyday social world represented in Starred up was acclaimed by many, including some of the men in this study, for its realism. Yet the reflections of the group show a more complex reading. The film focusses on a narrow group of people within the prison world, specifically those deeply involved in the violent and criminal subculture. Although their experiences may be depicted with a degree of authenticity appreciated by

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the participants in this study, they also recognised that this was a partial and incomplete picture of prison. The participants described themselves as part of the majority of the prison population, going about their daily business without significant drama. For these men, they seek to avoid violence and criminality, although they understand that preserving their own safety and relative comfort may sometimes require conflict, and rather than being entirely absorbed within the inner world of the prison, they cast a hopeful eye to the future with the aim of securing their own release. For the audience in this study, Starred up included much that was authentic including settings, scenarios and characters that they recognised, but it was the reality of other people in prisons rather than a reflection of their own lives.

Rehabilitation, Reform and Redemption Starred up draws upon writer Jonathon Asser’s experience as a psychodynamic counsellor, facilitating the SVI programme in a prison. The anger management group in the film is shown to be a powerful, carefully judged, semi-structured intervention in which members are given scope to explore and express their feelings of shame, learning to manage and control them. Asser described the process and impact of his work: You see, the options are: a) violence, which transforms the feeling of shame and exposure into one of apparently potent self-confidence and force; b) running away – less desirable, especially in prison, because it comes across as weak and therefore makes you more vulnerable further down the line; or c) staying with the shame, feeling it and being fully in touch with it…It tends only to take being involved in one of these sessions for a member of the group’s shame awareness to be activated and for him to begin to read escalations earlier and more accurately in real time, which renders shame and disrespect less threatening, which gives him the confidence and the skills to begin to work differently with his fight-or-flight response. And with prisoners of this level, that could mean fewer victims. It might even save lives. (Asser 2014)

The work in the group is reinforced outside by members who form a supportive network, or “super gang” (Measure 2014). In contrast, the predominant form of prison-based intervention, cognitive behavioural programmes, are highly structured with laid out session plans in manualised form, and are aimed at improving the thinking

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process prior to offending. This approach is described sceptically in the film by Neville Love, who meets with therapist Oliver Baumann and pleads on behalf of Eric: You have to help him, you know. You have to teach him the answers, the things he’s supposed to say, you know like the “Think right” programme. You know, help him get out. You know like, the fucking, “What would you do if you were in a bar and a fella comes up and starts talking to your bird? What you gonna do?” “Oh, I’m going to tell him politely that I’m with her”, you know? Rather than glass the cunt. You know what I mean? That bollocks.

Asser has described his own scepticism about cognitive behavioural approaches, arguing that the most violent men are excluded and they provide a highly controlled environment: The offender, sometimes on camera, is often invited to speculate on what he might do after he’s released if he happens to be faced with an invented scenario, say another man talking to his girlfriend. Because prisoners are under no emotional pressure, they can easily work out the “right” answers; those who have done the course can even share the “right” answers with other prisoners before they enrol. Owing to the fact that release can be dependent on completion of such courses, it could be argued they may do more harm than good by pressurising coerced individuals into telling lies to gain freedom, which may inadvertently train prisoners how better to avoid detection once they’re out. (Asser 2014)

Cognitive behavioural and other offending behaviour programmes delivered in prisons in England and Wales are subject to approval by the Correctional Services Accreditation and Advice Panel (CSAAP). CSAAP is intended to ensure that programmes are well designed and implemented, reflecting the evidence on effectiveness (Ministry of Justice 2019a). Faith is such programmes was rocked in 2017, when research demonstrated that the sex offender treatment programme, which had been running for 25 years, had not led to reduced levels of reoffending by those who had completed the programme, when compared with a matched group who had not undertaken the programme (Mews et al. 2017). Some audience members echoed the criticisms expressed in the film, describing cognitive behavioural programmes as: “just ticking boxes really”. Others described that they had benefitted from such programmes

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in helping them to approach conflict differently and think through problems before reacting. There was a largely positive response to the group work depicted in the film, in particular the way people were working with emotions and learning to control them. For example, one man described: I think what the group thing does in that film, it’s trying to teach you to keep calm now, like hold it. Because he was going ‘hold it, hold it, hold it’, wasn’t he, like ‘you’re doing well, you’re doing well, hold it, well done’. That’s not kicking right off, you know what I mean.

The psychodynamic approach in the film was described by the men as working with “real” emotion, while conventional cognitive behavioural programmes were often viewed sceptically as “tick box” performances. This perspective is illustrated in two comments by participants: For me, what I liked about that one there, it was more trying to come from a real place. They were trying to see each other’s pressure points… Some prisoners feel the courses here, they just tick a box and they are not realistic. So like they’re saying oh once you do this course you are never going to use violence again. Come on, seriously? Yes, it was trying to show real emotion and trying to, you know, not make a person tick the box but try and challenge their self, try to deal with it realistically which was good about that course. I’ve never really seen a course like that in real life.

As Asser described regarding SVI, the group members were expected to offer mutual support to one another outside of the group meetings as well as within. This corresponds with wider research, which indicates that interventions are more likely to be effective where they are reinforced by a supportive institutional milieu (Harding 2014; Bennett and Shuker 2018). The participants in this study echoed concerns about the absence of a wider supportive environment. One man described the general prison environment as “a cesspit” and went on to describe the challenges of applying learning from offending behaviour courses: [Courses won’t work] unless you have a big massive gene pool and you do it with every single con in jail at once. It’s not going to work because Joe Bloggs hasn’t done it and Joe Bloggs doesn’t give a shit and Joe Bloggs has got a fucking personality disorder and is a bit of a weirdo, then it’s

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not going to work with him. So then the behaviour of someone else once again has affected you and you’re now in prison.

Despite the challenges of the environment and the limitations of interventions, the men responded with some optimism to the relationship between Eric and his father, Neville. Many long-sentenced prisoners experience during their incarceration an opportunity to: “redefine their role…, reassess their priorities, and change their orientation towards the family” (Crewe et al. 2019, p. 224). The men recognised that Neville had been a source of many of Eric’s problems by being absent in prison, leaving Eric exposed to abuse. Yet, by the end they sensed “a glimmer of hope”. They described that in the final sequence, where Neville saves Eric from an attempted lynching by the prison staff, there was a shift in their relationship: You saw like the loving side of the dad come out. You know like when they were both banged up in the seg[regation unit], he said: ‘just answer me, let me know that you’re alright’. He wanted to know if the screws had done something. So that was a sort of a change like that, the hard man got broken away and returned to a loving father.

This, for some audience members was an expression of fatherhood through heroic action: But imagine he’s a father and your son’s getting choked and you’re outnumbered, the power is with them. That shows you a love from a father or a mother or whatever. He knows that he’s outnumbered, outpowered, and he’s still willing to fight. That’s love that’s a different kind of special.

The presence of Eric gave Neville the opportunity to act as a father in a way that contrasted with many long-sentenced men, who were physically separated from their families and experienced a form of “protective impotence”; a feeling of powerlessness that resulted from being unable to protect their loved ones from physical and emotional harm (Crewe et al. 2019, p. 225). There was also a looming pessimism felt by the audience about the longer term prospects for family life. Even in the moment of hope, when Neville and Eric appear to be reconciled at the end of the film, the men detected a dark cloud looming, as ultimately father and son are once again separated.

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The reading of Starred up by the prisoner audience explored their ambivalent relationship with notions of rehabilitation, reform and redemption. Although some described positive benefits, institutionally delivered interventions were largely viewed cynically, as a necessity to demonstrate suitability for release, but not always having real-life value. The men responded positively to the less structured, more psychodynamic group intervention depicted in the film. They also saw the wider institutional milieu as an impediment rather than an enabler of positive self-change. Nevertheless, the men saw scope for personal forms of redemption, including through family relationships, albeit tentative, fractured and against the odds.

Prison Staff Violence and Corruption The depiction of staff in the film is deeply critical. The Deputy Governor, Hayes, is shown to be embroiled in corruption and the trafficking of drugs to Spencer. The drug dealing subculture therefore takes place aided and abetted by the staff. Hayes also orchestrates the attempted murder of Eric Love, in order to reassert authority and eradicate an increasingly disruptive problem. As well as these clear examples of corruption Hayes also plays a role throughout the film as a regressive influence, attempting to undermine Baumann and the anger management group. Hayes is a representation of what Pat Carlen (2002) has described as: “carceral clawback…i.e. the power of the prison to deconstruct and successfully reconstruct the ideological conditions for its own existence” (p. 116). Hayes’ support for Eric Love’s attendance at the anger management group is only ever offered as he intends that it will ultimately provide the opportunity to discredit the progressive ambitions of Baumann and reassert a more punitive approach. The writer, Jonathon Asser, is to some degree reflecting his own sense of grievance at the prison system for cancelling his SVI programme without, what he considered, adequate justification (Asser 2014; Measure 2014). The prisoner audience cited examples of staff corruption in prisons, including trafficking drugs or mobile phones, and sexual relations. They described that this created a corrosive atmosphere in which temptations were readily available and making positive changes in their lives or progressing through their sentence became more difficult. The men also

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described that there was a less direct form of staff collusion with the criminal subculture, by turning a blind eye as long as the regime ran efficiently and disruption was minimised. The men also discussed the issue of staff violence. Although the majority described the scenes of prison staff attempting to hang Eric Love as unrealistic, some nonetheless described prison staff who were provocative, aggressive and overused physical force. In light of this, some asserted that “anything’s possible, anything can happen” and “the context is real”. They also described that prison staff would collude with one another and would observe a code of solidarity between each other. This led some to describe prison staff as “a gang”. For some of the men, the narrative of staff violence and corruption was a cinematic representation or metaphor for everyday injustice and misuse of power. From this perspective, the film was not a literal representation of their experiences, but had an emotional resonance. Examples of this illegitimate exercise of power included the absence of care and lack of conscientiousness shown by some officers (see also Chapter 5). This “presenteeism”, where some people were at work in body but not in mind and spirit, has a particular significance in prisons where those in prison rely upon staff for both normative reasons (such as fair treatment and emotional support) and instrumental reasons (to access goods and services that are not directly in the control of prisoners) (Liebling et al. 2011). The men also discussed the “psychological power” of the contemporary neo-paternal power exercised in prisons, using material comforts as conditional incentives and release being discretionary and conditional, with observations on behaviours being monitored and recorded to aid this process (Crewe 2009) (see also Chapter 2). For the men, this pervasive staff power is “the biggest violence in prison”. They argued in relation to the corruption of the staff in Starred up: But they’re trying to highlight the physical violence as prisoners assaulting a prisoner or the officer, what about the officers and people in power assaulting prisoners…with the pen.

The response of the men to this film indicated that although they believed that staff violence and corruption existed, it was not a feature of their everyday lives. Instead, there was a more salient concern that they had regarding the indifference of some staff and their experience of neo-paternal power, which they felt was unjust and illegitimate.

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The concerns discussed reflect contemporary debates about the conduct of prison staff. In relation to corruption, there have been calls for attention to ideas of “correctional integrity”, which has been described as: …a notion broader than employing effective anti-corruption measures, or than even simply the idea of all personnel within corrections complying with the rules and regulations applicable to the performance of their roles. It also implies the importance of ensuring a level of transparency about methods and a principled consistency of practice. (Goldsmith et al. 2016, p. 144)

In addition, there has been focus in UK prisons and other criminal justice organisations on “procedural justice”, which encompasses: “the degree to which someone perceives people in authority to apply processes or make decisions about them in a fair and just way” (Ministry of Justice 2019b). Improved procedural justice can have a positive impact upon safety and relationships (Fitzalan Howard and Wakeling 2019). Together, notions of correctional integrity and procedural justice, or more accurately their absence, encapsulate the concerns of the prisoner audience, who saw the daily injustices, unfairness and dehumanising system of power and domination as more salient to their everyday lives than the more dramatic acts of corruptions depicted in the film.

Conclusion Given that the audience in this study where men serving long sentences, there was a particular relevance to them in watching a film depicting a young man facing many years in custody. The audience recognised a degree of authenticity in the film, but their own lives had taken a different course. Having adapted to their sentence, they described having withdrawn from prison politics and subculture, and engaging in a process of personal change with the aim of securing their own release in the future. For the audience members, their lives had a greater degree of domesticity and stability than the social world of Starred up. In the film, the audience members recognised the critique of offending behaviour programmes and were appreciative of the potential for the psychodynamic group in the film. The developing father-son relationship between Neville and Eric Love had an emotional resonance for the men

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as they too struggled with their own family relations and attempted to remake their relationships and identity. The corrupt and violent prison staff in the film did not offer a direct representation of the experiences of the men. They believed that corruption and violence occurred, although it was not endemic or a prominent feature in their own lived experiences. The critique of prison staff nevertheless had an emotional resonance with their own experiences of everyday injustice and unfairness, which they saw as a chronic feature of the penal system. The reading of Starred up by this audience suggests a complex relationship between audience and text in making meaning and understanding authenticity. Much of the film was seen as being realistic or authentic because it represented aspects of prisons such as violence, the criminal subculture and staff corruption. The film, however, placed these centre stage representing them as the central characteristics of prison life. The audience, however, described that these were not the predominant experiences of their lives, instead such aspects were at the margins, often playing out off stage, away from their view and without their involvement. Their lives were instead largely consumed by the mundane domesticity of everyday existence. Although these men did not see their own lives directly represented in this film, they did, nevertheless construct meaning through the emotional resonances with their own struggles, including maintaining hope, forging a sense of self, and navigating the injustices and frustrations of institutional life.

References Asser, J. (2014, March 9). ‘If I move he’ll attack’: Mastering rage in prisoners. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/society/2014/mar/09/att ack-body-language-critical-mastering-rage-in-prisoners. Accessed 14 Jan 2020. Bennett, J., & Shuker, R. (2018). Hope, harmony and humanity: Creating a positive social climate in a democratic therapeutic community prison and the implications for penal practice. Journal of Criminal Psychology, 8(1), 44–57. Carlen, P. (2002). Carceral clawback: The case of women’s imprisonment in Canada. Punishment & Society, 4(1), 115–121. Crewe, B. (2009). The prisoner society: Power, adaptation and social life in an English prison. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Crewe, B., Hulley, S., & Wright, S. (2019). Life imprisonment from young adulthood: Adaptation, identity and time. London: Palgrave Macmillan.

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Fitzalan Howard, F., & Wakeling, H. (2019). Prisoner and staff perceptions of procedural justice in English and Welsh prisons Study of procedural justice perceptions of prisoners and prison staff, and the relationship between these perceptions and outcomes. London: HMPPS. https://assets.publishing.ser vice.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/ 771324/prisoner-staff-perceptions-procedural-justice-research.pdf. Accessed 14 Jan 2020. Goldsmith, A., Halsey, M., & Groves, A. (2016). Tackling correctional corruption: An integrity promoting approach. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Harding, R. (2014). Rehabilitation and prison social climate: Do ‘What works’ rehabilitation programs work better in prisons that have a positive social climate? Australian and New Zealand Journal of Criminology, 47 (2), 163– 175. Liebling, A., Price, D., & Shefer, G. (2011). The prison officer (2nd ed.). Abingdon: Willan. Measure, S. (2014, March 9). Starred up: How ex-prison therapist Jonathan Asser turned his experiences in the clink into stunning drama. The Independent. https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/films/features/sta rred-up-how-ex-prison-therapist-jonathan-asser-turned-his-experiences-in-theclink-into-stunning-9176741.html. Accessed 14 Jan 2020. Mews, A., Di Bella, L., & Purver, M. (2017). Impact evaluation of the prison-based Core Sex Offender Treatment Programme. London: Ministry of Justice. https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/government/uploads/sys tem/uploads/attachment_data/file/623876/sotp-report-web-.pdf. Accessed 14 Jan 2020. Ministry of Justice. (2019a). Offending behaviour programmes and interventions. https://www.gov.uk/guidance/offending-behaviour-programmes-andinterventions. Accessed 14 Jan 2020. Ministry of Justice. (2019b). Procedural justice. https://www.gov.uk/guidance/ procedural-justice. Accessed 14 Jan 2020. Stevens, A. (2017). Sexual activity in British men’s prisons: A culture of denial. British Journal of Criminology, 57 (6), 1379–1397.

CHAPTER 4

We Are Monster: Race in Prison

Abstract We are Monster is a film dramatisation focussing on 20-year-old Robert Stewart, who murdered his 19-year-old cellmate, Zahid Mubarek in an unprovoked racist attack at Feltham Young Offenders Institution in 2000. The audience generally expressed that the film did not represent their everyday experiences of race in prisons, which they described as characterised by generally benign multicultural relations. The film did, however, stimulate reflection on the racial dynamics of prison life. The men varied in their responses and their degree of comfort with candid discourse of race, power and racism. Black and Asian men were more open to engaging in this conversation and discussed experiences of hidden racism, including institutional and structural racism and unconscious bias. Some white prisoners were less comfortable with the depiction of explicit racist language and found it divisive and provocative, preferring to reject such stark racism rather than enter into discourse about it. The discussion revealed tensions below the surface of everyday multicultural relations. The men were appreciative of the attempt to represent Robert Stewart’s background and the root causes of his crime, rather than condemning him as a “monster”. The depiction of staff was welcomed for different reasons, in particular that it offered a critique of racism and exposed the everyday experiences of “uncare”. Keywords Zahid Mubarek · Feltham · Race in prisons · Racism in prisons · Prison officers · Roots of crime · Uncare

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Bennett and V. Knight, Prisoners on Prison Films, Palgrave Studies in Crime, Media and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-60949-8_4

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On 21 March 2000, 19-year-old Zahid Mubarek was murdered by his cellmate, 20-year-old Robert Stewart, at Feltham Young Offenders Institute. Mubarek was due to be released from the prison that day. Subsequent investigations by the police, Prison Service, Commission for Racial Equality, and a two-year-long public inquiry led by a senior judge, Justice Keith (2006), revealed systemic failings that led to Stewart’s racism, violence and mental instability being overlooked, and contributed to the preventable death of Mubarek. The killing became a signal case about the state of prisons, exposing institutional racism and systemic lack of care. It was a case that echoed the murder of Stephen Lawrence, which exposed how racism permeated the Metropolitan Police in London (MacPherson 1999). We are monster is a film based upon the events surrounding the murder of Zahid Mubarek. The narrative, however, largely focusses on Robert Stewart, played by Leeshon Alexander, who also wrote the script. Stewart is depicted as having two sides to his character engaging in dialogue with one another, both played by Alexander. One side of his character is a naive, impressionable and vulnerable young man, while the other is a confident racist advocating revenge and violence. The film is made on a small budget and is largely shot on a set in a military barracks. It has a slow pace, with dialogue rather than action. The film received a mixed reaction from the prisoner audience, with some finding the pace and style “slow”, “tedious” or “boring”, while others felt that there was an emotional connection with some of the characters and that the themes explored in the narrative were relevant to their lives and the prison context. Whatever the responses to the style of the film, the content elicited a rich and lively discussion among the group. As was described in Chapter 1, during the screening, two men left, unable or unwilling to continue to watch the film. The first was upset by scenes of the domestic violence that Robert Stewart is shown being subjected to at the hands of his father. This man described the film as bringing back “too many memories”. The second man left at the same time, following the lead of the first, rather than making an entirely independent decision, although he did explain that he felt uncomfortable with the racist language used in the film. The impact upon these individuals, as well as the difficult subject matter and extreme language of the film led us, as researchers to question the appropriateness of the screening, which we discussed with the group. The experience of the screening highlighted the powerful emotional impact of film on an audience, and the sometimes

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traumatic life experiences of those we were working with (see Chapter 1 for further discussion). In discussing the film, three major themes emerged, which will be explored in this chapter. The first was race and racism. The discussions ranged across differing reactions to the graphic racist language in the film, but also led to a wider discussion about the changing nature of racism and the social dynamics of prison life. Second, the audience discussed how the representation of Robert Stewart in the film explored the root causes of crime, looking beyond the murder to try to understand how life experiences, including from childhood, had shaped him. Finally, the men reflected upon the role of prisons and prison staff in the film, including drawing upon their experiences of, or rather the absence of, care.

