The Guthrie went ahead with that production, which marked the debut of the non-musical Burgess translation of the French play, with Paul Hecht in the title role and Len Cariou as his romantic rival, Christian. But when producer Richard Gregson commissioned the musical version and Langham put it on the Guthrie schedule just a year later, Plummer signed on, directed by Langham; Broadway was already in its sights. The path to New York, however, did not have the panache that the character of Cyrano would have desired.
We were all kind of into the play-with-music attitude. We'd already decided it was a play with music. It was unbelievable that that happened. Then Michael Kidd was brought in. The songs that were added, we felt at the time — and this just may not be true now — we felt that they were not important enough to be as good as the ones we had already.
Lamos described the turbulent period at the Guthrie as extremely unsettling. Unlike most love interests, she's more than a pretty face. She's an adventuress whose unafraid of war True, like Burgess complains, it's not played very seriously. We're not supposed to admire Roxane as much as laugh at her, but so what? It's not like she complains about how messy the ruined countryside is like she does in one of the musical versions. She's more Genre Savvy than anything. But she doesn't get to be proactive, fearless, and a source of comfort to the despairing, starving Gascons in Burgess' version.
He claims in the Preface that Roxane suddenly appearing on the battlefield and distributing food to the starving soldiers "relieves the tension of the scene when it should remain taut to the very end" and turns a dark and despairing scene into something "absurd" and "foppish. First the script doesn't have enough laughs, then it's not serious enough.
Make up your mind! Yes, a woman driving a carriage through enemy lines completely unscathed because she has a pretty smile and a romantic mission has to be funny rather than serious to work, but this isn't L es Miserables! The play is called "A Heroic Comedy in 5 Acts. When de Guiche announces the Spanish will attack their very spot, at first the troops all panic and rush to prepare for battle. Then de Guiche adds that they have an hour, and everyone essentially goes "Oh!
Well, why didn't you say so? Farce, absurdity, and no Roxane in sight. And what about Le Bret and Cyrano bickering over Cyrano's foolish risk just to send a letter? Everyone takes things just as seriously before Roxane arrives as after. Besides, like Cyrano says in Burgess' version, Christian's debate with Cyrano over how they have to tell Roxane the truth is pointless "This whole discussion is academic.
Sell your Screenplay ». Start writing now ». By Title. In Scripts. By Writer. Cyrano de Bergerac Synopsis: A dashing officer of the guard and romantic poet, Cyrano de Bergerac is in love with his cousin Roxane without her knowing.
His one curse in his life, he feels, is his large nose and although it may have been a forming influence in his rapier-sharp wit, he believes that Roxane will reject him. He resorts to writing letters to her on behalf of one of his cadets, Christian, who is also in love with Roxane but just doesn't know how to tell her. She falls for the poetic charm of the letters but believes that they were written by Christian.
Genre: Comedy , Drama , History. Director s : Jean-Paul Rappeneau. Won 1 Oscar. IMDB: 7. PG Year: min 1, Views. Next ». I don't pay! I'm a musketeer. It's the last time. Stay in the pit! Come on. Montfleury, Bellerose What's the play? Who's it by? Baltazar Baro. A masterpiece! And Corneille. Le Cid. Just give one snip to the lace. My friend! You're too kind. Being a poet myself Some have said it. A tart? A tartlet, say.
What did it cost you to come here tonight? Cyrano's absent. I'm surprised. Montfleury's performing. Surely you know. He's not playing?
He is. You're going? De Guiche goes out, and mounts into his chair. The other lords go away whispering together. Le Bret goes to the door with them. The crowd disperses. Seek a protector, choose a patron out, And like the crawling ivy round a tree That licks the bark to gain the trunk's support, Climb high by creeping ruse instead of force? No, grammercy!
I, like all the rest Dedicate verse to bankers? Grammercy, no! And, acrobat-like, teach my back to bend? Or,--double-faced and sly-- Run with the hare, while hunting with the hounds; And, oily-tongued, to win the oil of praise, Flatter the great man to his very nose?
Steal soft from lap to lap, --A little great man in a circle small, Or navigate, with madrigals for sails, Blown gently windward by old ladies' sighs? Bribe kindly editors To spread abroad my verses? Or try to be elected as the pope Of tavern-councils held by imbeciles?
