Resurrection Blues

Miller’s late-period farce, published in 2002, centers on an ambivalent, Christlike figure who emerges in the dying days of an unnamed dictator’s revolution. To punish the would-be savior for his hold on the faithful, the country’s morally myopic general condemns the man to crucifixion and sells broadcast rights for the event to an American film company. Just as broad as it sounds, Miller’s script offers an easy indictment of the venality of politicians, media and disciples alike. Eclipse’s messy staging and vaudeville-size comedy dilute an already unconvincing work.

As a rule, the more actors on the Greenhouse stage, the less enjoyable this show becomes. A scene involving a clueless TV crew, cross builders and slimy state police dismays in its splintered focus and in the cast’s fretful, line-stomping energy. Two-man dialogues fare better, such as that between the spooky-eyed general (Matt Welton) and a hippieish, gently proselytizing apostle (a wonderfully restrained J.P. Pierson). When the pace slows, the sharper lines of Miller’s prose come through.

Too often, however, the script offers nothing sharper than a flaccid dick joke, and the performers struggle to make sense of it. Rebecca Prescott, as the televised crucifixion’s would-be director, mugs her way through a character who is, by the way, both pregnant and Jewish, though neither merits development. A speechless trio of ponchoed, undulating women adds a solemn spirituality that’s as ill a fit for the material as the opening monologue, a rumination by the general’s revolutionary niece (Nina O’Keefe) on her recent suicide attempt. Its sincerity and evocation of risk are immediately swallowed up by the circus that follows.

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