Reasons not to dream the impossible dream

Akin to Shakespeare with a Spanish twist, Miguel de Cervantes penned his famous novel Don Quixote during Spain's Golden Age, completely unaware that hundreds of years later his life's work would turn into the latest sappy revival to hit Broadway.

Over winter break, I went to New York City to see Man of La Mancha, a classic Broadway musical based on the Spanish novel Don Quixote. We went because my parents, like the parents of many of my friends, remembered the songs from their childhood, and were eager to see my 13-year-old brother and me have the same experience.

The show intertwines the story of Miguel de Cervantes (played by the legendary Brian Stokes Mitchell) with the lives of his characters in his famous novel. Donning the imaginary name Don Quixote, the absent-minded tax-collector and poet exudes chivalrous bravery in every problem that he tries to solve. Unfortunately for our hero he also becomes needlessly involved in situations that don't call for his help and simply make him look foolish.

This "man of la Mancha" fought bad guys and tried to win the hand of a lady all by fancying himself a knight in shining armor with his trusty sidekick (Sancho Panza _ a tubby little man who plays into his pal's fantasies) by his side.

No matter how often his enemies or the damsels he tries to rescue may laugh at him, Don Quixote maintains his pride. He is convinced that the world needs saving and that he is who he says he is: a powerful knight in shining armor. Only when several black knights surround him at the end of the play with large glass mirrors is Don Quixote defeated and forced to look into the cold hard steel of reality. He is not a hero at all, but simply a regular man.

The premise is, admittedly, fascinating. The show demonstrates that Don Quixote's delusional image of himself is only an exaggeration of every character's self-image. Quixote's willingness to play out his fantasy rather than conform to a conventional disguise actually helps his fellow characters come out of their shells _ including his object of affection. The audience, too, is challenged to ask what stylish disguises we don like Quixote.

But I have to say that the songs, particularly the timeless classic "To Dream the Impossible Dream," sung by Quixote himself, ruined it for me. I was never a lightweight for Broadway lyrics in the first place, but something about a bronzed, fifty-plus man in tight-pants daring me to "fight the unfightable foe" and to "run where the brave do not go" left more of a pesky prickle in my throat than a lump.

The show has its spine-tingling moments of truth, but I began to recognize that tingle in my spine not as inspiration but as vicarious embarrassment _ embarrassment for Stokes, and embarrassment for my usually cool-headed parents, whose faces were already watering as they stood to give the actor a standing ovation before the first act was even over.

Dream the impossible dream? Didn't the sixth grade teacher of whoever wrote that song tell them to vary their nouns from their verbs? And what does "impossible" have to do with anything? Our fantasy images of ourselves aren't necessarily impossible; they just aren't necessarily true.

These were the thoughts racing through my mind as the show ended and my father (MY father, who NEVER cries) turned to me with a red, tear-streaked face and started raving about how wonderful these songs were _ songs he hadn't heard in years and years. I couldn't believe that my father, who prides himself on not even buying into the trite, tight climax lines of America's favorite movies, would cry over an idea as obvious and flat as "dream the impossible dream."

I could not connect with this show, nor could my thirteen-year-old brother. Our parents claimed he was too young; he must not have understood the plot. But my brother and I understood perfectly. The show was lame, and it just happened to be a part of my parents' youth. I'm sure if I hear the theme song from "Hey Dude" in thirty years or so, I'll shed a tear or two myself, but I'll never claim that Brad Taylor's passion for horses inspired me to be the non-conformist I am today.

In conclusion, "I heart NY" as much as the next girl, but Man of la Mancha is not a good reason to go there. It is, however, a good reason to send your parents there. Perhaps, so you can spend Valentine's Day weekend curled up on the couch with a honey from our cynical generation, watching a rented collection of The Osbournes and deconstructing your dreams.