Toil to gain reputation By one small sonnet, 'stead of making many? Or flatter sorry bunglers? Be terrorized by every prating paper? Say ceaselessly, 'Oh, had I but the chance Of a fair notice in the "Mercury"! Grow pale, fear, calculate? Prefer to make a visit to a rhyme? Seek introductions, draw petitions up? Dream, laugh, go lightly, solitary, free, With eyes that look straight forward--fearless voice! To cock your beaver just the way you choose,-- For 'yes' or 'no' show fight, or turn a rhyme!
Never to pen a line that has not sprung Straight from the heart within. Embracing then Modesty, say to oneself, 'Good my friend, Be thou content with flowers,--fruit,--nay, leaves, But pluck them from no garden but thine own!
In short, Disdaining tendrils of the parasite, To be content, if neither oak nor elm-- Not to mount high, perchance, but mount alone! But not with hand 'Gainst every man! How in the devil's name Have you conceived this lunatic idea, To make foes for yourself at every turn?
I pass, still unsaluted, joyfully, And cry,--What, ho! Ah, friend of mine, believe me, I march better 'Neath the cross-fire of glances inimical! How droll the stains one sees on fine-laced doublets, From gall of envy, or the poltroon's drivel! The forehead, free from mainstay or coercion, Bends here, there, everywhere.
But I, embracing Hatred, she lends,--forbidding, stiffly fluted, The ruff's starched folds that hold the head so rigid; Each enemy--another fold--a gopher, Who adds constraint, and adds a ray of glory; For Hatred, like the ruff worn by the Spanish, Grips like a vice, but frames you like a halo! Christian has just entered, and mingled with the cadets, who do not speak to him; he has seated himself at a table, where Lise serves him.
Cyrano turns round : The story! Monsieur de Neuvillette, this in your ear: There's somewhat here, one no more dares to name, Than to say 'rope' to one whose sire was hanged! He puts his finger three times, mysteriously, on his nose : Do you understand? He put two snuffling men to death, in rage, For the sole reason they spoke through their nose! ANOTHER in a hollow voice, darting on all-fours from under the table, where he had crept : And if you would not perish in flower o' youth, --Oh, mention not the fatal cartilage!
A gesture! For the indiscreet His handkerchief may prove his winding-sheet! All, with crossed arms, look at Christian. He rises and goes over to Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is talking to an officer, and feigns to see nothing. All bring their stools up, and group round him, listening eagerly. Christian is astride a chair : Well! I went all alone to meet the band.
The moon was shining, clock-like, full i' th' sky, When, suddenly, some careful clockwright passed A cloud of cotton-wool across the case That held this silver watch. And, presto! The night was inky black, and all the quays Were hidden in the murky dark. One could see nothing further. It is well. He turns pale, flushes, makes as if to fall on Christian : I. He controls himself : What said I?. Then continues calmly : That it was dark. The cadets reseat themselves, staring at him : On I went, thinking, 'For a knavish cause I may provoke some great man, some great prince, Who certainly could break'.
Who would break my teeth, and I, imprudent-like, Was poking. He may prove strong And rap me. Ay,' But I cried, 'Forward, Gascon! Duty calls! On, Cyrano! When, from the shadow, came. All the Gascons leap up to see, but when he is close to Christian he controls himself and continues :.
With a hundred brawling sots, Who stank. All have gone out by different doors, some by the staircase. Cyrano and Christian are face to face, looking at each other for a moment. And you did not attack me like a fool. One finds battle-cry to lead th' assault! I have a certain military wit, But, before women, can but hold my tongue.
Their eyes! True, when I pass, their eyes are kind. Say, wilt thou that we woo her, double-handed? Wilt thou that we two woo her, both together? Feel'st thou, passing from my leather doublet, Through thy laced doublet, all my soul inspiring?
Then calmly, business-like : It would amuse me! It is an enterprise to tempt a poet. Will you complete me, and let me complete you? You march victorious,--I go in your shadow; Let me be wit for you, be you my beauty! We have our pockets full, We poets, of love-letters, writ to Chloes, Daphnes--creations of our noddle-heads. Our lady-loves,--phantasms of our brains, --Dream-fancies blown into soap-bubbles!
