Review: ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ musical opens in Chicago, not yet ready for its runway spotlight

The reason Lauren Weisberger’s satirical memoir “The Devil Wears Prada” became famous was not just because of the juicy schadenfreude-y movie with Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway. It’s because Weisberger was self-aware enough to see that the thirst for power included herself.

On the one hand, she took out her knives and dissected the terrifying tastemaker Miranda, a stand-in for Anna Wintour, a bourgeois feminist survivor with veiled vulnerability. On the other, she knew that the very act of writing the memoir meant that her alter-ego Andy was no different from Miranda, even though she shrouded her hunger for the spotlight in virtue signaling and that obnoxiously righteous, Brooklyn-style cocktail of stubble-faced chefs. Weisberger knew that ambitious 20-somethings desperate for glam media jobs will ice their elders quicker than they can say “I am holding space for you.” She implicated herself and reaped her just rewards.

So, of course, did Streep and Hathaway, immensely skilled players both. But the main problem with the bland and hesitant new musical version of “The Devil Wears Prada,” which features a book by Kate Wetherhead and a score by Elton John and that opened Sunday night in a Chicago tryout under the direction of Anna D. Shapiro, is that it has not yet found the guts to follow that same track, notwithstanding the huge satirical opportunity. More specifically, Weisberger’s sexy, self-aware satire has been given a moralistic tack, which Miranda would hate even more than cerulean sweaters.

For sure, the show is reasonably entertaining. But especially given all the COVID considerations, it is far enough from finished as to not have deserved so many coastal media judges in the Nederlander Theatre Sunday night, laying waste to the concept of the pre-Broadway tryout (very Miranda). As they say in every Zoom meeting: there is a lot more work to be done.

Job one is the addition of more wit and irreverence to Wetherhead’s book and Shaina Taub’s lyrics. The movie’s appeal was based on two fundamental human pleasures: seeing gorgeous humans model stunning fashion artistry and watching people behave very badly in ways that the viewer would never dare. It was absolutely not about learning moral lessons.

The show first has to deliver a more legitimate runway experience: Arianne Phillips’ costumes are fine as theatrical design but I suspect the audience for this will expect something that feels more like the work of actual fashion houses. Neither of the two leads, played by Beth Leavel and Taylor Iman Jones, have enough of their own distinct style and, weirdly, the show blows right past the big switcheroo in the movie when the geeky Andy reinvents herself as a stylist of high couture. Act 2 is stronger in this regard — it helps a lot when the show leaves New York and hits Paris — but it’s still a major issue.

The wit part is just as important. Notwithstanding a knockout ensemble of dancers, the show needs to be funnier, smoother and to move far more quickly, given that Miranda is a whirling dervish. For an example of what works and what does not, you need only look at the Act 1 close and a scene early in Act 2. The former is an on-the-nose, red-devil fantasia, which is frankly awful, while Act 2 finds its way with a cool scenic transition from designers Christine Jones and Brett Banakis that finally evokes some of the “La La Land” glamour the audience has come to see. The currently underscored show is much stronger in general in that second act, but it’s a slow slog to get to that point. Everything here needs to proceed with so much more confidence and less nervousness.

Both of the leads could, I think, be very good. Leavel needs at least one more non-patter song to showcase what she can do, but she never lacks truth. Appealing as she is, Jones has to dig deeper into her own ruthlessness (we all have a bit) to unlock her performance. The key, of course, is that Miranda is always right about Andy because she recognizes herself. I fear Wetherhead is too much in love with Andy. Time for some clear-eyed thinking there. This isn’t a seminar, it’s “The Devil Wears Prada,” for goodness sake.

What we crave from Taub’s lyrics is more remove from the book: they often feel like restatements of what the characters just said rather than fundamentally emotional experiences. You can see the beginning of this in some numbers, and Taub has the talent if she lets loose. But there’s only a start.

Elton John has by my count five very solid songs here, including “Dress Your Way Up,” a lively Act 2 dance number, and a very touching ballad about the relationship of fashion and the gay community for Nigel, the betrayed underling played by Javier Muñoz. But the piece needs three or four more; neither lead really gets to showcase what they can do. And the end, currently a damp squid, badly needs John’s help.

For Chicago audiences, of course, these works in progress are always fascinating. The producer Kevin McCollum has, to his credit, offered a lot of opportunity here to artists who have not worked on a major musical before. But everyone here could do to read the book again and to better appreciate that this is a piece about people behaving in mercenary ways, drawn to glamour like moths to a flame.

Of course, we’re only on the planet for a short while, so there’s an argument for clawing your way to self-actualization. Either way, we watch these kinds of characters in the theater because they dare to do what we, the afeard, do not. All while looking a whole lot better than the rest of us.

Reorient around that and “Prada” has a shot. It is, after all, a great brand.

Chris Jones is a Tribune critic.

cjones5@chicagotribune.com

Review: “The Devil Wears Prada”

When: Through Aug. 21

Where: Nederlander Theatre, 24 W. Randolph St.

Running time: 2 hours, 30 minutes

Tickets: $25-$95.50 at 800-775-2000 and www.broadwayinchicago.com