London – That is all?
I want.
“The Devil Wears Prada,” Elton John’s terrifying musical that crashed and burned in Chicago two years ago, is being given a second chance in London.
But you know the old adage: If you don’t succeed the first time… you won’t succeed again!
The all-new production, directed by Jerry Mitchell, of “Kinky Boots” at the Dominion Theater is at least an improvement. train wreck i saw in 2022Now it’s more of a fender bender.
Still, the clumsy ensemble of “Prada,” which so utterly misguided its Broadway aspirations, should stay away from New York. Keep your distance, Tiny Dancer.
Predictably, we’re given another forgettable and derivative score from John, whose dreadful “Tammy Faye” flopped at the Palace after 29 performances.
Every song here, with lyrics by Shaina Taub and Mark Sonnenblick, is either the coolest club beat you’ve ever heard or a public domain cover of “Gloria” by Laura Branigan. When there is no “nntz-nntz”, everyone keeps talking nonsense about “being seen”.
For example, Stanley Tucci’s fashion editor character, Nigel, played by Matt Henry, has an extremely sad number called “Scene, Suddenly, Scene”.
One of its silly lyrics: “No more hiding in closets, I grace ’em now.” Oi vey.
His second tune, “Dress Yourself Up”, is closest to John’s.
The “Billy Elliot” musician’s show remains loosely fashioned — even a bit of the brilliant 2006 comedy film starring Meryl Streep. On stage it’s a musical comedy where you don’t laugh or shake your head. Maybe you nod.
Vanessa Williams is well cast as the ruthless Miranda Priestly, an ice-cold magazine editor who is a stand-in for Anna Wintour. And while the actress radiates pure showbiz enthusiasm, she can’t recreate Miranda in the gorgeous image that Streep was so memorable. She’s just a run-of-the-mill bad boss.
John and his co-writers don’t know what to do with him, which is a problem when he’s the title character. It would be generous to call Miranda’s lyrics an afterthought.
She meets dowdy Andy (usually played by Georgie Buckland, but Olivia Saunders when I visited), a self-righteous journalism graduate from Jersey City. “On the wrong side of the Hudson,” she sings.
Despite knowing nothing about clothes, Andy goes to work as Miranda’s second assistant on the runway, becomes ambitious, owns her own style and rises up the ranks. Think “How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying,” but worse.
Meanwhile, her chef boyfriend Nate (Rhys Whitfield) is annoyed by her new demanding schedule, and Andi 2.0 begins flirting with successful writer Christian (James Darch). The show is as clueless about both characters as it is about everything else.
The best parts of Kate Weatherhead’s book, such as this one, are copied word for word from the screen version. Then, the new material sticks like an orange sweater.
How about First Assistant Emily’s tasteless song, “Enjoy Angel.” “I hope an uncut Frenchman will give you HPV”?
Or the group’s oft-repeated line, “Hell is a runway where the devil wears Prada.” What does it mean? I have no idea.
Mitchell, to her credit, has turned “Prada” from unwatchable (the Chicago production was directed by Anna D. Shapiro) to competent.
But the score and the book are what they are. With a lead character like Miranda, whom Streep makes addictively interesting by doing more, not less, a musical treatment just doesn’t make sense.
In fact you get the distinct impression that Team “Prada”, in whipping up this lifeless mess, was more concerned about making cents. Another despicable film adaptation.
And if you came for the fashion, Greg Barnes’s designs are lackluster—neither camp nor runway ready.
The night before I saw the hysterical pantomime “Robin Hood” at the London Palladium. The great comedian Julian Clary came on stage dressed as an owl and joked, “You don’t get that in ‘The Devil Wears Prada’.”
The audience screamed.
