Lead Artist – Ferbus Dunnet

Co-Direction by Emily Reutlinger

Review by Dominic Corr

The Studio: Tickets

There’s a peculiar wonderment in watching a ten-foot grizzly bear brought to life, not by CGI or spectacle, but by the sweat, wit, and ingenuity of a creative and small ensemble. Tenterhooks’ Hercules the Bear takes the true tale of Scotland’s most famous ursine celebrity and reimagines it through clowning, puppetry, and a visual language that speaks louder than words and speaks to many. The result is a show that is both accessible and eccentric, a piece that can be followed by bairns and grown-ups alike, and a few of the grumpy grizzlies who might just tuck their claws back in after this enchanting production.

The puppetry is the production’s crowning achievement, as is its physicality. Suzie Ferguson’s embodiment of Hercules the bear shifts between a playful cub, lumbering adolescent, and into a full-grown spectacle with remarkable fluidity. The bear is never a single puppet but a series of images, gestures, and fragments, perhaps an ear and nose here, a hulking frame there, all stitched together by the audience’s imagination. This fragmented approach allows Hercules to feel simultaneously larger-than-life and intimately close; a creature conjured from scraps of fabric and sheer conviction.

The ensemble, consisting of Ben Winger and Diane Thornton as Andy and Maggie Robin, alongside Ferguson, commit fully to the physical demands of the piece. Winger’s Andy is all bluster and bravado, while Thornton offers a softer counterbalance. Ferguson’s bear, whether puppet or embodied, is consistently engaging, capturing both the comedy and the pathos of a creature caught between wildness and celebrity.

The imagery, too, is striking. A domestic kitchen becomes a wrestling ring (met with gasps from today’s crowd); a picnic or the wild wilderness is evoked with a few splashes of cloth and a mischievous grin. The performers lean into the absurdity of the Robins’ real-life adventures with their adopted bear, and the stage pictures often carry a surreal, dreamlike quality. At its best, the show captures the sense of living alongside a legend, where the everyday collides with the fantastical.

Language is used sparingly, and when it appears, it’s peppered with Scots cadences that ground the story in its cultural soil. Yet the production’s reliance on physicality ensures that no one is left behind. Children giggle at Hercules bounding through the aisles, while adults catch the sly nods to Scotland’s wrestling circuit and the bear’s improbable brush with Hollywood. The wordless sequences – Hercules stealing coats, clambering over furniture, or simply gazing with ursine curiosity – are the most universally effective, transcending dialect and age.

Still, for all its exuberance, the show occasionally lingers too long on its set-pieces. At just under an hour, it paradoxically feels stretched, as though the company is reluctant to let go of a gag once it lands. The story, too, sidesteps some of the sharper edges of Hercules’ life. The real bear’s tale is one of spectacle and exploitation as much as affection, but here the narrative pulls its punches, smoothing over the darker questions in favour of a gentler, family-friendly tone. While this makes the piece approachable for younger audiences, it leaves older viewers craving a little more bite.

Growling with charm, where Hercules the Bear succeeds, though, is in its central aim: to entertain, to charm, and to remind us of the strange, true story of a Scottish grizzly who once caddied for Bob Hope and wrestled his way into the nation’s heart. It’s a show of invention and heart, if not quite of claws and teeth.

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