that never quite decides between authentic glamor or a more theatricalized kind, resting right now in a merely semi-satisfying middle.
The book flows coherently and has moments of wit. The choreography from James Alsop has potential panache, inspired by the sharp, gestural poses of fashion modeling. The design work picks up in the second act, particularly in a clever set transition from Manhattan to Paris. And John’s score has its moments, providing his pleasing, peppy pop sound amid a sincere effort to give voice to the inner thoughts and feelings of the characters.
This represents the key miscalibration at the show’s core that requires remedying. Yes, sure, this is the tale of a young woman pursuing her dreams and losing her sense of self in the meantime. But to think that’s what made the book a bestseller and the movie a hit is to imagine that people read “Playboy” for the articles, or that people watch Fox News for the information. Here the appeal stems more from being giddily appalled at Miranda’s operatic condescension.
Put that sentiment to song, Mr. John, and we’re going somewhere. Right now, it breezes past as a rare moment of forthrightness in the dialogue, just as the show oddly glosses past Andy’s spurred-on transformation to fashion forwardness with a single costume change during a song, “Dress Your Way Up,” that screams out for more.
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