The Devil wears Prada: an adaptation to be refined

CHICAGO A movie-to-musical that wants to have its cake and eat it too, while staying within a sample size, The devil wears Prada, opened at the James M. Nederlander Theater here on Sunday. With music from rock god Elton John and lyrics from Off-Broadway darling Shaina Taub (Suffs), it seemed poised to set a trend or two.

Although the show takes place in a fashion magazine, its creative team doesn’t seem to have settled on a style. Is it a sincere story of sentimental, professional, clothing education or a Fashion Week evening for a young woman? An investigation into toxic workplace culture or an excuse to put an Eiffel Tower (technically, two Eiffel Towers) on stage? This is a show that has tried everything in its closet. Nothing fits.

Adapted from the 2006 film, itself adapted from Lauren Weisbergers 2003 Roman Key to her year at Cond Nast, it follows Andy Sachs (Taylor Iman Jones), a recent journalism graduate. Andy has big dreams. The Big Apple quickly crushes them in I Mean Business, the series’ efficient opener. After six months of rejection, she somehow lands a coveted job at Runway, a fictional Vogue replacement as second assistant to its imperious editor, Miranda Priestly (Beth Leavel.)

Andy doesn’t care about fashion. She’s got the cable knit tights to prove it. But she needs a job to pay the rent. (Yes, the musical assumes an entry-level media gig guarantees financial security. How expensive.) So she makes what she perceives to be the first of many Faustian deals to put her dreams on hold. and hold on for a year.

My voice can wait, she told Miranda. I mean, Joan Didion got her start at Vogue. But on.

The problem is, Andy isn’t very good at her job. Admittedly, it lacks the maniacal perfectionism and goofy wardrobe of Emily Charlton, the venomous first assistant (Megan Masako Haley, wasted until the second act). For help, she turns to the magazines’ creative director, Nigel Owens (Javier Muoz), who gives her the makeover she desperately needs, in Dress Your Way Up, a power ballad inspired by the Mets’ costume collection. and the flatness of the coffee cup that you should dress for the job you want.

But Andy remains ambivalent about his job. And is a hot pink romper and thigh high boots really an office wear idea for someone? (The costumes, which range from the flamboyant chorus to the unpersuasive and oddly crumpled principals, are by Arianne Phillips.) The musical is also ambivalent. The film, with its more streamlined wardrobe and more substantial visual pleasures, seemed a begrudging admiration for the fashion industry, as a business, as an art. The show, directed by Anna D. Shapiroa serious artist that I wouldn’t have associated with glitz or caprice, can’t make up his mind.

The songs unfold nicely enough, with flashes of glamor and bits of wit, but they tend to feel last season. The choreography, by James Alsop, relies on Broadway vernacular, with ballroom lights. Of course, there is voguing. Although Kate Wetherheads’ book makes some updates, there is a reference to collagen powder, it doesn’t take a point. And on a show with an avowed aversion to starches, the jokes are deeply cheesy.

What should I do? Andy moaned as Miranda approached.

Find a better exfoliator, for starters, says Nigel.

Sometimes I wondered what a writer who takes bigger, edgier comic swings Bess Wohl, say, Jocelyn Bioh, Halley Feiffer could have done with this material. Would a score recognizing the last 40 years of popular music have made a difference? This version takes Jones, a charismatic actress with a supple and flexible voice, and gives her little to do but stress and procrastinate. (She shinesby the way, no exfoliator needed.) And while magazines like Vogue eventually admitted a lack of diversity, the musical never acknowledges that anyone Miranda abuses, who is white, is a person of color.

The Devil Wears Prada wants to convey a vision of luxury and style that explains the makeover scene, the gala scene, the Paris fashion week scene. Christine Jones and Brett Banakis, the set designers and the media, have a lot of fun with Paris. But Andy, a woman without a professional signature, seems to feel that fashion is somehow below her. Even when she comes to appreciate couture on a personal level (Whos She?), she never recognizes it as substantial, rejecting the opportunity to write about it. It remains frivolous, not serious, girly stuff, which gives the musical, despite the presence of so many women in the creative team, a nuance of anti-feminism.

None of the female characters on the show support each other until the end. Andy’s two roommates (Christiana Cole and Tiffany Mann) are sketched so thinly that I never made out their names. They still take the time to judge her. Apparently, it’s not great.

Which brings us, of course, to the Miranda of it all. In the film, Meryl Streep played Miranda with sleek silver hair and a voice like liquid nitrogen an ice queen to sink the Titanic. But Leavel is an actress of humor and warmth with a gift, demonstrated in The Drowsy Chaperone and The Prom, for self-parody. Miranda should make her underlings quiver in their Louboutin boots. Here, everyone stands tall enough.

Did the Wetherheads book melt Miranda, or does Leavel lack the needed frost? Both, really. The musical offers him a belated confessional, Stay On Top. Because if you have a voice like Leavels, of course you should highlight it. But Miranda is not made for self-reflection. And Stay On Top doesn’t offer much anyway.

Curiously, the character that the musical represents the most is not the uncertain Andy or the evil Miranda, but Nigel, a cool cucumber. In addition to Dress Your Way Up, the musical’s best number, he also delivers Seen from the second act, a poignant song about how fashion magazines rescued him as a gay teenager. Muoz, an accomplished performer, elevates both.

The musical’s first act ends with its title track, a suggestion that the fashion world is some kind of hell. Hell is a track, the chorus sings (with a sound mix so muddy I had to look up the lyrics later), where the devil wears Prada. But nothing in the show confirms it. Andy’s worst anxiety? His boss calls too often. The Devil Wears Prada is not as sumptuous as it should be, nor as biting as it is incisive. If he wants a life beyond Chicago, he could use some modifications.

The devil wears Prada
Through August 21 at the James M. Nederlander Theatre, Chicago; devilwearspradmusical.com. Duration: 2h25.