The first words in Erica Schmidt’s musicalized version of Edmond Rostand’s magnificent Cyrano de Bergerac (1897)—here called simply Cyrano—are spoken by Roxanne (Jasmine Cephas Jones). The 17th-century mademoiselle arrives on a stage just before a grand-scale drama is about to begin, looks around at the hustle-bustle and says, “Oh, wow!”
I kid you not, but actually, several “oh, wows!” could apply to Cyrano, with Peter Dinklage, our beloved Tyrion Lannister of Games of Thrones, in the title role and with a score by composers Aaron Dessner and Pryce Dessner and lyricists Matt Berninger and Carin Besser.
These “oh, wows!” wouldn’t, however, be exclaimed in a positive way. The negative invocations would be in response to how short of the mark this Cyrano is. They would be in awed recognition of how thoroughly Schmidt, Dessner, Dessner, Berninger, and Besser, while futzing with the story, came up with nothing at all genuinely entertaining.
[Read Michael Sommers’ ★★★ review here.]
For those who don’t know or need to be reminded, Rostand tells the tale of a man possessing an abnormally long snout and a talent for both wordplay and swordplay. Against his better judgment, he agrees to write seductive letters for an inspiration-less young friend, Christian (Blake Jenner). The idea is to position the young soldier for wooing, winning and marrying the lovely Roxanne, whom Cyrano really wants for himself but believes he can never have. (Notice how neatly, in English, the word “swordplay” contains the word “wordplay.”)
What makes the play so endlessly tragic is how the subterfuge redounds to the undoing of the three participants. Unfortunately, very little of that registers in this misguided enterprise. Though performed with a modicum of spirit by Dinklage, Jones, Jenner, Ritchie Coster as the villainous De Guiche, and others doing their hampered utmost, the piece is as flat as last night’s champagne.
How it takes four people to create such a list of unlistenable songs is a head-scratcher. Composers Dressner and Dressner are stingy as Scrooge with their melodies, keeping much of the output to three-note, four-note, or, if auditors get lucky, five-note ranges. (Could this be because Dinklage has a gruff but limited baritone?) Lyricists Berninger and Besser don’t have much regard for rhyme, nor do they appear to understand that lyrics are often expected to be poetic, not doggedly prosaic.
Together, the songwriters also lack a sense of where songs should be placed. After a while, though, their difficulty in pinpointing correct cues is a relief. As the deficient Cyrano progresses, discerning patrons are likely to be just as satisfied that the tunesmiths haven’t too often felt a song coming on. (Jeff Kuperman and Rick Kuperman are credited with choreography, although occasional stylized movement is more like what they turn up.)
Cyrano presents additional posers. Take Cyrano’s nose. Where is it? Even folks who know nothing else about Rostand’s fabulous Cyrano de Bergerac—José Ferrer won the 1950 Best Actor Oscar playing him—know that he sports a pronounced proboscis. Not here.
Perhaps adapter Schmidt and director Schmidt—yes, she doubles as director—thought doing anything to extend Dinklage’s nose with something fake would be corny. So no nose extension. Dinklage sports his own nose, which is only a small fraction of an inch in length from being described as a “pug” nose. At that, Dinklage’s schnozz is shorter than other actors’ noses parading around him. Perhaps Schmidt is thinking that Dinklage’s height is a metaphor for the nose. If so, it doesn’t work. (The star and the director-adapter, by the way, are married.)
What about Cyrano’s being recognized as the best swordsman of his day. Search the Playbill and you’ll find no credit for fight director. That’s because there’s no swordplay, no fencing, no dueling, none. Every now and then swords are drawn, yes, but never put to use. This means a large part of the drama’s appeal as spectacle is ignored.
Granted, there’s no need to show Cyrano vanquishing 100 combatants, which Rostand mentions and which movies can thrillingly present. That can’t be done with the small casts today’s stage productions are able to accommodate, but surely bookwriter-director Schmidt could have imagined something. Or not, as is plainly evident.
Then there’s the matter of Cyrano’s hat, the hat that men of the period inevitably wore. The fedora of its time, it was the one with a wide rolled brim and plume—the French word for plume being “panache.” In having Cyrano talk so much of his plume, of his panache, Rostand helped the feathery object acquire a broader, more popular meaning: dash, verve, flamboyance.
As a matter of touching fact, Cyrano’s last Cyrano de Bergerac word is “panache.” It’s not the worst thing that this Cyrano has no actual panache. None of the male cast members wears a period hat. (Clearly, costumer Tom Broecker wasn’t asked to provide them). On the other hand, what’s truly unforgivable of this Cyrano is that from start to finish the production is completely devoid of the exhilarating kind of panache.
Cyrano opened November 7, 2019, at the Daryl Roth Theatre and runs through December 22. Tickets and information: thenewgroup.org
