Trench (coat) warfare: Tom Hiddleston (Posthumus) and Jodie McNee (Imogen) in Cymbeline. Photograph: Tristram Kenton
I have a very strange relationship with Cymbeline. I'm named after its heroine. Or after a misprint of her, anyway. She's a damn good heroine to be named after - sarcastic, passionate, courageous and loyal to the bitter end. And she looks good in drag. So when my friend told me she had tickets for Cheek by Jowl's new production at the Barbican, I was excited. But also belligerent and nervous. Every time I see the play, I go in thinking "What if Imogen's crap?" Or worse, "What if she's a better Imogen than me?"
I saw my blonde nemesis, Imogen Stubbs, in the role some years ago. I am moved to fury by Ms Stubbs' thespian crimes, and, indeed her flaxen bonce, precisely because of the name she bears (Imogen should without doubt be a brunette). I can't help feeling that at base she is a Harriet, a Jackie, or perhaps a Brunhilde. She simpered her way through Cymbeline, all creamy curves and anguished helplessness. I came out simmering.
Cheek by Jowl's Jodie McNee, fresh out of drama school, slender, pale, vivid and expressive, was ten times the Imogen Ms Stubbs could ever be. Perhaps she should change her name by deed poll. In fact, if I'm honest, McNee is probably a better Imogen than I am, too. My reaction to the emergence of the loathly, louche Italianate seducer Iachimo (Guy Flanagan) from a chest in her bedchamber was less outraged chastity, more "I wouldn't mind a box of that in my bedroom..."
There's something about your given name - the name by which you're called, coaxed, snapped at, wooed and addressed - being embodied by a stranger on a stage. I find it easier to deal with films or books featuring Imogens - a 2004 children's book by Paul Bajoria featured a cross-dressing Imogen, half-Indian like me, who lived literally around the corner. She was better than me too, but I didn't mind as much. It's possible to preserve a sense of detachment when you're not actually there in the audience, wincing at every blow, calumny or misfortune that befalls your namesake, or snarling at her under your breath for being a travesty of you. I know a Kate who has much the same reaction to Taming of the Shrew - partly because she's grown heartily tired of hearing "Come on, and kiss me, Kate!" from wouldbe public-school Petruchios.
But are there any Pericles, Dogberries, Hermias or Ariels out there who know what I mean? Or is it all just a question of "What's in a name?"