We Are Monster: A Summary At the opening, a title announces that: “The following is based on a true story”. The film is a dramatisation focussing on Robert Stewart, who murdered his cellmate, Zahid Mubarek in an unprovoked racist attack at Feltham Young Offenders Institution in 2000. The first scene in the film shows the aftermath of the murder, shot from a middle distance. Stewart raises the alarm and claims that his cellmate has had an accident, despite the fact that he is holding a bloodied weapon. The officers remove Stewart to another room. The film tracks across the set to this room without cutting. Stewart is then seen writing graffiti on the wall, the words “Manchester just killed me padmate” are followed by a swastika sign. This opening scene sets the tone of the film, with its slow pace, eschewing of visual dynamism, and theatrical staging and style. The film then cuts back in time to Stewart’s arrival at Feltham. He is brought to an office, where Senior Officer Dean, meets him. The unit is crowded with bed spaces limited. Dean notices the self-made tattoos on Stewart’s forehead, the image of a Celtic cross and the letters “R.I.P.”. There is little information on Stewart with limited security and medical files. He is allocated to a cell with Zahid Mubarek. The officers suspect there may be tensions, but treat this flippantly. Dean sarcastically claims, “I’m sure they’ll be fast friends in no time”, while another officer says, “Should be a bit of a laugh”. In the cell, Mubarek attempts to welcome Stewart and open up the conversation, but is met with icy stares and monosyllabic responses.

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When he is alone in the cell, Stewart is shown as two personalities in conversation. The Stewart of reality is vulnerable, easily led and confused. His alter ego is confident and commanding, encouraging extreme racist and violent views. The alter ego claims: “We’re going to show you how to be a monster”. There are flashbacks to episodes in Stewart’s life as his double attempts to reinforce his violent, racist worldview. This includes the violence he suffered at the hands of his abusive father, and his destructive friendship with Maurice Travis, a fellow prisoner who committed a murder in prison, witnessed by Stewart. Stewart’s bizarre behaviour starts to be noticed. One officer suggests that Stewart should be referred to Broadmoor hospital, an institution for people with severe mental health problems. This is dismissed by Senior Officer Dean, who argues: “If they [management] want to fill this place with nutters and overwork us, they’re asking for trouble…It’s not my problem”. Mubarek also speaks to his family on the telephone, describing Stewart as “weird”, although he does not express any fear. Meanwhile, Stewart is isolating himself, becoming increasingly paranoid as his alter ego intensifies the violent racist polemic. When a letter Stewart has written to his friend, Maurice Travis, is intercepted by officers due to its racist content, Senior Officer Dean dismisses any concern, arguing: “Racism is part and parcel of what we have to put up with…You’ve got bloody Blacks and Asians mixing with whites, that’s what you get. It’s hardly anything new now is it?”. The letter is logged, but no action is taken. As Stewart continues to deepen his violent racism, his alter ego trawls through further events from the past including his arson attack on his school. Stewart fashions a weapon from wood broken from the table in the cell. He also has a tense confrontation with a Black prisoner, although it is prevented from escalating when an officer intervenes. Mubarek becomes increasingly concerned about Stewart. He goes to the officers to ask for a cell move. While an Asian officer, Shah, is sympathetic, Senior Officer Dean is dismissive. On questioning, Mubarek admits that there has been no violence or direct threat, simply that he feels uncomfortable at Stewart’s demeanour. Dean refuses the request to move cell and after Mubarek has left, he says: “We’re almost at breaking point and I’ve got to deal with a whining Paki”. After watching the film Romper Stomper, about a violent racist, Stewart becomes excited and writes “KKK” on the cell wall. Mubarek is meanwhile looking forward to his future beyond his upcoming release,

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discussing plans with his family over the telephone. He considers raising further concerns about Stewart with an officer, but decides against it and walks away. A cell inspection carried out by the officers is completed in a cursory way and fails to uncover the broken table or the makeshift weapon. A further letter written by Stewart is intercepted, this time threatening violence. Senior Officer Dean again dismisses this, claiming: “He’s all talk. Like I said, a bit of harmless banter”. When broken furniture is discovered in prisoners’ cells, he also refuses to take this seriously, arguing: “If they want to break stuff that’s their problem”. The final scene is the night of the murder. Mubarek is out of shot, but Stewart is shown, in slowed down images without sound, repeatedly bringing down the weapon, his clothing stained with blood. The scenes from the opening of the film are then repeated with the murder being discovered and Stewart writing his graffiti confession on the wall. The closing titles explain that Stewart was convicted of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. Mubarek’s family campaigned for six years to get answers about what had happened. Finally, a public inquiry was commissioned, which: “found a bewildering catalogue of both individual and systematic shortcomings”. The titles go on to say that 20 prison staff were criticised in the report, but none were the subject of disciplinary proceedings, indeed, the Governor of the prison, the most senior person criticised, was subsequently promoted. The final title concludes: “14 years on, the Mubarek family are still waiting for justice”. The film-makers hoped, in part, to raise awareness of a case that had fallen from public consciousness. Reviews, at the time of release, recognised the earnestness of the film, but it was also criticised for its lack of nuance, particularly the prolonged and repeated scenes of violent, racist rhetoric delivered by Stewart and his alter ego, and the relegation of Zahid Mubarek to a subsidiary figure (for example see McCahill 2015).

Race and Racism in Everyday Prison Life Race and prisons are deeply intertwined in England and Wales and other countries. The most recent official review of race and the criminal justice system revealed that despite making up just 14% of the population, Black, Asian and minority ethnic (BAME) men and women make up 25% of people in prison, while over 40% of young people in custody are from BAME backgrounds (Lammy 2017). There are also problems of quality,

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including: in many prisons relationships between staff and BAME prisoners are poor; many problems are identified and unmet including mental health, learning disabilities and family issues; the under-representation of BAME people among prison staff contributes an “us and them” culture; and the system fails to address reoffending and so entrenches disproportionality (Lammy 2017). Mary Bosworth (2004) has argued that race is governed through systems of social control, and although historical, social and ideological contexts vary, there is a consistent pattern of minority populations being stigmatised, subjected to social control and then overrepresented in the prison system. It is important that such discussions of macro-level issues do not obscure the everyday realities of race and society. American prisons are often characterised by rigid racial segregation and entrenched conflict so that race and ethnicity are the defining contexts of social life. In the UK, however, the situation is more nuanced. Coretta Phillips’s (2012) detailed ethnographic study of race, ethnicity and social relations in English prisons is a particularly enlightening exploration. Drawing upon the work of Paul Gilroy, Phillips described that just as in wider society, multiculturalism has become mundane with people living together in an atmosphere of conviviality: “prisoners are engaging in a lively, vibrant, dynamic multiculture in which racial difference is not always foregrounded” (Phillips 2012, p. 206 italics in original). There is nevertheless, a tension and fragmentation below the surface of this conviviality, with “wary, unstable and inconsistent social relations” (Phillips 2012, p. 125). While overt racial conflict is suppressed, there remains hidden and unconscious racism, and the dynamics of power enable the maintenance of structural and institutional inequality. Racism in prison is foregrounded in We are monster, with the murder of Zahid Mubarek and a staff group represented as displaying overt racism as well as systematic lack of care. The focus on Robert Stewart and his inner life confronts the viewer with sustained and repeated diatribes full of violent racism. The film’s deliberate confrontation of the viewer with contemporary racism led to discomfort among the group, particularly regarding the use of racist language, but also stimulated discussion of perspectives on race and racism and the everyday social world of prisons. In contrast to the circumstances portrayed in the film, the audience disavowed overt racism, suggesting that there was instead at least some semblance of the multicultural conviviality described by Phillips. Many described an appreciation of diversity, for example:

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It don’t matter what colour you are, we’re all the same in here. That’s how I look at it. We all cut and bleed, we all cry of a night, you know what I mean, you get a bad phone call, you’re no harder than I am. So it don’t matter what colour you are does it.

Overt and openly expressed racism has become stigmatised, so participants described how such language or views would be reserved for private spaces by those who held them. Some also described how racist language may be used by disruptive prisoners in segregation units who were attempting to provoke others, but were safe from retaliation in solitary confinement. In contrast to the social segregation depicted in the film, the audience appeared on the face of it to mount a defence of the multicultural conviviality that was a feature of prison life, albeit evolving and uneven. Some participants described that multiculturalism had become so mundane in their lives that they felt uncomfortable in monocultural communities. They also recognised that the spread of multiculturalism was uneven. In many metropolitan centres the world was becoming increasingly diverse, more diverse than the biracial depiction of social divisions in the film. One man commented: Now it’s more cosmopolitan, you’ve got more cultures and more broad and different ethnic minorities now. It’s not just about being one, like two sets of Africans, which was back in the day when I was young, there was either you’re a Nigerian or you’re a Ghanaian. But now we’ve got people from Ivory Coast, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Congo, there’s… more diversity now. So it’s not just about being just Black now, there’s different sections of Blacks now. The same with like Asians, you’ve got Sri Lankan now, you’ve got all these different people that wasn’t here before. And a lot of the kids now they’ve grown up together, just the same way that I grew up with my white friends and Asian friends and we grew up together…but now it’s even more mixed because my generation have now got kids and our kids are now even more mixed.

Some areas of the country and some prisons, however, were seen as less multicultural. Broadly, participants described that prisons in the North of the country were less diverse and therefore more problematic for people from minority ethnic groups (see Chistyakova et al. 2018). One man commented:

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I think it depends which jail you go. If you go to maybe the jails up more North, right, you definitely experience more racism stuff. I have many friends who have been up there and you experience more racism up there.

There was a general consensus that prison life was characterised by multicultural conviviality, albeit this was uneven. This contrasted with the film’s depiction of interracial conflict as the central feature of prison life. Despite this consensus, further discussion revealed that the experience, perceptions and response to the film of BAME and white prisoners differed in significant ways, revealing the fragmentation and tension that could be hidden below the convivial everyday interactions. The BAME audience members reacted to the violent racist language in the film in ways that were unexpected and different to white audience members (and indeed the white researchers). Far from seeing the language as taboo, many saw this as being used for a purpose within the film and in a broader historical context. Within the film, they saw this as having a degree of authenticity, this was reflected in comments including: “That’s just reality isn’t?”; “You just need to say it as it is”; and “[I]t’s better to actually say it as it is rather than trying to sugar coat it”. From this perspective, the use of explicit language was an act of reality confrontation, intended to be uncomfortable. In a historical context, the BAME members of the audience described how through music and culture, they were part of a generation that had re-appropriated terms that had been used as racial abuse. This had, at least to some degree ameliorated the power of such terms to harm them individually and collectively. As one man, from a BAME background, described: I have heard that word a lot of times anyway and desensitised to that, to the word, if you know the word we are talking about…Yeah which I think when I was younger the music I used to listen to was saturated with that word in it so that’s maybe where I have become its just normal.

The Black group members were, however, conscious of the historical associations of such terms and the role language and played in racial oppression. It was described that: “people died for that word not to be used again”, and; “if you use that word in a certain older generation they will go ballistic”.

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As will be described below, in fact predominantly BAME audience members were empathic towards the representation of Robert Stewart in We are monster. They saw him as mentally ill rather than racist. Many white group members did not accept this medicalisation of Stewart’s behaviour, and instead focussed on the overt expression of unacceptable racist views. In accounting for this difference, BAME audience members, rather than responding primarily to the use of explicit racist language, expressed greater concern with hidden racism including structural and institutional racism, and unconscious bias. Indeed, one man described that individual cases can obscure rather than expose systemic problems: They focused on one issue and that was it and the issue that they focused on was obviously him being racist, he’s banged up with someone that is, the guy is of ethnic origin, you know, so he’s killed someone of ethnic origin as well. So the fact that he’s done that alone has shifted the whole focus of why, what and when did he become that… Do you understand what I’m saying? So they’ve kind of like, as they always do, authorities always do, they cover up their own flaws in order to highlight somebody else’s flaws, you know.

The men described the deep structures of racism they perceived as permeating British society: But that’s always going to happen because whether we like it or not we are in a white country, it’s always going to be a white majority no matter what. We’re always going to be like the down class…It happens in universities, it happens in workplaces, it happens everywhere. No matter where you go, any country that you go to that has always been a white country, whoever comes into it, no matter how many years they stay there, no matter how many things you do, there’s a level that you can always get to. No matter what, there’s a threshold and you can’t pass that threshold.

The men saw these structures as being replicated and played out in everyday prison practices. One example was elucidated: Can I give you one example as well where… Some people might say it is racism, some people might say it is discrimination, all these schisms, right, if you look at prison jobs for example. The majority of the red band jobs [highly valued positions of trust and responsibility], white males have them. I know one Black friend…he’s got one job, but it’s like you’re saying you

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don’t trust Black people then. That’s how it seems or that’s what you’re insinuating. Like if you look, the majority of jails I’ve gone, even when it’s in London, my friends have all gone up to Northern jails, the majority is white people in the kitchens. And they use the statistic ‘oh there’s more white people than Black people’…So what are you trying to say, that only white people are well behaved in jail?

The men described that they perceived white people as viewing the world from their own position of privilege, unable to empathise or understand the experience of racial power and injustice. This was reflected in comments including: “[T]hey don’t even realise they’re doing it. That’s the thing”; “[T]hey don’t even know when they’re being racist because it’s so institutionalised…”. The men also described how they had a highly attuned sensitivity to how people interacted with them, sensing racism. This was described by Coretta Phillips (2012) as a “racedar”: “an intuitive sense or belief about an individual’s racism even if it was not articulated through the use of racist language” (p. 177). Here, the men described their “gut instincts” or “spider sense”. While the BAME audience members were generally appreciative of the attempts of We are monster to offer a vehicle for critique of racial power, they were not uncritical. In particular, there was a consciousness about the relative marginalisation of the character of Zahid Mubarek, describing that they learnt little about him. He was an underdeveloped character in the film, consigned to a position of relative invisibility, especially when contrasted with the film’s primary focus on the character of Robert Stewart. BAME participants framed this within a wider issue of the visibility of Black and Asian people in culture and society. It was described that they would often turn to America for successful Black role models (such as Barack Obama) or to American films that represented the experience of Black people in prisons. One man described that in these films: “You can see a person struggle, isn’t it. You can see a person, sometimes you can relate in a sense of a person’s struggle, a person is fighting isn’t it”. From this perspective, the men felt that their experiences were marginalised, even excluded from British culture. The BAME audience members described their sensitivity, consciousness and critique of hidden racism, whether that is institutional racism, unconscious bias or structural racism. This offers some explanation for

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their openness to the explicit racist language, seeing this as representing and exposing the reality of racism in everyday life. The reaction of the white audience members was markedly different. Many (including the white researchers) were deeply uncomfortable with the explicit racist language used in We are monster. Some described that there was a taboo about racist language as a result of having it: “drilled into us about racism so we know what racism is”. One group member described how he felt that this film would not be suitable for prisons as it had the potential to stoke up the latent racial conflict: I don’t think it would be a film that you would want to go and put in the library here then for viewing….I think a lot of people would watch it and I think there’d be some controversy over it. Not only would they pick it to pieces but…I don’t think it would be an aid to any good solution to anything. People watch films and they do get ideas as you probably know from films and things happen. It’s like they watch driving films and they go out and drive wild, they watch wild films and they act wildly.

