The West End is awash with films-turned-musicals, with the results ranging from the stylish (Dr Strangelove, Stranger Things, My Neighbour Totoro) to the irredeemably naff (Pretty Woman, we’re looking at you). You’d hope that enlisting Elton John to write the songs would guarantee any musical entry into the former category but, alas, The Devil Wears Prada is truly diabolical.
It’s not the fault of star Vanessa Williams, who turns in a decent performance as fictional magazine editor Miranda Priestly – acting with a subtlety that her fearsome red-and-black costumes lack. Instead, it’s a result of a lack of imagination from the whole writing team, who cling to the 2006 film’s script like a millennial clings to stretch denim jeans (they’re more comfy, OK?). Director and choreographer Jerry Mitchell’s production feels less like an ironic comment on the Noughties, than it does a time capsule from back then – albeit one where groundwater has seeped in and made everything a bit limp and soggy.
The story’s your classic “ordinary girl makes it big and forgets what really matters” narrative, with aspiring journalist Andy (Georgie Buckland) getting sucked into the world of vampiric boss Priestly. Where Williams is all demure self-possession, Buckland brings an impressive but often grating energy to the role of her formerly frumpy assistant; her voice is so punchy it threatens to knock out the front row. As a pair, they don’t have much chemistry – nor do Andy and her boyfriend Nate. In the film, he’s an underwritten soft boy who’s unimpressed by his girlfriend’s career ambitions. Here, more writing and thought have gone into his character – too bad none of it makes sense. As Nate, floppy-haired Rhys Whitfield gamely powers his way through love song – “I only want you for your body” is one of the catchiest numbers on Elton John’s score – but it feels like it was written for a different show, given that this charmer purports to prefer his girlfriend when she’s wearing shapeless skirts and gnome shoes.
Tim Hatley’s set design frames the stage with arches of neon tubing that flash during John’s surprisingly unmemorable, generically jazzy musical numbers; perhaps to distract from Mitchell’s choreography, which mostly involves the chorus pointing in different directions, like air hostesses doing a safety briefing or the Spice Girls on an off day. Unlike Victoria Beckham, this musical theatre-trained cast is surely capable of more.
There are moments when the whole production pulls together to create something resembling the buzz, slickness and glamour of the fashion world. The first act closes on a version of the Met Gala that’s got a compelling dark glitter to it, with costume designer Gregg Barnes dressing ornate creatures that shine out of the gloom like cockroaches. When the sound design allows itself to adopt the characteristic pounding electronic soundtrack of the Noughties catwalk, stomping like a model’s spike-heeled stiletto, it briefly makes the era’s culture seem exciting and dangerous again. But while a new generation is obsessed with Y2K style, this production showcases its ugly tail-end rather than its heyday, with business casual silhouettes and fussy tailored dresses that feel more suited to a Home Counties bridesmaid line-up than a fashion magazine.
The Devil Wears Prada movie was fascinating because it blew an exclusive, secretive world wide open. It let ordinary women peer into the lives of the magazine editors who told them they were too fat, too mundane, too frumpy to be part of their world, all the while selling it to them as part of a glossy package on every newsstand. This musical feels squarely aimed at the mass market, and it’s neither aspirational nor memorable enough to escape the sale rack.
‘The Devil Wears Prada’ is on at London’s Dominion Theatre until 31 May 2025
