Scott Marks 12:30 p.m., July 26
Cyrano, My Love
Hey, what if art imitated life? Or rather, what if we made some art in which a famous real-life work of art — Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac — was little more than a funhouse reflection of real life, crafted practically on the fly by a frustrated poet-dramatist who (we're told) still loves his wife but finds himself captivated and inspired by a muse who believes in his genius? Why, then we’d have this good-natured but insubstantial offering from writer-director Alexis Michalik, a film that too often relies on a swooping camera to provide energy, speeches and situations to stand in for character and wit, and the borrowed drama of a masterpiece to provide feeling. It might have worked better if all the actors employed the deft touch of Olivier Gourmet’s Constant Coquelin (the actor who originated the role of Cyrano). Thomas Solivérè is the right age for young Rostand, but nothing about him indicates either the required depth or desperation of a double-hearted genius who must write a first act in a single night. For us to care about the froth, we need a proper sense of the churning that creates it. 2018.