From this perspective, it is suggested that films can have strong and direct effects upon viewers, and that engaging in difficult discourse about race, inequality and power is also potentially destabilising to good social relations. Good order and harmonious race relations, it is being suggested, are best maintained through censorship so as to avoid controversy, discourse and discomfort. Although presented as being motivated by the common good, the implicit aim is to maintain the status quo, including the dominant power structures. Another participant went further in interview, including expressing sympathy for a man convicted for a high-profile racist murder, who he described as having suffered adverse reactions every time the case reappeared in the news. The sensitivity and profound concern about critical racial discourse expressed by white prisoners in the group, or more commonly in individual interviews, revealed what has been described as “white fragility”, which is: “a state in which even a minimum amount of racial stress becomes intolerable, triggering a range of defensive moves. These moves include the outward display of emotions such as anger, fear, and guilt, and behaviors such as argumentation, silence, and leaving the stress-inducing situation. These behaviors, in turn, function to reinstate white racial equilibrium” (DiAngelo 2011, p. 57). From this perspective, open discourse

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on race risks the disintegration of conviviality, and individual accountability for violent racism is disproportionate vengeance. These viewpoints reveal a myopia about racial privilege and power, and an unconscious, assumed desirability of its conservation. The responses to We are monster reveal something of the racial dynamics in the everyday social relations in an English prison. The film represented race as being the defining feature of social life in prisons, with people segregated into racial groups, tensions simmering, violent racist beliefs being commonplace, and ultimately Zahid Mubarek becoming the victim of a racist murder. In contrast, the participants did not accept that the film accurately reflected their everyday reality of race relations in prisons. The consensus was that there was multicultural conviviality, as described in the work of Coretta Phillips, albeit that this was uneven across prisons and varied over time. They did, however, describe that there were tensions and that racism continued, albeit often in more hidden forms. The reading of the film also exposed differences between BAME and white participants in their response to the depiction of overt racism and explicit racist language. White participants largely expressed profound discomfort with the language and displayed greater difficulty exploring issues of racism, sometimes even experiencing such open discourse as destabilising and threatening to social order. BAME men in contrast displayed greater competence and confidence in discussing race and racism. They were able to look beyond the surface, exploring the causes of racism including the background factors that influenced Robert Stewart’s mindset, and seeing the overt racist language of the film as a way to illuminate hidden racism including structural or institutional racism and unconscious bias.

Excavating the Root Causes of Crime and Racism We are monster foregrounds the character of Robert Stewart. At least to some degree it presents a more empathic view of him, focussing not only on his words and acts, but also revealing his background and biography. This was a facet of the film that the prisoner audience responded positively to. Accounts of the root causes of crime have largely focussed on individual factors (such as biological characteristics) and situational factors (such as poverty, family dynamics and emotional strain) (for example see Bennett 2011). The confluence and combination of different factors that contribute towards Robert Stewart’s crime are consciously interwoven

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into the film, the writer and actor Leeshon Alexander asserting: “We present a case saying you should look at the whole thing” (Phelan 2015). Most prominently and significantly, the film represents Stewart as mentally ill. This medicalisation of Stewart’s attitudes, behaviour and actions was not comfortable to all viewers, with some seeing this as excusing or minimising violent racism. The majority of the audience, however, and particularly BAME participants, engaged with the medical model being represented and saw this as offering an alternative and deeper explanation for the events depicted. For example, men variously commented: He’s a victim man because he’s got mental health and mental health takes you in different ways. The mental health was taking him in the way of racism but that could have been detected and dealt with before he got to that. No I think his mental health was kind of hidden under the guise of him being a white racist so I kind of went underneath the façade. I don’t see him, that person, being racist. I look at him literally as being mentally disturbed.

Mental health is a pervasive problem in prisons. Stuart’s racism is shown as one possible symptom, but there are many people who experience mental ill health and do not display problematic behaviour towards others, while others display different harmful behaviours towards themselves and other people. The National Audit Office, using data from the Inspectorate of Prisons and National Health Service, described that of a prison population of 85,000 in England and Wales, over 31,000 identified as having mental health or well-being issues at any one time, and nearly 8000 were receiving treatment in prisons (National Audit Office 2017). In addition, it has been described that the impact of imprisonment and the daily regime can be: “seriously detrimental to mental health” (Bradley 2009, p. 99). The prisoner audience also responded strongly to the depiction of Robert Stewart’s violent and abusive family life. Indeed, as was described, one audience members found these images so emotionally overwhelming that they had to leave the screening. Other audience members also described that domestic violence had featured in their childhoods. One

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commented that: “We’ve all I think witnessed domestic violence in some shape or form, yes”. Some also commented on how histories of childhood abuse would be hidden or obscured, for example: Some people lie to themselves. If they have had them experiences you lie and you say oh well, I had a decent life, you know what I mean, I had a decent upbringing, but if you really look deep, it’s possible that you didn’t.

Again, this is a widely experienced issue, with studies suggesting that 29% of prisoners reported having experienced childhood abuse and 41% reported having observed violence in the home (Williams et al. 2012). Given the prevalence of domestic violence, with around two million adults victimised each year (Office for National Statistics 2018), many people in prison will also have been the perpetrators of crimes within the home. The depiction of domestic violence in this film resonated with the men. In contrast to images of violence in other films, which had a celebratory or righteous quality, the violence in We are monster was both represented and received as being unjust and morally repugnant. The audience described that this combination of mental health, adverse childhood experiences and the toxicity of the prison environment was the primary cause of Robert Stewart’s violence. They repeatedly reacted to the term “monster”, which appeared in the title of the film. For them, Robert Stewart was at least in part a victim himself: “the system failed him”. This contrasted with the lead character in Bronson: Bronson was created by himself, whereas [Robert Stewart] was created by his upbringing. So he was created by somebody else. That monster was created by somebody else.

The men also saw in the film something of their own experiences and how they were perceived by the public. As one man described: This is what I’m saying. As soon as people hear IPPs [Indeterminate Sentence for Public Protection], they’re thinking no this guy’s a monster. This guy’s a monster. This is what I’m saying. People as soon as they say ‘oh imprisonment, for what? Public protection. Oh yes never let him out, he’s a monster’. But that is not true, that isn’t true, that is not true. We get treated like a monster but we are not monsters.

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For some, there was a potential for films such as We are monster to show a broader picture, examining the root causes so as to: “show that we are actual people, we are not monsters”.

Exposing Institutional Racism Justice Keith’s report into the murder of Zahid Mubarek revealed systemic problems at Feltham, including institutional racism and a lack of care. In We are monster, the character of Senior Officer Dean is a composite based on a number of scenarios derived from the report. He is used to symbolise, embody and represent a range of problems that were, in reality, more dispersed, intangible and embedded. For the audience in this study, their responses reflected their concerns about prison officer behaviours and accountability, which had been accumulated through their lived experiences (see also Chapters 2, 3 and 5). In her work on race in prisons, Coretta Phillips discusses the intersection of perceptions of racism and perceptions of care. In particular, prisoners were sensitive to the use and misuse of prison officer discretion. This could sometimes be seen as motivated by racism including unconscious bias, resulting in less generous and flexible use of discretion for Black, Asian and minority ethnic prisoners. These every day decisions had adverse effects that were: “profound, pervasive, and destructive of good Prison Officer/prisoner relationships” (p. 182). Yet, many prisoners were “reflexive agnostics” (p. 178), who were open-minded to alternative explanations for such behaviours including “officer laziness or intransigence” (p. 189) or “a genuine, as opposed to racist, dislike of the prisoner, or because of a personality clash or previous negative interaction” (p. 178). The issue of prison officer care was the focus of a study by Sarah Tait (2011). She defined “care” in the prison context as being characterised by “sociable and respectful relationships with staff, feeling understood and listened to, having requests for help followed through, and being given reassurance and encouragement”, while in contrast, “uncare” was characterised by “indifference, unfairness and status degradation” (p. 449). Prison officers, like any group, are not homogenous, and individuals will vary in their behaviour. Liebling et al. (2011) described that officers may be judged by prisoners as being good (“do things for you and go out of their way to help you”), neutral (“in the job for the money but would usually treat prisoners like human beings”) or bad (“would not try to

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help prisoners and who would be vindictive or pick on prisoners they didn’t like, enforcing ‘petty’ and ‘sneaky’ rules”) (p. 96). While attitudes and behaviours may vary between prisons and across time, a more critical perspective was offered by David Scott (2008), who argued that the majority of prison officers were disciplinarians who: “had lost all interest in work and relationships with prisoners, and often other members of staff, and were characterised by emotional detachment” (p. 176). The audience for We are monster saw in the character of Senior Officer Dean a validation of their own experiences of “uncare”. As one man described: We don’t get to see them behind the scenes necessarily but I’d imagine that’s how they act behind the scenes, and some of them, they act like that on scene, you know what I mean? They’re pretty emotionless, they’re pretty like, like I say, they’ve got no empathy, and it’s there that they have no empathy.

From this perspective, the film took the audience into backstage spaces and confirmed negative perceptions they held or negative experiences they had endured. These were not necessarily related to race or racism, but instead a more pervasive sense about perceived lack of care. As one man stated about the film: “yes it was about racism but it was about how officers don’t give a shit”. The audience described both their experience of prison officers and their representation in the film through this lens, describing them as people with “no empathy”, who faced with acute problems of mental health or distress would be dismissive. It has been argued that in order to legitimise and emotionally survive prison work, officers engage in acts of denial in which they exacerbate individual suffering and the pain of imprisonment by failing to notice, acknowledge or respond (Scott 2008). One man described how the film related to his own experiences: I got to that point where I’m thinking everybody’s scumbags, everybody’s out to get me, and I had panic episodes, bad. And one of them was in [prison] and no-one listened in [prison], they just locked the door…The officers knew I was screaming in the middle of the night, you know what I mean. They’d come to my door and shut the flap. They knew I was screaming, I smashed cells up, I was screaming my head off in the middle of the night…but they ignore you.

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While the personal accounts and the film do not offer a complete account of prison officer behaviours, indeed the men recognised that individual officers varied, it nevertheless points to their emotional and actual experiences of “uncare”. At the end of the film, the titles explain the aftermath, including the Mubarek family’s fight for justice and that no individual was subject to prosecution or internal disciplinary processes. While watching the film, men asked “did any of the screws get jail for this?” and the end titles were met with audible, exasperated exhalations. In the subsequent discussion, this resonated with the perception the men had regarding the impunity with which prison officers acted. Any thoughts of prosecution were dismissed with resignation: “He could literally get a gun and shoot you in the head and he’s not going jail…It will never happen”. The film itself, however, was welcomed by the men as a form of accountability, public memory and expose. In the words of the audience members: You know about this film, I think in one way it’s good. The language is bad but in one way it’s good because it’s showing the public out there that the prison officers ain’t doing nothing. Yeah, what I think it is the film did a good job because at the end of the day its highlighted something that takes place in prison…it highlighted the problem that there is institutional racism still existing.

While the film and the audience response did not offer a comprehensive account of prison officer behaviour, the character of Senior Officer Dean resonated, not solely because of the exposure of racism, but as the embodiment of the men’s experiences of “uncare”.

Conclusion For the audience, the film represented the social life of the prison being defined by racial conflict. This included broad racial separation in friendships and associations, tensions between people of different race and ethnicities, pervasive racism and ultimately catastrophic racial violence. The participants largely did not accept this is an accurate account of their experiences. The consensus was that in prisons, there was a relaxed multicultural conviviality in which people co-existed without outright conflict.

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They did, however, describe that beneath this surface, there was an undercurrent of fragmentation and tension. BAME participants were more confident and competent in exploring issues of race, racism and racial power. They saw the use of overt racism as a means of exposing reality and also rendering visible hidden forms of racial power. An alternative reading of Robert Stewart was presented largely by BAME participants, deconstructing his violent racism and offering a medicalised explanation rooted in mental health and childhood trauma. Although some white participants also shared this reading, others felt less comfortable engaging in discourse about the racial dynamics of prison life. This was largely because such discourse was seen as a threat to the relaxed conviviality, stoking the flames of conflict. This was uncomfortable to those who were less confident and competent in navigating the issues, but also silencing of the issues is a way of maintaining the status quo of racial power. For others, avoiding such discussion was because they privately held more negative views about multiculturalism, views that were often stigmatised in public discourse. These responses exposed the presence of “white fragility” in a changing multicultural society. There was some greater consensus regarding aspects of the depiction of Robert Stewart and Senior Officer Dean. The men generally appreciated the attention the film gave to Stewart’s background and experiences, not simply representing him as a “monster” but instead giving attention to the root causes of his behaviours. This approach enabled them to have greater empathy with him, and gave them hope for the capacity of film to emotionally engage audiences, offer an alternative perspective and provide an education in more progressive values. This also reflected the hope they had that they themselves would be judged not only by their crimes but would benefit from an attempt to see them as a whole person. The men also responded well to the critical depiction of prison officer behaviours and in particular the practice of “uncare”. They felt that the problematising of prisons and prison officers authentically represented some of their experiences and chipped away at the existing structures of power and domination. During the public inquiry into the murder of Zahid Mubarek, there was a discussion of the role of film, when it came to light that Robert Stewart had watched the controversial Australian film Romper Stomper (dir. Geoffrey Wright Aus 1992). At the hearing, psychiatrist Professor John Gunn described:

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[The] film…portrays racial violence in Melbourne. Some of the scenes are horrific. There is a vivid portrayal of neo-Nazi culture, which in this case is struggling against the relative success of Asian immigrants. A gang of violent boys is portrayed as brave, brutal, and self-destructive. The leader of the gang (portrayed by Russell Crowe) is vividly tattooed, including with swastikas. The gang ultimately loses because of the superior forces of the Asian men, and because of the treacherous behaviour of a highly disturbed middle-class girl suffering from epilepsy who joins the gang. The film ends with the murder of the leader of the gang by the second-in-command, the two men having fallen out over how to manage the girl. The film does not portray racist violence as either ideal or successful. Perhaps its most chilling moment is when the leader reads out passages from Mein Kampf, Hitler’s book, describing the superiority of the white race… [The film] is ultimately not a glorification of racial violence… [It] could be taken as a tragic drama portraying the ultimate destructiveness of racial violence, especially to the perpetrators. However it may require some level of sophistication to follow this. (Keith 2006, p. 295)

Justice Keith agreed that: “Whatever Stewart may have got out of it, it is a serious film, whose message is one of anti-racism and the futility of violence” (Keith 2006, p. 295). In a similar vein, We are monster is a serious film with an intended message of anti-racism. As some audience members highlighted, the film could be misinterpreted, misused and misunderstood. Nevertheless, in the hands of sophisticated viewers, such as this prison audience, the film could offer a space to enable dialogue on the complex, sensitive but highly significant issues of race, racism, abuse, trauma, power and care.

References Bennett, J. (2011). Prisoner backgrounds and biographies. In B. Crewe & J. Bennett (Eds.), The prisoner (pp. 1–12). Abingdon: Routledge. Bradley, R. (2009). Review of people with mental health problems or learning disabilities in the criminal justice system. London: Department of Health. https://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov.uk/20130105193845/http://www. dh.gov.uk/prod_consum_dh/groups/dh_digitalassets/documents/digitalas set/dh_098698.pdf. Accessed 15 Aug 2020. Bosworth, M. (2004). Theorizing race and imprisonment: Towards a new penalty. Critical Criminology, 12, 221–242. Chistyakova, Y., Cole, B., & Johnstone, J. (2018). Diversity and vulnerability in Prisons in the context of the Equality Act 2010: The experiences of Black,

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Asian, Minority Ethnic (BAME), and Foreign National Prisoners (FNPs) in a Northern Jail. Prison Service Journal, 235, 10–16. DiAngelo, R. (2011). White fragility. International Journal of Critical Pedagogy, 3(3), 54–70. Keith, B. (2006). Report of the Zahid Mubarek inquiry. HC 1082. London: The Stationery Office. Lammy, D. (2017). The Lammy review: An independent review into the treatment of, and outcomes for, Black, Asian and minority ethnic individuals in the criminal justice system. https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/government/ uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/643001/lammy-review-finalreport.pdf. Accessed 14 Nov 2019. Liebling, A., Price, D., & Shefer, G. (2011). The prison officer (2nd ed.). Abingdon: Willan. MacPherson, W. (1999). The Stephen Lawrence inquiry. London: TSO. McCahill, M. (2015, April 30). We Are Monster review—Goes inside a murderer’s mind. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/film/2015/apr/ 30/we-are-monster-review-zahid-mubarek-robert-stewart. Accessed 5 Oct 2019. National Audit Office. (2017). Mental health in prisons. London: House of Commons. https://www.nao.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/Men tal-health-in-prisons.pdf. Accessed 14 Jan 2020. Office for National Statistics. (2018). Domestic abuse in England and Wales: Year ending March 2018. https://www.ons.gov.uk/peoplepopulationandco mmunity/crimeandjustice/bulletins/domesticabuseinenglandandwales/yea rendingmarch2018. Accessed 15 Feb 2020. Phelan, Z. (2015, April 27). Exclusive Interview with Leeshon Alexander, star of film We Are Monster. Flavourmag. https://www.flavourmag.co.uk/exclusiveinterview-with-leeshon-alexander-star-of-film-we-are-monster/. Accessed 14 Jan 2020. Phillips, C. (2012). The multicultural prison: Ethnicity, masculinity, and social relations among prisoners. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Scott, D. (2008). Creating ghosts in the penal machine: Prison officer occupational morality and the techniques of denial. In J. Bennett, B. Crewe, & A. Wahidin (Eds.), Understanding prison staff (pp. 168–186). Cullompton: Willan. Tait, S. (2011). A typology of prison officer approaches to care. European Journal of Criminology, 8(6), 440–454.

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Williams, K., Papadopoulou, V., & Booth, N. (2012). Prisoners’ childhood and family backgrounds: Results from the Surveying Prisoner Crime Reduction (SPCR) longitudinal cohort study of prisoners. London: Ministry of Justice. https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/government/uploads/sys tem/uploads/attachment_data/file/278837/prisoners-childhood-family-bac kgrounds.pdf. Accessed 14 Jan 2020.