Take it, and change feigned love-words into true; I breathed my sighs and moans haphazard-wise; Call all these wandering love-birds home to nest. You'll see that I was in these lettered lines, --Eloquent all the more, the less sincere! Written haphazard-wise, Will it fit Roxane? The silence of the grave! I dare not look. He puts his head in : Why?.
Calling to Lise, boastfully : --Ah, Lise, see here! Sniffing ostentatiously : O heavens!. Going up to Cyrano : You, sir, without a doubt have sniffed it up! A small square in the old Marais. Old houses. A perspective of little streets.
On the right Roxane's house and the wall of her garden overhung with thick foliage. Window and balcony over the door. A bench in front. From the bench and the stones jutting out of the wall it is easy to climb to the balcony. In front of an old house in the same style of brick and stone. The knocker of this door is bandaged with linen like a sore thumb.
Ragueneau is standing near the door in a sort of livery. He has just finished relating something to the duenna, and is wiping his eyes. Deserted and ruined too, I would make an end of all, and so hanged myself. My last breath was drawn then in comes Monsieur de Bergerac! He cuts me down, and begs his cousin to take me for her steward.
Lise loved the warriors, and I loved the poets! What cakes there were that Apollo chanced to leave were quickly snapped up by Mars. Thus ruin was not long a-coming. They wait for us! She receives them all there to-day--the precieuses, the poets; they read a discourse on the Tender Passion. Calling up to the window : Roxane, an you come not down quickly, we shall miss the discourse on the Tender Passion!
La, la, la, la! She leaves the balcony. We were disputing a nice point in grammar; contradictions raged hotly--''Tis so! Thus, see you, till Phoebus' chariot starts once again, these lute-twangers are at my heels, seeing all I do, hearing all I say, and accompanying all with melody. To the musicians : Ho there! Play a dance to him! The pages go toward the door. To the duenna : I have come, as is my wont, nightly, to ask Roxane whether. To the pages, who are going out : Play a long time,--and play out of tune!
To the duenna :. Whether her soul's elected is ever the same, ever faultless! How handsome he is, how brilliant a wit! And--how well I love him! At times his mind seems far away, the Muse says naught--and then, presto! That is ill said!
But lo! Because he is fair to see, you would have it that he must be dull of speech. Listen,--here Reciting : 'The more of my poor heart you take The larger grows my heart! How much heart does the fellow want? Hark now, if this again be not tender-sweet? If kisses could be writ with ink, If kisses fast could flee! Correcting himself--contemptuously : --They are paltry enough! To Cyrano, pushing him toward the house : In with you! He loves me, and is powerful, and, if he knew, then all were lost!
Shall I again behold you?. I know not. Heard you that I am named commander?. I will find a way to revenge myself on him at Arras. Changing her tone : How mean you to play your revenge on Cyrano? Perchance you think to put him i' the thick of the shots? Nay, believe me, that were a poor vengeance--he would love such a post better than aught else! I know the way to wound his pride far more keenly! ROXANE: If, when the regiment march to Arras, he were left here with his beloved boon companions, the Cadets, to sit with crossed arms so long as the war lasted!
There is your method, would you enrage a man of his kind; cheat him of his chance of mortal danger, and you punish him right fiercely. Who but a woman had e'er devised so subtle a trick? ROXANE: See you not how he will eat out his heart, while his friends gnaw their thick fists for that they are deprived of the battle?
So are you best avenged. She smiles : I would fain--seeing you thus espouse my cause, Roxane--believe it a proof of love! He puts it in his pocket : This I keep. Laughing : Ha! His love of battle!. So you can play tricks on people?. To-night--true, I ought to start--but--how leave you now that I feel your heart is touched! Hard by, in the Rue d'Orleans, is a convent founded by Father Athanasius, the syndic of the Capuchins. True that no layman may enter--but--I can settle that with the good Fathers!
Their habit sleeves are wide enough to hide me in. All will deem me gone. I will come to you, masked. Give me leave to wait till tomorrow, sweet Lady Fanciful! Aside : Christian stays here. Aloud : I would have you heroic--Antoine! I go then! He kisses her hand : Are you content?
Cyrano would never pardon me for stealing his fighting from him! She calls toward the house : Cousin! She points to the door opposite : Alcandre and Lysimon are to discourse! But my little finger tells me we shall miss them.
The knocker is muffled up! Speaking to the knocker : So they have gagged that metal tongue of yours, little noisy one, lest it should disturb the fine orators!
