There’s an argument to be made that Cyrano de Bergerac is in need of a revisionist reboot. One in which Edmund Rostand’s witty, dashing, and tragically long-schnozzed hero is brought down to earth a little bit. Isn’t it all too easy to see his unrequited love for Roxane reborn as a twisted sense of “banished to the friend zone” romantic entitlement? Look at him now, bedecked in a wine-red fedora, writing poems about Bitcoin and challenging feminists on Twitter to duels so he can uphold the cause of ethics in gaming journalism.
Yep, there’s an argument to be made for that version, but it is not at all what Michael Hollinger and Stupid Fucking Bird writer Aaron Posner had in mind with their “modern” version of Rostand’s classic love story. This isn’t a gut job, just a renovation. They’ve sanded down the formal poetry, updated the phraseology, stripped the cast down to nine actors, and generally made it more muscularly theatrical.
It’s not a modernizing of Cyrano the man, just a version of Cyrano the play that’s made for modern audiences. It doesn’t speak directly to the current moment—wouldn’t be caught dead within 1,000 yards of the zeitgeist. It’s practically a vacation from the overwhelming, push-alert-hell weight of the outside world. And this doesn’t just go for the script; it goes for director Steve O’Connell’s production as well, a straightforward, bracingly earnest oasis of entertainment.
The cornerstone here is actor Michael B. Woods, whose Cyrano is spikily arrogant, for sure, but also kind, generous, and melancholic in equal measure. He’s a tragic hero worth spilling tears over. He’s supported by an energetic and likable cast, particularly Vahishta Vafadari as Roxane—the object of Cyrano’s affection, but also a formidable woman in her own right—and Zach Livingston’s rugged but dull-tongued Christian.
As Cyrano’s captain and dear friend Le Bret, Steve Peebles pulls double duty, narrating the events and serving as a trusted companion to Cyrano and the audience alike. Eleanor Katz’s turn as Roxane’s crabby nurse is also a delight.
For a show that runs almost two-and-a-half hours, O’Connell’s production moves. The dialogue and the pacing are tight without sacrificing clarity—charades are used to keep Cyrano and Christian’s balcony scene moving at a decent clip—and the fight choreography by Jon Beal is thoroughly dashing.
Much of the design here is functional in a way that creates a mood but lets the actors shine. The costumes (by Christina Leinicke) are period dress, while the set (by Patrick Ham) is a series of unfussy wooden platforms with faux-brick walls with just a touch of rustic charm added by Edison bulbs that hang above it. G. “Max” Maxin IV’s lighting rarely announces itself, except for when he casts Cyrano’s early one-man battle against 100 foes in a sea of pungent, action-movie reds.
Most remember Cyrano for the funny bits and the romantic poems and the sword fights. It’s easy to forget that the play ends with Cyrano as a much older and far more broken man. A lifetime of no compromises—not even when they would ensure his happiness—have left him drained, defeated and, in the end, dead.
Maybe there’s some lesson that could be drawn in relation to our current socio-political situation, but if you want to do that you’ll have to do it yourself. Cyrano won’t do it for you. It’s much too busy being a smashing good time.
BoHo Theatre at Theater Wit. Written by Edmund Rostand. Adapted by Michael Hollinger and Aaron Posner. With ensemble cast. Running time: 2hrs 30mins; one intermission.