CHAPTER 5

Screwed: Prison Work and Prison Officer Cultures

Abstract Screwed centres on Sam Norwood, a new prison officer. He learns his craft, guided by more experienced colleagues, and becomes enmeshed in the culture, turning to colleagues for social connection and emotional support, becoming more detached from his wife and young child. Slowly, Norwood comes to realise that his closest colleagues are corrupt and are running an organised drugs ring from within the prison. The prisoner audience appreciated viewing a film that focussed on prison staff, particularly as it was not an idealised fantasy, but instead showed brutal, corrupt and harmful behaviours. Many of the men felt that this exposed real issues and validated their complaints. There were three significant themes discussed by the group. The first was prison officer culture and how this shaped the outlook and behaviour of prison staff. The second addressed corruption in prison, not only official misconduct, but also a more general critique of the perceived illegitimacy of penal authority. Finally, there was discussion of the harmfulness of prison work for those undertaking it, and the emotional response of prisoners to the experience of suffering by prison staff. Screwed elicited a powerful response from the audience, generating an intellectual critique of prisons and provoking uncomfortable, feelings about prison staff. Keywords Prison officers · Prison staff · Corruption · Occupational culture · Staff–prisoner relations · Penal authority

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Bennett and V. Knight, Prisoners on Prison Films, Palgrave Studies in Crime, Media and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-60949-8_5

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Based on the autobiography of former prison officer Ronnie Thompson, Screwed is a rare example of a prison film that focusses on the professional and personal lives of prison staff. While Thompson’s book is episodic, the film takes general themes and scenarios from the text and remoulds it into a dramatic narrative involving violence, corruption and dynamic relationships. The film does, however, manage to incorporate some authentic themes from Thompson’s working life, which echo research into prison officers, including: occupational culture; the psychological effects of prison work; and the spill over between work and domestic life. The film’s central character is Sam Norwood, a military veteran who reluctantly joins the prison service as an officer after returning to civilian life and struggling to secure employment. He learns the craft of the job and becomes enmeshed in the culture, suffers the stresses and harm of prison work, is betrayed by corrupt colleagues and ultimately leaves after becoming disillusioned. The audience in this study were intrigued and engaged by the opportunity to glimpse the lives of prison officers. In particular, they appreciated that the film was not a liberal fantasy of inspirational reform but instead was at times brutal and unflattering in its depiction of prison staff. The novelty of this was summed up by one man who said that he liked the film: “[b]ecause it was showing prison in a different way compared to all the prisoners being arseholes it showed the screws to be what they are”. For some of the audience, the content of the film acted as a whistleblowing exercise, exposing malpractice, validating prisoners’ complaints about their treatment and rebalancing the moral dualism between “bad” prisoners and “good” staff. They were sceptical, however, that such deeply help public attitudes could be shifted by the film. This was explained by one of the men who described his experience of prison staff and their representation in the film: Some of them are corrupt, some of them come to work to enjoy making prisoners lives hell. Not all of them are like that but it was just nice to see a film showing [this to] people. Whether the public will believe that actually happens in prison I don’t know.

The film offered a vehicle for the audience to explore their perceptions and experiences of prison officers and penal authority. The reaction and readings of the group mixed critical political analysis alongside strong emotional responses. Their decoding of the main themes in the film and

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its relationship to their lived experience covered three main areas. The first area was around the prison officer culture and how this shaped the outlook and behaviour of officers. The second addressed corruption in prison, not only official misconduct, but also a more general critique of the perceived illegitimacy of penal authority. Finally, there was discussion of the harmfulness of prison work for those undertaking it, and the emotional response of prisoners to the experience of suffering by prison staff. The group engaged in a discussion that was insightful and considered but also at times caustic and critical, revealing the tensions at the heart of prisoner–staff relations.

Screwed: A Summary Sam Norwood is a military veteran who returns from deployment in Iraq, having seen his best friend killed during a patrol. He struggles to find work and his wife, Danielle, suggests joining the prison service for the job security and decent financial conditions. He is initially reluctant, but after six months the only other offer of work he has had has been drug dealing with his childhood friends, Ricky and Neil. With so few opportunities and with a family to support, Sam takes a job at HMP Romwell. After completing basic training, Sam returns for his first day at the prison. He initially receives a frosty reception at the staff briefing as one of the novices or “sprogs”. The wing governor, Maurice Keenan, joins the briefing so as to assert his authority with the new staff, announcing: “This is my wing. The regime, how it is run, is organised by me. The rules you adhere to are mine. And they are there because this is real. People can and do get hurt. It needs a tight ship and I am the captain”. The speech is received derisively by the experienced staff. Two established officers, Deano and Eddie Caspar, both attempt to mentor Sam. They dismiss the training school approach, Eddie asserting: “Forget the training school bollocks, or we’ll get fuck all done”. They both attempt to introduce Sam to the culture and craft of prison work. Eddie goes on to explain the real dynamics of power in the prison, in which control is fragile and exercised by consent: “Just ten of us looking after over 350 cons…The scroats run the wing, we’re just the visitors”. There is a conflict on the wing with a prisoner, which is unnecessarily escalated into violence by Officer Huntingdon. In the officers’ club after work, the team are having a drink. When outside smoking a cigarette, Huntingdon attempts to punch Sam, telling him: “Don’t fuck about with

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other screws”. Sam retaliates, overpowering Huntingdon. Impressed by Sam, established officers Deano and Jamie befriend him. Deano, in particular, schools Sam in the dynamics of prison life including: distrust for managers (“Keenan’s always looking for one of us to throw to the lions. It’s good for his career and it shows he’s a reformist”); corruption of staff by prisoners (“You’d be surprised how many screws have had their mortgages paid off thanks to Truman”); relationships with prisoners (“You’ll soon realise, the likes of you and me have got more in common with some of the cons”), and; solidarity between staff (“The only way to do this job is to cover your arse, or better still surround yourself with people who will cover it for you”). Sam also starts to be exposed to the challenges of prison work including drug dealing and violence by prisoners. He learns that a prisoner, Truman, is influential in the lucrative market for drugs in the prison. While undertaking night duties, Sam discovers a prisoner who has committed suicide by hanging, which triggers flashbacks to his military trauma. He later tries to talk to his wife, Danielle, about this during a family day out, but she is distracted and can’t relate to his experiences. Sam seeks solace by meeting up with Deano for a night out, which descends into drugs, alcohol and strip bars. Back at the prison visits hall, a high profile prisoner, “Bear” De Souza, is seen by a female officer, Charlie, receiving drugs from his visitor. When De Souza is taken to a back room to be searched, he punches Charlie and is restrained by the other officers. The drugs are found but nevertheless De Souza makes an allegation of assault to Keenan, resulting in Eddie Caspar being investigated and suspended from work. At home, Sam returns late and drunk. Danielle confronts him, despairing at the growing distance between them, asking: “What’s happened to you?” They have tense, aggressive sex, which is quickly over before Sam falls asleep on the sofa. On the wing, De Souza is openly dealing drugs. Protecting their turf, Truman and another prisoner, Steadman, arrange to meet De Souza in the showers where they attack him, throwing boiling water full of sugar in his face, then slashing him with a homemade knife. They strip their clothes in a cell to conceal the evidence and an officer’s arm is extended around the door, taking the clothes away. Keenan meets with Sam and asks him to provide evidence against Eddie. When Sam refuses, he is placed under investigation himself and has to go to the police station, where he is arrested but later released.

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While supervising the prison gym, Sam is approached by Truman who offers the opportunity to get involved in corruption. When Sam refuses, Truman turns to threats, but Sam remains defiant. At a family party for his one-year-old son, Sam is drinking heavily and using cocaine. He is jealous of his wife flirting with one of the guests. A confrontation brews at the end of the night as Danielle clears up on her own, with Sam slumped in front of the TV, drinking beer. She challenges him: I can’t do this anymore Sam. This job is destroying you. Is it the job destroying you or is it that fucking shit you keep shoving up your nose? You make me sick. Our son’s birthday party in front of all our guests.

Retaliating, Sam hits back, pitying himself and referring back to the man his wife has been flirting with: I wonder how Malcolm would be if he had some fucking nonce whispering in his ear explaining exactly what it is he like doing with little kids. You think he gets a lot of that down the city? Do you think Malcolm has to watch a lot of mad cunts cut chunks of flesh out of their own bodies? Get a lot of that does he? No wait, how about if he had some junkie, who’s smacked out of his head who’s trying to bite a fucking chunk out of Malcolm’s throat? And then on top of that, he’s got some spineless governor slap him under investigation. Do you think Malcolm would like a nice fucking day at my office?

Sam walks out of the family home. At the prison, after a tip-off from an informant, one of the officers, Curtis, finds a hidden stash of drugs and the bloody clothing worn by Truman and Steadman when they attacked De Souza. After a celebratory drink in the club, Curtis leaves the prison but is gunned down by an assassin who has followed him on a motorbike. On the wing, during the serving of the meal, Truman makes an implied threat referring to Sam’s wife and son by name. This provokes Sam into attacking Truman, although no serious harm is caused. Initially, Sam suspects another officer, Jamie, of the killing of Curtis, having seen him speaking on a phone at the club, but Jamie persuades Sam he is providing intelligence for the security governor. Sam’s suspicions then turn to Deano, who he sees getting into an expansive new car

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and meeting up with a local organised criminal. Sam’s childhood friends and now drug dealers, Neil and Ricky, confirm that Deano is corrupt. Sam asks Jamie to set up a meeting with the security governor in order to report the corruption. Before the meeting can take place, a riot breaks out on the wing. This is a cover for Deano, Truman and Jamie to get Sam into the shower area on the wing, with the intention of killing him. They reveal that it is Deano rather than Truman who is running the operation. Truman turns against Deano and Jamie, fearing he will be blamed for Sam’s planned death. Together, Sam and Truman severely beat Jamie and Deano. In a subsequent meeting with Keenan, Truman offers to turn informant in return for a lenient sentence and a move to a low security prison. Disillusioned by his experiences, Sam decides to leave the job. He walks out the gate and is met by Danielle. It is a closing scene that echoes films in which prisoners are released at the end of a sentence.

Enculturation and Prison Officer Code Given that Screwed was written by a former prison officer and focusses on the working lives of prison officers, it inevitably draws from a perspective situated deep within the occupational culture. The lead character, Sam Norwood, is a proxy through which the audience is introduced to the process of becoming a prison officer, how the world looks from their perspective, their group values and identity, and the consequences of their work. The prisoner audience read the film from this perspective, as an insight into the lives of prison officers, but also drew upon their own experiences of being the subject of prison officer power. In the film, Sam Norwood enters the prison as a new officer, initially shocked and uncertain he is gradually inducted into the practices and culture by more experienced officers, including Eddie Caspar, the honest veteran, and the corrupt officer, Deano. The film therefore represents the process of becoming a prison officer; that is not only carrying out the work competently, but embodying the cultural rules and craft, and inhabiting a way of being. This process has been explored in the work of Elaine Crawley, who traced what she described as: “[t]he ‘working personality’ of the prison officer - the walk, the talk, the posture, jargon, mindset, values and beliefs” (Crawley 2004, p. 84). The audience discussed the increase in new, young prison officers as recruitment had expanded in recent years. For the audience, they detected

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that the basic training for prison officers was aimed at constructing a particular set of attitudes and behaviours: So what about the training…are they not told don’t you know, this is the attitude you need to have?

The impact of basic training has been an interest of Helen Arnold, whose research included undertaking basic training herself. She described that there was an: “…expectation that undergoing the training would produce some kind or modification in our personalities” (Arnold 2005, p. 396). These individual transformations, included the production of a particular outlook, characterised by a conception of “security” in which: …relationships with prisoners are procedural and instrumental, promoting social distance and constructing prisoners as dangerous, difficult to manage, untrustworthy, violent, manipulative and disingenuous. (Arnold 2016, p. 270)

The construction of social relations and professional attitude generated in basic training and described here, resonated with the audience, drawing upon their own observations and experiences. The initial exposure to the realities of prison life for prison officers following basic training, could be characterised as “culture shock” and a struggle for professional survival (Crawley 2004). The first months were often a process of adaptation and learning. This was observed by the prisoner audience, who noted: It’s the same as most new officers, they think they are fucking something don’t they? Then they come here realise that they are not as good as they are and then they try and be friends with you.

This process of learning the job through practice has been observed in research and was also experienced by the audience members in the prisons they had lived in. The group generally observed that there existed among prison staff a shared set of values and beliefs, or a kind of cultural code of behaviour. From the perspective of the men in this study, prison officers were not only individuals but were part of a coherent group that had shared values, outlooks and a position of power. As one man described: “They had different personalities but at the end of the day its one main agenda that

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makes sense”. Another group member compared prison staff to another “gang” that operated within the prison environment. In common with studies of prison staff (e.g. Bennett 2015), there were three predominant features of the prison officer occupational culture that were described by the audience: solidarity; staff-prisoner relationships; and masculinity. In relation to solidarity, the men described that in the film and in reality, they observed that between prison officers there existed a “code of silence”, or an expectation that: “You don’t go against your own”. For some of the audience, this was a bond forged both socially and professionally and would take precedence in conflict situations. One man described: Remember they go and have drinks together, they go to the pub they go to each other’s houses. They do everything together. Because when you are a prison officer you have friends that are prison officers or you move about in the same circles, they see each other every day. They are like prisoners because they are in prison almost all their life. So when one goes against one it’s like you have gone against us all. So that’s why anytime that…I think they are my pals but when it comes to hanging you to dry they will…They know the truth you were there you saw what happened and they will say ‘no that’s not what I saw I saw something else’.

These strong bonds are forged among prison officers who work closely together and rely upon each for safety and social support (Crawley 2004; Crawley and Crawley 2008). They also seek mutual support in the face of perceived neglect by the public, politicians and the media, as well as suspicion of investigations and other forms of external scrutiny (Crawley 2004) or internal management (Arnold 2005). For many of the audience members in this study, the code of solidarity for officers was similar to the inmate code. They saw this illuminated and reflected in the film, where the officers are socially and professionally tight-knit and insular. The second element is staff–prisoner relations, where it has been argued that there is broad consensus about what constitutes the “right” relationships with prisoners (or at least what are the “wrong” sort); how interpersonal and professional boundaries are drawn (Crawley 2004; Crawley and Crawley 2004; Liebling et al. 2011). This relationship has often been characterised as “them and us” (Crawley 2004) with a clear boundary between staff and prisoners. As a result, the prisoners in this

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study described that relationships were inauthentic and instrumental, conducted with a hidden agenda. For example, one man explained: You see it goes down to policies as well. Officers are not supposed to be friends with prisoners, officers are told that in the training manual, in their training school, or wherever they’ve been or whatever whatnot, they are told that. We’re an officer and we prisoners already know that. When an officer is trying to be your friend, yes, he’s always in most cases trying to gain information or gain something or whatever from you so that he can use it.

The construction, deconstruction and blurring of the boundary between staff and prisoners is a central theme of the film. Yet, the response of the audience was to reiterate that a distinct social distance exists between staff and prisoners and that this gulf was a central feature of their relations. The third element is masculinity or what might be described as the: “traditional male qualities of dominance, authoritativeness and aggressiveness” (Crawley and Crawley 2008, p. 141). The film stimulated discussion of gender particularly in relation to the female officer, Charlie, who is depicted in three important scenes. In the first, she is shown in the prison officers’ club drinking and socialising after work, engaging in the sexualised and crude “banter”. In the second, she intercepts drugs being passed on visits to one of the prisoners, De Souza, and is then assaulted by him, being punched in the face and left with a bloody nose. When De Souza is subsequently attacked by other prisoners, Sam Norwood believes this is because he has broken a code of chivalry by assaulting a woman, rather than the reality, which is that it is part of the struggles over who controls the drug trade. In the third scene, during the riot at the end of the film, she is depicted locked behind a gate, initially attempting to calm and negotiate with the prisoners but then shouting at them to “fuck off”. As Ben Crewe (2006) has highlighted in research on the changing social world of prisons, attitudes to gender and femininity are not uniform but instead there is a diversity of perspectives. For some of the men participating in this study, the character of Charlie had forfeited the right to paternal protection as she had betrayed a feminine ideal. This was in part through her social conduct: “She was going to the pub with them and giving it the large one”. It was also due to her conflict with prisoners, which meant that to at least one man: “She had it coming”. The men

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discussed the limits of the traditional culture of gendered chivalry, where violence towards women was publically stigmatised, one man elaborating: You know what although there is a prisoner code some women deserved it because they keep on going and going. And because they know they are never going to get touched, so they keep on pushing and pushing and pushing. And the funny thing is maybe they have tried it, he has ignored it, they have tried it, he has ignored it…but you will meet someone one day that will punish that.

This comment illustrates the highly gendered nature of prison relations. Women would be offered protection where they conformed to a male ideal of femininity in which they were passive or submissive, but those women who attempted to assert authority or chose not to conform to such ideals faced hostility. The nature of contemporary relations and culture, both staff and prisoner, fostered the conditions in which gendered violence was tolerated and enabled through: “untrammelled, corrosive masculinity” (Sim 2009, p. 145). Through reading the film, and drawing upon lived experience, the audience were able to deconstruct and critique the occupational culture or “working personality” (Crawley 2004) of prison officers. The film was a vehicle through which the men in this study could systematically reveal the taken for granted assumptions and processes that influenced prison officers. This enabled the audience to understand prison officers as a group or “gang” as well as individuals and to situate their conduct in a wider context. The importance of prison officers and prison officer culture cannot be underestimated in the everyday lives of people in prison.

Corruption in Prison Screwed offers a stark depiction of a prison where prison officer corruption is pervasive. An organised drug dealing network connects suppliers outside with prison officers and prisoners. The two officers, Deano and Jamie are central to this along with the prisoner, Truman. For Deano, the corruption funds a hedonistic lifestyle of drugs, alcohol and strip bars, as well as enabling him to accumulate hidden assets including a luxury car and apartment. Corruption is a real issue in UK prisons. Between 2012 and 2017, 341 prison officers were dismissed, excluded, convicted or cautioned by

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the police for smuggling drugs, weapons and mobile phones into prisons (Yeung 2018). HM Prison and Probation Service, like the police, has a counter corruption unit that seeks to address this problem. Corruption in prisons is usually understood to encompass abuse of public power for private gain, and includes areas such as: trafficking contraband; inappropriate relationships; unlawful assaults; improper access and release of information; and manipulation of procurement (Goldsmith et al. 2016). The audience responded to what many saw as an authentic representation of prison officer corruption. For example, one elaborated: I think they were just trying to portray a sense of realism because it does happen in jail – drugs. Drugs is a part of prison life. People getting cut because they can’t pay for drugs is a part of prison life. Screws bringing it in is a part of some. I don’t think anything was glamorised really in the film.

