This article discusses all six episodes of Netflix’s The New Stanford Prison Experiment.
For decades now, scholars have argued over what—if anything—we should have gleaned from the Stanford Prison Experiment. That it was unethical to place two dozen male college students in a university basement repurposed as a prison, designate a few of them guards and the rest prisoners, and encourage the former to discipline the latter, was apparent by the time its mastermind, Stanford psychology professor Philip Zimbardo, ended what was supposed to be a two-week exercise after only six days. As the extent of Zimbardo’s manipulation came to light, the 1971 study lost credibility in academic circles, even as its pop-cultural legend kept growing. Fifty-five years after it was conducted, perhaps the only definitive conclusion to draw from the Stanford Prison Experiment is that the Stanford Prison Experiment is not worth repeating.
But just try telling that to the reality-TV machine, let alone a platform currently at work on the third, all-celebrity season of a competition series that cheerfully (and, of course, non-lethally) recreates the horrors of its international hit anticapitalist battle royale thriller Squid Game. The New Stanford Prison Experiment, Netflix’s take on a project that was always more convincing as improvisational theater than as scientific research, isn’t even television’s first crack at Zimbardo’s study. The BBC got there first with The Experiment, in 2002, whose earnest attempts to correct for the original’s missteps yielded a more nuanced, if still inherently flawed, look at authority. That the Netflix version of what can now be best understood as a reboot of a famous franchise feels less like social psychology and more like a high-concept season of Big Brother is no surprise. What’s most perplexing is its choice to incorporate female participants in a limited way—and its failure to make any real sense out of what they bring to the experience.
Aware that the televised resurrection of a notoriously inhumane experiment was bound to draw scrutiny (the mere announcement of the show’s existence touched off a wave of incredulity), the producers of the six-episode series take pains to make both their safety precautions and their high-mindedness visible. Instead of a retrofitted academic building, the inmates are sequestered in a real housing pod of a Georgia correctional facility. The 30 voluntary participants are said to come from all walks of life, though what we find out about their backgrounds is generally limited to hometown, racial identity, and line of work. According to executive producer Jane Lipsitz, each “underwent psychological screenings prior to entering the experiment.” There’s a safe word any of the participants can, and some do, use to leave the roleplay early.
The appearance of legitimacy is further reinforced by a panel of three experts who provide commentary on what’s happening in the pod. Michael Cantrell, who brings 30 years of experience working in federal corrections, games out the results of the guards’ strategies. Journalist Trymaine Lee, who has covered stories ranging from Hurricane Katrina to the power of the Black electorate, was presumably tapped to bring insight into big-picture issues such as race, violence, and the justice system. But the show keeps the experts’ interjections so brief that he’s rarely afforded more than a quick sound bite. Filling a limited version of the host role is Alison Wood Brooks, a behavioral scientist on the faculty of Harvard Business School. It’s she who introduces the series with a speed-run summary of Zimbardo’s study and its “ethical breaches,” as well as the true but comically vague observation that “in today’s world, the study of power couldn’t be more relevant.” So, Brooks says, it seemed like the right time to retry the experiment in hopes of more accurately answering its original question: “Does power corrupt?”
It doesn’t take long to notice that only three of the 30 participants are women—and all of them join the five men selected as guards. It’s not hard to guess why there are no female inmates. Correctional facilities are segregated by sex. Throwing men and women together in close quarters for 14 long, monotonous days is a recipe for uncomfortable, sexually charged interactions, if not full-on harassment or assault. Of course, similar dangers exist in single-sex environments. Abuse of power seems particularly likely when male guards are put in charge of female prisoners, yet precisely this dynamic is the reality in many American prisons. I suppose untrained, inexperienced guards might be expected to pose a greater threat. But you would think that the same safeguards put in place to protect participants’ physical and mental health could be extended to enable a truly coed experiment. (The show doesn’t have much to say about the existence of transgender, nonbinary, or even queer people behind bars.)
The architects of New Stanford might’ve avoided all of the above and still meaningfully included women by running parallel exercises in separate pods. Instead, they only examine the behavior of three women—a number so small, it precludes any claim of representativeness—in positions of authority over men. One of them, Laura Berens, is the CEO of her own business and thus presumably comfortable in a leadership role. Shavonnah Jefferson, whose background as a security guard also seems relevant here, has no trouble asserting herself. “You have to speak up,” she says. “Because if you do not, people will run you over.” Yet only Kiana Gaona, a young, devoutly Christian social media manager elected head guard by her shiftmates, gets much screen time in early episodes. Professing to believe in gender equality despite her choice to submit to her husband, she’s a bit erratic. She makes the extreme decision to give an outcast inmate a position of power, then veers dramatically in the opposite direction, punishing him and a fellow dissident with 23 hours of confinement to a cell for talking about a rebellion.
