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I am probably the least sought after demographic for “The Devil Wears Prada,” the second feature from former “Sex and the City” and “Entourage” director David Frankel: a 24-year-old straight male who’s idea of fashion is the Eddie Bauer warehouse. I do believe, however, that I made up for those faults by screening the film in the most appropriate setting I could imagine, the Clearview in Manhattan’s Chelsea district. I was surrounded by people from whom the phrase “haute couture” is a daily piece of vocabulary and Jimmy Choo is revered as a god. With that as the case, I should and would defer to them for a true critique of the film, but I never got the chance to ask; they were too busy alternating between clapping and cheering. Who am I to argue?

In the interest of full disclosure, I have not read Lauren Weisberger’s critically-panned novel of the same name, although I have, of course, heard all of the stories about it being a thinly-veiled retelling of Weisberger’s time as an assistant to Vogue editor-in-chief Anna Wintour. If so, I genuinely feel for Weisberger. Wintour’s fictional counterpart, Runway editor Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep), is a devious, angry, bitter workaholic that genuinely gets pleasure out of torturing her underpaid, overworked underlings. If you somehow fall into her good graces (although no matter what, she still doesn’t like you), you’re in. If you don’t, you’re dead. And if you cross/humiliate/anger her or deliver her coffee two minutes late and only lukewarm, she’ll make that expression literal. Her most recent minion is recent Northwestern grad Andrea “Andy” Sachs (Anne Hathaway), whose thrift-store chic wardrobe makes her the subject of considerable ridicule around the office. She’s so adamantly anti-fashion that she’s hired largely as a curious anomaly. Hundreds, thousands or perhaps even tens of thousands of recent grads would kill for the chance to be verbally abused by THE fashion magazine mogul, and yet when she applies for the job, Andy doesn’t even know her name.

The first half of the film, with this push-and-pull parody of the fashion industry, has some bite to it, which makes it wildly entertaining. During a meeting in Miranda’s office, Andy laughs when the editors call two virtually identical teal belts wildly different (as far as I could tell, only the buckle was different, but then again, my favorite article of clothing is a ratty green hooded sweatshirt that I wear at least twice a week in winter). Miranda then spends the next five minutes brutally (and beautifully) deconstructing Andy’s frumpy, I’m-above-caring-about-fashion cerulean sweater and its couture origins, which caused the color to trickle down until Andy found it on a department store sale table. But in order to survive this standard fish-out-of-water story, Andy obviously has to glam it up and that’s when the movie starts to stumble. The melodrama starts pretty quickly when Andy invades the infamous Runway closet and, with the help of über-fabulous fashion director Nigel (a scene-stealing Stanley Tucci), pilfers tens of thousands of dollars of designer samples. I guess it helps that Hathaway, even in her sweaters and plaid skirts, is already smoking hot, even though the movie calls her the “smart, fat girl.” Imagine how different the picture would have been if Andy had been a size 16.

But even this hackneyed pauper-to-princess transformation is still salvageable, as it still plays into the enjoyable PG fashion porn aspect that made it good in the first place. Confoundingly, though, the movie introduces an unnecessary love triangle between Andy and two men that represent her two personas, the casual, laid-back Nate (Adrian Grenier) and New York freelance writer Christian (Simon Baker). They’re both clearly present to represent the story at large, but it’s obviously redundant unless the filmmakers expect us to skip out on the final 20 minutes. As Nate says, Andy’s real relationship is with Miranda and when the movie strays from these women, so does our interest.

I must give credit to the still-young Hathaway for continuing to hold her own against the best vets in the industry; first with Julie Andrews (a pair of “Princess Diaries” pictures) and now with certainly the greatest living and arguably the plain greatest actress, the 13-time Oscar-nominated Streep. In what could be considered a piece of summer fluff, Streep flawlessly plays Miranda with a devilish grin and a beautifully cold dismissive manner. I honestly wish I was watching her perform in a better movie, but if fashion is always this fun, maybe someday I’ll actually put in the effort to learn the difference between Klein and K-Mart.

Do you know how hard it is to review a fashion parody without referring to something as either being out of style or calling it “so last season”? I’m so proud of myself. I should go out and splurge on some shoes, bringing my collection to a whopping total of four. Watch out, Imelda Marcos. You’ve got some new competition.

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originally posted: 07/08/06 20:35:02
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