The audience shared stories of trafficking, unlawful assault and inappropriate relationships. Their discussion, however, ranged more broadly into the nature of power, including that exercised by prison officers. Many of the group described a pervasive sense that penal power and prison officer authority was illegitimate. For these men, the film exposed and validated their view that “the system is corrupt”, where: “[e]verything is based the majority of the time on corruption but people try and put this veneer that shine over things”. Critical criminologists have offered a critique of power and prison officer authority in the context of the harmfulness of prisons. As David Scott has asserted: “A key part of the everyday working life of the prison officer is witnessing the physical manifestation of the suffering of others” (Scott 2008, p. 168). Scott argued that in order to cope with this suffering, prison officers have to construct prisoners as: “‘ghost’ like – that is that their experiences, needs and reality were invisible” (p. 176). Consequently, prisoners are: “depersonalised and placed at an immense psychological distance” (p. 181). Scott goes on to describe that the moral foundations of imprisonment play a role in creating the conditions where this is possible: “If an officer constructs their own moral identity as ‘good’ and the prisoners as ‘bad’, the rather ugly outcome is that intense human suffering is denied” (p. 184). Many of the men in this study seemed to adopt a similar position to that of critical criminology, reading the film as critiquing both the moral foundation for the authority of

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prison officers, and calling out examples of indifference and harm. The men often conflated this more general critical perspective with examples of corrupt misconduct, seeing them as connected in a spectrum or part of a wider malaise at the heart of prison officer culture. One of the men suggested: …they [prison officers] are potential criminals, a lot of the officers are potential criminals. They have got the traits so to speak, they have got the traits of criminals. They have got lack of empathy, no doubt, no doubt. And they don’t give a shit.

This perspective rejected the moral authority of prison officers, drawing an equivalence with prisoners, by calling them “potential criminals”. This comment also critiques what the audience members experienced as indifference, denial and psychological distancing, characteristics described by Scott. Another group member discussed the lead character in the film, Sam Norwood, calling back to his initial rejection of prison work when it was suggested by his wife, where he described prison officers as “scum”: We are being warehoused by potential cons…He [Sam Norwood] says ‘I don’t want to be working with them scum’ and yet he is best mates with the scum, but then he turns into scum. He is a hypocrite. You can’t have drugs but yet he’s sniffing coke and drink and he is getting pissed and he is beating the crap out of people.

This description seeks to expose the criminal and morally reprehensible behaviour of prison officers as a deeply embedded aspect of their occupational culture. From this perspective, judgements made about prisoners and the moral superiority asserted over them by prison officers are mendacious. Many group members adopted a critical position, describing that, in their judgement, the criminal justice and penal system is based upon a deception, comprised of a myth of moral dualism, described by Joe Sim as: “the discourse of a sanctified ‘us’ and a despised ‘them’” (Sim 2008, p. 204). The audience critiqued Screwed as a deconstruction and delegitimisation of those simple moral dualisms. They read the film as representing a job that the public would consider “an honest living” as really involving “breaking the law every day”. The authorship of the

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film, being based upon the autobiography of a former prison officer, was valuable as it offered a public credibility, as explained by one man: I don’t know if it amuses us as in funny or it just makes you smile and laugh? Because it’s actually out there, people talk about it, but people don’t believe it. But to actually see a film that depicts officers over stepping the mark and kicking the crap out of the prisoner, and it’s come from an ex officer.

The men in this study read Screwed as a searing critique of penal power and prison officer authority. They took from the film not only a confirmation of organised corruption within prisons, but also a deconstruction and challenge to the moral foundations of prisoner–staff relations.

The Emotional Strain of Prison Work Sam Norwood, the lead character in Screwed is deeply affected by his work in prisons. He suffers psychological ill health, turns to alcohol and drug misuse and becomes estranged from his family. It has long been recognised that prison work has cognitive, emotional and behavioural effects, including in some people experiences of excessive stress, burnout and, alienation (Arnold 2005). Many prison officers describe that their work affects them emotionally as they are exposed to disturbing and stressful experiences. In order to psychologically survive this they become more hardened, cynical and detached but also angry and frustrated. In her research on prison officers, Elaine Crawley (2004) described how the effects of prison work could spill over into domestic life. In particular, there were collateral effects on family members through the stress, ill health and exposure to danger experienced by prison staff. Families also saw their loved ones changed by the job, sometimes becoming more assertive, controlling and, suspicious. Further, prison staff and their families sometimes felt contaminated and stigmatised by their work and faced judgements and stereotypes about who they were and what they did. Some of the audience members recognised that such spill over was a consequence of prison work. In the words of one man: I think that’s quite inherent with prison officers’ life probably in a family that… They always say don’t take your work home but then if you’ve had horrendous days, and it’s probably not just one of them… Actually

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if you’re an officer in a young offenders establishment I would think the pressure must be pretty grim and unless you live alone, you’ve got a family to come home, and whether you’re going to be quiet and keep it to yourself or you’re going to go to the pub and have a drink before you go home… It’s like people in the front line in the military, PTSD [post traumatic stress disorder], it’s got to take its toll. We’re human beings, we’re not robots…Is this what I want to take home with me at night? And all their friends would say ‘oh we’re going to go and…’ [and you have to say ‘Oh I’m working on a shift, I’m on a 12’, whatever. And then when they come back from work they don’t want to socialise because they’re trashed because the pressures of that day has taken its toll on them.

Others also recognised that prison staff were individuals, who experienced stresses and that they had to find strategies, sometimes dysfunctional, in order to survive psychologically. One man discussed how he believed that prison officers managed their emotions and self-presentation (see Crawley 2004; Arnold 2005): But don’t prison officers have those feelings but in order for them to keep their shit together they can’t display those emotions?

Some audience members saw such strategies of emotional management and self-presentation, not as a means of psychological survival, but as an illustration of prison officers’ indifference and “uncare” (see Chapter 4), which was, in their judgement, an integral part of the techniques of punishment inflicted upon them. One man described this process: Society sees prisoners as scum and people who should be locked away. So [officers are] indoctrinated to have no empathy for us because we don’t deserve it, we don’t deserve it. All we do is moan about our circumstances.

In the face of what many of the men experienced as antagonism, and neglect, they developed indifference or hostility towards prison officers. In the stark words of a group member: How do you feel empathy for a person that it seems like they don’t want anything good to happen to you?

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In this context, just as David Scott (2008) argued that prison officers saw prisoners as “ghost-like”, not fully human with their needs and experiences denied, so the men in this study adopted a similar position in their view of prison officers. One man confessed: We have got a wide experiences in prison [and]…it will be very hard for you to find any prisoner that will have any empathy for any officer.

For some this was not necessarily that they did not recognise or understand that prison work could be harmful and painful for prison staff. Instead, there was a process of implicatory denial (Cohen 2001), in which some group members judged that prison officers did not deserve sympathy, that any harm they experienced was self-inflicted or that harm inflicted upon them was justified. In the discussions about the film, one man acknowledged the stresses of the environment had upon Sam Norwood but simply concluded: “Yes but I still have no sympathy for him”. The argument that harm was self-inflicted was summarised by one man who said of Sam Norwood: Yes suffers from post-traumatic stress but he chose, instead of getting help for it, to turn to drink and drugs and turn into the so-called ‘scum’ of his mates and the people he was locking up.

From this perspective, prison staff have made a rational choice to undertake this work and as such cannot legitimately complain about the consequences. This is remarkably similar arguments to those made by some in relation to crime and imprisonment. People in prison came to depersonalise and “other” prison officers into symbols of their damaging experiences of penal power. For some audience members this meant that not only did they lack empathy for prison officers, but they also celebrated reversals of power. In some cases this was entertaining, such as the scene where Truman makes outlandish demands of the prison governor after the corruption is exposed. The men were amused that he had: “reversed the cards”; “play[ed] them at their own game”, and; “used the system to get what he wanted”. These feelings, could, however, also support real and harmful acts of violence. One man described a serious assault that was committed by a prisoner on a number of prison officers, where the perpetrator was elevated to the status of a folk hero in his eyes, while those that were hurt were invisible:

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…we were locked up because of him but everybody rated him because the officers put the heat on him first. This is one guy on his own and did five officers on Christmas Eve. That was the best thing ever.

Prisons are harmful for those who live and work within them. As read by this prisoner audience, Screwed invited the viewer to see beyond the uniform and understand the personal experiences of prison staff. Yet humanisation, empathy and identification were resisted by the audience. Their lived experiences made them reluctant to acknowledge the full humanity of those who they saw as the instruments of penal power and authority. They instead saw prison officers as people who did not deserve empathy. Just as research on prison staff has suggested that there is an occupational culture that adopts an “us and them” mentality, so the men in this study saw prison officers as “them”; the undeserving others. These structural divisions, antagonisms and tensions between prison staff and prisoners led to a mutual process of dehumanisation. As Jason Warr has reflected on his own personal and intellectual experiences of prison life, the institution can be brutalising for staff and prisoners in which a: “graduated cynicism…steals over those who are subjected to its environment” (Warr 2008, p. 21).

Conclusion The audience for Screwed reacted strongly to the film. They were intrigued to peer behind the curtain and to see a representation of prison officers’ working lives as written by a former prison officer. After the film had screened, many confessed that they had expected it to be a positive representation of officers attempting to rehabilitate prisoners and were surprised to see such a stark and brutal depiction. For many of the men, the film intersected with their own experiences and brought to the fore the tensions, antagonisms and resentments that characterised the power dynamics of staff–prisoner relations. As has been described above, they read the film as a depiction of a tight-knit and masculine culture. As well as representing corruption and violence, the film surfaced the experiences of the audience’s everyday relationships with prison staff. In particular, they perceived an indifference to their suffering and chronic misuse of power. For the audience, the film crystalised their view that penal authority was not legitimate as it was based upon a false assumption that prison staff were morally good in contrast

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to the underserving, morally deficient prisoner. In reading the film, the audience asserted that it revealed that criminal and immoral acts were as pervasive among the staff group as among the prisoner group and that there was essentially no moral difference. In the context of this value judgement about prison staff, the prisoner audience themselves described their own indifference to and occasional celebration of the suffering experienced by prison staff. In essence, the film revealed that the men would appropriate and project towards prison officers the same moral judgements, psychological distancing and neutralisation of responsibility, that they themselves experienced being directed towards them as prisoners. The bleak, critical perspective adopted by the audience did not necessarily reflect the empirical reality of their everyday interactions with prison officers. There were not necessarily constant conflicts, tensions and antagonisms. Research on prisoner perceptions of prison officers has suggested that they recognise individual differences and distinguish between a small but significant number of good officers who would do things for people and go out of their way to help; a larger number of neutral officers who were in the job for the money and would normally treat prisoners like human beings; and a small number of bad officers who would not try to help prisoners and who could be vindictive or pick on prisoners they didn’t like, over-enforcing petty rules (Liebling et al. 2011, p. 96). This film, nevertheless, offered a vehicle for the audience to engage both intellectually and emotionally with their negative experiences of penal authority. In one extensive study of prison officers, it was described that the everyday conviviality of interactions and relations could be interrupted when operational events led to the reassertion of roles and boundaries: These situations were like the cinema projector breaking down in the middle of a film: for a while, you can be immersed in the story on the screen, but when the picture breaks and the lights come on, you remember that the screen was showing only a superficial fiction, and you are brought back to reality. (Liebling et al. 2011, p. 114)

In contrast, watching Screwed did not divert the audience into a superficial fiction but instead reading the film enabled them to decode important aspects of their lives in prison. In particular, their discussion of the film brought into focus deeply held feelings of injustice and a keen political critique of carceral power. From this vantage point, the audience

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expressed that it was the veneer of everyday conviviality that was the superficial fiction, and the film was a medium through which they could be brought back to reality.

References Arnold, H. (2005). The effects of prison work. In A. Liebling & S. Maruna (Eds.), The effects of imprisonment (pp. 391–420). Cullompton: Willan. Arnold, H. (2016). The prison officer. In Y. Jewkes, B. Crewe, & J. Bennett (Eds.), Handbook on prisons (2nd ed., pp. 265–283). Abingdon: Routledge. Bennett, J. (2015). The working lives of prison managers: Global change, local cultures and individual agency in the late modern prison. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Cohen, S. (2001). States of denial: Knowing about atrocities and suffering. Cambridge: Polity Press. Crawley, E. (2004). Doing prison work: The public and private lives of prison officers. Cullompton: Willan. Crawley, E., & Crawley, P. (2008). Understanding prison officers: Culture, cohesion and conflict. In J. Bennett, B. Crewe, & A. Wahidin (Eds.), Understanding prison staff (pp. 134–152). Cullompton: Willan. Crewe, B. (2006). Male prisoners’ orientations towards female officers in an English prison. Punishment & Society, 8(4), 395–421. Goldsmith, A., Halsey, M., & Groves, A. (2016). Tackling correctional corruption: An integrity promoting approach. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Liebling, A., Price, D., & Shefer, G. (2011). The prison officer (2nd ed.). Abingdon: Willan. Scott, D. (2008). Creating ghosts in the penal machine: Prison officer occupational morality and the techniques of denial. In J. Bennett, B. Crewe, & A. Wahidin (Eds.), Understanding prison staff (pp. 168–186). Cullompton: Willan. Sim, J. (2008). ‘An inconvenient criminological truth’: Pain, punishment and prison officers. In J. Bennett, B. Crewe, & A. Wahidin (Eds.), Understanding prison staff (pp. 187–209). Cullompton: Willan. Sim, J. (2009). Punishment and prisons: Power and the carceral state. London: Sage. Warr, J. (2008). Personal reflections on prison staff. In J. Bennett, B. Crewe, & A. Wahidin (Eds.), Understanding prison staff (pp. 17–29). Cullompton: Willan. Yeung, P. (2018, September 1). Steep rise in prison officer smuggling drugs into jails. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/society/2018/sep/01/ rise-in-prison-officers-contraband-smuggling. Accessed 13 Mar 2020.

CHAPTER 6

Everyday: Families of Prisoners and the Collateral Harms of Imprisonment

Abstract Everyday focusses on a family, with four children, over a fiveyear period during which the father, Ian Ferguson, serves a prison sentence while the mother, Karen, struggles to maintain the family at home. Three main themes emerged from the discussions. The first centred on the experiences of people serving long-term sentences, who suffered the pain of separation, where relationships could be dissolved, compromised and damaged. The second theme addressed the experience of family members. In particular, emotional strain, financial hardship and social stigma. The resilience and loyalty of loved ones were positively represented in the film and highly regarded by the audience. Finally, the audience responded to the film’s depiction of a family reunited after release. Many of the audience members were sustained by a hope that they too would be reconciled with their loved ones. They were nevertheless aware that such dreams could be illusory and that the reality of release could be difficult and uncertain. Everyday offered a means to reflect upon the painful effects of imprisonment for prisoners and their families. It was also a gateway into exploration of the emotional life of prisons. Keywords Prisoners’ families · Prison visits · Partners of prisoners · Release from prison · Children of prisoners

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Bennett and V. Knight, Prisoners on Prison Films, Palgrave Studies in Crime, Media and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-60949-8_6

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Everyday focusses on a family, with four children, over a five-year period in which the father, Ian Ferguson, serves a prison sentence for an unspecified crime, while the mother, Karen, struggles to maintain the family at home. The film was shot in short spells over five years, so that the characters can be seen growing and ageing, revealing: “the small, subtle changes as people grow up and grow old whilst being apart” (Falk 2012). As director Michael Winterbottom has explained: …we wanted to do a film about time passing across five years, to see how the children would change with the absence of the father and whether, for instance, he could maintain a relationship with them. (Falk 2012)

Technically, Everyday warrants comparison with Boyhood (dir. Richard Linklater US 2014), a coming of age drama filmed intermittently over a twelve-year period. Linklater’s film enjoyed significant commercial and critical success, including being nominated for six Academy Awards. Both films use the device in order to give an authentic sense of time passing, people ageing and family relations evolving. As well as time, Everyday is also deeply concerned with issues of space (Bennett 2014). This is shown most starkly through the long journeys from home to the prisons, moving from foot, to bus, to train, to taxi. The distance between prison and the home is an important aspect of the painfulness of prisons for the families of those incarcerated. The film dwells on these liminal spaces with all of the physical, emotional and financial exhaustion they contain. The visits themselves are also an important space. The film shows a diversity from prison visits rooms, closed visits booths with glass screens, to day release and home leave. Each has its own emotional texture of hope and despair. Some of the audience members found the style and content of the film difficult. The deliberate pacing and focus on character and relationships contrasted with mainstream cinema’s preference for spectacle and action. Some described the film as: “long and boring” “slow”, and; an “acquired taste”. The subject matter itself was emotive and led to the men reflecting upon their own relationships. One man who had broken off relationships with his family found it too painful to watch a scene of a family visit in a prison and left the screening, although returned for the subsequent focus group discussion (see Chapter 1). The audience nevertheless responded to the optimism of the film, some found the lack of action more realistic

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and all appreciated that the film offered a considered representation of the challenges and experiences of the families of people in prison. The film was read by the audience drawing upon their own experiences, but it was also a medium through which they could reflect upon their own lives. Three main themes emerged from the discussions. The first centred on the experiences of people serving long-term sentences, separated from their partners, children, family and friends. They described the initial crisis of imprisonment, where some relationships were broken off and the men themselves made decisions about how best to psychologically survive. Those who maintained contact with people outside described the dynamics of this and how those relationships were complex. Although they were vitally important in sustaining hope, they could be uncertain, compromised and damaged. The second theme addressed the experience of family members. In particular, the collateral consequences of imprisonment that included emotional strain, financial hardship and social stigma. The film, and the men, recognised the fortitude and resilience shown by partners of prisoners. Finally, the audience responded to the film’s depiction of a family reunited after release. Many of the men felt hope that they too would be reunited with their loved ones. Their dreams were often idealised but also hinted that the reality they faced after release was uncertain and challenging. Everyday is an unconventional film in its style, production and its subject matter. It was a film that tested the audience members as viewers. Their response, nevertheless, opened up a vitally important aspect of imprisonment, exposed its effects and offered access to the emotional life of people in prison.

