Mental illness in a sick society (1996)

John Ogdon

Theatre Review from the April 1996 issue of the Socialist Standard

Virtuoso by William Humble (Wolsey Theatre, Ipswich and 
touring)

Socialists are not Utopians. Whilst we seek to change society so that it operates in the interests of all the people of the world and not just a small minority of capitalists, we recognise that a socialist society will still face daunting problems and challenges, some of which at present might seem insoluble.

One such challenge is mental health and, at the extreme, madness. We rightly talk of “the sick society” and there can be little doubt that the vast majority of the psychoses and neuroses which are the common experience of so many people today are associated, directly or indirectly, with the stresses and strains, the poverty and insecurity, of capitalism. People are sick, both physically and mentally, because the good health of the population must never be allowed to get in the way of the exploitation of the working class and the endless pursuit of yet more profit. In deference to profit children go hungry, old people go cold, and the unemployed eke out a chilling existence denied the essentials of life. Even the lucky ones (sic), the employed, must work harder, for longer hours and sometimes less pay in real terms, with the ever-present threat of re-structuring, voluntary redundancy, or some other euphemism for unemployment hanging over them. No wonder capitalism drives some people mad.

But beyond the victims of callous capitalism there remain those few whose illnesses seem, at least at first sight, unrelated to the world in which they live. The concert pianist, John Ogdon, was one such person. In Virtuoso, a new play by William Humble the onset, nature and treatment of his mental illness—and its impact on those around him—is sensitively and enthrallingly explored.

By any standard Ogdon was an exceptional pianist: a performer of such power and vision as arguable to warrant the label genius. Perhaps significantly his father, a teacher of English, also suffered a period of mental illness and wrote about his experiences in a book intriguingly entitled How I Became Sane. Ogdon recognising the onset of his own illness—and both threatened and encouraged by his father’s example—asks his wife after one temporary derangement "Would you be so kind as to get me a psychiatrist, please?” It is a poignant moment.

Ogdon the astonishing is counterbalanced with Ogdon the man. The latter childlike in his dependency: unsophisticated in his choice of a wimpy and milkshake in preference to lunch in an exclusive restaurant; warm and tolerant in his appreciation of music—comparing a song by Herman’s Hermits with an aria by Mozart, and toe-tapping an accompaniment to the Modern Jazz Quartet

And psychiatrists. How do they seek to understand the causes of mental illness and set about its amelioration? The limits of an overly empirical approach—one which sees human beings in reductionist terms, and imagines us little more than a complex set of stimuli and responses—are obvious. Whilst capitalist methods of production often see people as mere automatons, human beings are far too complex for their natures to be trivialised in such a monstrous way. It is only when the particularities of Ogdon’s experiences, both past and present, are shrewdly and painstakingly examined, that the possible causes of his trauma become mistily apparent, and likely treatments begin to take shape. In recognising Ogdon’s uniqueness and respecting his worth as a human being—never mind a concert pianist—the play strikes a blow for the warm, dignified way in which all people will be valued in a socialist society.

And at the heart of it all are Ogdon's singular gifts. Is it the case that genius is akin to madness? Perhaps not, but faced with the choice of returning Ogdon to sanity at the cost of losing his pianistic gifts, what should be done? The psychiatrists vote for person rather than performer— an indefensible position in a capitalist society—whilst hoping that their treatment will invalidate having to choose; and in spite of the sounds of Ogdon the performer magnificently assailing our ears with the music Rachmaninoff, Beethoven and Liszt.

Virtuoso is a warm, intelligent play, adeptly played and presented by gifted performers, designers and production staff. In the central role Oliver Ford Davies plays Ogdon with such revealing and touching honesty and integrity as almost to make you believe that he is John Ogdon. It would be difficult not to be moved by Ogdon’s plight and cheered by his recovery. Perhaps we may now have a play about the tens of thousands of ordinary people, no less worthy, whose mental illness is more simply explained—as victims of callous capitalism.

Michael Gill