The dramatic dynamic in run-of-the-mill prison plays focuses on the ability—or inability—of the inmates to forge a unity sufficient to survive their ordeal. The dynamic in Holocaust plays is shaped by documentation of Jewish persecution under the Third Reich, though its conventions may be applied to victims of any political oppression. The dynamic in gay prison or Holocaust plays, by contrast, is most frequently rooted in romantic sensibilities mandating erotic attraction leading to martyrdom.
In 1979, British playwright Martin Sherman incorporated motifs from all of these genres in service of his diatribe on social prejudice toward men who love men. Instead of the usual family opposition, patriotic loyalties or crossed stars, however, the would-be lovers, in this case, are obstructed by the Nazi Party's attempts in 1934 to rid Germany of "deviants."
Bent first introduces Berlin party-boy Max, who is arrested along with his gentle consort and sent to Dachau. En route, the guards force Max to bludgeon his boyfriend to death and perform sex on a female corpse, atrocities gaining their reluctant perpetrator a measure of leniency after arriving at the camps, where he becomes increasingly preoccupied with out-and-proud fellow internee Horst. Before long, the two find themselves sharing a consciousness-raising relationship that will seal both their fates.
It would be unthinkable to trivialize the historical events providing Sherman his premise, but the author's wholesale co-opting of facts to bolster his own reductive analogies tends to distance audiences, diminishing the empathy of their responses. Director Keira Fromm wisely takes advantage of the intimate Strawdog space, though, amplifying well-worn Weimar-Republic stereotypes through highlighting of small narrative details—for example, the stratagems by which German citizens of marginal status postponed their doom a little longer. In doing so, Fromm and her cast lend a semblance of depth to their characters' environment, assisted by fight designer Barbara Charlene, who keeps the potentially cartoonish jackboot antics perfunctory. Indeed, every member of The Other Theater Company shows evidence of going the extra mile to elevate their material.
Their efforts cannot wholly disguise the purpose of Sherman's propagandistic exposition as an excuse to conduct an existential dialogue on the difficulties of identity, commitment and loving under duress (an exercise bearing more than passing resemblance to an R-rated Waiting For Godot). Nik Kourtis and Alex Weisman gamely flex their actorly muscles, embracing every opportunity for subtextual grace notes to ensure that the spiritual growth of their respective personae achieves a level of engagement enabling us to overlook the inconsistencies marring this undeniably flawed script.
