And yet, when the man bemoans his condition as “to be ugly and in love” we believe it, because of the watery-eyed pathos and resigned humor that the Scot brings to the reflective, lonely, pained moments between Cyrano’s aggression and bravado.įundamentally, it’s business as usual. Ragueneau describes the hero as “the all-time crazy genius of the spoken word,” giving Cyrano a rock star halo that his appearance enforces: dressed all in black, tight-fitting jeans and jacket, boots, buzz cut and beard. Incidentally, McAvoy’s natural Glaswegian accent adds to the “outsider” dialects on display, and the sense of language bristling live and varied from street level.
And when Cyrano confronts the man being lined up to marry his beloved Roxanne (Anita-Joy Uwajeh), their duel takes the form of a rap battle - the microphones in their hands being the closest these characters will come to a rapier. As the scene-setting poet Ligniere (Nima Taleghani) discusses the merits of rhyme with sweet-toothed bookseller Leila Ragueneau (Michele Austin), it’s with a rapper’s thrust and delight in language. The ensemble first emerges monochrome from the shadows of the stage to face the audience head-on, accompanied by a mix of church music and beatboxing. The opening scenes establish the approach. The use of the mics also implies stand-up, narrowing the distance between actor and audience. Staging is minimal, effectively an empty white box, save for a large mirror, plastic chairs, a lighting rig and, mostly notably, microphone stands - not for audibility (actors still have head mics) but to underline the fact that much of the story revolves around performance, from the theater confrontation that opens the play, to the self-referential acknowledgement of language as a tool or weapon of love, politics, violence and connection. Period costume and swords have gone the same way as the famous appendage, to be replaced by contemporary streetwear.
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