Jerry Guenthner, "G" to his friends, charges onstage, dressed in a burlap tunic. In front of a painted backdrop, he launches into the opening lines of Shakespeare's "Titus Andronicus": "Noble patricians, patrons of my right, defend the justice of my cause with arms."

Except for a high fence, just visible through a window off stage right, this could be a community-theater production. Except for the tag on his pants – "J. Guenthner #096355" – G could be a free man.

He and the 22 other players and crew members for this production are inmates at the Luther Luckett Correctional Complex in LaGrange, Ky. It's a medium-security prison, laid out in white cinder block and wide lawns – like a community college, but ringed with watchtowers and razor wire. Built to house 485 inmates, it is home to 975 men, most convicted of murder, rape, armed robbery, or drug charges. In a place like this, spoken by a man with a life sentence for killing a police officer, the words "right," "justice," and "arms" sound different than they would on a high school or professional stage.

No ticket window or ushers have greeted guests arriving for tonight's performance. Instead, they have cleared a vehicle checkpoint, two metal detectors, and four locking doors. Now they're packed into rows of stacking chairs in the visiting room.

	Cast & crew To find out about the actors and directors, click on a photo.

Sitting up front, G's family watches intently. A few rows back, Demetrius Burrus's mother cranes to see her son, playing a prisoner of war. When Leonard Ford begins his lines as a Roman tribune, his father straightens.

In a back corner, near the guard station, stands Curt Tofteland, director of Shakespeare Behind Bars, the program responsible for this production. He's also starting a new season in his regular job as director of the Kentucky Shakespeare Festival.

Shakespeare Behind Bars grew out of an effort to bring inmates and middle-school students together to discuss literature. Curt contacted that program's director to suggest a performance component. Six years and four wardens later, the discussions have lapsed – but the performances endure.

Not that it's been easy: Previous wardens were not all supportive of Curt's efforts, and the current warden admits his program probably wouldn't be around if it cost anything. Curt raises money to pay for costumes, and volunteers his time. He says he does it because acting can transform lives – particularly those of prisoners.

"I let the guys choose their roles," he says, "and you'd be surprised how many choose to act out the very kinds of things they're in here for." The inmates have told him those roles allow them to grapple with emotions they wouldn't otherwise be able to confront safely. "I tell them, 'You choose your role, but your role also chooses you' – and I believe that happens for a reason."

Onstage, G is joined by actors playing Titus's relatives and prisoners of war. They debate how to choose Rome's next emperor, their loyalties split between a budding democracy and a tradition of genealogical succession. Titus, a venerable soldier, ultimately confers the title on Saturninus, G's character and the elder but less compassionate son of the late emperor.

The attempt at an orderly transition will quickly devolve into a cycle of murder and recrimination. Father will turn against son, general against emperor, in a story that leaves everyone opting for vengeance over mercy.

It's a choice that mirrors the current debate about the purpose of modern prisons.

The first "penitentiaries" in the United States were founded on the principle that enough hard labor and solitary confinement would reform convicts. But by the late 19th century, advocates argued for vocational training and reintegration into society. In a 1970 Louis Harris poll, 70 percent of Americans supported those goals. By 1982, 90 percent of state departments of correction offered federally subsidized two- or four-year college degrees.

But in the early 1990s, an upsurge in violent crime and a rash of tough new federal legislation swelled the prison population. In 1994, Congress passed the Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement Act, which eliminated funds for inmate college programs. Today, 58 percent of Americans believe prisons – a $40 billion-a-year industry – are primarily for punishment.

Larry Chandler, the warden at Luther Luckett, is not among them. His prison has a long list of education, treatment, and recreation programs, and Chandler says his mission is to assist anybody who wants to learn. "I don't care if you murdered, raped – life goes on," he says. "The day they come in, we ought to start preparing 'em for the day they leave."

Onstage, Tamora, a conquered queen, begs Titus to spare the life of her eldest son. When he ignores her, she swears vengeance. Titus gives Tamora and her fellow prisoners to the new emperor, who frees them as a gesture of goodwill. Once unshackled, the shuffling actors straighten and file proudly off stage.