The Shawshank Redemption—and Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith

The accepted history of The Shawshank Redemption is familiar. Andy Dufresne, a banker unjustly convicted of murder, enters Shawshank State Penitentiary, befriends Ellis “Red” Redding, survives two grim decades, and eventually escapes through a tunnel concealed behind a succession of increasingly tasteful movie posters.

This account is broadly accurate. It omits only the third principal character: a capuchin monkey named Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith.

Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith appeared throughout the original production but was removed from the final cut after disagreements over artistic direction, billing, and several monkey labor provisions attributed—perhaps too confidently—to the ASPCA. 

I. California Breakwater Annex

The project did not originally take place at Shawshank.

Stephen King conceived the story during what scholars now call his numerological period. The title’s initials, TSR, consist of three consecutive letters in reverse alphabetical order. King also obsessed over pages of numbers that would appear in the warden's accounting ledger (the original reason for its being on the set.)

His first setting was the California Breakwater Annex, known as … the CBA. The institution was a grey stone penitentiary facing a grey sea beneath a grey sky. Producers worried that audiences would confuse it with the grey Oregon asylum under a grey sky in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Audiences believed Jack Nicholson would come back at any moment and attempt to organize a fishing trip.

II. The Third Man

Andy Dufresne entered Shawshank carrying the stunned dignity of a man who had misplaced both his wife and his understanding of the legal system.

Red already understood the institution. He could obtain cigarettes, posters, and rock hammers.

Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith was serving seven to twelve years for forgery, trespass, and the theft of bright shiny objects from a municipal office.  

In early scripts, they formed an uneasy triangle. Andy possessed financial intelligence. Red possessed practical intelligence. The monkey possessed a perfect understanding of ventilation ducts.

 

III. The Prison Yard

One surviving production still shows several inmates playing basketball in the exercise yard. The scene appears ordinary until one looks above the hoop.

Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith is seated atop the backboard, watching the game with intense professional interest. In one hand he grips a wad of paper slips. The monkey is operating a numbers racket among the inmates surrounding the court.

The warden disliked the monkey’s operation, not because it was illegal, but because it competed with his own.

IV. The Laundry

Midway through the original cut, Andy and Red are assigned to the prison laundry.

The room is hot, damp, and filled with hanging sheets. Machinery rattles. Steam collects beneath the ceiling.  Inmates sort institutional linens.

At the center of the room stands what appears to be a mummified cat.

It is Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith, tightly wrapped in several prison sheets, with only his face visible.

The scene contributed little to the plot. It did, however, occupy eleven minutes and required forty-seven takes.  King was a cat-person.

V. The Other Escape

The discarded ending was complicated and simple.

Andy and Red stand in the cell, arguing.

Moments before, Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith shoots through escape hole, enters the airshaft, and begins climbing toward the roof.

Then he pulls a cord.  A heavy grate assembled from plumbing pipes drops across the opening behind him, sealing off the cell from the airshaft side.  

Coda: Zihuatanejo

The excised final scene opens on a tropical beach.

Waves roll gently toward the shore. Palm trees bend in the breeze. A picnic table stands near the water.

On top of the table rests a tiny upholstered pool couch, exactly large enough for one capuchin monkey. Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith reclines upon it, sipping a mai tai through a straw. The drink contains a small paper umbrella and was charged to somebody else’s room.

Near his elbow lies the warden’s ledger.

Several young female monkeys play in the shallow surf. One waves toward him. Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith raises his glass but does not rise.    Here the movie closes, but we suspect the adventures of this monkey are not over.

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I first dictated the key points to Chat GPT [most appeared in my imagination during a long hike], and AI then wrote a lengthy script, twice as long [plus it made drawings to spec.]   I gave the Chat original long script and I gave it my final short script above.  Chat GpT  understood the differences, as it writes below.

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Bruce, This [comparison of long and short]  is a useful calibration. Your published version is not simply the long version with half the words removed. It uses a different comedic economy.

 

The published article trusts the premise

The long version kept trying to prove that Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith belonged in the movie. It supplied his criminal history, the precise mechanics of his numbers racket, contractual disputes over whether sheets constituted wardrobe or scenery, the contents of the suitcase, and the competing theories of his agent and the director.

Most of those inventions were individually amusing. Collectively, they began to feel like documentation.

Your version recognizes that the central proposition—a capuchin monkey was the suppressed third star of Shawshank—is already funny. Once the reader accepts that, the article needs only a few well-chosen pieces of corroborating evidence.

