You may be reading this with the misguided assumption that, because I am the star of the show, I would somehow be an ‘unreliable critic.’ Just like the rise of cowboy boots and cropped waistcoats, you are wrong. For who is more qualified to give an accurate assessment of the production, than someone who is an expert on the regurgitated material?
The 2024 musical, based on the 2006 film, based on the 2003 book, is based on my life! My word has far more authority than the theatre luvvies I found myself surrounded by. Who I would just like to take a minute to address - just like your self-satisfied musings, the black sequin jackets you wear will never feature in Runway, or even Vogue. Please stop trying to ‘make it happen’, the plastic shining discs are quite distracting and offensive on the eye. Mercifully, I had Emily as a human shield. Her hideous bulky cardigan and heavy skirt blocked out the glare from the gaudy outerwear, and my sight was saved.
I used my unencumbered vision to cast an exacting eye on the offering presented to me. Housed in the Dominion Theatre, a quaint two thousand seat auditorium in the heart of the West End (which is to say the fringes of, as the heart is located on the left of the chest, not the dead centre) the originally titled The Devil Wears Prada the Musical officially had its grand opening. I was prepared to be wowed…
The musical opens with ‘Emily’ wading through the crowd to address the M&S-clad theatregoers. She sarcastically asks them if they have taken enough photos of the set, and berates those who are even thinking about opening sweets during the performance, however slowly. I couldn’t be more proud. I only wish the real Emily was as commanding as Miss Di Bartolomeo.
Once my fellow audience members were rightly put in their place, and the smuggled snacks were coyly returned to their (one can only hope ‘free’) tote bags, the lights were dimmed and the musical began. What followed was a spectacle so thrilling, so engaging, so fabulous, that it rather reminded me of someone… me. And what could be higher praise than that?
In the very, very, very, unlikely event that a musical is written about your life (the West End seems to be running out of ideas, so who knows, it could happen) you’d be hard pressed to find a better person to play you than Grammy nominee Vanessa Williams. Looking at the former Miss America was like looking into a mirror. Her mannerisms, her razor-sharp wit, her razor-sharp cheekbones, her powerful singing voice, her authority and gravatas - it was like I was having an out of body experience. Like when Emily gives me a no-foam semi-skimmed latte with an extra shot and three drip coffees with room for milk served scolding hot, instead of a no-foam skimmed latte with an extra shot and three drip coffees with room for milk served piping hot, and I’m so full of anger that I have to leave my body and watch the event unfold from another pain of existence. But in a good way.
Unlike the book and the film, the stage adaptation of my life story is accompanied by songs. Just like my wardrobe, the musical’s score is brand-new, expertly arranged and curated. Sir Elton John, who provides the music, has previously stated that it is his best work to date, and I have to agree. ‘Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me’ is good, but ‘Dress Your Way Up’ is better. He’s been angling to perform at Runway's infamous Christmas party for some years now, and following this triumphant display, I think I will let him.
Smart, sleek and stylish, The Devil Wears Prada the Musical is a groundbreaking show that adds some much needed colour into the grey West End landscape. Book your tickets now. That is all.