Review of ‘The Devil Wears Prada’: “Is that all?”

The most fashionable film of all time lands on the West End through this new musical adaptation featuring songs by Elton John and starring Vanessa Williams. Guillermo Nazara shares his views on the piece, to let us know if London’s latest show in vogue brings up any value to the wintour season.

“She’s on her way – TELL EVERYONE!”. One of the possibly one hundred quotable lines from the icon-making (and probably, gay enlightening) film precedes the excitement of an on-edge audience – eager to devour every second of the most anticipated entrance theatre has witnessed in a long time. The synthed-brassy chords chiming through mark the moment – she is, literally, on her way up.

The lights dim as the follow-spot fades in to reveal the only other lady that’s allowed to wear glasses indoors (she may have had a rival last Sunday), as the trapdoor lifts the semi-divine fashion tycoon that, in some way, may have outshone her real-life counterpart.  This is Miranda Priestly – and the details about your incompetence (or anything remotely related to you, for that matter) certainly do not interest her – ah, mother.

The crowd bursts into applause as a myth meets another myth: a legendary character played by an even more legendary actress. First came Meryl Streep back in the silver screen. Now, it’s time for Vanessa Williams to fill those highly high-heeled shoes. The expectation is far from low. After all, she’s already proven herself in a similar role, when she incarnated the most sophisticated villainess of uptown New York in the now long-gone Ugly Betty (though her fake blonde bimbo alter-ego in the Colombian original had her own je ne sais quoi – especially, in her brain). She’s done it before. So why wouldn’t she do it again?

When we talk about Jerry Mitchell’s direction, there’s one singular word that comes to mind: CAMP (capitals are essential). His previous endeavours, love them or hate them, prove that point better than the Dragon Lady does it with cerulean blue. Beneficial for some, a slap on the face (telenovela type) for others, we know what we’re coming for if he’s the one pushing the buttons. There are many reasons why they would go for that approach with Prada: it’s fashion, it’s comedy, it’s supposed to be fun. But all of them are as superfluous and misled as the cheese-cube-eating clackers terrified of surpassing their idealized 0.005 per cent body fat.

It doesn’t really work in style (no pun intended). The acting is excessively heightened – feeling closer to a farce than the uplifting, light-hearted show is supposed to be; at some moments, looking as if they were trying to spoof the movie rather than translating into the stage. That’s not the most concerning issue here, though – it could still work if they wanted to explore that angle and use it as its identity. The problem is that it has none. It just follows the source material way too faithfully – reenacting scene after scene while inserting a few songs in between, none of which provide further insight or rhythm to the narrative.

As a result, the piece hardly moves at a glacial pace – quite the opposite. And it’s fairly surprising that the 90-minute film seems more complex than its 2-hour-and-half theatrical version. But that’s what happens where numbers are included just for the sake of being there – instead of providing the depth and individuality this show so desperately needs, and wistfully lacks.

In a time when pop writers keep plaguing the musical theatre industry with their rather banal attempts at concocting a full-length score, Elton John (with such consolidated credits such as Lion King, Billy Elliott or Aida, to name a few) should come as the shining beacon of hope that would restore MT repertoire back to its former glory. Sadly, this is by no means the case. Though melodious and, on the whole, enjoyable, there’s no memorable tune to be mentioned – with every number sounding incredibly derivative, to the point that we can trace back some short motifs to all-time classics going from Fly Me To The Moon, I Was Made For Loving You, Baby or even the soundtrack from the Halloween franchise; though getting into those super tight size -5 outfits must be frightening, so I get it.

On the other hand, the music hardly contributes to the evolution of either the story or the character’s arc. Around 90 per cent of the score features exactly the same lively, uptempo vibe –  leaving next to no room for emotional progress; and as such, preventing audiences from properly experiencing any of the conflicts the personages go through, and subsequently, connecting with them.

Yet, we can take solace in the fact that the production values are still rather high. With a scenic design by Tim Hatley, the overall feel of the staging, though not the most impressive, is nonetheless pretty clever – creating quite a satisfying illusion of opulence despite the actual simplicity of its execution. A great deal of this accomplishment is also owed to Bruno Poet’s excellent lighting – building an intricate atmosphere that underlines the sentiment of every scene, while also accentuating the spectacularity and buoyant flavour a show like this requires.

However, if any praise is to be given, that would undoubtedly go to its exceptional company. Even though this piece is nowhere close to being regarded as one of the best in town, its genuinely superb cast certainly is. Flaunting some of the most astonishing vocals the London scene will probably be offering this season, there’s nothing but words of admiration to the extraordinary renditions given by almost every member.

Among them, Georgie Buckland earns the first mention with her amusing and beautifully played portrayal of protagonist Andy, while Rhys Whitfield makes an even more laudable impression through his remarkable singing and charismatic acting skills. Yet, Amy Di Bartolomeo makes the front cover through her hysterical, extremely energetic, and show-stealing act as the workaholic, stress-inborn assistant Emily – regaling us with so many moments full of life and laughter, it almost seems as if rest of the performance has been turned into a warm-up to her next scene.

The same can’t be said when it comes to Vanessa Williams’s delivery of the Ice Queen, most unfortunately – with a considerable part of her mystique appearing to have melted away onstage. We simply don’t get to see Miranda Priestly at all – but a mild, toned down version deprived of the sadistic allure that made of her an institution in her own right. She doesn’t look menacing, but just a bit too demanding; and to our shock, somehow supportive of Andy from the very beginning – erasing the cold and distant seductiveness that made the character so deliciously inviting, while also preventing her growth (when her iron facade is torn down and her frail humanity is finally revealed) from ever materialising.

A glossy musical makeover on the cinematic phenomenon, The Devil Wears Prada brings a new layer of lipstick and mascara to the London scene through its flamboyant look into the fashion world, but fails to give the same degree of pathos, insight and entertainment by tailoring a prêt-a-porter version of its couture predecessor. With a few elements to be amazed by, but too many others to leave you in a more indifferent state, the show still boasts some minor pizzazz to be spotted on the runway. Yet, it’s a long walk in those Chanel boots before it’s suitable for the September issue.

The Devil Wears Prada plays at London’s Dominion Theatre from Monday to Saturday. Tickets are available on the following link.

By Guillermo Nazara