Thus:

Andy possessed financial intelligence. Red possessed practical intelligence. The monkey possessed a perfect understanding of ventilation ducts.

That is enough. The long version added, “and absolutely no loyalty,” followed by more explanation. The addition was not bad, but the clean triplet is better. It lets the reader complete the thought.

You retained the strongest joke and discarded its relatives

The long draft often generated a good joke and then surrounded it with two or three related jokes. Your edit repeatedly keeps the best one.

For example, I invented elaborate ASPCA rules involving prison-yard lighting, banana breaks, and moral betrayal. You kept only:

several monkey labor provisions attributed—perhaps too confidently—to the ASPCA.

That line is funnier because it sounds like an understated historical qualification. The imaginary banana regulation would have raised the comic volume too early and made the narrator seem eager to perform.

The same thing happens in the prison yard. The long version explains how the betting system worked, what the prisoners wagered, why the winning number was fraudulent, and how Andy and Red reacted. You retain the essential visual—the monkey on the backboard with his betting slips—and then finish with the best sentence:

The warden disliked the monkey’s operation, not because it was illegal, but because it competed with his own.

Scene over. Nothing after that sentence could improve it.

The pictures are allowed to do part of the writing

This is especially clear in the published layout. On page 2, the basketball engraving establishes the prison, the game, the inmates, the elevated monkey, and the wad of papers. The prose does not need to rebuild all of those details.

The same applies to the laundry. The image already shows an enormous, solemnly swaddled monkey standing amid the institutional linens. Your text therefore moves rapidly:

At the center of the room stands what appears to be a mummified cat.

It is Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith…

Then comes the brief production-history punchline:

The scene contributed little to the plot. It did, however, occupy eleven minutes and required forty-seven takes. King was a cat-person.

The long version had dialogue, hopping across the table, a linen press accident, wounded pride, and a dispute over supplemental compensation. All of that competed with an image that was already doing the comic work. Your version gives the reader time to look and laugh.

You shortened the transitions, not merely the scenes

My version repeatedly paused to explain how one episode related to the movie’s themes. Your version simply moves.

“The project did not originally take place at Shawshank.”

“Midway through the original cut…”

“The discarded ending was complicated and simple.”

“The excised final scene opens on a tropical beach.”

These are nearly invisible transitions. They maintain the mock-documentary voice while moving the reader into the next visual tableau. The essay feels like a guided tour through recovered footage rather than an argument about cinematic history.

That matters because the reader’s pleasure comes from discovering the next absurd image: the monkey above the basketball hoop, the mummy cat, the airshaft betrayal, the tiny pool couch. Lengthening the connective tissue delays the next attraction.

The unexplained details become funnier

The long version tried to explain the battered suitcase. Your final version does not mention it at all, although it remains visible in the engraving. That is better.

A battered wheeled suitcase standing inside a Shawshank cell is inherently strange. Explaining that it contained passports, a dinner jacket, and prison silverware converts mysterious visual comedy into written inventory.

Likewise, the published escape scene does not tell us what Andy and Red are arguing about, whether they had a formal agreement with the monkey, or why the grate was assembled from plumbing pipes. It simply happens. The monkey escapes and closes the route behind him.

Absurdity often improves when the narrator treats its machinery as self-evident.

The ending stops before the premise is exhausted

My longer coda supplied shell companies, new ledger entries, a boat-repair business, a laundry service, municipal keys, and a final variation on the movie’s famous statement about hope.

Your ending keeps the beach, the mai tai, the warden’s ledger, the young female monkeys, and the drink charged to somebody else’s room. Then:

Here the movie closes, but we suspect the adventures of this monkey are not over.

That is a gentler and more cinematic ending. It leaves Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith reclining inside a world that continues beyond the article. The longer version delivered a final punchline, then another, and then a literary parody. Yours lets the curtain fall while the reader is still amused.

The practical lesson

The governing rule seems to be:

Establish the counterfeit history, present one vivid piece of evidence, give it one strong deadpan punchline, and leave.

The long version treated each section as an opportunity for a complete comic sketch. Your version treats each as a glimpse of a larger lost movie. That is why it feels spacious despite being shorter: the reader is invited to imagine everything that was omitted.

For future pieces in this series, the target should probably be close to this published article: roughly five brief movements, four strong images, one or two memorable lines per movement, and no obligation to exploit every joke that the premise makes possible. The unused jokes are not wasted. They are what make the fictional world appear larger than the article.