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As documentarians Andrew Jarecki and his co-director entered Easterling prison in the year 2019, they encountered a misleadingly pleasant atmosphere. Similar to other Alabama prisons, the prison mostly prohibits journalistic entry, but permitted the filmmakers to film its yearly volunteer-run cookout. On film, incarcerated men, predominantly Black, danced and smiled to musical performances and sermons. However behind the scenes, a different story emerged—horrific assaults, hidden stabbings, and unimaginable violence swept under the rug. Pleas for assistance came from overheated, filthy housing units. As soon as Jarecki approached the voices, a corrections officer halted filming, stating it was dangerous to speak with the men without a security escort.

“It was obvious that certain sections of the facility that we were forbidden to view,” Jarecki recalled. “They use the idea that it’s all about security and safety, since they don’t want you from comprehending what they’re doing. These facilities are like black sites.”

The Stunning Documentary Exposing Decades of Abuse

This interrupted barbecue event begins the documentary, a powerful new film made over half a decade. Collaboratively directed by Jarecki and his partner, the feature-length production exposes a shockingly corrupt institution rife with unchecked abuse, forced labor, and unimaginable brutality. The film documents inmates' herculean efforts, under constant physical threat, to change situations deemed “illegal” by the US justice department in 2020.

Secret Recordings Reveal Horrific Conditions

After their suddenly ended prison visit, the filmmakers connected with individuals inside the Alabama department of corrections. Led by veteran organizers Bennu Hannibal Ra-Sun and Kinetik Justice, a network of sources supplied years of evidence recorded on illegal mobile devices. The footage is disturbing:

• Vermin-ridden living spaces
• Piles of human waste
• Rotting food and blood-streaked floors
• Routine guard beatings
• Men carried out in body bags
• Corridors of men unresponsive on substances distributed by staff

One activist begins the documentary in half a decade of isolation as punishment for his organizing; later in production, he is almost killed by officers and loses sight in one eye.

The Case of Steven Davis: Violence and Obfuscation

This violence is, the film shows, standard within the prison system. While incarcerated sources persisted to collect evidence, the directors looked into the death of Steven Davis, who was beaten unrecognizably by guards inside the William E Donaldson prison in October 2019. The documentary traces Davis’s mother, a family member, as she seeks truth from a recalcitrant prison authority. She discovers the official version—that Davis threatened officers with a weapon—on the news. However several imprisoned witnesses informed Ray’s attorney that the inmate held only a toy utensil and yielded at once, only to be beaten by four guards regardless.

One of them, an officer, smashed Davis’s skull off the hard surface “repeatedly.”

Following three years of obfuscation, Sandy Ray met with Alabama’s “tough on crime” top lawyer a state official, who told her that the authorities would not press charges. Gadson, who faced more than 20 separate lawsuits claiming excessive force, was given a higher rank. The state paid for his legal bills, as well as those of every guard—part of the $51m spent by the state of Alabama in the last half-decade to defend staff from misconduct claims.

Forced Work: The Contemporary Slavery System

The government benefits financially from continued mass incarceration without supervision. The film describes the alarming scope and hypocrisy of the prison system's labor program, a compulsory-work system that essentially functions as a present-day mutation of historical bondage. This program provides $450m in products and work to the government each year for virtually no pay.

In the system, imprisoned laborers, overwhelmingly African American Alabamians deemed unsuitable for society, make two dollars a 24-hour period—the same daily wage rate set by Alabama for imprisoned workers in the year 1927, at the height of Jim Crow. These individuals labor more than 12 hours for corporate entities or government locations including the government building, the governor’s mansion, the judicial branch, and local government entities.

“They trust me to work in the public, but they don’t trust me to grant release to get out and return to my family.”

Such workers are statistically less likely to be released than those who are not, even those considered a higher public safety risk. “This illustrates you an understanding of how valuable this low-cost labor is to the state, and how critical it is for them to maintain individuals locked up,” said the director.

Prison-wide Protest and Ongoing Struggle

The Alabama Solution culminates in an remarkable feat of organizing: a state-wide prisoners’ strike demanding better treatment in October 2022, organized by an activist and his co-organizer. Contraband cell phone video reveals how prison authorities ended the protest in less than two weeks by depriving prisoners collectively, assaulting Council, deploying soldiers to threaten and beat others, and severing communication from strike leaders.

The National Issue Outside Alabama

This strike may have failed, but the message was evident, and outside the state of Alabama. An activist concludes the film with a call to action: “The things that are occurring in Alabama are happening in your state and in the public's behalf.”

Starting with the documented violations at the state of New York's Rikers Island, to California’s use of over a thousand incarcerated firefighters to the danger zones of the LA wildfires for less than standard pay, “you see comparable situations in most states in the country,” said the filmmaker.

“This is not just one state,” said the co-director. “There is a new wave of ‘tough on crime’ approaches and language, and a retributive strategy to {everything