Prisons and Prisoners

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      ‘26.2 to Life’ Review: Running in Circles

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      Christine Yoo’s new documentary follows the inmates of San Quentin Prison in California who train to run a grueling marathon inside its yard.Christine Yoo’s documentary “26.2 to Life” tells the story of a unique race: the San Quentin Prison Marathon, run by inmates of the maximum-security facility in California within the walls of its heavily guarded yard.As the film makes clear, with its deliberate, observational style, the mental fortitude required to endure this marathon is extraordinary: The competitors must trace the same tedious loop around a makeshift track more than 100 times to complete the 26.2-mile distance, with only their fellow inmates and a handful of volunteers to cheer them on. It’s not a setting that inspires a meditative state of mind.Many of these men are facing life sentences with little hope of parole, and training for the marathon enables them to derive some meaning from their time inside. “It allows you to feel like you’re doing something normal,” one runner describes. “Like you’re doing something that’s not prison.”Yoo was granted exceptional access to San Quentin, and when she depicts the mundane qualities of life there — inmates working odd jobs, writing letters, passing the time alone in their cells — the movie gains some of the penetrating clarity of one of Frederick Wiseman’s films. The in-prison material also has a lo-fi look that’s a refreshing change from the glossy style of many recent docs, and the various off-site interviews with family members of the inmates expand the scope of their stories in an enriching way.When the movie concentrates on the race, it verges on sentimental, trotting out heartfelt speeches and cloying musical cues — not entirely unjustified, considering the inmates’ tragic back stories and inspiring achievements. But it compromises an already compelling event.26.2 to LifeNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 30 minutes. In theaters. More

