for some years, i have worked to see the 1951 classic ‘Cyrano de Bergerac’ starring Jose Ferrar moved to DvD. for years, i have had the movie on VHS (even though i no longer own a television, nor even a VHS player). when last i spoke with the folks who owned the rights, they told me if i could give them a list of 350 names – people interested in owning the movie on DvD – they would see about pressing it and taking it to market.
that was done with a week. six years later, two outlets offer the movie. i picked it up via Amazon from Alpha Video courtesy of www.oldies.com (great place for hard to find classics, by the way).
the movie itself is a study in irony for many reasons. it began life as a play, written by Edmond Rostand, a frenchman and inspired (though not truly based upon) the life and times of an actual human being named Savien Cyrano de Bergerac, another (among other things) writer.
The play itself was debutted in Paris on December 28, 1897 and starred French Thespian Couqelin, who was gave a an intense series of kudos to both the play and its author (along with an interesting account, as available online at http://www.online-literature.com/eliot-gregory/ways-of-men/3/).
Within a year, the story had made it across the ocean and was performed on the Boston stage by Richard Mansfield. The story itself fairly swept the theater mavens off their feet.
The interesting and ironic part of things lies in understanding that, to the French, this was a comedy of pathos (paradox!) and anything but a drama. But, to America, the play in every version to arrive since it landed, has been considered largely a drama, a lovestory, a thing of somber meaning and purpose (even Steve Martin’s ‘Roxanne’ ended on this romantic note, the “inevtiable happy ending”, etc.).
To this extent, I am certainly a product of my culture and environment. When I encountered the story, it was initially seen as a great testament to individuality and strength of character in the face of cultural pressure to conform. It seemed a heroic thing, this play, this story. The soliloquoy in the bakery was for quite some time, my credo:
Ay, and then?. . .
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! What! I, like all the rest
Dedicate verse to bankers?—play buffoon
In cringing hope to see, at last, a smile
Not disapproving, on a patron’s lips?
Grammercy, no! What! learn to swallow toads?
—With frame aweary climbing stairs?—a skin
Grown grimed and horny,—here, about the knees?
And, acrobat-like, teach my back to bend?—
No, grammercy! 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?
No, grammercy! 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?
No, grammercy! Bribe kindly editors
To spread abroad my verses? Grammercy!
Or try to be elected as the pope
Of tavern-councils held by imbeciles?
No, grammercy! Toil to gain reputation
By one small sonnet, ‘stead of making many?
No, grammercy! 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”!’
Grammercy, no! Grow pale, fear, calculate?
Prefer to make a visit to a rhyme?
Seek introductions, draw petitions up?
No, grammercy! and no! and no again! But—sing?
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!
—To work without one thought of gain or fame,
To realize that journey to the moon!
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!’
And then, if glory come by chance your way,
To pay no tribute unto Caesar, none,
But keep the merit all your own! In short,
Disdaining tendrils of the parasite,
To be content, if neither oak nor elm—
Not to mount high, perchance, but mount alone!
Many such glorious rants, and each seeming pleasing to my mind for many reasons, not the least of which was the disdain for those who would only smile if you were belly up before them, exposed and tender and defenseless. Ah, etiquettes of culture and dominance…. long hated here. Long and long hated.
It is still my favorite movie, even if the reasons have, over time, shifted. I understand it more a comedy these days, for all the fiery words still stir the lingering shred of pride and selfhood. The temptation to thumb the nose, scream defiance, be flattened by the mob so long as it might be in the same moment that I may spit into their very eyes… I remember it all very well. And I often wonder these days where all that anger disappeared to… not that I seek it, but I am curious.
Anyway… a grand movie, a fine portrayal, a tender thing in many ways for all the desperation in and of it. Coquelin was correct… Rostand was genius in the writing.