The old boy's tilting at windmills again. But let's leave Ralph Nader for another time.
Still, the concept's originator, Don Quixote de La Mancha, from the idealist imagination of Miguel de Cervantes, remains charmingly delusional in a dandy new Man of La Mancha. And nearly out-shining the stars above Spring Mountain Ranch's open-air theater is the star on its stage.
In the comeback performance of the year, Douglas Baker—who failed to rail with with bloodthirsty madness as Sweeney Todd, deflating the otherwise class-A production surrounding him last spring—galvanizes a galloping La Mancha as the iconic lead.
Reteaming with producer/director Philip Shelburne, who also helmed Sweeney, Baker fully exploits his innate stage likability as the noble knight of his own mind, refusing to see the world in the harsh light of day and stubbornly clinging to humanity's better instincts. Yet when slipping back into Cervantes' skin, Baker is nuanced enough to toggle between the two without breaking his stride, or our enjoyment. This show goes where he leads. Even when absent from the stage, his presence remains. That's a star turn.
As the fable unfurls, Cervantes is imprisoned in a Seville dungeon in 16th-century Spain, awaiting trial during the Inquisition for offenses against the Church. But first he is dragged before a mock court of fellow inmates—a motley mob of cutthroats and tramps—who confiscate his unfinished novel. Cervantes responds by performing the story, with their own participation.
Cervantes and his manservant take on the roles of Quixote and faithful tagalong, Sancho Panza (Sean Michael Critchfield), who wander the countryside slaying the imagined monsters of Quixote's fevered mind and living by a code of honor long lost. "I hope," he says humbly, "to bring some measure of grace to the world."
He even believes that a crude tavern wench named Aldonza (Satomi Hofmann)—"I was born on a dung heap," she cries, "and I'll die on a dung heap!"—is a ladylike damsel named Dulcinea. "There!" Aldonza barks as she slams a bowl of grub before her customers, then spits into it. "Feed!"
Shelburne has directed with pop and brio, scenes crackling with energy and trotting along at a brisk clip.
The cherubic Critchfield is a comic corker as the sane sidekick to a lovable loon. His way with a one-liner? Think mini-Dom DeLuise. When Quixote insists he spies an attacking giant (that legendary windmill), Critchfield, his delivery equal parts sweetness and sarcasm, quips: "I swear by my wife's little black mustache, that isn't a giant!" And his tag-team banter with Hofmann on "I Like Him" is an adorable round-robin of stage schtick. Hofman is an earthy, anguished Aldonza, her callous dismissal of this batty old man melting into helpless admiration as his undying devotion lifts her out of her own oppression. And the dame can belt out a ditty.
Robert Blomgren is larger than life as the bearish innkeeper, amusingly flummoxed when beseeched by Quixote to knight him. Cory Benway leaves a memorable imprint on severe, scowling Dr. Carrasco, as does Scott Noonan as the gentle padre. Kudos extend to Evan Bartoletti's imposing, two-tiered prison set and David Schulman's dreamlike lighting, creating a nocturnal pastiche. The lush score—with the indestructible "Impossible Dream," still willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause—is forever gorgeous.
With Quixote leading the charge in deed and word—"I never had the courage to believe in nothing"—Man of La Mancha remains a battle cry for the human heart.