The one major flaw in Cyrano de Bergerac (1950): No one can suspend enough disbelief to buy Jose Ferrer as anything but deathly, unimpeachably hot (and also the Emperor of Known Space). Like, yes, Cyrano's a bit of an asshole, and I probably wouldn't want to share an art scene with him long-term, but no one's kicking an expert fencer-slash-slam poet out of bed on account of a nose.