The Shawshank Redemption. - movie reviews

National Review, Nov 7, 1994 by John Simon

As prison films go, The Shawshank Redemption is one of the more unredeemed ones; it is no In the Name of the Father, let alone Un Condamne a mort s'est echappe. The title of the Stephen King novella on which it is based is "Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption," which is longer but not better. It concerns a respectable young Maine banker, Andy Dufresen, sentenced to life without reprieve for the murder of his wife, which he did not commit. He is sent to Shawshank, a prison compared to which Devil's Island was a Palm Beach luxury hotel. Here he experiences the most satanic warden and guards, as well as fellow prisoners who, except for a few rotten apples, are a swell bunch, especially Red, the prison fixer and philosopher, who once in his youth rashly killed, but is now as good as gold. Yet the evil warden and stupid parole board see to it that he can't get out ever, which he takes with a stoicism worthy of Marcus Aurelius. Andy and Red become fast friends, each learning much from the other, until they end up living the life of Reilly in Mexico. I mention Reilly because when asked why they call him Red, he, a black man, replies, "I guess because I'm Irish." There you have the humor of it.

Before our guys hit Mexico, however, 19 years have to pass for them, and not much less for us. We are treated to 148 minutes of shock effects and didactics. Frank Darabont's screenplay and direction pile up the horrors rather too liberally (in both senses of the word), while not being particularly sparing with the homilies. Some horror is, of course, unavoidable (male rape, confinement in solitary, beatings), and a few platitudinous pieties may be inevitable, too. But you wonder when, on top of this, the warden is a Biblethumping sadist and the head guard a beast out of Hell, whether there isn't somewhere, buried in the profusion of credits, a billed dice-loader. Or perhaps the fact that Mr. Darabont, whose directorial debut this is, graduated from writing the likes of A Nightmare on Elm Street 3 and The Fly II qualifies him as both Stygian helmsman and loader of cast-iron dice.

Great performances might help. Morgan Freeman, as Red, is fine as always, but hampered by the limitations of his role. Tim Robbins is a curious choice for a New England banker and Brahmin of imperturbable grit and wit, but he has his moments. As the warden, Bob Gunton belongs in the blackest of melodramas, and Clancy Brown, as the head guard, should head straight for Grand Guignol. James Whitmore is saddled with the unlikely role of a sweet old prison librarian who, when finally let out, finds freedom too hard to bear and hangs himself. There, again, you have the humor of it.

I don't know how much of this is Frank Darabont, how much Stephen King. But if I am to spend two-and-a-half hours with someone plumbing the depths of the human heart, I doubt that I would pick either of them. Best here is Roger Deakins's cinematography, which aptly lets the blue-grey of prison uniforms permeate the very air. Still, a heavy diet of slate blue can give anyone the blues.