The Devil Wears Prada Is My Biggest Disappointment

From the opening moments, The Devil Wears Prada moves at breakneck speed. It is glossy, confident and unapologetically big. The costumes gleam. The ensemble sounds sensational. The energy is infectious. For long stretches, it is impossible not to be swept up in it.

And I was.

This is a crowd pleaser. A big cast in a big house delivering a big show. It entertains. It looks expensive. It feels polished. There is immense talent on that stage.

There is, however, a moment early on that should stop the world.

The clatter of high heels. A sudden hush. The rising of Miranda Priestly. It is an old theatrical trope, perhaps, but an effective one. Power announced through stillness.

I remember her rising. I do not remember the entrance.

The world of the show never quite stops for her. It keeps moving.

That instinct defines the evening.

Scenes transition efficiently. Songs propel us from A to B without delay. Structurally, the piece is sound. The score does its job. But musical theatre should do more than move plot. It should deepen it.

Here, numbers often feel like narrative transit. Choruses arrive before the emotional premise beneath them has settled. Hooks repeat, but the ideas they are meant to sharpen rarely evolve. The show moves. It rarely accumulates.

Miranda’s major beats are delivered with an air of recognition. You can sense the audience waiting for them. They are acknowledged, sometimes even sung into existence, but rarely reimagined for the stage. Recognition replaces reinvention.

There are genuinely funny moments. The audience laughs. The timing works. Yet the humour feels fleeting, detached from the larger emotional fabric. The laughs land and dissolve. The satire never quite sharpens.

As the narrative darkens, the lack of weight becomes harder to ignore. Andy sleeps with the publicist explicitly, but the moral friction evaporates almost as quickly as it appears. Nigel’s missed opportunity barely stings. Miranda’s divorce is mentioned and moved past. Events occur. They do not bruise.

Nate, who should represent the human cost of Andy’s ambition, is written without the backbone the story demands. Watching someone you love transform beyond recognition ought to fracture something real. Instead, he folds. He apologises. The resistance never hardens.

Nigel is handed a substantial number, yet it halts momentum without altering trajectory. It tells us little we do not already know and does nothing to intensify the betrayal that follows. It feels like filler in a show already sprinting.

Even moments that invite theatrical audacity are restrained. Emily’s accident happens offstage and is reported rather than realised. In 2026, that caution feels deliberate.

And then the ending.

In the film, Miranda’s final near refusal to acknowledge Andy carries enormous weight. The silence does the work. Here, she enters downstage and is almost immediately lowered below the stage once more. It is abrupt. Mechanical. The moment is over before it has time to breathe.

The bows follow with similar restraint. Finales are where impact is sealed, where melodies lodge themselves in the mind and the company takes its victory lap. Instead, one of the least memorable songs anchors the curtain call. The show has entertained, but it has not ignited.

None of this is a failure of performance. The cast look and sound sensational. Vanessa Williams commands attention, even if the material rarely grants her the seismic release she deserves. The company deliver everything asked of them.

The frustration lies in identity.

The Devil Wears Prada has always functioned as a witty, knowing jab at fashion’s excess while still admiring its artistry. Fashion is not a relic. It remains culture defining, image obsessed and power driven.

Yet this production lingers in the middle. Not biting enough to be satire. Not vulnerable enough to be sincere drama. It often feels less like a theatrical reinvention and more like a performance of the film’s most recognisable beats.

Aesthetic cannot run the show. The industry in this story should be the devouring force. It should distort loyalties, fracture relationships and sweep the plot up in its wake.

Instead, the gloss leads and the danger follows.