Better Man: Documenting The Prison Choir Project’s production of West Side Story, staged by the inmates of Dartmoor Prison
Published in the Summer 2019 print edition of Shooter Literary Magazine
The expression “behind bars” is sometimes a misnomer. In some prisons there are no bars; cell doors are sealed so no sound comes from behind them and there’s no chatter between them. The quiet in the block is solid.
These sealed cells tower up around us and metal grating separates the floors. Although sunshine cracks in from the ceiling, illuminating dust motes in the upper reaches, here on the ground fluorescent beams case the halls. But “it’s the quiet that freaks people out,” says Bill, Dartmoor Prison’s Safety Custody Officer, guiding us around the prison in midsummer 2018. We walk along empty white corridors, past the clinic, into the foyer where posters punt certificates: “Character Development”, “Learning Support”, “Better Man”.
In a tank bubbling along a wall goldfish swim back and forth, like a grim metaphor. For inmates, every day, including Christmas, is the same: cell, labour, cell, activity, cell. Like many prisons around the UK, due to staff shortages inmates are largely isolated. They eat alone. Interact sporadically. It’s “just so lonely,” says Bill.
He nods toward the Constant Watch Cell for those who require surveillance, not to protect them from others but to stop them from killing themselves. As the officer tasked with the prisoners’ safety – essentially suicide prevention – Bill gets the dreaded calls: code red, he’s bleeding; code blue, he’s dead.
The road to Dartmoor Prison winds through forest fit for a love story, but on the pass leading up to Princetown the prison sits squat on the rise, a blot of granite blocks on rolling green hills. It was built in 1805 to house prisoners of war who then languished and died inside, and from the outside – it still looks it.
When the newly convicted arrive, with multiple-year sentences looming, Bill is there to meet them. Bill’s job seems to be giving inmates a reason to live, to get them working on themselves, signing up for courses, earning certificates – sometimes the first they’ve received in their lives. Beyond keeping inmates alive in prison, he cares about giving them hope for a life beyond it, a life that keeps them from reoffending. But “getting these guys to develop themselves and out into the world,” he says, “is harder than throwing them in.”
In 2017 Bill met Adam Green, founder of the Prison Choir Project (a charity that builds inmates’ self-esteem and reduces reoffending through music-making), when Adam came to the prison to stage a production of Carmen. Of those who took part, about half are now out and the remaining cohort signed up for the following year’s show: West Side Story. A riff on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, the story of star-crossed lovers torn apart by gang violence, community division, and lack of social support takes on deeper resonance in a prison. While professional singers fill the roles of Tony, Maria, and the female characters, the inmates play the hoodlums of the Jets and the Sharks, rival gangs in 1950s New York. Many of them have had no stage experience at all.
On day three of rehearsals the inmates trickle in. Most are friendly but several appear skittish, damaged: hunched into themselves they escape to their seats. On the wall a poster reads: “Feeling low? It’s OK to talk…”
An older, pint-sized inmate shakes my hand. Being an education mentor here in prison he says he certainly relates to his character, Doc, the drugstore owner bewildered by the hoodlums’ hunger for violence. With Adam hushing us he leans over: “You can sit by me,” he says. “I’ll keep you safe.”
An inmate notices I’m the only one without a script so comes over to give me his. As the keyboard starts playing, a passing prisoner stops in the doorway: “Kumbaya,” he mocks, laughing. The inmates inside look down, someone closes the door, and rehearsals begin.
The star-crossed lovers meet at a dance well into Act One but when Maria’s brother Bernardo sees his sister flirting with the enemy, he pulls her away and insists she goes home. “Please Maria,” he says, “we’re family, now go!”
Adam stops the inmate playing Bernardo and asks him to repeat the line, but with more assertion.
There were no auditions for this West Side Story. Inmates volunteered themselves to play various roles. Adam would describe a character – “this guy’s a small ball of fury, this guy’s aggressive” – and the inmates would step up, “have a go,” Adam explains.
One gets the sense that the inmate in the role of Bernardo, the no-bullshit gang leader, held some clout in the circles he mixed in on the outside too. That said, he’s never acted before. He had been filling out forms to indicate his interests and half-heartedly ticked Music and Drama; a few days later he found himself here, cast as one of the leads.
In just four weeks’ time the inmates will perform, first for an audience of fellow prisoners, then families, and then dignitaries from the outside. We’ve gone over the first song countless times, not quite getting the timing and now Bernardo is struggling to deliver his lines with confidence. Adam reminds him of the sort of power his character wields in the world, and the inmates pitch in with suggestions. Think: “tough guy”. Think: “I. Am. Man. You. Leave. Now.”
With the door open for the coffee break an inmate appears. “Need a rapper?” he asks. Before anyone can respond he flaps his hand, cries, “Just joking,” and drifts off.
