THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA

“Reader, I married him [her/them].”

No, this is not a reference to the second volume of my memoirs, and it has definitely not recently been adapted into a TV series called I MARRIED A PSYCHOPATH and available for your viewing on Netflix if you have absolutely sweet FA to do for two painfully long, existential crisis-inducing hours.  This show (which has nothing to do with me, to be clear) is terrifying (… but is a show like I MARRIED A PSYCHOPATH just another type of threatening and controlling misogyny through storytelling, broadcasting and our media, maybe?…).

Malcolm Webster murdered one wife, tried to murder another and made well-considered plans to murder a third, and he did it all with a rather attractive, cheeky sparkle in his clear blue eyes, a knowing and comforting smile on his rose-petal-pink lips and while delivering perpetual cups of tea and glasses of wine (which happened to be laced with Benzodiazepines) to his beloved wives.

Yes, on the Raya App of life Malcolm Webster is most definitely “my type”, so to speak: swipe right.  I’d have been all over those bottomless cups of tea and glasses of wine, and being sleepy all the time would have hardly rung alarm bells for me, and I’d have had no idea he was anything other than my Prince Charming until he set me alight as I lay incapacitated in my bed as it became an inferno (and even then I would likely think, in my final living moment, he was doing his darnedest to keep me warm).  Women are fucked for the very simple reason we love men, even the arseholes, unconditionally.  When will we learn? 😩

But that is not my point today (any moreso than any other day…).   No, it is not that at all.  My point in writing the “Reader, I married him”  line is that I am hugely admiring of great punchy sentences and statements and bits of dialogue in our favourite books and films that transcend those books and films and are pungent and powerful in our collective consciousness.

For example, we all know, repeat and can celebrate (independent of the book or film) -

“Say hello to my little friend.”

And, “Play it again, Sam.”

And, “Do you feel lucky, punk.?”

And, “Luke, I am your father.”

Or citations from our real lives, unscripted (if there is such a thing…) favourites like, “One small step for a man; a giant leap for mankind.”

We all know these are misquotes.  Neil Armstrong kinda fucked his big moment landing on the Moon in 1969 and said “man” rather than “a man”, making the entire statement redundant, but… ya know… whatchagonnado?  We (most of the world and certainly the vast proportion of the West) have all entered into a mutually beneficial socially, politically, anthropologically and economically sensible conspiracy and we agree we all heard that crucial “a”.  He did not say it.  We need the world to make sense and what’s an “a” here or there, eh?  That “a” helped the United States win the Star Wars with Russia and that tiny blurring of truth hasn’t had any negative impact at all, right?  I mean, in the Russia vs USA stakes, Russia remains the baddie and the USA is the goodie… right?  🤔 I mean… there’s no war that a tiny, silly “fix” on a sloppy statement or misquote could have possibly changed, right?  Plot spoiler: we were and we are wrong.  It all matters.

Leaning back into brilliant, concise, pithy and powerful lines in books and films, which is the real reason why I’m writing this sprawling and unfocused post, kinda, how about, “On the runway of hell, the Devil wears Prada.”  Great (fashion) line, right?  Genius.  That line, imo, is the haute couture of THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA written by Aline “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend” Brosh McKenna: precisely cut and tailored and requiring minimal ornament, if any.  It is the brilliant pin in the haystack of just about good enough storytelling; an 1849 gold nugget in a Northern California mountain of clay; perfectly delicious or a “chef’s kiss” (as the total fucking idiots might write, a pet peeve, although it’s still okay to say it or emoji it, just about, maybe?…) that is an amuse bouche in a so-so meal.

That glorious, 24 carat statement is the balsamic vinegar of the Miranda Priestley (Anna Wintour) story: if you were to put the 2006 film starring Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway in an appropriately worthy and chic pot (I’m thinking the new Le Creuset range from Stanley Tucci, perhaps?), set it to boil and reduce, reduce, reduce, it’ll only get sweeter and sweeter and sweeter until all you have left is, “On the runway of hell, the Devil wears Prada.”  Amazing.

But, should you purchase an option or license to use that one line of genius, the laws of science and other such shit I don’t understand tell me you cannot just expand, expand, expand and expect that perfect gold nugget of pop culture to become a 2 hour family-friendly West End theatrical production warranting expensive tickets and an entire fleecing of the wallets of any and every stupid, middle-aged woman who will do literally anything to bribe her daughters to hang out with her… (and I have no one specific in mind, obvs… 🥹).  And that is a fact even if Elton John is involved.  And it is possibly even more of an assured and inescapable fact if Elton John IS involved…. Nobody knows this moreso than the sorry souls who bought the theatre rights for THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA, an iconic film, but one that should have been left in its garment bag and/or donated to the V&A, as per the Versace safety-pin dress Liz Hurley wore in 1994.

So, as much as I had invested heavily and irresponsibly (probs dunk when I bought these tickets, tbh, about a year ago…) in a festive theatre night with my wonderful daughters (and a boyfriend of one of ‘em who wisely slept through the entire thing… no harm, no foul), THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA was a bit of a bust for me.  The book and music are not good enough at all and the whole thing felt rather AmDram or high school musial (not HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL, fools, which is fucking brilliant…) and these stage-makers did not have their heads in the game… not at all.

There are some fine performances and excellent work to be praised for THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA at the Dominion Theatre, including from both leads and Vanessa Williams, but I’m afraid this production is closer to Zara than Prada (part of the issue is the fashion: what kamikaze fashionista is wearing an LBD or red sequins from M&S to the Met Gala, ffs?!), this film is more a trip to Filene’s Basement than to Bergdorf Goodman, by some considerable distance, at moments it is more akin to the discount rack at TJ/K Maxx or a 2-for-1 at Frederick’s of Hollywood.

We abandoned the suit-tailoring and in-seam-measuring inconvenience that was THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA at the intermission, and we decided to head home. And so we can only offer ⭐️⭐️⭐️