The Move

The Move questions this transition from the stone walls of the 19th century to the concrete of the 21st. I shot the film in 2010, in the Jacques- Cartier prison (Rennes), in the final weeks before it closed and the prisoners were transferred. I met up again with the same people, two months later, in the new facility.

Expanding prison estates has been presented as the only possible answer to prison overcrowding and is leading to the inflation of the size of facilities and consequently to their remote locations. Prisons have abandoned proximity to citizens, and cities have disappeared from the landscape of jailed people.

For citizens, opportunities to find themselves facing a prison wall have become increasingly rare and now only occur by accident, when the motorway or the railway runs alongside the outer walls of a prison facility, allowing mere glimpses of watchtowers, barbed wire and the roofs of buildings. What do the walls of new prisons say? What is the message sent to society by these architectural choices?

In Vezin, as is the case elsewhere, cues for interpreting time and place have been erased. There is nothing left to suggest the passage of time – no vegetation and no passers-by sporting changing styles. No more city life, with its rhythm and its recurring activities. No more opportunities for stolen glances. Gone are the days of prisoners closely observing the car park in order to share in the daily lives of their neighbours. A Prison in the City and The Move serve as records of these casual interactions that will one day be no more than memories.

The location of the new Vezin penitentiary centre, deep within an industrial estate, speaks volumes about the place of prisons: commercial activities like any other. That’s the impression the prisoners often shared with me after the move. Like all recent constructions, the Rennes-Vezin penitentiary centre – 942 prisoners in 2017, spread across remand centres and detention centres – incorporated the new standard features: gigantic scale, remoteness from an urban centre, delegated management, use of technology and heightened security.

In The Move, the people – prisoners and staff – shown in the old remand centre, then reintroduced in the new prison, agree on the loss of social interaction. The guards put into perspective the closing of the Jacques- Cartier prison, pointing to its dilapidated state. In the new facility, they lament the isolation forced on them by the architecture, which fails to provide them with a sense of security, despite the increased number of cameras. Their blind spots – in the stairwells, for example – are the negative side of these compartmentalised spaces. Restricting visibility in any way generates risk.

The new walls and improved health conditions are accompanied by a narrower day-to-day environment, one that is colder, more codified, confining prisoners inside of the prison’s wings, storeys, stairwells and airlocks. The smooth concrete that eliminates gaps and the rigid use of architecture make any escape impossible. The segmentation of the space via closed corridors, the technological isolation and the decreased contact between prisoners and guards all contribute to dehumanising detention.

Prisoners only spend time together in spaces designed for them to do so, such as the gym or exercise yard, and during workshops. Movement within the buildings is regulated by airlocks. The paths are marked and managed from control centres, where guards remotely open the gates and doors.

The footprint of the new facilities – about ten hectares – requires a move to the outskirts of cities. Within the outer wall, a series of protective barriers – rampart walk, buffer zone, neutral zone six metres wide – add to the isolation of the centre of the prison and the jailed people who occupy it.

Prisons have become increasingly withdrawn and hold citizens at a distance. The facilities have been relegated to non-spaces, severing ties with the outside world, except those planned and duly organised by the administration. There is no longer anything from the outside to appeal to the senses.

The visual horizon has narrowed even within the cells, where grating has been installed in addition to the bars, like an extra punishment delivered visually. They serve to obstruct anything that might still be visible. Seeing life on the outside has been deemed a privilege, and preventing it is now part of the punishment.

In Vezin, the view from the windows of the cells is limited to a series of metal gates and wire fences. A lucky few have a view of the sports pitch. On the upper levels, a mere handful of cells overlook the fields, and in the distance, the TGV line that connects Paris to Brest.

The prisoners feel that this geographical remoteness is symbolic of the distance they must one day travel to reintegrate into society.

— Catherine Rechard.