December 1897, Paris. Edmond Rostand is not yet thirty but already two children and a lot of anxieties. He has not written anything for two years. In desperation, he offers the great Constant Coquelin a new play, a heroic comedy, in verse, for the holidays. Only concern: it is not written yet. Ignoring the whims of actresses, the demands of his Corsican producers, the jealousy of his wife, the stories of his best friend's heart and the lack of enthusiasm of all those around him, Edmond starts writing this piece which nobody believes. For now, he has only the title: "Cyrano de Bergerac".
A charming, madcap caper. Achingly French in tone and proclivity. It has a lovely air of "let's put on the show right here." There are no surprises - it is a fairly well known historical tale after all - but it has moments of sweet tenderness.
