Steve Martin as a modern-day Cyrano de Bergerac (without the benefit, for some reason, of plastic surgery): a small-town fire chief, an anywhere-on-earth Renaissance man, and owner of the longest nose outside of Pinocchio in his white-lie phase. Most of the renovations of the Rostand play are perfectly acceptable. The handsome hunk (Rick Rossovich) with the pea-sized brain and knotted tongue is altogether the most successful portrait. Daryl Hannah, meanwhile, looks like just the girl for him -- i.e., Malibu beach bunny -- and doesn't much look, sound, or act like an astronomer with a taste for all the higher things, not just the stars. (And yet, as the story instructs us, you never can tell.) The real problem for the movie, in an era very far removed from the one Rostand was writing about (middle 17th Century), is how to portray a wit and a poet in a way that won't alienate ninety percent of the moviegoing public. The "wit" part is easier to translate into modern terms than the "poet" part; easier to translate into stand-up comic terms; easier specifically to translate into Steve Martin terms. (He can come up with twenty better putdowns for his own nose than can any barroom rowdy: "Laugh and the world laughs with you, sneeze and it's goodbye Seattle," etc.) The poetic woo doesn't make the trip nearly so well across the centuries. But the movie has much to say about the timeless problem of Finding Mr. Right, and it would be nice to be able to believe it. It's almost possible to. Directed by Fred Schepisi, and photographed with a buttery glow by Ian Baker. (1987) — Duncan Shepherd
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