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      in Television

      ‘We Are a Romantic Country’: On the Set of a Steamy Hit in Italy

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      Italy falls for “Mare Fuori,” a television melodrama about the inmates of a juvenile detention center who pass the time making out — when not scowling at or occasionally stabbing one another.Before dawn, the teenage girls convened outside the Naples Navy base where the wildly popular Italian television show “Mare Fuori” is filmed.“We want to show them all of our love,” said Federica Montuori, 16, who with her fellow fans unfurled white sheets with spray-painted messages expressing how the lead actors, who play star-crossed — and mobbed-up — lovers in a juvenile prison, “belong in our hearts.”On the wall beside her, the scrawls on the bricks are love letters to “the most beautiful series in the world” and its main characters. “Ti Amo Carmine,” read one rectangle. “Ti Amo Rosa,” read another.Other fans have dived from nearby piers and swum to the back of the set, vexing gate guards charged with keeping them at bay. During the day, their screams have ruined takes.“We had to stop shooting,” said Ivan Silvestrini, the show’s director. “They won’t listen. It’s pretty unbearable, but what can you do?”Maria Esposito, who plays Rosa Ricci in the series, and Mr. Caiazzo, who plays Carmine, filming a scene for the fourth season.Gianni Cipriano for The New York TimesItaly has fallen for “Mare Fuori,” or “The Sea Beyond,” an often gritty but always soapy melodrama about the inmates of a coed juvenile detention center who pass the time stealing kisses — when not scowling at or occasionally stabbing one another.Entering its fourth season, the show, set and steeped in Naples street life, is “Saved by the Bell” meets “Scared Straight” meets “Gomorrah” meets Skinemax. It has been a smash hit on Italian television and is a fixture on Netflix Italy’s most-watched list. During Carnevale, children dressed up as the precocious gangsters, with leather hot pants and jackets, tank tops, lots of chains and toy guns.Its hypnotic theme song, recorded by an actor who plays an inmate on the show and who is also an increasingly popular singer in Italy, has been streamed 35 million times and gone platinum. Some fans have kept vigil singing the chorus outside the set.The series tells the intertwining stories of a hodgepodge of attractive delinquents, in a fictitious juvenile hall inspired by a real one — where the sexes are separated — on an island off Naples. Most of the characters are hardened thugs from competing Naples mob families, but there is also a rich Milanese piano prodigy jailed after a night out in Naples goes terribly awry, and a manipulative goth goddess who licks faces, cuts herself and kills for fun.The cast of mostly unknowns keeps the budget low, but the ensemble approach is also creating stars to supply Italy’s insatiable and often schlocky television-cinema complex.The show has turned Ms. Esposito and Mr. Caiazzo into celebrities. Fans can often be found surrounding the Navy base where the show is filmed, and even diving off nearby piers to swim to the back of the set.Gianni Cipriano for The New York TimesThe producers market the show as a dialect-heavy portrayal of Naples reality with a redemption message. But following on other Italian hits, like “Baby,” about underage prostitutes, the show has also underscored Italy’s infatuation with steamy young adult programming.“We have realized that these stories of young lovers, people like a lot,” said Roberto Sessa, one of the show’s producers. “In the end, we are a romantic country.”The plot revolves around Carmine Di Salvo, the reluctant and seemingly meek scion of a crime family who really just wants to be a barber, but who lands behind bars after stabbing a would-be rapist of his girlfriend in the neck with scissors. Incarcerated, he finds a nemesis in Ciro, the prince of the competing crime family, who eventually tries to kill Carmine and his piano-playing cellmate but who ends up getting stabbed with a screwdriver.Things really took off in the third season, this year, when Rosa Ricci, the late Ciro’s sister, shoots a guy to get into jail so she can settle scores with Carmine. In classic Montague and Capulet style, she falls for Carmine instead.A scene from the third season of “Mare Fuori,” whose costume director said “skin, skin, skin” is an important part of the show’s look.Fosforo PressOn a street in Naples, a fan of the show, Domenico Marino, 18, and his girlfriend considered taking home a souvenir pillow — displayed next to similar shirts, mugs and key chains — of the scantily clad Rosa featuring her catchphrase (“I am Rosa Ricci, and who the [expletive] are you to tell me what I need to do”). He decided on a cushion of her late brother Ciro instead.On Naples’s Via San Gregorio Armeno, famous for its Christmas nativity scenes, a crowd gathered to admire terra cotta figurines of the cast standing in front of the juvenile prison, displayed next to a manger.“We keep making them as long as there is demand, even for the ones who get killed,” said Elio Cassano, 60. “They don’t look at the soccer players or the Holy Family in the crèche, they form crowds around ‘Mare Fuori.’”One of the admirers, Chiara D’Amico, 18, a Sicilian with a crush on Carmine, said the juvenile prison reminded her of high school. Her mother, Santina Santonocito, 40, said she liked the show because it taught children “not to make errors — life inside is not so easy.”Pillows with photographs of the show’s characters on sale in Naples.Gianni Cipriano for The New York TimesElio Cassano arranging figurines of the show’s characters outside a shop in Naples.Gianni Cipriano for The New York TimesThey were visiting Naples, with plans to see its castles and eat pizza. “But the first thing on the list,” Ms. D’Amico said, was a pilgrimage to the set.Shortly before noon, a black van carrying Maria Esposito, 19, who plays Rosa, rolled up to the gate. She blew kisses from the passenger seat, sending the fans into a tizzy.On the set — which looked like a seaside high school with a soccer court, a foosball table and a black piano that had hearts traced in its dust — she stopped in hair and makeup with Massimiliano Caiazzo, who plays Carmine.“The theme of a forbidden love touches adults just as it touches adolescents,” said Mr. Caiazzo, 26, as Ms. Esposito, puffing on an e-cigarette, had her lashes doused in mascara.She had worked as an aesthetician before she joined at the end of the second season, which had made her “weep perennially, every day, with joy.”But for a young woman who loves going out (“I love living”), it was not easy being the face of Naples, she said. “I’m walking around the streets with my face on the pillows,” she said. “It’s a little creepy.”Rossella Aprea, the show’s costume designer, holding one of Rosa’s outfits.Gianni Cipriano for The New York TimesThe costume designer, Rossella Aprea, said that since there was no uniform in a real Italian juvenile prison, she could use her imagination. At a rack dedicated to Rosa, she held up a skimpy leotard decorated with dragons.“A lot of black, super tight, crop tops,” she said. “Skin, skin, skin.”Outside, the director struggled with a scene about the arrival of a new inmate, who held a leather satchel and looked as if he had either returned from safari or robbed a Banana Republic.“Tell him to come out of the car and look towards the girls,” Mr. Silvestrini instructed with frustration. He said he understood sex appeal was vital to the show’s success and required the suspension of disbelief about love in the detention center through the creation of imaginary circumstances for hooking up, what he called “room for romance.”“We created a pizza lab, a place where the boys and girls can be together,” he said. “And they can be promiscuous.”Ms. Esposito on the way to her dressing room. In the show’s third season, her character shoots someone to get into jail so she could settle scores with another character.Gianni Cipriano for The New York TimesAfter lunch, the director ordered the activation of a smoke machine for atmosphere, then walked a 40-something actor who played a crooked guard and a 20-something actress who played an inmate through their scene.“Then, at a certain point,” he instructed. “The kiss moment.”Their moment extended to a full-on make out session, lasting so long that the crew gave each other awkward looks.Soon after, Ms. Esposito walked on set for the day’s final scene.“She’s my star,” Mr. Silvestrini said.Ivan Silvestrini, the show’s director, seated in front of a screen, along with other members of the cast and crew, reviewing a scene.Gianni Cipriano for The New York TimesMs. Esposito, rail thin and with long straight black hair, wore bell-bottomed tight leather pants and a leather halter top. “These pants have gotten loose on me,” she said, laughing. “I’ve lost weight from the stress!”She said everywhere she went, she was mobbed by teenagers, “but also the adults.”“It’s in the hearts of all, this series,” Ms. Esposito said.She and Mr. Caiazzo acted an intense face-to-face scene on a staircase, the director called it a wrap and the crew blasted the “Mare Fuori” song. Soon after, the stars departed in separate vans, and the fans screamed and ran after them.Ms. Esposito made a heart sign with her hands.“Rosa Ricci,” they bellowed. “Bellissima.”Mr. Caiazzo greeting fans as he left the Naples set.Gianni Cipriano for The New York Times More

