The Devil Wears Prada, Dominion Theatre review - efficient but rarely inspired

It's second time only quasi-lucky for The Devil Wears Prada, the stage musical adaptation of the much-loved Meryl Streep film from 2006 that nosedived in Chicago a few summers ago and has resurfaced on the West End to see another day.

Refitted with a largely fresh creative team, the show ticks all the boxes that devotees of the movie will want and expect, while never really establishing a reason for being of its own, as Kinky Boots, from the same director (Jerry Mitchell), managed so triumphantly some while back.

Mitchell's latest has a vaguely Primark feel where it ought to feel haute couture, and the overall sense is that another, sharper look is required if the musical is to venture toward Broadway, which hasn't proven especially hospitable of late to West End musical crossings: Tammy Faye, which had a score by Elton John actually superior to his score for Prada (with lyrics this time out by 2024 Tony winner Shaina Taub) just gave up the ghost in New York, though Miranda Priestly's swanky sophistication may be more essentially audience-friendly than the televangelical cheer of a woman whose life's travails already won an Oscar for Jessica Chastain. 

It's clear from the opening number, "House of Miranda", that we're in the realm of the efficient rather than the exalted: the number sets up the competitive New York society of Runway, the Vogue-adjacent fashion magazine over which Miranda presides like, well, some high Priestly-ess. But the song doesn't ignite proceedings in any particular way, aside from allowing star Vanessa Williams, stepping into Tony winner Beth Leavel's Chicago shoes, to make a commanding entrance, her face obscured by sunglasses. Anna Wintour patented the look, and the audience knows at once where they're at. 

From there, we pretty much follow the template set by the film, with some puzzling diversions that suggest, once again, that no one has stopped to figure out precisely where the material truly sings. The focal character is in fact not Miranda but the young journalist, Andy (Scottish performer Georgie Buckland, making a notable West End debut), who yearns to write the sorts of articles that "will define a generation" and instead is pressed into service huckstering her way to early proofs of the new Harry Potter novel for Miranda's twin children. 

That faintly absurd task requires making the acquaintance of Christian (James Darch), a well-connected smoothie who is soon coming on to Andy much to the consternation to her devoted boyfriend, Nate (Rhys Whitfield, pictured above with Buckland). Nate, in turn, is the token hottie whose cooking skills would surely render him without compare in the companion sweepstakes. The only problem is a song early on, "I Only Love You For Your Body",  accompanied by dutiful disrobing - from Nate, especially - whose title doesn't exactly speak to Nate's appreciation for Andy's commitment to citizens' journalism. 

And so it goes, as Andy attempts to reconcile her rise and rise within the sleek, soulless environs of Runway with the real issues, and people, that matter to her most.

Amusing collateral damage is provided by Amy Di Bartolomeo (pictured below) as the none-too-easily sidelined Emily, the PA whose whiplash comic timing is among the show's major assets. And Mitchell, as director, has called for support on his Olivier-winning lead from Kinky Boots, Matt Henry, to step into Stanley Tucci's screen role as the loyal if faintly long-suffering Nigel, Runway's creative director who may seeon be calling it quite. That assignment this time out means selling a second-act solo, "Seen", harkening back to a familiar-seeming gay anthem of self-assertion, while Kate Wetherhead's book proceeds in fits and starts: scarcely has Andy met the imperious Miranda before she is on the payroll, which makes one wonder whether snips were taken to the show without smoothing the transitions.

You expect a hefty paean to high style, which in context means Paris, and the show offers a bass-heavy, faintly ominous company number after the interval accompanied by a high-strutting bevy of beauties, any one of whom would be sartorially outclassed by the visual splendor on display across town at the National's Importance of Being Earnest. Here, as elsewhere, you get the feeling of a production too often settling for the generic when only true gorgeousness will do. Costume designer Gregg Barnes is a Tony-winning whiz, so where's the wow?

Still, Williams knows her way around a caustic putdown, pausing to expose the chinks in the marmoreal armor that allow a glimpse of the real, less ruthless Miranda. Buckland works tirelessly to thread her way through the moral maze of Andy's devising, and the entire staging, from Tim Hatley's sets (New York and Paris are visually cued to the hilt) through to Bruno Poet's lighting, is never less than professional. (That, I'm afraid, is more than can be said for some of the other new musicals to have made it to the West End this year.)

But where is the pizzazz: the devil-may-care showmanship that would allow Devil Wears Prada to soar? That ineffable sense of inspiration at present lies out of reach, though I have a feeling this musical's onward passage is not yet over. Let's just say that a creative runway, or two, still awaits.

• The Devil Wears Prada at the Dominion Theatre
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