A horribly misjudged score from Elton John is more than a fashion disaster for The Devil Wears Prada at the Dominion Theatre
“Are you on the pulse?
Or have you lost your touch”
As well-known a name as Elton John is, is he really the right person for the job to write the score for a 2000s female-fronted show about fashion? On the evidence of The Devil Wears Prada, the answer is a definitive no. In the same way that Andrew Lloyd Webber never felt like the right musical fit for a punky fresh Cinderella, there’s an increasingly fatal mismatch with British theatre’s reliance on composers in their late 70s.
Kate Weatherhead’s book adapts Lauren Weisbrger’s 2003 novel and Aline Brosh McKenna’s screenplay from the huge hit that was the 2006 film, mainly offering up set pieces around its multitudinous and highly quotable scenes. But the score really is the problem here, flattening the two lead characters of Miranda Priestley, the Anna Wintour-esque editor-in-chief of Runway magazine and Andy Sachs, the young aspiring journalist who ends up on a life-altering journey as her assistant.
Vanessa Williams is a golden casting choice for the icily chic Miranda but as written here, it’s very one-note material but more unforgivably, she’s not given the diva-level songs she deserves, in fact she’s hardly given any at all given she’s ostensibly a co-lead. It feels like such an open goal being missed here; in her final number ‘Stay on Top’ when she’s finally given the opportunity to let loose, it is such a frustating hint of what could have been.
Georgie Buckland fares less well as Andy, a trickier character to balance as she tries, and fails, to balance integrity with ambition as she falls headlong into the world of high fashion that she previously disdained. But there’s not enough of her ‘before’ to really get a sense of the woman her boyfriend Nate misses (qv ‘I Miss The Old You’), nor enough sparkiness in her performance to truly engage as she’s lumbered with a suite of what sound like Elton John cast-offs rather than musical theatre classics-in-the-making.
The show’s main saving grace comes in the form of Amy Di Bartolomeo, who is a riot as Emily (the best character from the film, let’s be real), wonderfully sarky and charismatic from leading the pre-show announcement to developing a relationship we actually care about (‘Bon Voyage’ is neatly done). Matt Henry’s devoted Nigel suffers from underwriting too but his songs pack more of an emotional punch, Shaina Taub and Mark Sonnenblick’s lyrics speaking to his deeper pain.
Jeremy Mitchell’s lavish production throws everything it can at the show and that goes a long way at times. The gala scene is inspired as it spills out into the auditorium, costumes (Gregg Barnes) that must have cost the budget of a small island nation floofing everyone up and the Mephistophelean nature of Miranda’s bargain to Andy hammered home most effectively. Does that end Act 1 as it should? Of course not, Andy gets an Elton John cast-off to sing, natch.
Tim Hatley’s set design is a strange mixture of excess and economy (the office set is particularly underwhelming) but I did love Miranda’s frequent use of a trapdoor. Bruno Poet’s graphic lighting does well in the huge space of the Dominion. One can only dream of what the likes of Marlow and Moss could have brought to a much more thrillingly contemporary score though, one that actually pulses with modernity. Instead we’re left with this, which feels distinctly out of fashion.