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      Gary Glitter Is Back in Prison After Violating Probation Terms

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      The singer was released from prison last month after serving half of a 16-year sentence for sexually abusing three young girls decades ago.LONDON — The former glam rock singer Gary Glitter, who was released from prison last month, was sent back to prison on Monday for breaching the terms of his probation, Britain’s Ministry of Justice said.“Protecting the public is our number one priority,” a Ministry of Justice statement said on Tuesday. “That’s why we set tough license conditions and so when offenders breach them, we don’t hesitate to return them to custody.” The statement did not specify what the singer, whose real name is Paul Gadd, did to violate the terms of his release.Mr. Gadd was released from prison in early February after serving half of a 16-year sentence for sexually abusing three young girls decades ago, and had been set to serve the remainder of his sentence under probation, a common arrangement in Britain.Following his release, Mr. Gadd, 78, had been fitted with a GPS tag and faced other restrictions.In 2012, Mr. Gadd was arrested as part of an inquiry set up to investigate accusations of sexual abuse against Jimmy Savile, a longtime BBC host. That arrest led to Mr. Gadd’s conviction in 2015 on one count of attempted rape, four counts of indecent assault and one count of sexual intercourse with a girl under the age of 13.At his trial, prosecutors detailed how he had abused his access to young fans as his fame grew globally in the 1970s, when he had a string of hits, including “Rock and Roll Part 2.” His music has also been featured in films, including “Joker,” one of the top grossing films in 2019. More

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      ‘Sepa: Our Lord of Miracles’ Review: A Prison in the Amazon Jungle

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      A documentary from the 1980s, now premiering in a restored version, is an eye-opening visit to a Peruvian penal colony.In the late 1940s, the president of Peru, Gen. Manuel Odría, had a bright idea, or so he thought, about the colonization of the Amazon: start with criminals, convicted or not. This penal colony, called Sepa — which began operating in 1951 and was mostly shut down in the early 1990s — was often a dumping ground for political opponents of whatever leadership was in power at the time. Far from so-called civilization and wanting in many resources, it was an environment in which prisoners were obliged to form functioning communities or die.“Sepa: Our Lord of Miracles,” a short but crucial documentary made in 1986, depicts life in the colony. Sepa was populated by all manner of criminals, some violent, some not: sex offenders, thieves, small-scale drug traffickers‌. But, partially because the environment compelled the inhabitants to work together, this “green hell,” as an interviewee calls it, was in a sense far more functional than most prisons: There were no gangs, no alcohol or drug abuse, and little violence.There was, however, a powerful sense of isolation and a good deal of nonchalant corruption. This comes across in sequences showing the ramblings of an amiable prison director at the time, Alfredo Elias, and in visits with a prisoner nicknamed “the colonel,” who hailed from the United States. These scenes are both humorous and a bit terrifying.The movie was directed by the German filmmaker Walter Saxer, an associate of Werner Herzog, and Saxer’s voice on the soundtrack brings the more famous director to mind. (The narration was written by the Peruvian author and onetime politician Mario Vargas Llosa.) Long considered lost, it’s premiering in New York in a restored version. Seen today, it’s a provocative addition to the literature of incarceration.Sepa: Our Lord of MiraclesNot rated. In German, Spanish and English with English subtitles. Running time: 1 hour 17 minutes. In theaters. More

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      Billy McFarland Is Out of Jail and Ready for His Next Move