Rehearsals flow by on a stream of jokes and banter. Although funny, often they’re obvious mechanisms to dismiss tender moments. Doc says, “For a number of guys in here, some of the humour is defence, and a lot of them need to lose that. They need to see that men subdue emotion. Now I’m just as bad as anybody else, but music has allowed me to express myself.”
A towering inmate interrupts us. Twice my size, with a woman’s name tattooed on his neck, he hands over a paper cup and asks, “Do you take sugar, Jacqui?” Sitting next to me he talks about addiction and says, “There’s a lot of self-harm in prison.”
Although a psychiatrist visits Dartmoor once a week and there are four mental health nurses on site, accounting for more than six hundred inmates’ mental health is no small feat, particularly considering the high estimate of inmates with mental health problems. With limited support, one inmate – who suffers from claustrophobia – said when he first got to prison he distracted himself with origami. Furiously folding bits of paper into elaborate cranes, flowers, and owls was all he could do to stop himself from committing suicide.
He sings a solo in the show now. With our teacups empty and the rain outside starting to pour, the inmates begin quietly, almost nervously: “There’s a place for us, somewhere a place for us. Peace and quiet and open air…” The soloist comes in: “There’s a time for us, someday a time for us… We’ll find a new way of living. We’ll find a way of forgiving.”
When the song ends for almost a moment the room is still. “Oh so emotional,” someone croons, as everyone tries their best to laugh. Beside me Doc shakes his head. “You see – that sort of thing. It breaks the mood. It’s a shame.”
In here men don’t talk about their crimes and aren’t encouraged to; Dartmoor is meant to be a “safe place”. Mobile phones are occasionally smuggled in, though, which increases the risk of inmates being googled. When inmates’ crimes are revealed to others they can be exploited – any sign of vulnerability can be.
Crimes inform the prison hierarchy, seeding drug dealers at the top and sex offenders in the dirt. As new inmates arrive, they’re eyed getting off the bus, watched for something sensitive. If you didn’t know how to act tough going into prison, you’d know how to act tough upon leaving, but there seems to be a common theme in inmates’ backstories: a history that’s taught them to hold their feelings at arm’s length.
In the song “Officer Krupke”, the Jets walk us along the path to prison, explaining to various authority figures why they’re “so bad”. Whether because of their upbringing (“our mothers are all junkies, our fathers are all drunks”), their mental health (“it’s just his neurosis”), or lack of opportunity (“this boy don’t need a doctor, just a good honest job”), they try and convince us that “inside, the worst of us is good”.
But by the end of the song, being “deprived”, “disturbed”, or “sociologically sick” are dismissed; the so-called social delinquents are condemned. “Officer Krupke,” they sing, “you’ve done it again. This boy don’t need a job, he needs a year in the pen. It ain’t just a question of misunderstood – deep down inside him, he’s no good!”
The song is sung in a tone of complete irony – of course – because how can gangsters feel sorry for themselves when gangsters aren’t meant to feel?
There are forms of criminal behaviour linked to a lack of empathy; but relating to someone else’s feelings requires getting in touch with your own, a skill we develop from infancy. “Gee, Officer Krupke, we’re very upset; we never had the love that ev’ry child oughta get,” they joke.
For tough guys in an environment where vulnerability is risky, it takes courage signing up for theatre – to sing, to dance, to make eye contact.
On the day their fellow inmates watched the show, there were a few hecklers, those who jeered at tender moments and laughed as the Jets threatened to assault a woman. But by and large the inmates were enthralled. No one chose to leave at interval. When Maria launched into the show’s most famous song, the chapel full of criminals joined in with, “I feel pretty, I feel pretty,” and when the soloist sang “Somewhere”, it wasn’t only the prison staff in the audience who cried.
Guitars are strumming in the chapel as I walk into the final rehearsal. Three inmates are tapping their toes, harmonising. They’ve called their band Bars of Harmony. “See what we did there?” one laughs.
Waves of inmates with freshly trimmed hair and white T-shirts greet me. “Hello you! I thought you weren’t coming back!” says one. The room feels buoyant and wholesome. Inmates are eager to talk. Someone details his distance-learning course, which he’s doing alongside his prison job as a “buddy”, a role that pairs him up with disabled inmates to help them do little things like change their socks. It earns him a stipend he’s putting away for when he gets out.
Bernardo appears to have vitamin D in his cheeks and for the first time he chats to me, says he’s sleeping again, his night terrors and flashbacks down. He credits it to the group work. “I was really quiet when I started but I have more self-belief.” He goes as far as to say that if he hadn’t done this, a year out of here he’d “probably get back into drugs”.
The inmates warm up on stage. Imitating Adam they stretch their mouths and flap their lips, roll their heads from side to side, eyes closed, Zen-like. Each inmate places a hand on his own head, presses against his forehead, breathes in, and then releases.
“The process of going through court makes you feel very small,” says Doc. “Unwanted. Rejected. It takes away your dignity. Art is a way to restore self-confidence, so you can go back into society. If you get to do something through art, you feel success. It was a turning point for me. Being heard.”
