At SXSW 2024, there were clear favorites: the campy Amazon Prime feature The Idea of You starring Anne Hathaway, the sci-fi time travel flick Omni Loop starring Ayo Edebiri, and the emotional tour de force put on by Colman Domingo in Greg Kwedar’s Sing Sing.

Films about prisons used to be zany escape tales like the Odysseus journey taken by George Clooney in O Brother, Where Art Thou. Then films like Shawshank Redemption explored the arcs of the falsely accused. TV cashed in on prison dramas with Prison Break and Orange Is The New Black that tap the storytelling potential of complex characters trapped in a constrained environment.

Yet, in the past few years, the reality of the prison-industrial complex and the horrors of mass incarceration are finally being talked about. Michelle Alexander’s stunning The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration In The Age Of Colorblindness woke up an entire generation — and the coming generations.

This isn’t merely about the disproportionate imprisonment of Black men but also the rigged system of institutionalized racism that forges a pipeline from poverty to prisons. Drawing a comparison to slavery and post-enslavement Jim Crow laws, the book’s release was a defining moment in American history when more and more people were forced to reckon with the cruelties and injustices of the criminal justice system.

But it didn’t end there. Then Ava DuVernay’s documentary The 13th explored the legacy of the 13th Amendment, which abolished slavery “except for the punishment of a crime.”

Slavery is still alive and well, the documentary claims. It just happens in so-called “correctional facilities” where a disproportionate Black population is forced to work for almost no money.

The glaring truth had finally been revealed: the United States is not the just utopia it promises to be, especially not for Black people.

First came the calls for criminal justice reform, body cameras on cops (which just provides unjust police departments more money), unbiased juries, and more. But these are merely band-aid solutions.

In the summer of 2020, after the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor, crowds thundered out of their homes (during a pandemic) to protest the police and they forced a racial reckoning. Finally, it felt like things were changing. For the first time, it wasn’t radical to call for abolishing the police (though the message, over time, got diluted). The natural progression? Abolishing prisons.

While prison reform is a largely uncontroversial liberal position, abolishing prisons is a more complex leftist question that takes into account our depleted communities and the racist conceptions of criminality. Prisons and police, this ideology argues, don’t prevent crime. Crime happens, they claim. However, this crime is a result of under-resourced communities where people live with unmet needs.

In Angela Davis’s seminal text on prison abolition, Are Prisons Obsolete?, she says: “[Prison] relieves us of the responsibility of seriously engaging with the problems of our society, especially those produced by racism and, increasingly, global capitalism.” Society puts the people it doesn’t want to think about in places it doesn’t have to see. But if we invested in these people instead, what would that look like?

To respond to these questions, the timbre of prison-inspired media has evolved to something more serious, meditative, and exploratory — even if it doesn’t answer them.

Although we don’t often think about it as a carceral narrative, Barry Jenkins’s Moonlight is about the life before and after its protagonist Chiron is incarcerated. We see him as a boy, neglected and tormented while living in poverty, and then we see him as a man, hardened by his time in prison and by the world.

Jenkins’s second feature, If Beale Street Could Talk, is a prison drama based on the James Baldwin novel of the same name. It’s explicitly about the unfairness of the criminal justice system and the effects of incarceration on families and communities. It starts as a romance, with two childhood sweethearts falling in love, until the lead, Fonny, is put into prison, and the lives of the people he loves are changed forever.

In the past year, we’ve seen the premiere of the show Unprisoned, starring Kerry Washington, exploring a father and daughter relationship ruptured by incarceration. Plus, Ava Duvernay’s film Origin traces the history and legacy of racism across the world.

So, it’s no surprise that Sing Sing takes an empathetic approach to the lives of imprisoned men, making it the first great prison movie to truly do justice to the inhumanity of the system and the humanity of the people caught within.

But is it an abolition film? A prison reform film? Or is it just Oscar bait built to make you cry?

Is Sing Sing based on a true story?

Sing Sing is based on the real-life Rehabilitation Through the Arts (RTA) program at Sing Sing Correctional Facility. It features real formerly incarcerated men and their stories. However, it’s more “based on true events” than it is a strict account of any one experience. It uses its tapestry of tales to create something hopeful, not just tragic. The dramatized narrative combines fact and fiction for a compelling cinematic experience, reaching an emotional truth that goes beyond correctional facilities and touches us all.