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      Five years after the Fyre Festival, the convicted fraudster is planning a comeback.“Is this technically Dumbo?” Billy McFarland asked, walking toward the East River shoreline. “It’s super cool. Are the rents here crazy too?“I never spent much time in Brooklyn, until the Brooklyn detention center,” he continued. “I was always like, ‘I’m never going to live in Brooklyn.’ Now, I think it’s kind of nice.”Mr. McFarland, who in 2018 entered guilty pleas for fraud stemming from his role in organizing the Fyre Festival — a Coachella-for-the-Bahamas affair that went spectacularly awry and established him as the Elizabeth Holmes of party promoters— had been a free man for all of 15 minutes. And he didn’t seem inclined to lay low after spending close to four years in prison, plus another six months of additional confinement.Moments after removing an electronic ankle monitor at the Gold Street halfway house where he had stayed earlier this year, he was posing for a New York Times photographer and talking to a reporter whom he’d approached toward the end of his confinement with the help of a publicist.“I thought it was going to be a big process, but it turns out they just hand you scissors and you cut it off,” said Mr. McFarland, 30, who is 6-foot-3 and post-prison lean. He was wearing a dark T-shirt and navy pants that he said were from Uniqlo. On his feet were Gianvito Rossi sneakers that looked like Converse All Stars, but retail for around $700.Mr. McFarland — who has little money in the bank, around $26 million in financial amends to make and no immediate job prospects — said he had purchased the shoes before his legal problems.“Friends joke that my entire wardrobe is from 2016,” he said.Back then, Mr. McFarland — who grew up in Short Hills, N.J., and dropped out of Bucknell University after less than a year — was known as the founder of a company called Magnises, whose flagship charge card was pitched as a kind of American Express Black card for millennials.Mostly, those who joined were given access to an open bar at a Greenwich Village townhouse where he held parties. Another membership perk: Bahamian excursions, including to Norman’s Cay, a small island that once served as a hub for the Medellín Cartel’s cocaine-smuggling operation.That was the site Mr. McFarland had selected to hold an epic coming-out festival for his next invention, Fyre, an Uber-like app through which people could book their favorite celebrities for special events. He enlisted Ja Rule, Kendall Jenner, Bella Hadid and Emily Ratajkowski to help promote the 2017 party, which featured more than 30 musical guests, including Blink-182 and Tyga. Tickets cost up to $12,000.But the Fyre Festival — which would go on to achieve cultural notoriety, if not for the reasons Mr. McFarland had intended — was poorly planned, and its finances were a mess.The night before the first attendees arrived on the island, an intense rainstorm hit.The site of the Fyre Festival in Exuma, Bahamas, in 2017.Scott McIntyre for The New York TimesPeople showed up to find that the “luxury villas” that came with their ticket packages were, in fact, disaster relief tents located on a makeshift camping ground.And the “uniquely authentic island cuisine” guests were promised in promotional materials turned out to be cheese sandwiches served in plastic foam containers, though Mr. McFarland countered in our interview last week that reports of the meals had been vastly overblown.“There’s a reason there’s only one photograph of that,” he said, referring to a viral shot of a sad pile of lettuce topped by two tomato slices, above two slices of prepackaged cheese serving as a sort of garnish for two slices of untoasted wheat bread.Ultimately, the event — which stranded thousands of attendees in the Bahamas and left them scrounging for makeshift shelter on a dark beach — was scrapped without a single performance taking place. Less than two months later, Mr. McFarland was arrested and charged with fraud.“They took me to the Brooklyn detention center for one night,” he said. “My head was swirling with all these things, and I panicked like, ‘I need to pay everybody back tomorrow or else this is real.’”Class-action lawsuits followed.While on probation, Mr. McFarland launched a V.I.P. ticket service that promised users tickets he didn’t have to events including the Broadway musical “Hamilton,” the Victoria’s Secret fashion show and the Met Gala.There was another round of fraud charges.“I probably added years on to my sentence by doing that,” he said. “I just was making bad decision after bad decision.”By the water in Dumbo, Mr. McFarland struck a few plaintive poses. “I can’t wait to go swimming,” he said.Mr. McFarland was weighing a return to the tech world.Ben Sklar for The New York TimesHe then took an Uber to his small second-floor apartment in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood.On the curb outside his new building, he continued to speak of the borough with tourist-like wonder. “Was this street terrible years ago?” he asked. “Because there are all these nice new buildings.” (Before the Fyre Festival, Mr. McFarland had lived in the meatpacking district. “I was 21 when I moved there — cut me some slack,” he said.)With characteristic vagueness, Mr. McFarland said the rent for his new place was being paid by “family and friends.” He did not say whether that included his parents, Steven and Irene McFarland, who are real estate developers based in New Jersey.It had taken a lot, Mr. McFarland said, for his parents to understand that “someone they were so close to was capable of lying like I did.” He continued, “I hurt them, and it sucks.”Had he personally apologized to his victims? “No,” he said, then posed a question of his own:“What would you say to them if you were me?”The terms of Mr. McFarland’s six-month house arrest allowed him to go outside only to go to the grocery store or the gym. He chose a membership at Blink Fitness, which he paid for with a debit card. “I don’t think I can get a credit card,” he said.His new apartment was Airbnb-neutral. The only decorations were a few plants he’d picked up at Trader Joe’s — a bird of paradise, two money trees — along with a white board that was blank as the decor. The bed was perfectly made, the floor immaculate.The work of a cleaning service? “You’re never going to believe it,” he said. “I learned how to do it!”As Mr. McFarland recalled it, his housekeeping education began at the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn, where he was first held, then continued at the Otisville Correctional Facility in upstate New York, where he was transferred in early 2019. “It was like Danbury,” he said, referring to the less hard-line cushy-by-prison standards facility where Martha Stewart did her time. “But I messed it up.”How?