THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA at the Dominion Theatre

★★★★★

“Crisp, dazzling, bold and brash”

Back in 2003 a young woman was hired as a personal assistant to a very well-known editor-in-chief for ‘Vogue’ magazine. When Dame Anna Wintour (for it was she) learned that a novel (reportedly earning its author a $250,000 advance) was being published, she said “I cannot remember who that girl is”. Within months, though, the rest of the world knew very well who Lauren Weisberger was. When news reached Hollywood, the rights were snapped up and Meryl Streep stepped into Wintour’s high heeled shoes, playing the thinly disguised character of Miranda Priestly – the high-flying, ruthless head of ‘Runway’ magazine.

Fast forward a decade or two. Elton John is drafted into the empire, along with American singer, actress, model, producer, dancer, designer and overall icon Vanessa Williams. Elton’s job is to knock out a memorable and instantly recognisable score, while Vanessa has some pretty lofty stilettos to fill. It has been a long catwalk, that eventually led – via a preview summer season in Plymouth – to London’s grand Dominion Theatre. With the sheer abundance of new musicals currently opening in the West End at the moment, it needs to make a splash to stand out. But as Anna Wintour herself has famously said; “If you can’t be better than your competition, just dress better.” This musical has taken her words to heart.

“The Devil Wears Prada” is, simply put, a stunning production in every way. Crisp, dazzling, bold and brash; it invites you to wallow in the feel-good spectacle without straining to look closely for the hidden safety pins that hold it all together. For that is not the point. This is pure escapism and, as such, arrives at just the right time of the year. Let’s get the anticipated, predominant quibble out of the way first. Why a musical? It was certainly one of my questions. But the answer came quickly. Most of the dialogue is lifted from the film, and what the team have done (Kate Wetherhead’s book, Shaina Taub and Mark Sonnenblick’s lyrics and Elton John’s music) is to let the spoken word bleed seamlessly into song. There is a natural rhythm to the text, that is full of cracking soundbites, that cries out for a melody. Melodies that unmistakably come from Elton’s ivory-tickling fingers. Motifs lifted from his back catalogue ring out loud above the musical theatre bias but, hey, it is uplifting and sounds superb. The voices catapult to the rafters, even if – or perhaps due to – some of the emotion being too impassioned for its subject matter.

Despite a huge ensemble, the story revolves around a small bunch of characters. Wannabee journalist Andrea ‘Andy’ Sachs (Georgie Buckland) lands herself the job as junior PA to the savage chief of the magazine; Miranda Priestly (Vanessa Williams). Initially a square peg in a round whole, Andy undergoes a transformation that puts Olivia Newton John’s leather-clad make-over in ‘Grease’ to shame. The new look comes with greater responsibilities, extra glamour, but also a split form boyfriend Nate (Rhys Whitfield) and a realisation that she has strayed from her true path. She usurps Emily’s (Amy Di Bartolomeo) place in Miranda’s favour, gets off with writer Christian (James Darch) in Paris and unwittingly gets drawn into a back-stabbing subplot that leads the company’s art director Nigel (Matt Henry) to the sacrificial altar. It is no doubt common knowledge, and therefore no spoiler, that Andy ultimately sees the error of her ways. Buckland’s anthemic closing number, ‘What’s Right for Me’, is a pure, belting, sparkling highlight of the show.

Vanessa Williams is made for the role of Miranda. Like the show itself she refuses to take herself seriously. It’s a devil of a role but Williams captures the joy that follows in the wake of the abuse she fires at her victims. A perverse concept, but she gets it right. Her entourage are all triple threats, adept at comic timing, precision dancing and gorgeous singing. The star of the show, though, is Buckland whose Andy is both impressionable and strong. For a West End debut, she astonishingly commands the stage with ease.

It is a large stage to fill. Tim Hatley’s scenic design is a filmic masterstroke that leads us from New York to Paris and back again; weaving through dressing rooms, offices, apartments and boulevards; swooping beneath an illuminated Eifel Tower with a perspective that throws the cityscapes way beyond the back wall. And, of course, this show would never get away with skimping on the costume budget. Gregg Barnes has pulled out all the stops (aided probably by a blank cheque). Our chins are left almost scraping the floor when the jaw-dropping spectacle of the Paris Fashion Week scene closes Act One.

“The Devil Wears Prada” is sumptuously staged under Jerry Mitchell’s slick direction and choreography. Style certainly wins over content – and it is deliciously cheesy. But taken with a pinch of salt the effect is elevating, intoxicating and warming. It does exactly what it is supposed to do. Within seconds of the opening number, we cease to question or care about the artistic choices. Who cares if it comes across slightly dated at times? Or that the characters are skin deep beneath their designer outfits. The show is a glorious triumph. A devilishly good night out. Go and see it.

“Why are you still here? Go! That’s all!”