BENT

(co-produced with Tamahnous Theatre)
by Martin Sherman; directed by Larry Lillo; set design by Doug Welch; costume design by Barbara Clayden and Phillip Tidd; lighting by Marxha Sibthorpe; music by Bruce Ruddell.

A play of great significance, Bent was staged in Vancouver - with Canadian actors - following its well publicized premiere in NYC with American actors. The plot concerned the little known persecution of homosexuals by the Nazis during World War II and centered on a man imprisoned in Dachau. The Canadian production was a great success both critically and commercially. Its 2-week run was extended repeatedly and only closed (in July) when the lead actor -- Allan Gray -- was injured in an automobile accident and his fellow thespians voted to close the play rather than continue without him.

Bruce played two roles: the gay man whose nude entrance and violent death in the opening moments of the play are designed to shock the audience and set the sombre tone for the rest of the play and then - later - he plays one of the Nazi guards.

What a critic had to say about Bruce in BENT:
(Bruce's earliest review)

Even the SS guards and Gestapo characters in Bent somehow manage to escape being caricatures of malevolence. Those are real human beings doing those things. Alex Daikun, Bruce Greenwood, Stephen E. Miller and Glen Thompson actually manage to give us pleasing performances as Nazis. It's bizarre. I appreciated their performances in this production not as achievements but as contributions.
Alan Twigg / Vancouver Free Press / Georgia Straight 4/3/81

A Personal Anecdote from Bruce on BENT:

Standing naked in the wings before an entrance can be unnerving. It bears an uncanny similarity to nightmares I've had about just that: suddenly finding myself in front of an audience with my penis hanging out. But it is possible to convince yourself it's a `great entrance', step out into the lights and take some satisfaction from the gasps and mutterings out there in the house. I thought I might feel less insecure if I chose to approach it that way.

We were doing Bent at the Arts Club in Vancouver and eight shows a week found me strolling out there and swinging it in Allan Gray's face. In the scene, we would have a short chat, then I'd exit to the bathroom, put on a robe and re-enter. We would continue to talk until there was a crashing at the door as two brown-shirt goons demanded to be let in. As they came through the door I would run into the bathroom with them tearing through the apartment in pursuit.

Once in the bathroom I'd stuff my cheeks with blood-bags and squirt a cup or so of blood on my leg as they smashed down the door and fired a gun and I screamed. I'd come staggering back in, only a step ahead of them. They'd grab me by the hair, drag me down stage centre, yank back my head, and draw a huge blood-filled knife across my throat whereupon I'd vomit blood impressively all over the stage. Then I'd pitch forward onto my face and expire as a curtain with a massive iron bar in it slammed down in front of me, providing the backdrop for the next scene. In full drag Alex Diakun would enter stage right singing a torch song as the curtain shimmered.

One night, the scene plays as usual; the goons burst through the door, and I scream as the brownshirts barrel into the bathroom after me and fire the shot. So far so good. But my robe has come open. The belt is loose and dragging. I don't see it falling around my legs. I don't notice until much too late that my feet are tied together.

I'm in motion but my feet are going nowhere. As my face is sailing toward the floor it becomes clear that my hands are still at my sides and they're not going to break my fall. The only things that come between me and the floor are my forehead and my penis which, out of sheer terror, has swung upward and laid itself across the chopping block of my pelvic bone.

The pain is shocking and I'm convinced that I've pinched it off. I stagger to my feet and lurch two feet over my mark before being brought to my knees by my scene partners. All I can think is that the audience is witnessing the most awful accident in the history of theatre, and that my dick is somewhere upstage.

I did still have to die and I'm sure on this night it was convincing because I wanted to. I pitched forward and the curtain came down. On my neck. The curtain was down but my head was still on-stage. Now Alex comes out and sings a couple of bars of his song. I have two choices: I can let my bloody head lie in his nightclub till the next black-out, or I can suddenly come to life. So as the crowd watches, I wrestle insanely with the bar in the curtain and finally yank my head back into the dark. I feel for the worst.

Miraculously, I'm intact. I let go an agonized sigh of relief that can probably be heard by the guy in the back row. I do a kind of two-legged sumo crab walk back to the dressing room and stand shaking at my make-up table with my injuries on a towel, all the while describing to the rest of the cast what has happened in a choking whisper.

To this day bathrobes disturb me and I rarely run when I'm naked.

Standing Naked in the Wings
Oxford University Press, 1997