Revisited | Ava DuVernay’s documentary 13th by Lavelle Eagle

 

Ava DuVernay’s documentary 13th is a devastating and illuminating exploration of how slavery in the United States did not end so much as evolve into new forms of racial control, culminating in the contemporary crisis of mass incarceration. Taking its title from the 13th Amendment—which abolished slavery “except as a punishment for crime”—the film argues that this exception clause opened a legal and moral loophole that has been exploited for more than 150 years to criminalize Black people and maintain a racial caste system. Rather than treating this as an abstract constitutional quirk, DuVernay frames it as the throughline connecting Reconstruction-era Black Codes to chain gangs, Jim Crow, the war on drugs, and today’s prison-industrial complex.

Structurally, 13th unfolds as a fast-paced historical and political essay, moving chronologically from the aftermath of the Civil War to the present. The film details how, immediately after emancipation, Southern states passed laws that turned everyday behaviors—loitering, vagrancy—into crimes disproportionately enforced against newly freed Black people, who were then leased out to plantations and corporations as convict labor. DuVernay links this system to early racist propaganda like The Birth of a Nation, which portrayed Black men as dangerous criminals and helped justify both lynching and segregation in the white imagination. As the film moves through the civil rights era into the late twentieth century, it shows how “law and order” rhetoric, the war on drugs, and mandatory minimum sentencing fueled an explosion in the prison population, with Black and brown communities bearing the brunt.

A major strength of 13th is its use of a wide range of voices to build its case. DuVernay interviews scholars, activists, formerly incarcerated people, and policy experts, including Angela Davis, Michelle Alexander, Bryan Stevenson, and Van Jones, among others. Their commentary is intercut with archival footage of protests, police brutality, presidential speeches, and news clips, creating a layered narrative that feels both historically grounded and painfully contemporary. The film even includes conservative commentators and former officials, which adds nuance and underscores that the machinery of mass incarceration has been supported by both major political parties.

Visually and stylistically, the documentary is striking. The interviews are shot against stark, minimalist backgrounds, which keeps the focus on the speakers’ words and emotions. DuVernay overlays statistics and bold text on screen—graphs of the prison population, numbers of incarcerated people—so viewers can see the scale of the crisis at a glance. She also uses music, including hip-hop and protest songs, with lyrics highlighted on screen to emphasize how Black artists have long been narrating the realities of surveillance, policing, and imprisonment. This blend of formal interviews, archival material, and artistic expression gives the film a rhythm that is more urgent than a traditional, sedate documentary.

One of the most impactful sections of 13th is its examination of the relationship between policy, profit, and incarceration. The film traces how the prison boom coincided with the rise of private prisons, lobbying groups like ALEC (the American Legislative Exchange Council), and corporate interests that benefit from cheap prison labor and tough-on-crime legislation. By connecting the dots between political speeches, model bills, and corporate contracts, DuVernay dismantles the notion that mass incarceration is simply the result of more “crime.” Instead, she presents it as a system shaped by deliberate choices, ideological narratives, and economic incentives that dehumanize certain populations for profit.

As a viewing experience, 13th is emotionally intense and often difficult to watch. The film confronts viewers with images of lynchings, police killings, and anguished families, alongside footage from protests and riots that echo across decades. This can feel overwhelming, but that discomfort is part of the film’s purpose—it refuses to let racism remain a purely intellectual topic. Instead, DuVernay insists that the viewer reckon with the human cost of policies and ideologies that are too often discussed only in abstract terms.

Critics sometimes note that the documentary’s argument is unapologetically forceful and leaves little room for alternative interpretations of the data. But 13th is not trying to be a neutral, both-sides account; it is a piece of advocacy, grounded in evidence, that seeks to make visible structural violence that has long been minimized or denied. For educators, students, and general audiences, this clarity is a strength: the film provides a powerful framework and shared vocabulary for discussing mass incarceration, systemic racism, and the unfinished work of the civil rights movement.

Ultimately, 13th succeeds both as cinema and as civic intervention. It is tightly edited, intellectually coherent, and emotionally resonant, and it leaves viewers with pressing questions about justice, democracy, and who is considered fully human under the law. In showing how the legacy of slavery continues to shape criminal justice, DuVernay makes it clear that confronting mass incarceration is not a niche issue, but central to any honest conversation about freedom in the United States.