It's common knowledge that the coveted, cutthroat magazine depicted in the novel "The Devil Wears Prada" is a thinly veiled Vogue, where author Lauren Weisberger briefly worked as an assistant to longtime editor Anna Wintour. The 2006 film adaptation of Weisberger's book went on to gross $326 million worldwide largely because of its voyeuristic framing: Audiences could indulge in the excess and elitism of a widely worshiped style bible without actually reporting to Miranda Priestly, who plays a Wintour-esque character and degrades employees with a mere pointed look.
In fact, the movie made working under Meryl Streep's ice-cold editor seem simultaneously agonizing and alluring; watching Anne Hathaway's Andy suffer in that hellish assistantship was only slightly less satisfying than seeing her succeed. "If Weisberger's novel focuses obsessively on every sharp word and withering glance her evil dragon-lady boss ever threw her way, the movie lets us in on what keeps her there," wrote Carina Chocano in the L.A. Times' review of the movie.
A lot has changed in the years since "Prada'' premiered: Legacy magazines have stopped printing issues, social media has worn down the fashion industry's gatekeeping, abusive bosses are regularly exposed and ousted, and even top editors wear ugly sneakers to work. Producers of a Broadway-bound musical "Prada" promised to present "an updated version of the much-loved tale … to reflect the cultural and societal changes that have [since] redefined the fashion world."
Though the world-premiere run in Chicago doesn't deal with the industry's strides toward racial inclusion or body diversity, it does wrestle with our world's evolving attitudes toward workplaces. Amid the death of the "girl boss" and the ongoing Great Resignation, the musical's portrayal of the changing attitudes people have toward their jobs happens to be right on trend. A toxic commitment to the office, previously glamorized onscreen and standardized across society, is explicitly denounced in its 2022 setting.
With music by Elton John, lyrics by Shaina Taub and a book by Kate Wetherhead, this musical adaptation is very faithful to the beloved movie, but the setup of the story has been completely overhauled and more clearly specified. Played by Taylor Iman Jones, Andy — previously written in the book as a Ivy Leaguer and onscreen as a Northwestern alum — is now an exceptional graduate of UNC Chapel Hill, who earned prestigious writing scholarships and prizes and dreams of becoming a Pulitzer Prize-winning essayist.
After getting rejected by numerous New York media outlets, Andy gets a call from media conglomerate Elias-Clarke for an interview as soon as possible. She assumes the position is with her dream title, City Dweller; the exhausted human resources representative forgets to mention that it's at Runway, which Andy has only perused in her gynecologist's waiting room.
Miranda (Beth Leavel) clocks her as a "Type-A Gen Z feminist" who'd rather write for "a liberal echo chamber." Andy, with student loan debt and rent due, reassures Miranda that "my voice can wait" and touts her wits and work ethic to get the job.
Miranda's devout first assistant and resident girl boss Emily (Megan Masako Haley) then informs Andy that work-life balance is not a thing: "Eat, sleep and breathe the job, except don't sleep or eat," she sings. "Everything is life or death, your day is never done."
Unlike the media companies of the early aughts, Runway's parent company is just barely breaking even in 2022, thanks to declining circulation and loss of ad revenue. And though Runway is slightly in the black, it's still too costly and Miranda is pressured by the board of directors to cut costs. (An executive's mention of a six-figure reshoot, which made him laugh onscreen, is now delivered as a scold.)
Repositioning Runway in this way is key: When the magazine was a cash cow, virulent ambition and constant overworking seemed like means-to-an-end methods for success. But especially in the face of dwindling profits and prestige, these exploitative strategies can come off like mismanagement of resources.
Nevertheless, Andy vows to push herself and prove that she can do this job, and soon impresses Miranda so much that she's accompanying her boss to Paris for Fashion Week. In fact, Andy is pretty proud of herself (even if her friends and boyfriend aren't), and expresses a self-satisfaction only seen onscreen via Hathaway's quiet smiles.
"It's more than just my wardrobe, I'm comin' into my own," she sings in a spectacular dance-centric number, complete with multiple costume changes. "So watch me glow, the further I go outta my comfort zone."
Yet Miranda's cunning betrayal against creative director Nigel (Javier Muñoz) drives Andy to ultimately leave Runway behind. In the movie, Andy makes this virtuous decision without much explanation; it "doesn't feel entirely triumphant. It smacks of giving up," wrote Chocano.
Onstage, she makes the choice with today's fluctuating values of labor in one's life: One's job title is not a definitive identity or a measure of intrinsic self-worth, a gig at a storied institution needn't compromise integrity, and that rung on the corporate ladder might not be worth sacrificing one's mental health or overall well-being.
"Time to write a story of how my life could finally feel/ no selling my soul, no spiritual toll, no hamster wheel," she sings. "What if, for once, I truly let myself believe/ that who I am means more than how much I achieve?" These are questions that many workers everywhere have come to ask themselves more overtly since the onset of the pandemic, which delayed the world-premiere run of "Prada" by two years.
Though only explored across a smattering of lyrics, such moments of profound interiority make the updated adaptation timely as ever. It'd be much more effective if these themes were explored more fully, as these scenes only scratch the surface of the ongoing conversations around labor within a capitalist system.
The ensemble of the stage show, directed by Anna D. Shapiro, is visibly diverse, but some critics were disappointed that more real-life topics were not directly addressed: "Though magazines like Vogue have finally admitted a lack of diversity, the musical never acknowledges that everyone mistreated by Miranda, who is white, is a person of color," reads the New York Times' review. Andy has been specifically rewritten as a Black character, and yet this fact is surprisingly left unacknowledged after the show's first scenes.
Other critics were dismayed by what was attempted onstage: "The movie's appeal was based on two fundamental human pleasures: seeing gorgeous humans model stunning fashion artistry and watching people behave very badly in ways that the viewer would never dare," reads the Chicago Tribune's review. "It was absolutely not about learning moral lessons." As the adaptation is further adjusted for future runs, it will be interesting to see whether it becomes more overtly topical or escapist; chasing both angles would only cancel out both, confusing viewers more than amusing them.
Longtime fans of the movie will catch the minor details that have been tweaked throughout the musical: Andy's Dolce & Gabbana spelling snafu is now a Donatella Versace mispronunciation, her show-stopping Chanel boots are now red-bottomed Louboutins, her high-pitched T-Mobile Sidekick alert is now an iPhone ringtone. Andy's boyfriend Nate doesn't mope about her missing his birthday party but rather the debut of his course in a special tasting menu; attractive acquaintance Christian Thompson gets her attention by simply lingering at her desk.
Miranda's famous "cerulean" speech has been expanded to include beauty trends, influencers and Instagram filters, and is deliciously delivered with a makeshift Greek chorus in tow. It's smart of the show to preserve so many of Miranda's most memorable lines verbatim, including "Florals? For spring? Groundbreaking," and "By all means, move at a glacial pace, you know how that thrills me."
And of course, whenever she delivers a litany of demands for Andy to handle, she punctuates it with her signature signoff: "That's all." Thankfully, the same can't be said of this stage adaptation.
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ABOUT THE WRITER
Ashley Lee is a staff reporter at the Los Angeles Times.
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