Some films demand your attention with spectacle. “Sing Sing” earns it with honesty.
Directed by Greg Kwedar (“Transpecos”) and distributed by A24, “Sing Sing” is based on the real-life arts rehabilitation program inside New York’s Sing Sing Correctional Facility. It follows a group of incarcerated men who form a theater troupe through the Rehabilitation Through the Arts initiative. Together, they stage a play—and in doing so, challenge the assumptions people often carry about those behind bars.
The film doesn’t chase drama or redemption arcs. It’s not interested in making anyone look better or worse than they are. That’s exactly what makes it so rare. “Sing Sing” neither glorifies nor diminishes its subjects. It doesn’t ask the audience to forget the crimes committed, nor does it reduce the men to just their mistakes. It shows them working, laughing, creating—because, like anyone else, they still have something to say.
Colman Domingo (“Rustin,” “Zola”) plays John “Divine G” Whitfield with quiet intensity and open-hearted restraint. Domingo’s presence is magnetic, as always, but there’s something even deeper at work here. It’s not just another great performance—it’s another reminder that Domingo isn’t becoming one of our best actors. He already is.
But what makes “Sing Sing” extraordinary is the cast of real-life formerly incarcerated men, including Clarence Maclin, who plays a version of himself. Maclin is a revelation. His performance is raw, lived-in, and deeply moving. He’s not playing for the camera—he’s simply telling the truth. That kind of authenticity can’t be directed. It has to be earned.
Kwedar understands that. His direction never tries to dress the story up. There’s no swelling score or forced catharsis. He lets the moments breathe. You feel the camaraderie, the humor, the friction. The film understands that creativity can be both a form of survival and a spark of freedom—and that spark doesn’t disappear just because someone is incarcerated.
One of the film’s most affecting throughlines is Maclin’s character’s reluctance to apply for parole. It’s not dramatized with a monologue or courtroom moment—it’s a quiet resistance, hinted at with precision. Maclin’s character has internalized the reality that freedom on the other side of the walls isn’t guaranteed, especially for Black men with prison records. His hesitation says everything: sometimes the system outside feels just as unlivable as the one inside.
It brings to mind a line from “The Shawshank Redemption”:
“These walls are funny. First you hate ’em, then you get used to ’em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them. That’s institutionalized.”
That quote isn’t in the film, but the sentiment hovers over it—especially in Maclin’s quiet portrayal. What separates “Sing Sing” from the countless prison dramas before it is that it doesn’t need to spell this out. It respects the audience. It trusts the performances. And it lets these men tell their stories without putting a glossy, triumphant sheen on the pain.
There are other beautiful threads too—one man struggling to reconnect with his daughter through letters, another wrestling with whether he’s worthy of the creativity he’s been handed. These aren’t plot devices—they’re truths. The film shows how art can open doors that even parole sometimes can’t.
And credit goes to A24 for backing something this grounded and human. Without independent studios like A24, a story like this—with its real-life cast, its deliberate pacing, its lack of easy resolution—might never reach an audience. Hollywood tends to favor prison stories that follow a predictable arc. “Sing Sing” tosses out the blueprint and instead just listens.
There’s no false uplift here. Just honest, patient storytelling. The kind that lingers long after the credits.
On a five-star scale, this is a 4.5-star film—beautifully acted, deeply felt, and one of the year’s most essential.