Lear’s Shadow
Studio at Derby Theatre
Sunday 11th April 2026
Devised and performed by Colin Hurley
From the moment Colin Hurley greets us at the door and welcomes us into the world of Lear’s Shadow, it is clear that this will not be a conventional encounter with Shakespeare’s great tragedy. There is no attempt to thunder in with kingship, crowns, or grandeur – instead, Hurley is in place as himself – an actor, a storyteller and an old fool by his own affectionate reckoning. He chats easily, shares something of his career and his relationship with King Lear, and sets out the rules of the game we are about to play together.
Indeed, the programme describes the show as “an old fool of an actor sniffing around Shakespeare’s great play,” pausing to hold certain words up to the light. That promise is honoured beautifully. Hurley begins by inviting us to breathe together – an inhale and then an exhale on a sigh – and in that shared rhythm he shifts, almost imperceptibly, into Lear. Or perhaps Lear’s shadow: a figure remembering, justifying, circling fragments of a life and a text. The transition is subtle, communal, and disarming and before we realise it, we are already on the journey with him.
The Studio space at Derby Theatre is used to striking effect. Although lighting (shout-out to Megan) gently defines the performance area, there is no real separation between actor and audience. We remain fully visible to one another, sharing the same light, the same air and the same imaginative stakes. Hurley’s work repeatedly insists on this shared presence. We are not observers so much as collaborators; invited to hold props, to lend our bodies as temporary vessels for characters, and even to help generate the soundscape of Lear’s storm. The famous “Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks” becomes an immersive, collective act, conjured from breath, voice, primary school instruments and simple theatrical invention. It is both playful and surprisingly powerful.
The stage is almost bare – a black wall, with gaffer-taped signage inviting us to “stay here and rest awhile,” a couple of pieces of furniture, a black box, and a box of props that Hurley tells us fits neatly into an Aldi shopping bag for touring. From this modest toolkit he creates a rich theatrical language rooted in clowning and puppetry. Scarves blossom into Lear’s daughters, handled with tenderness and wit – the moment Goneril and Regan are turned into hissing snakes is impeccable. A simple tie becomes the Fool, marking not only the character’s presence but also referencing his death. These transformations are economical, imaginative, and deeply expressive, reminding us how little theatre truly needs to achieve emotional resonance.
Rather than attempting a comprehensive retelling of King Lear, Hurley works with fragments of snatches of text, key moments, and resonant images. The narrative is abridged to suit the show’s tight, pacey 75-minute runtime, but within that structure Hurley deliberately slows down to attend to details often rushed past in full-scale productions. Edmund, Edgar, and Gloucester do not appear as characters here, though Gloucester’s fate is slyly and visually conjured through the Fool’s “Nuncle, give me an egg” moment, and the textual selections really do help us to focus on moments that could get overlooked in a full version of this story – the fool’s language in particular is given centrality, and even though this version of Lear, the man, is a soft and empathetic take, Hurley does not shy away from the misogynistic viciousness with which Lear references his daughters, showcasing the vitriol with which Lear claims “from the waist-down, they are centaurs” and the dehumanisation of Goneril as a “plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle” – equally the moment in which Lear speaks directly to an audience member as Nature, the Goddess, and asking them to curse Goneril with “into her womb convey sterility” lands with power, not only due to Hurley’s acting chops, but also the sharp and brilliant text selection we are invited into.
However, throughout, it is also clear through the shuffling, the smiles and the tears – the connection with the audience and the joy in play, that this is Lear’s story told from the inside: a world of memory, justification, regret, and stubborn love.
What does emerge most strongly is the sense of an old man playing with his memories -literal and theatrical. Hurley blends Shakespeare’s language with children’s toys, simple technology, and moments of clowning that are both funny and quietly heartbreaking. There is real joy here, but it is joy shot through with loss. Hurley’s evident love for the text carries the piece, not as reverence but as lived-in familiarity.
One of the most striking and repeated tropes occurs when we see the words “break heart” written across Hurley’s chest (revealed in the first moment when an audience member is invited to “pray you – undo my button.”) Each time the phrase is touched or recalled, it is accompanied by a breathy utterance of “nothing.” The repetition is devastating in its simplicity. Lear’s heart, it seems, never moves on from Cordelia. Her death, rendered exquisitely using nothing more than a scarf, is quietly shattering, well-judged, and emblematic of Hurley’s artistry: nothing excessive and nothing pushed, but simplistic and breathtaking.
The programme (Colin’s little starter pack) rightly reassures audiences that they do not need to know King Lear inside out to enjoy this show. There is enough here in terms of warmth, humour, and clarity enough for anyone to follow and appreciate the storytelling, yet for those familiar with Shakespeare’s text, Lear’s Shadow offers additional layers of recognition and reward. This is not adaptation in the conventional sense but a kind of theatrical conversation where a man, a play, and an audience share space and time.
Ultimately, Lear’s Shadow feels like a love-letter to Shakespeare, to theatre-making, and to the communal act of listening and imagining together. Hurley’s performance is a masterclass in devising, storytelling, and economy, rooted in deep knowledge and genuine affection for the material. By inviting us into his black-box world and trusting us to play along, he reminds us not only of the enduring power of King Lear, but of the quiet magic that can happen when an actor and an audience agree to breathe, and dream, together.
