The Not So Serious Side of Schirmer

A random discovery of levity in a 1960's mechanical photo booth yields a rare glimpse of Rudolph at play.

Few photographs show Rudy-Lite, but this one is a rare gem. Blessed with a gift for mimicry, Rudolph could send you into stitches with a brilliant rendition of a character he had encountered that day (preferably a waitress or a clerk at the post-office) from the voice down to a signature gesture that would instantly re-create the whole experience.

Rudolph surely inherited his mother's theatrical gene, and allowed it to come to fruition while at Princeton, where, spurred on by childhood friend Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. he joined the Theatre Intime. His pals not only encouraged him to try out, but were incredibly enthusiastic after opening night. I can imagine Efrem patting him on the back and saying, "Rudy, old boy, you've got it, you've really got it!"

Rudolph chose not to pursue a stage or film career.  He always considered himself an intellectual and a serious man of music. However, he never lost his theatrical touch.  Here and there, in the corners of a cross-town drive, he would share his skill for mimicry with me, extemporaneously inventing voices and characters. I would jump in with the other characters  (for I too, it seemed, had inherited the gene from both sides). Those, I think, were some of his finest hours, where he threw himself into the moment and the indescribable joy of inhabiting another being.

It is amazing just how much you can absorb by just being around someone who is the embodiment of an art.  Rudolph was a triple threat - music, acting and the written word.  When he read aloud, he was a consummate actor.  When he composed at the piano, he was a master craftsman.  When he wrote a poem, he was an inspired magician of rhythm.

Rudolph read to me on several occasions when I was a child. My first memory is of him opening "Winnie the Pooh" and beginning....pausing for a breath before beginning his aural banquet. As soon as he uttered, "Chapter One", I was hooked.  He paused, letting the seconds pass in expectation.  By the time he began the first line, I had been transported to a fantastic landscape of bears and honey and donkeys and a small, yet charming boy named Christopher.  

From that first reading, I saw how the tone and pace of the voice brought dimension to the words. I understood that words could be feelings, paintings, movements, adventures.  As I got older (and saw less of him) I would ask him to read to me when we spent time together. He was always happy to comply.

 Sometimes, in classic Angeleno fashion, he would read in the car, at stop lights (there was a lot less traffic in those days!)  It might be a phrase from a poem he had written in Latin....or something more mundane, like French. He pronounced the ancient Roman tongue in the style of Laurence Olivier, then instantly switch to a Texas drawl as he cracked open his latest gift to me, "Smoky", drawing, no doubt on his Arizona years to impart the rugged feel of the west. Or if we were nearing the Christmas season, he would bring Scrooge to life in arch Victorian tones. In the summer, his passages of choice were often those penned by his old chum, Aldous Huxley, which he would deliver with the exacting pronunciation of his favorite literary genius.

How lucky I was to have the art of the written word so perfectly, so instantly imparted to me at such an early time. To this day, his sonorous, measured voice, forming each letter with perfect diction and inflection, in his unique Mid-Atlantic mode, resonates in my head....the missing r's at the end of words, the infallible t's and d's and s's creating canyons and valleys and peaks as the story went along, making every sound a new and delicious experience. 

My acting career had begun,  listening to the sounds of imagination.   There, in that symphony of syllables, I learned the music of words.