What is the movie Sing Sing about?

Sing Sing is about the journey of two incarcerated men, John “Divine G” Whitfield (Colman Domingo) and Clarence “Divine Eye” Maclin (played by the real Clarence Maclin), as they participate in the Rehabilitation Through the Arts (RTA) program at Sing Sing Correctional Facility.

Domingo’s character is imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit and he discovers new evidence that might prove his innocence. Over the course of the film, he works to get his conviction overturned. Yet, while other films would have made this the central storyline, Sing Sing resists cliches.

We see Whitman’s frustrations bubble over in an achingly raw moment in the middle of the film that shows rather than tells the character’s struggles — and the mental toll the prison system has taken on him.

This is what Sing Sing is really about. It’s about the toll the prison system takes on the souls of the people it affects. It’s about how working together in the arts inspires hope. And it’s about finding humanity in an inhumane system. These characters aren’t defined by their circumstances — in fact, we never know what most of them are accused of. In the rehearsal room, where we spend most of the film, they’re searching for truth just as we are, as they put on a production.

Is Sing Sing an original or adapted screenplay?

Sing Sing is an original screenplay by Greg Kwedar and Clint Bentley. In an effort to be more authentic, the script was developed with significant input from RTA program participants and alumni. While typical Hollywood fare holds developmental conversations about marginalized groups and forms its own conclusions, Sing Sing’s got into actual conversations with the community of incarcerated folks it’s representing.

Kwedar’s direction, coupled with Pat Scola’s cinematography, straddles the line between gritty realism and theatrical abstraction. You feel the realities of prison life, but it’s not voyeuristic. It’s tempered by the theatrical scenes that take us into new worlds with new characters.

Colman Domingo and the Sing Sing cast

As Divine G, Colman Domingo delivers a masterclass in empathy, imbuing the character with both gravitas and gentleness. Alongside real RTA alumni, he plays his role with such awareness that it’s clear this is an ensemble film, not an excuse to show off (which would have had the opposite effect of making his presence overbearing). His character is the star of the program, which helps justify the focus on Domingo, but he’s not pulling focus from scenes that aren’t about him. His approach carries its weight carefully. It’s no surprise there’s serious awards buzz.

Last year alone, he was nominated at the 2023 Oscars Best Actor In A Leading Role for Rustin, his portrayal of gay civil rights leader Bayard Rustin, and also recognized for his role in The Color Purple.

This time around, the awards heat is on the film itself. This small but mighty production has been hailed as one of the best films of the year. Come awards season, we expect to see it nominated for Best Picture as the indie darling amongst giants.

What does Sing Sing have to say about prison justice?

The film’s exploration of prison justice is explored abstractly. The assertion that Whitman, this talented and complicated man who shines as the star of the theater program, is wrongly convicted makes its point in and of itself.

But the film doesn’t bludgeon you with its message or morality (Zoe Kravitz, take notes). The RTA program — which aims to help incarcerated folks through direct action — has its stats. The reoffending rate for members of the program is less than 3% compared to 60% nationally.

But what is Sing Sing’s goal? Its refusal to indulge in poverty porn or to present its characters as objects of pity is advanced for Hollywood, which has a love affair with Black trauma. Instead, it portrays them as intricate individuals whose viewpoints, creativity, and development we care about. It manages to be both a compelling character study and a subtle critique of the prison-industrial complex.

Unlike more didactic works, its open-endedness leaves room for viewers to affirm their own beliefs. It doesn’t take a stance beyond the notion that the criminal justice system is flawed and incarcerated folks have humanity, too — but these are simple conclusions to draw.

Sing Sing’s emphasis on empathy and humanity is the most powerful case for prison abolition. Like all arguments for abolition, it illuminates the power of community. What would our world look like if supportive communities like RTA existed outside of the prison in communities that are underserved? Rather than investing so much in the notion of criminality, what if we recognized each other’s inherent humanity? What if we agree that everyone deserves to be treated with dignity and respect for their humanity — which prisons do not accomplish?

These questions provoke viewers to reconsider their ideas about criminality, prisons, and justice — even if the film doesn’t answer them. Sing Sing stands is a poignant reminder of the power of storytelling to illuminate complex social issues. It’s a film that demands to be seen, discussed, and, most importantly, felt.

Watch the Sing Sing trailer here: