Throughout my entire career I have suffered from chronic stage fright. In recent years the intensity of it has lessened, as I realised that the world would not end if I forgot my lines, or the critics hated me, because it is indifferent to the acting abilities of Sheila Hancock. I was counting it as one of the blessings of old age that I no longer vomited with fear before a performance. Until, that is, a few weeks ago.
I had to make a speech at the Mansion House in the City to an audience of fellow Dames Commander of the British Empire plus the great and the good of Society. It was at a function intended to increase the influence of these remarkable women, whose investiture makes them the equivalent of—but far less respected than—the battalion of Knights.
In the car on the way to the event, I became aware of stage fright’s familiar sensations: shortness of breath and a banging heartbeat. Then, when we arrived, someone bounded up to me and said “we are all so looking forward to hearing what you have to say”. Whereupon I felt my strength drain from my body, out through my feet, and I was left a grinning, terrified shell.
I rejected the option of having a drink with the assembly before passing into the incredible, vast dining room. I cowered at a table trying to control my shaking hands and listen to my alarmed friend Clare’s reassurances. During the meal she valiantly tried to distract attention from the Spectre at the feast, who ate not a crumb and answered every attempt at conversation with a whispered “yes” or “no”.
Three other women then made brilliant speeches, adding to my terror. What was I doing sitting with all these illustrious people, in this exquisite room, with scores of elegant women who expected me to be clever, funny, and erudite? I come from a pub in King’s Cross for God’s sake—I was about to be proved a complete fraud. Should I pretend to have a heart attack, or choke on an olive? Anything, anything to get out of this place, and desperate humiliation.
I was back in the 1980s, reliving the horror of appearing in the original London production of Stephen Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd. The arrival of this brilliant musical to the Theatre Royal Drury Lane attracted enormous press coverage. I auditioned and somehow got the massive leading role. I am an actor who sings, rather than a singer who acts, so I very soon knew I had bitten off more than I could chew. Suffice it to say that at the band call—when the actors hear the full orchestra for the first time—I didn’t recognise my numbers, so complex were the orchestrations.
My memory of that first night is mercifully fading, but there was a lot of time spent in the toilet. During the day my worried husband took me to Richmond Park and made me hug a tree to cling on to reality. I got through the show in a sort of trance, but like every first night I have ever done, it was far from brilliant.
I was pretty scared for the whole run of the show. I’m so sad that I wasted the joy of being in a perfect musical in a perfect -theatre with a perfect cast. I always felt inadequate. Yet on the last night the audience forced the show to stop by the ecstatic reaction to my first entrance. I bitterly regret that throughout my career I have not appreciated the love an audience can give you. I was too busy being frightened of them. All I’ve ever thought is “Thank God I got through it” or, as my similarly insecure husband used to say, “got away with it” .
After Sweeney Todd, I did not act for a year, opting to direct instead, unable to put my mind and body through the torture of stage fright. I eventually improved with the help of hypnotherapy, but I can’t say I have ever felt the joy of performing that I see in some of my fellow performers.
Everyone experiences fear in life, usually for a good reason. But being desperate to be admired for pretending to be someone else on a stage, in front of often ill-informed critics, or a crowd of people who want to love you, is not a good reason. Similarly, to be so crippled with terror about saying a short speech to a crowd of posh but kindly people is utterly unreasonable.
In the Mansion House, after I stuttered my way through a jumble of incoherent words, several people nevertheless told me I was an inspiration and example. When you get to 93 and can walk across a stage without falling over the scenery, and manage to spout a bit of old rubbish, you are deemed a miracle. Old age is not all bad.
