“In Dentro, the act of inquiry ultimately proves more significant than the pursuit of definitive answers”

“Numberless are the world’s wonders, but none
More wonderful than man; the storm-grey sea
Yields to his prows, the huge crests bear him high;
Earth, holy and inexhaustible, is graven
With shining furrows where his plows have gone
Year after year, the timeless labor of stallions” – Chorus from Antigone

When confronting discussions about art’s transformative power, or its absence, I often turn to the work of Emmanuel Levinas, particularly his reflections on the ethical responsibility of the “I” in the face-to-face encounter with the Other. For Levinas, “the face is exposed, menaced, as if inviting us to an act of violence. At the same time, the face is what forbids us to kill.” The very face that might appear threatening simultaneously reminds us that violence implicates us all, positioning each of us as potential victim or perpetrator. This ethical tension is exacerbated today by the diminishing presence of direct, embodied encounters, as an increasing portion of human interaction takes place online.

Within this framework, reflecting on Levinasian ethics alongside our (in)ability to recognize the Other as fully human, particularly through representation and mediation in art, opens up rich avenues for critical inquiry. It is precisely along these lines that Dentro, Elsa Amiel’s documentary on Armando Punzo and his work with long-term inmates in a prison in Volterra, Tuscany, emerges as a compelling case study, especially in light of a crucial moment that foregrounds Punzo’s difficulties in negotiating with Italian authorities. His attempt to sustain a theatre company within a prison inevitably raises a broader question: if punishment is the primary objective of incarceration, what role can art legitimately play in such a context? Furthermore, even if one accepts the possibility of prisons functioning as spaces of resocialization, does framing art in these terms reduce it to a merely therapeutic instrument, thereby impoverishing its broader aesthetic and philosophical significance?

Given its thematic proximity, any discussion of Dentro invites comparison with Caesar Must Die by the Taviani brothers, a reenactment of Julius Caesar staged within a Roman prison, and Sing Sing by Greg Kwedar, which offers a more overtly didactic exploration of art’s transformative potential, specifically through theatre. What is most illuminating, however, is how Dentro distinguishes itself from these works by resisting a utilitarian reading of art, privileging evocation over prescription.

On one hand, Sing Sing, despite featuring a cast largely composed of formerly incarcerated actors playing fictionalized versions of themselves, ultimately relies heavily on the performance of Colman Domingo. His character, Divine G, is portrayed as an innocent man who leads theatrical productions designed to rehabilitate fellow inmates and improve their chances of parole. In this framework, theater functions primarily as an instrument of correction, a kind of prescribed remedy, devoid of meaning outside the logic of rehabilitation.

On the other hand, while Caesar Must Die represents a more sophisticated narrative endeavor, it remains constrained by an overdetermined mirror structure. By constantly overlapping the prisoners’ lives with the dynamics of Shakespeare’s play, it never fully develops either dimension. Art within the prison, and the resonance of the text for those men, becomes significant only insofar as it enables direct parallels between fiction and lived experience.

Dentro, however, moves beyond both approaches by foregrounding art itself. The film centers on Punzo’s Compagnia della Fortezza rather than on the biographical narratives of the inmates. And unlike Caesar Must Die, it refuses to privilege a single play or to foreground the prisoners’ personal responses to specific texts. Its focus lies instead on the sustained practice of theater within the constraints of the prison system.

This becomes evident from the opening scene: we observe actors returning inside a building, removing their costumes as distant applause lingers. As their condition as inmates gradually becomes apparent, their conversations remain partially obscured, never fully accessible. The film shows little interest in their subjectivities; instead, it emphasizes their roles as actors. What follows is a sequence of rehearsals, exercises, spatial negotiations, and readings from authors such as Ernst Bloch, Jorge Luis Borges, and Knut Hamsun.

Notably, the questions of whom these men are and what led them to prison remain unanswered, and it is precisely this refusal to provide such information that constitutes the film’s most significant achievement. Returning to Emmanuel Levinas, we are invited to encounter these individuals within a space that oscillates between recognition and estrangement. Theatre functions here as the site in which this encounter occurs, rather than as its trigger or ultimate end. There is no moral anchor comparable to the figure embodied by Colman Domingo, nor any heavy reliance on specific texts. Indeed, the plays rehearsed, and the books quoted often remain unnamed, as the film moves fluidly between references. refusing to stabilize meaning and instead foregrounding the ethical demand of the encounter itself.

Once again, Punzo emerges as the central figure. As playwright and director he orchestrates the process, and it is this very choice that allows the inmates to be perceived primarily as actors, something that, in a profoundly Shakespearean sense, we all are. The film is not concerned with demonstrating art’s capacity to transform lives, as it offers no access to the inmates’ pasts or futures. Nor does it engage directly with the mechanisms of punishment. Instead, it focuses on the practice of theater itself and on the importance of questioning when engaging with a text. In Dentro, the act of inquiry ultimately proves more significant than the pursuit of definitive answers.