On the threshold, to Cyrano : If Christian comes, as I feel sure he will, bid him wait for me! She turns : What mean you to question him on, as is your wont, to-night?
Prepare not your speeches,--but speak the thoughts as they come! Speak to me of love, and speak splendidly! Here's occasion For you to deck yourself with glory. Come, Lose no time; put away those sulky looks, Come to your house with me, I'll teach you. I say. I am aweary of these borrowed letters, --Borrowed love-makings! Thus to act a part, And tremble all the time!
I fear no longer! I've by your lessons profited. You'll see I shall know how to speak alone! The devil! I know at least to clasp her in my arms! Seeing Roxane come out from Clomire's house : --It is she! Cyrano, no! Bows and good-byes : Barthenoide! All bow to Roxane and to each other, and then separate, going up different streets. Roxane suddenly seeing Christian : You! She goes to him : Evening falls. Let's sit. Speak on. I listen. Say How love possesses you?
Although you merit not. Stand there, poor wretch! Fronting the balcony! I'll go beneath And prompt your words to you. The pages disappear, one at each street corner. To Christian : Call her! I love no more? Of this poor heart, which the cruel wanton boy.
Took for a cradle! But An if you deem that Cupid be so cruel You should have stifled baby-love in's cradle! Has mental palsy Seized on your faculty imaginative? This waxes critical!. In the dusk they grope their way to find your ear. Small wonder that! For 'tis within my heart they find their home; Bethink how large my heart, how small your ear!
And,--from fair heights descending, words fall fast, But mine must mount, Madame, and that takes time! The rare occasion, when our hearts can speak Our selves unseen, unseeing! Half hidden,--half revealed-- You see the dark folds of my shrouding cloak, And I, the glimmering whiteness of your dress: I but a shadow--you a radiance fair! Know you what such a moment holds for me? If ever I were eloquent. In the tender, sheltering dusk I dare to be myself for once,--at last!
He stops, falters : What say I? I know not! CYRANO off his balance, trying to find the thread of his sentence : Ay,--to be at last sincere; Till now, my chilled heart, fearing to be mocked.
Instead of sipping in a pygmy glass Dull fashionable waters,--did we try How the soul slakes its thirst in fearless draught By drinking from the river's flooding brim! Look up but at her stars! The quiet Heaven Will ease our hearts of all things artificial; I fear lest, 'midst the alchemy we're skilled in The truth of sentiment dissolve and vanish,-- The soul exhausted by these empty pastimes, The gain of fine things be the loss of all things!
Turning frank loving into subtle fencing! At last the moment comes, inevitable,-- --Oh, woe for those who never know that moment! When feeling love exists in us, ennobling, Each well-weighed word is futile and soul-saddening! I love thee! I am mad! I love, I stifle! Thy name is in my heart as in a sheep-bell, And as I ever tremble, thinking of thee, Ever the bell shakes, ever thy name ringeth! All things of thine I mind, for I love all things; I know that last year on the twelfth of May-month, To walk abroad, one day you changed your hair-plaits!
I am so used to take your hair for daylight That,--like as when the eye stares on the sun's disk, One sees long after a red blot on all things-- So, when I quit thy beams, my dazzled vision Sees upon all things a blonde stain imprinted.
Love,--and yet, strangely, not a selfish passion! I for your joy would gladly lay mine own down, --E'en though you never were to know it,--never! Each glance of thine awakes in me a virtue,-- A novel, unknown valor. Dost begin, sweet, To understand? So late, dost understand me? Feel'st thou my soul, here, through the darkness mounting? Too fair the night! Too fair, too fair the moment! That I should speak thus, and that you should hearken! Too fair! In moments when my hopes rose proudest, I never hoped such guerdon.
Naught is left me But to die now! Have words of mine the power To make you tremble,--throned there in the branches? Ay, like a leaf among the leaves, you tremble! You tremble! For I feel,--an if you will it, Or will it not,--your hand's beloved trembling Thrill through the branches, down your sprays of jasmine! One thing, but one, I dare to ask Hurt I modesty?
If so--the kiss I asked--oh, grant it not. Wait awhile,. Steps come! Roxane shuts the window. Cyrano listens to the lutes, one of which plays a merry, the other a melancholy, tune : Why, they play sad--then gay--then sad! Neither man nor woman?
0コメント