The Devil Wears Prada review

Elton John is one of the most prolific songwriters of any generation but the man who hasn’t released an album of self-composed material for eight years seems to have run out of memorable tunes. His score for the musical version of The Devil Wears Prada is serviceable at best, repetitive at worst.

There are exceptions. There’s a number in a hospital that’s musical comedy gold, a salute to Paris couture that’s set to a thumping contemporary dance beat and a couple of ballads that raise the roof off even a theatre as dauntingly vast as the Dominion. But you won’t leave humming any of the songs.

The stage version of Lauren Weisberger’s book and the Meryl Streep-starring 2006 film features all of the quotable quips, including, of course, Runway magazine editor-in-chief Miranda Priestley’s sarcastically-delivered ‘By all means move at a glacial pace, you know how that thrills me’. Glacial pacing isn’t one of the show’s problems; it moves quickly and there’s seldom a dull moment.

Visually, it’s as stunning as any Fashion Week extravaganza. Bruno Poet lights it in eye-popping colours, with lots of pinks and blues (or is it cerulean, as Miranda would attest?) and, when the story moves to the City of Light, hues of the French flag. Gregg Barnes’ costumes are fabulous, and there are projected New York City skylines and a replica of the Eiffel Tower that gets a round of applause for its sheer size.

If only director-choreographer Jerry Mitchell’s dance moves – which are so literal that when, for example, the ensemble sing ‘pulse’ they point to their wrists – weren’t so uninspired. And if only Kate Wetherhead’s script wasn’t so slavishly faithful to the film, allowing for few surprises.

That said, the show is a lot of fun and that’s mainly down to the game cast. As Miranda’s right-hand man Nigel, Matt Henry is a blast of sass and energy. Georgie Buckland sings her heart out as novice assistant Andy. Amy Di Bartolomeo manages to be just as funny as Emily Blunt was in the movie as her snarky mentor Emily.

Then there’s Vanessa Williams, who really makes Miranda her own. Less menacingly muted than Meryl, she rises through a trapdoor like a fashionista from hell but brings some subtlety and shading to a character who, amped up for the stage, could easily have been a monster.