The understudy in the spotlight
After Sheridan Smith’s absence from Funny Girl, Natasha Barnes has been thrust into the spotlight. Michael Simkins explains what it’s like
‘Ladies and gentlemen, due to the indisposition of…” Is there any phrase more calculated to ruin a theatregoer’s evening?
You’ve booked your seats, you’ve travelled up to town, and are now installed in stalls row K12 and 13 for what will be the most anticipated (and possibly most expensive) treat of your year; the time when you and your partner witness your favourite star in their most celebrated role. And now this, a disembodied voice announcing you’re going to watch someone you’ve never heard of attempt it instead.
Well, just imagine what it’s like for the poor understudy, quavering back there behind the curtain. The silence, followed by the gasp of collective dismay, and then the sound of the tipping up of seats as disgruntled theatregoers make their way to the box office to see if they can get their money back.
This spring, there have been several high-profile instances. Last month, a chest infection left Glenn Close unable to perform in Sunset
Boulevard; 49-year-old Ria Jones had to face furious boos, walk-outs and demands for £150 ticket refunds. By the time Jones took her fifth curtain call, she was the toast of London.
Despite having workshopped the role with Lord Lloyd Webber prior to its original run in 1991, it was the first time Jones had taken the role of Norma Desmond in a production of her own. She later told the Telegraph: “I was gob-smacked, just gobsmacked. I’d never sung with the orchestra before. I’ve really just been watching [Close] from the wings and learning that way.”
Throughout this week, the Savoy Theatre was forced to issue statements announcing that Sheridan Smith, the acclaimed star of Funny
Girl, was “indisposed”. Yesterday, Smith was signed off for four weeks due to stress and exhaustion – clearing the way for her understudy, Natasha Barnes, to keep on stealing the show.
Yet few outside the business know what it is like for the person whose job it is to take over a starring role.
If you’re lucky, the star turn calls at 9am to say they’ve lost their voice. But often, there’s no notice, such as when they sprain their ankle on the stairs coming down for their first entrance.
Whenever it occurs, the mood backstage changes in an instant, just like when a new queen bee emerges in a hive. Everything is directed towards giving the newbie their best chance of success. The understudy’s costumes are retrieved from the hangers, their wigs dressed, and their slightest whim catered for. Adrenaline courses through every corridor. It’s pure showbiz.
Usually, the understudy will agree to move from their eerie attic to the number one dressing room – even though it means sitting among the vases of flowers, family photos and good luck telegrams intended for the original star, the detritus acting like some baleful witness to your momentary good fortune. Having the best room means your quarters will now be large enough to accommodate a small army of friends, family and loved ones after your performance. But it also means you’re nearer the stage. Half an hour before curtain-up, actors will pop their heads through the door, not only to wish you luck but also to ask if you want to run any lines or go through any moves. The stage manager will oversee the printing of the ‘‘slips’’, those tiny sheets of paper inserted into every programme to announce the sudden cast change. Meanwhile, your agent will be in overdrive. This, after all, is their big moment, too – their chance to get their commodity showcased for future employers after months of inertia.
Usually an understudy is only required to hold the fort for a handful of shows. Sometime, it’s for much longer, in which case the sense of selfless goodwill radiating from those around you gradually, but inexorably, dissipates. Indeed, stay in the role for long enough and your co-performers will eventually be grumbling in corners about you treading on their laughs or being slow on your cues.
Playing a lead role eight times a week, week in week out, when you no longer have adrenalin to rely on, is no easy matter. I was once in a play at the National Theatre in which the lead actor sprained their ankle an hour before curtain up on the first preview, after they tripped over an electrical cable. The understudy had learnt the lines but never rehearsed the role – but incredibly got through the night without dropping a line. It was a miraculous, fantastic, visceral effort, and thoroughly deserved the standing ovation.
Three weeks later, with him still in the role, I bumped into the director sitting in the canteen during the performance. “Aren’t you watching it tonight?” I asked.
“I can’t,” he replied grimly. “I can’t watch him. He’s destroying my play.”