“I brought in a USB drive.”He was storing notes for a possible book on his saga, he said, which had already been memorialized in dueling documentaries for Hulu and Netflix.Mr. McFarland pleaded guilty in 2018 to two counts of wire fraud.Mark Lennihan/Associated PressGuards confiscated the drive and Mr. McFarland spent three months in solitary confinement, where he said he fell asleep to the sounds of a screaming gang member known as the White Tiger, so named because of tattoos of the animal that covered his face and other areas of his body.After that, he was resettled at FCI Elkton, a low-security federal correctional institution located in Ohio.Then, in 2020, the coronavirus pandemic hit. Mr. McFarland appealed for compassionate release, claiming that allergies and asthma placed him in a high risk category for health complications. His efforts were unsuccessful. “Hope clouds your judgment,” he said. “There was no way I was going to get out.”In the fall of that year, he wound up in solitary confinement again, this time for participating by pay phone in a podcast (“Dumpster Fyre”) about the Fyre Festival.Ultimately, prison records show, Mr. McFarland spent six months there, though the records do not specify why. His lawyer, Jason Russo, said in a phone interview that he had written letters to prison officials attempting to get Mr. McFarland out of solitary confinement, only to be stonewalled at every turn. Mr. Russo said he could not even get a specific answer as to why Mr. McFarland was there for such an extended period of time. Emails and phone calls to the prison by The New York Times were not returned.Mr. McFarland read a lot during those months. “There was nothing else to do,” he said.One of the books he finished was Simon Sinek’s “Start with Why: How Great Leaders Inspire Everyone to Take Action.” Another was Gregory David Roberts’s novel “Shantarum.”“It’s about an Australian who breaks out of jail and joins the Indian mafia,” said Mr. McFarland. “Really cool.”In Mr. McFarland’s Bedford-Stuyvesant living room, on a small shelf by the gray couch from Wayfair — “A friend bought it for me,” he said, “I couldn’t afford it” — were copies of Don Winslow’s “City on Fire” and Sebastian Mallaby’s “The Power Law: Venture Capital and the Making of the Future.”But Mr. McFarland said hadn’t been doing as much reading since he began home confinement and acquired a Mac desktop computer with a Westinghouse screen. “I just missed the computer so much,” said Mr. McFarland. “I missed that more than anything.”Mr. McFarland owes tens of millions of dollars to his victims.Ben Sklar for The New York TimesAs part of his plea, Mr. McFarland is barred for life from serving as a director of a public company. His earnings will be garnished until he pays back the full amount he owes his victims, more than $25 million.“Obviously, he’s got a lot of work ahead of him,” Mr. Russo said.At least for now, Mr. McFarland has abandoned the idea of writing his memoir.“The book’s not going to pay the restitution, let me put it that way,” he said.So what will?“I’d like to do something tech-based,” he said a few minutes later, walking to BKLYN Blend, where he ordered an egg sandwich and a coffee. “The good thing with tech is that people are so forward-thinking, and they’re more apt at taking risk.“If I worked in finance, I think it would be harder to get back,” he continued. “Tech is more open. And the way I failed is totally wrong, but in a certain sense, failure is OK in entrepreneurship.”Seated at a quiet table in the corner — no one at the coffee shop appeared to recognize him — Mr. McFarland mulled whether he’d prefer to work for himself or someone else. “At the end of the day, I think I could probably create the most value by building some sort of tech product,” he said. “Whether that’s within a company or by starting my own company, I’m open to both. I’ll probably decide in the next couple of weeks which path to go do.”He said he was “not particularly interested in crypto,” though he would make an exception for the latest frontier in blockchain technology, decentralized autonomous organizations, which he said were “allowing people to come together online to effect real world change in a way they previously couldn’t, taking people to places they couldn’t get to — and, once they’re there, enabling them to effect real-world change.”In April 2020, while in prison, Mr. McFarland made his first foray into philanthropy. He led a drive called Project 315, which raised money to cover the costs of calls between underprivileged inmates and their families. Four days after the project’s Instagram launch, fees were waived nationwide. “We did it,” the Instagram account associated with Mr. McFarland’s “non profit organization” said, claiming credit. (In fact, the suspension of fees came after campaigning by Senator Amy Klobuchar and a group of other Democratic senators that had begun well before Mr. McFarland got the idea.)But it whetted his appetite for good works, he said. Now, Mr. McFarland is talking about forming a charity that would pay travel costs for the families of prisoners.“I met some really amazing people in prison,” he said. “Half the people are just naturally bad and the other half are great.” (Mr. McFarland hedged, when asked which group he belonged to. “But I think I’m a better person than I was four years ago,” he said.)Mr. McFarland said he wanted people to know that he was sorry for what went wrong with the festival and for his actions. “I deserved my sentence,” he said. “I let a lot of people down.”He attributed his choices in part to “immaturity” and hubris.“I didn’t know what I didn’t know,” he said.Partly, he blamed the tech world — the very same world he was musing about re-entering — which he said sometimes operates by an “ends justify the means” ethos.Still, he took some issue with news articles that compared him to Bernie Madoff; he wasn’t running a decades-long scheme to defraud people of their life savings, after all. Plus, he said, he hadn’t planned for things to end up the way they did.Much was made in both the Hulu and Netflix documentaries about the local workers in the Bahamas who were stiffed when the festival was canceled and debts piled up.Mr. McFarland argued that this characterization was somewhat misleading because, he said, most of them were working on a day-to-day or week-to-week basis, and therefore suffered limited losses. (One restaurant owner said in the Netflix documentary that she spent $50,000 of her savings preparing for the festival and received no compensation from organizers. In May 2017, she told The New York Times that she was owed $134,000.)Two of his former Bahamian employees traveled to New York for a post-house-arrest party Mr. McFarland hosted on the evening of his release at Marylou, a French bistro in the East Village.Ozzy Rolle, Mr. McFarland’s principal consigliere in the Exumas, an island district in the Bahamas, said the following afternoon that he’d been paid almost everything he was owed for the festival, before it imploded. “I was treated good. Probably a week I wasn’t paid for.” He even went as far as to say the Fyre Festival had been good for tourism in the Bahamas. “So many people came after reading about what happened,” he said.But Scooter Rolle, his cousin and travel companion, said he had yet to get a dime of what he was owed for his work, in the days before Fyre. “I came to clarify things,” he said.That didn’t exactly happen, but Mr. McFarland did buy him a post-party lobster roll at Sarabeth’s Kitchen. “Billy tried his best,” he said.Back at the Bed-Stuy cafe, Mr. McFarland said the biggest sin he had committed was digging himself in deeper with dishonesty.“I lied,” he said. “I think I was scared. And the fear was letting down people who believed in me — showing them they weren’t right.” More

