In times of great woe, there's something about Man of La Mancha both reassuring and sad; reassuring because the musical, even more than the picaresque book, calls for courtesy, nobility and personal freedom as antidotes to a hostile environment. The unhappy part is that doddering Don Quixote's delusions cause as much harm as help -- as do so many well-meaning idealists. (It's a flaw in the musical that there really is no good reason the raped and assaulted Aldonza goes so quickly from rebuking the knight to glorifying him.) Paul Brown's imposing set, a spiraling dungeon that occasionally breaks open to allow for starry skies or a sunset, is apt if a bit grim for a musical. There's also a workmanlike spirit to the production, with director Jonathan Kent unable to stage a convincing fight scene (the attack on Aldonza was much scarier in the last, maligned Broadway revival that starred a strong Sheena Easton and a pitch-imperfect Raul Julia). Still, the two reasons to see this Man are mighty: Brian Stokes Mitchell (Cervantes/Quixote), who proves as effortless a leading man as Broadway has nowadays, and the spellbinding Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, (though her accent is more Brooklyn hellion than Barcelona scullion). All told, we spend much of Man of La Mancha simultaneously happy that it's not over-saturated and in-your-face the way so many Broadway musicals are these days and disappointed that the show lacks a certain bravura. Sam Mendes, are you busy in ten years?
