Review: Cyrano

“What a divine fool that Cyrano was! What a colossus of style! Quel panache!” (p. 5) The same thing could be said of Geraldine McCaughrean, the author of this book. To take a classic centuries-old play, which has been filmed in countless variations, and rewrite it in such vibrant, sparkling prose that it feels entirely new, certainly takes panache. Listen to her description of a Parisian theatre in the opening scene:  

“See that dizzying cliff-face of boxes decked out in white and gold; the tiered chandeliers being hauled into the roof ablaze with candles; the fleecy bob of wigs and sumptuous swirl of cloaks; the gallants strutting, fingers on sword-hilts; the footlights winking on … Feel the jab of saucy elbows; the brush of rouged cheeks as the scandalmongers exchange whispers; the snip-snap of pickpockets dipping like herons into pockets and purses. Countless mouths are already a-glitter with sugar from Monsieur Ragueneau’s cream horns. Blushes, drunkenness and rage soak a hundred hat-bands with sweat … ” (p. 1-2).

McCaughrean doesn’t stop at beautiful writing, however. Her characterization of Cyrano de Bergerac himself is a work of genius.

We don’t usually think of “style” as something heroic. If I describe the hero of this story, Cyrano, as someone intensely image-conscious, you will probably picture a vain and silly character checking his Facebook status or, since this is the eighteenth century, his mirror. Cyrano’s idea of style is completely different. When someone insults his infamous oversized nose, he doesn’t just fight back; he delivers a lecture on the “Art of the Insult” complete with twelve examples of nose humor (“Have a care! When you sneeze, whole fleets sink in the Spanish Main!”, p. 9), all while shredding his opponent’s clothes with a sword and not even injuring him except for one tiny cut – on the nose. And when Roxane, the woman Cyrano secretly loves, falls for a soldier named Christian and asks him to write to her, Cyrano helps the handsome but unpoetic young man write the most beautiful love letters imaginable. When a third suitor of Roxane’s, the conniving Comte de Guiche, sends Christian and Cyrano off to war (by the way, please don’t read about the hungry cadets during the siege of Arras if you haven’t eaten recently!), the stakes rise drastically for everyone concerned – and as usual, Cyrano carries matters to an extreme. I won’t spoil the ending for anyone who doesn’t know the story, but you may want a Kleenex box.

With a character like Cyrano, it’s impossible to tell where idiocy ends and heroism begins. Nowadays, we’re constantly told to love ourselves the way we are, flaws and all; in that context, Cyrano, with his painful self-consciousness about his nose and his terror of rejection, comes across like an angsty teenager. I wanted to grab him by his leather jacket and tell him to grow up. This self-deprecation has a flipside, however: self-sacrifice. He loves Roxane so much that he would give up anything to see her happy. His style, his “panache”, which he uses to hide his broken heart, is to reassure her more than anything else. Even his archenemy, the Comte de Guiche (who surprised me several times during this story – if you were expecting a one-dimensional, moustache-twirling villain, think again), has this to say about him: “He has stayed true to himself. He’s preserved his integrity (…) I don’t pity Cyrano de Bergerac. I envy him a life well lived. And I’d be proud to shake his hand, if ever I was man enough to do it” (p. 151).

It’s infuriating to see what he throws away. It’s awe-inspiring to see what he gives up.