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‘Go big or go home” seems to be the guiding principle for this musical adaptation of the hit book and film about an aspiring reporter’s foray into the highly strung world of fashion journalism. The sound is massive, with disco beats pumping and Elton John’s balladic piano-rock blaring. The costumes dazzle. The runway models sashay from all directions, while the lights blaze red, blue and white for Paris fashion week.
It’s big all right, but perhaps it should have gone home because what is this, exactly? A prosecco o’clock musical, briskly directed and choreographed by Jerry Mitchell, that replicates the 2006 film starring Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway to within an inch of its haute couture-clad life, but without capturing its icy heart.
To give the show its due, the production values are high, Shaina Taub and Mark Sonnenblick’s lyrics are serviceable and John’s music exuberant. Vanessa Williams is a powerhouse singer as editor-in-chief Miranda Priestly, with songs like the clubby House of Miranda, and so is Georgie Buckland as her young, ambitious assistant, Andy. Visually it is nothing if not impressive.
But as it trots from one iconic scene to another, Kate Wetherhead’s book summarising the screenplay almost line by line, it resembles an android-like simulacrum. You find yourself asking: “Why?” How does this show add to the film, riff off it or bring the satire – and celebration – of the fashion industry up to date? The costumes designed by Gregg Barnes (with some by Pamella Roland) are variable: one red, gold and black fashion collection has the imperial bling of Versace and the theatrical edge of Alexander McQueen. But other ensembles look like they could be from the Christmas Autograph collection at M&S.
House of Miranda … Vanessa Williams in The Devil Wears Prada. Photograph: Matt Crockett/Reuters
In a story based in the late 1990s, the uniformly tall, thin models reflect the body fascism of that time. It is as if Sophie Dahl never happened and there is not even an askance glance at the plus-size revolution of today.
The characters are dashed-off transpositions, too. The achievement of the film was partly in how it managed to make even its unlikable characters endearing, Miranda notwithstanding. But none of the characters on stage feel real or alive.
Miranda rises from below the stage, as if from an underworld, and is too flat a devil, Williams channelling her Ugly Betty character’s vibes. Her famous “cerulean” speech, which cuts through Andy’s snobbish attitude towards fashion, is not felt for its sharp intelligence. Buckland’s Andy has little personality, Amy Di Bartolomeo’s snippy assistant, Emily, sounds as if she is channelling Emily Blunt’s voice from the film, and Andy’s boyfriend, Nate (Rhys Whitfield), is too much of a cypher to care about, although his voice has strains of John’s in songs like I Mean Business and The Old You.
Amid the glut of retro film-to-stage adaptations filling up the West End is The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, which reinvents the film to make it a thing of theatrical beauty and integrity. This lacks both of those qualities. Has this kind of derivative show become its own theatrical subgenre? And what film is next: Bridget Jones, Notting Hill … Love, Actually? The options are endless, and depressing. “Gird your loins” is a tagline of this show. That just about sums it up.
At the Dominion theatre, London, until 18 October
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