McAvoy’s just mesmerising as Cyrano – pity about the nose
CYRANO DE BERGERAC Harold Pinter Theatre, London ★★★★✩
X-MEN star James McAvoy was always going to make a West End comeback after his sell-out run as French lover, swordsman – and rapper – Cyrano de Bergerac in late 2019.
Sure enough, here he is once more in Martin Crimp’s Olivier award-winning, poetry-slam makeover of Edmond Rostand’s tragic love story.
Virtually sold out all over again in London, McAvoy takes on his native Glasgow in March, before heading for Broadway in April.
The big controversy, though, remains the fact that his character Cyrano – normally famous for his elephantine hooter – sports no nasal prosthesis. His Cyra-no-nose is, instead, an eye-poppingly buff special forces squaddie.
Unencumbered by the usual massive conk, and looking fitter than a butcher’s dog, McAvoy’s Cyrano is an outsider by choice who fights openmic duels, in a show that turns Rostand’s rendition of 17thcentury rhyming couplets into banging modern hip hop.
You could even call it an AngloFranco Hamilton. Still, the nose is definitely a loss.
McAvoy’s rugged good looks make it hard to believe that he’s reduced to writing love letters on behalf of his tongue-tied rival Christian to Roxane, the woman they both love.
Nor does it help that Eben Figueiredo’s very presentable, spiv-boy Christian wouldn’t trouble McAvoy in battle or a boudoir.
I did wonder if Evelyn Miller’s Amazonian Roxane, with her quizzical, searching smile, might be overdue a trip to Specsavers.
Jamie Lloyd’s otherwise highly conceived production seems determined to prove that our enlightened times can be blind to physical appearance.
His company is a rainbow coalition of actors of different colours, sizes and (dis)abilities. But he’s equally happy to provide a bit of phwoar factor, as when the boys strip off for a homoerotic love-in at Cyrano’s military barracks.
Soutra Gilmour’s fashionably minimalist white cube staging has its own beauty too, giving way to a black wall beyond, perhaps to express the darkness in Cyrano’s brooding soul.
But even with microphones allowing McAvoy and ensemble to mutter morosely at times, this is not a melancholic show. It’s all about raw, visceral energy.
THE absence of colour or scenery (and with costumes restricted to modern mufti) means the actors must keep us engaged over the course of nearly three hours with escalating invention.
This they do through playful staging, including a game of musical chairs as the men vie for Roxane’s heart. We could use a little more threat from Tom Edden, as Cyrano’s cynical commanding officer de Guiche, who sometimes comes across as Julian Clary in a bit of a sulk.
But thanks to the pulsing, thrilling choreography, the 18-strong company moves together like a well-drilled basketball team.
And – nose or no nose – McAvoy’s power forward Cyrano is never less than mesmerising, as he weaves his way through the cast, and the show, slam dunking rhyme after rhyme.