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      in Movies

      ‘Since I Been Down’ Review: Crime and Punishment

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      The inmates in this documentary offer reasons for rethinking the harsh sentencing of young people in Washington State.On a May night in 1997, in Tacoma, Wash., Kimonti Carter strafed a car he believed was carrying rival gang members. It wasn’t — not that that should matter. One of the car’s five passengers, a college student, Corey Pittman, 19, was killed. Carter, who had recently turned 18, was sentenced to life in prison.In the director Gilda Sheppard’s sympathetic documentary “Since I Been Down,” the punishment is also a crime.Rife with archival visuals of Tacoma in the late 1980s and ’90s, when crack cocaine and gang violence were claiming lives, the documentary’s greatest strength is as a listening tour, with Carter as its chief guide.Because Carter shot from a car, he was charged with aggravated first-degree murder, which carried an automatic mandatory life sentence. (His resentencing hearing is scheduled for July 8.) He is not the only subject of harsh prison time. Washington State’s three-strikes sentencing (it abolished parole in 1984) can land especially hard on young offenders.Over the decades, Carter has expressed remorse, but it is his role as a beneficiary of and leader in the inmate-led initiatives the Black Prisoners’ Collective and T.E.A.C.H., or Taking Education and Changing History, that suggests transformation.Other inmates here share insights, as do two former detectives, some ex-gang members, and the mothers of victims and perpetrators. One former inmate, Tonya Wilson, who served 17 years, is especially astute about the personal as well as societal forces that led to her incarceration.Another inmate says, “We say a lot of the answers that people in society are seeking will be found in prison.”“We’ve caused pain,” that inmate says, “primarily ’cause we were in pain.”Far from seeming like an excuse, in “Since I Been Down,” this observation sounds like a way toward reckoning and change.Since I Been DownNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 45 minutes. Rent or buy on Amazon, Google Play and other streaming platforms and pay TV operators. More

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      in Music

      Samora Pinderhughes Explored Incarceration in Song. The Result Is ‘Grief.’

