The Cinematic Jazz of “Cyrano”
A review of director Joe Wright’s pleasing but unbalanced return to period-romance-drama (why yes, I was in fact waiting for years for him to come back to this genre, why do you ask?)
While aboard an airplane recently, I was charmed at one point by the voice of a shadow-obscured flight attendant. The unavailability of a discernable face from which to trace the lovely lilt made me wonder what this person looked like. All I had to go off of was an outline. A half-lie.
The new film musical Cyrano appears to ponder similar notions of artifice; how art creates rhythms of knowing and not knowing, on and off again. And yet for a film so invested in rhythms, some of Cyrano’s more baffling stylistic embodiments as such end up coming off as not the most intentional — and therefore — not the most entrancing. Namely, its tones clash without sinew between to soften the blows — it acts in some moments as intimately as a stolen kiss, but in others as faultily broad as an abrasive slap on the shoulder blades.
As in the original stage production (“Cyrano de Bergerac”) upon which this film is based, the film follows a loquacious eighteenth-century Spanish Soldier of the same name as he takes a baroque opportunity to express a hitherto unspoken love for his longtime friend since childhood, Roxanne. Cyrano considers himself unfit for Roxanne’s companionship due to his own insecurity at being a Little Person (an element revised for the film, compared to the original in which the man’s embarrassment instead comes from his sporting a comically large nose). This more realistically grounded physical difference from genetic usuality translates the material perfectly across mediums. Unlike in the heightened realm of literal theatrics, a filmic take logically utilizes a physicality that need not shout, just as much as its oration need not do the same.
Amid this character’s self-image wrestling, Roxanne and a new face, Christian — a recent recruit in the eponymous character’s regiment — take a liking to each other. To see Roxanne happy, yet to also unburden himself of his feelings of longing but without consummating them, Cyrano hatches a scheme with Christian; for the poetic former to draft love letters — posing as coming from the inarticulate latter– to their shared person of interest, so as to ensure a union.
Contrary to such poignancy of concept, the rest of the film stumbles through some brushstrokes of superficiality. Its opening half hour (as well as a few scattered scenes later on) engage in what comes off as homage to something like the high-camp-puerility of Baz Luhrman’s Moulin Rouge (2001) — delightfully, with all the goofiness that entails — but unfortunately, without any of the wit or self-awareness.
After what feels an unbearable stretch of such hollowness, the film finally settles into a sincere tone — one aligning with the mid-twenty-aughts heyday of the film’s director Joe Wright. After the admirable stylistic departures but critical and financial disappointments of his previous two films, here he has a homecoming, laying on thick mannerisms many have come to know him best for; hazily lit victorian interiors, insatiable but repressed sexuality that breathtakingly comes to life in cathartic reveries, and a proclivity for lengthy takes which mount unbearable tensions.
Just as excitingly, Peter Dinkelage’s performance as Cyrano exudes an undeniable swagger and sex-appeal, one seldom seen in most filmmaking (or perhaps, seldom accepted?) when coming from an actor of such atypical physical stature. Perhaps heavy-handed at times, but ultimately endearing, his portrayal of a hidden vulnerability and its masking arrogance wrenches the gut indeed. Coming off her breakout in 2019’s Swallow, Haley Bennet as Roxanne astounds with a dextrous balance of subtle regret, youthful wonder without condescension to character, and a musical ebullience possessing enough wattage to power The International Space Station for a fortnight.
The singing talents of these main two leads (a velvety bass and the crystal-clearest of altos, respectively) and the swooning tenor of Kelvin Harrison Jr. as Christian never fail to elate with an un-showy earnestness, not to mention that the trio seem a masterstroke of chemistry-based casting. The respective pairs are attracted to each other, but just for different reasons; so when the strengths or blank spots materialize, the discomfort or glee feels gorgeously palpable.
Cyrano feels like a sort of physiological dance (one less perfunctorily executed than the production’s literal — sometimes lovely, but other times perhaps too simple –choreography). Sung words between Cyrano and Roxanne call and respond like a gospel hymn. Pantingly whispered song lyrics coupled with swiftly timed visual edits act as wonderfully erotic as any sex-scene. And the maximalism of tracking-shot durations feels like the visual version of an expertly crafted concept album; all appears separate and yet achingly connected, swinging in and out of frame.
The philosopher Timothy Morton once wrote about how exploring previously unknown parts of your city is akin to the polity being played like Jazz; riffs on familiarity but which also create variance. Cyrano feels like that type of music. Containing all those multitudes, for better and for worse. Beauty abounds in its riffing, despite the noise it admittedly contains. Our protagonists desire a taste of that discordant note that comes after the stage of love characterized by mystery; the eventual moment of sincerity, when all is divulged and actual — if transitory — recognition, actual knowing is felt, and not a moment too soon. They enjoy the culmination of a chorus; the overlaying of all the themes and recurrences from tunes past. When all the mystery finally makes sense once you see the whole picture retroactively. Like improvised music, Life may not feel so much like a linear narrative with endings, but rather more like a cycle of flickers of Middles stacked high. A symphony of enlivening surprises. Eventual cinematic strengths down the line that you don’t expect from a movie which starts out as brittle as it does. A love letter from a familiar voice, and yet from an unfamiliar body.
Like hearing soothing speech from a faceless flight attendant … but you just wish the fuselage’s machinery would quiet down, if only a little. It’s overpowering the good stuff.