“Ten, fifteen years ago, projects like this used to happen more often, but it’s the small positive things that usually get cut, things they refer to as the ‘soft arts’,” says Bill. “But when you’re convicted of a crime, you go from being a citizen to ‘being processed’. You get a number after your name. Your self-esteem is robbed from you. So they need encouragement. Nothing else really works.”
Speaking to Adam, he’s realistic about the difference projects like these make.
Despite massive personal growth, inmates are unlikely to have been in a position of privilege getting into crime and being incarcerated can floor you, both financially and personally. Of the twenty-one inmates in the production, twelve had family members attend the show; the other nine have no contact at all. One inmate invited his ex-mental health nurse.
Bill says that as much as prison custody is trauma, leaving prison is traumatising for these guys too.
Sitting next to Doc, he says he’s looking forward to getting out at the end of the year, but he’s scared too. “I’ve watched these guys change and work as a team during this production and this is what choral singing does for people! What I’d really like is to arrange choir projects like this beyond Dartmoor – if I can.” His hands fidget. “But too many men make fixed plans and you’re setting yourself up for disappointment. I’ve got a bucket list of course, things I’d like to do, but I don’t have expectations. That way, if it doesn’t work out, I’m not disappointed.” He stands, peers back to some inmates practicing their steps. “Trust them to stand there,” he smiles. “I just cleaned those floors.”
In the back kitchen caramel waffles pop up from the toaster, filling the chapel with the smell of warm sugar, just hours before the last show. The soloist hands out paper bouquets of flowers and tropical birds to thank the cast, the band, Adam.
One inmate circles the chairs offering around pink wafers. When he eventually sits he asks to say something but his voice trembles. “Prison can be really dehumanising,” he says, “but this…”
Adam names each inmate one by one, thanking them for their personal contribution to the success of the show. Accepting their certificates, the inmates throw their arms around him.
“They trust Adam,” says Bill. “He was here last year and he’s come back. Part of this is just about consistency, being there for these guys who are so used to being let down. You know the Krupke song? They’ve travelled that same journey.”
When I first met Adam, he said, “I’m not going to pretend to be some great rehabilitative force or that we’re changing the world through singing… We can only try in whatever small way to show a light at the end of the tunnel for people who are otherwise facing a pretty bleak period.” But he recently got a call from an inmate from last year’s production who said that since getting out he’s joined two choirs and the singing keeps him going.
While pink crumbs are swept from the floor, an inmate holds up his certificate and says, “Hey Bill. Can we get these laminated?”
The clicking comes from the back of the chapel and the Jets make their way up the aisle. Sliding across the stage smoothly, they deliver their lines with confidence. Their singing is tremendous, their timing is slick, and Bernardo comes to life.
Throughout most of the show the inmates remain on stage, so even when they’re not at the story’s centre, the drama unfolds on their faces. Their etched brows when Tony kills Bernardo. Their heavy eyes as he buckles with remorse. Their panicked faces hearing sirens fill the room. Under the stage direction of Jack Furness and Adam’s musical direction, theatre opens up a safe space in which to visit dark places.
On centre stage Doc says, “You boys make this world lousy.” The Jets shrug their shoulders: “That’s the way we found it, Doc.”
While the voices of the main singers fill the chapel, my gaze falls on the inmates at the back, their changing eyes and reactions, which are never more moving than as they watch the couple fall in love. Earlier an inmate told me this was his favourite scene. Because it’s all “lovey dovey and it makes you think about relationships, and where you went wrong. Teaches us to stay away from bad guys.” “Has that been a problem for you in the past?” I asked. “Oh absolutely,” he said. “Yes it has.”
When Tony and Maria pretend to marry, swearing to overcome the odds, the inmates’ worn faces look smug. Their heads tilt and they can’t stop smiling, like they’re in a dark cinema with a rom-com playing. But their faces here are in full view, and their own stories are behind their eyes. The love stories that start when we start: the love for and from our parents, brothers, sisters, gangs; everyone we’ve loved and who loved us; all those we failed to love or who failed to love us.
Toward the end of the show there’s a dream sequence in which, instead of a million hands erupting into vengeance and violence when Tony murders Bernardo, the cast enacts an idyll. Maria places Tony’s hand on Bernardo’s shoulder and in turn each enemy places their hand on the shoulder of the enemy in front of them, until everyone on stage spirals out as they sing “Somewhere”. In unison, their voices grow softer and softer into an echoing repeat of the words “there’s a place for us”. And more than ever, the tragedy of our love stories seems to be not only about what went wrong but also how much better things could have been.
Conversations with the inmates over the course of the production made me think that it’s the “soft stuff” that hardens us – broken relationships, impulsive decisions, pummeled self-esteem – but witnessing the inmates watch the performance, their eyes closing with the overwhelming feelings, I think the soft stuff – singing, dancing, emotion – might heal us too.