Everyday: A Summary The film opens with a four o’clock in the morning alarm call, as Karen Ferguson makes the long journey to visit her husband, Ian, in Brixton prison. A neighbour looks after two of the children while Karen and the other two children venture by foot along country lanes, then by bus, train and underground rail, braving torrential rain. The film dwells on these liminal spaces as she travels far for the visit, revealing all of the physical, emotional and financial exhaustion that such journeys entail. At the prison, the family are searched and shepherded through security and administrative processes before having their visit in an austere, institutional hall. The family embrace and discuss life at home, including the

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problems their two sons are having at school. After the visit, Ian returns to his cell, which he shares with another prisoner. He lies on the top bunk bed, with photographs, drawings and cards from his family on the wall. The youngest daughter, Katrina, has her first day at school. Karen has to rush to drop her daughter off before making her way to her job in a hardware store. That evening, Ian phones the family from the prison wing, struggling to hear about Katrina’s experience. The next visit is in a different prison, with a bleak visits hall formed of lines of plastic chairs. Katrina gets upset during the visit, worried about her father and their separation. In contrast to the social distance from his family, in his cell Ian experiences the enforced intimacy and domesticity of sharing a small living space, including an unscreened toilet. Karen visits Ian on her own, leaving his mother looking after the children. At the visit, Ian tries to engage Karen in sexual talk, which she does reluctantly, inhibited by the public space, observed by officers. When she returns home, the two boys, Robert and Shaun, have not returned from playing outside. Karen goes in search of them, finding Shaun in a nearby field. Robert, the older boy, has taken an air rifle and wandered into the woods. He returns as darkness falls, bringing with him a dead squirrel, as if he is a hunter fending for the family. Karen chastises him. He is caught between being a child and a figure of domestic responsibility. The two boys visit Ian with their mother. The boys have been in trouble for stealing sweets. Although Ian chastises them, Karen chides: “He’s copying you, that’s who he’s copying”. Karen has another part-time job in a bar. There she meets a family friend, Eddie, who offers her a lift home. They kiss as she leaves the car and arrange to meet again. All of the children go with Karen on a visit. This time they are in a more relaxed and comfortable hall, with sofa style seating. The long journey means they are late. When Ian complains about this, asking: “how come you were late, we don’t get that long”. Karen shakes her head in disbelief. Karen takes the children for a day out at the seaside, including a boat trip to see a colony of seals. The torrential wind and rain does not deter them from enjoying themselves together. For the next visit, Ian is given day release from the prison. The family pick him up outside the gate and then they go to the local town. They enjoy a meal together and play in the park. Ian is overjoyed to have such everyday pleasures, saying: “I can barely speak I’m so happy”. Ian and

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Karen leave the children in the park and go to a hotel room where they make love before Ian returns to the prison. Later, Karen is at home with the children and Eddie, who has joined them for a meal. Ian phones and confesses that he was caught bringing back cannabis from the day release. Karen hurriedly ends the call. Their next visit is behind a glass screen in a closed visits booth. Ian claims he was forced to smuggle the drugs in to the prison under threat. Karen, is disappointed and concedes: “It’s getting too much this”. At school, Robert and Shaun have problems with their behaviour and in particular fighting other pupils. Shaun claims this is because: “someone said something nasty about my Dad”. At Christmas, the family have a short, snatched conversation with Ian as he phones the family from the prison wing. Later, Ian is granted overnight release. He is met at the station by Karen and they go home, where the children have decorated the house with welcome messages. Karen and Ian make love, but afterwards, Karen breaks down in tears, sobbing: “why did you do this to us? It’s been so hard here”. They collect the children from school and spend time watching television and reading bedtime stories. Ian and the children enjoy the simple pleasures of family life. When Ian is back in prison, Karen and the children have a day out at the beach with Eddie. Ian is finally released and is met outside the prison by Karen. The children have again decorated the house and they enjoy an evening out as a family in a local bar. That night, Karen confesses that she has had an affair with Eddie. Ian is angered and the children lie in their beds listening to the raised voices. The next day, Karen and Ian attend a carol concert in which the two youngest children perform. Later, Ian borrows a car and the family go to the beach on a cold but bright winter’s day. Despite the strain and the damage of their separation and experiences, the family remain intact.

Surviving Separation: Prisoner Experience In describing the transformation of punishment from pre-modern physical forms to the use of incarceration, Gresham Sykes identified the “pains of imprisonment” (Sykes 1958). These pains include the loss of security; liberty; autonomy; goods and services; and social and

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heterosexual relationships. Sykes described how intense these pains could be: Such attacks on the psychological level are less easily seen than a sadistic beating, a pair of shackles on the floor, or the caged man on a treadmill, but the destruction of the psyche is no less fearful than bodily affliction. (Sykes 1958, p. 64)

In relation to the loss of social and heterosexual relationships, a recent study of long-term imprisonment has described that: For most prisoners, being forcibly separated from loved ones for many years was excruciating, and it was this severance that many struggled to cope with most of all…The pain associated with the dislocation from loved ones had a number of implications for prisoners, including daily suffering, emotional conflict, and ultimately the loss of some relationships, particularly those that had been intimate prior to their imprisonment. (Crewe et al. 2019, p. 211)

The loss of social and family relations entailed by imprisonment is the central concern of Everyday and was a profound experience lived by the men watching the film. One man found the scenes of family visits so painful that he left the screening, albeit he returned to participate in the focus group discussion that followed. He described how these images brought to the fore his own experiences of loss and separation: That Everyday, it broke my heart that did. I suppose if I was having visits you could sit through it and watch it. I think because I’m not having visits, I’m not having nothing to do with the family, like I’m wishing that I was. I think that’s the bit that hits you hard. But the lads that are having visits, even they said it was quite emotional.

Some of the men also referred to the pain of missing out on key milestones and family experiences. In the film, these events are shown both without Ian while he is in prison, such as Christmas Day and Katrina’s first day at school, and with him when he is released, such as the carol concert and the day at the beach. One man described how this led him to reflect upon his own loss:

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All that stuff with going to the kids singing at the school, taking the kids to the beach, I can’t do none of that do you know what I mean. So it’s upsetting.

As well as the loss itself, some men felt a profound sense of responsibility and guilt for the consequences that their offending and imprisonment had for them and their families: I feel I’ve let them down for what’s happened because they’ve had to do time like I have.

Experiences of long-term imprisonment have profound impacts on relationships. This was described by Crewe et al. (2019), who summarised: The social dislocation that prisoners experienced when sentenced to long terms of life imprisonment was crushing and sometimes catastrophic. Separation from loved ones, anxieties about how the sentence would affect them over such a long period, and highly compromised role identities meant that many of the most painful and devastating aspects of enduring confinement related to family members, particularly parents and children. At the same time, for a range of reasons—life divergence, identity change, moral judgement, the pain of ‘missing out’, and the sheer difficulty of staying in touch over long periods and substantial distances—most friendships were terminated or simply faded away. As prisoners became increasingly disconnected from their pre-prison social worlds, they were forced to turn to the inner world of the prison in order to satisfy their need for relational goods. (p. 247)

This pattern was reflected in the response of many of the men watching the film. Some described the breakdown of relationships with partners. This was sometimes described in altruistic terms, such as: “I didn’t want her to wait the amount of time”, or; “I wouldn’t expect her to do that and wait for me. A 25 year sentence, it’s a huge amount isn’t it”. Yet there was also a degree of self-preservation where some men found psychological survival more achievable on their own or they were protecting themselves from further emotional and psychological shocks. As one man commented:

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I’m just thinking, you hear some of the boys don’t you on the wing and they’re like ‘oh my old woman’s given me a Dear John’ or whatever or ‘she’s seeing somebody else’. I just couldn’t handle that side of it.

For others, there was an acute concern about the suffering of their own families. Responding to the scenes of the family making long and difficult journeys to prison visits, one man commented: And he’d got them coming up on bus and train and everything. I’d be too ashamed to be honest with you. I’d be ashamed to even ask them to do it.

Further, some of the prisoner audience wanted to protect their families from the contamination of “secondary prisonization” (Comfort 2008) they felt they would experience when coming into a prison. As one man described: That’s what would do me seeing my grandkids it would destroy us, that’s why I have broken mine off…No I wouldn’t want the kids to come in and that’s it…No the kids, that’s what would put me off, searching the kids and that.

As well as these decisions to distance or cut off family and friends, the men would experience a weeding out of social relations as some people from the outside simply drifted away and did not maintain contact. This was described by one man who said: You see who your true friends are you know and who your true family members are. You know you see a person’s loyalty, you see a person’s character. Trust me when you go to prison and your back is against the wall you see who is who.

There were others who chose to break off relationships with friends and associates who they saw as a bad influence. Particularly when they had adapted to imprisonment, had grown up, and were seeking to change their life course. One man described this: I don’t have no contact with any of my friends that were [involved in crime]. I don’t even want no contact with them because my life has moved

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on, you know. I’m not the same person I was before… I never mix with people that do all those things.

Some people benefitted from deep and lasting relationships that have endured before and during imprisonment. For some this involved parents and siblings, but for others, more often those that were older when imprisoned, this could include partners. One man described his own experiences, which in some ways reflected the enduring family relationship depicted in Everyday: But when you’re older and your children are grown up and you’ve got grandchildren, and you’ve been together all these years, as I said ‘do you feel you want to move on’? She said ‘what will I move on to’? She said ‘I don’t want anybody else, all I want is you out of where you are to live the rest of the life we’ve got together’….I said ‘you’re sure’? ‘One hundred percent’.

Where contact and relationships were maintained during the course of a long sentence, this could be difficult, complicated and emotionally testing. While visits could be emotionally rewarding, offering “a hurried escape” from prison life and a “humanizing process” (Thomas and Christian 2018, p. 280), they could also be fraught, leaving the men anxious. As one man described: When you come back off a visit you have an early night. Everything gets too much and you’re just stressed thinking about everything.

The practicalities of staying in touch could themselves be difficult. The film showed scenes in which the father, Ian, struggled to converse with his children over the phone from a noisy prison wing. The audience recognised these difficulties: I had the exact same experience as that guy on the phone. Because you’re talking and then people in the background, and you only get so much credit… Especially with my little boy. He was like four, five, he wasn’t speaking very well. So because I couldn’t communicate with him I was getting frustrated and I was ‘put your mum on…what did he say?’. And it was hard, do you know what I mean? Whereas if you were there watching him grow up, you might not understand his language, what he’s saying, but because you’re his Dad and you’re there you’d know what he means

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and that… And it got a bit hard on that side to understand what he was saying on the phone. And then I’m talking with him and like she’s telling him things to say and I’m like ‘tell your mum to shut up, I want to hear what you want to say to me.’ It’s crazy.

Conversations and engagement could also be characterised by “guarded flows of communication” (Crewe et al. 2019, p. 226) in which there was a mutual effort to shield each other from upsetting news, in the knowledge that there was a degree of powerlessness due to the separation and different social worlds they inhabited. This was articulated by one man who said: Whatever happens in prison if there is a violent incident or I don’t know whatever goes on anything negative…it’s not a good idea to tell your family that. Just like how they don’t, they are not trying to upset me I will do the same and not try and upset them. I won’t tell them ‘oh a guy got slashed today’. It just makes no sense.

Relationships could be characterised by stasis as people inhabited different domains, endured different experiences and enjoyed only limited interactions. This was summed up in one comment: We are a lot better than we were before I came in. It can be difficult because when I come in my little sister was in her last year of school and now she is this fully grown women and her own house and married and got a two and half year old kid. And I still see her as a little girl so when on visits she is going on about things and I still talk to her like she is a little girl sometimes. But she still looks up to me apparently.

This description is of families missing out on major milestones together, relationships frozen in time, but nevertheless deeply attached and shared. These compromised identities and relationships are a major feature of long-term imprisonment (Crewe et al. 2019). For the men in this study, Everyday brought to the fore the complex and painful experiences of separation from loved ones. For some, cutting off contact was the only way to survive, for others maintaining contact was enriching and vital, but also for those that did maintain contact, the relationships were compromised. These contradictory and complex experiences were summed up by one man who described:

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There are people that have issues with family, there are people that are on the phone every single day to their family and I think to myself ‘what have you got to talk about because nothing changes’? Family is a big part, if you have family it does make it a bit easier I suppose if you have nothing.

This comment encapsulates the messiness of family contact. It can be characterised by “issues”; a source of pain, suffering and frustration. It can be a superficial and compromised ritual, enacted as a routine in which “nothing changes”. It can be an enriching experience that makes prison survivable, or at least “a bit easier”. Such are the complex emotional experiences and relationships of men serving long-term imprisonment.

Surviving Separation: Family Experience The impact on prisoner’s families can be severe, casting a shadow across their lives. The collateral consequences of imprisonment for families can include: strain upon family relationships; financial hardship; stigmatisation; and the impact on children (Codd 2008). Everyday captures and reflects these consequences and illustrates the impact of imprisonment for families. Many of the men appreciated that it revealed to them experiences that would be shared by their own loved ones. One man commented: …Everyday, that hit me a bit different because it was a reflection of how it must be for our families outside. Because obviously, when you are in here you don’t see it. You may feel things and they might tell you, but that put it in a visual perspective.

The families of long-term prisoners undertake an emotional journey during the course of a prison sentence. This would often include moving through stages, from the initial impact and shock of arrest and conviction; early coping where they try to adjust to their changed circumstances; accommodation where they are able to integrate maintaining contact into their daily lives; and moving on in their lives either during the sentence or after (Condry 2007; Kotova 2018). As the men in this study were all serving long sentences, their relationships had generally settled into a period of accommodation. The audience recognised the family strain being placed upon Karen, the mother in Everyday. She was described as “basically a single mother”, carrying out the parental duties on her own and acting as “a role model

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for both male and female”. At the same time, Karen was maintaining a relationship with her husband. The audience members recognised that she was: “Trying to be strong for both isn’t it, for the geezer, for the kids at the same time”. Karen was similar to the many partners of long-term prisoners who: “…had put their own needs to one side to meet the needs of the offender and other family members” (Condry 2007, p. 49). In the film, Karen and Ian attempt to maintain their family unit despite the strain that imprisonment places upon them. The men recognised that it was Karen who played the pivotal role in making this work: It’s the fact that she felt like the children wanted to see their father. She wanted to see the father but at whatever cost put herself through what she did to keep the family together, to get them to the visit.

The travel to visits was shown in the film with all of its challenges including early morning starts, various forms of public transport, exhausted and emotional children, constraining security processes and basic facilities in visits halls. The men recognised the challenge of visiting for families, describing it as a torturous endeavour: Yes, out in the pissing rain, walking miles to this bus, two trains. Yes, it’s a mission man.

The impact of imprisonment is not only the inconvenience of long journeys, but it is the way that the prison routine reaches into the lives of family members and takes hold: Prison puts family members on a schedule entirely beyond their own choosing. Partners and children organize their day in order to be next to the phone at the right time to take a call. They travel long distances— often on poorly maintained and irregular public transport… All of this is psychologically and emotionally exhausting. (Halsey 2018, p. 221)

Many wives and family members organised their lives around the needs of their loved ones in prison (Condry 2007). The financial strain experienced by families was also discussed. In Everyday, Karen has two part-time jobs to support the family. Some of the men admitted that it was expensive for their families to visit. As many prisoners’ families suffer pre-existing disadvantages, imprisonment can exacerbate financial strain.

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Imprisonment can also create stigma for prisoners’ families, both within the prison and outside. The practices of searching, regulated interactions, restrictions on clothing and constant surveillance all created a sense of “secondary prisonization” (Comfort 2008; see also Condry et al. 2016; Hutton 2018). Outside, social judgements would also be cast upon the families of prisoners (Condry 2007) and this was particularly shown in Everyday when one of the children gets into trouble at school for fighting with another child who teases him about his father being in prison. The audience members recognised that this stigma could be directed towards children: Kids are cruel as well aren’t they at school. In the playground, ‘na na your Dad’s a murderer’.

It could also be directed to mothers and partners who could find themselves socially ostracised: And other women, like outside the school gates. You know what parents are like, especially women – ‘her old man’s in prison’ and all that shit. It’s dealing with that isn’t it?

The impact of imprisonment could be significant for families and partners. Many partners found themselves profoundly changed by their experiences in a way similar to coming to terms with a trauma (Kotova 2018) and families as a whole were also harmed by the experiences: Families are not always destroyed, but they are often severely and irrevocably depleted of the social and bridging capital needed to ‘get on’ in life. Family, in this context, is performed through the prism of prison. (Halsey 2018, p. 225)

Ultimately, many of the men saw hope in the way that in Everyday, Karen managed the burdens she was compelled to carry. Her fortitude and stoicism was something to be admired, as summed up by one of the men: Everybody seems quite happy and how she went about and tried to maintain some stability in their daily life without him being there obviously…She’s done a really good job. She’s kept the family together.

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Yet, this success had come at a cost. The strains experienced over the years of imprisonment are not eradicated in the moment of release. Many family members and family units are indelibly altered by the collateral effects of imprisonment.

Visions of the Future The support of loved ones can give those in prison a sense of hope for the future. Having the opportunity to be together with those they are closest to, free from imprisonment and enjoying everyday pleasures can be a vision that sustains people through the interminable routine of prison life and the years of separation. For prison authorities also, families offer a means for exerting neo-paternal power by making the quality and extent of family contact conditional upon compliant behaviour (Crewe 2009), and family support is organisationally viewed as one of the means to reduce reoffending (Farmer 2017). Watching the family in Everyday reunited at the end, the men reflected upon their own dreams of the future, describing what they hoped for from life after prison. One man poignantly described his fantasy of a fleeting and simple reconciliation with his grown-up children: My dream is to see my boys again, one day. Probably not in prison because I just don’t think they could handle it. I don’t think I could handle it really. But just that one day: ‘you alright Dad, this is my wife, this is the children’. Take me somewhere, have a nice big slap up meal or whatever, know that I’m alright and then I’d die.

Some of the participants in this study had grown up with difficult realities, including absent fathers, but nevertheless valued the ideal of family life. They often emphasised the importance of family and fatherhood in their ideas of masculinity. For example, an audience member described: Well the main character we see in Everyday, you could see he’s a family man and I believe a man is no man if he doesn’t look after his family so I could identify with that strongly. Family is maybe the only thing I rely on so family is important.

The film does not present a perfect, idealised family reunion, but it is nevertheless optimistic. A conflict takes place when Karen confesses

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her infidelity to Ian. The men reflected upon this and did not seek to condemn or judge Karen, but instead some understood that the opportunity for a less complicated life must have been tempting. As one man described: It was close. Probably in her head she’s thinking she could have easily just said ‘oh forget this guy, the Dad, and let me just go for this. The kids are happy, I like this guy as well’…It’s a fine line, it could have went either way that.

Many also said that they would have similarly been angry at the revelation, but would have come to accept it. For example, one person elaborated: I think that all that was a natural reaction. Obviously he’s going to be really angry with it: ‘what do you mean rah rah rah’. Then obviously the way the relationship continued he must have got over it. Do you know what I mean? He’s happy with them on the beach so it was a short term moment of anger, which a lot of people would be angry. But then maybe the next morning he probably thought about it…he played the whole situation. Because he was with her so he’s obviously forgiven her for it.

