I joined a prison play at 18. What happened next changed how I see people |
The notice in the La Trobe University student newsletter was inconspicuous: "Actresses required for Mess Hall Players' production of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. No experience necessary".
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It was late March 1982. I'd just turned 18 and was flailing around in the first year of my behavioural science degree. A play, even with a theatre group I'd never heard of, held infinitely more appeal than the statistics unit I was on the road to failing.
I called the number. A gruff male voice answered, "HM Prison Pentridge".
Of course I'd heard of Pentridge. Back then, everyone in Australia had. It was Melbourne's notorious maximum-security men's prison. I figured I must have dialled the wrong number.
"No, love. You're in the right place," replied the man. "It's the prisoners' theatre group. If you're interested, auditions start at five."
Was I interested? Hell yeah!
That afternoon, I hitch-hiked from uni to the main gate of the prison. Once behind the imposing bluestone walls, I entered a maze of sign-ins, metal detectors, bag searches and rule-reading, before being escorted by officers to A Division and its makeshift theatre - the former mess hall.
Three men in blue overalls got up from their red plastic bucket chairs. One of them removed his cap. They introduced themselves and shook my hand. The capless one pulled back a chair for me. I'd learn later that he'd been in Pentridge since the mid-60s. That's what you did back then. Removed your hat in the presence of a woman. Pulled out chairs for them.
The tallest of the men (I'll call him Phil) asked me what I did for a living.
"I'm a student. At La Trobe Uni."
"I was at La Trobe once," he exclaimed.
"Yeah? What did you do there?"
"Held up the State Bank," he replied with a sheepish grin.
I shook my head and smiled, but that's when it hit me. Where I was. Despite the bars on the windows, the prison blues and the guards standing by the door, it had started to feel like a normal theatre, a regular audition.
I was given two roles in the play. And every evening for the next four months I hitched to the prison - my homemade "Pentridge" sign guaranteeing a lift within seconds.
Plays are complex undertakings at the best of times, but putting a play on in a prison carried additional complications. Sometimes we'd turn up to rehearse and have to do without a cast or crew member. They'd have a court appearance interstate or have been transferred to H Division or Jika Jika after a cell search had unearthed some sort of contraband.
But the remaining men were dedicated to the play. They took it seriously. They worked hard. They were proud of what we were putting together and what they would get to show the public.
As per tradition with the Mess Hall Players, the audience for opening night were all the other A Division prisoners. Unlike the actors and crew, these guys had never seen the three actresses. They had, however, been hearing about us every day for the past 11 weeks. And they were more than a little keen to finally lay eyes on us.
The welcome didn't disappoint. As soon as Nurse Ratched and I walked on stage, the wolf-whistles started. Just a few at first, with the odd crude comment. Then the cheering, clapping and stomping took over. The wooden stage beneath us quaked. The clamour swamped our voices. We struggled to read each other's lips, scrabbling through our lines.
Like being swamped by a rogue wave at the beach, all we could do was hold our breath, attempt to stay upright and wait for it to pass. When eventually it did, we went on with the scene. That's when I was able to get a better sense of who was in the theatre. In my peripheral vision I saw indistinct forms of the men in the front row. They leaned forward on their red plastic chairs - pressed in so close I could smell their body odour. From the gloom beyond, the glint of the stage lights reflected in their upturned eyes.
For the rest of the play's run, the audience members came from outside. Families, friends but just plain theatre lovers too. At the end of each performance, they had half an hour to mingle with the men before the guards called "time!" The prisoners whose wives and girlfriends came to see the play were especially grateful for this brief opportunity to catch up. And for the odd "unofficial conjugal visit" they snuck in under the stage.
Over the hundreds of hours of rehearsals and performances, I got a rare glimpse of life inside a maximum-security men's prison. I became good friends with "Phil". He kept a protective eye on me, gave me advice, called himself my "big bruvva".
I also got to know many of the other 34 prisoners of the cast and crew. Some of them shared stories with me - of their backgrounds, their crimes, their time inside. Some of them had done horrific things. A couple had been sentenced to life without parole. And yet they were my fellow actors. They were polite, funny, charming.
At no time during the four months I spent with them did I ever feel afraid. I felt ogled, sure. But mostly I felt appreciated, respected. It's still difficult to reconcile those contradictory realities, the contradictory identities of some of the prisoners. And to know how I should feel about them.
After the play ended we were invited to a farewell lunch in the garden outside A Division. It was the first time I'd seen the men in sunlight. They'd used their paltry prison wages to buy us presents, done paintings for us, signed a huge card with a Polaroid picture taken of all of us together on closing night.
Afterwards I stayed in touch with a couple of them, exchanging letters. When "Phil" was released a year or so later, we went out to lunch several times. He'd come to pick me up, looking odd in his civilian clothes. We'd grab a bite to eat in an Italian restaurant and chat about my plans to travel to Europe, his plans for life on the outside. I went to his wedding and, shortly afterwards, left on my long dreamed-of trip.
I ended up spending 12 years in France and lost touch with "Phil". When I finally caught up with him again a few years ago, his life had changed beyond what I could have imagined back then. He now works passionately to help people with mental health, addiction and other life-impacting issues to turn their lives around. He is living proof of the value of programs like theatre groups in prisons that provide opportunities for creative expression and connection.
Of course, not all the men I met through the play followed the same path as "Phil". Some continued to offend, some died violently, some of drug overdoses, some in prison. And some were released and disappeared into anonymity.
What remains of my experience in Pentridge all those years ago is a deep interest in notions central to criminal justice and incarceration - notions such as rehabilitation, redemption and remorse. More than anything, I'm left with a question. It's one we can all ask ourselves: whether we can be more than the worst thing we've ever done. Some 44 years after the play closed, I'm still searching for an answer.
Michelle Wright is the author of Good Boy (Allen & Unwin, $34.99), the story of a prison inmate serving the final months of his sentence who signs up for a last-chance rehabilitation program for abandoned dogs - a decision that will change his life. The book is a work of fiction inspired by Michelle's work in a theatre program for inmates at Pentridge in her late teens. She is now a National Trust tour guide at the former prison. Her first novel, Small Acts of Defiance, was published in 2021.
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