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      The vocalist, pianist and composer interviewed roughly 100 people of color who had experienced “structural violence” and created the Healing Project, a three-part interdisciplinary work.OAKLAND, Calif. — Near the end of a sold-out show earlier this month, celebrating the release of his visionary second album, “Grief,” the vocalist, pianist, composer and activist Samora Pinderhughes asked the audience to sing with him. He was about to hit the coda to “Process” — a heart-baring anthem of solitude and self-forgiveness, which he uses to close all his concerts — and he wanted some familiar voices to join the wordless melody.For every new fan who’d showed up that night at the downtown headquarters of the online music store Bandcamp, a member of Pinderhughes’s close-knit community seemed to be there too. Standing in the back was his friend Adamu Chan, a filmmaker and organizer, who had been incarcerated early in the pandemic and is now working on a documentary about Covid-19’s spread in the prison system. In the front row, an arm’s length from the grand piano, sat one of his mentors, the historian Robin D.G. Kelley. A few seats down were Pinderhughes’s parents, scholars and activists themselves.In the past few years Pinderhughes, 30, has been breaking out well beyond the Bay Area, and with the release of “Grief,” he’s emerged as one of the most affecting singer-songwriters today, in any genre. His trebly, confessional voice steps deliberately on its own cracks, and he treats his gut-level lyrics with care. His piano playing, rich with layered harmony and rhythmic undertow, holds together his arrangements, which mix the influences of Radiohead, chamber classical, Afro-Cuban rhythms and underground hip-hop. Not unlike Kendrick Lamar, Pinderhughes has become a virtuoso at turning the experience of living in community inside-out, revealing all its personal detail and tension, and giving voice to registers of pain that are commonly shared but not often articulated.The “Grief” LP is one of three components in the Healing Project, a yearslong undertaking based around roughly 100 interviews Pinderhughes conducted with people of color who had been incarcerated or had experienced some form of “structural violence,” he said. The first part of the project was a visual-art exhibition that opened at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts in San Francisco in March, and will be on view through September. Then came “Grief” last month. And on Tuesday, he unveiled an online archive of the interviews and an accompanying interactive online experience, which he hopes will help to bring listeners from all over the country — and beyond — into contact with the stories of his interviewees and their arguments for prison abolition.The first part of the Healing Project was a visual-art exhibition that opened at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts in San Francisco in March.Charlie Villyard, via Yerba Buena Center for the ArtsPinderhughes created the Healing Project in pursuit of answers to two lines of inquiry, both about mass incarceration in the United States. “How is this operating, and what is the machinery that’s going on systemically that’s doing this to us, and how can we fight back? That’s one set of questions,” he said over coffee in Harlem, where he now lives. “And then the other one, on the personal tip, is: How am I a part of that? How am I implicated and how am I doing something against it? What does that make me feel like? How am I dealing?”Pinderhughes is currently on his way to a Ph.D. in creative practice and critical inquiry from Harvard, where he studies under the pianist and scholar Vijay Iyer, who called him an “unstoppable creative force.”Coping With Grief and LossLiving through the loss of a loved one is a universal experience. But the ways in which we experience and deal with the pain can largely differ.What Experts Say: Psychotherapists say that grief is not a problem to be solved, but a process to be lived through, in whatever form it may take.How to Help: Experiencing a sudden loss can be particularly traumatic. Here are some ways to offer your support to someone grieving.A New Diagnosis: Prolonged grief disorder, a new entry in the American Psychiatric Association’s diagnostic manual, applies to those who continue to struggle long after a loss.The Biology of Grief: Grief isn’t only a psychological experience. It can affect the body too, but much about the effects remains a mystery.“He’s just constantly making new things: new music, new writing. Imagining past the standard contours of the music business, even,” Iyer said. “That’s been the most exciting thing to witness — that, through a lot of study and surveying the landscape, and doing a lot of community work and just being in the trenches, he’s sort of imagining another way to be a musician.”A SLIGHT MAN with a flop of brown hair dumped over alert eyes, Pinderhughes is fashion-forward but understated, favoring denim gear and streetwear. When we walked the San Francisco exhibition earlier this month, he was dressed in a burnt-orange jean jacket and a faded tee from Daily Paper, a Black-owned brand based in Amsterdam. In conversation he’s quick to laugh, and always on the lookout for points of common ground.“He is cool, because he’s in the jazz world, but he’s not cool in that way of cutting himself off from feeling,” said the actress and playwright Anna Deavere Smith, who is one of Pinderhughes’s mentors and a producer of the Healing Project. (Iyer and the artist Glenn Ligon are the others.)Pinderhughes, who is of Black and mixed-race ancestry, was raised in Berkeley, Calif., by professor parents who work in urban and environmental planning (his mother, Raquel Rivera-Pinderhughes), and at the intersection of race, behavioral science and violence prevention (his father, Howard Pinderhughes). Both are active community organizers, and their connection to incarcerated populations around the country helped Pinderhughes get the Healing Project off the ground.Pinderhughes hopes the Healing Project can ultimately become a permanent installation. “I want to build a space that actually engages,” he said.Geoffrey Haggray for The New York TimesMusic was constantly around the house, which was littered with hand drums and other small instruments, though only the children played. Both Samora and his sister, Elena, a flutist who has become a major player in jazz, showed promise early. He began playing percussion almost as soon as he could land his hand on the drum, and his parents started taking him to La Peña Cultural Center in Berkeley, where he was immersed in Cuban and Venezuelan music from age 3. When he was 10, his parents went to Cuba on sabbatical, and instead of enrolling in school he spent his time becoming ordained in the spiritual (and musical) tradition of Santería.As a