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by Virginia Gay, directed by Clare Watson

David & Hannah Mirvish present Roast Productions, CAA Theatre, 651 Yonge Street, Toronto

March 19–April 5, 2026

Cyrano: “The betrayal of my body. This body that could never satisfy you, could never satisfy anyone”

There is a moment, roughly three quarters into Roast Productions’ Cyrano, when the stage fills with movement. Roxanne, Yan, and the ever-present chorus drift into a loose, carefree dance to the notes of “Alors on danse” by Stromae. The mood is light, almost indulgent, and all are included — all but Cyrano. Eryn Jean Norvill sits apart, folded into herself, watching from a distance. When the invitation comes, she declines it politely.

One of the keys to understanding the show lies precisely here, in the tension between participation and withdrawal. Cyrano presents itself as an invitation to enjoy uncomplicated entertainment – a light-hearted, playful performance that asks to be approached as a collective game rather than through an intellectual framework.

Written by the Australian theatre-maker Virginia Gay, the play is an adaptation of Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac, the well-known nineteenth-century drama centred on a love triangle among Cyrano, an “ugly” but brilliant man; Christian, handsome but inarticulate hunk; and Roxanne, the desired figure caught between them. Convinced of his own physical inadequacy (most famously his large nose), Cyrano helps Christian court Roxanne producing words for him to write or, in the famous balcony scene, to speak.

Gay’s adaptation looks at the story through a contemporary lens. The most visible gesture is the gender swap: Cyrano is now a woman. It is simply like a game of “What if?” The shift from male to feamle is largely taken for granted, the production prioritizing personal dynamics over sexuality or queer readings. More strikingly, the protagonist is no longer marked by an exaggerated nose; Norvill’s face is unaltered, and yet the language of deformity remains. Characters refer to a nose that is not there. Cyrano herself speaks of it obsessively. The dissonance is immediate and unsettling: the “defect” has migrated from the visible body to the interior gaze. Gender and physicality become matters of perception rather than fixed traits.

In this sense, the familiar love triangle (with Yan in place of Christian) becomes less about romantic intrigue than about the displacement of presence. Cyrano writes, speaks, orchestrates desire, but never inhabits it. Language becomes both her power and her refuge: a space in which she can exist without exposure. Norvill leans fully into this contradiction, her Cyrano sharp, witty and relentlessly self-protective, wielding eloquence as both armour and barrier.

The production also reframes the original material through a series of recalibrations: a more assertive Roxanne who claims her own agency, a self-aware, British-inflected humour laced with profanity, and pop-song interludes. These musical moments function less as a score than as playful punctuations: brief solos and disco sequences drawn from pop culture (from “Roxanne” by The Police to “Never Too Much” by Luther Vandross) that heighten the show’s camp energy.

The ensemble operates within the same heightened register: performances are deliberately over-the-top, leaning into a playful, theatrical style that suits the production’s tone. Madeline Charlemagne infuses Roxanne with a strong, self-assured presence, lending the character subtle feminist nuances, while George Ioannides’ Yan adopts a stereotypical macho type that invites both laughter and a gently sympathetic gaze. This works particularly well under Clare Watson’s intelligent direction. Even with only six performers, the stage never feels empty. Bodies are constantly arranged in relation to the action — Yan still present but turning his back when Cyrano and Roxanne speak about him, the chorus framing each moment — creating a series of almost sculptural stage pictures that sustain attention throughout.

The audience is repeatedly drawn into the action through direct address and local references, as when Cyrano, in a self-loathing monologue, spirals through increasingly absurd images for her nose, eventually settling on the CN Tower. These elements highlight the performance’s theatricality and draw the audience into a complicit role.

This dynamic is sharpened by the presence of the chorus – Mona Goodwin, David Tarkenter, Mackenzie Gilbert as Nos. 1, 2 and 3 – who remain on stage throughout, commenting on and reacting to the action as it unfolds. They function as a reflection of the audience, amplifying each moment: gasping at Yan’s striptease entrance, recoiling at Cyrano’s abrasiveness, and softening into sympathy when Roxanne discovers she has been deceived. This emphasis on play is reinforced visually. In Amanda Stoodley’s design, the stage is left exposed, without theatre drapes. The only scenic elements are a spiral staircase, a mirror and a handful of boxes, all standing against a bare brick wall.

For the ending, Gay abandons the original’s tragic resolution in favour of a deliberately hopeful one. Cyrano acknowledges her part in the deception, Roxanne forgives her and the two imagine a future together as a final cascade of silver confetti falls around them. Having held herself at a distance throughout, Cyrano finally steps into a shared space. Hope emerges in this shift from withdrawal to participation, crystallized in the final apology song (“Everyone Is Here” supposedly written by the cast). The invitation then extends outward, as party hats and streamers are passed into the audience. To enjoy the show, one has to join the game.

Alessandro Stracuzzi

Photos: Eryn Jean Norvill as Cyrano and Madeline Charlemagne as Roxanne; Eryn Jean Norvill as Cyrano; George Ioannides as Yan with Mona Goodwin, Mackenzie Gilbert and David Tarkenter as the Chorus. © 2026 Dahlia Katz.

For tickets visit: www.mirvish.com.