The show must go on - really, says PETER CRAWLEY

IN 1969, Jackie Mason had a problem. The American comedian, popular on TV and the stand-up circuit, decided to write and star in his first play. On the back of his fame the show was likely to do well, but as a theatrical dilettante more interested in gags than form, he guessed it wouldn’t curry much favour with influential New York critics, less than lovingly known as the “butchers of Broadway”.

There is, however, a convention that critics only attend on opening night, and never during previews. For a live art form previews are a brief but important time, during which a production can be finely honed, if rarely radically reshaped. The show grows in confidence, addresses any technical hitches, irons out its wrinkles – in short, it takes its time to get ready.

Mason's show, A Teaspoon Every Four Hours, had a staggering 97 previews. Then it closed after one performance.

There are better things for which to be remembered. “The longest preview period, I don’t see as an honour,” Mason said recently. “Running a show after it opens, I see as an honour.”

This week, Mason's non-honour was eclipsed. Spider-Man: Turn Off the Darkhas just sailed past its 100th preview, and when the show finally opens (if it ever does – the premiere, already delayed by more than a year, has just been pushed back another three months), it will leave Mason's record in the dust.

The question now is the same as it was then: what are we waiting for? Is this the simple right of a commercial production to refuse to open before it feels ready, or a more cynical ploy to operate under the radar of critical scrutiny? "The mistake we made is that we opened the show," joked Mason, but with Spider-Man, exasperated critics decided not to wait any longer.

The reviews, as you may know, have been scathing, but neither the show’s producers nor the critics have come out of the situation well, each party stewing in mutual distrust. The consequence? Every verdict carries a disclaimer and every write-off is countered with put-down: it’s too early to judge.

Still, with the most expensive show in history ($65 million and counting) charging punters up to $300 a ticket to witness its notoriously troubled trial-and-error period, nobody has put it better than the audience member who heckled: “This feels like a dress rehearsal, not a preview.”

So, the show eventually goes on because it must. Until that point, though, a theatre enters into a contract, not with its critics but with its audience. You get to come in early, we get to lose our lines. You get a discounted ticket price, our set is allowed to fall down. Even Spider-Man's audience recognised that – the heckler himself was booed.

What both examples show is a hope that our faith in previews is rewarded, while we stay alert to the abuse of that trust each time its duration, or its rules, become suspiciously elastic. Sneak peaks are there to show the potential of a work in progress. Whether or not a show fulfils it, you’ll have to wait and see.

pcrawley@irishtimes.com