The reality of life after prison can be far from the fantasy. In her research on the relationship between partners after release from prison, Megan Comfort has described that: One prominent theme that emerged consistently across studies over the years is the challenge, frustration, and disappointment that accompany men’s return from the penitentiary. In contrast to both personal and societal expectations for joyful reunions, relief that the custodial sentence is over, and energetic efforts at domestic and civic ‘reentry,’ data indicate that the post-release period is rife with complex emotions, interpersonal conflict, and a pervasive feeling of being let down— by oneself, one’s partner, and society at large. (Comfort 2018, p. 74)

In particular, Comfort described that for men leaving prison, they faced a shifting construction of masculinity. Within the context of imprisonment, masculinity encompasses physical prowess, emotional containment and self-reliance. Yet outside, what it means to be a man includes being a contributor to the emotional, physical and financial demands of domestic life. The difficulty in navigating this transition and the challenges that

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ex-prisoners have in being able to access legitimate opportunities for selffulfilment can leave relationships strained and partners dissatisfied. As a result of these challenges, the reality of life after prison for families: “often proves a bitter pill to swallow” (Comfort 2018, p. 83). In Everyday, the men detected the shifting, gendered dynamics of family life when Ian returns to the home. In his father’s absence, the older son, Robert attempts to fill the void. This is particularly emphasised in the scene where he disappears into the woods and returns with a dead animal. One man reflected upon this scene: …why that stood out for me is because he’s trying to be a man. His father’s not there so he’s trying to play that male role model. Even when his brother got in a fight in school he tries to step in, he’s trying to be that man of the house.

When Ian returns to the home, he asserts himself by insisting that he sit in a particular seat at the table during a meal. This was described by one of the participants: It’s like he’s come in the house and it’s like when you have an alpha male, if you see them wild, when the dogs or the wolves leave their scent on the trees. And he was like ‘no, I sit anywhere I want to sit in this house’…He was trying to find his station in the house.

Everyday is a gentle, optimistic and humanistic film and the audience responded to its warmth. They themselves reflected positively about the characters and their own aspirations for the future. Yet, under the surface, there lurked some more challenging themes. The uncertainty about what it is to be a man inside and out, the uneasiness of reintegration and the effects of absence all swirled around the film, just as the uncomfortable reality of life after release nagged away at the dreamlike visions of the future so treasured by the men.

Conclusion Everyday was a challenging viewing experience for the audience. For some the style of the film, deliberately and slowly paced with an emphasis on character and relationships rather than action, was very different from their usual media choices. The content of the film was also poignant,

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connecting with their own experiences of separation from family and offering an insight into the tribulations of their own loved ones. As with other films screened during this study, there was a dynamic process in which the men drew upon their own experiences as a resource to read the film, and also used the film as a means to explore the emotional terrain of their own lives. In relation to Everyday, this was a means to candidly discuss their own separation from partners, children, other family members and friends. As the men in this study were living through long-term imprisonment, they described different stages in their relationships. Initially, they had to make choices about breaking off or maintaining relationships in response to the shock of conviction and sentence. For some, breaking off relationships and closing off the outside world made their imprisonment more psychologically survivable. For others, family contact was a stabilising and enriching experience. Yet all described that physical separation altered and complicated relationships, and sometimes what remained was damaged and compromised. The focus of the film on the experiences of the family of a prisoner was appreciated by the audience as offering them an opportunity to reflect upon and better understand some of the struggles that their own loved ones may be experiencing. This included the emotional, psychological, financial and social strains that are placed upon prisoners’ families. The film was also something of a celebration of the fortitude and resilience of those left behind. This solidified and reflected the admiration that many of the men had for their own families. The prospect of release and reconciliation with family members was a vision that offered the men hope for the future. The film had an optimistic and humanistic ending that echoed the hopes the men had. Yet, there was a nagging doubt both in the film and in the minds of the men, that release would not necessarily herald the halcyon days to come, but may be more difficult and frustrating than a Hollywood happy ending. The discussion of Everyday opened up different perspectives on the experience of imprisonment. It enabled examination of the effects of imprisonment not only on those imprisoned but also upon their families. The film revealed different identities including those of father, son and partner, showing people who were not isolated but deeply connected to the wider community. It also facilitated access to the emotional terrain

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of prison life, including the suffering and pain of imprisonment, the hopes and fears for the future, the uncertainty over what it is to be a man, and the inner turmoil entailed in everyday life.

References Bennett, J. (2014). Film review: Everyday (2012). Prison Service Journal, 214, 58–59. Codd, H. (2008). In the shadow of prison: Families, imprisonment and criminal justice. Cullompton: Willan. Comfort, M. (2008). Doing time together: Love and family in the shadow of prison. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Comfort, M. (2018). ‘I’m the man and he’s the woman!’: Gender dynamics among couples during and after prison. In R. Condry & P. Scharff Smith (Eds.), Prisons, punishment, and the family: Towards a new sociology of punishment? (pp. 73–86). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Condry, R. (2007). Families shamed: The consequences of crime for relatives of serious offenders. Cullompton: Willan. Condry, R., Kotova, A., & Minson, S. (2016). Social injustice and collateral damage: The families and children of prisoners. In Y. Jewkes, B. Crewe, & J. Bennett (Eds.), Handbook on prisons (2nd ed., pp. 622–640). Abingdon: Routledge. Crewe, B. (2009). The prisoner society: Power, adaptation and social life in an English prison. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Crewe, B., Hulley, S., & Wright, S. (2019). Life imprisonment from young adulthood: Adaptation, identity and time. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Falk, Q. (2012). Michael Winterbottom: Interview. http://guru.bafta.org/mic hael-winterbottom-interview. Accessed 18 Feb 2020. Farmer, L. (2017). The importance of strengthening prisoners’ family ties to prevent reoffending and reduce intergenerational crime. London: Ministry of Justice. https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/government/uploads/ system/uploads/attachment_data/file/642244/farmer-review-report.pdf. Accessed 15 Aug 2020. Halsey, M. (2018). ‘Everyone is in damage control’: The meanings and performance of family for second and third generation prisoners. In R. Condry & P. Scharff Smith (Eds.), Prisons, punishment, and the family: Towards a new sociology of punishment? (pp. 213–229). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hutton, M. (2018). The legally sanctioned stigmatization of prisoners. In R. Condry & P. Scharff Smith (Eds.), Prisons, punishment, and the family: Towards a new sociology of punishment? (pp. 230–243). Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Kotova, A. (2018). Time, the pains of imprisonment, and ‘coping’: The perspectives of prisoners’ partners. In R. Condry & P. Scharff Smith (Eds.), Prisons, punishment, and the family: Towards a new sociology of punishment? (pp. 245–257). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sykes, G. (1958). The society of captives. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Thomas, S., & Christian, J. (2018). Betwixt and between: Incarcerated men, familial ties, and social visibility. In R. Condry & P. Scharff Smith (Eds.), Prisons, punishment, and the family: Towards a new sociology of punishment? (pp. 273–287). Oxford: Oxford University Press.

CHAPTER 7

Conclusion

Abstract This chapter draws together the main findings from an exploratory study in which five contemporary British prison films were screened to an audience of men serving long sentences in an English prison. At a macro-level, mediated images are a power resource that project ideological visions of justice. The audience recognised that representation was part of the power structures that enabled punitiveness. Although they applauded examples of alternative, critical perspectives they saw this is having limited impact in the face of hegemonic power. From the meso-level, the participants used these films to map the social terrain of prisons. The dominant representations conveyed a hegemonic ideal of what it is to be a prisoner. This was a form of symbolic violence that had implications for how people in prison are viewed by others but also how they construct their own lives. At the micro-level, media was deployed by the audience members as part of the ongoing process of constructing their self-identity. The chapter ends by considering the implications for research and practice. This includes the potential to use media productively, for example through film discussion groups and by engaging prisoners in media production. It is argued that as digital developments are rolled out in prisons, the end-user, prisoners themselves, should have an important role in design, content production and use. Keywords Prisons · Prisons and media · Arts in prison · Prison films · Audience research · Digital prisons · Prison research

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Bennett and V. Knight, Prisoners on Prison Films, Palgrave Studies in Crime, Media and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-60949-8_7

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This book has explored the significance of contemporary British prison films for people serving sentences deep inside the English prison system. The five films screened and discussed in this study have encompassed a spectrum of issues that are central to the prison system today, including: power and resistance; the experience of prison staff; the experience of the families of prisoners; the illicit economy in prisons; rehabilitation programs; corruption and abuse of power; mental health; and race and racism. This study has differed from the majority of empirical research on the media representation of prisons, which has focussed on the responses of the general public, with no direct experience of imprisonment. Instead, we have turned attention to people in prisons, in other words those that are most affected by imprisonment, have expertise by experience and are represented in these films. As well as considering a particular audience, the study also focussed on the reality and representation of imprisonment at a particular time. The fieldwork took place in 2018 and involved screening films released between 2008 and 2015. These films therefore reflect, were produced and viewed within a particular penal era in England and Wales. This is an age that has seen prison populations sustained at historically high levels, increasing sentence lengths, greater use of indeterminate sentencing and latterly a deterioration in conditions and safety during a period of austerity where the financial resources available to public services have been reduced. The questions asked in this study have been multilayered. They have sought to explore representation and consumption as engaged activities, situated in a broader social and institutional context, involving “cultural struggles over meaning” (Moores 1993, p. 7). The study has considered how the prisoner audience have decoded these films as a macro-level social power resource. In other words, how do these films construct an image of the role of imprisonment, who is in prison and what happens? In light of those questions, what are the implications for penal policy, practice and people in prison? The second question explored is at the meso-level, considering the prison as an institution and its cultures, addressing the relationship between representation and the lived experience of prisons. What role do these representations and their consumption have in the construction and navigation of particular cultures within the prison? Finally, there is an exploration of film consumption at the micro-level. In particular, how individuals engage with representations in relation to their own personal biography, experiences and identity. How does

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their consumption relate to their “reflexive project of the self” (Jewkes 2002, p. 128). This multilayered approach attempts to examine how audiences respond to the text as a power resource, broadly the “incorporation/resistance” paradigm of audience research (Abercrombie and Longhurst 1998), but also attempts to situate media consumption within the everyday lives of the audience, the cultures they inhabit and the identities they adopt, broadly the “spectacle/performance” paradigm of audience research (Abercrombie and Longhurst 1998). This closing chapter will draw together observations at these macro-, meso- and micro-levels in order to understand the significance of contemporary prison films to people deep inside contemporary imprisonment in England. The conclusion will also discuss the implications of the findings, suggesting both further research and developments in practice that may harness the potential of media consumption in prison.

Prisons Films and Society As was described in Chapter 1, in the absence of any direct personal experience, media representations of prisons play a significant role in shaping public attitudes. Media has an ideological function in explaining crime, framing the problems and guiding emotional responses (Rafter 2000). Mediated images are a “power resource” (Ericson et al. 1991, p. 11), which: “provide people with preferred versions and visions of social order, on the basis of which they will take action”. Particular values become legitimised and entrenched through their prominence and repetition (Carrabine 2008). The prisoner audience were aware of the power of prison images to shape public and political attitudes and that this consequently influenced their own personal experiences and social position. The audience members recognised that media representation was part of the power structures that enabled the growing punitiveness in penal policy, including increasing prison populations, longer sentences and harsher conditions. They saw, particularly in films such as Bronson and Starred up, a focus on violent prisoners who may offer an entertaining spectacle but also reinforced the idea that those in prison needed to be kept away from wider society. As well as legitimising imprisonment, such representations also enact a form of structural violence that lends credence to the imposition of the pain and suffering of punishment (Brown 2009). So, for example the audience described Bronson as: “the poster boy for

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the reason why they do the things they do”; while they also recognised that Starred up focussed on those involved in the violent subculture while ignoring the majority who were: “just playing pool, just going about their daily business”. From this perspective, films can be both voyeuristic entertainment and a medium through which punitive logics are strengthened by constructing an idea of who is in prison and how they behave. The audience also, however, recognised that there was an “alternative tradition” in prison films (Rafter 2000) and that the media may play a reform function (Wilson and O’Sullivan 2004). For some, the films offered an insight into the experiences of people who were often marginalised including prisoners generally, Black and Asian prisoners specifically and the families of prisoners. The films were also seen as a way of exposing abuse, mistreatment and articulating the concerns of prisoners. The audience particularly described this to be the case in relation to controversial issues including prison officer violence, corruption and racism. The films offered a form of validation and amplification of their criticisms. As one man described: “I want the public, I want the independent people to be aware of our concerns”. The audience members also recognised that films offered emotional engagement that could nurture empathy with people in prison. Sometimes this was by showing a normalised image of those in prison such as Zahid Mubarek, the reformed young man in We are Monster, or the father and family man, Ian Ferguson, in Everyday. Even those who had committed the most serious crimes could be represented in more rounded ways. In particular, the institutional brutality experienced in Bronson, the childhood abuse suffered by Eric Love in Starred up or Robert Stewart in We are Monster, offered a broader context to understand their violence and to: “show that we are actual people, we are not monsters”. The audience recognised that media representation, and the five films screened in particular, were a means through which debates about imprisonment could be enacted. They sensed, however, that the cards were stacked against them, that the dominant values represented were those that reinforced the existing power structures and penal logics, and their concerns were largely marginalised. Ultimately, they were resigned to their own relative powerlessness against superior social forces, summed up in the comment: “It’s the government isn’t it? The government always wins”. Although punitiveness is not solely a matter of government action but is a broader social process (Garland 2001), this assessment does give a

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sense of the weight of the hegemonic penal values as felt from the perspective of people in prison. The sceptical assessment of the audience also highlights the limitations of fictional media as a vehicle for macro-level social change, as well as exposing how media representation is implicated in the maintenance of social structures.

Prison Films and the Prison While understanding the films as a means to engage with wider society, the audience most also used the films as a means to express their own experience of imprisonment and to critique the contemporary practices of imprisonment. This meso-level analysis was particularly significant, reflecting the “spectacle/performance” paradigm, suggesting that consumption is part of the process of constructing culture and identity. The prison genre has sometimes been described as metaphor to express broader notions of freedom and individuality, but as was described in the Chapter 1, the five films screened in this study, and many other prison films besides, assert truth claims and their perceived authenticity is part of their attraction. The films are therefore specifically engaged with a commentary and representation of the contemporary prison experience. The audience brought their lived experience and expertise into their decoding of the films. The films and the audience engaged with the contested meanings of the prison, its people, its purpose, its regime and effects. The audience were able to read and critique the films as mapping the social terrain of prisons. For example they discerned the transition from authoritarian to neo-paternal power in Bronson, with the contemporary emphasis on securing compliance through incentivised access to material goods and conditional release from indeterminate sentences. They also engaged with experiences of race and racism in the multicultural prison, particularly in reading We are monster, describing a general state of everyday conviviality and order, but with an undercurrent of hidden tensions, suspicions and injustices. The prison subculture was dissected, in Starred up and Screwed, and used to reveal the impact of drug markets and organised crime, leading to corruption, violence and informal power structures. Further, the issues of staff–prisoner relationships, penal authority and legitimacy were raised in several of the films revealing a critical perspective of those subjected to penal power, seeing authority as not driven by notions of care or rehabilitation but instead by

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control and coercion. Together, these readings offer a perspective from deep within the prison system and the inmate culture. This is a culture characterised by relationships of power and resistance, burning with a sense of injustice, in which hypermasculinity, violence and individuality are celebrated. The films represented a particular idea of the inmate culture, but equally, the readings offered by the audience in many ways reinforced and strengthened this hegemony, conveying an ideal of what it is to be a prisoner, and indeed what it is to be a man in prison and even outside. This relationship between institutions, representation and culture is significant in revealing some of the workings of power and the connections between structure and agency. In the prison, the physical structures of the institution are manifest and clear, in the walls, bars and gates. There is, however, a more subtle process that creeps into the self-identity of people in prison, rendering them amenable to control and compliance. Pierre Bourdieu explored this relationship in an extensive body of work, but in particular through the concept of the habitus (Bourdieu 1977), which explores how an individual’s attitudes, perceptions, behaviours and general outlook on life offer a means to internalise and enact broader structures of power and domination. Bourdieu (1990) also described the process of symbolic violence, which captures the ways in which through their experience of the social world, individuals organically and cumulatively, and thus symbolically, come to develop taken for granted ways of thinking and behaving. This is described in terms of ‘violence’ as these taken for granted assumptions enable power to be accumulated and exercised by some groups, while others experience constraint and subordination. These ideas are particularly relevant to the relationship between prisoners, representation and prison culture. What is conveyed in both representation and inmate culture is that the prison world presents people with a set of circumstances, rules, problems and challenges that are different from conventional life, and in order to successfully navigate this, a set of skills, attitudes and behaviours are required that are also different from conventional life. While this offers an entertaining spectacle for viewers, it emphasises the “otherness” of people in prison. In terms of both representation and prison culture, successfully surviving the prison experience exacerbates their difference as “prisoner”, and even confirms their unsuitability for life outside. Both representation and lived experience, it is argued here, reveal symbolic violence in which an image is constructed of what it is to be a “prisoner”, this is an image

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that encompasses hypermasculinity, violence, entrepreneurial individualism and rejection of institutional authority. This symbolic construction is part of the process through which people in prison are excluded, marginalised and their subordination is taken for granted, both by the general public and by themselves. At the meso-level, the reading of prison films by the prisoner audience offered a sophisticated and insightful analysis of the contours of the social world of prisons. At the same time, these readings also revealed the workings of power in which the idea of what it is to be a prisoner was constructed. This was an idea that had real-life significance in shaping social values outside of the prison, and confining those in prison to a narrowed set of opportunities that constrained how they acted and developed their sense of self.

