It is shocking to think that Cyrano has only been with us for 100 years or so, such is its classic appeal. An ingenious reworking of Beauty and the Beast, it boasts the second most famous nose in literature.
Its bearer is a magnificent creation. A braggart soldier with a heart of gold, both peacock and ugly duckling, he is a phallic satyr who wants to be a tragic actor. And in this new version his panache is as plain as the nose on his face.
Cyrano also features the second most famous balcony scene in the theatrical canon, only this time Romeo and Juliet share the stage with Shakespeare, who gives himself the best lines. You can't begrudge him, for without Cyrano the play dissolves into nothing; and it is appropriate since its central metaphor is the theatre itself. The play opens in one where Cyrano banishes a ham actor from the stage. He then compensates the audience with a tirade against his own deformity, a set piece which is one of the only disappointments in a dazzling performance by Mahon. (And surely "orifice" should read "edifice".) Though dedicated to exposing falsehood and fakery in others, Cyrano can only declare his love for Roxanne by being someone else. He throws himself with abandon into the greatest role of his life: the author, director and stage-manager of his self-destruction.
It is a parable of the separation of body and soul, it both celebrates and mourns the beauty of the outward show. For a play that attacks the superficiality of appearance it is fantastically silly and light.
And yet - and yet the whole confection is a delight. There are superb sequences: in Mahon's hands the famous balcony scene manages to be both witty and moving; the tongue-tied Christian's first meeting with Cyrano is fantastically funny; most appropriately, perhaps, for such a sweet ambrosia, there is a recipe in verse for almond tarts.
Ultimately Rostand's play founders in improbability and melodrama, and in this version there is a persistent problem with anachronism. Although it can be argued that, being set in a mythical 17th century, the 1897 "heroic comedy" is anachronistic in its very conception, Mahon amplifies and exploits the effect. Sometimes it works, by jolting us into self-consciousness; at others it fails for the same reasons. An example of the former is Cyrano's call to his friends and colleagues to follow him on a sortie through Paris, "a perfect sound-stage for the coming scene". But for occasional felicities like this you must also suffer "daft rockers", "space cadets" and even "old fenians" for little apparent gain.
Perhaps such flourishes are sparked by the clash between Mahon's lyrical intensity and his urbane wit. For the most part his version crackles with pleasure. Mahon is our finest poet of melancholy and his Cyrano coruscates with the knowledge that once in a lifetime, maybe, the moment comes for a true, noble love beyond sport and wit, beyond flashy metaphors; one which bewails each fine phrase for the tragedy it conceals.
Michael West is a playwright. His most recent work is The Gunpowder Plot
Cyrano de Bergerac By Edmond Rostand, in a new version by Derek Mahon Gallery Press, 142pp. €13.90