It’s these scheming inmates and the two male guards who initially claim control of their respective shifts who dominate the show for most of the season. There’s an interesting, if under-analyzed, contrast between the latter men’s leadership styles. Chris Lee, a prototypical new-school executive, wants to wield influence by inspiring his charges, while Chet Hudson, an oil rig supervisor, likens his new job to breaking horses. The resulting inconsistency fosters a bit of unrest. But it’s only after an extremely reality TV plot twist in which Lee, Hudson, and their fellow male guards switch roles with the most rebellious prisoners that a truly telling storyline emerges. Hudson, who as a guard had been the strongest proponent of a strict hierarchy, starts saying things like: “When people unite, no matter what, they’re in control of the power.” Then he makes a big deal of leaving the experiment early, claiming that he has nothing to learn from being a prisoner. For a certain kind of person, one that’s really having a moment right now in American politics, inequality only becomes a concern once they lose their place at the top.
Although the men’s role reversal remains the dominant drama, the shakeup also puts a new spotlight on the women, who are reassigned to an all-female shift. They quickly settle on Berens as head guard, citing her leadership experience. (It’s worth noting that neither of the two Black guards, Jefferson and Nicholas Washington, are shown to be considered by their peers for head guard.) “The female shift gave me an opportunity,” Berens reflects. “Obviously, the guys on my shift weren’t treating me super equal.” Unfortunately, this isn’t obvious based on the footage we’re shown, and it certainly doesn’t explain why Berens, the sole woman on her original shift, joined the majority that elected Hudson head guard. Regardless, she proves to be the most competent leader in the experiment, striking the right balance between firm rules and humane treatment. Her best moment happens when the shift made up of rebellious ex-prisoners loses control and she steps in to quiet the inmates and advise her counterpart to protect his guards.
Aside from the self-evident notion that some women make strong leaders (and some men weak ones), it’s hard to know what the takeaway from the introduction of an all-female shift is supposed to be. Maybe because they really do all respect women in positions of authority, or more likely because they don’t want millions of people watching them act sexist on TV, the inmates barely adjust their behavior when Berens’ team walks in. Another probable reason for their compliance is that they’re so intent on antagonizing the ex-inmate shift, which many feel is being rewarded for bad behavior. The women don’t come into the pod with the same baggage.
The expert commentators don’t really help make sense of the situation. When it comes to the gender issue, they could’ve supplied context about differences in how men and women typically wield authority or how men tend to perceive women in power. Maybe they did and that footage didn’t make it into the final edit. Either way, we see a lot of the experts noting that the all-female shift is fascinating without digging into specifics. The closest we get to synthesis comes from Berens. “I guess I really did have 22 men listening to me,” she marvels, attributing her success to kindness, humor, and mutual respect. “What if there are more women leaders who can lead in this type of way?” This is a subject far older than this Lean-In-era epiphany, yet New Stanford stops short at gesturing faintly in the direction of conversations that could theoretically be had.
The series’ shallow approach to gender doesn’t just weaken its depiction of the three female participants. It also neglects to acknowledge the explicitly gendered aspects of the male hierarchy, with its charismatic, physically strong leaders and smaller, less socially adept outcasts. In that sense, New Stanford replicates an ancient form of patriarchal bias that casts men as the norm and women as an atypical other. Maybe it’s silly to criticize something as inherently unserious as a reality show for failing to internalize the lessons of The Second Sex. But this particular reality show tries to justify its controversial existence by proclaiming its seriousness with regards to psychology, philosophy, and current events. So it seems fair to judge it by those lofty ambitions.
To that end, it isn’t only gender that the series glosses over. Racial disparities occasionally surface—one Black inmate justifies his obedience to authority by explaining that for his community, fighting back might result in an “accidental shooting”—yet go largely unexamined. Anyone hoping for timely debate over the purpose or efficacy of the criminal justice system is bound to be disappointed. By the time the guards are dismissed, in the finale, so that the prisoners can take responsibility for their own fates, the whole “experiment” feels like a bait-and-switch. New Stanford wants to reel in viewers with the notoriety of the original study and the promise that hot buttons will be pushed. But then, perhaps because the producers are afraid to alienate any segment of Netflix’s diverse audience, it shrinks from every opportunity to make meaning out of what happens in that housing pod. And so, as different as the two exercises are, this latest Stanford Prison Experiment becomes as pointless as the first one.