Prison Films and People in Prison Although there were broad commonalities and themes that emerged from the group discussions, it was also apparent that individuals would decode and read the films from their own individual perspective, drawing upon their biography and sense of identity. Again, this type of audiencehood reflects the “spectacle/performance” paradigm, suggesting that media consumption and the everyday presentation of the self are interwoven. Audience members would also navigate the films in a way that sought to express and strengthen their own sense of themselves. As well as collective cultural struggles over meaning, each individual also engaged in a personal struggle for meaning, which formed part of their project of the self. In his in-depth study of the prisoner society, Ben Crewe (2009) described the different ways in which people in prison adapted to their surroundings. He suggested that there were five distinct approaches: “enthusiasts” considered that their imprisonment was deserved and offered “an opportunity for self-improvement and moral reparation” (p. 157); “pragmatists” were the largest group, who “complied for reasons that were mainly instrumental and fatalistic rather than normative” (p. 167); “stoics”, who were pragmatic and wanted release, but “acutely aware of the strategies by which their compliance was accomplished, and were far more cynical about the mechanisms of power in which they were enmeshed” (p. 179); “retreatists”, who had limited engagement, were less optimistic about future and had less social contact

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inside and outside; and “players”, who displayed compliance but masked backstage resistance. While media representation and the cultural hierarchy focussed on “players”, the reality was that most men did not fall into this category. As has been described throughout this book, most of the participants in this study were “pragmatists” or “stoics”, who could offer a critique of the system they were subjected to, but largely felt that it was not in their interests to resist, or even that it was futile to do so. They adapted a form of resigned compliance. In viewing the films, many of the audience found a vicarious outlet for their frustrations and criticisms of the prison system. They would also express empathy towards anti-heroes (Bronson and Starred up) and morally complex characters (We are monster), while consciously withholding empathy from prison officers (Screwed). This “hidden transcript” of resistance (Scott 1992) was cathartic and was an important way in which they managed their own frustrations and preserved their own identity without engaging in open resistance. The characters in the films were also a medium for developing or reinforcing prosocial identities. The men in this study had spent several years in prison and had transition through initial shock, dislocation and adaptation. Most were in the process of “coping-adaptation” (Crewe et al. 2019, p. 202) in which they were coming to terms with their sentence and had re-orientated their focus, and were undertaking a process of remaking their self-identity, with some, albeit constrained, hope about the future including the prospect of release. This led to them reading the films in particular ways in relation to their own personal biography. For many, films that focussed on the prisoner subculture, such as Starred up and Screwed, offered a representation of a recognisable prison experience but not their own. They dismissed “prison politics” and “Jack the lad” behaviours as counterproductive for themselves. Some saw more identifiable representations in the character of Zahid Mubarek in We are monster or Ian Ferguson in Everyday, while others felt that their less dramatic, more domesticated lives were simply invisible in film narratives. The film characters could offer a range of identities that the audience could reflect upon. For the most part, those characters involved in violence and the criminal subculture were seen as entertaining representations, but showed paths that they had rejected or moved away from and did not wish to return to. Occasionally, the films offered an opportunity to explore emotions and to share vulnerabilities. This was particularly the case with regard to the

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issue of life histories and childhood experiences shown in We are monster, and the relationship with families that was the subject of Everyday. These films could raise painful memories of childhood abuse and trauma, as well as facilitate reflection upon the impact of imprisonment on families, including fractured relationships and collateral harm. The discussions following these films enabled the men to share and explore some of these experiences supportively. In this way, the films could be a way of navigating emotions individually and a way of positively connecting people socially. The representation of prison and prisoners was deployed by the audience as part of their ongoing process of constructing a sense of selfidentity. The characters, milieu and narratives were a medium through which these men could consider their own past, present and future, to make sense of who they were or wanted to be and to navigate and manage their emotions.

Prisons and the Media: Research and Practice To conclude this book, attention is turned to the question of what should follow from this study. This final section considers the implications for further research, but also for practice in prisons. The study that has informed this book was exploratory, that is that being the first of its kind, it was not intended to be definitive but instead stimulate further research that could consider the relationship between people in prisons and the media representation of imprisonment. The study focussed on a particular group of people—male prisoners serving indeterminate sentences in a long-term closed prison. This is a specific group and does not represent the penal spectrum. Further studies could explore different populations based upon gender, specifically women. Given that gender, in particular masculinity, was such a strong theme in the experience and viewership of the audience in the current study, it is likely that different readings may emerge. Similarly, there are different age groups of prisoners, so young people in prison may bring different experiences, perspectives and resources. The diversity within the audience in the present study—in particular ethnicity and age—suggested that although there was significant commonality in their decoding of the films, there were also critical differences, particularly when race and racism was the theme in We are monster. Another potential development would be to consider people in prison at different stages of

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their sentences, serving different sentences or having been convicted of different offences. Research on the life course of people in prison (Crewe et al. 2019) has suggested that there is a journey they undertake from initial shock, to adaptation and progress, then on towards preparation for release. At different stages, media may be consumed in different ways (Jewkes 2002), and therefore studies of people in open prisons preparing for release, those serving short sentences or those having recently entered the prison system, are all likely to generate distinct responses. Further, prisoners are not the only people in prison or affected by it, other important populations including prison staff and the families of prisoners will also consume prison films and this will generate particular meanings for them. As well as considering different people, further research may also explore different media. In particular, television documentary has become increasingly prominent as a means of representing the prison (Cecil 2015) and contesting contemporary penal values (Bennett 2017). Some of the participants in this study referred to a documentary that was filmed in the prison and one even asked whether popular documentaries would be screened in the study. Popular documentaries on prisons have clearly become more accessible and more widely consumed. Understanding how people in prison consume, decode and deploy such representations is a significant and under researched area. The methodology in this study has been informed by ethnographic audience studies, but it has to be recognised that this was conducted through a viewing experience different from that typical of people in prison. Other approaches are possible, which might attempt to access the ways in which people in prison consume media representations of prisons in a more naturalistic way. For example, rather than the planned, organised collective screenings used here, audiences may be composed of people who watched a particular film or documentary in their cell at the time it was screened. Their responses and readings may be accessed through reflective diaries, interviews or observations of spontaneous group discussions. Of course, such research is more time consuming and difficult to deliver but could certainly yield in-depth and rich empirical data. As well as thinking about further research on media and prisons, this study leads to questions about how media might be better integrated into prison practice. There has historically been a scepticism about access to technology and media in prisons and the capacity of people in prison

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to act as responsible audiences (Jewkes 2002). There has been a reluctance to introduce media into prisons in part as it has been seen as an indulgence, but as television in particular has become normalised, the concern has shifted to the audience themselves who are sometimes viewed an insufficiently responsible to have access to media. Television has therefore been introduced conditionally, based upon good behavior, and with restrictions on what can be viewed and when. This study has challenged the view that people in prison are an irresponsible audience and has instead illustrated that people in prison can be discerning and insightful consumers of media. The potential for constructive audiencehood could be enabled through structured screening, discussion and engagement. A similar approach has been seen in the widespread development of reading groups (Prison Reading Groups 2013), which not only engage people in reading but can have positive benefits on psychological well-being (Billingdon et al. 2016). A similar approach could be taken with films or documentaries, offering shared screenings and discussion groups. As has been shown in this study, such media enable access to the microlevel, how people develop their identity and sense of self; at a meso-level, how they evaluate and engage with the institution and the cultures within it; and at a macro-level, how they become active citizens engaging with the controversies and problems of the wider social world. While such film groups may be a good in themselves, they may also provide a route into other activities such as education, and facilitate the creation of mutually supportive peer groups. As well as active audiencehood, there may be even greater potential through people in prison becoming involved in media production. The role of arts in prisons has a long history, but it is also one that is steeped in controversy. From one polar perspective, the arts in prisons are condemned as a wasteful indulgence of the undeserving (Bedford 2018), while from the opposite pole, arts in prisons offer a deceptive façade, projecting an image of the prison as a rehabilitative enterprise, while masking an essentially destructive and oppressive institution (Cheliotis 2012). Arts in prisons have, in more recent years, been the subject of empirical research and evaluation. Some examples of this include an artist in residence initiative (Caulfield 2014), a therapeutic music program (Digard and Liebling 2012), the National Prison Radio station in England and Wales (Bedford 2018) and a prison magazine produced in Angola prison, Louisiana (Churcher 2018). These studies have shown that for individuals, engagement with arts production can

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have a positive effect on well-being, self-esteem and can support the development of prosocial identities (Bilby et al. 2013). The research on the prison magazine, in particular, illuminated how arts production can have an influence on prison cultures both through the content generated and the nurturing of alternative collective identities among participants. It was described that: What can be determined from the Angola inmates and their media is that a number of the men have committed themselves to performing masculinity in a way that does not glorify the aggression and violence that is synonymous with the hyper- and hegemonic masculinity portrayed through mainstream media. (Churcher 2018, p. 188)

In addition to the potential for media to support progressive cultural change, it has also been suggested that prison production can project outwards and challenge popular assumptions. The National Prison Radio in England and Wales has taken upon itself a role in social activism, by: “representing the hidden voices of prison life” in order to “reframe the dominant narrative from one of punishment and retribution to a focus on rehabilitation and positive change” (Bedford 2018, p. 139). Film and documentary production by people in prison has been limited. In the UK, there has been one significant example, carried out by Inside Film. This small charity, works with prisoners, ex-prisoners and people on probation to produce their own short films. These are then screened at small scale events and made available online. The intention of these projects is to raise the political consciousness of participants; offer an alternative form of production and distribution; and create films that provoke and challenge audiences with different perspectives (O’Neill 2018). This initiative has an explicitly Marxist approach, using film as a way to engage the political consciousness of working-class and marginalised people. The project involves practical sessions on film equipment and techniques as well as theoretical sessions on class politics and radical cinema practice. The participants produce: “…short, questioning and angry films…” (O’Neill 2018, p. 4) that “represent the ‘embodied experience’ of the working class…” (O’Neill 2018, p. 5). Inside Film has a particular political motivation and is aimed at the macro-level of engagement. It is therefore limited in scope. It nevertheless is a pioneer and one that has maintained a foothold despite many economic, political and practical challenges. There is, nevertheless a space

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for film and documentary production that operates at different levels, exploring institutional life, prison cultures and individual struggles for their own identity. There is also space for projects that are less overtly political but instead enable the organic development of individual and collective expression. As part of this study, the participants were asked to describe a prison film they would make. Their responses included multilayered, fractured narratives intermingling staff, prisoners and politicians; personal stories of redemption and personal change; and radical critiques of prison officer and penal power. As well as showing creativity, these descriptions show the gaps in mainstream media representation from the prisoner perspective. Beyond specific arts activities, the future expansion of digital resources in prisons opens up an opportunity to think more imaginatively about the material that might be made available and the ways in which people in prison may consume this. Placing the end user at the centre of digital strategy offers the greatest prospects for making the most of its potential (Van De Steele and Knight 2017). This book has offered an empirical insight into the capacity, capability and creativity of that consumer: people in prison. Greater engagement and involvement of these people in digital production may offer an opportunity to transform not only consumption, but also influence institutional cultural in constructive ways. In conclusion, this study has explored the relationship through consumption between people in prison and media representation of prisons. It has been revealed that there is a complex and multilayered relationship between individual identity, institutional culture and the broader political economy. Media consumption is a medium that people in prison engage with actively in developing their own sense of identity and making sense of the world in which they live. It is also a medium through which they contest their subordination. People in prison are sophisticated and discerning consumers of media, and there is significant potential to develop this through both audiencehood and production. Thinking differently about media and people in prison could have a positive influence on individuals, prisons and the wider public.

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References Abercrombie, N., & Longhurst, B. (1998). Audiences: A sociological theory of performance and imagination. London: Sage. Bedford, C. (2018). Making waves behind bars: The Prison Radio Association. Bristol: Bristol University Press. Bennett, J. (2017). Documentaries about crime and criminal justice. In N. Rafter & M. Brown (Eds.), Oxford encyclopedia of crime, media and popular culture. http://criminology.oxfordre.com/view/10.1093/acrefore/ 9780190264079.001.0001/acrefore-9780190264079-e-52. Accessed 2 May 2020. Bilby, C., Caulfield, L., & Ridley, L. (2013). Re-imagining futures: Exploring arts interventions and the process of desistance. London: Arts Alliance. https:// www.artsincriminaljustice.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/07/Re-imagin ing_Futures_Research_Report_Final.pdf. Accessed 10 Mar 2019. Billingdon, J., Longden, E., & Robinson, J. (2016). A literature-based intervention for women prisoners: Preliminary findings. International Journal of Prisoner Health, 12(4), 230–243. Bourdieu, P. (1977). Outline of a theory of practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bourdieu, P. (1990). The logic of practice. Cambridge: Polity Press. Brown, M. (2009). The culture of punishment: Prison, society, and spectacle. New York: New York University Press. Carrabine, E. (2008). Crime, culture and the media. Cambridge: Polity Press. Caulfield, L. (2014). Final evaluation of the artist in residence at HMP Grendon. Bath: Bath Spa University. http://artsevidence.org.uk/media/uploads/finala rtistinresidencereportaugust2014.pdf. Accessed 2 May 2020. Cecil, D. (2015). Prison life in popular culture: From the Big House to Orange is the New Black. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers. Cheliotis, L. (2012). The arts of imprisonment: An introduction. In L. Cheliotis (Ed.), The arts of imprisonment: Control, resistance and empowerment (pp. 1– 26). Farnham: Ashgate. Churcher, K. (2018). Manufacturing masculinity and hope through media production. In K. Foss (Ed.), Demystifying the big house: Exploring prison experience and media representations (pp. 177–191). Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Crewe, B. (2009). The prisoner society: Power, adaptation and social life in an English prison. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Crewe, B., Hulley, S., & Wright, S. (2019). Life imprisonment from young adulthood: Adaptation, identity and time. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Digard, L., & Liebling, A. (2012). Harmony behind bars: Evaluating the therapeutic potential of a prison-based music programme. In L. Cheliotis (Ed.),

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The arts of imprisonment: Control, resistance and empowerment (pp. 277–302). Farnham: Ashgate. Ericson, R., Baranek, P., & Chan, J. (1991). Representing order: Crime, law and justice in the news media. Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Garland, D. (2001). The culture of control: Crime and social order in contemporary society. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jewkes, Y. (2002). Captive audience: Media, masculinity and power in prisons. Cullompton: Willan. Moores, S. (1993). Interpreting audiences: The ethnography of media consumption. London: Sage. O’Neill, D. (2018). Film as radical pedagogic tool. Abingdon: Routledge. Prison Reading Groups. (2013). What books can do behind bars: Report on the work of PRG 1999–2013. https://prisonreadinggroupscouk.files.wordpress. com/2016/03/what-books-can-do-behind-bars.pdf. Accessed 10 Mar 2019. Rafter, N. (2000). Shots in the mirror: Crime films and society. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Scott, J. (1992). Domination and the arts of resistance: Hidden transcripts. New Haven: Yale University Press. Van De Steene, S., & Knight, V. (2017). Digital transformation for prisons: Developing a needs-based strategy. Probation Journal, 64(3), 256–268. Wilson, D., & O’Sullivan, S. (2004). Images of incarceration: Representations of prison in film and television drama. Winchester: Waterside Press.

Index

A Arts in prisons, 127 Audience research, 12, 13, 119

C Care, 42, 43, 53, 58, 59, 62, 71, 72, 75, 121 Causes of crime, 59, 68 Coding/decoding, 3, 13, 80, 121, 125 Consumption, 2, 3, 9–13, 118, 119, 121, 123, 129 Corruption, 7, 14, 40, 52–55, 80–84, 88, 89, 91, 93, 94, 118, 120, 121

D Digital prisons, 129 Discretion, 71 Documentaries, 26, 126–129 Domestic violence, 58, 69, 70

Drugs, 42, 44, 52, 81–83, 87–91, 93, 101, 121

E Emotions, 11, 43, 50, 67, 92, 111, 124, 125 Enculturation, 84 Ethnography, 13

F Families, 14, 36, 51, 91, 98, 99, 103, 104, 106–110, 112, 113, 118, 120, 125, 126 Fatherhood, 51, 110 Friendship, 60, 73, 103

G Gender, 9, 13, 14, 18, 87, 125

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Bennett and V. Knight, Prisoners on Prison Films, Palgrave Studies in Crime, Media and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-60949-8

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INDEX

H Hope, 6, 24, 29, 34–37, 46, 51, 55, 74, 98, 99, 109, 110, 113, 114, 124 I Identity, 9–12, 14, 18, 37, 55, 84, 89, 103, 106, 113, 118, 119, 121, 123, 124, 127–129 Incentives and earned privileges, 28 L Life sentences, 3, 15, 32, 35, 40, 45 M Masculinity, 44, 86, 87, 110, 111, 125, 128 Media production, 2, 9, 127 Media representation, 2, 3, 8, 10, 12, 30, 118–121, 124–126, 129 Mental illness, 65, 69 Multiculture, 62 O Offending behaviour programmes, 49, 54 P Penal policy, 10, 30, 118, 119 Power, 3, 4, 6, 9, 13, 14, 24, 26–37, 44–46, 51–54, 62, 64, 66–68, 74, 75, 81, 84, 85, 89, 91, 93–95, 110, 118–123, 129 Prison film, 2–7, 9, 15, 18, 19, 80, 118–121, 123, 126, 129 Prison officers, 25, 26, 28, 31, 71–74, 80, 84–95, 120, 124, 129

Public perceptions, 3, 4, 8

R Race, 14, 59, 61, 62, 67, 68, 71–75, 121, 125 Racism, 14, 58–60, 62–69, 71–75, 118, 120, 121, 125 Reform, 5–7, 9, 32, 34, 40, 52, 80, 120 Release, 7, 14, 26–29, 32, 35–37, 40, 46, 48, 49, 52–54, 60, 61, 89, 98–101, 110–113, 121, 123, 124, 126 Resistance, 6, 14, 24, 31–34, 37, 45, 118, 122, 124

S Social construction, 8 Social order, 8, 68, 119 Solidarity, 43, 53, 82, 86 Solitary confinement, 24, 26, 63 Staff-prisoner relations, 86, 94 Stigma, 5, 99, 109 Stress, 67, 80, 91–93 Symbolic violence, 30, 122

T Television in prisons, 2, 10, 13

V Violence, 6, 11, 17, 25, 26, 28, 30, 34, 37, 40–42, 44–46, 48, 53, 55, 58, 60, 61, 70, 73, 75, 80–82, 88, 93, 94, 119–124, 128 Visits, 17, 82, 87, 98–100, 102, 104–106, 108