teenager, Pinderhughes attended the Young Musicians Program (now the Young Musicians Choral Orchestra) in Berkeley, which caters to low-income students and has produced many of the current jazz generation’s brightest stars. “The spaces where I learned growing up, and where my sister learned, they were community spaces that combined the musical with the communal,” he said.When he got to Juilliard, although he loved his piano teachers, Kendall Briggs and Kenny Barron, alienation set in fast. “As an institution, it totally felt like a factory,” Pinderhughes said. “We’re here to get as good as we can at playing the music, but we don’t talk about why we’re doing what we’re doing. I don’t know if I had three conversations about that.”He pushed through, graduating in 2013 and settling in to create a major work of protest, “The Transformations Suite.” Close to an hour of semi-orchestral jazz, laced with poetic broadsides against the establishment, the 2016 album was proof-positive of Pinderhughes’s vision and his rigor. It caught the attention of Common, Karriem Riggins and Robert Glasper, who invited him to tour and record with their August Greene project.Keith LaMar, an author and activist on death row in Ohio, was also impressed by “The Transformations Suite,” and through friends he got in touch with Pinderhughes. The musician joined a group of artists working to raise awareness about LaMar’s case, and LaMar became part of the Healing Project. “He’s talking about speaking truth to power, he’s talking about your agency, putting it in perspective, the unequal distribution of wealth and how it’s basically the foundation of all the inequalities that exist in this country,” LaMar said in an interview.“The Transformations Suite” had been forceful as a manifesto of rightful outrage, but it wasn’t really a document of intimacy. For his next project, Pinderhughes started to interview men and women impacted by the criminal justice system, hearing their stories up close.An installation as part of the Healing Project at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts by Josh Begley, Pinderhughes, Shantina Washington and SameGang.Charlie Villyard, via Yerba Buena Center for the ArtsON ‘GRIEF,’ PINDERHUGHES focuses on an emotion that we all intimately know and fear, but that comes in particularly high frequency close to prisons and incarceration. He said that Nina Simone and Curtis Mayfield had been his lodestars: “To me, those are both artists that are working out ideas about how to contextualize not just their life, but their own entire communities’ lived situation.”Pinderhughes recorded the album — which was co-produced by his longtime collaborator Jack DeBoe — in pieces during the pandemic, overdubbing one instrumental section at a time to help maintain social distancing in the studio. Some tracks have only a string quartet, playing slowly dragged harmonies that sometimes pinch into fine-grain dissonance. Others have a full band, with Pinderhughes often playing the Rhodes, sputtering beats underneath and gossamer strings above.On “Holding Cell,” a highlight, voices harmonize over swarming violins, cello and electric bass; the harmony shifts tensely around them as they sing: “Holding cell/I can’t get well while you hold me.” For the title track, one of the most patiently beautiful songs — co-written with the bassist Burniss Earl Travis, known as Boom Bishop — two chords are all Pinderhughes and the band need to build a sonic whirlpool, conjuring the disorientation of loss.A standout of the Healing Project exhibition at the Yerba Buena center is the one piece without any visuals: a small, darkened room with a bench surrounded by speakers. They play an hour-and-a-half-long audio piece on loop, lining up clips from Pinderhughes’s interviews over ambient, sometimes ominous backing tracks that he recorded. The way they’re edited, these voices present critiques and reflections from within the system, not simple narratives of personal trauma or triumph over the odds.“With the sound room, you’re in the middle of the sound, and there’s nothing but you and the voices,” Pinderhughes said. “What I wanted to create is: ‘This is your brain.’ There is no us-and-them.” Everything is first person, he explained, “So unless you’re doing the work of separating yourself from the experiences, you’re in it.” (In this way, he acknowledged, he had been inspired by a conversation he’d seen on YouTube between the author bell hooks and the artist Arthur Jafa. In it, Jafa says that any camera can effectively function as a tool of the white gaze.)The people whose voices Pinderhughes uses in the sound room share publishing rights to the tracks that feature them, something that Pinderhughes saw as nonoptional. Some also have bio pages on the Yerba Buena center’s Healing Project website.In one clip, Keith LaMar speaks about feeling victorious simply for having maintained his “sweetness” — a personal quality that’s obvious in his voice — despite the inhumanities of living in solitary confinement for decades. He calls the prison system a “digestive tract,” not a space of rehabilitation.Not long after comes the voice of Roosevelt Arrington, an educator and peer mentor who spent years in the system. He says that socially accepted language can be dehumanizing: “‘Inmate,’ ‘convict,’ ‘ex-felon,’ they’re demeaning titles: They’re put in place to diminish self-respect and dignity, and to demean you and to break your spirit.” He adds, “When a person feels like they have no self-value and no self-worth, that mind-set tends to take them back to a criminal element.”The exhibition also includes visual artworks by Pinderhughes himself; the artist Titus Kaphar, who also designed the “Grief” LP cover; Nnaemeka Ekwelum, whose works in the gallery are a variation on Nigerian funeral cloths; and Peter Mukuria, known as Pitt Panther, who’s currently incarcerated in Virginia and serves as the minister of labor for the Revolutionary Intercommunal Black Panther Party.Since connecting for the Healing Project, Mukuria and Pinderhughes have become close, and now talk by phone multiple times a week. In the gallery hang a number of works Mukuria drew on prison bedsheets, including a portrait of George Floyd, a piece to accompany the song “Process,” and a strikingly intimate scene with Mukuria seated in his cell. The show also has an altar, drawing from Afro-Latino traditions and New York City street culture, with a faceless portrait at its center, inviting visitors to honor anyone they’ve lost.Pinderhughes plans to take the Healing Project around the country, ideally reaching all the 15 states where he did interviews. He hopes it can ultimately become a permanent installation somewhere, someday. “I want to build a space that actually engages, and is able to offer the healing practices that I’ve learned through the interviews,” he said. “In an everyday context, offer those things.” More