British Artists Blow Our Man in London's Top

This week, I encountered two extraordinary men. One is a world-class conductor who works continually and whose reputation is considered by many to be unsurpassed. The other is an unheard of playwright who has not had a professional production of his work in fifteen years. But (and this is important for me to stress) both the conductor-Vladimir Ashkenazy-and the playwright-David Rudkin-are at the top of their field. You do not get better than either of these two men.

Ashkenazy conducted the Philarmonic Orchestra in Mahler's Ninth Symphony last Saturday. Sitting in the choir stalls, I had a view of the entire Queen Elizabeth Hall audience, as well as Ashkenazy. Mahler would not have meant as much if I hadn't seen Ashkenazy's face. The beauty inherent in the score settled immediately on this gentle man's face.

He never opened his eyes. Stiff like cardboard, his upper body rocked as if on a pivot. But his face was so serene. From the neck up he melted into the music and from the neck to the waist Ashkenazy barely moved. It was two different people. Slowly though, things began to seep into Ashkenazy. The liquid joy in his face wrapped itself into his shoulders and the emotion unfurled downwards. I couldn't keep my eyes away - I was embarassed to watch something I knew I shouldn't be seeing.

This feeling stretched down further still, into the white-haired conductor's wrists. His eyes were locked shut in private reverie and the orchestra trooped on in elegant precision. The audience looked at me and Ashkenazy. I looked back and could not believe they were staring. I was so embarassed. His body picked up speed and Ashkenazy opened his arms a bit wider. The orchestra moved on to the second movement, the rondo. The white-haired Ashkenazy was no longer with us.

Suddenly he was swooping and sailing on his podium, eyes clamped shut, but that look on his face! His look had changed to a sort of silent screwed-up ball of scream. It was awful to see. The audience out in the house didn't see it. All they saw was a distinguished conductor's back, conducting with elegance and grace. I will not ever forget that look-in it I saw pain and lust and pity. I saw Mahler channeled through this skinny man and it was scary as hell.

I did not want to look; I was mortified to be that close to the black cauldron of pain and lust that is the creative process. I felt awful; an over-eager voyeur. Then the work came to an end and Ashkenazy just stopped. Last page, last phrase, last note, and he shut off. Looking up, his face was a crumpled piece of paper. A white hankerchief came out of his pocket and he wiped his face. Ever so slowly his eyes opened and things settled. His face settled and it plasticized back into the respectable look. Silence in the audience. Thunderous applause.

Do you know what Ashkenazy did? He ran his hand through his hair, smiled, and winked at the orchestra. Suddenly, here was the Ashkenazy of head shots and compact disc covers. Respectfully, he turned around to the audience and tilted his head in an over-rehearsed manner, smiling. That was that - next gig, next score, next hotel room.

* * *

"I am a quarrier of language." This is how David Rudkin began his talk to the Oberlin-in-London class. "Language is a major issue in my plays. Language is a character in my work!"

In front of us is a short, stocky man with disappearing chestnut-colored hair. He has a goatee and sweats a bit. On his feet are well-worn Velcro sneakers. Bi-focals adorn his face. When he becomes passionate about something, every three minutes, he opens his eyes big and lets his voice, with its slight Irish brogue, thunder.

Rudkin's first play, Afore Night Come, was produced by the Royal Shakespeare Company in the sixties. He has not had a professional production in fifteen years. Why? Most likely because the language of his plays is too rich. I know, that sounds like a funny problem for a playwright. He studied philology at Oxford, the study of language. This passion has fused to David Rudkin. When Rudkin wrote a play set in fifth-century England, he did not write it in English, but tried to create a language base that would sound as foreign as the language itself.

"How does one write language that sounds fifth-century? I try to write modes of speech that an actor can feel. People ask me why I won't just duck and write it in English. If I did this then, I would not be speaking from the heart. I do not have to revolutionize, I merely go where the harmony takes me."

Our jaws dropped as he spoke. Rudkin lives two hours away by train, in the English midlands, and he traveled down to our little Oberlin group with a one-hour speech lovingly typed up for our edification. I am not sure that 'speech' is the right word; more like 'love letter'-a love letter entitled, "Politics of Body and Speech." Rudkin surfs an intellectual wave taller than anything I have ever been conscious of. David Rudkin is one of the smartest, thorniest, sweetest men I have had the extreme fortune of meeting. How does he survive if no one is listening? (Some years ago, Rudkin flew to Oberlin to see a premiere of one of his plays.)

"How do you create your plays?" one of us asked Rudkin.

"This will sound most peculiar. Actually, I lay down on the cold ground of my office and close my eyes. I wait and wait for an image to appear out of the ether floating around in my head. The image appears and it takes weeks to harden up, as it always escapes. I once saw a woman striding forward through filthy, dirty air. One day I discovered she was carrying a scythe. Like the statue Britannia. She was death. The marass I saw was dead bodies in London during the plague. This was the core image for a play that turned into something called John Piper and the House of Death."

Rudkin talked for two hours. He is a gracious and kind man who answers questions as if he has been thinking about the answer for years instead of seconds. In his backpack he carries a crumpled notebook to write down little thoughts and to chart scenes for upcoming plays. "I acquire the confidence to write a play." Plays that end up in his desk drawer.

At the end of his talk, I asked David to sign my copy of his play Ashes. This, I think, made him happy. Please give Rudkin a reason to return to Oberlin.